‘But, how?’
‘I have a letter delivered by a Friar Drynk from Edward. He writes of forgiveness for you. He understands you were bedazzled by Warwick – drawn like a moth to his flame. He says if you join him and Richard when they land in England, then he will forgive all your past mistakes.’
Cecily sat back, her face content. ‘Now that you have singed your wings on the bright flame of kingship, I do not think I have to wait for your answer,’ she said.
George smiled broadly as he realised he could redeem himself.
‘The friar is waiting to take your reply, but a word of warning: you must not mention this conversation to a soul, not even to Isabel. Go back to your estates and keep your own council. When the time is right, you will be called to meet with your brothers to confirm your loyalty, and to set all your wrongs right.’
George downed his cup of wine. ‘Give me quill and parchment and I will confirm my loyalty now!’
Bruges, Flanders
20 October 1470
Friar Drynk passed the letters to John Tunstall, who in turn passed them to Duke Richard, who walked the few steps to the top of the table and delivered them into the hands of his brother, King Edward.
Lord Hastings, Anthony Woodville – the second Earl Rivers, the Duke of Norfolk, and the Duke of Suffolk, Edward’s most senior and faithful supporters, stood close beside him, silent and watching. A hush spread throughout the ranks of knights and gentlemen gathered within the Great Hall that had been lent to them by the Governor of Holland, Seigneur de la Gruthuyse.
Edward searched quickly through the letters, stopping only when he recognised the hand of his brother, George. Breaking the seal, he hungrily read its contents.
The silence in the hall grew heavy with anticipation.
A smile slowly formed on Edward’s face, and then kicking his chair back, he jumped to his feet. Waving the letter high in the air, he cried, ‘Gentlemen; my brother joins us!’
Cheering greeted this announcement and Edward held up his hand for silence.
‘My loyal Lords, knights, and brave captains: when we land in England, George will be waiting with an army of four thousand men. He also says there are many rich merchants in London who wish to fund our expedition against Warwick in return for titles and rank; even the merchants of Calais wish to help us. I believe that Warwick’s days are now numbered.’
More cheering resonated around the hall. Edward waited for it to subside, then with a voice full of kingly authority, he said, ‘I command you to seek out two thousand fighting men to join our distinguished company, be they German mercenaries or Flemish soldiers of fortune. We need brave adventurers, swashbuckling rogues, for victory only favours the brave. Go now and find me these men to join our bold enterprise.’
Excitement rippled around the Great Hall. Men smiled and clapped each other on the back. At last, the waiting was over.
Edward sat back in his chair, a smile of satisfaction on his face. His close retainers gathered around him.
‘Tis excellent news,’ said Lord Hastings.
‘Warwick’s reign will be short-lived,’ said Earl Rivers.
‘That’s as maybe, although, he fought as a comrade with us many times,’ said the Duke of Norfolk, with a hint of regret in his voice. ‘He won the day for us at St Albans, and Northampton, and fought bravely with us at Towton on that bitter Palm Sunday in sixty-one. Twenty thousand fell on that bloody snow-covered field to win you a glorious victory and a royal crown.’
Edward nodded thoughtfully at the memory.
‘And now we seek his blood as he seeks ours,’ continued the Duke of Norfolk. ‘It will be a sad day when the noblest of England face each other across the field of battle.’
‘He has made his bed, and now he has to lie on it,’ said Richard, sharply. ‘Your father fought against us at Towton and now, you…’ he said, looking directly at Anthony Woodville. ‘Fight with us. Such is the way of this war. Men change sides or turn traitor when circumstances dictate, so there will be no quarter given when we join battle with Warwick. There must be no compassion for an old comrade-in-arms. When we fight him, it will be to the death and the quicker his head sits leaden upon a spike, then the quicker Anne…’ his voice trailed off, as he stared into space.
Edward rose and grasped Richard’s shoulders. ‘Then, Anne, what?’ he asked.
Richard looked at Edward, his eyes narrowing.
John noticed the cold detachment descend over his old friend.
‘Holy Harry now sits on the throne,’ Richard said, with an icy voice, ‘and his son will soon join him. If our invasion is successful, then you must agree neither can live.’
‘This time there will be no mercy,’ agreed Edward, reluctantly.
Richard looked around at Edward’s inner circle as though confirming their loyalty before saying his next words. Slowly, his eyes came back to rest on Edward. ‘What if Anne’s marriage has been consummated?’ he asked; his voice full of anger. ‘What if she is carrying a child in her belly? Holy Harry’s grandson, a future king and heir to the Lancastrian crown. What shall we do, then?’
Edward threw his head back and laughed.
John watched Richard’s jaw tighten; his blue eyes glittered like frozen ice.
‘You laugh at my distress?’ Richard cried.
‘No…No, dear brother, forgive me,’ said Edward, apologetically. ‘I wish you no ill but you are worrying about a dilemma that is wrapped in a conundrum of possibilities.’
‘They are married now,’ continued Richard, like a dog with a bone. ‘The seed in her belly could be growing, as we speak.’
‘We know not of their circumstances,’ replied Edward, irritation creeping into his voice. ‘She could be dead; he could be dead. We can surmise any situation you like. The marriage may not be consummated, and even if this were so, she could give birth to a girl or a stillborn. Maybe she hates him…
‘The truth is, we are not to know, so you must stop this agonising and raise your spirits, for soon we head for England to reclaim my crown. Now, go and charter ships to carry our army to England. We will need food to feed them, and the ordnance of war for them to fight with. Take Hastings, and whoever else you may need to plan our embarkation; we leave from the port of Flushing.’
Richard turned to go.
John could see he was still downcast. The curvature of his back was more pronounced, as it always was when his body tightened with tension.
Richard turned back to face his brother, his question not yet answered. ‘But…’ he began.
‘Enough!’ cried Edward, angrily. ‘If your worst fear turns out to be true then I promise she will not live to give birth.’
Richard smiled grimly. He had the answer to his question.
‘Friar Drynk,’ called Edward, as he lowered himself back into his chair. ‘I would speak with you.’
Friar Drynk stepped forward, bowing low.
‘You have done your duty well,’ said Edward. ‘You delivered my letters and brought the replies from under the nose of Warwick. I commend you for your bravery, which will be rewarded on our return to England.’
Friar Drynk bowed even lower, his face beaming with pride. ‘It was an honour to serve you, Sire,’ he replied, his voice confident.
Edward beckoned him closer. ‘Pray, tell me, how is the Queen and my newborn son?’
‘They are well, Sire. The Queen was delivered of your son on the 2 November, by her doctor Domenico de Sergio, assisted by Margery Cobbe, the midwife. He was baptised, Edward, in honour of you. Thomas Milling – the Abbot of Westminster, and Lady Scrope, were the godparents and your son, praise be to God, is strong and well.’
‘Is this not excellent news?’ cried Edward, his face beaming with pride as he looked around at his retainers.
‘The Queen is well,’ continued Friar Drynk, ‘but in fear of Warwick’s men. She frets for the safety of her newborn, for the Lancastrians know he is your heir.’
Edward’s face became distres
sed. His beaming mask of assurance slipped. ‘What news of Warwick?’ he whispered, in a voice filled with apprehension.
Friar Drynk smiled reassuringly as he sought to put Edward’s mind at rest. ‘Warwick’s victory was too easy. His brother, turning traitor against you, swung the scales of fortune in Warwick’s favour. He won England without a battle, so he is untried in the eyes of the nobles and the clergy. The common people know his power comes from France, their most hated enemy.
‘The old Lancastrians who fought against him at Towton, or St Albans, and who still carry the scars, despise him. The Yorkists who fought alongside him are perplexed at his turn of face, and now mistrust him. The whole of England sits and watches him. He must hear the intrigue against him that swirls around the halls of Westminster, for although he is old and experienced in the ways of men, he is a man of action and not a politician. He has tumbled out of his depth. It is plain that he knows not how to mend this broken kingdom that he himself broke. So, our most gracious Queen is safe, for Warwick cannot repair the damage he has done to himself, or act in any way that upsets the delicate status quo of the warring factions around him.’
Edward rose from his chair.
Friar Drynk bowed even lower.
‘Stand up, friar,’ commanded Edward. ‘You have spoken well, and have banished my fears with your excellent assessment of the situation in England. It would seem I have a holy man with a sharp political brain. I will keep you close, for I will need your wise council in the days ahead.’
John Tunstall watched Friar Drynk take his leave of the King, and walk towards him. He had known from the friar’s hesitant demeanour as he approached that he carried distressing news. His stomach turned over, and an intuition told him that Rose was in danger. A sharp pain filled John’s chest, as Friar Drynk cleared his throat and looked at him with sympathy.
Warwick Castle, Warwickshire
1 November 1470
The bitter cold November night hung crisp and brittle in the winter sky.
Rose pulled the threadbare blanket tightly up to her chin. The brazier that warmed the gaoler’s office seemed an endless distance away; its glow weakly flickered and danced amongst the shadows of her cell. Sometimes, fleetingly, she even felt the illusion of its heat, but she knew its warmth died on the cold, damp walls of her dungeon. She shivered as the guard gently rang the midnight bell, its muffled note signalling the changing of the sentries,
Curling into a tight ball, Rose hugged the blanket closer around herself. She knew sleep would never come to her tired eyes. The sounding of the bell meant just six hours to dawn; six hours of life, and then her stilled heart and lifeless eyes would greet the dawn sun as she dangled on the end of the executioner’s rope.
She pulled the blanket over her head, erecting an imaginary barrier against reality as she prayed for a moment of respite from the turmoil within her. Desperately, she tried to stop her mind running through the events that had brought her to this wretchedness. The face of loved ones that she would never see again filled her with despair. She could not stop the tears falling from her eyes.
When she had arrived at the castle, she had been questioned by the senior officer. She had told him nothing; acting like a scatterbrained girl, but he had seen right through her lies and had handed her over to the new senior gaoler who had still to prove himself. He had accepted the challenge with relish. That was when the beating started: first, just slaps to the face and threats of hot pokers being pushed into her orifices, then later, thin willow canes had beaten the soles of her feet, ripping and shredding the skin apart. The pain had been unbearable. She had told them everything: the flight from France, warning King Edward of Lord Montagu’s treachery, Simon’s mother – and sisters, and why she thought he had killed the senior gaoler. It had all come tumbling out.
Once they were satisfied with her story, they had sent their report off to the Earl of Warwick, in London. His reply had been a warrant for her execution.
The day the warrant arrived had been worse than all the pain they had inflicted on her, for that night, they had brutally raped her. Heavy sobs heaved from her chest as she remembered the three guards who had entered her cell, drunkenly jeering that a convicted felon awaiting the gallows had no rights.
‘It would be a shame to let a young girl die a virgin,’ they had taunted. Their cruel laughter mingled with her screams as they slapped her face and pulled roughly at her clothes. Their faces leered close; their stinking breath covered her face, their rough hands mauling her naked body. She had prayed for death as they spent their lust in her, and now, in a few hours, death awaited her, and sweet John, whose love filled his eyes, would never feel her loving kiss again. Those tender moments she had imagined they would share together would never be theirs; her dreams were now dust.
‘Rose…’
The voice Rose heard was gentle – feminine.
‘We mean you no harm; we come to offer you comfort.’
The soft voice settled on her as she froze under the blanket, her body rigid with fear.
‘Rose, my child, we would talk with you.’
The door of her cell was securely locked, with only her inside, but she could sense that somebody was close. She felt the blanket being pulled away. Scurrying backwards on her haunches, she hit the cell wall. Its jagged flints dug sharply into her back. Her heart thumped. She held her breath so tightly that it made her head swim.
Slowly, Rose forced her eyes open. Her hands flew to her mouth in astonishment. Before her, stood three beautiful figures dressed in brilliant, white gowns edged with gold. She marvelled at their splendour. They radiated a luminous light that filled her dark and dingy cell. She became calm as a sensation of tranquillity filled her. All the horrors of the past week just slipped away. She raised herself up on to her knees her eyes wide in wonder.
‘Are you angels?’ she whispered, in awe.
‘No, my child, we are not, but we bathe in their splendour,’ said the figure in the centre of the trio. ‘We have suffered here within these walls, as you have suffered.’
Rose sat upright, recognition swift and absolute on her face.
‘You are Simon’s mother and sisters!’ she cried, in shock.
The figures moved closer, forming a wall of golden light around her, their faces radiating love.
‘Why have you come back to this place of your suffering?’ Rose asked.
The spirit of Simon’s mother moved closer and knelt on the floor. ‘Take comfort, Rose, we come to bring you hope. Your future holds many things. You will live long, and love will fill your heart.’
‘I have been defiled and raped – I have no future,’ Rose cried, in despair. ‘Tis better I die.’ She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘It is too late to save me, for I am dishonoured. I have lost what cannot be replaced. My sweet John will turn his heart against me. I could never suffer to see him look at me with just pity in his eyes.’
‘His love is too strong to be broken,’ said the spirit of one of Simon’s sisters. ‘Your destinies are bound together.’
‘You must keep this hope alive,’ said the other spirit sister.
As Rose bathed in their light, she prayed it was not a dream. ‘Are you real or just phantoms?’
‘We are real, sweet Rose,’ spoke the spirit of Simon’s mother. The dawn will prove it to you. We have a message for Simon; you must take it to him.’
‘But I am to die, shortly,’ cried Rose, ‘and it is through his actions.’
‘It was through Warwick’s actions that you suffer, my little one, not Simon’s. He meant no harm to befall any of us. He carried us all in his heart. It is Warwick who will pay before God for our suffering.’
The golden spectres rose gently up into the air, their brilliance slowly fading.
‘Tell Simon, we do not hold him to account for our suffering. Tell him he must continue his quest against Warwick if he is to find redemption.’
‘But, will he believe me?’ cried Rose.
‘Whe
n he sees the golden pendant, he will believe,’
‘Where will I find him?’ she shouted.
‘You will find him, Rose; you will find him…’
Rose stared transfixed into the cold darkness of her cell as the vision faded away. She felt uncertain. Was she going mad? Did she just dream these celestial visions?
The harsh reality of her situation returned as she heard the guards stirring. Rose shivered as the dawn light silently crept in through the narrow slit high up on her dungeon wall. Low, rough voices invaded her cell. Heavy footsteps sounded down the passageway as the guards banged and rattled cell doors to wake the prisoners. She listened with rising panic as with an inevitable certainty they advanced towards her. With each step, her death came closer. She felt small and alone.
Rising on to her knees, Rose prayed for the courage to face her death with dignity. Holding her palms together, she looked up as the first rays of the dawn sun burst through the narrow window of her cell. A dazzling shaft of light, like an arrow, hit the floor. Rose looked down. There amongst the dirt and grime, lay a beautiful golden pendant, only two feet from her knees. She stared in disbelief as its purity shone out from amongst the filth of her cell. She caught her breath; it had not been a dream.
As Rose heard keys jangling in the passageway beyond her cell door, she snatched the pendant from the floor, and dropped it down the front of her bodice, just as she heard the cell door being unlocked.
The door swung open. Three guards entered the cell.
‘It’s time,’ said one, as he took her wrist and gently spun her around.
Before Rose had time to think, her hands were bound tightly behind her back.
Another guard stepped in front of her, his face leering cruelly close. She shrank away as she recognised him as one of her rapists, but he reached out and grasped the top of her bodice, licking his lips as he pulled her closer, his fingers slipping down and roughly brushing her breasts.
‘Such a waste,’ he said, his voice thick with lust. ‘Me thinks if I am quick, I will have ye again while you are still warm.’ His other hand slipped under her dress.
The Dreams of Kings Page 36