Rose clamped her knees tight together, and spat with all her might on to the guard’s face. Spittle hung from his nose and eyelids; it ran down his cheek and over his lips.
The guard stepped back in shock. ‘You little bitch!’ he screamed, his fist rising to strike her. The other two guards manhandled him away towards the door. He fought to push through them but they held him fast. ‘Enough!’ shouted one. ‘Give the girl some dignity to face her death.’
‘I will give her dignity,’ shouted the guard, as he struggled to attack her. ‘I will—’
He froze as the point of a sword pricked the back of his neck.
‘You will what?’ asked a voice, its rich ton and strength of command, instantly recognisable. The guards bowed low as armed soldiers entered the cell and Thomas, the Great Controller, swept in. ‘Well?’ he bellowed.
The two guards moved away from the one they were restraining.
‘I meant no harm, sir,’ pleaded the guard. ‘It was just a bit of horseplay.’
‘He was going to rape me, again,’ sobbed Rose, as she slipped, exhausted, to her knees.
The Great Controller’s yellow eyes flashed with anger. ‘Take that animal,’ he bellowed at the two guards, making them jump with fright, ‘and put him in a cell, with the door locked until I order otherwise. Then, go and tell the executioner to stand down. There will be no hanging today; but first, untie the girl.’
Rose sat in a large room that overlooked the inner keep of the castle. It was comfortably furnished; tapestries adorned the walls, large rugs covered the floor. An iron brazier glowing with charcoal kept the early winter cold at bay.
Earlier, she had scrubbed herself clean in a large, wooden tub of hot water. Afterwards, she had massaged light lavender oil into her dry and chapped skin. She had applied herbal ointment gently to the soles of her feet to ease the pain and swelling. Now, she sat clean and fresh, her thick hair fell softly around her shoulders. The face the world saw now was calm, but inside she was filled with despair; her heart was dead. No amount of washing would cleanse her now.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come,’ Rose said.
A servant entered, with food and drink. He placed it on a table and without speaking, left the room. He was about to close the door when the Great Controller strode in. He studied Rose and shut the door. The spirited girl so full of life, who he had known at Middleham, had gone. The person before him was a shadow of her former self. He sighed with sympathy for her, realising that the innocence of youth, and the purity of young love, were never enough to shield her from the harsher evils of men who rule.
‘Take food and wine,’ he said, gently.
Rose shook her head, and stared at the floor.
‘The three guards who violated you have confessed to their crimes.’ Eyes that reflected their despair looked at him, and he saw the anger flash within them. ‘Their crimes are great and many,’ he continued, ‘so I have given them a choice: one must hang, the second must be blinded, and the third, castrated, and his hands cut off. They must choose amongst themselves who receives which punishment. They have until dawn to decide, and then the sentences will be carried out. It will be an unpleasant night for them.’
‘Tis only what they deserve,’ Rose hissed with venom. Slowly, her anger dimmed. ‘I am grateful for your rescue, sir.’
‘You must thank Simon Langford for that,’ he replied. ‘Tis a brave act for him to come back to Middleham where I knew him as Robert Furneys, a Lancastrian spy, and offer his life for yours. I always knew our paths would cross again one day but I didn’t expect, with all the saints in Heaven, it to involve you, Rose.’
She looked up at him. Simon had not deserted her, then? A flicker of understanding crossed her face.
‘He told me,’ pressed on the Great Controller, now that he had her attention, ‘of your brave adventure in France, the fate of his family at the hands of Warwick, the killing of the gaoler and his subsequent fears for you.’
‘Where is he now?’
The Great Controller sighed. ‘I sent him away. There was no need to punish him further for his actions, he had done that well enough himself, and…I am getting older and the world has turned since those days. He carries his punishment within his conscience, and it will punish him every day he greets the dawn.’
‘What of you, sir,’ Rose asked. ‘Lord Warwick sent a warrant for my execution. Will you not be in danger for defying his authority? Why have you come all this way to save me?’
The Great Controller leant forward, as though he wished to impart some great secret. ‘I am responsible for all of the earl’s castles, so I travel frequently between them to check that they are running smoothly, check the accounts, and so forth.
‘I was intending to visit here before Simon Langford told me of your bravery in escaping from France, but also, and more importantly, that you saved the King’s life – not only his life, but that of his brother, Duke Richard, and all their close retainers, many of whom I know and love.’
The Great Controller looked at Rose, his eyes glinting with hidden knowledge. ‘In the world of men who rule,’ he began, ‘they can deal for themselves a good hand or a bad hand. I have to steer a course through their treacherous waters to maintain order; maintain, if you like, the thin veneer of civilisation, so the common people can go about their business, feed themselves and their families. If I do not, then chaos would reign, and we would return to the dark ages. So, I have to make decisions, and in you instance, it was to save you.
‘The reason was simple: Warwick has overstretched himself. I supported his actions to rid us of mad King Henry and place Edward on the throne – a man born to be a king – but to reverse this, even with the help of the French, is madness, a gamble for power that will not succeed. My spies tell me that King Edward is preparing his army in Flanders with the backing of the mighty Duke of Burgundy, and when he lands in England, Warwick will be no match for him. Warwick is surrounded with treachery and will not survive.’
Rose began to nibble on some sweetmeats, then, pausing to sip some wine, her eyes caught the Great Controller’s.
He noticed with satisfaction the interest on her face. ‘So, young Rose,’ he continued, ‘when I received from London, notification that a warrant had been issued for your execution, and at the same time received a visit from Simon Langford who told me of your bravery, I had to decide what horse to back.’
If I had chosen Warwick then you would have died, he thought, guiltily.
‘I chose King Edward,’ he said, brightly. ‘I could not allow you to die. You had effectively saved him, his brother, and countless others from certain death.
‘Firstly, I surmise that we will never see Warwick again. Secondly, I did not want to be responsible for your death, and thirdly, I will now be in King Edward’s, and Duke Richard’s, good books for saving your life. You will be reunited with John when he returns, so it is an excellent outcome for all of us.’
Tears began to fall from Rose’s eyes. ‘John will never see me again.’ She cried with heartbreaking grief. ‘How could I ask him to love me now? Those men have stolen my happiness. I will disappear before he finds me.’
The Great Controller looked at Rose, with sympathy. ‘We will leave for Middleham in the morning, after the sentences have been carried out,’ he said, gently. ‘Do not make any decisions until we are away from here and safely back at Middleham.’
Rose shook her head. ‘My decision is made,’ she said, with finality. ‘John will never set eyes on me again.’
Chapter 14
Who Will Win?
Royal Court, Compiègne, French/Burgundy Border
14 February 1471
‘Where is Lord Warwick?’ shouted King Louis at his advisors. ‘He should have landed in Calais by now. He promised me an army for my financial backing in his taking Edward’s crown. I only declared war on Burgundy because he pledged ten thousand men to support my cause. Now, my army is massed on Burgundy’s borders,
and I still wait like a nervous bride for him to arrive.
‘And why is Margaret of Anjou still in Honfleur?’ he cried, his face turning red with rage. ‘Should she not be in England, her son crowned King? Has all my planning and scheming been in vain? Did the earl’s words come cheaply to him, his promises hollow? Has he made a fool of me?’
‘No…No, Sire,’ replied Georges Havart. ‘The earl has promised our envoys that he will see you shortly with his great army, but he needs Margaret of Anjou, and her son, to hold the kingdom while he comes to your aid.’
King Louis noted the slight scepticism in Georges Havart’s voice.
‘As for Margaret of Anjou,’ Georges Havart continued, ‘she hesitates to cross the channel. Her spies have reported that the Duke of Clarence now plots against Warwick. The old Yorkist followers are refusing to embrace the Lancastrian cause, and the Lancastrians do not trust them or Warwick. England is now a hotbed of intrigue and treachery, and finally, King Edward is raising a fleet with the backing of Burgundy to return to England and reclaim his crown.’
‘The truth is, your Majesty,’ joined in Antoine de Chabannes, the Grand Master of France, ‘that Margaret blames you for this state of affairs. If you had waited for Warwick to secure England before sending her across the channel with a French army at her back, all would be well, and her son crowned King. Instead, she claims you were over eager to declare war on the Duke of Burgundy by showing your hand too quickly. You left him no choice but to support Edward and his planned invasion. She is afraid that if successful, Warwick will soon be fighting for his very existence against the greatest warrior in Europe, and that is why she hesitates.’
‘My good Lords,’ began King Louis, his voice now calm, his face the picture of diplomacy. ‘As you know, I am wary of war. I spurn and distrust it, but by moving fast to crush Burgundy, we would have stopped Edward’s invasion plans. Warwick should have understood this simple strategy: by sending me his army, we could have guaranteed Warwick’s rule in England and mine in France, but now Burgundy may well invade France, and Edward, England, likewise. We are running out of time. The situation is grave. If Warwick does not come soon then I fear great misfortune awaits us.’
‘I will send a detachment of your Scots Guards,’ announced Georges Havart, ‘to place that woman from Anjou and her son on a ship, and send them to Warwick, immediately.’
‘If Edward lands in England then I fear the game will be up for all of us,’ said King Louis wearily.
Church of Saint Mary, Westminster Abbey, London
24 March 1471
Queen Elizabeth sat in the silence of her sanctuary, suckling baby Edward, named in honour of his father, the king. He had lived his short five months in this cold, gloomy building of crosses and graves, but Elizabeth was thankful for its protection against Warwick.
Her three young daughters were in a side room with Lady Scrope, who was instructing them in the intricacies of needlework.
Elizabeth treasured these moments of quiet solitude; holding her baby at her breast was a special moment. Looking down at him, she wondered if he would ever see his father or even be crowned Prince of Wales. His little hand held tightly on to her finger. His rosebud lips now sucking slowly as he closed his eyes with contentment. Her heart filled with tenderness for him.
Looking around at the thick solid walls of their sanctuary, she prayed they would keep safe for a while longer, for outside, Warwick’s men still walked about their business. From messages smuggled inside to her, she had learnt, with much gladness, that ten days ago, King Edward had landed at Ravenspur, a small port near Hull, and was marching at speed, south, with an army of three thousand men. At the same time, Warwick had left London and was marching north towards Coventry to marshal his forces. She knew that only one of them would survive this final mighty clash.
The sound of running footsteps and calls from her mother pulled Elizabeth out of her reverie. As Jacquetta approached, red-faced and with laboured breath, Elizabeth held a finger to her lips. Her mother stopped, and seeing the baby, nodded, as she slowly caught her breath. Elizabeth placed her son in his cot as her mother quietly settled herself into a large well-upholstered chair, sighing with the pleasure of resting her tired legs.
‘My old friend, Margaret of Anjou, is about to sail from France to grace us with her presence,’ Jacquetta whispered.
‘How do you know that?’ questioned Elizabeth, sharply.
Her mother cocked her head to one side and raised an eyebrow.
Elizabeth stared at her in disbelief. ‘Where have you learnt this?’ she hissed. ‘It cannot be here, on holy ground.’
A sly smile crossed Jacquetta’s face. ‘Warwick has left London. The streets are safer now, and dressed as a merchant’s wife I can travel at will. I have friends and places…’ she paused as Elizabeth’s eyes widened with anger, ‘to practise my art,’ she concluded, quickly.
‘But mother…’ Elizabeth snapped, making the baby jump, ‘you promised; no more sorcery.’
‘Tis too important to ignore,’ Jacquetta retorted. ‘The Earl of Devon and the Duke of Somerset are already raising troops to fight Edward. With Margaret’s royal presence, many more will join their standard. They must be stopped from uniting with Warwick’s forces. Edward can defeat one or the other but not both united together.’
Elizabeth knelt down beside the cot and looked with concern at her baby. ‘If my boy is to become a prince, then Margaret must be delayed.’ Her eyes met her mother’s unwavering gaze. ‘Have you magic strong enough?’
Jacquetta nodded. ‘It is time that is short, so this must be done without delay.’
Elizabeth looked at her son. ‘Go and work your spells; keep that Bitch of Anjou in France where she belongs,’ she finally said.
Egglestone Abbey, North Yorkshire
26 March 1471
Rose reined in her horse beside the river. The small detachment of troops that the Great Controller had provided for her protection moved up alongside her.
In the gathering dusk, a half-mile upstream, stood the abbey, which, Rose had been informed, had been built on the banks of the River Tees almost four hundred years before. The gently rolling hills that surrounded the abbey still showed the scars of the old quarry workings where the stone had been cut to build it.
‘Tis best we move on,’ said the masters-at-arms, ‘while we still have the light.’
Rose dug her heels into her mount and set her horse to canter.
It had been a short journey from Middleham to Egglestone but it had given Rose time to reflect on the past few weeks. After her ordeal at Warwick Castle, coming home to Middleham Castle had helped to calm her mind. The Great Controller, in a further kindness, had arranged for her family to visit and stay at the castle. For days, she had talked and cried with her mother and sisters about her suffering. She had felt the strong arms of her father, holding her as she had sobbed on his shoulder. It was love from her family that had saved her from madness – they had been food for her soul – and although she could never wash away the horrors of the past, they had slowly dimmed to a place in her mind where she could close a door on them, and find a sense of peace. After many weeks, she had felt strong enough to perform the quest that the spirits had asked her: to seek out Simon.
As they neared the abbey, the soft lilt of evening song greeted them, its natural cadence lifting and falling in a gentle rhythm that praised the glory of God.
The monk who greeted them wore a pure white habit, the monks being known locally as the ‘white canons’.
‘We come from Middleham Castle, and seek Sir Simon Langford,’ said the master-at-arms. ‘We were told he rests here.’
The monk’s sharp eyes studied the group, but he did not reply.
‘We mean him no harm,’ said Rose, sensing the monk’s suspicion. ‘If you ask him, he will know of me.’
‘Why do you think he is here?’ replied the monk.
‘Barnard Castle is but half a mile from here,’ said the
master-at-arms. ‘They reported to the Great Controller at Middleham that he was found near to death in the snow on Cotherstone Moor and brought here. Do not deny it,’ he barked, with growing annoyance.
The monk looked around with hesitation.
The master-at-arms slid from his saddle. With his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, he advanced towards the monk.
Deciding that prudence was better than valour, the monk stepped to one side and waved them through the great door of the abbey. ‘If you come in peace, you are welcome,’ he said to Rose, nervously, as the master-at-arms brushed him aside.
Rose followed the monk through the cloisters. The moon was casting silver shadows as the evening air turned cold. She shivered, and pulled her cloak tightly around herself.
The monk stopped and opened a door that led into a small, dark passageway. Light shone out through gaps in another door at the far end of the passage. Arriving there, the monk knocked once and entered.
Rose stopped, apprehensive of her emotions towards the man who had caused her so much pain. Slowly, she eased herself through the doorway, and a face with long, wild hair turned to look at her. Their eyes locked.
‘Simon!’ Rose exclaimed.
‘Rose!’ Simon gasped, in shock.
The monk slipped from the room.
Rose and Simon listened in silence to the sound of the monk’s retreating steps and then Simon pulled out a chair from under a small writing desk. Offering it to Rose, he sat down opposite her, on the edge of his bed.
‘I am sorry for your arrest by Warwick’s men,’ Simon, finally said, breaking the silence. ‘Did they treat you well at the castle?’
‘How do you think they treated me?’ Rose snapped. She saw the dismay enter Simon’s eyes. ‘I was beaten, raped, and sentenced to death.’ Her voice was cold and dispassionate.
‘Forgive me,’ Simon whispered. ‘As the Lord is my witness, I meant you no harm.’ He rose from his bed and paced the room in agitation. ‘I have left death behind me at every turn of the card!’ he cried. ‘When I escaped from Middleham Castle, all those years ago, the other spies were executed. At the attempt on Warwick’s life at Rouen, every man who took part was put to death, except for me. My mother and sisters died because of my actions, and now you too have suffered. Who will be next? Marguerite is coming to England with her son; are they to be killed because of me? I walked out into the snow,’ he said, softly, burying his head in his hands. ‘I wished for eternal sleep, to be free of this burden I carry; this nightmare that haunts me.’
The Dreams of Kings Page 37