Within an hour, King Edward’s small army was dismissed and a band of desperate men rode toward the coast.
*
Two days had passed since Samuel had been beaten to within a few breaths of his life. In accordance with Sir Hugh’s orders, they had been released from their chains and were fed water and bread. Oliver was quick to indulge, for he knew that he would need his strength in order to help his friend. Still in great pain, Samuel had been able only to drink some water, and Oliver still feared for his life. He had done his best to clean the blood from Samuel’s wounds but there was little else he could do.
The sound of the door clanging open startled Oliver out of a thin slumber, and seeing men with torches again beyond the grate of their cell made him wonder what new horrors awaited. Three guards entered.
“Get them up,” said the first one. They grabbed Samuel and roughly pulled him to his feet, bringing a sharp cry of pain. Oliver stood on his own, legs wobbling. “You’re being moved,” said the first guard gruffly. “Bring them up.”
Both were half carried, half dragged up the stairs and into the courtyard. Blinded by the light, they were dumped in a heap on the grass before the doorway, where a wagon pulled by two horses waited for them.
The great relief of seeing the light of day again was tempered by the sight of Sir Hugh.
“A pathetic sight if I ever saw one,” he sneered. “Get them in.”
They were both tossed into the wagon and tied by the wrists to the corner posts, the rope bringing new blood from the raw sores left by the chains. “There will be no escape for you this time, be assured of that. And do not hope for help from your friends in the guard. The usurper Edward has been banished and Henry of Lancaster sits once again on the throne. We travel to London where the rightful king will sign your death warrants and those of your entire family, and I will take the pleasure upon myself to tie the rope around your necks.” Samuel tried to struggle against his ropes. Sir Hugh’s words were carefully crafted to bring as much despair as possible, and they had succeeded.
The painful confrontation was interrupted by Lord Colinsworth coming from the stable, leading his own horse.
“Sir Hugh, I still object to your taking my prisoners, and I will accompany you to the king to seek retribution for my losses.”
Sir Hugh slowly shifted his glare from the prisoners to Colinsworth, who was preparing to mount his horse.
“The queen will not wish to speak to one who allowed the girl for whom she has been hunting for years to escape. In fact, I have Her Majesty’s leave to give you this message.” He drew his sword and plunged it through Colinsworth’s heart, letting him collapse to the ground in a bloodied heap. “Accept Her Majesty’s thanks for your incompetence.” Wiping his sword clean on his victim’s tunic, he mounted his horse and signaled for the wagon driver to follow. The wagon rolled slowly past Colinsworth’s bloody corpse, and Samuel painfully shifted to get a better view.
“You have your reward now, fool.”
*
Queen Elizabeth, eight months pregnant and trying to endure her period of confinement in the royal chambers of the Tower, was anxious to receive the messenger, as was her mother. The duchess signaled for him to be admitted. A young man barely out of his teens, dressed in a leather jerkin and heavy leggings, entered and bent one knee to the ground. He was clearly distressed.
“What is your news? Speak quickly.”
“My lady, forgive me, for the news I bring is evil and fouls my tongue to speak of it.” Elizabeth pulled herself from bed, supporting her back as she rose.
“What is this evil news you bring to my chamber?”
“The Earl of Warwick has claimed the realm for Henry of Lancaster, and King Edward has fled the kingdom. Forgive me, Highness, I would rather have cut out my tongue than speak of such evil things.”
“And were I not in so difficult a state, I would cut it out for you,” Elizabeth responded angrily. “Leave my sight at once.” The messenger fled without another word. She glared at her mother. “Once again, I am without my husband and damn Warwick has our kingdom at his feet.”
The duchess pushed a lady-in-waiting toward the door.
“Go and summon help from anyone who will come. We will leave the Tower this very night. If Henry has the throne again, Warwick will have command of the Tower. We must make our way quickly to the sanctuary at Westminster once again.” The queen placed her hand on her stomach.
“Warwick will not abide Edward’s heir to live freely in the realm, a constant danger to the Lancastrians. He is a traitor, not a fool.”
“All the more reason to move swiftly to sanctuary, my love.”
“But what kind of life would it be, cloistered in the abbey?”
“Better than to live his life shut within the walls of Middleham Castle, never to be heard from again, or worse. Now please, dearest, we must make hasty preparations.”
“But what of the family?”
“We will stand strong within ourselves. It’s all that we can do.”
Elizabeth looked around the room. Though the royal chambers were plush enough, she still hated this place. It left a lasting impression of decay in her mind.
“Let’s depart. I never wanted to come here anyway.”
The lady-in-waiting brought the urgent order to the Tower’s steward to pack the queen’s possessions for a hasty departure to Westminster Abbey. The activity was frenetic, with servants preparing wagons and horses, orders shouted in every direction. One of the last items to be packed was the porcelain angel that had been given to her by Lord Fitzwalter’s daughter, Katherine. She watched as it was carefully placed in its gilded box and packed with straw to cushion it from the rough ride ahead. She had gone nowhere without the intricately crafted Italian porcelain, perhaps because it reminded her of the time in her past when she was most happy.
Soon the royal family was on its way past the gates of the Tower, over the moat and out toward the sanctuary at Westminster Abbey.
*
A scant forty-eight hours later, the heavy doors that guarded the east entrance to Henry’s chamber in the Wakefield Tower opened with a clang. The Archbishop of York and several servants entered with the Constable of the Tower, Sir James Brackenbury, to find Henry kneeling at the altar alcove, lost in prayer. He was clothed simply, in wool leggings and a plain white shirt, barefoot.
“Your Majesty, the usurper Edward has fled, and we have come to greet you once again with your former titles and dignity.” If there was a reaction from Henry, they did not see it. “My lord, your loyal servant the Earl of Warwick has bid me to greet you once again as our king, and to bring you from this place.”
Slowly, Henry’s hands fell to his sides and he hesitantly rose to his feet, supporting himself against a railing on the wall.
“Only God may fetch me from this place,” he said softly. “However, I will do as you ask.” The archbishop motioned for his men to assist, and they led Henry out into the adjoining Garden Tower. Half-carrying the newly re-acclaimed king, they led him to the very royal chambers that Queen Elizabeth had vacated in the White Tower, which had been lavishly arrayed for her confinement. His emaciated body was bathed and new clothing brought from Edward’s wardrobe.
*
After several days of care, Henry was informed that it was time for him to hold an audience. The first visitor was, of course, the Earl of Warwick, who until now had been busy quelling the Yorkist uprisings inevitable after such a coup. Warwick had not spoken to him since arriving back in London, and was barely bothering to hide the fact that no decisions were actually coming from Henry. But soon he would have to deal with Queen Margaret, still in France waiting for word of his success. She would prove a thornier problem.
When he entered the audience chamber of the White Tower, Warwick led a large contingent
of nobles, including the Marquis of Montagu, the Duke of Clarence, the Archbishop of York, the Earl of Oxford, and Lord Roos, to greet the new king and to once again swear their allegiance. Among them Henry noticed a man with a hideous scar on his face. Sir Hugh averted his eyes under the king’s questioning gaze. Also among the earl’s party was a young man in his early teens whom Henry did not recognize. Warwick bowed and addressed the king with his booming voice.
“Your Majesty, from your queen who will join you shortly from France, I am sent to impart greetings and to rid you of the Yorkist pretender, Edward. Be comforted to know that your adversary will trouble you no more.”
“We thank you, my lord, for your pains, though we marvel that when last we sat upon the royal chair, it was you who were our most able enemy.”
Warwick had hoped the old fool would be too feeble-minded to remember who his enemies were, but he was prepared.
“I regret, Sire, that I was led astray by the House of York, and do beseech Your Highness’ forgiveness. I believe that I have atoned for past blunders with my latest actions, and am here today to swear my allegiance.” Ignoring the earl, Henry pointed to Clarence.
“You, sir. Our memory is weak from years in prison, but we recall that you are a brother of York, is it not so?”
“It is, my lord,” said Clarence, chagrined to be swearing allegiance to this fool whom his brother had dethroned. It was not for this that he had turned his back on his family. But for now he would play along. It was better than living as an insignificant peer in France. “I too was led astray, and crave Your Majesty’s forgiveness.”
“Where is your brother?” Henry sat back and closed his eyes.
“He has fled the realm, my lord. It is thought he will seek shelter at the court of Burgundy.”
“Where is your brother, Rutland?”
Clarence frowned and looked to Warwick for guidance.
“He is dead, my lord, since the battle at Wakefield.”
Henry nodded. After long moments of strained silence, he opened his eyes to see the young man who had caught his attention earlier.
“Come closer and let me look upon you.” The hesitant boy obeyed. “Who is this youth?” Henry looked for someone to answer. Jasper Tudor, a knight in the service of Oxford, stepped forward.
“My lord, he is my nephew, Henry Tudor, formerly heir to the Earldom of Richmond.” The answer brought a smile to Clarence’s face, since he was the current holder of that title, given to him by Edward when the young man’s father was beheaded for fighting on the side of Lancaster. Henry placed his hands on the boy’s head.
“It is a goodly head,” he said absently after a moment, “a head on which to place a crown, where it will find peace.” The meaning of the king’s attentions was lost on the young Tudor, as it was on everyone in the room. His uncle motioned him back and waited for Henry to regain some semblance of sanity, if that was possible.
Warwick had seen enough.
“My lords, the king is not well and requires rest. You shall all be summoned as you are needed.” As the courtiers departed and Henry was helped from the room, Warwick retired to an alcove with his brothers.
“These rantings of our new king may prove difficult to control,” said Montagu.
“I am more concerned with Clarence,” said the archbishop. “He may be content with regaining his fortune, but he is a man with lofty goals left unrequited. Disappointment is the first ingredient of rebellion, and I for one have spent all the time I care to in the confines of these towers.”
“You are like a pair of women to prate on so.” Warwick could not hide his impatience. “We have achieved all that we could hope for. If you had supported me before we were exiled,” he berated Montagu, “we would not have to deal with this old fool, but now we must make the most of what God has granted. As for Clarence, he is my son-in-law and will not defy me. He has too much to lose.”
“What about the queen? She will be more difficult to control,” said Montagu.
“We will see to it that she has precious few choices. Furthermore, she will be a great help in controlling Henry’s rantings. Come now, forget all these worries and let’s sample the contents of the king’s cellars. It has been too long since I’ve enjoyed a fine wine.”
The archbishop smiled. “Indeed, prison walls arouse a rare appreciation for such comforts.” A thought occurred to him, and he bent his head toward the earl’s. “I have heard in the streets the common men call you Warwick the Kingmaker.”
Kingmaker! thought Warwick. If I cannot be king, Kingmaker will suffice.
In a different alcove, another meeting was taking place. Lord Roos was trying to avoid looking at Sir Hugh and his deformed face.
“You assured me that you had the woman. Now am I to believe that you simply let her disappear?”
“Lord Colinsworth will never fail us again, my lord, I promise you that,” Sir Hugh hissed.
“I am not interested in that fool. I cannot tell you more plainly that the queen wants Fitzwalter’s daughter more than she wants to live, can you understand that?”
“My lord, now that the Yorkists cannot protect her, I will have her soon. I already have the one who rescued her from Colinsworth, the very one with whom she has apparently fallen in love.” The last word was spat like an expletive. “I can use him to coerce her cooperation.”
“Where is he now?”
“Safely bestowed here in the Tower, my lord.”
“And no doubt to save his life she will turn over the letter?”
“She will, my lord.”
“Then all that remains is to find her and acquaint her with the facts. And find her we shall, Sir Knight, or your place in this new Lancastrian order will be short-lived.”
Sir Hugh did not like being threatened. He had dispatched mightier men than Lord Roos.
*
The English Channel had been a formidable barrier between England and France since the earliest Bronze Age farmers braved the first crossings. Its troubled waters had swallowed up more ships and crews than even the most seasoned captains would care to recall.
On a day when, by the grace of God, the weather was pleasant, King Edward and his small party made a safe journey across the dreaded waterway and landed in Holland, a possession of the Duke of Burgundy, near the town of Alkmaar. There was no guarantee that his desperate little band would be welcome, but Edward was again fortunate that the duke’s governor of Holland, the Seigneur de la Gruthuyse, happened to be in town. When the governor heard that none other than the king of England had landed on his shores, he hastened to welcome the exiles ashore and offered them every hospitality.
Before leaving the ship, Edward, who had arrived penniless, gave the ship’s master his fur-lined coat as thanks for his service and promised that some day he would do better. The Seigneur de la Gruthuyse agreed to help provision the ships to thank the captain as well. Edward and his followers were escorted to The Hague, where the governor resided, and for the next few weeks Gruthuyse entertained his guests while they waited for word from the duke.
Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, having heard of Edward’s presence in Holland, was unsure how to handle the delicate situation. Charles had inherited a wealth almost unrivaled in Christendom. Besides the Burgundian homeland in east central France, he also held sway over the wealthy possessions of Flanders and Holland. For hundreds of years, the dukes of Burgundy had remained autonomous from the kings of France, and had even helped to topple the French throne when England’s Henry V had invaded.
Now that the English had lost all their possessions in France, Charles was in a more precarious situation, especially since the king of France was slowly gaining enough power to absorb Burgundy. Only the mutual suspicion of the three powers playing against one another had allowed Charles to remain free of the
French king’s yoke. Indeed, he had agreed to marry Edward’s sister Maggy only to assure himself of English friendship.
“Seigneur de la Bard,” Charles asked his most trusted advisor, “Will the ambitious Earl of Warwick give aid to Louis against us?”
“My lord, he will have his hands full, at least for a while, maintaining his grip on the English throne.”
“Still, should we help Edward, Louis could move against us, a battle that I do not care to fight at this moment.”
“I would imagine that Louis would require very little excuse to turn on your duchy, my lord, and I would wager my last florin that Warwick has already promised to provide many of the cursed English archers.”
“Perhaps I shall meet with Edward myself. Make the arrangements, de la Bard. We shall meet at Aire.”
*
The Millers sat quietly in a small room near the church’s rectory. Located somewhere in Lincolnshire, the church served a small community of farmers. The priest, Father Geoffrey, had been a friend of Sir Nigel’s for many years and had sometimes sheltered unfortunates at the knight’s request, knowing that such persons were always in dire need. It was his notion of God’s calling. There was, however, little to keep the Millers’ minds occupied except for prayer, and he could only provide them with meager rations of food, consisting mainly of bread and some locally captured eel and rabbit given to him by his parishioners.
It had been three weeks since their rescue from Colinsworth Castle, though none of them really felt like much had been accomplished that night. Their freedom had cost Sally and Kate dearly.
Christopher felt worst of all. Haunted by the memory of that night, he wondered again and again what he could have done differently, and no amount of reassurance from Sir Nigel or the women could penetrate his mood. Of one thing he was certain: that he should never have allowed Samuel to convince him to run away like he did. He was the eldest and should have protected them all.
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