Authors: David Pilling
None of this repast, needless to say, was offered to Geoffrey, though his belly groaned at the sight and smell of it.
Bulstrode noticed his distress, and snatched a loaf of bread from the nearest tray. “Here,” he said, twisting off a piece and tossing it at Geoffrey, “get that down you. You will need your strength.”
Geoffrey fumbled the catch. Mocking laughter echoed around the hall as he fell to his knees and scrabbled for the morsel of bread. He stuffed it into his mouth and almost gagged at the taste of spices.
“Careful, you fool,” cried Bulstrode, “don’t choke to death before we’re down with you. Chew slowly, now. That’s better.”
Tears sprang to Geoffrey’s eyes as he forced the bread down. The warm glow of food in his belly after days of starvation was some comfort, but he dreaded what might come next. The coarse, laughing faces all around him were like the faces of devils, rows of gaping, spittle-flecked mouths and eyes gleaming with malice.
Their laughter turned to cheers as the result of the day’s hunting was brought in, carried on a flat wooden board balanced on the shoulders of four burly men-at-arms.
“Christ,” Geoffrey whimpered, clutching his hands in prayer and rocking back and forth as he saw the contents of the board, “Christ and all the Saints spare me and deliver me.”
He had expected to see the roasted carcase of a stag or wild boar. Instead the board was stacked high with severed human heads, a reeking pile of blood-caked flesh and matted hair.
“A grand day’s sport,” said Bulstrode, “each of them gave us a good run in the woods, but no man can outpace a horse for long.”
The men-at-arms set the board down on the floor in front of him. To roars of approval, he plucked one of the heads up by its hair, and kissed it fondly on the lips.
“Now,” he said, wiping his mouth and dropping the head, “I know what treachery tastes like.”
Bulstrode scowled at Geoffrey, who was shaking like a man afflicted by a terminal ague.
“On your feet, sir,” he roared, “Christ, you are a belted knight! Have some dignity. I will suffer no cravens in my hall.”
Geoffrey knew it was death to refuse the slightest word of command from this man. Palpitating, he slowly got up, expecting any moment a blade in his liver. Several of Bulstrode’s huntsmen carried spears, light throwing javelins suitable for bringing down game, or defenceless prisoners.
Bulstrode had other plans. “Listen, all of you,” he boomed, slapping his palms together, “this Yorkist lackwit who stands before us, quaking and shivering and threatening to shit himself, is nonetheless a knight and a gentleman, and has the right to die like one.”
He peered around the hall, at the serried ranks of his retainers. “Adam,” he said, snapping his fingers at the red-bearded archer who had fetched Geoffrey from the dungeon, “give this traitor your sword.”
Adam swiftly unbuckled his sword-belt and cast it at Geoffrey. It landed on the flagstones before him with a clatter.
“Pick it up,” said Bulstrode in a tone that brooked no refusal.
Geoffrey stared at the weapon as though it was a live snake. They were going to make him fight. After all the years of shirking and play-acting and claiming the credit of better men, he was going to have to make a stand.
He gingerly reached down, grasped the hilt, and drew the sword from its brown leather sheath with a soft hiss. It had a good balance, and the steel was well-oiled and polished. Geoffrey could see his reflection in the blade. He gasped at the pallid, unshaven, wild-eyed countenance that stared back at him.
One of Bulstrode’s guards stepped forward. He was short, lean as a whippet, all whipcord and sinew. His cold grey eyes looked Geoffrey up and down, like a butcher weighing up a piece of meat before carving.
“This is William,” said Bulstrode, nodding at the guard, “he is the best sword and knife-man in my garrison. William, kill this traitor for me. As slowly as you please. Make him bleed.”
William nodded and flexed his narrow shoulders. “Yes, lord,” he said in a curiously high-pitched voice, drawing his sword.
The bread in Geoffrey’s stomach was threatening to come up again. “I won’t,” he whined, backing away as William padded towards him, “I won’t fight. You can’t make me.”
He dropped his sword and sagged onto his backside. Tears flowed down his cheeks.
William was perplexed. He stopped, cocking his head as he looked down at his reluctant opponent.
He shrugged. “Man won’t fight,” he said, turning to Bulstrode.
Bulstrode was outraged. His entire body seemed to swell, like a furious turkey-cock. His face reddened even further and acquired a blackish tinge.
“Won’t fight?” he roared, his eyes flashing pure hatred at Geoffrey, “won’t fight? How in God’s name did you ever win the favour of Edward of March, you excrement? When did Edward, may he die a thousand deaths, ever have time for cowards?”
Geoffrey was beyond speech. Pure terror had consumed him, robbing him of any pretence at dignity. He covered his face with his hands and sobbed like a frightened child, careless of the storm of jeers and insults.
Bulstrode’s rage shook the ancient rafters of the hall, but he didn’t order Geoffrey put to death. When his passion had abated slightly, he turned to his steward.
“Fetch me the Fool’s robe and cap,” he hissed between gritted teeth. The steward bowed and scuttled away to do his bidding.
“My Fool died last winter,” he said to Geoffrey, his voice oozing contempt, “and we have had no-one to amuse us since. I think we have just found his replacement.”
The steward returned swiftly, carrying a long, patched cloak made of some coarse material in his arms, and a leather cap with a pair of ram’s horns screwed into it. The cloak was grubby and moth-eaten and garishly dyed with a mixture of red, yellow and purple. It was also fringed with little silver bells that tinkled as the steward presented it to his lord.
“You will wear these,” Bulstrode said to Geoffrey, “all day and night, and entertain me at dinner. You will caper and sing, and degrade yourself before us in any way I see fit. From henceforth, no-one shall refer to you as Sir Geoffrey Malvern.”
He gave a lopsided smile, and stroked his moustache. “You are the Fool. That is all. Who are you?”
For a moment some faint spark of defiance inside Geoffrey revolted at this humiliation, but was quickly doused. Self-preservation overrode everything.
“I am the Fool, lord,” he said humbly, “just the Fool.”
Chapter 13
The Tower of London, 15
th
October 1470
Warwick rubbed his hands against the chill, and blew on them. It was a freezing cold day, of the sort that knifed through any layers of warm clothing, and he was reluctant to be outside.
Certain forms had to be observed. As the true ruler of England, since the restored Henry VI was incapable of wiping his own backside, never mind governing the country, he was required to be present at state executions.
A scaffold had been erected inside the castle grounds. The condemned man was standing in his night-shirt and hose, shivering with cold and terror, his lips blue as he accepted the last rites from a black-robed priest.
He was John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, known popularly as The Butcher of England. Warwick’s soldiers had found him hiding in the depths of a forest in Huntingdonshire, and dragged him from his miserable hiding-place to London for trial.
It was Tiptoft who oversaw the slaughter and dismemberment of Warwick’s captured soldiers at Southampton the previous April. Warwick vividly recalled standing on the deck of his flagship, helpless as he witnessed these atrocities, and felt no pity for the man.
The Earl of Oxford stood a little way off, at the head of a troop of his own armed retainers wearing his badge of the star with streams. He was officially presiding over the execution, and had acted as the judge at Tiptoft’s trial.
Since Tiptoft had once presided over the trials and executions of Oxford’s father and elder brother, the verdict was hardly ever in doubt.
Oxford’s bulldog face was a study in barely-concealed passion. His normally ruddy cheeks were pale as fresh milk, and he chewed his bottom lip impatiently as the priest muttered and made the sign of the cross over Tiptoft.
“Get on with it, man,” barked Warwick, stamping his feet, “or else the bugger might die of cold before the axe touches him.”
A man with more defiance in him might have cursed Warwick then, but Tiptoft’s pride and courage had drained out of him the moment sentence was pronounced. A tall, impressive, almost regal figure in the days of his glory, he made for a wretched sight now.
Warwick’s merest word was law, and it gave him great satisfaction to watch the men on the scaffold hurry about their task. The priest retreated, having done his best for the state of Tiptoft’s soul, and the black-masked executioner took up position beside the block.
As a nobleman, Tiptoft was entitled to death by beheading rather than hanging or the more drawn-out forms of execution. The executioner carried a double-handed broadsword for the task. Its blade was sharpened to a razor’s edge, and glinted dully in the wan October sun.
Tiptoft knelt and prayed. His lips moved soundlessly as he uttered a Pater Noster for the last time on earth.
His judge could no longer contain himself. “Beseech the Lord all you like, murderer!” bellowed Oxford, clenching his huge fists, “the Devil will have your soul for a plaything, and welcome!”
Warwick had to press his hand over his mouth to conceal a smile. There was something deliciously amusing about witnessing his peers tearing into each other. Their weakness had always been his opportunity. Oxford’s blunt, honest character and explosive temper made him an easy man to manipulate, provided you knew how to handle him.
Warwick knew. Long experience and observation had taught him how to handle all of them. His friends and allies were mere puppets, and from hereon would prance to his tune.
Tiptoft ignored Oxford’s outburst. “I beseech you,” he said to the executioner, in a voice loud enough for all to hear, “to take my head with three blows, in honour of the Trinity.”
The masked swordsman nodded gravely. Warwick was impressed. Tiptoft had found some courage at the end. Most men would have pleaded to have their heads struck off with one blow, as quickly and painlessly as possible.
The executioner did his best to comply with the condemned man’s wishes. He was a skilled swordsman, a prize-fighter chosen from Warwick’s personal guard.
Warwick winced as the sword swept down and cut into the back of Tiptoft’s neck, laying open his spine. Tiptoft make a choking noise. Blood gushed from his mouth and nostrils. The gash in his neck was but a shallow one, and for a dreadful few seconds he was suspended in terrible pain.
“Jesu, have pity,” he managed to gasp, just before the sword flashed down again and half-decapitated him. Still he lived. He uttered a feeble scream, and his bloodshot eyes threatened to pop from their sockets.
No stranger to executions, this was a trifle too much even for Warwick’s hardened stomach. The faces of those gathered around the scaffold were pictures of disgust and pity. All save Oxford’s. For him, the killing of Tiptoft was both vengeance and redemption, and he nodded with grim approval at each stroke of the sword.
“For God’s sake, end it,” muttered Warwick, and was relieved when the bloody sword came down a third time and neatly lopped Tiptoft’s head from its trunk.
The head dropped into a wicker basket. At a signal from Oxford, two soldiers picked up the basket and carried it away. The head was destined to be impaled on a pike and displayed over London Bridge alongside the heads of other traitors.
Treachery, Warwick contemplated as he sat down shortly afterwards to a welcome hot breakfast, was now largely defined by him. The reins of law and government were firmly in his hands, and would be until Queen Margaret returned to England.
He picked up a chicken leg between finger and thumb and moodily gnawed at it. The queen and her son were going to present problems. He had fought and schemed for years to achieve supreme power in England, and wasn’t inclined to hand it all back again. Especially not to Margaret of Anjou, who had made such a mess of ruling in her mad husband’s stead.
Then there was Clarence. The truculent duke was currently sulking at Burford in Oxfordshire, embittered by Warwick’s decision to restore King Henry instead of placing him on the throne.
Sooner or later, Warwick knew, the recalcitrant young duke would have to be dealt with. It was tempting to have Clarence disposed of with poison or an assassin’s knife, except he was married to Warwick’s daughter.
He could wait until she had a son. That would secure the fusing of Warwick’s blood with the blood royal, and render Clarence irrelevant.
“A fine morning’s work,” said Oxford, jerking Warwick out of his reverie.
The earl was seated opposite Warwick inside the royal apartments on the upper floors of the Tower. King Henry and his consort had once dined here in private.