He frowned at her. “That is what many will think,” she added hurriedly. “People don’t want war. They want good harvests and the mercy of God and a chance of happiness for themselves and their families.”
“Many people are cowards,” he said with a shrug, “that doesn’t mean they are right. The Yorkists are responsible for the deaths of our father, our brother and your husband. Do you not want some measure of revenge?”
She threw up her hands. “I am trying to dissuade you from this course precisely because they died, along with many of our servants! Martin, you are the last male heir of our family. You have a duty to survive, and marry, and beget sons to inherit Heydon Court.”
Her brother said nothing, so Mary pressed her argument further. “Besides which, you have no way of striking at Geoffrey Malvern and his kin. You are no great lord, able to muster a private army of retainers. As for the King, Edward of March is seated firmly on the throne. He has the support of all the great men of the land. No-one remains in England to oppose his rule, save a few foreign exiles and scattered bands of rebels. To even think of deposing him is not only dangerous, but absurd.”
She paused for breath. To her dismay, Martin was smiling. “You’re either lying or ignorant,” he said, “and I very much doubt the latter. You are well aware of the stories of unrest at court. The usurper is not as secure as he was. There have been plots.”
“Failed conspiracies,” she replied. “As I said, there are always a few dissidents. None will come to anything.”
Martin seemed to think for a moment, chewing his lip and staring at the floor. “I wasn’t going to show you this,” he said at last, “but it seems unfair to hide things from you.”
He dug inside the leather purse hanging from his belt and produced a folded square of parchment.
“Read it,” he said, handing it to her, “and then give it back to me.”
Mary unfolded it and read the brief scribbled note inside:
The Bear and the Leopard have agreed to lie together.
She read the note several times before handing it back. “That is written in James’ hand,” she said, “how did you come by it?”
“A man handed it to me in The Rose inn outside Eccleshall, two nights ago.”
He took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead, a gesture that reminded Mary of their father. “It isn’t the first message James has sent me,” he said awkwardly, “all of them are brief, and written in code.”
“A damned unsubtle code,” replied Mary, “at least to anyone with a passing knowledge of politics. The Bear is the sigil of the Earl of Warwick, and the Leopard can only be the Duke of Clarence, the King’s brother. He bears the royal leopards on his coat of arms. So those two are plotting together again, are they?”
Martin sat back and grinned at her. “You’re not so ignorant, then. Don’t play-act with me, sister. I can read you too easily.”
Better than I can read you
, she thought. “I don’t know why James is sending you coded messages via strange men in taverns, but I advise you to have nothing to do with it. Whatever conspiracy Warwick and Clarence may be hatching can only end badly, and is none of our affair. We must continue to live quietly, and pray for peace.”
“You stay here and pray, then,” said Martin, unfolding from his seat, “I have work to do.”
“Work?” she repeated, “what do you mean? Where are you going?”
She found herself talking to his massive back. “Out,” he replied as he strode towards the door, “don’t expect me back before morning. Goodnight.”
“Wait!” Mary followed him and stood in the doorway as he made his way across the cobbled yard to the stables. She saw him speak to one of the grooms, who nodded and went off to fetch his horse from the stalls.
She briefly considered summoning a couple of men-at-arms to prevent Martin from leaving, but dismissed the idea as ridiculous. Martin was the
de facto
head of the family and lord of Heydon Court, even though Richard’s death had never been confirmed. He could do as he wished.
3.
Salisbury, 18th January 1469
“Henry Courtenay and Sir Thomas Hungerford of Rowden, you stand accused of having plotted, in league with Margaret of Anjou, the final death and final destruction of that most Christian prince, His Majesty King Edward IV.”
These words echoed inside the head of Sir Geoffrey Malvern, Viscount Ashstone. The justice had read them out at the trial of Courtenay and Hungerford, shortly before convicting both men and pronouncing their awful sentence. Unusually for persons of such high rank – Courtenay had once been the Earl of Devon, and Hungerford was a knight of high standing – they were condemned to suffer the full penalties of high treason.
Geoffrey’s skin prickled as he watched the two men being dragged on hurdles into the market place. From his window seat on the upper story of an inn overlooking the square, he witnessed fights breaking out in the packed crowds, as people kicked and punched and jostled each other for a better view of the scaffold.
His hand shook as he lifted a cup of wine to his lips. He had nearly drained the jug, but the spiced wine was having little effect.
Courtenay and Hungerford cut pitiful figures as their guards untied them from the hurdles and hustled them towards the scaffold. Once fine-looking men, tall and handsome and athletic, they were barefoot and dressed in filthy smocks, their heads brutally shaved. Any pretence of dignity was lost as the crowd heaved and pressed to get at them, stretching out filthy fingers to claw at their faces, showering them in phlegm and curses and rotten vegetables. The deafening blare of horns and trumpets and clashing cymbals accompanied the wretched men as they were taken to the scaffold.
Their guards pressed the mob back with the poles of their halberds, or else clubbed the most persistent offenders to the cobbles. Many of these were trampled by their fellows, as the excitement in the crowd rose to feverish levels. There were no innocents in Salisbury square: fathers balanced children on their shoulders to get a better view of the impending butchery, while young apprentices laid wagers as to how long Courtenay and Hungerford would last before life fled from their ruined bodies.
It could so easily be me on the scaffold
, thought Geoffrey. Years of experience had taught him how lethal and unpredictable politics could be, how sudden the swings and reverses in fortune.
The condemned men had been indiscreet. Their letters to Margaret of Anjou in France were easily intercepted by Yorkist agents, and the two arrested before they could leave the country. The Lord Chamberlain, William Hastings, had ordered Geoffrey to extract information from them before they died.
Geoffrey’s talent for diplomacy was matched by his skill at interrogation. He preferred not to resort to torture, preferring to charm and wheedle what he wanted out of suspects. In their terror, Courtenay and Hungerford had readily believed his promises that they would be spared the agony of hanging, drawing and quartering, in return for providing the names of their co-conspirators.
The list of names they gabbled had put the fear of God into Geoffrey, though he had done well not to show it. If the prisoners could be believed, half the nobility in the north were ready to raise arms against the King.
“They wait only for the signal,” Courtenay had sobbed, all his arrogant pride and hauteur vanished. The former Earl actually went down on his knees and hugged Geoffrey’s legs, begging for a merciful death.
“What signal? From whom?” Geoffrey demanded, pushing Courtenay away in distaste.
“The Earl of Warwick, via his steward at Middleham, Sir William Conyers,” replied Hungerford. He at least maintained a degree of composure, though he was pale and trembling from the bone-chilling cold and damp of the dungeon at Salisbury Castle.
Geoffrey had passed the information on to his master Hastings. He suspected it would come as no surprise. Warwick and the King had been virtually at daggers drawn for months. Rumours of conspiracy and rebellion drifted about the corridors at Westminster like poisonous fumes.
He peered out of the window again, up at the sky. It was a dank, miserable morning, the vault of Heaven obscured by grey clouds and drifting chimney smoke. Geoffrey wondered if God was looking down through the murk at what was about to be done in His name. He wondered if the Almighty approved.
There was a chaplain waiting on the scaffold, a burst-bellied fellow with flabby, choleric features, clearly drunk and slurring his words as he read from the Bible. He wasted little time in praying for the souls of the condemned.
A team of four executioners, heavily-built men in black hoods that obscured most of their faces, grabbed hold of Courtenay and Hungerford and made them stand on stools. The stools were placed next to each other under the gallows. One of the executioners swarmed up a ladder and draped the dangling nooses over their trembling necks, while his mates bound their wrists.
“A dirty business, eh?” said a male voice. Geoffrey looked up, startled, and saw a young man standing next to his table. The newcomer was lean and good-looking in a pampered, slightly effeminate way, dressed in a fashionable short doublet and hose. He carried a sword at his hip. One delicate, long-fingered hand rested on the silver-mounted hilt.
“May I sit down?” the man asked. Without waiting for permission he drew up a spare stool and sat opposite Geoffrey.
Geoffrey swallowed the angry rebuke that leaped to his lips. He didn’t recognise his uninvited companion, but the youth behaved with an arrogant insouciance that Geoffrey had encountered many times before at court.
“Might I know your name, sir?” he asked politely. His fingers crept towards his dagger.
“I am John,” the other replied. He leaned forward and craned his neck to see out of the window. “We are in for some rare entertainment. The executioners are in the mood for some fun.”
A shrill cheer burst from the crowd as the stools were kicked away, leaving Courtenay and Hungerford dangling in mid-air. Both men kicked and jerked wildly as the coarse hemp bit into their necks. Their faces turned crimson, then black, the flow of blood to their brains abruptly cut off.
The chief executioner let them jerk awhile, until his victims reached the semi-conscious stage and started to go into spasm. At the same time they lost control of their bowels and bladders. The spectators applauded in delight.
When the noise reached a crescendo, the chief executioner nodded at his mate on the ladder, who drew a large knife and sawed quickly through the ropes.
Geoffrey had to clap a hand over his mouth as the twitching bodies dropped onto the platform with a thump that shook the timbers. He knew what came next, and could feel his gorge rising.
No such delicacy affected his companion. “I’ve never seen this before,” he mused, idly resting his chin on his fist, “it’s quite fascinating, isn’t it? One wonders how much the human body can endure.”
He soon found out. Buckets of water were thrown over the half-strangled men to revive them. They were picked up and laid on a couple of wooden tables. A lit brazier stood next to the tables.
This was what the people had really come to see. The executioners milked the moment for all it was worth, brandishing their knives and cleavers and mimicking the action of innards being torn out.
The screams that erupted from both men as the blades cut home could be heard even above the din of the crowd. First the executioners slit them open from throat to groin, and then plunged dirty hands deep inside their bodies. Hot blood splattered the hooded men as they worked, pulling out lengths of bloodied entrails and tossing them with a flourish onto the flames of the brazier next to the tables.
Courtenay and Hungerford writhed and shrieked and babbled under this unspeakable torture, calling on God and their mothers to save them. No salvation was forthcoming. Once the disembowelment was finished, they were castrated, their genitals sawn off and tossed onto the greedy fire. The stench of burned meat rose into the air, causing some in the crowd to turn away. A few vomited. Others gloried in it, an almost sexual excitement dancing in their eyes.
The ghastly spectacle finally drew to a close when the suffering men were beheaded. Their mutilated bodies were hacked into rough quarters and stuffed into sacks, to be distributed around the kingdom as an eloquent warning against treason. A few gobbets of intestine that had escaped the fire were tossed into the crowd by the gore-smeared executioners, while the ropes from the scaffold were cut into pieces and sold for a few pence to memento hunters.
Fifty seconds,
thought Geoffrey. That was how long Courtenay had been kept alive between his castration and his beheading.
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Many sleep-deprived nights would be spent in remembering that glimpse into one man’s unimaginable torment. Still, at least it was all over.
The youth who gave his name as John leaned back from the window and rubbed his hands. “Justice is done,” he said in a satisfied tone. “Good. I shall report back to our master.”
“Our master?” enquired Geoffrey, wishing he could cut the man’s complacent smirk from his face.