The Beggar's Throne Read online

  The Beggar's Throne

  a novel by David Falconieri

  ebook ISBN: 978-1-59692-874-9

  M P Publishing Limited

  12 Strathallan Crescent

  Douglas

  Isle of Man

  IM2 4NR

  via United Kingdom

  Telephone: +44 (0)1624 618672

  email: [email protected]

  MacAdam/Cage

  155 Sansome Street Suite 550

  San Francisco, CA 94104

  www.macadamcage.com

  Copyright ©2000 David Falconieri

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication

  (Provided by Quality Books, Inc.)

  Falconieri, David.

  The beggar’s throne / by David Falconieri –

  1st ed.

  395 p.

  LCCN: 99-69322

  ISBN: 0-9673701-0-8

  1. Great Britain–History – Wars of the Roses, 1455-1485 – Fiction.

  2. Great Britain – History – Fiction. I. Title

  PS3511.A633B44 1999 813.54

  Book design by Dorothy Carico Smith

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks are due to my old friend Charles Cunningham for his support and pre-publishing assistance; to my mother, Diana, for her editing advice and for being there when spirits needed lifting; and special thanks to Michael Igoe for his long hours spent editing the manuscript and for his excellent suggestions and historical insights given over drinks at the Wynkoop.

  To Danamarie, my life's inspiration

  THE BEGGAR’S THRONE

  a novel by david falconieri

  contents

  Front

  People charts and Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  “You say this letter proves your damning charges against the queen?” the bishop asked suspiciously.

  “Your Grace, the letter must be presented to the king.” The priest started to shake. “The truth must be told.”

  “Yes, of course it must,” the bishop said, casually regarding the rolled parchment on the table between them. It was the queen’s seal that fastened the paper together, of that there could be no doubt. “Guard!” he called toward the heavy oak door that led to the hall beyond.

  “Why do you summon the guard?” asked the priest, his voice trembling.

  “These are serious charges you make against Her Majesty. But I’m sure that if this letter confirms your suspicions you will be exonerated.”

  Father Stephen stared at the bishop, seeing the lie in his overfed face. Suddenly he snatched the parchment from the table and held it against his breast. “You intend to betray me to the Queen, is it not so?”

  “Give me the letter, Father Stephen.” The bishop held his hand out to receive it.

  The priest backed slowly toward the door. “God forgive me,” he croaked, and turned to run from the room.

  “Guard, stop him!” shouted the bishop behind him.

  Father Stephen ran headlong from the bishop’s chamber. He heard shouts coming from somewhere behind that resonated against the stone walls of Westminster Palace. Turning down one hall after another, down several flights of stairs, he ran like a deer from the hounds.

  At last, he could run no more and opened the first door that yielded to his push. He ducked inside and closed the door, finding himself in a small bedchamber.

  Brushing the sweat from his face, he checked to see that the parchment in the folds of his robe was undamaged. God forgive me if I sin in this matter, he thought. And damn the bishop for his greed.

  He slid behind a curtain that separated the sleeping chamber from a closet and looked down at the parchment again. The queen’s seal was still intact, but he knew what it said, having stood over her as she wrote it. “For the sake of our son…” The words burned his memory, so damning were they. He wondered whose sin was the greater, hers for her crime, or his for betraying her trust? It doesn’t matter. The truth must be revealed!

  He jumped at the sound of the door opening, reciting to himself a litany of prayers to control the fear. After a moment of terrifying silence, a woman’s voice called sharply.

  “Please come out from there at once!” Father Stephen was too petrified to respond. Some movement had betrayed his presence. The curtain was pulled aside to reveal a woman as frightened as he. “Father Stephen?”

  “For the pity of Christ, do not call out,” he said, grabbing her arm. It was Katherine, a lady-in-waiting to the queen, one whom he knew to be kind and God-fearing. This was someone he felt certain he could trust — but he had thought the same of the bishop.

  “What is it, Father?” Despite his best efforts he could not control his shaking.

  “There is not much time and the truth must be told. God has chosen you, my daughter, to carry this parchment to the king.” He quickly told her what was contained within the sealed document and how he had been betrayed by the bishop. Finally, he placed the parchment in her hands.

  “I will protect you by leaving before I am found here. God keep you, my child.” He made the sign of the cross slowly before her face, then ran from the room.

  Closing the door behind him, Father Stephen ran for his life. Down a spiral stair and through several more doors, he ran through a kitchen, pursued by the nauseating smell of curing pheasant. Pushing past startled servants, he hurried through a set of double doors to a parlor. He paused to catch his breath and to still the pounding in his chest. The far doors crashed open and guards poured through.

  “Halt!” yelled the first one.

  “My Lord in Heaven, I commend my soul to thee,” he mumbled as he was surrounded and restrained.

  Back in her bedchamber, Katherine found a chair and collapsed in it. Soon, she knew, the queen would tear the palace apart searching for this letter.

  The door opened again and Katherine jumped to her feet. But it was another of the ladies-in-waiting, Elizabeth Woodville.

  “Good lord, you look pale,” Elizabeth said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

  Just then it occurred to her where to hide the letter.

  PART 1

  CHAPTER I

  The village of Northwood spread thinly along the banks of the River Tyne, the smell of cook-fires lifting in the damp wind. Walking over the muddy, black path that led through the center of town, the miller’s second son, Samuel, listened to the roar of the Tyne, swollen to near the top of its banks by a steady rain that had lasted for weeks, and that still drenched the thatch roofs of the simple dwellings.

  Approaching the
millhouse, he could see through the darkness only an occasional light under a doorsill and the faintest outline of the path before him. He cursed himself for leaving Warkworth Castle so late. Still, in these times of rebellion, he was lucky to get any leave at all, much less a fortnight.

  The timber-and-stone millhouse perched on the riverside, the mill and its workings a fixture of his childhood memories. The giant water wheel was locked and still. Samuel stood for a moment listening to the gears straining against the force of the water when a splash made him pause and look into the gloom.

  “Is anyone there?” he asked the darkness. No response. As he turned to take the last few steps to the door, a strong hand closed around his ankle and pulled his foot out from under him. Samuel fell like a log onto the muddy path. A dark form pinned his arms to the soggy ground. He struggled against the weight and his own fear trying to free himself — to no avail.

  “And you call yourself a soldier?” his attacker asked casually just as Samuel was about to yell for help.

  Samuel recognized the voice. “Christopher! Damn you. Get off me, you fool!”

  “If you insist,” Christopher mocked him.

  “What in God’s name are you doing out in this weather?”

  “I was just walking home from Ethan’s when I saw you coming down the path, and I thought I’d give you a proper welcome.”

  Refusing his brother’s offered hand, Samuel pulled himself out of the mud and leaned against the stone foundation of the house.

  “Damn you,” he said again. “How could you know it was me in this witch’s dark?” Samuel knew the answer, of course. Christopher had always had a keen night vision, and this was not the first time he had used it on Samuel.

  “Come,” said Christopher, “let’s go in before we catch our deaths.”

  “After you, brother.” The last word dripped with scorn.

  Christopher chuckled and pulled the latchstring. Inside, a warm fire smoldered in the hearth and a single candle burned in the center of a square table. John, the town miller, looked up from where he sat on a three-legged stool as his sons walked through the door. Above his beard, his smiling eyes showed the cares of over forty winters.

  “Samuel!” he said. “I had not expected to see you. How is it you’re back from Warkworth?”

  “The earl gave some of us a fortnight’s leave.” He embraced his father.

  “Samuel!” His sister Sally came from the back room and ran into his arms. “I thank God to see you safely home again.”

  “I missed you most of all,” he said, embracing her tightly.

  The youngest of the three children, Sally was dearest to his heart. Christopher, as the oldest, would inherit his father’s trade and worldly possessions, leaving Sally and Samuel with only each other. Samuel, in fact, had been sold into the earl’s service at fourteen, in exchange for one year’s taxes. This was a common exchange and gave younger brothers a more promising future. Samuel trained as an archer for the earl’s private guard. He had already seen several actions and had proved a fine marksman.

  “You’re dripping wet,” Sally said. “Give me your cloak.” As an afterthought she took Christopher’s too.

  The two sons sat at the small table with their father. The aroma of stewed vegetables reminded Samuel how long it had been since his last real meal. Sally quickly began dishing out bowls of the stew.

  “Where’s Emma?” asked Samuel.

  “She’s at Jeremy’s house,” answered his father. “It’s Edith’s time, and Emma’s helping with the birth.”

  “The midwife said it could be a difficult birth,” added Sally, shaking her head. Silence followed for a time. Emma was also expecting, and the dangers of childbirth were legend. John Miller changed the subject.

  “So tell us the news from Warkworth,” he asked Samuel. “There are rumors of rebellion from every transient and beggar that walks through town. One tells us the king is dead, another that York is taken. One poor wretch came into town so frightened by the rumors that he swore the French were hot on his heels. I just mill the grain the same as each day past. If the wars come to Northwood, God’s will be done.”

  “There is evil news indeed, Father,” Samuel told him. “The Yorkist lords that were until now banished to Calais invaded with a large army and defeated the king at Northampton. Poor King Henry is now their prisoner in the Tower. The Duke of York himself has returned from Ireland and claimed the throne.”

  “I’ll not be ruled by a Yorkist king, by God,” Christopher blurted.

  “Nor will the Earl of Northumberland, for as long as the Percys hold the title,” said Samuel.

  “These are problems for others,” John Miller said. “With this bloody rain we’ve problems enough right here in Northwood without worrying about which bloody duke would be king. Barely enough grain came in to feed the village through the winter. And the earl is not likely to forgive any of us our yearly tax. He already took his tenth of my sacks of grain.”

  “You shouldn’t have forgiven Thomas of Endstreet his milling then,” said Christopher. “It will get around now that the villagers can acquire your services for nothing if times are bad.”

  John Miller stomped his foot on the hard dirt floor. “If I can’t lend a hand to my friends when they hurt, then God forgive me. Besides, Thomas knows when a debt is owed, and I know I’ll be satisfied by him when it counts.”

  Someone approached; the four looked up. The door swung open and Christopher’s wife, Emma, stood at the threshold kicking mud from her shoes. When she saw Samuel, she forgot about the dirt.

  “As I live and breathe!” she exclaimed. “God has answered my prayers.” She leaned in to hug her brother-in-law tightly.

  “I am greatly pleased to see you well, Emma. How is Edith?”

  Emma shook the rain from her cloak and sighed.

  “She is well, thank God,” she answered, crossing herself. Sally did the same. “And your friend Jeremy has his son. But it was a terribly long labor and Edith will be a while recovering.” She began to clean the hearth, as much to comfort herself as to set the place right.

  “Jeremy a father!” Samuel could scarcely believe it. They were both the same age, seventeen years, but now Jeremy already had a son.

  “You were telling us the news from Warkworth,” Christopher interrupted.

  Samuel repeated the news about the king’s capture at Northampton for Emma’s sake. She could only shake her head in disbelief.

  “After the battle, Parliament debated the duke’s claim to the throne but could not bring themselves to dethrone poor Henry. Instead they adopted the duke as Henry’s heir apparent, and decreed that upon the death of the king, the House of York shall inherit the crown.”

  “How could they?” exclaimed Christopher. “I can’t believe the queen would accept that. The Prince of Wales would be disinherited.”

  “The queen was not party to the agreement. And neither were any of the northern lords. There will be more fighting, I can assure you.”

  “And with you right in the front lines, as usual,” said Emma angrily. “This fighting will be the ruin of us all, I know it.”

  “I am an archer, Emma, and we usually get sent in first. But I have learned to take good care of myself.”

  Emma said nothing but began to cut vegetables with loud chops.

  “It’s been a long day. I’d better be turning in.” Samuel began to feel his long journey from Warkworth.

  “You’ll find your bed the same as when you left it,” said his father. “There’s a taper in the cupboard.”

  Samuel found the candle and lit it using the flame from the one on the table. After saying goodnight, he stepped into the back room, which was divided by curtains into three sleeping areas. After removing his clothes and collapsing onto his straw
sleeping pad, he pulled the light wool blanket up and let sleep drift over him. With the sound of the river roaring outside, he felt safe and at home in his father’s house.

  *

  The next morning Samuel rapped gently on Jeremy’s door. He heard no sounds from within and began to worry that something was wrong.

  “Is it really you?” The voice came from around the corner of the cottage.

  “Jeremy!” Samuel ran to embrace him.

  “At last you’re back,” said his friend. “How long can you stay?”

  “Only a fortnight. So I hear you’re a father, you dog!”

  Jeremy smiled broadly. “I can hardly believe it myself. Emma has already been here this morning to look in on Edith. I swear we are forever indebted to her.”

  “I’m just glad to hear everyone is healthy,” Samuel said, “and I’m sure that’s all the thanks Emma needs.”

  “She told us the news about the king. How is it the earl let you leave in such dangerous times?”

  “He felt there would be no more fighting until after the Christmas Holy days and did not wish to feed us all between now and the new year.”

  “I’m glad for it. I miss your face around here. Everyone is so damn serious. Come, help me fetch some water.”

  They grabbed two buckets each and headed down to the river. Samuel remembered many such trips when they were growing up. Jeremy’s family were farmers, as were most of the other villagers, and they had little time for fun at any time of the year. Scraping a living from the land required that everyone do their share, including the young ones. So the friends found ways of having their good times while accomplishing their chores.

  “Are you still the best with that bow of yours?” asked Jeremy. The earl, like most lords, required that all the young men living on his lands be trained in the art of marksmanship with the longbow. If the town needed to provide men for war, they would be prepared. During their training in Northwood, no one in town could match Samuel’s skills, though Jeremy came the closest.