The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  The Great Controller smiled to himself. Every cloud has a silver lining, he mused, but Duke Richard was arriving tomorrow. This embarrassment was the last thing he needed. It would be best to have the torturers complete their work tonight – he did not want John de Bothall’s screams upsetting the duke when he arrived.

  John Tunstall paused as he reached the bottom of the steps that led down from the Great Controller’s office, his mind still racing with astonishment over the outcome of his interview he had just attended with the ‘Old Owl’.

  He could not wait to tell his mother that he was going to be the companion of Richard, the Duke of Gloucester and the King’s youngest brother. He still could not believe it himself. He stopped at the entrance and looked out at the falling snow. It was the first snows of winter. He remembered waking that morning and his sudden excitement over the crisp and white altered landscape. One of his tutors had told him that there was an ancient significance to the first snows of the winter. No matter how old you were or how many times you had witnessed it, when it starts snowing, you stop whatever you are doing and rush to see it. It was one of life’s magical moments.

  John started walking across the outer keep towards the turret where he lived in a suite of private rooms with his mother, Lady Alice Tunstall. She was to serve the Earl of Warwick’s wife: the countess, Anne Neville, – whilst John was being trained for knighthood.

  John listened to the pleasant, but unfamiliar, sound of the snow crunching under his feet. He walked in ridiculous ways and smiled with delight at the comical effect his boots made in the snow. As he made his way towards his living quarters, he tried to protect his best clothes from the worst of the snowfall by hugging the wall of the Great Keep.

  He was halfway around the outer keep when he saw the Hallet twins, guarding the Great Keep gate. They both looked frozen. He could hear them grumbling and cursing as they stamped their feet and rubbed their hands together. He knew them both well; the two of them were the best fighting men-at-arms in the castle and taught him the art of swordplay and unarmed combat. He realised they had not noticed him, so he quickly moved up against the castle wall out of their line of sight and with a playful look in his eyes, he quietly made two large snowballs and then stealthily crept towards the entrance. Carefully, he peered around the corner and awaited his chance. As the two brothers moved closer together, John stepped out and let fly. His two snowballs found their targets, and each twin received a direct hit to his head.

  ‘Bloody donkey’s arse!’ cried George.

  ‘Hell’s teeth!’ shouted Thomas.

  John could not believe his luck – two bull’s eyes! The master-at-arms suddenly appeared in the guardroom doorway. He was a giant of a man – six foot, six inches – and some said he was carved from solid oak. His face was battered and scarred, reflecting his profession.

  ‘Tunstall!’ he bellowed.

  John laughed mischievously, and ran towards the entrance of his apartment with the master-at-arms threats of reprisals ringing in his ears. He looked back over his shoulder at them as he dashed through the archway into the base of the turret, where he collided with his mother’s maid, Rose Thorne, who was carrying a tray of dirty dishes back to the castle’s kitchens. Rose fell backwards on to the bottom steps of the spiralling staircase that disappeared up into the turret, while the tray shot up into the air scattering dishes that crashed with alarming loudness onto the cold, hard, stone floor.

  Rose was twelve years old and had been John’s mother’s maid for only four weeks. She had beautiful dark hair and huge smiling brown eyes, and John thought she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

  ‘Rose, are you all right?’ cried John, as he reached down to help her up.

  She rose gingerly from the steps and smoothed her dress. ‘Think so,’ she said as she looked at him with amusement.

  John felt himself blush. He always seemed to stumble over his words when he spoke to Rose, and now she was laughing at him, making him even more tongue-tied.

  ‘I – I will find – pick up – get the plates,’ he stammered.

  Rose started to giggle, her beautiful brown eyes sparkling as she knelt down to help John as he scrabbled around on the floor picking up the dishes. Her hand suddenly rested on his, and John stopped, looking into her eyes. Rose looked down and then through her long eyelashes looked coyly up at him.

  For the last few weeks, John had been trying to summon up the courage to tell Rose how he felt, but had always felt too stupid and tongue-tied until now.

  ‘Rose, I think you are beautiful,’ he blurted out, feeling himself blushing. ‘I really, really like you.’

  ‘I like you too,’ she whispered, with smiling eyes.

  John thought his heart was going to burst. ‘You – you do?’ he cried.

  Suddenly, the castle’s alarm bell sounded. John could hear men shouting. He looked at Rose, then dashed to the entrance of the turret and looked out. Men-at-arms were running towards the gates and battlements; shouts of ‘seal the castle’ rang out. He saw the portcullis being lowered and then the merchant, John de Bothall, being marched by the Hallet twins towards the Great Controller’s office.

  Lady Tunstall turned away from the window and looked at her son as he warmed himself by the fire. ‘They are tearing the castle apart, searching for that young clerk,’ she said.

  ‘His name is Robert Furneys, although I doubt that is his real name,’ replied John. ‘According to some of the men-at-arms, he was spying on me and the Great Controller, when he was discovered. It would appear he has been spying for the Lancastrians for at least the last two years. Lord Warwick is furious.’

  ‘And they say John de Bothall is the ring-leader?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied John.

  ‘That’s a shame.’ Lady Tunstall sighed. ‘I used to enjoy all the gossip he brought from the other castles.’

  ‘Well, he’s a dead man, now,’ said John.

  Lady Tunstall turned back to the window, and continued to watch all the activity within the castle.

  John studied his mother. She was tall and slim, with long blonde hair and blue eyes, and now, without a husband, as lady-in-waiting and close friend of the Countess of Warwick. His father had been killed at the battle of St Albans, eight years ago, fighting alongside the earl. John had been three years old at the time and, of course, could not remember his father, but was told he was the image of him. His thoughts were broken by his mother, who had turned from the window to face him. ‘So, you are to be the companion of the King’s brother,’ she said, proudly.

  ‘Lord Warwick and the Great Controller picked me personally,’ John replied, full of pride. ‘Duke Richard arrives tomorrow, and I will be introduced to him the following day.’

  ‘This is a wonderful opportunity for you. If you get on well with him, doors will open; your advancement in rank is assured…’ She paused; a sad look filled her eyes. ‘Your father would have been so proud of you, if he had lived.’ She turned back towards the window to hide her sorrow.

  Rose entered the room. ‘Could you change out of your best clothes?’ she asked John. ‘I need to have them cleaned and ready. You must be looking your finest when you meet the King’s brother.’

  ‘Can Rose come with me tomorrow to watch Duke Richard arrive at the castle?’ John suddenly asked his mother with a boldness that surprised them all, especially himself.

  Lady Tunstall turned from the window and studied them both, a look of comprehension slowly settling on her face. Her little boy was growing up. This was his first infatuation; being captivated by a pretty smile was no sin. He was taking that first step over the line that divides childhood from manhood. She was pleased; a first love was always special, and Rose was an honest and virtuous girl, so no harm would come of it. She looked at Rose. ‘Do you want to go?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, please,’ replied Rose, as she looked thoughtfully at John.

  John smiled at Rose. He went to change his clothes, feeling ten feet tall.

&
nbsp; Chapter 2

  The Arrival

  Middleham Castle, North Yorkshire

  15 December 1463

  John Tunstall was standing on the top of the tallest turret at Middleham Castle, looking out to the horizon, his eyes searching out into the sun-dazzled snow.

  ‘It’s too bright,’ John said, raising his hand over his eyes.

  ‘Well, you’ll not miss them against the snow,’ replied Rose, ‘unless their horses are all white, and Duke Richard and his men are wearing white clothes!’ She giggled.

  John loved her girlish laughter. It stirred a feeling of tenderness in him, something he had never felt for a girl before.

  ‘Look, here they come!’ cried a young boy, excitedly.

  John could see them now; his excitement grew. They were still far in the distance – too far out to see any detail.

  A biting winter wind suddenly spiralled around the turret, and Rose shivered. John removed his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. Rose looked up at him, and smiled as she gently leaned against him. John, not sure of what to do, gingerly placed his arm around her, and saw the young boy crinkle his nose up at them in disgust.

  John looked down into the castle. Trumpeters were primed on top of the Great Keep to play a salutation. Two hundred garrison troops were drawn up in the castle yard, their helmets, breastplates, and weapons, gleaming in the winter sun. The master-at-arms was walking amongst them, making last-minute inspections.

  God help any soldier who has a fleck of dirt or an unpolished piece of metal about his person, John thought.

  Knights of the Earl of Warwick’s retinue were positioned outside the castle, where they lined the route up to the great gate. They were mounted in full battle dress; the fusion of all their battle colours set against the white snow was magnificent in its brilliance.

  John longed for the day when he could join them. He watched as a hundred scourers – light cavalry – were sent out to support the duke on his arrival to the castle.

  The Earl and Countess of Warwick, surrounded by their close retainers and ladies-in-waiting, stood on the steps to the Great Hall. John could see his mother at the countess’ side – all had their finest clothes on. Gold and jewels sparkled in the golden rays of this sharp winter’s morning. He knew his mother would be frozen, no matter how many layers of clothes she wore. He hoped her ordeal would not last too long.

  All the castle workers, except those who were detailed for last-minute chores, lined the inner walls in their best church clothes. Each had been given a small, brightly-coloured flag depicting the earl’s and the duke’s insignia, side by side. When Duke Richard entered the castle, these would be waved vigorously as they cheered their welcome.

  Thomas, the Great Controller, hovered in the background. Against all the rich colours on display, he looked oddly out of place, dressed in his usual black – his face looked drawn and tired. It was obvious that he’d had a long night and, of course, the whole castle knew of yesterday’s events. The rumour was that executions were scheduled for the following Saturday.

  John watched all this splendid activity below him. He was glad he was just a spectator who could relax and enjoy the day, for tomorrow he would meet Duke Richard and then his life would be changed forever.

  Richard, Duke of Gloucester, brought his horse to a halt as Middleham Castle came into view. He had beside him, two of his most trusted retainers: John Milewater and Thomas Parr. His third favourite retainer, Thomas Huddleston, was already at the castle. He had gone ahead the previous day with the baggage train, to supervise the unloading, and the preparation of his royal quarters.

  Richard watched as scourers were disgorged from the castle, galloping over the crystal snow towards them. The mounted men-at-arms who formed his bodyguard instinctively moved slightly closer to him; they were dressed in their finest battle armour.

  Last night, they had stayed at Fountains Abbey near the town of Rippon. There, they had prepared for their journey; weapons and armour had been polished and oiled, their number-one uniforms unpacked and made ready. Today, they looked supreme, each of them proudly wearing the White Boar of Duke Richard’s standard. He had enjoyed his night at the abbey. The excitement of today had been stirring within him, so he had appreciated the quiet orderliness of this Cistercian Order. The ‘white monks’, known as such because their habits were made of coarse undyed sheep’s wool, lived hard and active lives; they were also committed to long periods of silence for spiritual reflection and to honour God. Richard had attended Mass with the abbot and his brothers, where they had said prayers for him.

  He looked into the distance towards the castle and saw bright flashes of light as the sun reflected off polished metal; the hazy colour of flags fluttering from towers broke the stillness of the morning horizon. Middleham Castle held no fears for him – he was looking forward to the extra freedom it would give him. To be away from the claustrophobic atmosphere of the royal court was a blessing, as was the great distance now between him and his brother, George. Since George had been made Duke of Clarence, he had become insufferable. Richard knew that George had always sought attention, and since being made a duke, he could demand it. He had become even more spoilt and tiresome, and was forever tormenting Richard about his misshaped back. He would whisper the word ‘hunchback’, or ‘crookback’, as he passed him, with a caustic smile on his face. Because George was high born, and the brother of King Edward, Richard knew he could get away with the name-calling. No one else within the royal court would dare say such a thing to Richard’s face, although he was sure they whispered it in the draughty hallways of the royal castles.

  Richard’s clothes had been specially tailored to hide the slight hump that raised his right shoulder higher than his left. The physicians had told him it was not noticeable at the moment, but would become worse, the older he became, unless he wore the special leather corset they had designed to straighten his spine as he slept. He was hoping that at Middleham Castle he would be accepted for who he was, and not for what he looked like, for his slight deformity did not affect his physical prowess at all. But best of all, it would be wonderful not to have to look on the spiteful face of George ever again.

  He was, however, sad to be leaving his dashing elder brother, King Edward, but he would see him in the New Year when he came up to York on a Royal Progress. Edward had spent his youth at Middleham. If it was good enough for Edward, it is most certainly good enough for me, Richard thought.

  Thomas Parr broke Richard’s thoughts. ‘We’d best be heading on, your Grace, or we’ll be late for the welcoming party. We don’t want them to freeze to death waiting for us.’

  Richard smiled, and then spurring his horse, galloped towards the huge inspiring fortress of Middleham Castle.

  The Earl of Warwick stood on the steps leading to the Great Hall, and surveyed the castle. All appeared to be in good order for Richard’s arrival. He was disappointed that his three close retainers: John Conyers, James Strangways, and Thomas Metcalfe, as well as the others, were not beside him. He would miss their company during the grand welcoming feast. Without their humour, it could well turn into a tedious affair, but, at least, that traitor, John de Bothall, had named the agents in his the earl's other residences.

  There were four in total, and the earl had dispatched his close retainers early that morning to arrest them. They would be brought back to Middleham to face the ordeal of torture – for who knew what other secrets may be squeezed out of them – followed by a slow traitor’s death.

  No wonder that French whore, Margaret of Anjou, had always been one step ahead of him; how she must have laughed at his efforts to catch her. Anger welled up inside him as he saw her self-righteous face taunting him, but he satisfied himself with the thought that when he caught her, he would have her confined to a Spartan convent with orders that she work in front of the hot kitchen ovens, dressed in a thick, wool habit, for the rest of her days. During his diplomacy, and much to his annoyance, the French king had stated tha
t Queen Margaret was a French princess, and as such must be spared death if she was ever made a prisoner. If this was not agreed, then their support for her would continue. Warwick had no choice but to agree, although he would have enjoyed slowly impaling the scheming bitch on a long spike.

  Warwick saw Duke Richard move into view; he had stopped outside the entrance to the castle as though waiting for the signal to enter. Warwick smiled.

  Well…at least here is another asset arriving to add to my empire. It wasn’t so long ago that his brother, King Edward, had arrived at Middleham at the same age, and look what I had achieved with him – he is now King, but still firmly in my pocket, thought Warwick, smugly.

  I have great plans for Richard, and his brother George, for they will marry my daughters Isabel and Anne. This will unite the two houses of York; then King Edward will marry a French princess of my choosing, which will unite the French and English thrones. With this new found power and influence, the whole world will listen when I speak, and heed the words of the great Warwick – for not only will I control England, my influence will extend to cover Burgundy, France and beyond.

  Warwick smiled with satisfaction as he stepped forward to greet young Duke Richard.

  Duke Richard sat quietly in his new bedchamber. The feasting was finished, the dancing steps now still, and the musician’s tunes were silent. This grand day of welcome was done. He had taken off his elegant shoes that were covered with the finest cloth of gold and trimmed with pearls, the new scarlet leggings, and his deep-blue satin vest, trimmed with lace that sparkled with precious jewels. His beautiful mauve cloak, trimmed with the newest Italian velvet, had been conscientiously folded and put carefully away.