The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  The castle was now in tranquil darkness, the draughty hallways now chilled and empty of life. All had retired to their rightful place of rest. Richard slowly climbed into bed and pulled the fur overlay up to his chin – it was another bitter cold night. In his thoughts, he entertained the day’s events: Warwick had greeted him warmly as befitted a cousin and royal prince. Richard's gifts of two, fully trained, hunting falcons; one for the earl, and one for his wife – for he knew the countess loved hunting with hawks – were genuinely received.

  The welcoming feast had been long and a little boring, but Warwick had been attentive, liking Richard to an unpolished diamond that had been sent to Middleham to be burnished and smoothed, and over time, to sparkle and dazzle for all to see – just as he had polished and shaped Richard’s brother, King Edward. Once the feast was over, the trestle tables had been cleared away and the music and dancing had commenced. Richard watched but declined the invitation to join in. His shyness had been put down to his young age, but Richard knew himself well. Music he loved; dancing he disliked, because it might draw attention to his deformity, and, he sadly thought, would always be so.

  Warwick had introduced his two daughters and it did not take Richard long to realise they were like chalk and cheese. Isabel, the eldest, was scatterbrained. Like a bee around summer flowers, she would flit from one subject to another, without intelligence or thought. It was the same with her emotions, one minute happy, and the next, sulky. She reminded Richard of his brother, George, both were self-centred and spoilt. Maybe, he mused, all great families have to have one like that.

  Anne, on the other hand, who was only seven years old, was calm and serene; her wit was quick, her conversation thoughtful, and although she was very young, there was a maturity about her that Richard admired. Anne had made him welcome, and then had made him promise to play chess with her, once he had settled in to his new life at Middleham…and what of this new life?

  Warwick had explained how his education would continue as before, but his physical training would increase. He would now be taught how to fight in armour, when mounted, and on foot, with battleaxe and spear. Hunting would become more intense, for this was considered excellent training for war. Military strategy would be learnt and discussed daily. Richard looked forward to these lessons with excitement.

  The only quandary of the evening that nagged at his mind was Warwick himself. Edward had warned Richard that Warwick was a great manipulator, and Richard had sensed that the words coming out of his cousin’s mouth, although sounding fair to his ear, only disguised the thoughts and wily schemes going on in that brain of his. Those small, hard eyes stared at him just like a hunter taking his measure of his prey. Richard’s last thoughts, before sleep darkened his mind, dwelled on the reality that he must treat Warwick with caution.

  Middleham Castle, North Yorkshire

  16 December 1463

  John Tunstall was dressed in his finest clothes, and now blazed with colour. His mother, and Rose, had been fussing over him as they helped him dress, and now he wore his best crisp, white shirt trimmed with lace, over which he wore a rich, blue satin and velvet vest that ended at his knee. It was pleated into his waist by a narrow belt with a solid silver buckle and the sleeves were long and pointed. Around his shoulders, he wore a small, velvet cape, edged with fur. His legs were clothed in scarlet tights, and ended with narrow-pointed shoes.

  When the Earl of Warwick and the Great Controller introduced Duke Richard, John felt a little overwhelmed by the presence of so many high-ranking people. He bowed low and called him ‘your Grace’. Duke Richard greeted him with a smile and told him to call him Richard. John’s instructions from Lord Warwick were to show Richard around the castle so he would know every corner and crevice before the day was out. Only the dungeons were off limits, because they now held the spies, arrested at the earl’s other residences.

  Finally, they had stood atop the castle’s tallest turret, where John had stood the day before watching his companion’s arrival. Both were looking out over the snow-swept terrain towards the River Ure. They had been exploring the battlements and towers for some time, and the bitter north wind was now penetrating their thin clothes, rapidly numbing their feet and hands, the chill spreading slowly through their bodies. Outwardly, though, neither showed it, both waited for the other to seek the warmth of the turrets interior, as though to be first would be a sign of weakness.

  The two boys were saved from freezing to death by their own stubbornness, with the arrival of young Lord Francis Lovell, also a ward of Middleham Castle. He called for them to change out of their best clothes, and to then attend the tilt-yard for their first lessons together in practising with sword and lance. They both walked thankfully towards the doorway leading to the interior of the tower. John stopped, and bowing low, waved Richard through. Richard did likewise and they both stood looking at each other; then suddenly they both rushed for the door. Pushing and jostling, they squeezed through together, laughing as they did; the first bonds of their friendship formed in that moment.

  John Tunstall faced Duke Richard in the tilt-yard: the large enclosed arena where the arts of war were practised during the long, cold winter months. Large enough for jousting on horseback, the building was constructed entirely of wood, and the interior had within it a large fenced area, the floor of which was earth with fresh straw lain on top. The boys both wore protective padded jackets over which they wore chain mail for protection and added weight. The extra weight was to prepare them for the day when they would fight in full armour. They both wore gauntlets made from the latest lightweight copper alloy, and each held a blunted sword in one metal-encased hand, and a ten-inch wooden dagger in the other, in the style of swordplay called Florentine. Although they were the same age, and just under five feet tall, they held their weapons with calm awareness, for both had been training in horsemanship and weapons since the age of seven.

  They now concentrated on being totally within themselves, centring their minds and bodies as they had both been taught – perception and anticipation, so important in sword fighting, could not be achieved unless the mind was centred. All outside distractions had to be banished as they had to be totally focused on their opponent.

  The master-at-arms signalled for them to take up their stance. Both boys adopted an open posture with their daggers held vertically in front of them, and their swords over the shoulder of their sword arm, resting across their backs at about forty-five degrees from the horizontal; their sword-hand touching their ear. Their swords were now balanced for maximum efficiency. Both boys understood that a sword strike starts with the legs, and as the torso rotates, it is transferred and amplified as it moves up through the body into the sword arm.

  A small audience had gathered to watch, some just out of curiosity, others were interested in the performance of the new boy, Duke Richard.

  The Hallet twins leaned on the wooden fence surrounding the tilt-yard with intense interest on their faces. John was their protégée; they had helped to shape and train him. They felt nervous, an emotion that was alien to them, and they looked at each other with puzzled eyes.

  ‘Are we going soft?’ said Thomas. ‘I haven’t felt this nervous since big Sarah “wobbly arse” took me behind the cowshed to show me what the birds and the bees get up to.’

  ‘Aye, she was a big ’un,’ replied George. ‘I’ve seen grown men take flight when those crossed eyes of hers took a fancy to them.’

  ‘Well, some people are just too fussy,’ replied Thomas. ‘I, myself, likes ’em big! Anyway, nobody looks at the mantel when they’re poking the fire.’

  ‘Well, you’re certainly not a man of refined taste when it comes to charming the fairer sex,’ replied George. ‘You’d poke anything if it moved and was faintly female!’

  Thomas’ hurt reply was cut short by the arrival of the Earl of Warwick and the Great Controller. All that were present bowed low.

  Warwick clapped his hands. ‘Continue,’ he barked, as he lea
ned on the wooden fence, his small eyes taking in all who were present. ‘I’ll wager a silver penny that cousin Richard wins this joust. Who will wager for young Tunstall?’ he enquired.

  The Hallet twins raised their hands. ‘We have a silver penny between us, my Lord, if you will accept it?’ said Thomas.

  ‘Done,’ beamed Warwick, who liked a wager.

  The Great Controller looked at the Hallet twins and raised his eyes to the heavens. I hope they have the money, he thought, or a good flogging will be their payment, if young Tunstall loses.

  John studied his opponent, intently. With the arrival of Lord Warwick, the contest had suddenly gone from an enjoyable exercise, to a serious match, with the earl’s money and their pride now at stake.

  Both boys steadied themselves. The master-at-arms stood between them, his sword raised. When he stepped back, and lowered his sword, the contest would begin. Silence settled around the tilt-yard; tension strained to be released. The master-at-arms’ sword flashed between them, and John immediately launched a ‘snap’ strike at his opponent. Transferring his weight on to his back leg, he threw the balance point of his sword from his shoulder so that it whipped around towards his target; at the same time stepping forward on to his front foot, he rotated his hips in line with his sword swing to increase the power of the blow.

  Richard was taken by surprise at the speed of the attack, and the power of the strike; he instantly parried the blow with his Ballock dagger – but not completely. The force of the blow rode the sword up over the top of his dagger, and struck him a glancing blow high on his shoulder – the pain shot down his arm.

  Now off balance, Richard was at a great disadvantage. He could not counter strike, as he would have to pass back through his centre of balance, making it slower and easier to read, thus allowing his opponent to step inside his blade’s arc with a killer blow. He quickly closed his stance and moving backwards, he drew himself up to his tallest height and placed his sword and dagger in front of himself in a defensive position – his mind now painfully concentrated and astonished at the speed and power of his opponent.

  John had already anticipated this defensive move from Richard, and launched a ‘drop strike’ – targeting the lower back leg by dropping his sword hand straight down from off his shoulder. He turned his palm over, and whipped his sword round towards its target.

  Richard moved sideways and backwards, and watched with growing alarm as John’s blade flashed passed his leg, glistening with menace. Noticing John was slightly off balance, Richard seized the moment; quickly raising his sword vertically in line with his face, he struck down at John’s sword arm, but John had seen the blow coming and countered with a ‘backhand reverse’. This stopped the downward path of Richard’s sword, and the clash of metal rang painfully in their ears.

  John whipped his dagger hand round, and thrust it up towards Richard’s chest, who once again narrowed his stance to avoid the blow and moved backwards, snapping out a thrust to give him time to recover.

  The watching men could see that the boys were well trained and skilful – John was the stronger and quicker – but Richard had natural rhythm, which had saved him from John’s initial attacks.

  Slowly, the two boys settled down into their own tempo and style, their swordplay becoming a single entity. Each of their movements were seen by the other and acted upon. It was as if the contest had become a sort of ritualised dance – one movement leading to another set of movements, with each trying to anticipate the motions of his opponent so that their sword would be drawn towards an opening in the other’s defence. Each looked for subtle habits that would signal a certain blow, like a slight rotation of the sword hand before a swing, or a small step forward before a thrust – anything that would provide evidence of an impending strike – so that they could counter-attack with a killing blow before the other had completed their strike. But both had been trained not to have these fatal signs in their sword technique.

  The boys were now tiring. With aching arms and sweat running off their bodies as they gasped for breath, the two of them grimly fought on with stubborn tenacity, searching for that small fatal weakness within the other.

  John finally saw the opening he had been searching for. In one of his lessons with the Hallet twins, they had told him that when a man drops his shoulders it signals tiredness, and for a second he will not be able to react with speed. John had seen in a flash that Richard’s shoulders had dropped a fraction, and he struck immediately. In a blur of movement, he stepped forward on to his sword foot, and thrust his sword through Richard’s static defence – it was a killer blow – then moving his dagger arm down, and using an upward thrust, he hit Richard just under his rib cage. In real combat, it would have penetrated and ripped into his major organs.

  The contest was finished, and both boys leaned on the wooden fence, exhausted.

  The Hallet twins hurried to John’s side to help him off with his chain mail and padded jacket, and to quietly congratulate him on his win. They kept their praise subdued, for they knew the earl hated to lose anything, especially money.

  Richard’s close retainers were assisting him in removing his protective clothing, when the earl strode towards them with the Great Controller in tow.

  John watched the earl approach, wondering if he would be annoyed at him for having beaten his cousin, Richard. Would it be harsh words, or praise?

  Warwick arrived in front of him, reached out, and put his hand gently on John’s shoulder. ‘Well fought, young Tunstall, you have done the castle proud. The master-at-arms, and those two scoundrels standing beside you, have taught you well – they must be well pleased with your performance today.’

  The Hallet twins nodded vigorously.

  ‘I am pleased that we are producing such excellent warriors for the future,’ Warwick concluded. Seeing John look embarrassingly at the ground, Warwick put his hand under John’s chin and lifted his face up. ‘Your father, if he were here, would have been proud of you, John, as you should be proud of yourself with that fine display.’ He ruffled John’s hair and then turned to Richard. ‘You fought well, cousin. I feel tiredness from your long journey may have lost you the joust, but next time, when you are fresh, it will be a more even contest.’

  ‘It was a fair contest,’ replied Richard. ‘John won; I have no excuses. But next time – now I have the measure of him ­– hopefully, it may be a different story.’

  The two boys looked at each other with tired smiles.

  Warwick smiled to himself; both boys were very competitive, which was excellent. They would push each other to even greater efforts. He waved the master-at-arms towards him and turning to the Great Controller said, ‘Come, we have executions to organise for tomorrow.’

  The three of them started to walk away when Warwick suddenly stopped – pulling out his purse, he produced a silver penny, then looking at the Hallet twins, he flipped it high into the air.

  Both twins rushed forward to catch it. The penny turned over and over, reflecting the light on its silver surface as it tantalisingly descended and the twins, their eyes mesmerised, reached up to catch it. As they did so, they collided violently, knocking their heads sharply together. ‘God’s Blood!’ they cried in unison, as they tumbled to the ground. The penny landed in the straw between them.

  Warwick roared with laughter, as did everybody else, except the Great Controller, who shook his head sadly, and once again rolled his eyes towards the heavens.

  Richard, John, and Francis, walked back to the castle still laughing at the Hallet twins.

  John, with his impetuous free spirit, intrigued Richard, whose own upbringing had made him cautious and restrained. Francis, who was always smiling, and saw the best in everyone, walked in the middle. The three of them ran through the great gate into the castle, laughing and chattering to each other. They were on their way to Richard’s first lesson with Friar Drynk. Both John and Francis were intrigued of what the very devout and pious Richard would make of their favourite pr
iest.

  Friar Drynk was a large, round-faced man of about forty years of age. The church had not been a spiritual calling for him; it was more the choice of an easier life. It was the priesthood or backbreaking toil of the fields. In the holy order he was guaranteed three meals a day, plus copious amounts of wine. Because of his eccentric personality, he had not fitted into the discipline of monastery life. They had tried many different paths for him within the monastery, but eventually he had ended up at Middleham Castle with the thankless task of instilling religion into the young men of the nobility. Friar Drynk loved his wine and for the most part was always pleasantly tipsy. Occasionally, he would disappear to the City of York where he could be found tasting the delights of its many brothels. He also had a small problem with gluttony. Apart from these minor faults, he was a fine example to his pupils; he knew the scriptures backwards, and would always win any theological argument.

  Friar Drynk belched loudly as the three boys entered the room. He was walking slightly unsteadily towards his desk when he stopped abruptly in mid-stride. The boys stood still and waited, the room was silent, and then a low noted fart of extraordinary duration exploded from the back of Friar Drynk’s habit.

  ‘Ye Gods! There was a full charge in your rear gun,’ gasped John, waving his hand briskly in front of his face.

  ‘Aye, if you have two sniffs of that, you’re a glutton,’ replied Friar Drynk.

  They all looked at Richard whose face was aghast; John and Francis started to giggle. ‘Who’s this new boy?’ asked Friar Drynk as he wiped a greasy food-soaked sleeve across his mouth.

  Francis controlled himself just enough to blurt out, ‘He’s Richard, Duke of Gloucester,’ before collapsing into laughter.

  Friar Drynk clasped his hands together and bowed. ‘Your Grace, it is an honour to have you in my class,’ he flattered, ‘and may I say what a fine welcoming feast it was yesterday – the food was superb and the wine…’ His eyes wandered off dreamily towards the window, ‘…was magnificent.’ He then belched loudly again, and shaking his head, he tried to focus two bloodshot eyes on the boys. ‘The lesson for today will be on the miracles of Moses—’