The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  A few servants fussed around, but generally, all was calm. This was the scene that greeted John as he entered the room. As he looked around, he saw Anne and Isabel raise their hands to their mouths and start to giggle. Richard and Francis smiled broadly, and John wondered what the joke was about, but remembering his courtly etiquette, he walked towards the countess, and bowed low. ‘Greetings, my Lady. I trust you are well today,’ he said.

  ‘I am very well, today, young John, and pleased to see that you are also looking well.’ The countess smiled at him, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

  John turned to his mother and bowed low.

  ‘Why are you late?’ Lady Tunstall enquired.

  ‘I went for a walk around the battlements, and forgot the time,’ John replied.

  His mother did not reply, for she knew exactly where John had been, and with whom. She realised that with young love came secrets. Before Rose, there had never been secrets between her and John, and she did not want them now. She would talk to him about Rose tomorrow.

  As John turned to go, the countess called to him. ‘I didn’t realise that the battlements were covered in straw.’

  ‘More like the tilt-yard,’ shouted Richard, for they all knew about John and Rose.

  John looked behind him. To his embarrassment, the back of his woollen jerkin and tights had straw caught in the threads. It had been dark when he left the tilt-yard, so he had not noticed, and now his secret was revealed. He could feel his face becoming hot, he knew that in seconds he was going to blush bright red with embarrassment. Oh, how he hated that, for there was nothing on God’s earth that would stop it. He walked to the farthest end of the room, and leant against the wall to hide the evidence. Richard and Anne left their game of chess and quickly walked towards him.

  ‘Come, let me brush you down,’ said Richard, concerned for his friend’s embarrassment. Then, he whispered, ‘You should know there are no secrets in this castle.’

  John glumly nodded in agreement.

  ‘Cheer up,’ said Anne. ‘Rose is the prettiest girl in the castle; all the boys would like to be in your shoes.’

  John nodded once again, but this time with a proud smile on his face.

  ‘You had better come and help Richard with this game of chess; he’s not doing too well,’ laughed Anne.

  The three of them returned to the chessboard.

  As John’s face cooled down, he watched Richard and Anne, and realised that over the last few months, the two of them had become very close. It was obvious that they enjoyed each other’s company. He wondered that in time, when Anne was old enough, maybe, she and Richard would become more than just friends. He reached over the chessboard to move Richard’s queen.

  Yorkshire Dales

  24 April 1464

  Richard, Francis, and John, left Middleham Castle an hour after sunrise. Entering the forest, they followed the River Ure upstream. Their instructions were to go no further than Wensley, but because the river turned west there, they had decided they would follow the river towards its source at the base of the Dales. They were going to enjoy their day’s hunting, and with no superiors to accompany them, they would enjoy their freedom even more.

  As they entered the wood, the morning air became colder. The sun shot rays of light through gaps in the canopy, but they carried no warmth to drive away the mist that hugged the damp forest floor. The sounds of birds and mammals filtered through the trees.

  John loved the early morning forest; he always sensed a spiritual feeling as though they were in God’s real cathedral – a holy place. He felt the Lord’s presence was nearer to them here, in this natural world, than in any of God’s man-made houses. He sometimes thought that God preferred to spend his time with the innocent animals of the forest, than the company of man. It could be that the natural world was far more important to him then the wickedness and stupidity of mankind. Another good question for Friar Drynk, he thought.

  John reined in his horse beside a large oak tree, deep within the wood. He examined it closely. Richard and Francis pulled up behind him. High up from the ground, the bark was deeply flayed. John pointed towards the marks so that Richard and Francis could examine them as well. ‘It’s a large buck that’s made those boundary markings,’ he said, ‘and they are fresh. He’ll be laying his scent all around here to warn off other males.’

  Francis dismounted from his horse and crouched down on the ground. ‘His tracks move off in the direction we have been travelling in,’ he said, standing up. ‘The marks are close together and not too deep, so he’s not in any hurry.’

  ‘Well, of course he’s in no hurry,’ said Richard, with impatience. ‘The rutting season doesn’t start till late July, so he’s obviously conserving his energy!’

  ‘John must be doing the same for Rose,’ laughed Francis, ‘because he seems to be slowing down lately.’

  John slipped from his horse and chased Francis around the oak tree in mock anger.

  ‘While you two are playing games, I’m off to catch me a deer,’ said Richard. He spurred his horse into a slow trot.

  John and Francis quickly mounted their horses and followed him.

  The solitary mature stag stood on the far side of the small clearing, with the three boys now dismounted, on the other side. They stood perfectly still, taking cover just inside the treeline, and downwind. They studied their prey in silence. The animal’s antlers were a six-pointer. They knew that most mature bucks had two or possibly four pointers – so six was very rare. He was a beautiful specimen. The boys could see its head already mounted and hanging in the Great Hall – but first they had to kill it.

  The warmth of the weakened April sun had finally burnt off the early morning haze. Far out to the horizon, the sky was a pale white-blue, but it gathered in strength to a solid blue, as it loomed overhead. John looked up in wonder, and thought it must be touching the angels. The sky was so high it seemed to go up forever, dwarfing all that lay beneath it. His attention was brought back to matters in hand, as the buck started to move with a God-given elegance and grace; its thick brown winter coat had all but moulted, replaced with a beautiful, sleek, summer coat of chestnut red.

  Richard whispered for Francis to go left, and for John to go right. Keeping inside the treeline for cover, they would slowly circle around behind their prey, and drive him across the clearing towards Richard, who would be waiting with his hunting bow. But, before they could move, the buck suddenly halted, and its regal head rose to full height. Its ears twitched, and its tongue licked his nose – a sign that it had detected a scent. Then, without further hesitation, it took flight for cover. It had distinguished a physical movement that signalled danger.

  The boys looked at each other in frustration, then without a word, they quickly mounted their horses, and spurred them out into the clearing towards where the deer had been. They scanned the area to find the cause of their prey’s flight. They had just reached the centre of the clearing when bloodcurdling war cries shattered the serenity of the morning. Their horses reared up in startled fright, and the sound of hooves filled the air as ten, heavily-armoured men, broke cover from the treeline, and charged towards them.

  In unison, the boys spurred their mounts towards the woods, their minds totally confused, but one thing they did know: this sudden terrifying menace meant them harm. These men were not playing games.

  The arrow that thudded into Francis’ left shoulder instantly lifted him off his horse, sending him in a backwards somersault. He felt a sharp pain, and was then spinning through the air. Powerless to save himself, he hit the ground hard, and at speed, like a spinning pebble that skips across the water. Each time he landed, it knocked more air out of his lungs, and when he came to rest, he saw the arrow protruding from his shoulder. On each of his heartbeats, blood rhythmically spurted from the wound; his lungs felt empty. Badly winded, he gulped like a landed fish. He felt a coldness slowly moving up his legs, and then his hands started to shake – he could not stop them. Darkness bega
n to force itself upon him.

  Richard wheeled his horse tight round to the left as Francis hit the ground the first time. John wheeled to the right, and as they turned about, they realised that they were caught between two bands of soldiers. Confusion defeated their thoughts, for they understood nothing of this sudden violent madness, and they were acting on instinct alone. They reached Francis as he came to a crumpled stop. Quickly dismounting, they stood protectively over their wounded friend, back-to-back, swords drawn.

  The troops that had fired the arrow were on foot, and as they walked slowly out into the clearing, they knew these boys were going nowhere.

  The mounted men-at-arms formed a circle around the boys. This ring of containment stood silently watching, their weapons glinting with menace. Richard and John slowly took in this sight, their minds still reeling with shock and disbelief at the violent rampage of the last five minutes.

  John looked down at Francis, who a few minutes ago had been laughing and full of life, but now was still and bloodied. Anger tightened in him. ‘Come on, you sons of whores,’ he shouted. ‘Finish this bloody business for I swear by almighty God some of you will die with me.’

  The watching men-at-arms smiled at each other; the little cub had courage.

  Richard saw them smile. He lowered his sword and stuck it point first into the ground.

  John turned around, a look of horror on his face.

  ‘Lower your sword,’ said Richard.

  John’s look of horror turned to one of confusion.

  ‘If their intent was to kill us, they would have done so by now,’ Richard whispered. ‘I imagine they have another purpose for us. Come, we must tend to Francis.’

  John reluctantly lowered his sword.

  Sir Henry Billingham dismounted, and walked towards them. ‘Duke Richard?’ he barked.

  Richard stepped forward.

  ‘By the authority of King Henry,’ barked Sir Henry, ‘and on the orders of the Duke of Somerset, I have been commanded to take you to Bamburgh Castle.’

  The two boys now knew that they had fallen into the hands of Lancastrian troops.

  Richard spoke, his voice full of controlled anger. ‘And have you orders to shoot a young boy, not yet thirteen years?’

  ‘He has God’s good fortune not to be dead, for I aimed for his heart,’ shouted the archer, who had just arrived on foot.

  Richard looked at the archer with a steady gaze. ‘Tell me your name,’ he demanded.

  ‘My name is James Dam, and what son of a whore wants to know?’ he replied, with a sneer.

  Richard held his gaze on the archer, then in a loud voice so that all could hear, he said, ‘So they haven’t told you whom you have been hunting, today?’

  The archer shrugged his shoulders with indifference.

  ‘My name is Richard, Duke of Gloucester; my brother is King Edward.’ Richard said no more; his words struck them all.

  John could see the royal blood in Richard that had come from his father, Richard, Duke of York, and his mother, the Duchess, Cecily Neville. His royal breeding seemed to touch every man present; his composure assured. John marvelled at how Richard was so in control of the situation.

  The archer stood astounded; the mounted men-at-arms shifted uneasily in their saddles.

  ‘Your Grace, I had no idea of your royal status,’ cried the archer, and then looking at Sir Henry, he shouted: ‘Sir, you should have told us.’

  Sir Henry cast a withering glance at the archer. ‘Be silent, you fool,’ he growled. ‘Did you think we had travelled all this way just to hunt a squire’s son?’

  The men looked at the ground, their faces now heavy with shame.

  Sir Henry looked at them all. ‘Aye,’ he finally admitted, with resignation in his voice, ‘I agree. It’s a bad business, but his Grace, the Duke of Somerset, has ordered it be done, so done it will be.’

  John realising the die was cast, thought only of saving Francis. ‘If we comply,’ he said, ‘you must return our wounded friend to Middleham Castle alive, and with all God’s speed.’

  ‘You are in no position to make demands,’ replied Sir Henry.

  Richard drew his sword from the ground. ‘If this is not agreed,’ he shouted, ‘then you will take me to Bamburgh, dead.’

  John moved to Richard’s side, sword raised.

  Sir Henry was impressed with the courage of the two boys; it rekindled his honour. He felt ashamed of his actions as he looked down at the crumpled form of the young boy. There was no dignity in this brutal act, he did not want this death on his conscious. Duke Richard was right; he had no orders to kill someone so young. He motioned for two of his men to dress Francis’ wound. They broke off the shaft of the arrow leaving four inches protruding at the front. The arrowhead had just broken through the back of the shoulder. A trained surgeon could pull the shaft through, leaving a clean wound, but if they removed it now, he could bleed to death on the ride back to Middleham Castle. The two men bandaged the wound tightly and lifted Francis to his feet where he became semi-conscious. His face was white and bloody; his hands started shaking again.

  ‘John…Richard…’ Francis mumbled, as the pain took hold.

  John went to him. ‘Francis, it’s all right, they are taking you back to Middleham.’ As he spoke, he could see the pain rip into Francis’ body. Tears of frustration suddenly stung John’s eyes; he felt so helpless watching his friend suffer.

  ‘Take good care of him,’ John pleaded to the two soldiers.

  They nodded grimly. ‘We will see him safely back to Middleham,’ they said.

  Richard put his arm around John’s shoulder and gently moved him away. Then turning to Francis, his whispered into his ear, ‘They are taking us to Bamburgh, Francis. Remember, Bamburgh Castle.’

  The two men-at-arms gently lifted Francis on to his horse. Sir Henry gave them instructions: once near to Middleham they were to tie Francis to his horse, and send it the last half a mile on its own; the horse would know its way home. They were then to head north and rendezvous at Hexham in two days’ time. To throw off any pursuing party, Sir Henry and the rest would travel northwest to Stainmore Forest; there they would turn north-east skirting Barnard Castle, and then on to Hexham. From Hexham, they would travel north to Rothbury Forest, and then on to Bamburgh Castle.

  The two men-at-arms mounted their horses, then one tightly either side of Francis, they slowly moved off in the direction of Middleham Castle.

  Richard watched them depart. He bowed his head and prayed for Francis’ safe return.

  John was about to silently curse God, when he remembered what Friar Drynk had said about questioning the workings of the Lord. Instead, he cursed the men around him because men had planned what had happened to Francis. God had given men free will and this was the result of their actions, not of God’s.

  With their feet tied to the stirrups of their horses, Richard and John moved out with Sir Henry and his men towards Stainmore Forest. John thought of his mother and Rose. He felt despondent but he swore to himself that no matter if he should die or live, he would make them proud. No more tears, he thought, it’s time to act like a man.

  Richard thought of his brother, Edward, and the Earl of Warwick. He knew that they would leave no stone unturned to rescue him – the whole of England would be roused with their anger. He looked at the men around him, and thought how little they knew. Their actions today would unleash a whirlwind of vengeance. They had better pray for a quick death in battle, thought Richard, for if captured, they will die cruelly on the scaffold for their treason.

  April rain swept in across the Dales towards them, with thick, black, heavy clouds carried on gusting winds. The sky had earlier been a perfect blue, but now with their capture, it had turned an ominous black. Richard wondered if it was an omen, and if so, for whom.

  The same wind swept up behind the Duke of Somerset as he marched his army towards Hedgeley Moor, which lay just north-west of Alnwick, there to lay ambush for Lord Montagu’s forces
as they travelled north to meet the Scottish emissaries.

  Two sentries patrolled the entrance to Middleham Castle’s Great Keep. It was nearly lunchtime and they were starving. They had both missed breakfast due to an overindulgence in ale the night before. If they had been late on parade, the master-at-arms would have overindulged them in extra duties and maybe a flogging; it was better just to be hungry. The boredom of their morning’s guard duty was weighing heavily on them, and with rumbling stomachs, the conversation had finally come round to food.

  ‘I’m going to have a large plate of beef stew and bread when we come off duty,’ said one, licking his lips.

  The other, with a smile on his face, placed two hands on his stomach. ‘Well, I fancy a nice…’ his gaze wandered over his companion’s shoulder. The other sentry’s head slowly turned round in the direction of his gaze. There in the distance, approaching the castle, was a horse, with what looked like a small body tied to it. They stared in disbelief and narrowing their eyes, strained for more information.

  ‘That’s young Francis, if I’m not mistaken,’ said one, concern rising in his voice.

  ‘Francis?’ queried his companion.

  ‘You know…Francis…Lord Lovell. It’s him!’ he shouted. ‘Fetch the master-at-arms.’

  As one sentry ran to the guardroom, the other ran across the drawbridge to take charge of the incoming horse. He gripped the reins. ‘By the Holy Virgin,’ he whispered, as he saw the arrow stump protruding from the boy’s shoulder, and his blood-drenched clothes.

  The boy was unconscious, but still the sentry spoke softly to him. ‘You’re going to be all right now, my Lord,’ he said. ‘You’re going to be all right.’ He slowly and gently guided the horse towards the entrance to the castle.

  The Great Controller sat forward in his chair, his forearms folded on his desk. He was scanning an order from Lord Warwick when he finished reading, and looked up at Black Skullcap who was seated in front of him. ‘The earl’s only been gone for one week and already he requires more victuals, all of them luxuries for himself. It’s hard enough keeping his army of two thousand men fed, and in the field.’ A trace of exasperation had crept into his voice.