The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  Black Skullcap nodded in sombre agreement. ‘Where is our Lord, now?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s camped near Rievaulx Abbey, which is on the River Rye in the Hambleton Hills – it’s north of York. They are waiting to join up with Lord Montagu’s forces as they head south with the Scottish emissaries. It will be a show of force to impress the Scots, and welcome King Edward to York.’ Then turning back to the earl’s list, the Great Controller said, ‘We will have to send to the other castles for some of these supplies—’ He was cut short by the ringing of the alarm bell that summoned the duty guards to their stations. Dropping the already forgotten order back on his desk, he turned towards the window. ‘What can possibly be the meaning of that?’ he asked.

  Black Skullcap rose from his chair and headed towards the door. ‘I’ll find out,’ he said, and sped from the room.

  The Great Controller marvelled at the quickness of his senior clerk – he wondered how, with such skinny legs, he could be so swift and nimble. He slowly rose from his chair, and made his way to the door. For the life of him, he could not think of any reason why the guard would be called out. The earl was away with most of the men. All of the Lancastrian supporters were bottled up in the north. All was peace and quiet around Middleham…maybe it was just a practice exercise that he had not been informed of.

  He walked past the now standing clerks in the outer office, and as he reached the main door, he heard the sound of fast approaching footsteps. He stopped and waited.

  Black Skullcap appeared, his face red and breath laboured; a thin line of sweat upon his forehead and eyes wide with shock. ‘Sir,’ he gasped, ‘it’s Francis – Lord Lovell. He’s just returned to the castle, unconscious and badly wounded. Duke Richard and John Tunstall are missing.’

  The Great Controller was speechless. He stared at Black Skullcap, watching him suck air into his laboured lungs. Suddenly, he was past him, and running down the stairwell. It was either a hunting accident – which he prayed it was – or something he did not even want to contemplate. He reached the bottom of the steps, and ran out into the castle courtyard towards the guardhouse. He could see a lot of activity around the entrance. Let it just be an accident, he prayed, but a dark thought kept forcing itself into his mind: if it was not an accident, then it must be what he had always dreaded.

  A throng of people parted in front of him, as he reached the guardhouse, and entering the building he was met by the master-at-arms, his face grim with worry. Behind him, lying on a table, was the still body of the young boy – the tip of the arrow protruding from his back. The Great Controller knew this was not a hunting arrow; the tip was a long slim Bodkin arrowhead designed for war. His worst fear was confirmed.

  Lady Tunstall heard the alarm bell ring. She hurried to the window of her room, and looked out. Down below, all looked normal, but looking across to the Great Keep, she noticed a small commotion taking place, although she could not see the reason for it. The master-at-arms was taking charge of the situation. Maybe, she thought, it’s a fight between a few of the soldiers. The castle had been so quiet and still this last week, with Lord Warwick and most of the men gone, maybe the boredom and drink was beginning to tell.

  She saw the Great Controller hurrying across the courtyard, his black robes fluttering like some giant crow. Her brow knitted together; it must be more serious than she had thought. She then saw Rose dash from the small knot of people surrounding the keep, and her stomach flipped. Rose appeared to be crying; her body movements were full of disjointed panic as she headed towards their quarters. It was then that Lady Tunstall saw the horse in the shadow of the keep gate; blood covering the saddle, neck, and chest of the animal.

  ‘No, no,’ she murmured, and then she understood. ‘Oh God!’ she screamed. ‘John!’ She turned towards the door; her legs were slow, and dizziness made her head spin. She gripped the chair in front of her; then the door burst open.

  Rose rushed in and fell at Lady Tunstall’s feet. ‘Lord Francis has been gravely wounded!’ she cried. ‘They think the boys have been taken.’ Sobbing, she looked up, her face wet with tears. ‘John’s gone, my Lady. Sweet John is taken.’

  Lady Tunstall fell to her knees beside Rose, and held her tenderly as tears fell gently from their eyes. The emotions she felt were straining to break free. Holding them tightly in check, she whispered to Rose, ‘Come, we must go to the countess and find out what’s to be done. We must be strong for John.’

  Rose stopped crying and nodded her head in firm agreement; a look of resolve settling on her pretty features.

  The Great Controller stood in the castle infirmary.

  Francis had been laid on the large, oak table used by the castle’s surgeon to perform his amputations, bone-setting and other painful operations. A small, soft mattress had been placed between his body and the hard solid oak surface; he lay on his side unconscious.

  Gathered with the Great Controller was the master-at-arms and the barber surgeon – the senior surgeon who normally tended the castle’s hierarchy had accompanied Lord Warwick, as Master Surgeon General to the army, as was always the case when the earl took to the field. The young barber surgeon normally only pulled teeth or lanced the occasional boil. He had never treated combat wounds, although, he had watched the senior surgeon perform many operations.

  The Great Controller stared at the barber surgeon with unblinking eyes. ‘I need you to do this, James,’ he said, gently, trying to put the young man at his ease. ‘That arrow must be removed immediately, before the wound turns bad. We have no time to summon help from the monastery at Rippon; the boy will die before they arrive. The master-at-arms will assist you; he knows a thing or two about arrow wounds.’

  The young surgeon nodded. ‘I will do all I can to save him.’

  The master-at-arms clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good, now let’s get to work,’ he said. ‘We have no more time to waste.’

  The young surgeon prepared his tools: pincers to draw the shaft through the shoulder, wine to cleanse the wound, and a button-shaped cauterising iron to seal it. The red-hot charcoal brazier was brought in, and he placed the iron deep within the heat. Then, removing the arrowhead, he cleaned the broken-off shaft at the front of the shoulder with wine. He inspected it closely as he did not want any pieces breaking off and being left in the wound as he drew the shaft through.

  Satisfied all was well, he motioned for the master-at-arms to hold the boy tightly, and gripping the shaft, he pulled it through the shoulder in one smooth fluid movement.

  Francis screamed out; the pain making him conscious.

  The master-at-arms was about to place an opium-soaked sponge over Francis’ face to induce a deep sleep before they cauterised the wound, when the Great Controller stepped between him and Francis, placing his hand gently on the boy’s brow. Francis groaned loudly.

  ‘Francis…’ The Great Controller quietly soothed into his ear. ‘You must tell me: were the boys taken?’

  Francis nodded his head, and let out a low moan.

  The master-at-arms tried to push past to administer the sponge, but the Great Controller held him back with his hand.

  ‘You’re a brave lad,’ The Great Controller whispered to Francis. ‘Where were they being taken, Francis? Do you know where?’

  Francis nodded his head again.

  ‘Tell me, just one word, my lad,’ said the Great Controller, his voice rising.

  Francis started moaning louder, and once again, the master-at-arms tried to push past. ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘The boy’s had enough.’

  The Great Controller’s yellow eyes flashed at him. ‘I’ll decide that.’

  Then, Francis, through gritted teeth, whispered the word. ‘Bamburgh.’

  The Great Controller smiled, grimly, and moved out of the way. As he left the room, the master-at-arms administered the opium sponge. Within seconds, Francis was in a deep sleep.

  The young surgeon pulled the heated iron from the brazier and cauterised the wound. Next, with the help of
a local healing woman, he applied a dressing that had been soaked in a special mixture of herbs. A clean, dry bandage was wrapped tightly around it, to hold it in place.

  The master-at-arms left the infirmary, satisfied all had been done correctly, and rushed after the Great Controller. He caught up with him on the steps to the Great Hall. ‘You could have killed the boy!’ he cried. ‘Trying to force that information out of him.’

  The Great Controller’s yellow eyes filled with anger. ‘I had to have the information on Duke Richard,’ he bellowed. ‘Do you think I could face Lord Warwick and King Edward, and just shrug my shoulders when they ask me where he is being held captive?’

  The master-at-arms stepped back; he had not thought that far ahead.

  ‘I had to ask the question even if it meant losing young Francis. Sometimes, hard choices have to be made – don’t ever forget that the King’s brother comes before all others. Is that clear?’

  The master-at-arms nodded.

  ‘In future, never dare to question my actions. Now go, and organise a detachment of six of the best men-at-arms we have left in the castle. I ride for Lord Warwick in one hour!’

  Lady Tunstall and the Countess of Warwick watched from the battlements as the Great Controller rode out from the castle. Behind him, looking distinctly uncomfortable was Friar Drynk, Duke Richard’s three close retainers, and a detachment of soldiers bringing up the rear.

  Before his departure, The Great Controller had explained to them his plan of action, and promised that he would do all in his power to return the boys safely to Middleham Castle. Where there had only been despair, he had given them hope, and shortly, they would go to the castle church to say prayers.

  Rose, also on the battlements, watched the Great Controller depart. She felt as though she was detached from the world. She had chores to do, but no desire to do them. She wanted comfort, but had no family here to comfort her. She felt empty; lost. Oh, John, she thought, I told you to be careful. Tears filled her eyes again.

  A comforting arm went around Rose’s shoulder. It was Lady Tunstall. ‘Rose, you must come and pray that the boys are returned to us safe and sound; that is all we can do now.’

  As they turned to go, Rose looked for one last time as the Great Controller and his party disappeared into the distance. How she longed to be going with them.

  Chapter 4

  Life or Death

  Hedgeley Moor

  25 April 1464

  Sir Ralph Percy looked up at the heavy grey sky. The wind and rain were unrelenting, having driven steadily into their faces since they had arrived on the moor early that morning. Three thousand men were soaked to the skin – horses, equipment, and weapons, ran with water. They had no shelter to hide from the unrelenting rain as they waited for the enemy.

  God, this is madness, thought Sir Ralph as the bleak and desolate landscape tested his spirit. He could not believe Somerset’s simple battle plan – if it could be called a plan. His strategy was a full-frontal assault on Lord Montagu’s small force as soon as they were in sight. He recalled how the Duke of Somerset and his close retainers had turned on him when he had urged for caution. ‘Montagu is no fool’, he had counselled. ‘The man has proved himself an able general and would never confront us unprepared’. They had laughed with arrogance at him.

  He looked along the battle lines. They were drawn up in close order formation, and they were too tight. If Lord Montagu had cavalry, they would be out-flanked. His archers would also have an advantage with the wind behind them. Sir Ralph cursed the Duke of Somerset. The man’s a fool. This is not an ambush; it’s bloody suicide.

  He looked at the men under his command – they were in no fit state to fight. Exhausted from their long march, they were soaked and hungry, their spirits low. Wind and rain battered their faces, and half their supply of weapons was on the carts stuck in the mud, two miles behind. Sir Ralph knew they should pull back, regroup, dry out, reorganise, and engage Lord Montagu later. He decided to try one more time to make the Duke of Somerset see sense. Spurring his horse, Sir Ralph Percy rode to the only tent that had been pitched and located centrally behind the army. As he strode in, the sudden warmth and dryness of the interior felt like a blanket of indulgence wrapping itself around him, and he basked for a moment in its luxurious comfort.

  The Duke of Somerset sat with Lord Hungerford and Lord de Ros, sipping wine, whilst Sir Thomas Finderne and Sir Thomas Wentworth stood behind them.

  ‘What is it, Percy?’ snapped Somerset. ‘Weather not to your liking?’

  The others laughed and Sir Ralph felt the anger tighten within him. ‘Your Grace, you would do well to share its discomfort with your troops if you wish them to fight bravely for you. If you cannot walk amongst them and stiffen their resolve then we should delay engaging Montagu.’

  Somerset’s arrogant eyes looked Sir Ralph up and down. ‘This is not a pitched battle!’ he shouted. ‘It’s a skirmish; we outnumber them two to one. Lord Hungerford and De Ros confirmed their strength to me two days ago. We will crush them within an hour, no matter if nature, or you, thinks otherwise.’

  ‘Your Grace, you must reconsider.’

  The urgent tone in Sir Ralph’s voice annoyed Somerset even more. ‘Enough!’ he shouted. ‘Today, we fight.’

  Sir Ralph’s frustration finally boiled over. ‘This is our last chance to salvage the Lancastrian crown,’ he roared, ‘and you,’ he pointed at Somerset, ‘are ill-advised. Your strategy is irresponsible, your conduct as a leader is inept.’ Sir Ralph could feel the blood rushing to his face as his anger took hold of him. ‘The last Lancastrian army that will ever take to the field is paraded outside waiting for a worthy leader to win them a glorious victory. But I see no leaders here, only fools sipping wine with not a care for those brave men outside!’

  Somerset rose from his chair. Shaking with anger, he hurled his goblet of wine across the tent. ‘You will die for those words, Percy,’ he snarled.

  Fingers curled around swords. Rain sounded an executioner’s drum roll as it beat heavily on the canvas roof above their heads. Two swords flashed through the air colliding in a metallic roar.

  Sir Ralph stepped quickly forward with a two-handed thrust, forcing Somerset off balance, the blade inches from his neck.

  Somerset stumbled backwards, but as Sir Ralph swung his sword up over his head ready for a downward strike, two scouts rushed into the tent. Sir Ralph’s blade stopped frozen in mid-air.

  ‘My Lord Somerset,’ shouted one of the scouts with panic in his voice. ‘The enemy is upon us with a force that will overwhelm us.’

  Somerset regained his balance and looked at the startled faces of Lords Hungerford and De Ros. ‘By the Holy Mary,’ he whispered, ‘you have given me false information.’

  ‘They must have gathered reinforcements as they marched,’ stammered Lord Hungerford.

  Somerset turned his sword towards him with disbelief in his eyes. ‘You idiots have led me into a trap,’ he snarled, as he drew back his sword to strike.

  Sir Ralph stepped between them. ‘Queen Margaret was right,’ he said, angrily. ‘We are now too weak and our enemies too strong. We must pray that God looks kindly on us.’ Then striding towards the entrance of the tent, he cried, ‘Come, we must join our men, immediately!’

  They rushed out. Lords Hungerford and De Ros, headed for the left flank, their faces white with fear. Somerset rode to command the centre, his face red as he raged at the two men.

  Sir Ralph Percy returned to the right flank, his face grim with foreboding.

  The arrow slowly rotated as it sped through the air towards the Lancastrian army. Its target, a young soldier just to the left of Sir Ralph Percy. The large, broad, metal tip penetrated through the soldier’s neck, damaging his spinal cord. His legs instantly collapsed, and he crashed to the ground, paralysed. No one had seen this arrow approaching through the driving rain, but its effect was instantaneous. The men around the mortally wounded soldier shifted nervously on their fee
t. The dying youth looked up at them with pleading eyes, his nose, and mouth filling with blood that would slowly drown him. Nobody looked at him.

  Lord Montagu’s master archer had loosened eight arrows in less than sixty seconds, all aimed along the Lancastrian front line. Eight men lay dead or dying.

  The Duke of Somerset’s archers knew they could not reply. If they fired into the wind, their arrows would fall ineffectively short. A ripple of fear went through the duke’s men. The lone archer had shown the advantage.

  Lord Montagu had five hundred archers on each of his flanks now firing in unison. In less than thirty seconds, three thousand arrows rained down on the Lancastrian lines. Men fell wounded or dead on to the now blood red, sodden ground.

  Sir Ralph Percy knew that they should have charged the enemy when the first arrows hit, but sadly, he knew the order would never come. He watched with dismay, but with no surprise as Lords Hungerford and De Ros, broke ranks and fled the field, closely followed by their men. Finally, he saw, as he knew he would, the Duke of Somerset and his men take to their heels as the enemy onslaught rushed towards them. His disillusionment and sadness at the final defeat of the Lancastrian cause was complete.

  The Yorkist cavalry now arched out to the right and left, with the Duke of Somerset just escaping the enclosing force, but for Sir Ralph Percy there was no escape. The time for running was over; his cause was finished. He watched as his men fled as best they could; the battle had finally come down to him and a few of his close retainers.

  He looked out over the moor and remembered it, not in this wet bleakness, but in high summer when its glorious landscape filled with beauty. He smiled as he recalled the joy and freedom of those summer days, when they rode and hunted with free spirits and light hearts.