The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  Duke Richard watched the frantic activity. ‘This will be,’ he said quietly to John, ‘the Lancastrian last stand.’

  John nodded in agreement, his eyes wide as this mighty castle readied itself for battle.

  They were led through the Great Hall, their eyes quickly adjusting to the dim and smoky light. Healing women lay out trestle tables, not for feasting upon, but to receive the wounded. Barber surgeons, recruited from surrounding towns and villages, laid out their instruments – all was quiet efficiency. Duke Richard knew its sombre atmosphere reflected a new purpose.

  They were ushered into a large office situated off the Great Hall – it overlooked the castle’s inner courtyards and the gate of the Great Keep. A man, short and solid, rose from behind a desk. As he did so, he handed a letter to a messenger and ushered him from the room.

  A young serving maid entered as the messenger left, bearing a flagon of honeyed mead and one leather cup. She was startled to see Richard, John, and Sir Henry, who were muddy, dishevelled, and unwashed. She stood by the door, unsure of herself.

  John, seeing her nervousness, stepped across and took the tray from her. Dark hair cascaded down and framed the prettiest face he had seen for many a long day. The maid smiled at John’s kindness, and he felt some of the tensions of the last few days ease as he gazed at her, but she reminded him of Rose and his heart ached. ‘What is your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Lindsay,’ she replied, nervously.

  ‘Ah,’ John said, ‘a beautiful Celtic name. It matches your prettiness.’ He noticed the girl blush. He did not want her to go. After all the madness of the last days, her soft innocence reminded him of a different world.

  ‘How old are you?’ asked Richard.

  ‘I’m thirteen,’ she proudly said, ‘and it is my birthday today.’

  Richard reached into his doublet and produced a silver penny. ‘For you,’ he said, ‘for bringing light into our day.’

  The girl blushed even more and looked at Sir Ralph Grey. He nodded to her. Her hand closed around the coin, and with a dazzling smile, she was gone.

  Sir Ralph walked to the door and ordered the guard who stood outside to let no one pass. He then closed the solid oak door shut. They all studied one another.

  The boys saw a man with cropped, fair hair turning white-grey at the temples; his hard rugged features and straight bearing indicated a man who had been soldiering all his life. A brave man, Richard thought; a man who had seen his fair share of battles, but was he an honourable man?

  Sir Ralph studied the two boys before him. Although tired and hungry, they stood proud. Both had dark hair and blue eyes. Who is who? he thought. One had eyes that flashed around the room in anger – he could see the belligerence in him – whilst the other stood quietly, his features calm and thoughtful, unwavering eyes never leaving his own. I’ll wager he’s Duke Richard, Sir Ralph thought. He turned to Sir Henry Billingham. ‘Well, Henry, you seem to have completed your sordid little mission. I presume one of these boys is Duke Richard.’

  Sir Henry nodded. ‘The one with the hump,’ he said, pointing to Richard.

  Richard’s eyes glittered icy cold as he heard the words leave Sir Henry’s lips. ‘You will die for that,’ he hissed. ‘Your torturous death will begin with your tongue being ripped from your foul mouth.’

  Sir Ralph took a sharp intake of breath as he saw the hatred ripple through Richard’s body. ‘So, why in God’s name do we have an extra one?’ he shouted.

  ‘I had to bring him or kill him,’ replied Sir Henry.

  ‘Just as you tried to kill Lord Francis!’ cried John. ‘For all we know, you may have succeeded.’

  Sir Ralph’s eyes hardened. ‘In God’s name, Henry, what have you done?’

  Sir Henry’s face turned red. ‘We shot Lord Lovell with an arrow to stop them escaping.’ He sighed with distress. ‘I swear we didn’t know it was him at the time. All we knew was that Duke Richard had dark hair, so the one with light hair took the arrow.’ His eyes fell to the ground.

  ‘By the Virgin Mary!’ exclaimed Sir Ralph, his voice full of disbelief. ‘You couldn’t capture three small boys with a force of twenty experienced troops?’

  Sir Henry shook his head.

  ‘You could have abandoned the other two boys in the forest. By the time they had reached Middleham to raise the alarm, you would have been long gone…’ Sir Ralph shook his head sadly as his words trailed off into silent frustration. ‘Where are your troops, now?’

  ‘The cowardly dogs deserted last night,’ replied Sir Henry, his voice quiet after his moment of shame. ‘We heard of Somerset’s defeat as we travelled up through Rothbury Forest. We passed many of his men. They said they were making their way to Hexham to regroup. Somerset had promised to bring fresh troops, although many, it would appear, are finished with fighting.’

  ‘Aye, we heard that was the plan,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘My orders are to hold Bamburgh until Somerset’s great victory.’ Then with a caustic laugh, he added, ‘The one that he keeps on promising us.’ Sir Ralph stopped laughing; his eyes looked tiredly around the room, and then with a quiet voice, he said, ‘I lost my good friend, Sir Ralph Percy, at Hedgeley Moor – abandoned, aye, deserted by Somerset, De Ros and Hungerford. I am told he died a good death along with his brave retainers, so with our best men gone I hold out small hope of Somerset winning. Most will not follow a leader who cuts and runs, but as I am duty bound to do, I will wait for this mythical victory. I will not run from this final battle.’

  Sir Ralph studied Sir Henry and saw a man that had lost heart in their cause. The air of defeat that surrounded him could easily rub off onto his own troops. He made a decision. ‘I want you and your men out of the castle by nightfall,’ he barked, his voice stern enough to deny any argument. ‘I do not want you here when the Yorkist army arrives. If they breach our walls and know of your dishonourable actions they would put every one of my men to the sword.’

  Sir Henry was silent

  Sir Ralph looked at him, knowingly. ‘I believe that you desire to go?’

  Sir Henry nodded. ‘I head for France and—’

  ‘Good, that’s settled then,’ said Sir Ralph, pulling open the door. He stared with silent distaste as Sir Henry strode from the room with no backward glance or farewell, and then shut the door behind him.

  Turning to the two boys, Sir Ralph said, ‘I will organise fresh clothes and washing facilities to be provided, and food. You will not be in the castle dungeons. I have made arrangements for you to be held in a comfortable room high within a tower, with good views and fresh air, but your door will be well guarded, so no thoughts of escape!’ He stopped talking; looking at the two boys his eyes softened.

  Richard instantly saw this and quietly thanked God. At least the man has some mercy in him, he thought.

  Sir Ralph continued. ‘This is not a situation I wished for, but it is one I have to resolve along with the future of our good King Henry. You are in no danger, but until I find a way to set you free, you will remain here as my prisoners.’

  ‘I thank you for your kindness,’ said Richard. ‘It would seem we are all here under difficult circumstances that are not of our making.’

  Sir Ralph Grey nodded in agreement as he opened the door.

  Hartlepool Bay, North-East England

  27 April 1464

  The straight, sleek lines of the merchant ship cut through the dark sea as she raced north. She was a single mast, square-rigged cog, of six hundred tons. Every inch of sail was uncovered as she hastened past the headland of Hartlepool Bay. She had been constructed during one warm summer, on the banks of the River Hamble in the New Forest, Hampshire, and named The Sparrow Hawk. She had a standard clinker-built hull and a modern integral stern castle.

  The Hallet twins and Friar Drynk stood in the middle of the lower deck, their arms resting on the side as they watched the headland disappear into the sea mist behind them. They had started their journey late the previous evening from Stockton, on the Ri
ver Tees. They had raced from the Earl of Warwick’s camp at Rievaulx Abbey along with the Great Controller and Duke Richard’s three retainers, and requisitioned the ship using the authority of King Edward through the earl’s office of Chamberlain of England.

  The captain and crew had accepted the order with good grace; in fact, this unexpected adventure had been a welcome change from their normal trading routes, and the prospect of a small bounty, if they made the journey within two days, only added to the excitement.

  Thomas Hallet looked at Friar Drynk and felt a small pang of pity for him. His large body was not used to hard riding, sleeping under canvas and the privations and hunger of army life. He had blisters on his body where blisters should not have been and a hunger in his belly that was slow torture to him.

  Thomas slowly removed a large piece of cheese and some sweet oatmeal biscuits from inside his padded jacket. He watched Friar Drynk’s head whip round, his eyes fastening on to the banquet that had just been produced. He watched as the friar’s hand tightened on the handrail, his body becoming taut, his eyes greedily consuming the food that Thomas held in his hand. ‘The trouble with you, friar,’ he said, ‘is that your mind is dominated with food and wine, when it should be full of God!’

  ‘I know,’ Friar Drynk sighed, his eyes never leaving the food. ‘It is a small weakness I have, but some men’s minds are full of women, or money, or power.’

  ‘And Warwick’s,’ laughed George, ‘is full of gunpowder, for he seems to explode all the time.’

  As all three laughed, united by the humour, Thomas divided the food and Friar Drynk devoured his share in seconds. The ferocity of his eating amazed the twins.

  Friar Drynk licked his lips.

  ‘If only we had some wine,’ said George, teasingly, as he reached into his padded jacket, a half-smile on his lips.

  Friar Drynk’s body tautened again as his eyes followed George’s hand. ‘You haven’t?’ he questioned.

  George nodded. ‘I have.’

  ‘May God bless you, my son,’ said Friar Drynk.

  George produced a bottle of wine and held it just out of the friar’s reach. ‘You will have to pray for me,’ George said, waving the bottle around in the air. ‘For I will need all the help I can muster to get me through the gates of Heaven.’

  ‘I will pray for you for ever,’ said Friar Drynk, taking hold of the bottle with holy reverence.

  The Great Controller watched the three men, from the raised stern deck. There was no food or drink on the vessel. They had sailed as soon as they had taken command on the evening tide and there had been no time to load any provisions. Urgency was all that mattered; food and drink could wait. It amazed him how the twins always seemed to produce whatever they needed, when they needed it. He smiled to himself. They are artful magicians, he thought, and by God, we will need some magic to rescue those boys from Bamburgh Castle.

  Rievaulx Abbey – Earl of Warwick’s Army, North Yorkshire

  27 April 1464

  The Earl of Warwick raised his richly-gloved hand above his head, and threw it forward. Gently spurring his horse, he slowly started the great march to Bamburgh Castle. Trumpets silenced the early morning chorus as the signal to move off was given.

  He twisted around in his saddle and looked at the two thousand troops paraded behind him. It always filled him with pride to see his army on the march; banners flying, outriders protecting their flanks, heavy wagons bringing up the rear. It was a powerful sight and he grunted to himself with satisfaction. This was the second part of the Great Controller’s plan: the first had been to take ship to Holy Island. They had a long, hard, four-day march in front of them and he had made sure that every man under his command knew that Duke Richard and John Tunstall had been taken by Lancastrian forces. This outrage had filled his men with righteous anger. There would be no slacking or complaining on the long road ahead.

  They moved off on to the old Roman road and headed north. Warwick thought of the journey stretching out in front of them. They had two days to reach Newcastle. There, they would pick up fresh provisions, and the great siege guns: London, Newcastle, and Dijon, so costly and treasured that they had their own names. The use of cannon had never been utilised to break a siege during this civil war; that is, until now. He had sent out envoys to the Lancastrian garrisons at the fortresses of Alnwick and Dunstanburgh, offering a full pardon if they surrendered, but there was no such offer to the garrison of Bamburgh. Their walls would feel the full force of his cannons. They would be smashed open, breached, retribution would be swift – an example would be made. The world would learn that no one could hold the King’s brother to ransom and live.

  The marching army settled into a steady rhythm and this lifted Warwick’s spirits as he listened to his men singing bawdy marching songs – they were in good humour. Satisfied all was well, his mind turned once again to matters of state. He had sent messengers south to King Edward. The news they carried was both good and bad, for after much discussion with the Great Controller, he had decided that it was best to tell Edward the truth about the abduction of his dearly beloved younger brother. As the Great Controller had pointed out: by the time Edward received the news and made the journey north, Richard would be either dead or rescued. Whatever the outcome, the truth could not be hidden. This distressing news would be tempered with the report Edward would receive of the destruction of the Duke of Somerset’s forces by Warwick’s brother, Lord Montagu, who had routed the Lancastrian army on Hedgeley Moor. Warwick knew Edward would be delighted; he would try to squeeze an earldom out of him as just reward for his brother’s service.

  Warwick had also sent orders for Lord Montague to rendezvous with him and both their armies, at Alnwick Castle in three days’ time, to finalise the strategy for the capture and execution of the Duke of Somerset and his Lancastrian allies. Once that was completed and his brother’s elevation to an earl had been achieved, Warwick would then be able to turn his attention to the future Queen of England.

  Warwick pondered on whom he would chose as a bride for young Edward. Any pretty French princess would put a bulge in his young trousers. France was the favourite – an alliance with them made sound strategic sense. With the rear door of England closed to the Scots, and a powerful alliance with France, England – indeed, himself – would have a powerful voice amongst the nations of Europe. He would write to King Louis, shortly, and begin negotiations.

  Then, there was the question of Edward’s brother – George, and Warwick’s own daughter, Isabel. A marriage between these two would unite the two houses of York, or maybe, Warwick considered, with a shiver of excitement, Isabel as Edward’s wife. God, dare me thinks such an intrigue, for I would be father-in-law to the King and my grandson would be the future King of England. His mind filled with ferment at the audacity of the proposal. George could then marry a French princess and still unite the two countries.

  Thoughts of young Duke Richard suddenly filled Warwick’s mind, and poured cold water on all his plans. These sobering thoughts brought him back to the present. If all his schemes were to come to fruition, then saving Richard was now his priority, for if Richard died, King Edward would blame him, and then all his plans would be left hanging in the balance.

  The Earl of Warwick rode on, devilishly plotting for every eventuality like the foxy manipulator he knew he was.

  Chapter 5

  The Game’s Afoot

  North Sea, off the Coast of Northumberland

  29 April 1464

  The Sparrow Hawk skirted north around the Farne Islands, which lay four miles off the coast of Northumberland. During the night, the crew had left the squally showers well behind and now they sailed under a cloudless blue sky. The warmth of the sun had chased off the early morning sea mist as the ship turned towards the shoreline.

  The Great Controller stood on the deck of the stern castle, gazing back as the vast mudflats of Budle Bay receded into the distance. Far off, he could just make out the hazy outline of Bamburgh Ca
stle before it too faded from sight. This brief glimpse of the fortress formed an image of Duke Richard and John Tunstall being held captive within its great walls. He offered up a silent prayer for the success of this mission, and then hurried forward to the bow, mounting the steps to the raised forecastle. He knew that they must now be close. Straining his eyes over the distant sea, he searched impatiently for land. The flatness of the horizon was finally broken, as Holy Island hove into view.

  Two birds swooped low across the bow of the ship, dipping their enormous white wings in salute. This act seemed, to the Great Controller, to be a courteous acknowledgement from one marine voyager to another. He smiled to himself. Albatross on the wing, he thought. Now, that is a good omen.

  He watched, as the island slowly came closer, the sounds of the ship filling his ears. The large sail strained against the mast, its fastenings creaking in protest as the wind sought to free it from its labours and send the ship zigzag across the sea. The steady thump of waves on the hull, shouts of command, the cursing of sailors – this salty commotion resonated around him.

  His mind turned to the men he had brought with him; all excellent soldiers who had proved their worth many times over. The only one with a question mark over him was the friar. Would he be the weak link? The one who cracked under danger? Now that their mission was upon them, it was time to talk to him, to judge the measure of the man.

  Suddenly, he heard shouts and cheers, for at last his destination was before him. Lindisfarne Priory filled his vision; the sailors had won their bounty. He saw the neat stone buildings, the small figures of the Benedictine Monks as they went about their tasks. Some stopped and pointed nervously towards The Sparrow Hawk.

  There, finally, the Great Controller supposed, was the key that would unlock the gates of Bamburgh Castle. Excitement crept into him; energy that he had not felt in years flowed through his veins. Surprised by this sudden surge of life, he shouted for his small band of men to gather round.