The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  He watched his friend, Edward, King of England, look at his new royal wife with eyes full of lust. She, the widowed Lady Elizabeth Grey, returned Edward’s look, her eyes reflecting her triumph.

  She will be no King’s whore, Lord Hastings thought. Her cool resistance has finally been rewarded with a Queen’s crown.

  He could see why Edward had desired her virtue. She was truly a beauty, and would even have put a bulge in the Pope’s cassock if he had laid his eyes upon her; but for Edward to marry the widow of a Lancastrian knight was wanton madness.

  They had met while Edward was hunting in Whittlebury Forest, near to her family home. She had appeared, standing under a large oak tree when Edward had first seen her. Dismounting, he had stared at her fully for several minutes before asking her name and Lord Hastings knew that within those few minutes, Elizabeth had bewitched him with sorcery, for Edward fell hopelessly in love with her. In his many subsequent secret visits to her family home, the spell had grown stronger until he had finally agreed to marry her.

  It was after the Garter Service on 23 April, Saint George’s Day, they had journeyed leisurely northwards using the excuse of a hunting trip, from Windsor up through Leicestershire to Grafton Regis, and finally arriving at this small parish church.

  On their journey, Lord Hastings had tried hard to dissuade Edward of the unsuitability of the match, but arguing was hopeless, for Edward was intoxicated by her – smitten. Lady Grey had befuddled his brain with some secret love potion. To break this bewitching spell – to rid himself of this all-consuming desire – Edward would, he had cried, ‘Have to bed her!’, but such was the stubbornness of the woman towards his advances, the only way was to either rape her, or marry her, and even kings had to obey God’s laws – so marriage it was. Edward had then added, as an afterthought, ‘but I am the King, so can always undo what is done’; then with a sly smile, ‘I will rearrange matters at a future date’.

  The priest motioned for the Duchess of Bedford, and Lord Hastings, to step forward and sign the marriage certificate. Lord Hastings realised that once it had been witnessed there would be no undoing of this madness, no rearranging at a future date. He looked at Edward, who waved him urgently towards the priest, and that fatal pen, knowing that Warwick and most of the nobles would be stunned and shocked by these events. Stepping forward with a heavy heart, Lord Hastings signed the document. He knew that trouble lay ahead.

  Once the formalities had been completed, Edward, with indecent haste, rushed with his new wife, towards the royal hunting lodge to consummate the marriage.

  That’s Edward, thought Lord Hastings. At twenty-two, he was young, impetuous, and reckless with women. Elizabeth was four years older and far more experienced, having already been married, and the mother of two young children. Maybe she will tame him, Lord Hastings thought, and then shook his head, quickly dismissing the thought. Pigs might fly!

  The Duchess of Bedford clutched the marriage certificate; the evidence tightly held to her chest; her eyes shining with triumph. Her sorcery had worked. She hurriedly departed the church for Grafton Manor. Her husband, Richard Woodville, with the help of her magic potions, had done well under old King Henry, and her close friendship with his Queen, Margaret of Anjou, had advanced him from being a lowly knight to become the first Earl Rivers, a privy counsellor, and a Knight of the Garter. Now that Henry and his Queen were exiled to the barren lands of the north, they had decided to jump ship and nail their colours to King Edward’s mast. They could not have done it any better. It was a triumph for Jacquetta’s black art, to have her eldest daughter marry the Yorkist King. Now, lands and titles would be harvested for their family. As long as Elizabeth kept King Edward satisfied in bed – for all knew his brains hung between his legs – all would be well. Warwick and the others could whine and shout, but the deed was done and she had the marriage certificate to prove it.

  Behind the doors of the royal hunting lodge, Edward and Elizabeth tarried in their wedding bed.

  Elizabeth found Edward tall and handsome, so it was no chore for a royal bride. In fact, it was a joy. Many times, she had nearly weakened under his advances, but the thought of her mother’s anger, if her plans were destroyed, had kept Elizabeth chaste. Now, she could love with abandon. Since her first husband had died, she had endured over three years of chastity. With womanly needs, her empty bed had made those years hard to bear, but now, at last, she held a man whom she had grown to love, finally feeling his touch, his lips, his desire. She was naked, longing in her passion for him, but still the silent image of her mother floated around the bed reminding her of the power they now held over him. She quickly pushed it from her thoughts; there would be time enough later for artful scheming – the advancement of her family could wait – this moment was hers, and hers alone; she was going to enjoy every caress and kiss.

  Edward, for his part was overjoyed with his new bride. How elated he felt, for in bed she was like a harlot, kissing and holding him in ways he had never experienced before. Finally, he lay spent until she again slowly rekindled his desire. As he slipped once again, helpless under her seductive spell, he thanked God that he had found such a wanton bride – he was in love.

  Lord Hastings took the letter bearing Warwick’s great seal from the messenger.

  ‘To be opened by the King,’ said the man. ‘My Lord Warwick instructs it be read immediately – I am to wait and return forthwith with our Sovereign Lord’s reply.’

  Lord Hastings studied the messenger; there was no point in asking about the contents – even if the man knew, it was his duty to remain silent. He could not open it, for ‘the King’s eyes only’ was the instruction. He turned the letter over in his hand, studying it for some invisible clue as to its contents. What to do? he thought. Should he disturb Edward at this moment, of all moments, or wait until his passion had cooled? Lord Hastings hesitated, unsure, and then he remembered what his father had said to him years ago. ‘Only fools dither’, he had boomed. ‘Men act’. Stung by the memory, he strode into the royal hunting lodge and knocked on the door.

  ‘Who disturbs the King?’ shouted Edward.

  ‘Hastings, my Lord,’ came the reply.

  Edward held the letter, his hands shaking, his eyes reading in disbelief. Elizabeth and Lord Hastings stared at him, concern already in their eyes.

  ‘Ye Gods,’ whispered Edward. ‘Warwick sends me news of the destruction of the Lancastrian army at Hedgeley Moor and then dashes all celebration…’ He stopped and looked at Lord Hastings, and Elizabeth, tears of anger forming in his eyes. ‘Richard, my brother, has been taken. Those Lancastrian bastards have given me an evil present, on this my blessed wedding day.’

  Elizabeth sat in bed, a fur overlay wrapped around her shoulders to protect her modesty. Lord Hastings stood in the doorway. Neither went to aid Edward, because of the presence of the other. Both were silent, not certain who should speak first – new wife or old friend.

  ‘We must ride north with all speed,’ said Lord Hastings, decisively. ‘Where are they holding him?’

  Edward passed the letter to Lord Hastings who read it hungrily. ‘Bamburgh…Warwick should be there now. Richard may even be free, as we speak.’

  ‘Or dead,’ replied Edward, with anger. ‘Send the messenger back to Warwick. Tell him we ride for York tonight, and will meet him there in two days. You will ride to Stony Stratford and return with our hunting party, but no word of what happened here today. I will take Elizabeth to her mother’s. In three hours’ time, we ride north.’

  Lord Hastings turned to go, but Edward called him back. ‘William, when you arrive at Stony Stratford, send messengers to my nearest and most loyal retainers, to meet us on the road to York tonight with their knights. I require three hundred to enforce my authority when we arrive in the north.’

  Lord Hastings strode purposely from the room

  Elizabeth knelt on the bed, the fur overlay slipped from her shoulders. She knelt there naked.

  Edward took in her wel
l-rounded bosom, slim waist, and gentle curving hips, and gasped at her beauty.

  Elizabeth leant forward, allowing her breasts to swing tantalisingly before Edward’s eyes. Her hand slipped behind his neck, and she pulled him down towards her, gently brushing her lips against his – she wanted him to carry this image, to remember her softness and beauty. When Edward returned, it would be to her arms, to her bed.

  Lord Hastings galloped along the dusty roads towards Stony Stratford, his face grim with worry. The look of triumph he had seen on Jacquetta and Elizabeth’s faces proved that sorcery was behind this marriage. Something dark and powerful had been used to snare the King. He knew Edward would never have married of his own free will; he had dozens of beautiful women at court who were honoured to share his bed, so why wed this one? It did not make any sense. He vowed that he would not rest until he had the evidence to charge the Duchess of Bedford and her daughter, with witchcraft, and to have this dangerous marriage annulled.

  Bamburgh Castle, Northumberland

  4 May 1464

  Bamburgh Castle stood mortally wounded; her great walls breached by Warwick’s powerful artillery. His first wave of shock troops had entered with little resistance. Small fires flickered from the battlements; flames licked up from turret windows; smoke drifted lazily inland, like a charcoal wave slipping in off the ocean.

  Warwick looked on with satisfaction. No more swallows dipping and diving around the castle walls, he thought. I’ve ruined their summer, and the same applies to those Lancastrian rebels, but their cause is ruined for good. He watched the second wave of troops charge through the breached walls, their bloodcurdling shrieks splitting the air. Sunlight glinted on their blades. Hooks and ferocious spikes protruded from their ten-foot bills. The troops behind them carried swords, daggers, or short axes – more deadly in the crush of close-quarter combat.

  Warwick had ordered that no quarter be given; only senior officers were to be taken alive. He was relieved that King Edward was not with him, for he would grant pardons to all and sundry, and what was required now was a steel fist to smash these Lancastrian bastards into submission, once and for all.

  Hopefully, Warwick mused, the kidnapping of his younger brother will toughen him up; put some vengeance into his heart. Duke Richard had asked that all the women within the castle be spared. What was it he had said? Something about a serving girl – Lindsay. She was to be treated well, for she had been kind to him during his captivity. He’s as soft as his brother is, Warwick thought, but he had issued the order anyway, in the vain hope that his men obeyed it.

  The screams of Lancastrian defenders being thrown from the battlements interrupted his thoughts – he decided it was time to dispense his justice!

  From his mount, Warwick surveyed the scene within the castle: smashed rocks littered the interior, bodies lay cut to pieces by shards of granite, or the steel of his troops, smoke wafted and spiralled skywards. The sickly stench of burnt human flesh filled his nostrils. He raised his hand and bellowed, ‘Cease fighting!’

  The frantic movements within the castle froze instantly as though an ice maiden had blown her frosty breath over them.

  Warwick pushed himself up in his stirrups. ‘All surviving defenders are to be spared,’ he shouted. He wanted a few defeated men left to tell the tale, to bear witness to the end of the Lancastrian cause. Turning to his close retainers, he growled, ‘Bring me all surviving officers, and that bastard, Grey, if he still lives.’

  They found Sir Ralph Grey amongst the rubble of his office. A cannon ball had gone through its wall bringing down part of the roof. He laid, badly injured, legs broken, head smashed. They dragged him out and laid him down in front of Warwick, who dismounted. Drawing his sword, he rammed the tip in under Sir Ralph’s chin and forced his head up.

  Sir Ralph howled in pain; blood oozing through his clenched teeth.

  Warwick twisted his sword, his malicious eyes examining his victim.

  Sir Ralph screeched in agony.

  ‘You held the King’s brother, you snake of the Devil!’ Warwick shouted. ‘You dared to threaten royal blood.’

  Sir Ralph stared back with his one good eye, showing no fear.

  Warwick saw the life fading from it; in his heart, he knew Sir Ralph was a brave soldier, one he would have been proud of if he had served him, but he was Lancastrian through and through, and would now pay the price. He wanted Sir Ralph to feel the steel he held in his hand, and quickly, before his spirit slipped away.

  Warwick raised his sword high above his head.

  Sir Ralph Grey looked up and seeing the sword flash in the early May sunshine, he calmly closed his eye as the sword descended, and prayed his old friend, Sir Ralph Percy, would be waiting to greet him.

  City of York

  5 May 1464

  John Tunstall entered the great walled City of York as the mid-morning sun warmed his back. He had smelled the city a few miles away, and now the overwhelming stench gagged his breath. His companions, Duke Richard, the Great Controller, the Hallet twins, and Friar Drynk, also reeled from the foul smell.

  The sweet air of the countryside was now a memory as they rode towards the Great Minster. John watched the hustle and bustle of this influential city. It was rich from the vast wool trade it controlled; wealthy merchants, traders, landowners, and farmers, rushed with busy intent. Drinking houses and bordellos overflowed with drunken patrons; harlots patrolled their territory; street hawkers shouted their trade. As they neared the Great Minster, the city changed its rich vibrant colours to a more sombre shade. York was the religious centre of the north; the great cathedral and numerous churches dominated the city. The immensely rich archbishop owned half of it; King Edward owned the rest.

  Around the Minster, were gathered troops wearing the colours of John Neville – Warwick’s brother, Lord Montagu. From their midst, strode a well-built man with fair hair and blue eyes; a smile stretched his features. They halted their horses and the Great Controller dismounted as the man reached him.

  ‘Thomas, you old fox!’ cried Lord Montagu. ‘You did it; you have the boys with you?’

  The Great Controller smiled back. ‘Aye, John, by God’s grace we do.’

  The two men embraced.

  John and Richard dismounted and Lord Montagu turned his beaming face towards them, a look of genuine relief settling on his rugged features.

  ‘Cousin Richard; young John; you’ve had some adventures I’m told, and some scares, no doubt.’ Then placing a hand on their shoulders, he said, ‘But, by our Lord, you are safe enough now. Tonight, we will celebrate your freedom, and tomorrow…’ he continued with a sudden harshness, ‘we will execute the men who committed these crimes against you. But come, you must be tired and in need of refreshment. I will tell you the order of things once you have rested.’

  King Edward approached the city as the midday cannon was fired. Around him were his close retainers, and their indentured knights followed close behind. Three hundred in all, rode with the king, their brilliant colours glorious in the May sun. Trumpets sounded a royal welcome as they entered the city.

  Its citizens bowed in deference as they passed, many wondering how this Yorkist King would treat their Lancastrian city.

  Rich merchants were preparing their eloquent speeches of excuses, and counting gold coin to grease the palms for royal pardons, but Edward had only one thought: news of Duke Richard.

  As he approached the Great Minster, he saw Lord Montagu standing on its steps, waiting to greet him. Dismounting, before his horse had even stopped, he rushed urgently up the steps.

  Lord Montagu stepped back, but before he could bow, Edward clasped his arms.

  ‘Cousin John!’ Edward cried. ‘Tis good to see you. I hear excellent news that you have cracked the nut of the Lancastrian resistance for me.’

  Lord Montagu grinned. ‘Aye, your Majesty, you are well informed.’

  Edward’s smile faded, his expression clouding over. Putting his arm around Lord Montagu’s sho
ulder, he guided him into the privacy of the entrance.

  ‘Good cousin, John, I have a chest full of honours to bestow on you for your brave victories, but before any celebration is allowed I must have news of Richard; his fate will decide if there is to be gaiety or sadness.’ His shoulders slumped at the thought of his young brother; it was easy to say those two words, but if sadness it was then he knew his heart would break. He spoke with forced hope. ‘Have you heard from Warwick? Is Bamburgh taken? Has Richard…?’ Edward’s voice trailed off, but Lord Montagu’s eyes were smiling, and a grin hovered over his face.

  Edward’s eyes hardened. ‘This is no laughing matter,’ he hissed.

  Lord Montagu threw his head back and laughed. ‘Oh, I believe it is, dear cousin,’ he chortled, as his eyes looked over Edward’s shoulder.

  Edward looked around. There, standing on the steps of the Great Minster, was Richard. Edward froze; he thought his heart had stopped.

  Richard ran towards Edward, shouting his name with delight.

  Edward scooped him up and held him tightly, tears in his eyes.

  Warwick arrived that evening as the long shadows of the northern night crept in over the day. The town’s people hid from his hard stare as he made his way through the narrow streets with a detachment of his close retainers. They knew he was seeking retribution against Lancastrian supporters, and none wished to catch his attention or displeasure.

  As he passed, they noted the bloody sacks slung over the horses that were bringing up the rear; the severed heads of Warwick’s enemies dripping blood over the cobbled streets.