The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

The king dismissed the hounds back into the care of his kennel master. Too much domestication would make their lives even shorter than the five or six years they had before arthritis – the curse of hunting dogs – set in, for then a quick death was the royal reward for their slowness.

  ‘Right gentlemen, to business!’ exclaimed Louis. ‘Before we start; Pierre, how is my cousin, Margaret of Anjou?’

  ‘She is well, your Majesty. She resides on her father’s estate, with a small court.’

  ‘Is she at peace?’ Louis asked.

  ‘Yes, she accepts her fate with good grace. She has found contentment,’ replied Pierre de Brézé.

  ‘I hear rumours,’ laughed Georges Havart, ‘that she has also found a young lover to fill her days and keep her awake at night; maybe her contentment comes from tiredness.’

  ‘That I do not know,’ replied Louis, ‘but I do know that Warwick has many enemies in France who will be plotting his demise, and Margaret of Anjou is his bitterest. It would be best to keep a close eye on her until Warwick has returned to England.’

  ‘I will instruct Etienne de Loup to carry out your wishes and place her under surveillance, your Majesty,’ replied Georges Havart.

  Louis sat back in his chair. His black hair flopped over his forehead, his close, deep-set eyes shut momentarily as he gathered his thoughts. ‘Duke Francis of Breton…’ he said, as he opened his eyes. The great intelligence within looked at his two companions to confirm they were listening… ‘has dispatched letters to every duke or prince in France informing them that I am offering the whole of Normandy to the Earl of Warwick, if he helps me subdue them all. He has even included my brother Charles, Duke of Berry, in his traitorous circle, and, as you know, Pierre, for your brave services in England, I have just confirmed you as the great Seneschal of Normandy, and Captain of Rouen. It is you who will rule Normandy for me. No other Frenchman will, and certainly no Englishman, for Normandy is the jewel of France.’

  Pierre de Brézé thumped the table with his fist. ‘If you order it, your Majesty, I will bring the treacherous Duke of Breton before you. I will drag him here with a bull’s ring through his nose.’

  ‘I know you would’, smiled Louis, ‘but the problem goes back to my grandfather, mad Charles VI, who gave his crown and his youngest daughter, Catherine, away to the English after his humiliating defeat at Agincourt in 1415. Catherine married Henry V and their son, the future Henry VI, my cousin, was cursed with his grandfather’s madness, which later, as Pierre knows at first hand, plunged England into fifteen years of bloody civil war. I suppose one could say that my grandfather eventually had his revenge, but during this period, the dukes and princes of France ruled their lands as kings. My father, Charles VII, was also a puppet to these French nobles. He was weak and shallow and allowed them to control him and that is now my problem, for they resent, or even hate, me for trying to unite France. They yearn for the old days when they answered to no one. That is why there are plots afoot to challenge my authority. They would like their King put back into his box and for them all to sit on its lid!’

  ‘The Duke of Burgundy is the key to this problem,’ said Georges Havart, ‘for not only does he rule Burgundy, but also Flanders, Holland, Luxembourg and more.’

  ‘I agree he rules too much,’ said Louis. ‘If I subdue him, then the rest will have to bend their knee to me, but to subdue him I will need the help of the English and that is my dilemma. My people say I should seek no friendship with them, but to unite France it is vitally important that Warwick arranges the marriage of my wife’s sister, Bona of Savoy, to King Edward, for then he would have to support me and not that upstart, Burgundy.’

  ‘But why fight them, your Majesty, when it would be easier to let sleeping dogs lie? Enjoy your lands and let the dukes and princes pay homage to you, although it would only be lip service as they would still have to contribute to your treasury. You could then pursue your pleasures – hunting, travelling and whatever you desired.’

  Louis jumped to his feet. ‘Georges!’ he cried. ‘Do you not see that France is at a crossroads? I could take the easy road that you have just described, but France would cease to exist, and it would become a land of little kingdoms, which would eventually turn on each other. On the other hand, I can take the road of total war, and spend a lifetime fighting these dukes and princes. Then, the English, Italians, even the Spanish, seeing that we were weak would invade us, and France would once again be laid to waste. But if I take the road which unites the French and English thrones, I could destroy Burgundy, and bring the rest of these rebellious princes to heel, and then I could make France the greatest power in Europe.’

  Louis’ eyes were sparkling with excitement as he paced the room. He stopped and faced the two men seated at the table. ‘Remember Joan, our beautiful, courageous Joan of Arc?’ he cried. ‘I saw this vision in armour when I was but six years old. She came to that dank, grim, castle of Loches where my father and mother had left me for the first ten years of my life. I remember she was like a heavenly vision with the words of God on her lips; her armour shimmered in the sunlight as she bathed in the cheers of the crowd. It was just after her first great victory over the English at Orleans. She plucked me from the boredom of castle life and took me on a pilgrimage to the Our Lady of Clery, that small church just south-west of Orleans. The English had destroyed the interior of the church during the battle, but we still worshipped at the broken but beautiful shrine devoted to the Blessed Virgin that had been brought from Gaul all those hundreds of years ago. Finally, she left me, and the sadness of my young years, as I watched her ride away, still haunts me – that vision of what France could have been even now burns in my heart.

  ‘This hero of France went on to destroy the English at Jargeau, and Patay, and then her crowning glory, her triumphant entry into Rheims on 17 July 1429. There, she had my spineless father crowned Charles VII of France – this maid of Orleans had set the whole of Europe ablaze. The hearts of Frenchmen, from Marseilles to Dieppe were filled with pride; she was uniting France.’

  Louis paused, savouring the memory, and then picking up his cup of wine, he walked to the window. As he sipped, he looked out over the small town towards the wooded hillsides that surrounded it. In the far distance, he saw a colourful procession. That will be Warwick’s ambassadors, he thought. He turned from the window and walked back to the table. Placing his cup down, he resumed his seat.

  Pierre de Brézé and Georges Havart sat silently, watching him.

  Louis continued. ‘After our Maiden of Orleans’ great victories, the dukes and princes started plotting against her – a united France was not what they desired. The foremost amongst them was that bastard, La Trémoille. He betrayed her to the Duke of Burgundy who captured her at Compiègne and sold her to the English. My father could have and should have, ransomed her, saved her, but the French lords controlled him so he did not speak for her freedom, he did not act for her freedom – he sat on his cowardly hands and did nothing. To the shame of France, the English burnt her at the stake in the market place at Rouen, on 31 May 1431.’

  Louis rose from his seat. ‘And that, gentlemen, is why I will unite France at any cost to make amends for my father’s sin; to bring justice down on Burgundy and the others for what they did to her. Remember the old saying: “Punishment and retribution are the wages of evil.”? Those bastards have earned their wages and the time has come for me to pay them!’

  Pierre de Brézé and Georges Havart saw the fire that burned within Louis – they realised that France, at last, had a worthy king.

  The King’s first secretary knocked on the door and entered, bowing, his hands clasped in front of him. He announced the arrival of Warwick’s ambassadors, Lord Wenlock and Richard Whetehill.

  Louis’ eyes glinted with intent. ‘Today the hunt begins!’ he exclaimed, as he raised his cup of wine. ‘Our quarry is a united France.’

  ‘Aye, a united France!’ cried his companions, as they raised their cups in unison.
r />   St Mihiel-en-Bar, Lorraine, France

  5 June 1464

  Simon Langford felt the warmth of the sun on his eyelids as he drifted from light dreams to consciousness. He could feel the soft beauty of the woman beside him, smell her perfume, and enjoy her closeness. He kept his eyes shut so that he could prolong the moment. After the passion of the night, the quietness of the early morning held them in its spell, their souls as one. He moved closer to her, knowing that the day was about to intrude on their intimacy.

  He opened his eyes, slowly. The sky was a perfect blue, and through the open window, a gentle warming breeze brought the smell of the vine and the relaxing scents of lavender and honeysuckle into the room. He propped himself up onto his elbow and looked at the beautiful woman beside him, this woman who had been a Queen; this Lady of Anjou who had stolen his heart. As he studied her face, her eyes slowly opened. They did not squint or open one before the other in a jumbled sort of way, they just opened in perfect unison – two exquisite eyes, full of love, looked at him.

  ‘So you are real,’ she murmured. ‘You’ve been away so long I thought I was dreaming.’ Margaret moved her arms and legs around Simon’s naked body, and gently kissed him. A contented sigh slipped from her throat. ‘Don’t leave me so long, again, my love,’ she whispered. ‘When you are here, there is music and laughter as though the angels have descended from Heaven, but when you are gone, my days are deserted, and my heart waits in sad solitude for your return.’

  Simon ran his hand up her soft thigh until it reached the gentle curve of her waist. His lips slipped over her smooth skin and caressed the smooth slope of her neck. He found her lips, and her silken body moved rhythmically against him, a simple feminine sign of desire.

  ‘I must return to my estates in England by the autumn,’ he murmured, as his hand slid over her stomach.

  ‘You must stay until Christmas,’ Margaret pleaded.

  ‘We will have all summer…’

  Her fingers touched his lips, staying his words, and Simon saw the tigress rise in her eyes as she untangled herself from him.

  ‘You have been gone for four weeks to your estates in England,’ she cried. ‘When you returned last night, you told me your mother and sisters were in fine health and your estates are in surplus, so, next time, we can send a messenger with your requests. He will return with news of your family, letters, reports; it is so easy.’ She knelt beside him. ‘Simon, my love, I’ve missed you so much…’ small tears formed in her eyes, ‘say you—’

  Simon’s finger now touched her lips, silencing her words. He leaned towards her, kissing away the tears that slipped from her eyes. ‘I will not leave your side until Christmas.’

  Margaret’s eyes flashed at him.

  ‘I promise; I promise!’ he cried.

  A look of triumph filled her face as she threw him back onto the bed, her legs straddling his waist.

  ‘That’s if I survive that long,’ he laughed.’

  They lay by the river, the two of them alone, their picnic awaiting their hunger. Simon lay on his back, looking at the blue sky; Margaret laid at right angles to him, her head resting on his stomach. The silence was broken by the sound of water over stone; they could hear the shrill ‘chee-chee’ of a pair of kingfishers as they swooped and dived over the river. They will be starting their second brood of the season by now, thought Simon. He raised himself onto his elbows and watched as one of the birds, its emerald-blue feathers flashing, dived beneath the surface. It landed back on its perch over the river, a large stickleback held firmly in its beak. The kingfisher repeatedly struck the fish against the perch to kill it, and only when it was dead, would the spines in the fins relax, allowing the bird to swallow it head first. Simon marvelled that something so small and beautiful could be so deadly at hunting – only God could create such an elegant assassin, he thought.

  His lover stirred; her head turned towards him.

  ‘Were they all executed?’ Margaret asked.

  Simon could tell by her sad eyes that she feared the worst. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Somerset, Hungerford, De Ros, plus many more, were executed at York. Sir Ralph Percy died bravely at Hedgeley Moor; Sir Ralph Grey died defending Bamburgh, and those that haven’t been killed by that butcher, Warwick, and his brother, have fled the realm. As you know, many seek asylum at the court of Burgundy.’

  ‘And Henry?’ Margaret whispered, as though by uttering his name, all the sad memories of the past would come alive and this new life would be taken from her.

  Simon could see the memory of her husband still wounded her. Gently, he said, ‘Henry is still free, hiding between the borders of England and Scotland.’

  ‘If he had fought as well as he hides then his crown would never have been lost,’ Margaret said, bitterly. ‘We know his cause is finished, but it would seem many still don’t, for while you were away I had representations from the court of Spain, and the German Emperor. Even King Afonso of Portugal sent an ambassador – a Monsieur Silva – with his beautiful daughter, Ana Paula neto Silva, to offer assistance in reclaiming the throne, but they only volunteered to further their own causes. As Queen, I commanded in name only, the power I possessed was through the nobles who only showed me loyalty to feather their own nests. I believed I ruled, but the truth was our cause was always doomed because I was a woman, and not a king.’

  ‘Pierre de Brézé, Sir Ralph Percy, and Sir Ralph Grey; they all loved and supported you. I still love and support you,’ said Simon.

  Margaret lent across and kissed him. ‘I thank God every day that you do,’ she whispered, ‘but the truth is, I could count my true supporters on one hand and that is why we lost the crown.’ She said it with a finality that ended the discussion.

  Simon rose and walked to the edge of the riverbank; the sun was warm, the sound of the flowing water relaxed his mind. It was a good day, and optimism for the future filled him. His family and estates were flourishing, the small château here in France was perfect, and the woman he loved filled his life. The only black cloud on this otherwise perfect horizon was that bastard, Warwick; the man stopped him from leaving his past behind, tormented his dreams, and burst into his thoughts at the strangest of times.

  Simon closed his eyes and prayed. He decided to give the problem of Warwick to God; if vengeance was to be his then the Lord would show him the way. If not, then he would leave it be, and he would embrace this new life.

  After praying, he watched the kingfishers skim low over the water, gathering aquatic insects in their beaks; the sight of them feeding brought his mind back to more mundane matters. Food – time for that picnic, he thought.

  Margaret studied Simon as he walked towards the river. She loved him without doubt. Just to be near him filled her with a beautiful strange energy – her heart would sometimes beat faster or she would become a little breathless when he walked into the room. Whatever it was, she had never felt the like before. He had golden hair and blue eyes, that was true, and his features were rugged, not handsome, but it was his smile that captivated her. The first time he had looked at her with those piercing blue eyes and smiled, her heart had melted, and had done so ever since. She was happy, but deep down she felt sadness, for she was growing older and knew her beauty would fade. Would he eventually, like most men, leave her for some pretty, young girl like that Portuguese beauty, Ana Paula, who had visited her with her father Monsieur Silva? She closed her eyes and prayed that they may grow old together. As she opened them, Simon knelt down in front of her.

  ‘Time for food!’ he cried.

  She leant forward and kissed him. ‘First, you have to earn it,’ she smiled, as her arms wrapped around his neck.

  The sun was low as Margaret and Simon returned to the château; dusk was slowly merging into the coolness of the night. As their mounts trotted into the courtyard, Margaret’s son – Prince Edward, rushed from the entrance and down the steps to meet them, his face flushed with excitement. Two of her ladies-in-waiting laboured to keep up with hi
m.

  ‘Mother,’ he cried, full of youthful enthusiasm, ‘we have visitors. My father’s loyal lieutenants have arrived with news from the Duke of Burgundy.’

  Margaret’s heart sank – it was Simon’s first day home – she had wanted it to be special. The picnic had been perfect and tonight there was to be a celebration meal for his safe return. She had organised actors to stage a small play. Poets and writers had been invited. Minstrels would play and there would be dancing, but her old life, the one she had left behind in England, still clung to her like an old heavy cloak. She suddenly shivered. ‘And who are our new guests?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice relaxed.

  ‘Sir Henry Billingham and Sir John Woollaston,’ Prince Edward replied proudly.

  Margaret’s ladies-in-waiting rushed to assist her as she dismounted, and as she climbed the steps, she suddenly stopped. Turning to Simon, she said with mock haughtiness. ‘Come, Sir Simon Langford, your Queen desires your presence.’

  As Simon followed Margaret into the château, he could see her spine stiffen. His beloved was once again the Queen of England, and a different stage now awaited her.

  Margaret of Anjou swished into the antechamber. Both Sir Henry Billingham and Sir John Woollaston bowed low, and Margaret offered her bejewelled hand to them, which they both lightly kissed.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, what brings you to my small court with such urgency?’ she asked as she sat down in a large, tall-backed chair at the end of the room. Her ladies-in-waiting brought up smaller chairs for her guests.

  Simon stood beside the Queen, his hand resting on the back of her chair.

  ‘The Duke of Burgundy – Philip the Good,’ replied Sir John Woollaston, ‘has sent us to inform you, my Lady, that the Earl of Warwick arrives in the port of Rouen in two days’ time, to negotiate the marriage of the Queen’s sister, the Bona of Savoy, to Edward, that false King of England.’

  Margaret sensed the excitement that suddenly filled Simon’s body. She shot a quick glance up at him; his eyes were sparkling with anticipation. She decided it was time to end this charade. The Lancastrian cause was finished and it was time these gentlemen were told so.