The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  ‘Firstly,’ she replied, ‘Edward is no false King of England.’ As this simple sentence left her lips she felt a weight had been lifted from her – she had finally stated the truth. She watched the two men in front of her ripple with indignation. This, she knew, was not what they wished to hear, but hear it they would – the genie was, at last, out of the bottle. ‘Edward has been anointed with the holy oil and crowned in Westminster Abbey and commands the respect of the nobility and the people, while my husband, poor Henry, wanders the barren lands of northern England like some lowly vagabond; he is no more a king than you.’

  ‘Your Highness…’ protested Sir Henry Billingham.

  She held her hand up to silence him. ‘King Henry was never a king. He was an illusion that the people wished to believe in, but he stood small in the shadow of his father. As a husband, he was an illusion, but one that I tried to believe in. Sadly, every year, the illusion dissipated until it was no more.’ She fixed her diamond stare on the men in front of her. They sat opened-mouthed at her words. She threw her head back and laughed. ‘And now they demand another French bride for another English king!’ she exclaimed. ‘Henry V married a French princess. His son married me, and now they desire the beautiful Bona of Savoy. Do men never learn?’ she cried, raising an eyebrow, and extending her hands in an upward motion.

  A flustered Sir Henry Billingham rose from his chair. ‘Your – your Highness,’ he stuttered, ‘the Duke of Burgundy wishes the marriage stopped.’

  'And we know why,’ Margaret cried. ‘If France and England form a powerful alliance, they would turn their attentions on him, his own continental ambitions would be stopped, and he may even be deposed.’

  Sir John Woollaston suddenly rose from his chair, pushing it back and sending it clattering across the floor. The tension thickened. ‘He wants Warwick dead!’ he shouted. Silence filled the room.

  Margaret sat in her chair, her face filled with excitement. ‘Now that would be a fine undertaking; his death would be greatly pleasing,’ she cried, her personal hatred for the man rising to the surface, but as her words circled the room, she suddenly, desperately, wanted to stop them. It was too late; Simon had heard them and her plea to God to keep him by her side, now undone by her own stupid words.

  ‘When do we leave to exact vengeance on the bastard?’ Simon cried.

  ‘Dawn,’ replied Sir Henry Billingham.

  Margaret rose from her chair. ‘Simon…’ she pleaded, but her words tailed off as she saw the determination on his face. Slumping back on to her chair, she stared at the floor. She would rather Warwick lived for a thousand years than lose Simon, but it was too late she realised, bitterly, and it was her own selfish fault.

  Royal Court, Nogent-Le-Roi, Loire Valley, France

  6 June 1464

  King Louis watched as the backs of Warwick’s ambassadors disappeared though the doorway. All arrangements for his arrival and stay had been agreed; the chief citizens and the senior clergy of Rouen would receive him with full pomp and ceremony. He himself would stay at the village of La Bouille and enter Rouen the following day, dressed in splendour to act out his part as a sovereign king.

  ‘Honours and festivities must be showered on our guest,’ Louis said. ‘Lord Warwick must return to England our firm ally.’

  Etienne de Loup, his shadowy spymaster spoke. ‘I hear rumours of a plot,’ he whispered in his hoarse way, his head slowly looking up, engaging the eyes of the king.

  ‘Plot? Plot? What treason do you speak of?’ cried Louis.

  ‘I have only heard slippery phantoms of deceit,’ Etienne de Loup growled. ‘No solid fact, but Burgundy is mentioned, and English men loyal to Margaret of Anjou have been seen meeting at her château. I will, of course, have them followed, but I fear for Warwick.’

  ‘By all the saints in Heaven, you must unravel this mystery!’ shouted Louis. ‘No harm must befall Lord Warwick, for if it does then France will also suffer.’

  ‘As we speak, the spies of our enemies are suffering the ordeal of torture,’ replied Etienne de Loup, his reptile eyes narrowing in pleasure at the thought of it. ‘If any knows, they will speak; our agents are also seeking the answers.’

  Louis rose from his chair and paced the room; he always thought better on his feet. ‘Pierre, as Captain of Rouen, you must check the arrangements for the safety of the Lord Warwick. Order whatever you require: men, weapons, equipment.’

  Pierre de Brézé nodded.

  ‘Georges,’ instructed Louis, ‘secure the surrounding countryside. I want men in all the villages. They must report any movements of armed men or suspicious gatherings.’

  ‘It will be done, your Majesty,’ replied Georges Havart.

  ‘Etienne, time is our enemy; we rely on your talent for loosening tongues. You must double your efforts, so request whatever you need.’

  Etienne de Loup stood up, his lizard eyes slowly looking around the room. His face broke into a satisfied smile showing his sharpened yellow teeth, and his tongue flicked around his lips. As the men in the room tried not to recoil in disgust, a hoarse cackle left his lips. ‘I’ll away to double the pain,’ he whispered. ‘You will have answers shortly, your Majesty.’ He bowed and was gone.

  The room was silent but Etienne de Loup’s malevolence lingered. The six remaining men quietly thanked God that they were not the subjects of his interrogation.

  Rouen, France

  7 June 1464

  The securing lines curled out from the fore and aft of the ship towards St Eloi wharf. John Tunstall watched from the stern castle as brawny stevedores wearing sleeveless leather jerkins, their muscular arms bulging, secured the heavy lines.

  Along the jetty and around the docks stood richly dressed dignitaries, soldiers of rank and elevated clergy, their opulent robes and glittering jewels contrasting starkly with the grimy streets and the poor that walked them.

  Etiquette demanded that royal blood be greeted by royal blood, so the Duke of Bourbon stood at the front of the jetty, resplendent in his ceremonial robes and gold chains of office, waiting to offer a regal greeting to the mighty Earl of Warwick.

  John looked with hungry eyes at the hustle and bustle of excitement below him; the sounds and smells of France assailed his senses. He could not believe that he was actually here. He looked at his two friends, Richard, and Francis. Their faces shone with wonder, their eyes wide.

  Warwick appeared from the stern cabin, his body richly clothed in blues and gold, his back straighter than a pikestaff. Supreme confidence and authority showed in his every move. He walked to the top of the gangway.

  The musicians on the wharf below instantly brought life to their instruments, their playing nearly drowned out by the cheering and clapping of the crowd.

  Warwick stood and basked in the welcome, his eyes drinking in the moment. At the bottom of the gangway stood his two ambassadors, Lord Wenlock and Richard Whetehill. They half bowed, each an arm outstretched towards the Duke of Bourbon. Warwick slowly descended, waving to the crowd as he did so. Following behind were his household officers, chosen knights, and an honorary guard of archers as befitted his rank.

  The earl and duke embraced warmly, and after exchanging gifts of gold and diamonds, they marched from the wharf followed by the exuberant crowd.

  The music and noise slowly dimmed into the distance. The three boys watched until the celebration was swallowed up by the city. St Eloi wharf now stood deserted. The ship was hushed. All of those aboard were left spellbound by the events that had unfolded before them. Only the soft singing of the wind through the rigging, and the gentle rolling creaks of the ship broke the silence.

  ‘Thank Satan’s hairy arse that’s over with,’ said Thomas Hallet to his twin brother. ‘These Frenchies always get excited.’

  ‘Aye,’ replied George, ‘they do love a bit of bowing and scraping.’

  ‘Whoring arse lickers,’ concluded Thomas, then lowering his voice to a whisper, ‘but now we can slip ashore and sample the delights…�
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  ‘You two will be sampling nothing,’ barked the Great Controller.

  The twins raised their eyebrows at each other and then turned to face the Great Controller who had appeared behind them as silent as a ghost. ‘We are in a foreign port and your duty is to protect the boys. Remember, the Devil’s work may be afoot; they were taken once, it will not happen again.’

  ‘Yes, sir. No, sir, I mean—’ started Thomas.

  The Great Controller cut him short. ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Stay close to them. Tomorrow, we sail up the Seine, to Paris. Once there you will be free to sample the delights of the city. Lord Warwick, in his wisdom, has left a purse of money for your reward in rescuing the boys so until we arrive in Paris do not let them out of your sight; understood?’

  The Hallet twins nodded vigorously.

  Broad smiles filled the Great Controller’s vision. ‘And God help Paris,’ he cried, as he walked away.

  The three boys looked at each other. ‘Paris!’ they exclaimed in unison, their faces breaking out into wide grins.

  ‘We will be there tomorrow,’ cried John, his feet starting to dance a circular jig in excitement.

  ‘It’s the greatest city in Europe,’ cried Francis, joining in the dance.

  ‘But it’s only a city,’ shouted Richard, embarrassed by his friends’ carefree dancing.

  ‘It might be only a city,’ replied John, as his jig brought him round to face Richard.

  ‘But it’s four times the size of London,’ Francis joined in.

  ‘And full of wonders,’ cried John, as he came round again.

  Both boys seized an arm each and spun Richard around with them. He resisted at first, but then finally admitting defeat he shed his inhibitions and shouted, ‘To Paris; we’re going to Paris.’

  Spinning faster and faster, they all finally collapsed, laughing in a heap on the deck.

  Rouen, France

  8 June 1464

  The Earl of Warwick left the ‘Cathedral of our Lady’ where he had made an offering to the success of his mission. It was a short walk back to the Franciscan Friary, where he lodged with his small court. The time was seven of the clock, and the city was awake and bustling. In thirty minutes, King Louis would arrive, and negotiations on an Anglo-French alliance would begin.

  First on the agenda, was a bride for Edward, and then his own military support in defeating the Duke of Burgundy, and then what reward for assisting the King of France to secure his throne? The earl’s mind fell eagerly to the possibilities. Maybe a yearly pension of say, four thousand marks, or when the Duke of Burgundy is defeated, all the spoils of the Low Countries. He knew what he craved the most – the idea filled his thoughts in the early mornings when sleep and consciousness parted: to be ruler of his own kingdom, to be Prince of Holland.

  King Louis paused on the outskirts to the city; he wanted this to be a powerful, rich entrance; one that would dazzle Lord Warwick. He had with him trumpeters, heralds, knights, guards from his standing army, and squires and grooms by the plenty. His eyes examined them all. Satisfied, he spurred his horse and entered the city. His trumpeters sounded a royal salute.

  Warwick heard the notes; his squires quickly checked his rich attire and then stood ready to open the large wooden doors. As the king approached, they would swing them open to reveal the earl as a vision of power who would then walk out, followed by his entourage to greet the king.

  Dieppe, France

  9 June 1464

  Philip de Chastle spoke in a voice hushed with secrecy. This royal officer had been sent by the Duke of Brittany to outline the plan of attack against the Earl of Warwick. Sir Simon Langford, Sir Henry Billingham, and Sir John Woollaston, sat in the shadowy corner of a dockside tavern and suffered its hot sultry atmosphere. Sipping cool, watered wine, they listened intently to his words.

  ‘Etienne de Loup, King Louis’ enforcer, knows something is afoot,’ whispered Philip. ‘His eyes and ears are everywhere; our agents and sympathisers are disappearing into his dungeons daily as he seeks to unravel our intentions.’

  ‘So, he could discover our strategy at any moment,’ said Sir Henry, alarm in his voice.

  ‘Only if he gathers me in his net,’ replied Philip, ‘for I am the only one within his grasp who knows the plan.’

  ‘You mean there is not a single person here who knows, apart from you?’ asked Simon, his voice incredulous.

  'That is correct,’ confirmed Philip. ‘The less who know, the less chance of discovery.’ Then changing the subject, he asked, ‘Are your men dispersed safely around the town?’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Simon. ‘They are in small groups of two or three so as not to draw attention to themselves.’

  ‘What are your numbers?’

  ‘Thirty,’ replied Sir Henry. ‘Mostly English exiles, but a few brave French, Spanish, and Dutch.’

  ‘Excellent,’ beamed Philip. ‘We have the same number from the Duke of Brittany, a mixture of French, English, and Dutch – it would seem Warwick’s enemies come in many nationalities.’

  ‘There is much blood on his hands,’ said Simon with venom as thoughts of his father filled his mind.

  ‘Enough of all this talk,’ Sir John butted in. ‘We need to know what is required of us so we can brief our men and discuss the merits of your strategy.’

  His blunt statement seemed to focus the others’ minds.

  Philip leant closer to them. ‘The walls and gateways into Rouen are well guarded. The villages and surrounding countryside are also brimming with the King’s men.’

  ‘So, how do we enter?’ whispered Simon, dismay in his voice.

  ‘We don’t,’ replied Philip. ‘Over land, the town is impregnable.’

  The three men looked at each other and then stared at Philip, confusion in their eyes.

  ‘But, it does have a soft underbelly,’ Philip said, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He watched the anticipation grow within the men. ‘The harbour is unguarded!’ he finally cried, triumphantly.

  Eyes within the room glanced towards their table; Philip looked embarrassed at his companions. They fell into silence until the attention on them had ceased. Cautiously, he continued. ‘The Duke of Burgundy is sending a ship here to Dieppe.’ He watched the excitement creep into the others’ eyes, and then continued.

  ‘Warwick will spend his last night aboard his ship before sailing for England on the morning tide. During that night, we will sail silently into Rouen harbour, berth against the seaward side of his vessel, board her, and then dispatch the bastard to the demons of Hell. We will then sail silently away.’ Philip sat back and awaited questions.

  ‘If the alarm is raised as we berth alongside, then their numbers may be too great for us to overcome,’ said Simon.

  Philip waved his finger from side to side. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘All the King’s troops are facing outwards; they are stationed on the city walls or far out in the surrounding countryside. We will have more than enough time to complete the mission and make good our escape.’

  ‘How will we know when it is Warwick’s last night?’ whispered Sir Henry.

  ‘That monster, De Loup, may know some of our agents, but he doesn’t know them all,’ replied Philip. ‘I have some trusted men who will inform us when the time is right.’

  ‘And the ship?’ asked Sir John.

  ‘She arrives in two days’ time under the cover of darkness. She will anchor outside of the harbour. I have longboats organised to ferry you and the men out to her then we will disappear from Dieppe unseen, silently, in the blackness of the night. It will be as though we had never been here.’

  The four conspirators sat back, with satisfied smiles on their faces.

  Simon raised his glass. ‘To the silence of the night,’ he whispered.

  Two men hidden by the shadows of the bar also raised their glasses; a knowing look passing between them. Finishing their drinks, they slipped out of the tavern to report to their master.

  Rouen, Fr
ance

  11 June 1464

  The Earl of Warwick stood staring out of the window of the Franciscan Friary, and awaited his guest. It was early morning, and he admired the beautiful gardens that sloped gently away from him towards the forest.

  Monks like orderliness, he thought. Be it a row of carrots or a trimmed hedge, all has to be laid out precisely, just like their lives, governed by prayers and rituals. He smiled to himself. King Louis was the opposite of orderliness – he travelled France constantly, his court struggling to keep up with him. He was not concerned with luxury or fine food; he was driven by his dream to unite his kingdom. Warwick admired him; he was clever, resourceful, and full of energy – a man he could do business with.

  Feeling jaded, he slumped down in a chair. The long journey from his estates, and then crossing the English Channel, had sapped his energy. Since his arrival in Rouen, King Louis had provided the best entertainment his court could devise as well as showering him and his negotiators with gifts. Louis’ personal gift to him was a gold cup encrusted with gems. His negotiators had received gold coins specially minted for the occasion.

  The truth is, Warwick thought, wearily, I don’t need gifts, or lavish entertainment. What I desire is for these negotiations to be successful. I need Edward married to a French princess and myself made Prince of Holland and Zeeland, then I can have all the gold cups I need, all the feasting and dancing a man could require, for power is the richest possession of all, power makes any dream come true!

  He heard footsteps in the hallway outside, and sitting upright in his chair, he forced these half-dreamlike thoughts from his mind.

  There was a sharp knock on the door. Two men-at-arms entered and they stood either side of the entrance, in through which swished King Louis, smiling and bustling with purpose.