The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  Warwick and King Louis walked slowly through the gardens. The king had dismissed his close advisors but the guards kept a respectable distance behind them.

  ‘We will have no eavesdroppers out here,’ King Louis said, ‘and, because your French is excellent, we do not have to worry about the formalities of interpreters either.’

  Warwick nodded to acknowledge the compliment.

  King Louis continued. ‘My Ambassadors are negotiating greater privileges and trade opportunities for your merchants. I have arranged for our famous silks and satins to be shown to them – they may take whatever they require back to England as samples. Hopefully, it will tempt both our merchants to cross the channel – increased commerce will strengthen the ties between our two countries.’

  ‘If nothing else, it will enrich their wardrobes,’ laughed Warwick.

  ‘Then they will all become walking announcements for the beautiful wares of France,’ retorted a smiling King Louis.

  The two men walked in silence, gathering their thoughts on the questions they needed answering.

  King Louis raised the back of his hand to his mouth and gave a refined cough – a starting point for his first question. ‘My Lord Warwick, is your influence still strong over young King Edward?’

  ‘He is reliant on my counsel,’ replied Warwick.

  ‘Is he reliant enough to accept a bride of your choice?’

  Warwick nodded. ‘Yes, he would accept my choice.’

  ‘Excellent,’ beamed King Louis. ‘My officials will negotiate the size of the dowry with your ambassadors. I will agree to pay Edward as soon as he marries my sister-in-law, and then, of course, there is the matter of a settlement for yourself, a reward for your efforts.’

  ‘But you require more than a marriage to solve the dilemma of uniting your kingdom,’ replied Warwick, bluntly.

  King Louis appreciated from Warwick’s short statement that he was well informed. Gently touching Warwick’s arm, he guided him to a wooden bench, cut into one of the tall, neatly trimmed hedges. They sat down. The king’s deep, close-set eyes stared at his own simple, green hunting shoes. He knew it was crucial that Warwick returned to England his firm ally and friend. He reasoned that if they were going to collaborate, their alliance had to be built on honesty and trust – which he knew to be very rare within the nobility. Now the dice were about to be thrown, he had no choice but to believe in Warwick, who he hoped was one of those exceptional men that respected and returned honesty when it was presented to them. Only time would tell.

  ‘Richard, I will be frank with you,’ King Louis said, addressing Warwick by his Christian name. ‘I have many problems, all inherited from my father and grandfather. Both were weak, and a weak king only rules anarchy.’

  ‘And a strong king can inherit rebellion,’ replied Warwick.

  ‘You are very perceptive,’ smiled the king.

  ‘So who are your main antagonists, besides Burgundy?’ asked Warwick.

  ‘The Duke of Brittany, Duke of Orleans, Count of Charolais and more,’ replied King Louis, instantly. ‘Their names are forever on my mind. They whisper treason to my brother, Charles, promise him the throne; they know he is weak and shallow, one they could control.’

  ‘The second son born into a royal family always seeks what the first born has inherited,’ said Warwick. ‘It is as though they feel cheated. That sense of almost being a king makes it easy for others to influence them. The prize is tempting – alluring; it stands glittering before them. They are swayed by traitors who murmur honeyed words in their ear and tell them that all they have to do is just reach out and take the crown for themselves.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed King Louis, ‘it is a lesson repeated throughout history, but with your help, my friend, it will not be repeated here.’

  Warwick knew that now was the time to strike his bargain, to offer his assistance and ask for his reward. ‘Burgundy must be deposed if you wish to save your crown,’ he said in his forthright way. ‘I will furnish you with men, archers, and weapons to achieve this end.’

  ‘But what of King Edward?’ interrupted King Louis. ‘Will he not have to agree to this?’

  Warwick laughed. ‘Once he has married a pretty French princess he will have thoughts of only one course of foreign policy and that will be between the sheets. No, it is me who decides our foreign strategy.’

  The king rubbed his hands together with excitement. ‘This course of action that is opening up through our collaboration will secure my throne, and you, my dear Warwick, are the key!’

  Warwick suppressed the urge to ask for his reward.

  King Louis stood up and resumed walking; now taking longer, quicker strides as his mind raced with many thoughts. ‘We must confirm the wedding, no detail will be too small, trade will commence, and the sharing of foreign policy must be discussed.’

  Warwick, having been racing to keep up, almost collided with the king when he suddenly stopped.

  King Louis grabbed both of Warwick’s arms. ‘My friend!’ he cried. ‘You must think me a man of no grace. Forgive me. All that is laid out before me is only possible through you; what honour or riches can I bestow to show my gratitude?’

  Warwick felt the satisfaction swell within his chest. Here, at last, was his great chance to be a king in his own right, to stand as an equal to all the royalty of Europe. ‘I wish to be Prince of Holland and Zeeland,’ he said. ‘I cannot dress it up or add frills to this request. They are simple words and I have said them plainly enough.’

  King Louis threw his head back and laughed. ‘Only an Englishman could be so direct,’ he spluttered through his laughter, and then throwing his arm around Warwick’s shoulder, he turned him towards the friary. ‘Come, we have much to discuss. If you are to rule Holland and Zeeland, then first we must plan the demise of Burgundy.’

  They set off at a fast pace, talking and scheming as they went.

  Etienne de Loup watched as King Louis and Warwick approached him. His face betrayed no emotion, his reptile eyes were cold, but the answer the king needed waited on his lips.

  Baynard’s Castle, London

  11 June 1464

  Cecily Neville, the Duchess of York, sat in her chair, dumbstruck by the statement that had just assailed her ears.

  Her son, King Edward, was still speaking, his mouth opening and closing in an agitated way but the words were silent. She heard not a sound. There were but two words spinning inside her head that kept repeating themselves over and over. This mighty statement that had nearly stopped her heart. She stared at her eldest surviving son and replayed the moment, again. ‘I’m married’. He had blurted it out like a five-year-old, full of apprehension, but there was a wilful stubbornness behind his words.

  She rose from her chair and walked to the window. The River Thames flowed past; a great artery of water that was the essence of London – its heartbeat, bestowing vitality and life on this great city. Watching the activity of the boatmen as they plied their trade calmed her spirit. Her mind slowed, her thoughts became crystal clear. She turned from the window and faced her son.

  ‘Who knows of this marriage?’ Cecily demanded.

  ‘No one,’ replied Edward. ‘It is my great secret.’

  ‘Warwick certainly doesn’t know!’ Cecily shouted. ‘The man is in France negotiating new trade agreements, diplomatic alliances that all hinge on you marrying the Bona of Savoy.’ She strode from the window, bristling with anger, and stood in front of Edward. ‘You are making a fool out of the greatest magnate within your kingdom, a man who is not only your cousin but also a good and loyal friend. Together, with his brother, they have ended all Lancastrian resistance to your throne and how do you repay him? How do you show your gratitude? By sending him on a fool’s errand to France. You will make him the laughing stock of Europe.’

  Edward looked up at his mother. Known as ‘proud Cis’ because of her royal pride, and the temper that went with it, he was now feeling the hot blast of it. ‘The marriage must be annulled,�
�� he spluttered.

  ‘Annulled? Annulled?’ Cecily screeched.

  Edward slunk lower in his chair, as the heat of his mother’s anger started to roast him.

  Cecily raised her hands in the air. ‘God preserve us!’ she cried. She walked back to the window and rested her hands on the cool stone. She looked out over the river with her back to Edward. Calmly, she said, ‘You say this marriage is a great secret?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ replied Edward, glad that her voice was calmer.

  ‘So, were you the only one there?’

  ‘No,’ Edward replied, confused.

  ‘So, I presume that as you married this Lancastrian widow, Elizabeth Grey, she was also present, and of course there must have been a priest and his assistant, so that’s four of you who know this great secret, and who were the witnesses? Who signed the marriage certificate?’

  ‘Hastings,’ said Edward.

  ‘Well, he can no more keep a secret than you can keep your manhood under control. And the other one?’ Edward was silent, but Cecily heard him fidgeting in his chair. ‘And the other one?’ she asked again, her voice rising.

  ‘The bride’s mother,’ Edward finally said.

  Cecily spun around from the window and faced Edward. ‘Jacquetta, Duchess of Bedford?’ she cried.

  Edward nodded, glumly.

  ‘I knew her when she was called “Jacquetta of Luxembourg”. I was there thirty years ago when she married her first husband, John, Duke of Bedford. She was a scheming witch then and she is a scheming witch now. She has used her daughter to bewitch you with potions and charms, to snare you like a stupid dull rabbit.’

  Cecily walked across to Edward and lent down, her face red with temper. ‘For sixteen years she was the best friend and confidant of Margaret of Anjou. She used her position to have her lowly second husband made a lord, and Knight of the Garter. She was the second most important Lancastrian in the country. She plotted with that Bitch of Anjou against your father. Along with her, she was responsible for his death and you have married her daughter!’

  Cecily straightened up and backed away from Edward. ‘Shame on you!’ she cried. ‘Shame on you!’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘If only your father were here,’ she said, as tears flowed down her cheeks.

  Edward rose from his chair. ‘That is why the marriage must be annulled,’ he whispered.

  ‘Who has the marriage certificate?’ Cecily asked. There was silence. Her eyes turned on Edward, understanding now fuelling the fire that burned in them. ‘She has, hasn’t she?’ she screamed.

  Edward turned away from her. ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  ‘Then there is no undoing of what has been done. You are married and that is the end of it. You are a fool and have been played as a fool.’

  There was silence as they both stared at each other.

  ‘Warwick is your problem now,’ Cecily said, quietly. ‘You best plan how to deal with him, for I fear this marriage will rip your kingdom apart.’ She stood back and looked at Edward, wiping tears from her face. ‘How could you be so stupid when we have finally achieved peace after all those years of bloody, civil war? I fear you have started it all over again; you have squandered the trust of the people. You are not fit to be King!’ She walked towards the door, anxious to be away from the wretchedness of the room, then before leaving, stopped and looked at her son. ‘And this is all because you could not keep your reckless lust under control.’

  Edward took his hunting jacket off and tossed it across the room where it landed untidily across the table. Sitting down, he wearily placed his head in his hands. An air of frustration surrounded him, and his mother’s words still rang in his ears. ‘You are not fit to be King’, she had said.

  Lord Hastings entered the room and sat down opposite Edward with an ‘I told you so’ look on his face.

  ‘My mother is displeased with my marriage,’ grumbled Edward, as he kicked his boots off and slumped back into his chair.

  Lord Hastings rose and walked to the table where he poured two cups of wine. Handing one to Edward, he resumed his seat.

  Edward took a gulp of wine and stared up at the ceiling. ‘I cannot give her up,’ he said, the image of Elizabeth stirring his loins. ‘I think of her all the time, nay, desire her all the time.’

  Lord Hastings glanced secretly around the room, even though he knew they were alone. 'They have cast a strong spell over you,’ he said, shaking his head, sadly.

  ‘Spell? Spell?’ cried Edward, suddenly sitting up straight. ‘What spell?’

  Lord Hastings stared at him, his eyes wide with conviction.

  Edward slowly slipped back down into his chair as he awaited a lecture.

  ‘The night before your marriage,’ Lord Hastings began, ‘was the eve of St Walpurga’s, one of the four grand Sabbaths of the witches’ year. It is the night when God-fearing people bolt their doors and sleep with holy artefacts around them, because on that night, witches worship Bacchus and practise their unholy rituals with coarse orgies and sacrifices.’

  Edward sat up, his face alive with interest. ‘What are you implying?’ he whispered.

  ‘Only what I have said before: that you were bewitched by your wife and her mother.’

  Edward laughed nervously. ‘You are imagining all this,’ he cried, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Where do you get all these wild theories from?’

  ‘They are not wild theories,’ Lord Hastings shot back. ‘You remember Eleanor Cobham? She married Humphrey, the old Duke of Gloucester in 1431. Well, ten years later, she was convicted of using potions supplied by Margery Jourdemayne, the “Witch of Eye”, to make the duke fall in love with her. Two unfrocked priests, Roger Bolingbroke and Thomas Southwell, used the black arts to perform the ceremony. They were all convicted of witchcraft and of using wax images to snare the duke into marring her. Jourdemayne was burnt at Smithfield and the two men were hung, drawn, and quartered.’

  ‘And what of Eleanor?’ asked Edward.

  ‘The marriage was dissolved by the Archbishop of Canterbury, two cardinals, and three bishops who had conducted the trial. Eleanor had to do public penance through the streets of London, barefoot and bareheaded. Nearly naked, she had to carry a two-pound candle in each hand while the men and woman of London threw rotten vegetables at her. She was then imprisoned in a wretched dungeon for the rest of her life.’

  ‘Ah, I remember the case now,’ sneered Edward, with disbelief in his voice. ‘Some say the charges were trumped up by the duke's enemies because he was the main stumbling block in the final negotiations for peace with France. He was so disgraced by the trial that he lost all his influence at court, and in the end, could not even save his wife from her fate.’

  ‘After your marriage,’ continued Lord Hastings, undaunted by Edward’s cynicism, ‘I sent agents secretly to Grafton Regis and the surrounding villages to try and discover if there was any truth in these rumours, that they practised the black arts there. I have found witnesses who have heard strange sounds, screeches and chanting coming from the cellar late at night especially on nights when the moon was waning.’

  Edward’s eyes widened with scepticism. ‘You are foolish to believe in such nonsense. Bring these accusers before me, so I can judge them.’

  ‘None will testify in public, for fear of their lives,’ replied Lord Hastings.

  ‘I thought that may be the case,’ laughed Edward.

  ‘But they all say it is a common occurrence,’ Lord Hastings ploughed on, determined to finish his argument. ‘I will gather more evidence, and as was the case with Eleanor Cobham, will have your marriage annulled.’

  ‘If any other man had made these accusations against my wife, I would have had them executed,’ hissed Edward, his face turning red with anger. ‘You must keep these mad ideas to yourself. I do not want my court full of sly whisperings about spells and potions. These fanciful theories are to be kept between you and me.’

  ‘You are so bewitched by your mother-in-law, methinks I could show yo
u all the evidence in the world and you would still not believe me,’ cried Lord Hastings, with frustration.

  An ill-tempered silence hung between them. Finally, Lord Hastings heaved himself from his chair and refilled their wine cups. He passed one to Edward who had slumped back into his chair, suddenly exhausted by all this talk of Warwick and witchcraft.

  ‘If what you say is true, then may God protect you in your quest,’ Edward said quietly, a smile playing around his mouth. ‘But be very careful, my old friend, for if they suspect you, they may turn you into a frog.’ He chuckled to himself as he took another gulp of wine.

  Dieppe, France

  13 June 1464

  The oars silently dipped into the silky, black water; five longboats slipped from the shoreline, quickly swallowed up by the moonless night.

  Simon Langford watched the lights on the great harbour walls grow distant, finally twinkling weakly and then, one by one, extinguishing. They were surrounded by blackness; only the soft creaking of the boat, and the gentle rhythm of the oars as they moved in unison through the water could be heard.

  Simon looked ahead into the darkness, his eyes straining to see the vessel that awaited them. He listened to the boats as they cut through the water. Every pull on the oars left the frustrations of the last few days further behind. Now, he had a purpose; his quest for vengeance had begun.

  ‘Light on the starboard bow,’ came the muffled cry from the lead boat.

  Simon’s eyes moved to the right. In the distance, he saw a pinprick of light flashing out their destination. The boats swung towards it.

  Rouen, France

  14 June 1464

  John Tunstall watched once again as the great harbour of Rouen opened up before him. It had been five days since they had sailed up the Seine to Paris; five days that had turned their world upside down. They had left on the morning tide as heavy drizzle had tried to dampen their spirits, but the excitement of Paris could not be dampened. They had departed that wet, grey morning as inexperienced innocents, young boys ignorant of the charms of the fairer sex, and returned with no mysteries left to puzzle them. John looked at his companions. Outwardly, they looked the same, there were no marks or signs to say what had happened to them, but inwardly they changed forever. His mind drifted back to his first sight of Paris…