The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  By all the Saints! he thought. I am sitting next to a cannon!

  He moved quickly along the deck, keeping his body low as he sought out Sir Henry Billingham and Philip de Chastle. Quickly finding them, he crouched down.

  ‘We are done for,’ said Sir Henry, resignation in his voice.

  ‘Aye,’ joined in Philip. ‘That bastard of a sea captain who brought us here was the one who betrayed us. As soon as we had left his ship, he cut the grappling hooks and high-tailed it away. The bastard’s delivered us to our enemies wrapped and packed as neat as a trussed turkey.’

  Simon sat on his haunches. ‘I have a plan that will save us,’ he said, gently.

  ‘There is no plan in Heaven or earth that can save us,’ growled Philip, ‘apart from growing angel’s wings, and flying away.’

  ‘Philip is right,’ whispered Sir Henry. ‘For none of us can swim, so we are trapped; our retreat is cut off by the black waters of the harbour.’

  Simon put a hand on each of their shoulders. ‘Listen; they have left the cannons on board. There will be a line of them on a lower deck pointing straight at the wharf.’

  ‘Cannons are no good without cannon balls,’ said Philip sharply, ‘and they certainly didn’t leave any of them behind.’

  Simon shook their shoulders. ‘It’s not hopeless, you fools. Cannon will fire anything as long as its metal and we have the barrel of gunpowder that we brought with us to scuttle the ship once we had dealt with Warwick.’

  ‘Simon’s right,’ said Sir Henry, slowly. ‘We have cannon and gunpowder. All we need is something to fire at the bastards.’

  ‘So if we find some sort of ammunition and fire the guns, what is your plan after that?’ asked Philip.

  ‘This is what we need to do,’ replied Simon, with urgency in his voice. ‘You must find, amongst the men, any with knowledge of cannon or the handling of ships. My strategy is simple: once the cannons are primed, the ropes binding us to the wharf are cut. Immediately afterwards, we will fire the cannon. The force of the recoil will push the ship out into the harbour. The men who can handle the ship will lower the sails. Luckily, the tide is in our favour so Warwick cannot bring up a ship to attack us on our seaward side, but with the tide going out, our escape from the harbour will be possible. Once clear, we will then be in God’s hands.’

  There was a hushed silence between them. Simon could not discern their faces in the darkness.

  A slow chuckle came from Philip. ‘It could work,’ he said, excitement growing in his voice.

  ‘Aye, we will make it work,’ joined in Sir Henry.

  ‘Simon, you clever dog!’ exclaimed Philip. ‘It’s your plan, so tell us our orders.’

  Simon stood back from the cannons and watched as the men with experience worked around them. They had found nails and tacks in the ship’s carpentry store. The gunpowder charges had been rammed down the barrels, the nails or tacks had been poured in, and the guns were primed and ready for action. The men now stood ready around the ten primed cannons, their bodies bathed in sweat, awaiting the order to fire.

  Simon climbed the ladder onto the upper deck, a slim line of pale gold glowed along the horizon, and he knew Warwick would wait for the full dawn before starting his assault. He could just make out the scaling ladders waiting to be slammed against the ship as the prelude to their attack.

  Philip de Chastle, bending low, came across the deck towards him. ‘It is time,’ he said. ‘Are the guns primed?’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Simon. ‘My men know their duty, and yours?’

  ‘Aye, the same,’ replied Philip. ‘I have fifteen men up the masts waiting to unfold the sails. The others are waiting with axes to cut the securing ropes. Remember, I will blow the whistle once to signal for the lines to be cut; when I blow it the second time, you fire the cannon.’

  Simon nodded, and stepped on to the ladder to the lower decks. ‘I will await your signal, my friend.’

  ‘And may God be with us,’ replied Philip.

  Simon arrived on the gun deck as the last of the gun ports were opened.

  ‘Roll out the guns,’ shouted the senior man.

  The men crammed on the wharf, who were preparing for the assault, heard the guns slam forward. Their movements froze as they saw the barrels protruding from the side of the ship. A voice suddenly shouted in panic, ‘Holy Mother, save us.’

  Men turned and ran, striving to escape from the guns. Many slipped on the wet wood of the jetty, their screams filling the air as they were trampled. Others were pushed into the black, silent water, their chain mail, and heavy breastplates, dragging them down to a watery grave.

  Warwick stood at the end of the wharf, finalising last-minute details for the attack, when he heard the screams. He turned and saw a wall of men rushing towards him and went towards them, his arms outstretched. ‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘I command you to stop!’ It was hopeless; the force of their panic drove them onward. Then he heard a thin whistle. He turned his head towards the ship, and then another whistle rang out. Warwick’s brow furrowed in puzzlement.

  Glowing tapers touched the firing holes, and flames flashed from the barrels. The thunder of the cannon deafened all. Nails and tacks sped towards the wharf spreading out into a wall of metal fragments a hundred yards wide. It ripped artery from muscle, and muscle from bone. Men exploded, streams of blood sprayed like fountains – the wharf had become a butcher’s block. The ship keeled steeply over seawards from the recoil, the swirling smoke from the cannons suddenly hiding her from sight.

  Warwick’s hard eyes stared at the carnage on the wharf. He stood like a statue, rooted to the spot, his mind unable to grasp the reality of what lay before him.

  The thick smoke from the guns slowly started to clear, and he looked for his ship, anger slowly building with him.

  Every single bastard on that ship will suffer a slow death for this, he vowed. His eyes strained to make out her shape. At last, the smoke thinned, and Warwick’s face changed from anger to bewilderment. ‘By the Holy Mary,’ he whispered. ‘She’s gone!’

  Admiral Jean de Montauban was a solid, square-shaped man of medium height, highly intelligent, who had started life as a fisherman’s son. He was now a close confidant of King Louis, and admiral of his fleet – a man who had risen by capability alone. King Louis promoted and admired ability, not titles, or wealth. Nicknamed ‘Hard Fist’ by his sailors for the no-nonsense and disciplined way he ran his ships, the admiral had no time for adventurers or pirates within his ranks. He was building a navy that would surpass that of both England and Burgundy.

  Standing on the stern castle of his flagship, St Malo, Jean de Montauban felt immense pride. She had been built at his instigation, and was the newest ship in King Louis’ navy – her design fused the latest revolutionary Mediterranean and European ideas. Her sleek lines, and shallow hull, gave her stability, making her a perfect gun platform. Unlike the old ships, which were bulky, top heavy, and would roll and sway like clumsy barrels even in a calm sea. An extra mast and sails had been added near the forecastle, making her large, fast, and highly manoeuvrable. Jean de Montauban smiled. Just how I like my women, he thought.

  They had left Le Havre on the dawn tide. Their orders were to arrive in Rouen harbour mid-morning with the St Malo and her sister ship, St Nazaire, to escort the Earl of Warwick out through the estuary and into the English Channel, to bid him farewell and a safe journey with a gun salute. The earl, Jean knew, would be astounded at the size and design of these ships. It would make his own little wooden tub look antiquated – outdated. He rubbed his hands together with glee as he anticipated the looks on the faces of the English sailors. He ran his eye over the ship one last time and then gazed over to admire the sleek lines of St Nazaire as she sailed alongside.

  ‘Ship on the starboard bow,’ shouted the lookout in the crow’s nest.

  Jean de Montauban brought his spyglass up to his eye. The vessel, he imagined, was probably a large trading cog from Rouen, running silk and lace
to Santander, or Bilbao, in northern Spain. ‘What do you make of her, captain?’ he asked, as he passed the instrument to his second-in-command.

  ‘Well, she’s a…’ the captain paused in his reply.

  ‘Come on, man,’ urged Jean de Montauban. ‘You have younger eyes than me.’

  ‘She’s a warship,’ replied the captain. He lowered the spyglass. ‘We need to close for another five minutes before identifying her.’

  ‘Set a course to intersect her,’ barked the admiral. ‘Signal the St Nazaire to follow us.’ He stood stock still on the deck, his face set as he waited.

  The captain walked to the ship’s rail and raised the spyglass. ‘She’s a warship, all right, and flying English colours. Wait…’ he paused, ‘there’s something odd about her; her sails are set wrong, and she’s trying to turn away.’

  Jean de Montauban was instantly beside him. Grabbing the spyglass, he hurriedly placed it to his own eye. ‘She’s flying Warwick’s colours!’ he exclaimed. ‘Something's amiss,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Something is badly amiss.’ He lowered the spyglass, and then straightening his back and squaring his shoulders, he ordered, ‘Prepare the ship for action.’

  Philip de Chastle’s voice sounded across the deck. ‘Ships on the starboard bow.’

  Simon was in conversation on the lower deck when he heard the shout. He raced up on to the aft castle, his eyes following Philip’s raised arm.

  Other men joined them. More raced to the forecastle trying to identify the danger.

  ‘They’re French,’ shouted a voice from the bow.

  ‘But what are they?’ questioned another. ‘I’ve never seen so much sail; they must be a new design.’

  Philip ordered a change of course. He knew they could not outrun the other ships, but if they could reach land – any land – there was still a chance of escape.

  Simon watched the men clumsily try to alter the mizzen sail; others struggled with the main sail. He knew, at that moment, they were condemned; there would be no escape.

  Philip shouted for attention, and the men gathered round.

  Simon stood at the back of the aft castle alone, and watched the ships racing towards them. Was it only a few hours ago that they had been full of jubilation? Laughing and slapping each other on the back at the wondrous escape? Now, the Grim Reaper was speeding towards them. It mattered little what Philip said; none on this ship had a future. Today, death awaited them all.

  Admiral Jean de Montauban studied Warwick’s ship as they pulled alongside her. There were obviously no professional sailors aboard; her rigging was all to cock. The men on her decks were soldiers, mercenaries, and, he noticed, there were wounded amongst them. His eyes took in a number of bodies laid out neatly. The arrows embedded in the hull, and masts, told him the ship had been taken with force. He turned to his captain. ‘It appears these pirates have stolen Warwick’s ship.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ replied the captain. ‘The mystery is how and why?’

  ‘We are about to find out,’ replied Jean de Montauban. ‘Prepare to board her.’

  Orders flashed around the ship; she moved up along the starboard side and the St Nazaire moved in on the port side.

  Simon watched the two ships manoeuvre themselves alongside. They dwarfed Warwick’s vessel. He looked up and saw archers, their weapons trained on them. Sailors stood ready with grappling hooks and cutlasses – a clear voice ordered them to lay down their weapons. The decision after Philip’s speech was to fight to the death, to end this failed mission in glory but now looking at the massed archers, they knew there would be no brave fight, just execution.

  Indecision took hold; a single arrow hit the deck in front of the crew. They heard its hiss, and the thump as its barbed head penetrated the deck. As its feathered flights quivered before them, so their courage slowly drained away, and they laid their weapons down.

  Simon closed his eyes, his heart heavy. He thought of his ‘rose of Anjou’ and wondered if he would ever see her again.

  St Mihiel-en-Bar, Lorraine, France

  1 July 1464

  Margaret of Anjou walked silently through the gardens of her château, alone. The garden sloped gently down to the banks of the River Meuse. She paused there and looked across at the City of Verdun. Her father had told her its Celtic name meant ‘Fortress that watches the River’. There had been settlements there for thousands of years: Gauls, Romans, and Germanic, and now it was a major point of transit for goods moving north from the Mediterranean and that mysterious dark continent of Africa. Merchandise arrived from the wild, frozen east of Russia; cargoes headed south from England, France or Burgundy. It was a prosperous city bustling with merchants. Church spires crowded the skyline. It was overflowing with men of the cloth who swarmed like flies feeding off her riches; even the Pope had his greedy hand in her wealthy carcass.

  Margaret sat down on a small stone seat where she had sat many times with Simon, talking of their plans for the future. Now, while he was gone, she would come down alone. It was here that she felt close to him. She sat silently, watching the muddy, green water rush past. The mid-morning sun reflected silver ripples that danced and glistened on its silky surface. She sat entranced by them, lost in her thoughts.

  The hurried footsteps went unheard, but a gentle touch on Margaret’s shoulder and a voice she had known all her life broke her melancholy thoughts. She turned around in her seat. ‘Oh Papa!’ she cried, as she rose to her feet. ‘I thought you were in Paris.’ She smiled and reached out to give him a welcoming embrace.

  Duke René of Anjou stood silent and still, worried lines furrowed his brow, and he nervously bit his bottom lip.

  Margaret checked herself. ‘What is wrong, Papa?’ she asked.

  René gently took his daughter’s hand, and motioned her to sit down again. Still holding her hand, he sat beside her, his gentle face full of concern. ‘I have news of Warwick,’ he said.

  Margaret’s eyes met his; she saw the sadness in them. ‘He still lives?’ she whispered.

  ‘Aye,’ he replied with a sigh. He saw her face drain of blood.

  ‘And Simon?’ she whispered, searching his face, pleading for relief.

  God, how he wished her mother, his Isabel, was still alive. This was a hard task for one to do alone. ‘They were betrayed,’ René said, shaking his head. ‘All betrayed, my agent has told me—’

  ‘No!’ Margaret cried, putting her hands over her ears. ‘Do not say it.’

  Duke René took his daughter’s hands and pulled them slowly from her ears. A great sob heaved from her, as her head fell on to his chest. He put his arms tightly around her, steeling himself to force out the words he knew would fracture her heart. ‘My agent has told me, they were all executed. There are no survivors.’

  Middleham Castle, North Yorkshire

  20 August 1464

  The huge red sphere dominated the evening sky. John Tunstall watched as it balanced on the horizon, its dark centre dissipating a hue of colours that set the heavens ablaze. He felt its warmth waning. This glorious summer’s day was now spent, and his hot, tired body welcomed the cool evening air.

  He slowed his horse, and looked down the valley. The lengthening shadows seemed to reach out around him, drawing him towards a familiar shape, a huge black silhouette framed by the setting sun.

  Middleham Castle loomed before him. Tiny lights blinked out from the village that huddled around its great walls. As he watched these twinkling lights, his mind reflected on the last four months. He had seen violent death and the treachery of men, learnt the tender touch of the fairer sex, and discovered there were more secrets kept on earth than stars in the heavens. Those young, laughing boys, taken that day in the forest, were no more; they had gathered secrets of their own – now that they were young men.

  Trumpets sounded out around John. In the distance, great torches of oil and wax flared into life, illuminating the Great Keep. Trumpets replied from its battlements. He saw the Earl of Warwick and his close retainers fo
rm up into a tight formation, with the earl at the front, sitting tall and proud in his saddle.

  John dug his heels into the sides of his mount and moved up beside Richard, and Francis. All three looked at each other and grinned, excitement fluttered within them. They watched as Warwick entered the gate to the Great Keep, to a huge cheer.

  As they entered, John’s eyes took in the cheering crowd. Over their heads, he saw his mother, standing on the steps of the Great Hall, smiling and waving at him. His eyes anxiously searched for Rose; then with relief, he saw her, standing away from the steps, half hidden by shadows. Throwing his head back, he looked at the heavens and crossed himself; he was home at last!

  John sat with Richard and Francis, in the Countess of Warwick’s chamber. Rose, Lady Tunstall, the countess’ daughters: Isabel and Anne, other ladies of rank, and servants, crowded around them.

  Rose was more finely dressed than the last time he had seen her; she had been promoted and was now maid to the countess.

  John had just recounted their departure to France from that great city of Portsmouth – its citizens, a brave and hardy lot, who over the years had fought off the Vikings and the French. The Spanish had also tried raiding, along with the Dutch – all had received a bloody nose for their trouble. He told them of Spice Island, the oldest part of the port, where sailors and harlots danced in the street to tunes he had never heard before – sea shanties they called them – and they drank dark, sweet smelling liquids. It was a place where no one slept and godly people did not go.

  Francis recounted their sea voyage to Rouen. Richard told of the wonders of Paris and then the attempt on the Warwick’s life. All the listeners were spellbound.

  Lady Tunstall and the Countess of Warwick glanced at each other and smiled; both had their loved ones back. The castle was alive again – it had been quiet without the earl and his men – with visitors few and far between. Boredom had been their enemy, but now the castle bustled with activity; the garrison was back in their barracks.