The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  Edward awoke with a start; hot, sweating, and alone. He ran his hands over his face. He was real enough but Elizabeth was not. It should have been just a dream but it was more, much more; it was touched with a sharp reality.

  The royal bedchamber was pitch black. Edward’s heart slowed down, and he felt calmer. Just a dream, he thought. He turned over and pulled the fur overlay tightly up to his neck. It was then that he heard a sharp cutting sound to the left of the bed, and then another to the right, followed by the scraping of claws, or talons, over stone. There sounded a sinister swishing and rustling.

  Almighty God! Edward thought, his stomach churning. It sounds of leathered wings or tails. He pushed himself upright, pulling the overlay up to his chin. He thought he saw small, red eyes winking all around in the darkness. He tried to shout but his throat felt as if it was full of sand. He heard a rushing noise, becoming louder and louder.

  A wind spiralled around his bed. Stronger and stronger it blew, and the fur overlay flew away. Edward held on to the bedpost for dear life. He knew if he fell, he would hurtle down the black pit into Hell.

  Hideous screeching filled the chamber, and then a voice of cold evil hissed around the room. Edward saw the creature slowly forming at the foot of the bed, its great, clawed talons reaching out towards him; its eyes like red, burning coals staring with a malignant evil towards him. He shrunk down into the bed,

  ‘To save yourself, you must acknowledge Elizabeth as your Queen. She must be crowned within the month,’ it screeched, its command filling the room.

  ‘I will! I will!’ cried Edward, his eyes wide with terror.

  ‘So be it,’ hissed the creature. ‘If not, you will be mine for eternity.’

  A noise, like air rushing out from bellows, filled his ears, as the creature evaporated before his eyes. Then, silence. All was calm.

  Edward’s arms ached from gripping the bedpost. He stared wildly in to the darkness, and then he screamed.

  Henry Bourchier, steward of the royal household, stepped out of the royal bedchamber. ‘Where is Hastings?’ he shouted.

  ‘He is on his way, sir,’ replied the master-at-arms. ‘I have sent men to fetch him.’

  ‘I need him now; the King is badly distressed.’

  The master-at-arms heard the sound of running feet, and turned around. Lord Hastings appeared, half-dressed, sleep still leaving his eyes, scabbard and sword held loose in his hand.

  Henry Bourchier beckoned him towards the door. ‘Come, William,’ he said. ‘We have sore need of you.’

  As the door opened, the men-at-arms gathered outside silently moved forward, straining to glimpse into the royal bedchamber. The master-at-arms, who had his back to them, whispered tensely, ‘Back in line, you nosey bastards.’

  Lord Hastings gasped as he entered the room. Velvet cushions, chairs, candleholders, books, and sheets of parchment, lay scattered. The whole room was in chaos, as though a whirlwind had passed through it. Edward was crouched at the top of the bed, his wild eyes continually searching all around.

  Sir John Howard stood at the end of the bed, his sword drawn. He saw the question in Lord Hastings’s eyes. ‘I was checking the changing of the guard with the master-at-arms,’ he said, quietly. ‘The time was early morning, four of the clock, when we heard our Majesty scream out. We arrived within seconds and found the room as you see it now.’

  ‘What did the King say when you arrived?’ asked Lord Hastings.

  ‘He was shouting, “Light, light, for the love of God, bring candles”. He has not uttered a word since.’

  Lord Hastings moved across to Edward and knelt beside him. ‘Your Majesty,’ he whispered, gently, ‘it is Hastings.’

  Wild eyes slowly focused on him, a hand shot out and gripped his shoulder. ‘William, thank God you are here!’ Edward cried, then pulling him closer, whispered, ‘Your ears only, William, your ears only.’

  Lord Hastings turned and looked at the two men. ‘The King orders the room be emptied.’

  Henry Bourchier and Sir John Howard bowed their heads and left, closing the doors softly behind them.

  ‘I dreamt of Elizabeth. She was real; I felt her flesh!’ Edward exclaimed. ‘And then they came – the princes of darkness – they filled this room, pulling at my very being, my very essence. Where you kneel now was a black pit. I could hear the tormented souls screaming for mercy, trapped in its very depths.’

  Lord Hastings stared wide-eyed at Edward. ‘You were dreaming, your Majesty, a nightmare that seemed real, you—’

  Edward cut him short. ‘It was no nightmare!’ he cried, through trembling lips. ‘Look. Look!’ he said, pointing to the floor. ‘Look. Cuts and scratches, talons and claws,’ he whispered. ‘I tell you they were here. The Devil himself spoke to me, ordered me to acknowledge Elizabeth, make her my Queen. My very soul depends on it. She must be crowned…’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘This is her mother’s doing!’ cried Lord Hastings. ‘She summoned up these creatures from Hell. She must be stopped, executed…’

  Edward gripped Lord Hastings tighter. ‘No. No!’ Edward beseeched him, his face bloodless.

  ‘Then, what are your wishes?’ demanded Lord Hastings.

  ‘You were right, all along,’ Edward whispered. ‘My wife and her mother do have the dark powers. I now know and believe that to be true, as sure as the sun rises. We must not carry out our plan. You must stop the arrests of her family, not a hair to be harmed on any of them,’ he said, his voice trembling with fright. ‘I fear for our souls if we go against them. Tell them, outside, that I sleepwalked through a nightmare, and not a word of this to a soul.’

  ‘My lips are sealed,’ replied Lord Hastings, ‘but I will have to be quick to stop the arrests.’ He stood up and hurried for the door. Pausing briefly, he asked, ‘What’s to be done about Warwick?’

  ‘Better to face Warwick than the Devil,’ whispered Edward, as he slumped back on the bed.

  Great Hall, Reading Abbey

  16 September 1464

  The Earl of Warwick had been up before dawn, his excitement for the day cutting short his slumber. With a few of his close retainers, he had walked the banks of the River Kennet, that ceaseless highway that brought raw materials into the town, and then the strong guilds of vintners, fullers, shoemakers and weavers sent their finished goods out on barges that plied their trade to London and beyond. He had bantered with some of the river men, who were relieved that the earl was in such a light-hearted mood. Next, he attended Mass in the abbey church and afterwards had been shown a most holy relic: the hand of St James.

  Now, he stood outside the Great Hall, the clerk to the council’s secretary standing ready to announce him. Warwick nodded, the huge doors swung open, and he stood looking at the throng of nobility within.

  ‘His Lordship, the Earl of Warwick,’ shouted the clerk.

  All eyes turned towards the door. The earl was dressed splendidly in rich reds and golds – a vision of power and wealth.

  Smiling the smile of the cat that had stolen the cream, Warwick strode into the Great Hall.

  King Edward watched with a heavy heart as Warwick took his place of honour, opposite. Glancing around the Great Hall, he noted that all of England’s great families were represented there: the Stanley’s, Vere’s, and the Stafford’s. The Earl of Salisbury was present, as was the Duke of Norfolk, and Edward’s own brother, George – the Duke of Clarence.

  He felt the sweat on the palms of his hand, and his heart beat a little faster. Although he breathed, the air seemed not to reach his lungs. Had it all been just a dream? Were there no demons or dark pits waiting for him? His mind thought desperately of an escape from uttering the words that sat like bile in his stomach.

  Warwick stood up and surveyed the chamber with satisfaction. All the great men of England were assembled to hear his triumph. ‘My great Lords of England,’ he began. ‘My negotiations with the King of France have been successful. Trade agreements have been signed to allow free movement
of goods between our two countries. Our merchandise will also travel through France to Italy, or other countries free of French tax. This opens up a new era of commerce for our merchants that will enrich the treasury,’ he bowed to Edward, ‘and of course, ourselves. We will rid the country of this pox of a recession.’

  The chamber erupted in applause. Warwick held his hand up and the lords settled down. Some leant forward in anticipation to hear the earl’s next announcement.

  ‘I have agreed a new foreign policy with King Louis,’ Warwick continued. ‘We will be sending a thousand of our finest archers and teams of men with our latest cannon, to help him bring the dukes of Burgundy and Brittany under control, thus uniting his kingdom. For this, he will pay the sum of fifty-thousand gold crowns to our Majesty, King Edward.’

  Warwick winked at Edward and theatrically whispered from the corner of his mouth, ‘That should pay for the upkeep of your mistresses, my Lord.’

  The chamber filled with good-natured laughter.

  ‘A strong France,’ shouted Warwick, ‘united with a strong England, will dominate. Europe, Holland, Spain, or any other country, will not dare challenge us.’

  Cheering broke out.

  ‘With no threat from Europe, our navy will sail the seas further than ever before, searching out new lands. We will build an empire that will surpass the Greeks or Romans.’

  Those within the chamber rose to their feet, erupting in applause. The great lords thumped the table in delight.

  Warwick basked in the tumultuous cheers until they slowly subsided. ‘And now, my friends, we come to the hub of my speech.’

  The chamber became deathly quiet as the men within listened in anticipation for Warwick’s next words.

  ‘I have agreed a marriage alliance between England and France. It will cement all that I have just described to you. The bride for our illustrious King Edward is…’

  Warwick paused – always the showman – and the lords, dukes, and earls in the packed hall lent forward in their seats to catch his final words.

  Edward looked on in horror. He felt his skin crawl under his clothes. He sat frozen, and then he felt a stirring within him as he remembered his dream: Elizabeth kissing him, the force that entered his body, taking hold, controlling him. He lurched to his feet, his mouth opened. With dread, he felt the words bubbling up. He tried to stop them but could not. ‘There will be no French marriage,’ he blurted out.

  Every head in the great chamber swivelled towards Edward as he felt more words rushing from his mouth. ‘I am already married!’ he cried.

  The chamber froze; nothing moved. The clerks’ quills stopped their writing. Servers, suspended in mid-stride, stop their duties. Wine stopped flowing from bottle to cup.

  Warwick’s world stopped turning. He stood staring at Edward, his body unable to move. The blood in his veins seemed to still, and he thought his heart would stop. Only his thoughts still functioned, three words dominated them: I am married. They had destroyed his plans in seconds. His mind raced. King Louis will think me a fool. The whole world will know of this humiliation. His heart started beating faster; blood rushed to his face, and he glared at Edward. ‘You cannot be married!’ he shouted at him. ‘Your marriage is an affair of state; we decide!’ he gesticulated, swinging his arm around the room. ‘Who you marry is for the good of England, not you.’

  ‘I have married Elizabeth Grey,’ blurted out Edward, a look of sheer surprise on his face.

  ‘Elizabeth Grey?’ exploded Warwick. ‘Elizabeth Grey? Who in God’s name is she?’

  ‘She is a Lancastrian widow with two children,’ joined in Lord Hastings, trying to deflect some of the earl’s anger away from Edward. ‘It is rumoured that her mother, Jacquetta, Duchess of Bedford, has bewitched our King with—’

  Edward reached up and dragged Lord Hastings back into his seat. ‘Enough,’ he hissed, his eyes wide with bewilderment.

  ‘I know of her; she is a Lancastrian witch!’ shouted Warwick. ‘Bring her before us; we will have this marriage annulled on the grounds of sorcery.’

  Lord Rivers rose to his feet; Warwick’s hard eyes swung towards him.

  ‘Sir, you slander my wife and daughter,’ cried Lord Rivers, ‘and you, Hastings, will pay for those words. You have no evidence to support this ridiculous claim of witchcraft.’ Then reaching into his coat pocket, he produced a piece of paper. ‘Look. Look!’ he cried, waving it about in triumph. ‘I have evidence to support mine, for here is the marriage certificate.’ His face glowed with smug satisfaction as he shoved it under Warwick’s nose.

  Warwick stared at Lord Rivers with loathing in his eyes. That bastard’s father has been little more than a squire, he reasoned, and Rivers, a greedy, self-seeking weasel. Along with his witch of a wife, they manipulated King Henry to elevate Rivers to a position where he did not belong, and now they have Edward in their grasp.

  ‘I will have your head for this!’ Warwick bellowed at Rivers, ‘and…’ he pointed a shaking finger at Edward, ‘I will have your crown.’ As he turned to go, he noticed hands covering mouths. Stifled laughter reached his ears; anger and humiliation flowed through him.

  ‘The King doesn’t like riding French whores,’ someone shouted, to loud laughter.

  They will all pay for this, Warwick vowed. His hard eyes took in all who mocked him; he would remember whom his enemies were.

  As the Great Hall erupted with disbelief at what had just taken place, Lord Hastings sat quietly and watched as Warwick strode from the chamber, cutting a giant swathe through the gathered nobility. The genie is at last out of the bottle, he thought. The fight for Edward’s throne is about to begin.

  Abbeville, France

  27 October 1464

  Georges Havart looked around the table. Gathered with him were Pierre de Brézé, Admiral Jean de Montauban, Marshall Rouault, and King Louis’ Lieutenant General: Charles de Melun.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Georges Havart began. ‘Our King has become an embarrassment to his court. I have never seen him so obsessed regarding the marriage between our two countries. He clings to any rumour that drifts into court, and all his hopes of subduing Brittany and Burgundy rest with the Earl of Warwick.’

  ‘I fear the worst,’ said Marshall Rouault. ‘Warwick’s ambassadors should have been here days ago to arrange the details of the marriage. I am coming to the conclusion that all Warwick promised will not be fulfilled.’

  Admiral Jean de Montauban stood up and paced the room, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘There are rumours circulating in the channel ports, carried on the lips of English sailors that King Edward has secretly married for love, and with each English ship that docks, the rumour swells.’

  ‘I pray it is unfounded,’ replied Georges Havart, ‘for Louis desperately desires this marriage and alliance with England.’

  The door opened and Etienne de Loup slipped in, his lizard eyes flickering around. ‘I have the answers to your questions,’ he whispered. ‘The Duke of Brittany’s vice-chancellor, a man named Rouville, was intercepted last night as he slipped back into France from England, disguised as a friar. I have extracted from him the intrigues of his mission in England.’ Etienne de Loup licked his lips in satisfaction as he remembered his night’s work, and continued. ‘The Duke of Brittany has promised every assistance for King Edward to re-conquer Normandy, and Edward has allied himself with Brittany to make war on our own King.’

  Gasps of disbelief went around the table.

  ‘And the marriage?’ blurted out Georges Havart.

  ‘There will be no marriage,’ whispered Etienne de Loup, hoarsely. ‘That bastard, Edward, has married a widow called Elizabeth Grey.’

  Oaths of incredulity filled the room.

  ‘Her mother,’ continued Etienne de Loup, ‘is the Duchess of Bedford, formally known as Jacquetta of Luxembourg. In England it is said she bewitched King Edward into marrying her daughter.’

  ‘What do you mean, “bewitched”?’ questioned Charles de Melun.


  Etienne de Loup sat down and made himself comfortable. ‘The woman is cousin to the King of Hungary. When she was young, she spent time in the Principality of Wallachia, which is part of Romania. As you know, Hungary and Romania were allies, and together held back the spread of the Turkish Ottoman Empire. The ruler of Wallachia was Vlad III, known as Vlad the Impaler – a great general and a great sorcerer. He was known for the cruel way he treated his enemies and his subjects. It is believed Jacquetta fell in love with this tyrant, and while she was there he taught her his sorcery of the black arts.’

  Etienne de Loup smiled, showing off his sharpened, yellow teeth. ‘Of course, it is all rumour and superstition,’ he said, with a shrug of his shoulders. He rose slowly from his chair. ‘My main concern is that she is closely related to the court of Burgundy and I fear will use her influence, be it sorcery or not, to align King Edward with them.’

  ‘Then King Louis’ dreams of a marriage between France and England is finished,’ sighed Georges Havart. ‘The reality of civil war is now inevitable.’ He rose wearily from his chair, and shaking his head, sadly, he said, ‘Come, my friends, we must tell our King to prepare for bloodshed, for that is what lies ahead for our beloved France.’

  Part Two

  Four years later: 1469–1473

  Chapter 9

  All for Love

  Château Koeur-la-Petite, Lorraine, France

  2 August 1469

  Margaret of Anjou stood by the window watching her son, Edward, the Prince of Wales, now aged sixteen, practise with pike and sword on the lawn below. Two of her retainers, Sir William Vaux and Sir Robert Whittingham, were both target and teacher to him. The two men had married ladies of her household when she had been Queen in England and now they were part of her trusted inner circle at her small court in France along with the exiled Bishop of St Asaph, who cared for their souls, and Sir Edmund Hampden, who cared for their finances. Margaret looked on with pride, as her son weaved and ducked below her. After the failed attempt on Warwick’s life four years ago, and the anguish of Simon’s execution, her son had been her only source of pleasure. She had watched him grow from a young boy, to a handsome intelligent young man.