The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  ‘The boy is becoming skilful,’ said a voice, soft with age. ‘He will make a fine king.’

  Margaret turned, and looked at the old man sitting behind her. She smiled at him. Sir John Fortescue was her chief advisor – he had been her husband’s chancellor in the great days of the royal court, and had been loyal to her throughout her exile. He had reached the great age of seventy years, and loved her as a father loved a daughter.

  Margaret left the scene at the window and sat down beside Sir John. Taking his hand gently, she looked into his old, fading, blue eyes. ‘We will have no talk of kings,’ she said. ‘Edward will inherit all he needs from my father, then he will marry, have many children, and live a contented life devoted to the arts.’

  Sir John smiled. ‘Your son is no soft artisan; he is a brave young champion and you, my little Margarita, will not stop him from having his battles. Fighting flows in his blood, although, I don’t know where his courage and daring comes from; certainly not from his father,’ he said, raising an enquiring eyebrow.

  Margaret blushed slightly, and then looked towards the window.

  Sir John gently pulled her chin around towards him; he could see the sorrow in her.

  Margaret saw the concern in Sir John’s eyes and gently squeezed his hand with affection.

  ‘I have news from Doctor Morton,’ Sir John said, brightly.

  Interest replaced the sadness in Margaret.

  ‘It concerns Warwick. Do you remember when King Edward announced he was already married?’

  ‘Yes,’ Margaret giggled. ‘Oh, how we laughed when we heard the news of his humiliation.’

  ‘And you recall that Warwick slunk back to his estates to sulk, and plot his revenge,’ continued Sir John. ‘Well, over the last few years, he and King Edward have been at loggerheads, plotting and sub-plotting against one another, but Warwick’s revenge has now started in earnest.

  ‘Doctor Morton reports that King Edward’s brother, George, the Duke of Clarence, has secretly married Warwick’s eldest daughter, Isabel, at Calais even though Edward had forbidden the union. They have formulated uprisings in the north of England and in Kent, which I presume will lead to open rebellion. The most chilling news is that they captured Lord Rivers, the father of Edward’s Queen. Warwick, true to his promise, hacked his head off. River’s son, John, was also taken, so Warwick chopped his head off for good measure.’

  Margaret rose from her chair, walked to the window, and studied her son. If Warwick could, he would chop his head off too, she thought, with a shudder. ‘So, the Duchess of Bedford has lost her husband and a son, and her daughter, Queen Elizabeth, has lost a father and brother.’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Sir John. ‘Warwick has certainly stirred up a hornets’ nest.’

  Margaret returned to her chair. ‘So, Warwick intends to replace Edward on the throne with the brother, George?’

  Sir John nodded, ‘and his daughter, Isabel, as queen.’

  Margaret rose from her chair and paced the room, anger filling her voice. ‘Has this barbarian no conscience?’ she cried. ‘He tumbled poor, feeble Henry from his throne and when he was finally captured in sixty-five, paraded him through the streets of London on a donkey with his feet tied to his stirrups and a straw hat jammed on his head.’ Her voice sank to a sad whisper. ‘He made a mockery of my poor husband who now awaits his fate in that grim Tower…’ Raising her fists tight in anger, she cried, ‘Then, he places Edward on the throne and when he loses control of him, decides to replace him with his weak-willed brother, George. The man must have been spawned by the Devil and delivered from Hell. He is a cruel savage who feeds only on the domination of all around him.’

  Sir John, his arms outstretched, moved to calm Margaret. ‘He has not replaced King Edward yet,’ he said, softly. ‘Remember, the man is no poor feeble Henry.’

  The knock was so loud, it stopped their conversation dead. Margaret and Sir John stood quietly as the anger within the room faded away. Margaret closed her eyes and cleared her head. She heard Sir John call ‘Enter’.

  Lady Whittingham entered the room, closely followed by Lady Vaux.

  Margaret smiled. ‘Ladies, what warrants our attention so urgently?’

  ‘There is a gentleman arrived,’ said Lady Whittingham, breathlessly.

  Lady Vaux brought her hands up to either side of her face and shaking her head she cried, ‘My Lady, his face is so severely scarred, tis hard to make out his features; we should send him away, you should not have to countenance him.’

  Lady Whittingham made for the door. ‘I will go…’

  Sir John raised his hand. ‘Ladies, stop. I feel there is something you have not told us.’

  ‘We do not want our Queen upset,’ blurted out Lady Vaux, as her companion moved closer to the door. ‘Tis best he goes.’

  Margaret rose from her chair. Her two ladies-in-waiting moved closer together. ‘Who is this gentleman?’ she asked softly.

  ‘He calls himself Captain Malortie,’ whispered Lady Vaux.

  ‘And why is he here?’ asked Margaret.

  The two women stood, wringing their hands.

  Lady Whittingham stepped forward. ‘He says he has a message from Pierre de Brézé.’

  Margaret slowly lowered herself down on to her chair, her face turning white. Lady Vaux rushed to kneel by her side.

  Margaret looked at Sir John. ‘How can this be?’ she stammered. ‘My dear Pierre was killed at the Battle of Montlhéry, four years ago. Does this man speak with ghosts?’

  ‘Well, tis best we ask him,’ said Sir John, firmly. ‘Fetch him in.’

  Captain Malortie strode into the room. His long, worn-out, riding boots were caked with the summer dust of the wheat fields; his uniform faded and threadbare.

  Margaret could just make out, under the dirt, small patches of Pierre de Brézé’s colours on his uniform. He stood tall and proud and when he raised his face to her, she did not cry out or gasp. Her two ladies-in-waiting moved quickly behind her chair, like young girls hiding behind their mother’s skirt.

  Margaret studied the man’s face. The lower half of his nose was missing, and his right eye drooped downwards. The sword-cut responsible had left a scarred white furrow from the top of his head to the bottom of his jaw. His mouth was drawn down on the right, where another scar cut across the first one making an ‘X’ across his butchered face.

  Captain Malortie spoke. ‘I am sorry to appear before you, your Highness. If my news was unimportant I would not trouble you to look upon my features.’

  Margaret was surprised; his voice was young and firm, attractive to the ear. ‘How old are you, captain?’ she asked.

  ‘Twenty-six years, last month,’ came the reply.

  Margaret’s heart went out to him. ‘My poor boy,’ she whispered. Turning to her ladies, she said, ‘Fetch a chair for our guest, and bring wine.’

  Lady Vaux passed a goblet of wine to the captain, her arm at full stretch as though he had some contagious disease.

  ‘My ladies have told me you have a message from Pierre?’ questioned Margaret, ‘and as he has been dead these last four years, this makes a puzzle in my mind.’

  Captain Malortie took the goblet and sat down. ‘I fought alongside Pierre. I was there when our great Seneschal of Normandy fell.’

  Margaret’s hand shot to her mouth. ‘You were with him when he died?’ she whispered.

  ‘Aye, we fought side by side.’

  Margaret lowered her hand. ‘Then, you must tell me everything.’

  Captain Malortie raised his goblet to his lips and drank slowly, and then making himself comfortable, he began. ‘The date was 16 July 1465. On that morning of the Battle of Montlhéry, a council of war was called by King Louis. The King announced that Pierre would lead the advance guard – a great honour – and would position himself on the right flank. The King would hold the centre, or its correct name, “the centre battle”, and his uncle, the Count of Maine, would hold the left. Then, the King gave a quick n
o-nonsense speech that soldiers on the eve of battle wish to hear.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Margaret;

  ‘He said that although we were outnumbered two to one, they had no men of worth in their ranks, their cause was unjust, and we had God on our side. Also, they were traitors to France, the King, and to the memory of Joan of Arc.’ Captain Malortie scratched his head. ‘There was more, but my injuries make it lost to me.’

  ‘Continue with your story,’ said Sir John. ‘I think we have the gist of his words.’

  ‘Pierre, I, and the other captains, marshalled our troops and moved up along the northern ridge of Montlhéry – a great northern slope sweeping down on to a plain a mile across. As the ground swept up on the other side, we could see the Burgundian host spread out along its heights. Archers stood behind sharpened stakes, the proudest knights of Flanders, Hainault, Picardy, and Artois, stood with their armour shimmering in the morning sun, their standards and banners fluttering in the breeze. The colours of gold and red, blue and silver, black and violet filled our eyes – oh, it was a sight to see,’ sighed Captain Malortie. He paused and drank the last of his wine.

  ‘More wine for our brave captain,’ ordered Sir John.

  Lady Vaux scampered off to refill the captain’s goblet, praying that she would not miss too much of his story.

  ‘And so, there we all waited,’ continued the captain. ‘They lined up on their side and we on ours; Pierre, the great Seneschal of Normandy, and his forces, to the right; Marshall Armagnac and Écorcheur Salazar stood in front of the King’s forces in the centre, and the Count of Maine on the left. The sun shone mercilessly on our polished armour, the wind whipped up powdery dust from the plain. Men stood with no water for hours; the enemy was unsure of itself, but we had to wait in the heat for them to make the first move.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Margaret, softly.

  ‘Well, our force was made up mostly of cavalry, so a full-frontal assault on their defensive positions would have been suicide.’ Captain Malortie paused and drank from his refilled cup. ‘Slowly,’ he said, ‘the Burgundy infantry began to march across the plain towards us. We watched as they struggled through the rich, yellow corn, and heavy vine fields, then our trumpets sounded out across the plain. Their advancing troops stopped, hesitant in their tracks, and then Pierre gave the signal. Our squadrons began moving slowly down the slope, with our lances swung down, and the sun rippling off their deadly points. We spurred our horses faster, galloping straight for the centre of the advancing army. The Burgundy cavalry raced to engage us, their foot soldiers were trampled between us, and then our two forces clattered together, hacking, and thrusting. Pierre rode on alone into the centre of the enemy. I tried to follow him, your Highness,’ said the captain, anguish in his voice, ‘but the enemy swallowed him in a wall of steel. I saw a sword thrust though him, and then I myself fell. My wounds,’ he said, ‘testify to the truth.’ He stared into his wine, lost in his thoughts.

  All eyes in the room stared at him, not a breath was taken.

  Slowly, Margaret brought her mind back from the battle. ‘So, you do not know what happened next?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, I know that we had ripped a hole in the enemies’ lines, thrown them into confusion and our grateful King took full advantage. The day was his.’

  ‘And yourself?’ asked Sir John.

  ‘I was left for dead. Some peasants, who were burying the dead, found me. They tended my wounds as best they could, and then sold me to the enemy for a few pieces of silver. They then asked a ransom for me which our King Louis had to pay, but I had to wait four long years for my freedom. Our King was still fighting for his kingdom so had more on his mind than me.’

  ‘Aye, the crown on his head was his first concern,’ said Sir John.

  Margaret sat back in her chair and studied the young captain. She took in his threadbare uniform, his lank and dirty hair, the tiredness that hung on him as a cloak. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘have you travelled here straight from your release?’

  The young captain nodded, ‘Aye, your Highness.’

  ‘And where do you go from here?’ she asked.

  ‘I do not know,’ he replied, sadly. ‘With this,’ he said, pointing to his face, ‘I do not think I will be welcome anywhere.’

  Margaret’s eyes filled with compassion. ‘For your courage, you are welcome here,’ she said, softly. ‘My small court would be the richer for your presence.’

  ‘It would be an honour to serve you as our brave Pierre de Brézé once did,’ the captain replied.

  ‘Please, continue,’ broke in Sir John. ‘What is this message you talk of?’

  Captain Malortie rose from his chair and stood before them. ‘On the eve of the battle, along with his other captains, I dined with Pierre. We drank, as soldiers do, to death or glory for the coming day. When he dismissed us, he asked me to stay behind. He talked of a secret he held, concerning you, my Lady.’

  Margaret stiffened in her chair but remained silent.

  ‘Pierre had said he was honouring me with his trust and if he died on the morrow then I must deliver this message to you and alas, as you know, on the morrow he did die, but because of my captivity it has taken me four long years to carry out his wishes.’

  Sir John looked anxiously at Margaret. ‘Pray, continue,’ he urged.

  ‘You will all remember the daring attempt on Warwick’s life at Rouen in sixty-four. All the conspirators were caught and brutally executed by Etienne de Loup.’

  Margaret’s hands gripped the arms of her chair. Her two ladies knelt with concern at either side of her.

  Sir John saw tears forming in Margaret’s eyes. He felt his temper rising. It had taken his Queen a long time to come to terms with Simon’s death, even longer for her to smile again. ‘Enough!’ he cried, ‘you are distressing our Lady.’

  Captain Malortie stepped back, holding his hand up. ‘The message I promised to deliver is that one man was spared execution, and only spared on Pierre’s insistence with King Louis.’

  Within the room, the world stopped turning for a brief moment and all eyes swung towards the captain.

  ‘The man’s name,’ he said, quietly, ‘was Sir Simon Langford.’

  Margaret sat motionless. A tree struck by lightning could not have been ripped more asunder, so sudden and fierce was the shock she felt. Simon, still of this world, living flesh and bone – the thought of touching him, talking to him and, dare she imagine, being held by him, made her heart beat faster. Her body tingled with excitement and fear – fear that he had not survived, fear that he had died alone and forgotten.

  Sir John watched the emotions ripple through Margaret. He prayed the young captain was not raising her hopes, only for them to be cruelly dashed. He knew she would never recover a second time. ‘Why was Simon Langford not executed?’ he asked.

  Captain Malortie resumed his seat, fully aware of the depth of emotion his message had unleashed in this Lady of Anjou. He leant forward so that his answer to Sir John’s question was addressed directly to her. ‘Because he was close to your heart, my Lady, Pierre managed to convince the King that Simon may have a use; a royal bargaining chip he could use at some future date. He told the King of the deep love you had for Simon, in order to save his life, believing that after the war was over, he could convince the King to release him back to you.’

  ‘But that was four years ago,’ Margaret said, her face crumbling with emotion. ‘He may never have survived that long in one of Etienne de Loup’s prisons.’

  ‘Pierre said he had left money with the gaolers for his upkeep,’ replied Captain Malortie, trying to offer her some hope.

  ‘But that would have run out long ago,’ Margaret cried, desperation in her voice.

  Sir John saw the anguish that was filling her. He decided to end the speculation and take charge of the situation. Taking her hand, he looked into her beautiful eyes; eyes that were now brimming once again with tears. ‘We must believe that Simon still lives,’ he
said, with firmness, ‘so we must act immediately. No second must be wasted in obtaining his freedom.’ He turned to the captain. ‘You must tell us where he is incarcerated.’

  The captain looked nervously at Sir John and Margaret. ‘He is held at Conciergerie Prison,’ he whispered.

  Margaret rose from her chair. ‘That is Etienne de Loup’s personal fiefdom; no one ever leaves there alive!’ she cried, as she slumped back down again.

  Captain Malortie knelt before her. ‘If it pleases my Lady, I will leave immediately to ask for information on him.’

  Margaret reined in her emotions. Sir John looked at her with pride as her resolve stiffened.

  ‘If Simon has survived, and pray God that he has,’ Margaret said firmly, ‘then it will be my voice he hears first, and my words that will comfort him.’

  La Conciergerie Prison, Paris, France

  1 September 1469

  The man looked at the leather straps binding him to the solid, oak chair; their original light colour was stained with shades of dark brown and black. He wondered what had caused this staining until he realised the only liquid found in this chamber was blood. A moan of anguish left his lips as he struggled helplessly. He looked slowly around the chamber.

  A large charcoal fire glowed from a grate positioned four feet from the floor. Long irons with wooden handles protruded from it. A selection of knives and pincers hung in racks to the left and right of the fire. It reminded him of a butcher’s shop and with sudden horror, he realised their purpose.

  ‘No God, please,’ he moaned, moving his head from side to side. He looked down on his nakedness, his genitals hung down through a small hole in the middle of the seat. He looked back to the knives.