The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  ‘Before you bring any charges,’ Edward whispered, ‘I will need to see the evidence for myself. It is a dangerous game you play, so tread carefully, my friend. Is that understood?

  Lord Hastings nodded his head in agreement, but already he had a triumphant look on his face.

  Grafton Manor, Northamptonshire

  13 March 1470

  Elizabeth watched the back of the royal messenger until he had disappeared from sight, then she smiled to herself. A chuckle of triumph slipped from her lips, a look of conquest flitted across her features. Sir Robert Welles was defeated. Their magic had worked; his army had fled on the four winds so fast that the field was hidden under discarded livery jackets. The messenger said it was being called the Battle of Losecoat Field.

  ‘What news of the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Clarence?’ she had asked, her body trembling with anticipation.

  She rose from her chair, for it was impossible to sit still with the excitement. As she remembered his words, her eyes sparkled with delight.

  ‘Those two traitors are on the run’, he had replied. ‘Attainted for treason, and with a price on their heads. On hearing of Edward’s victory, their army had slipped away during the night. They had no choice but to flee.’

  Now, the great Earl of Warwick, and his puppet, George, are destroyed, Elizabeth thought, with malice. Common criminals fleeing from a death sentence. She smiled. At last, she had secured her crown.

  Chapter 11

  Escape and Return

  Wensley, North Yorkshire

  20 March 1470

  Men leaped from their beds, as sleep and fear collided. Some awoken by their women folk, others jerked awake, as the thunderous noise grew in the distance. Any weapon to hand was grasped – pitchfork, knife or hammer. Doors were secured. Nervous eyes searched vainly into the inky blackness of the night. The small hamlet of Wensley, nestled on the banks of the River Ure, waited with uneasy trepidation.

  The force of fifty, horsed soldiers halted in the centre of the village. Men slipped from their saddles. Shouts of command rang out. Weapons banged on doors. ‘Open in the name of the King!’ bellowed rough voices. Nervous men were taken from their cottages; torches flickered on to fearful faces.

  John Tunstall watched wearily, as the men were questioned. He had witnessed this scene many times over the last week. Travelling fast up through the heart of England, their scourers had sought out Warwick and the Duke of Clarence far and wide, but it would seem they had vanished. King Edward was also marching his army northwards towards the great City of York, searching for them. The whole of England was hunting for the king’s enemies.

  ‘There have been no sightings of them,’ said Duke Richard, as he rode up alongside his old friend.

  ‘Aye, it is a mystery to where they are,’ replied John.

  ‘It would seem they have disappeared into thin air,’ replied Duke Richard, with tiredness in his voice.

  John studied his friend’s jaded face. The rigours of the Welsh campaign and the pursuit of Warwick had exhausted them all. A weary silence fell between them.

  ‘We must leave,’ said Richard, abruptly. ‘There is no more to be done here, and our men require food and rest.’

  John’s thoughts turned to Rose. A large smile creased his face as he spurred his horse towards Middleham Castle.

  Reining in his horse on top of the hill, where many years ago, before the time of William the Conqueror, the old wooden castle had stood, John looked down on to Middleham Castle as it rose majestically out of the white, frozen ground; a beacon of safety and civilisation. Safe within its great walls, he knew life would be stirring. Yesterday’s fires would be prodded and coaxed back to life. Sleep would be shaken from reluctant eyes, as the aroma of warming food started to tantalise empty stomachs. He looked around him at the frozen countryside. Still held under a wintry frost, he imagined the cold, calculating eyes of hungry predators searching out, disciplined and patient, hoping to detect a scent or slight movement that would set in motion their first kill of the day, but for now, all was still. Nothing stirred across this cold bleak landscape, not even the wind.

  As they swept down towards the castle, the dawn sun rose to greet them. John knew that Rose, and his mother, would have risen. Their ablutions now completed, they would soon be attending the countess, unaware of this early morning surprise. Excitement filled him, his heart felt as light as a feather as he thought of Rose and their forthcoming wedding. He dug his heels into his mount and urged his horse on.

  The guards at the great gate stood aside, as they recognised Duke Richard’s colours. John noted their anxious faces, their eyes cast down as he rode past them. The silence of the inner courtyard struck him immediately. He felt apprehensive as the Hallet twins slipped from their saddles.

  ‘Something’s not right,’ said Thomas, his hand hovering over his sword.

  All eyes turned towards the huge door of the Great Hall, as it slowly swung open. The Hallet twins drew their swords.

  The Great Controller, appeared, his yellow eyes blinking into the sunlight. ‘Lord, Duke Richard!’ he cried. ‘Sir John, Friar Drynk, and of course, you two rascals,’ he said, addressing the twins. ‘Tis good to see you all.’

  Richard and John dismounted, leaping the steps to the Great Hall. They embraced the Great Controller, warmly.

  ‘You have grown into fine soldiers!’

  ‘And you never age,’ smiled Richard.

  ‘If only that were true,’ the Great Controller chuckled.

  ‘Why is the castle so quiet?’ queried John, sharply. The question raced out of him with indecent haste. He knew that Rose, his mother, Anne Neville, or even the countess should have appeared by now. ‘Where are—?’

  The Great Controller held his hand up. A frown creased his face. Sadly, he shook his head. ‘Come.’ He waved his hand for them to follow him into the Great Hall.

  West Country

  30 March 1470

  Warwick stared back at the dim, shadowy lights of Bristol. They flickered, taunting him, less than half a mile away. They turned his mood as black as the advancing night. Anger filled him. Once, he would have marched into its main square and demanded the best hospitality from its rich guilds. Aldermen, mercers, and grocers would have bowed low to him, their eyes glued to his feet in fear, never daring to look up to his face unless he addressed them, and yet, he had bypassed the city like a common criminal. His rage stayed corked. All his supporters, allies, and friends, who had lived well under his sponsorship, had melted away after the Battle of Losecoat Field – men he had promoted, financed, lent his name to, had all deserted him.

  ‘May the bastards burn in Hell!’ he shouted, with exasperation.

  The Countess of Warwick laid her hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Richard, ‘she said, softly, her calm manner appeasing his rage, ‘this is not the time for anger. Edward and Richard are pursuing us like the wind; we know not who is friend or foe.’ She slipped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his broad, bejewelled chest. ‘The whole of England is now our enemy,’ she whispered.

  She is right, Warwick thought as the anger drained out of him. He had been betrayed by many, but his wife still held him dear, still loved, and supported him. He gently kissed her forehead.

  The countess looked up, and smiled into his eyes. ‘England may be finished with us,’ she said, firmly, ‘but we have not finished with England.’

  Warwick wrapped his strong arms around her and held her tight. After all that has happened, he thought with gratitude, she still believes in me. He remembered the moment he had told her that Edward had defeated, nay, out-manoeuvred him, a warrant issued for his head. She had accepted their fate, and taken charge of the arrangements to head south. Ten days ago, their small party had fled from Middleham Castle. He had lost their lands and privileges, and if caught, their lives too. Yet, love me, she does, he thought. He felt his resolve strengthen. He cupped her chin in his hand and raised her face towards his.

 
; ‘You are right,’ he said, softly. I will be back to take Edward’s crown.’

  The countess saw the determination in her husband’s eyes, the lost pride returning. She lifted herself on to her toes, and kissed him passionately.

  ‘At last, I have my Lord back,’ she said, breathlessly.

  Warwick looked around at his small and tired group. His two daughters, exhausted but uncomplaining, sat on bales of hay within the old barn where they had sought shelter for a few hours. Isabel, heavy with child, was being cared for by Lady Tunstall and young Rose. Twenty of his household men were patrolling the surrounding countryside, ready to raise the alarm should the king’s forces be seen. He moved across and knelt down beside Isabel, gently taking her hand. ‘How do you fare, my child?’ he asked tenderly.

  ‘I have no pain here,’ she replied, softly, running her hands over her extended belly, ‘but my back feels full of sharp knives.’

  ‘She cannot continue this hard pace for much longer,’ said Lady Tunstall. ‘If she does, then she may lose the baby, and you may lose a daughter.’

  Warwick looked anxiously at Isabel, and then at his wife. He saw the anxiety in their faces, which they had tried to conceal from him.

  ‘George is sailing from Portsmouth with a squadron of my finest warships,’ he said, gently. ‘The sailors are loyal to a man; they will be waiting off Exmouth in two days’ time to take us to France.’ He placed his hand on his daughter’s brow. ‘Two more days, my little one, can you manage that?’

  Isabel smiled thinly. ‘I am a Neville. My place is with you and George. I would manage ten or twenty if you asked,’ she said, proudly.

  Rose watched with slight surprise as this tender moment unfolded between the earl and his family. She had not realised, or even imagined, that this mighty magnate cared, that he loved his wife and daughters so deeply, although sometimes she knew it took failure, or tragedy, for a man to realise that love is the most important element of his life. Her eyes fastened on Anne, who sat silent and withdrawn, sadness etched on her face. Nothing will ease her pain, Rose thought, sadly, for she shares the same fate as me. As I love John, so she loves Duke Richard. She sighed with frustration. Being torn between love and duty was a hard burden to bear. She felt a soft ache within her chest, as she thought of her precious John, and their wedding that was now abandoned – that special day filled with laughter and love, with music, dancing and feasting for all. She would have been the happiest bride in Christendom. Exasperation forced the sting of tears into her eyes, as she realised she may never see John again. The world has gone mad – brother fighting brother; cousin killing cousin – why do men do this? she thought, angrily. They strut around like bejewelled peacocks, puffed up with pride; too proud to admit they are wrong. Frustration joined her tears, and then she heard her name being called softly. Desperately trying to reign in her emotions, she looked up to see Anne patting the seat beside her.

  ‘You are thinking of John,’ Anne said, tenderly.

  ‘As you of Duke Richard, my Lady,’ whispered Rose secretly, as she sat down.

  ‘I must put my feelings aside,’ whispered Anne. ‘If Richard’s and Edward’s forces arrest us, my father would be executed, so there is no choice in the matter. We must escape to France and pray that the future will be kind to us.’

  ‘Duty comes before love,’ said Rose, bitterly, as a feeling of despair settled on her.

  ‘Life has placed us in this awful situation,’ said Anne, with resignation. ‘We are caught in the dreams of kings, so we must take comfort, and pray that God will set things right for us.’

  ‘Yes, we must pray for his blessing, and the safety of Duke Richard and John,’ whispered Rose, but as she spoke their names, her resolve suddenly weakened. Tears welled up in her eyes; a sob fell from her lips.

  Anne tenderly placed her arm around Rose’s shoulders. ‘True love, and God, will find a way,’ she said, firmly.

  Exmouth, Devon

  3 April 1470

  Warwick had sailed, escaped on the wind.

  John Tunstall sank to his knees on the curving, sandy beach, a lone gull circling above him. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon. He stared out beyond the breaking waves. Rose was gone; he closed his eyes in disbelief. She had been stolen from his life by Warwick, and taken where? What of his mother? She too had been snatched away. These women, whose love anchored his world, were gone. His actions were now powerless to change their future; so many false trails were laid. Warwick was heading for Plymouth, then Brixham, then east into Dorset, and yet all the time he had been racing for Exmouth. When they finally realised his true direction, they had assumed he was making for Exeter and the great docks, but the bastard had skirted the city and boarded his ships from this small fishing village.

  Frustrated, John pummelled his fists into the sand. ‘Damn Warwick!’ he cried. ‘Damn him!’

  The rumble of thunder stopped his desperate thoughts. The first drops of rain created small craters in the sand around him. He rose, slowly and mounting his horse headed back towards the royal camp. Guilt filled him. He should have been with Richard. He had been wallowing in his own self-pity when he should have been at his duke’s side. Shame reddened his face, as he dug his heels into his mount.

  Darkness had fallen when John entered the royal tent. Richard was in deep conversation with his brother, King Edward. As the meeting drew to a close, Richard turned, and seeing John by the entrance, cried, ‘Ah, there you are!’

  ‘I beg pardon, your Grace,’ began John.

  ‘There is no need for words’ replied Richard, cutting him off. ‘A man requires solitude when his world is turned on its head.’

  ‘But you have lost Anne,’ replied John.

  ‘Aye, but she is nothing to me, when compared to your love for Rose,’ Richard said, as he stood and placed his hands on Sir John’s shoulders. ‘Anne means wealth and territory, not love, but whatever the reason, we must both bear these hard knocks with fortitude, so have faith, my friend, you will see Rose and your mother again, I promise. But for the moment, we have a more pressing problem closer to home.’ Putting his arm around John’s shoulder, he guided him out of the tent. ‘At dawn, we ride with the royal party for Windsor.’

  John looked quizzically at his friend.

  Richard looked around in the darkness, and then whispered, ‘The Queen’s mother has been accused of witchcraft.’

  Royal Court, Château d’Amboise, France

  6 May 1470

  Georges Havart raced along the grand central gallery of the royal palace, his rich robes flapping with a life of their own.

  Marshall Rouault struggled to keep pace with him. ‘Georges, for God’s sake, slow down,’ he gasped, between laboured breaths.

  ‘We have an urgent summons from the King,’ panted Georges Havart, in reply. ‘We have no time to dally.’

  The small, petite figure dashed from the room into the gallery with a girlish squeal of delight on her lips. Her head turned back in search of her pursuers. Clattering into the side of Georges Havart, she sent him sprawling across the rich, thick Turkish carpet, and careering into a delicate Flemish chair, which disintegrated under the impact of his overweight body. The girl stood frozen to the spot. Hand over mouth, she stared at Georges Havart as he lay along the side of the gallery, all arms and legs, and covered in splinted wood. The girl’s pursuer – a young boy, and her elder sister, Jeanne – stood in the doorway, vainly suppressing the urge to giggle.

  ‘Georges!’ cried Marshall Rouault. ‘Are you all right?’

  Georges Havart’s hands patted his body. ‘Think so,’ he said, with uncertainty in his voice, then recovering his composure, shouted, ‘I will have the ears cut off this person who dares to attack me!’

  A woman’s voice replied, ‘I think not!’

  Georges Havart looked up: the heavily pregnant Queen Charlotte stood in the doorway. Her sisters and household ladies gathered around her all straining to see him. ‘Your Highness,’ he said, as he struggled
to his knees.

  ‘I do not think the King would be too pleased if you took his daughter’s ears,’ she said.

  Georges Havart looked to his side and saw Anne, King Louis’ ten-year-old daughter, staring at him with concern in her eyes.

  ‘Monsieur Havart,’ she cried. ‘I am so sorry.’ Her small body tried to lift his opulent frame back on to its feet.

  Marshall Rouault rushed to assist her. Between them, they succeeded in helping Georges Havart up on to his uncertain legs. Wood splinters fell to the ground as many hands brushed his garments. Stepping back from the fuss, he said, ‘I feel it is only my pride that has been hurt.’

  ‘Do you forgive me?’ asked Anne, coyly.

  ‘How could I not forgive such a pretty young face,’ Georges Havart replied, diplomatically.

  ‘Will you come and sit with us?’ enquired Queen Charlotte. ‘Take a moment to compose yourself, and sip a little wine. We spend so long in our own company, it would be agreeable for my ladies and myself to hear your latest news.’

  ‘I would be well disposed to accommodate such delightful company, my Lady,’ replied Georges Havart, ‘but I have been summoned urgently by your husband, so must go with all speed to attend him.’ He bowed graciously, and then took his leave with Marshall Rouault.

  Queen Charlotte watched their backs disappear along the gallery. ‘Men,’ she whispered to her ladies. ‘They are always busy with affairs of state, and the rare times we see them we have to bear the consequences,’ she said, pointing to her swollen stomach.

  ‘But how we love to see them,’ sighed one of her ladies.

  Laughter followed the two men, as they sped towards the king.

  King Louis stood at the middle of the great oak table that ran half the length of the Hall of State. His hands rested on its finely polished surface, supporting his slim body, as he studied the fine writing on the parchment in front of him. Only a small furrow between his eyebrows gave a hint to the total concentration his sharp mind was applying. Slowly, he straightened up. Raising his eyes, he studied the great vaulted ceiling, the fine damask curtains, and the beautiful Italian paintings that hung around the walls. He once again studied the urgent message from the Archbishop of Narbonne, his eyes twinkling with intrigue.