The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  ‘John Neville is as loyal to you as your brother, Richard, is. He has won battles for you and secured your kingdom. When Warwick and George took up arms against you, he stayed true, spurning their advances and offering you his full support. No king could ask for a more loyal subject, but how did you reward him?’ Cecily asked, sarcastically. ‘You took away his earldom of Northumberland and gave it back to that traitorous Lancastrian, Percy family. Then, to rub salt into his wound, you make him the Marquess of Montagu, a title with no lands or money. Have you gone completely mad?’ she asked.

  ‘He is the brother of a traitor,’ Edward replied, angrily.

  ‘And so are you,’ Cecily spat back. ‘Warwick is only a traitor because you made him so, or your wife, and her witch of a mother did. I warned you at the time that it would rip your kingdom apart, and it did! I warn you now: if you do not reinstate John Neville as the Earl of Northumberland, you will lose your crown.’

  Royal Court, Château d’Amboise, France

  20 May 1470

  Greyhounds and lurchers scampered around their kennels. The sun had just broken the horizon and the dogs were full of excitement for the new day.

  King Louis studied them; they were a source of great satisfaction to him – he knew all their names and histories, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, grandparents. Their breeding was a matter of great pride to him. He had purchased the finest pedigrees from many countries, in his pursuit to breed the finest hunting dogs in the whole of Europe, and yet, he realised, as he watched them, they were only simple dogs. They remembered no yesterday, and thought of no tomorrow; all they knew was here and now. Men, he pondered, remember many yesterdays and imagine their tomorrows, but rarely live for the day, never casting away their fears or dreams to savour the richness of the moment. He stood and silently watched the dogs, vowing to live each day to the full, as though it was his last. For one day, he thought, with a wry smile, it will be.

  He turned and began slowly walking back to the royal palace. Excitement filled him. Today, he determined, was a day to enjoy; every moment precious, for the stage was set. Warwick and the Duke of Clarence would arrive shortly, and then his plans would commence.

  King Louis watched from the great gates of the royal castle as his mighty lords rode off to greet these exiles from England. Behind him, Queen Charlotte, who in her eighth month of pregnancy stood big with child, was surrounded, as always, by her feminine court. Conversely, he knew that the Duke of Clarence’s wife, the lady Isabel, had given birth to a stillborn baby boy – Warwick’s grandson – on the rough channel crossing as they had fled England. He wondered if the sight of his wife would be an upsetting reminder, to the duke and Warwick, of their recent loss, but although it might have been unfortunate, he thought, with guilty selfishness, that it would help him to implement his plans.

  The rich, hazy colours in the distance slowly came into focus. The shape of men and horse emerged, lances held aloft, dazzling livery jackets worn proudly displaying his royal coat-of-arms, and in the midst of this great company, he saw his good friend and ally, Warwick. Let the game commence, King Louis thought, as he walked slowly out of the gate and down the hill to greet him.

  The royal welcome had been magnificent. Warwick and the Duke of Clarence had listened to the honeyed words of welcome from King Louis. Food and wine had flowed in copious amounts; minstrels, acrobats, and jesters, had entertained them and now they sat in the guest chambers awaiting the French king, for a private audience.

  ‘We must shape Louis to our enterprise with all haste.’ Warwick’s voice broke the silence that had been lengthening between the two men, as the evening shadows dulled the light in their chambers.

  George, the Duke of Clarence stirred from his wine-induced dumbness. ‘Only a fool would refuse us,’ he sighed. ‘When I have been crowned King, we will repay his patronage ten times over.’

  ‘We need funds urgently,’ stated Warwick, flatly. ‘My soldiers and sailors require the jingle of coin in their pockets, if they are not to grow mutinous.’

  ‘Who grows mutinous?’ asked a voice softly, behind them.

  Warwick jumped to his feet, his sword half out of its scabbard, as he swung round.

  George heaved himself from his chair and staggered drunkenly backwards.

  ‘I am sorry to have startled you,’ said King Louis, a smile on his face. He waved them back to their seats.

  ‘But you have appeared like magic,’ said Warwick, with astonishment.

  ‘There is no magic; only a secret passage that runs between our chambers. It will keep our meetings private, away from listening ears and prying eyes.’

  King Louis sat and studied the two English men. Warwick, he knew and trusted. He was an adventurer, a man who thought, and lived, outside normal conventions, who had no regard for kings and queens or countries. Maybe he is a time traveller, thought King Louis, who has arrived like a shooting star from a distant era – certainly, his daring exploits and great adventures had lit up the whole of Europe. He turned his attentions to George, Duke of Clarence; a young man who from the state of him obviously liked his wine. He was tall, like his brother, King Edward, but not as handsome. Nature had just robbed him of perfect features: his eyes were slightly close together, his upper lip just too long, his face rounded – not the noble cheekbones of his brother. A fine countenance had been stolen by only a fraction. It was a face King Louis would not trust.

  ‘Richard,’ began the king, addressing Warwick by his first name. ‘You are a man who has turned defeat into victory many times. You have enthralled all of Europe with your exploits, so tell me, what is your plan now to revive your fortunes?’

  ‘My plan sits before you,’ replied Warwick. ‘With your help, I intend to make George, King of England; Edward has shown himself unfit to rule!’

  ‘How is that?’ asked King Louis.

  ‘He taxes the common people until they cry for mercy,’ Warwick replied. ‘No woman is safe from his lust be they commoner or noble. He demeans his crown with his adultery, and he has married into a witches’ nest.’

  ‘Also, a lowly archer sired him,’ slurred George.

  ‘So, these rumours of the black arts are true then?’ asked King Louis.

  Warwick crossed himself as he nodded agreement.

  King Louis looked directly at Warwick. ‘This is the first time I have met the Duke of Clarence and I can see that he is a fine young prince,’ he lied, ‘but tell me truthfully, is the crowd shouting out his name? Are the people of England really clamouring to make him king?’

  George drunkenly tried to sit upright with indignation, but his elbow slipped off the arm of his chair, and he slipped further down into the seat, spilling his wine all over his chest.

  Warwick stared at King Louis, his mouth slightly open, realising this was an upset to his plans. He quickly tried to think of an answer to allay the king’s fears, but before he could, George staggered to his feet.

  ‘I am the rightful heir to the crown,’ he drunkenly shouted, like a spoilt boy. ‘My father, the Duke of York, was the great grandson of Edward III; royal blood runs thick and pure through my veins, Edward has no royal blood…’

  Warwick stood in front of him. ‘Enough, George,’ he hissed.

  King Louis rose from his chair and patted the duke’s shoulder. ‘My young Lord,’ he soothed, ‘you have had an arduous journey from England, and I know you are suffering greatly for the sad death of your child. You need to rest. We will continue this conversation in the morning.’

  Opening the door, King Louis called for George’s servants, while Warwick steered the protesting duke through, and towards his private quarters.

  Once George had settled, the king, and Warwick, took the private passage to the king’s quarters.

  King Louis ordered wine and sweet meats and then, finally alone, the two men faced each other.

  ‘My old friend,’ began the king, ‘I will not support you in placing the Duke of Clarence on the throne of England.
No gold or ships will I give you to this end.’

  Warwick stretched out his legs, and leant back in his chair. He stared upwards for a while. Finally, he said, ‘I appreciate your honesty, but you must understand my position. George is all I have to turn this setback into a victory. King Edward is your enemy; he is aligned with Burgundy; his sister is married to the duke. It is only a matter of time before they join forces to attack you, and then Brittany will join them. You could not survive; better to have England an ally with George, than an enemy with Edward.’

  King Louis picked up a sweet almond cream, which he slowly ate as his thoughts turned over what Warwick had said.

  Warwick sat sipping his wine in silence, patiently awaiting an answer.

  ‘If you succeeded in placing the crown on George’s head,’ said King Louis, ‘what would become of Edward?

  ‘Well, I am still fond of the lad,’ replied Warwick. ‘We had been friends for many years, until he married that Woodville witch.’

  ‘Yes, that was strange,’ interrupted the king. ‘It has the whiff of sorcery about it; but I interrupt; pray, continue.’

  ‘I would place Edward in the tower, until Burgundy paid a large enough ransom to send him into exile.’

  ‘So you would have three kings in England: George newly crowned; Edward newly uncrowned; and Holy Harry to keep him company in the Tower. Mercy is a godly virtue, but a recipe for disaster. England would be torn apart. Tis better that only one king lives. However, I believe with George as king; there would still be no peace. The nobles would not accept him, replacing brother for brother would not work and the commoners would reject him for turning against his own blood. If you placed Holy Harry back on the throne, all would know that it was you who wore the crown, so neither Henry nor George as king, me thinks. None of these scenarios would bear fruit’.

  ‘So, you will not help me to regain my position,’ stated Warwick, without emotion.

  King Louis rose to his feet and paced the room. He stopped by the unlit fireplace and rested his hand on the ornate mantel. ‘I will help you, my old friend, for there is another way,’ he said, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, ‘A strategy that would unite all England behind the throne, and place you, my dear Warwick, at the heart of it.’

  Warwick lent forward; the king had his full attention.

  ‘Henry resides in the Tower. His wife resides in France, along with their son Edward, Prince of Wales, a handsome young man of sixteen.’

  ‘But that bitch…’ started Warwick.

  King Louis held up his hand. ‘Let me finish. Henry is fondly loved by the people of England. He stirs no conflict. His wife, Margaret of Anjou, on the other hand, divides the country. If her son were crowned King that would unite the kingdom, and the House of Lancaster would join with the House of York.’

  ‘That cannot be,’ said Warwick, with hesitation. Her son would be Lancastrian, through and through; there is no changing that.’

  ‘Yes, but if he married a beautiful Yorkist rose, then the realm would be unified by their marriage!’ cried King Louis, as he watched Warwick try to conjure up a name that would be acceptable to the marriage. He continued, ‘I believe your daughter, Anne, is of child-bearing age?’

  Warwick sat bolt upright.

  ‘I am told she is graceful and fair – would it not be the perfect match? The daughter of the mighty Warwick, who is loved by all England, and the son of old King Henry, who all are fond of – no man could find injury with that!’ King Louis clasped his hands behind his back, and stood tall, a small smile of triumph on his face as though awaiting tumultuous applause for his cleverness.

  Warwick sat still in his chair, staring thoughtfully at King Louis. The man had opened up a tantalising plan, the simplicity of which was brilliant. How could he not have thought of it himself? Every time he had looked at Anne, it had been staring him in the face, and it placed him at the centre of power. His own daughter and a young boy king would be easy to control, and when Anne had a son, he would be secure as the grandfather to a future king. Warwick did not trust himself to move, such was the excitement within him. Behind his small hard eyes, questions and solutions ran through his busy mind, until there was only one that had no solution to it. He rose slowly from his chair and joined the king at the fireplace.

  ‘It is an ingenious plan, my friend, in which all the pieces of the jigsaw fit perfectly together, except for one rather large piece. Margaret of Anjou hates me with a vengeance. They say, a cantankerous and spiteful woman is the Devil’s best work – she would never allow her son to marry my daughter.’

  King Louis’ smile grew larger. He walked to the table and refilled their wine glasses. Handing one to Warwick he raised a toast. ‘Margaret of Anjou’s son will marry your daughter, I’ll wager my kingdom on it!’

  The two men clinked glasses. King Louis laughed; Warwick looked perplexed.

  Candles dripped hot pallid liquid down long stalagmite icicles of wax. Men had not slept. The moon was now transparent in the fresh sharp half-light of the early morning.

  King Louis and Warwick sat opposite each other at the great oak table within the Hall of State. Men of ability and ambition surrounded them. The talk was of ships and men, weapons and victuals, and the money to finance them. They worked in small groups around the hall; each one had been detailed a task to plan. When they had formulated their strategy, it was presented to King Louis and Warwick, who either accepted or rejected it. If rejected, they went back and devised a new one. Slowly, as the day wore on, the great enterprise of England took shape. Finally, King Louis rose from his chair and announced it was done.

  Georges Havart watched, as King Louis and Warwick left the hall. One was the greatest schemer in Europe; the other was the greatest adventurer. They make a formidable pair, he thought, as he watched their backs disappear into the darkening palace.

  ‘How did the George take the news that he had lost his crown before it had even been perched on his simple drunken head?’ asked King Louis, as he watched the server approach with the first course of their private dinner.

  ‘Not well,’ replied Warwick. ‘I told him he would be next in line to the throne, unless of course, young Edward and Anne had male heirs. After much cursing, he finally said that not only had he lost the crown, he would also lose many of his estates to that Bitch of Anjou’s lackeys.’

  ‘He will be lucky not to lose his head once young Edward and your daughter are crowned,’ said the king, with a thin smile. ‘You should remind him of that!’

  ‘He is only a boy,’ said Warwick, softly. ‘Good with a sword, but no soldier. Edward, on the other hand, is a brilliant general. He has won seven straight battles; never tasted that bitter bile of defeat. We will need good fortune to defeat him.’

  ‘The early Roman philosopher, Seneca the Younger, said, “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity” and that is the key to this great enterprise: preparation. I have ordered’, continued King Louis, ‘that the royal purse be opened. Gold coin you shall have, to purchase whatever you need, and to pay wages to your men. I know the crown of England will not come cheap.’

  Warwick had a satisfied smile on his face, as he tucked into his second course.

  ‘Your brother, John, must be discontented?’ said the king thoughtfully, as he sipped his wine. ‘He has lost his earldom and authority. Edward has given him a hollow title. Is there not opportunity to exploit this rift?’

  Warwick finished his mouthful of food. He picked up his wine glass and stared at its contents as he slowly swirled them around. ‘My agents,’ he began, ‘are on their way to England with messages for my brother to join our standard. The Earl of Shrewsbury and Lord Stanley have secretly pledged their support. When the time is right, they will start a token rebellion in the north that will draw Edward northwards. We will then land unopposed in the south. The men of Kent and Devon support us. My other brother, George, the Archbishop of York, is working to swing the church behind us. I have letters signed by my
self, which will be delivered on the day we land, to the mayors of the great towns and cities of the realm, reminding them of the oppressive tax demands that Edward makes on them and their citizens, rich and poor, and how these demands are destroying the realm. Under Edwards’s authority, his secretive and ungodly family are now controlling the land, but we have returned to free the people and set the rightful king upon the throne. Jasper Tudor arrives here shortly; he will rally the people of Wales behind our standards. The exiled earls of Oxford and Somerset will also be arriving to swell our numbers.’

  ‘This is indeed good news,’ said King Louis, gleefully. ‘England will be ripe for the plucking by the time you land.’

  ‘When will Margaret of Anjou be arriving?’ asked Warwick, trying to conceal the distaste in his voice.

  ‘Within the next two days. So you must be away to Saint Vaast-la-Hougue, to ready your fleet and prepare your daughter, Anne, for her marriage to Edward, the young Prince of Wales.’

  ‘It is not a task I go willing to,’ sighed Warwick. ‘The girl is but fifteen and has lived most of her young life in the seclusion of Middleham Castle. She knows not the way of royal courts. She has been wrenched from her secluded life, dragged headlong across England and a storm-tossed channel, to France, and now I have to tell her she is to marry a youth I have always taught her to hate. She will be bewildered and fearful. I love her dearly, and to any lover of chivalry, this would appear to be a wicked and cynical business—’

  ‘But it is a duty that must be done,’ King Louis butted in. ‘It is a pledge of faith to Margaret, and remember, our children form part of our resources. They are bargaining chips to strengthen our power. Do not forget, my friend, she will be the bride to the next King of England – what greater gift can a father give his daughter?’

  ‘I had already given that gift to her elder sister, Isabel, which I now take away. I do not know what she or her mother will make of this,’ replied Warwick, ‘but in truth, I will do anything that is necessary to regain my control of England. That is the hardness of it; we who rule cannot be like normal men.’