The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  Margaret looked at Simon, a satisfied smile played across her features. He sat relaxed, with a devil-may-care look on his face.

  King Louis looked at them both with exasperation, his temper finally ignited. ‘What in God’s name are you both smirking about?’ he shouted. ‘This is a serious matter that affects the future of France; it is not some trivial dispute. We are not haggling over the price of wine. So, madam,’ he cried, ‘I will have your answer.’

  Margaret rose from her chair. Like a chameleon, her demeanour changed. She grew in stature as her back straightened and her shoulders squared. She thrust her face, now proud and set with purpose, to within inches of the king’s. ‘We have chosen life,’ she said, spitting the words at him with venom.

  King Louis clapped his hands together with delight.

  ‘But, with certain conditions,’ Margaret added, with a smile of triumph.

  ‘Conditions? Conditions?’ cried the king, his hands stopping mid-clap. ‘You cannot barter over his life. Marriage, he lives – no marriage, he dies. It is as simple as that.’

  ‘Well then, he must die,’ Margaret replied, nonchalantly.

  King Louis stared at her. Was the woman completely mad? But then, she knew, he reasoned, that he desperately needed this marriage, so he would have to hear her out for the sake of France. He sat down at the table, and waved her to the seat opposite.

  ‘My dear cousin,’ King Louis began; a feigned look of benign patience on his face. ‘I will consider your demands.’

  Margaret sat down and looked at him coldly. ‘What you are doing demeans your kingship.’ Her voice filled with scorn. ‘It is beyond contempt.’

  King Louis swallowed hard, but kept his silence.

  ‘You are blackmailing me into taking a course of action with a man I detest – a man who destroyed all that I once held dear. With all your grand designs, you will never bring back those royal days for me, so where is the profit in all of this? I have no wish to be the Queen of England, or for my son to be King. There is not one part of my body or soul that cries out for any of this, and yet, you would still force me by means most foul to help that murdering pirate, Warwick.’

  ‘Think of it as helping France,’ interrupted King Louis.

  Margaret gave him a withering glance. ‘Helping Warwick will be of no help to France,’ she shouted, ‘but I will comply with your wishes, only if I will be the one to decide when it is safe for us to return to England. I must be sure that King Edward, his brother, Duke Richard, and Warwick’s brother, John Neville, are dead or exiled, then, once my son has been crowned King of England, I will be allowed to return to live in France with Simon Langford, who you will grant a full pardon to. Thirdly, you will pay me an annual income for life that befits my position as Queen Mother.’

  King Louis placed his fingertips beneath his chin, his face deep in thought. Finally, he said, ‘I agree to all your demands, except for the exile or death of Warwick’s brother, John.’

  ‘Then I will not agree to the marriage,’ said Margaret, sharply. ‘To forgive two Nevilles is asking too much, sir!’ she cried.

  ‘You do not know all the facts, madam,’ replied King Louis, his voice full of appeasement. ‘John Neville, now the Marquess of Montagu, has been badly treated by King Edward, and I can reveal,’ he whispered, conspiratorially, ‘that he has decided to join his brother’s standard in his great enterprise of England.’

  ‘Pray, tell me what that means,’ said Margaret, stiffly.

  ‘It means, my dear cousin, that Warwick will take England without a fight. The plan is, that a minor uprising in the north of England will be formulated to draw Edward away from London. He will, of course, send for Warwick’s brother to help him quell this rebellion and John Neville will go along with Edward’s request, until they rendezvous, then he will attack Edward’s army with his superior forces. Edward and his brother, Richard, and all their close retainers, will be killed or executed immediately after the battle. No mercy will be shown. Warwick will land on the south coast, and march on London, and then you, dear lady, will set sail for England, and the coronation of your son and his wife.’

  ‘It sounds so simple and easy,’ said Margaret sarcastically. ‘I am waiting for you to tell me nothing can go wrong.’

  ‘With the great Earl of Warwick in charge, all will be well,’ King Louis said, oozing confidence. ‘Now, I must away to prepare for the arrival of the great man and his family, and you must prepare your son to meet his bride.’ A satisfied smile creased his face, as he rose from his chair, and made for the door. When he reached it, he turned. ‘Sir Simon,’ he said, ‘you are a lucky man to have survived so long with your reckless ways. I would advise you to think more and act less in the future. Once the marriage has taken place, and Margaret’s son, Edward, has been crowned King of England, you will be given a full pardon. You will then be free to go, but until then, you are confined to the castle.’

  As King Louis swept from the room, Margaret turned to Simon. ‘It is a high price I am paying for your freedom,’ she said, ‘but I will take payment in kind for it.’ She laughed.

  Simon stepped forward, and taking Margaret in his arms, he kissed her passionately. ‘Then, let that be the first payment,’ he said, with a smile.

  Chapter 12

  To Risk All

  Royal Court Gardens, Château d’Amboise, France

  24 August 1470

  Simon Langford walked slowly through the royal gardens. The August afternoon was warm and sultry; the fragrance of the summer flowers drifted lazily around him. It had been over four weeks since Margaret of Anjou had agreed to King Louis’ request.

  He remembered Warwick’s arrival. With his demoralised family, and depleted entourage, all of them looked impoverished. Oh, how he had enjoyed seeing the bastard humbled, this once mighty lord now living on handouts from the French king.

  There had been meetings, discussions, arguments, and tantrums, between Margaret, King Louis, and Warwick, but eventually, on the 22 July, King Louis had led Warwick by the hand into the Great Hall of State. There, in the presence of Margaret of Anjou, the woman Warwick hated, he had been forced to grovel on his knees before her, pleading for forgiveness.

  Simon had watched from a hidden vantage point as Margaret had kept Warwick on his knees for an eternity, his humiliation for all to see. Eventually, she had raised him up before the royal court and forgiven him his crimes against her. It was all a sham. Margaret had sacrificed herself and her son to save Simon’s life, and Warwick had grimly swallowed his pride, so that he could take England and place a crown on his daughter’s head.

  Throughout all the meetings and intrigues, King Louis had kept Simon well out of the way. But when dusk fell, there were no such restrictions. King Louis, he thought, wanted the two of them to be lovers, so that Margaret’s resolve would not weaken. The king had been right: their lovemaking had been wild and passionate, but now Margaret was gone, gone with her son and her small court to Angers, along with Warwick and King Louis. Today, within the great cathedral, Anne Neville and Edward, Prince of Wales, as he was now called, would be married, and their oaths solemnised on a piece of the True Cross – the Cross of St Laud d’Angers. It was said that if you broke your oath, such was its power that you would die within a year.

  Rose Thorne sat quietly, watching the lone figure in the distance. She was seated on one of the many benches that were dotted around the gardens. This particular seat had become a calm oasis for her over the last few days. Since the brutal attack by Warwick, she had been hidden from his sight while Lady Tunstall nursed her.

  Her face was still swollen, and the deep cuts down one side would take many weeks to heal, but Rose knew she was lucky to be alive. She had been told that, only the Lady Anne throwing herself on top of Rose, had stopped the earl from plunging his dagger deep into her chest. Now, she came to this seat daily to enjoy the solitude, and to hide her face from the stares that followed her wherever she walked.

  She saw the man i
n the distance, slowly coming closer. She could see he was dressed as a gentleman, but he was still too far away to distinguish his features. She was curious now, because any man of status had left with the royal parties for the wedding at Angers. She, of course, had been left behind in disgrace. Lady Tunstall had said, ‘You must keep well away from Lord Warwick’. The countess had added, ‘Out of sight and out of mind’. Both of them were mystified as to why Rose had done such a thing, and both of them were amazed that she was still alive – as was Rose.

  But now, Rose hated the earl with a vengeance for what he was doing to his daughter, to whom Rose now owed her life. If Anne had not stopped him in his blind rage, she would be dead, although, Rose reflected, she might as well be. She was to sail with the earl’s army for England. Once there, she was to be stripped and flogged, and then cast out of the earl’s household on to the streets, with only the rags she stood up in.

  ‘You look so sad.’

  Rose jumped, startled at the sound of the stranger’s voice. She had become so lost in her thoughts that she had failed to notice his approach.

  ‘Judging from your injuries, you must be the poor girl who incurred the wrath of that bastard, Warwick.’

  Rose heard sympathy in the man’s voice. Her hands clutched the sides of her face to hide her injuries.

  ‘Rose, once your injuries have healed, you will still be the pretty girl I remember from Middleham Castle.’

  Rose lowered her hands, and stared at him with a look of puzzlement. His eyes twinkled with a hidden smile. ‘You have me at a disadvantage, sir,’ she said, ‘for I do not know you.’

  The man sat down beside her. ‘Forgive me for confusing you,’ he smiled. ‘My name, in those days, was Robert Furneys. I was a clerk in the Great Controller’s office, but in reality, I spied for the Lancastrian cause, for Queen Margaret and King Henry.’

  ‘I remember, now!’ exclaimed Rose. ‘You were the one who escaped. You were lucky, for I remember the executions of those poor wretched men who didn’t.’ She shuddered.

  ‘Yes, I was blessed that day,’ he said, quietly.

  Rose’s eyes widened in understanding. ‘So you must be Sir Simon Langford, Margaret of Anjou’s lover.’ Her hands shot up to her mouth in embarrassment. ‘I am so sorry. I did not mean to be rude, but you are the talk of the castle.’ She giggled.

  ‘It seems it is such a great secret,’ Simon laughed, joining in her mirth, ‘that the whole world knows.’

  ‘Is it true that you tried to kill Warwick?’ Rose asked, with a sudden a look of seriousness.

  ‘Yes, that is true.’

  ‘It is a shame you failed. The man is a monster. He is to have me return to England, whipped and cast out in disgrace.’

  Simon saw the anger flash within Rose’s eyes. ‘I am sure it will not come to that. The Lady Warwick and her ladies will surely speak up for you, but if you are sent back, is there not anyone to help you?’

  ‘I am betrothed to Sir John Tunstall. His mother is here with the countess. Lady Tunstall was the one who tended my wounds. Anyway, you must remember John; he serves Duke Richard, King Edward’s younger brother.

  Simon did not reply. The memory of hiding in the depository all those years ago, and spying on the Great Controller as he interviewed John, flashed before him, then the words of King Louis came back to him: ‘Warwick’s brother will betray them all’.

  Rose noticed that Simon’s face had grown serious. ‘And you?’ she said, changing the subject. ‘What will you do when you are free?’

  ‘I will travel to England to find news of my mother and sisters. It has been too long since I saw them last.’ He noticed Rose’s face turning pale, and she turned away from him. ‘What troubles you?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Tis nothing.’

  He saw in her eyes a sudden look of pity – a look that filled his heart with dread. He wished he were somewhere else, anywhere but here, beside this young woman who looked at him with such dismay. His blood ran cold as he forced the question from his lips. ‘You know of their fate?’ He watched as Rose nodded her head, her beautiful eyes filling with tears of compassion.

  She took Simon’s hand, and looked into his eyes. ‘When Warwick returned from France, all those years ago, we heard about the attempt on his life, and how the perpetrators had all been caught and executed, all except for one who was spared death by the King of France; that one survivor being you.’ She looked at Simon’s pale face, as he nodded agreement. ‘The earl was so angry that you had escaped death, and then he also found out that you had once been a spy within his own castle. He swore that if he couldn’t have your head he would take revenge on your family instead.’

  Simon buried his head in his hands. His worst dreams were becoming real, and those nightmares he had held at bay for all those years were now a brutal reality.

  Rose continued. ‘He seized your estates, and had your mother and sisters arrested for treason. They were taken to Warwick Castle and…’

  ‘And, what?’ Simon demanded.

  ‘Do you want to hear the truth?’ Rose asked, her voice trembling.

  Simon nodded, his face now pinched tight in fear.

  ‘It was said they were stripped naked, viciously flogged, and then branded on their foreheads with the letter “T” for traitor. Afterwards, they were thrown into the deepest dungeon. I do not know…’ Rose’s voice faltered as she saw the look of despair in Simon’s eyes. ‘I do not know their fate, after that.’

  ‘Oh, mother of God!’ Simon cried. ‘Have mercy on me for what I have done.’ He looked around in desolation. ‘As I rotted in my prison, so they in theirs, and if still alive they rot there still.’ He stood, in agitation. ‘If there is still hope, I must go to them…’ his voice trailed off into helpless silence.

  Rose tried to offer some hope. ‘I am sure if John and Duke Richard asked permission, King Edward would issue you the authority to search for them.’

  ‘Yes, yes!’ Simon cried, as he grasped at this small sliver of hope, this chance of redemption; then he remembered what King Louis had said to Margaret.

  Rose saw the hesitation in him, a look of uncertainty entering his eyes. She felt a stab of apprehension, and somehow, she knew. ‘What do you know of John and Duke Richard?’ she demanded, her voice rising with concern.

  ‘King Louis told Margaret of Anjou, that Warwick’s brother, John – Lord Montagu, has turned traitor. His orders are to kill King Edward, Duke Richard, and all their close retainers, once Warwick has set sail for England,’

  Rose stared at Simon, in shock. ‘This cannot be!’ she cried. ‘John loves King Edward, like a brother.’

  ‘Blood, it would seem, is thicker than water,’ Simon replied, grimly.

  ‘Then we must escape, before Warwick sails and warns them of this treachery!’ The urgency in Rose’s voice betrayed her mounting panic.

  Simon felt a sudden sense of purpose. ‘You are right. We must slip away before they all return from Angers. We will head up through Brittany to the small port of Dinan – it is near St Malo – and there take ship to England.’ He took Rose’s hand. ‘Come,’ he said, with purpose. ‘We must act swiftly, if we are to save the people we love.’

  Royal Court, Château d’Amboise, France

  26 August 1470

  The rain fell from a black-grey sky. Shivering, Margaret of Anjou looked out of the royal carriage, at the wet, sodden landscape. She imagined it as a world that had never seen the sun, a world of shadows and darkness, a world that reflected the despair she felt in her heart, for after the wedding of her son, melancholy had settled on her spirit.

  Opposite her, sat Sir John Fortescue, and her father, René. Her son, Edward, sat beside her. Their excited conversation was centred on the invasion of England, and what it had meant to them all. Her mind had been dulled by it. She watched the wind swirl raindrops through the cold air. It reminded her of how King Louis had sent her own life spinning out of control. He had manipulated the opportunity that Warwick had present
ed to him, using carrot or stick, and the main reason for all this intrigue, she understood bitterly, was to marry England and France against Burgundy in a war to the death. Now, all these lives had been turned upside down, just so that King Louis and Warwick could further their stupid grandiose plans.

  At least, Warwick had departed. She would not have to look at his arrogant face again. He had left early that morning with Jasper Tudor and the Earl of Oxford, to ready his fleet for sailing.

  At least, my son still sits beside me, Margaret thought happily, while his new wife, Anne, who wears her heart on her sleeve for Duke Richard, sits with her mother’s court. There must be no consummation of this marriage until they are crowned in Westminster Abbey. For, if Warwick fails against King Edward, then an annulment would be easy to obtain. There are better brides in Europe for my son, than the spawn of that Devil, Warwick, she concluded.

  The letter had been placed on her pillow. Margaret stared at the neatly folded parchment, wrapped with a red ribbon. A single red rose lay across this seemingly unwelcome guest.

  Sitting on the bed, she carefully lifted the flower. She studied its beautifully formed petals, and smelt its lingering fragrance. A rose for love, she thought, as a single tear rolled down her cheek.

  With a trembling hand, she reached out and picked up the letter with its silent message. With the page unfolded, the words that she knew would hurt her deeply, revealed themselves.

  Marguerite,

  I write this, my love, with a heavy heart, for fate has once again conspired to part us. I have learnt that Warwick has taken revenge on my mother and sisters. I leave in all haste for England to rescue them. I pray they are still alive.

  I know you have sacrificed all for me, but my conscience cannot allow me to stay. The die is cast. Your life must now follow the treacherous path that King Louis and Warwick have forced upon you. In your heart, you know it is a path you must walk alone.