The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  Her three daughters and her mother, Jacquetta, would join her within its imposing walls, for Warwick had landed with his army of rebel soldiers, and was marching in strength straight for London. With Edward loitering up north, resistance, she knew, would be futile.

  ‘Have you sent the abbot to see the mayor and the aldermen of the city?’ asked Jacquetta. The harshness in her voice betrayed her displeasure for their present predicament.

  Elizabeth, ignoring her mother’s indignation, instructed two ladies-in-waiting to supervise the supplies needed for her unborn child, for she was now eight months pregnant and knew from history that she could be confined within this sanctuary for many months. Finally, she turned her cool gaze back to her mother.

  ‘I have asked the mayor to open the city gates to Warwick and his army. If we oppose him, I do not think my sex, or being with child, would save me from the same fate that he afforded my father and brother. If we do not antagonise him, then we give him no excuse to invade this church.’

  ‘Warwick will hold you responsible for his loss of power over Edward, and for stopping his attempts to marry his daughters to Edward’s brothers. He may attempt to charge us with witchcraft, then he would have an excuse to force us out of sanctuary, and exact his revenge. If you had allowed me to practise my black arts, then he would never have made it across the channel,’ Jacquetta said, with indignation.

  ‘You forget, Mother, that after Hastings tried to bring charges of witchcraft against us, we agreed to stop calling upon the dark forces.

  ‘But this is different,’ huffed Jacquetta.

  ‘Anyway, we have no choice now,’ whispered Elizabeth. ‘We cannot cast spells on consecrated ground. We can only pray for our lives and trust in God.’

  ‘God never helped anyone,’ Jacquetta sneered. ‘If Warwick decides to kill us, then no amount of praying will stop him. We both know there is only one power that is real, and if we are to survive, I must find a way to use it.’

  Conisbrough Castle, Yorkshire

  28 September 1470

  The army of Lord Montagu halted one mile from Conisbrough Castle. The midday sun shone hot on their polished armour and heavy chain mail. Horses, thirsty for water, pawed the dusty road. This war machine of swords, lances, bows, and cannon, stood in belligerent silence waiting to kill King Edward.

  Lord Montagu had declared that the king had forfeited their allegiance by robbing him of his earldom, and thus the means to pay their wages. His queen and her family were witches and warlocks who used their dark powers to control the kingdom for their own evil purposes. He urged them to join with Warwick, their leader of old, the greatest ‘Lord of the North’, to rid the country of this vipers’ nest of intrigue. To a man, they had cheered him and sworn their alliance to his noble and just cause. Now, they waited on this dusty road to obey his commands.

  He watched grim-faced with shame as his envoys galloped back from the castle. They had done a duty for which he had neither the courage nor the stomach. He had sent them to deceive King Edward and his brother, Richard, to lure them and their men to their deaths. He could not face them himself with such a cowardly act of betrayal.

  ‘My Lord!’ cried one of his envoys, dismounting in a cloud of dust. ‘They have gone! The King and his men left with all haste, yesterday. The castle is empty. The staff say that spies from France came and warned him of our treachery.’

  Lord Montagu stared at the man with undisguised relief. ‘Where are they headed?’ he asked, his voice calm, the tension within him gone.

  ‘I am told they head for the coast, and Burgundy, with a small group of retainers; Edward having dispersed the rest of his men.’

  ‘So, we do not have to kill our old comrades!’ Lord Montagu cried. ‘Tis sweet news for our consciences, my friends,’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘That lucky bastard, Edward, has saved not only his own skin but also my remorse. Send scourers to the nearest ports along the coast. We need to know that they have indeed sailed, and from which port. When it is confirmed he has gone, we will head south to join with Warwick. For gentlemen, it would appear that the kingdom is ours without a drop of blood spilt.’

  Chapter 13

  Innocence Lost

  Convent at Stoneleigh Abbey, Warwickshire

  1 October 1470

  It was early evening. Flocks of swifts soared and dived, swooping and turning on the wing faster than the eye could hold them, revelling in their swirling aerobatics as they gathered for their last meal of the day.

  Simon Langford envied their freedom, their carefree existence. They were called the ‘Devil’s bird’ because many believed that at night they turned into demons with the office of summoning witches to their assemblies, and in winter they concealed themselves under the mud of the fields, so to be nearer to hell than to heaven, but as Simon watched them, he wished he was soaring and diving with them. How exhilarating it must be. Finally, with a heavy heart, he forced his eyes away from the skies and looked to the horizon, towards Warwick Castle.

  Tomorrow, he had to face the truth and the consequences of his actions. The dull ache within his chest had become sharper, his mind never free of thoughts of his family. His very soul seemed to be shrivelling within him, and yet, he still had hope. That most human response to tragedy clung to him – a small glimmer of belief burned within him.

  Maybe, by some miracle, his mother and sisters were still alive; their faith in God had been absolute. They were pure of mind and soul; Jesus would not have deserted them. A gentle hand on his shoulder drew him back from his thoughts.

  ‘I must go,’ said Rose, softly, ‘the nuns have made my quarters ready.’

  ‘I pray they will keep you safe until King Edward reclaims his crown,’ Simon replied.

  Rose took Simon’s hand; compassion filled her eyes. ‘May God be with you, tomorrow,’ she whispered. ‘I will pray for you and your family tonight.’

  ‘I hope it is not too late for your prayers,’ said Simon, his voice shaking with emotion.

  Rose hugged Simon, and then kissed him on the cheek. She turned and walked towards the convent, words now meaningless to help him.

  Friar Drynk had been charged by John Tunstall to escort Rose to a place of safety. He watched as the nuns protectively ushered her into the convent that adjoined the abbey, then satisfied he had done his duty, he placed an arm around Simon’s shoulder. ‘Come, my young friend,’ he said, as he guided him towards the abbey. ‘You must try to get some rest. Tomorrow, I will accompany you to Warwick Castle. I promise; you will not be alone when you learn the fate of your family.’

  ‘I’m not sure if the royal warrant will be accepted now, ‘whispered Simon, despondently. ‘Warwick has landed in the West Country, and King Edward is now exiled in Flanders.’

  ‘But will Warwick’s men know that?’ replied Friar Drynk. ‘News travels slowly in these parts, so with God’s blessing we can bluff our way into the castle. Once in, we will rescue your mother and sisters by using good old-fashioned bribery with that purse of gold King Edward gave you; that is, if they are still…’ Friar Drynk stopped himself, as he saw the pain fill Simon’s eyes. ‘Come,’ he said, quickly changing the subject, ‘we must go and sort out our quarters and later I will pray for God’s help in our quest for your family.’

  Warwick Castle, Warwickshire

  2 October 1471

  The young officer of the watch read the royal warrant, mouthing each word as though doing so confirmed their meaning. He had never seen such a document before, and felt nervous just holding it. His eyes were wide in wonder – that the King had touched the same warrant filled him with awe.

  Simon could feel his heart thumping in his chest as he watched the officer. Would he know exactly where King Edward and Warwick were? Would he refuse to help them, or even have then arrested? Simon waited nervously for the officer’s response.

  ‘I’ve been here one year and have never seen them,’ he said, holding the warrant as though it was a piece of the Holy Cros
s.

  Friar Drynk reached out and took the warrant back. ‘Well, who would have seen them?’ he asked, gently.

  ‘Why do you seek this information?’ exclaimed the officer loudly, as he regained his authority. ‘Is this warrant still legal? For no one knows where the King is.’

  Simon looked at Friar Drynk, who nodded, signalling Simon to proceed with the cover story they had discussed on their journey to the castle.

  ‘The King is gathering his forces in the north and is not concerned with this matter,’ Simon lied. ‘He may have signed the warrant, but the information we seek is for the Mayor of Northampton. When Lady Langford and her two daughters were brought here, their lands were confiscated, divided up, and given to supporters of Lord Warwick. There is now a dispute over the boundaries of this land, which threatens to spill over into bloodshed if we don’t settle it.’

  Friar Drynk joined in. ‘We believe Lady Langford’s knowledge of these lands could help us to resolve this argument.’

  As Simon stood in the dungeons of Caesar’s Tower, he felt the terror of the place. He could taste the overwhelming fear it held. Before him, stood the senior gaoler, a large greasy-skinned man, with no hair or teeth. His eyes had the animal cunning of the peasant classes, always looking for the weakness in a person, to exploit. They showed neither warmth nor humanity. The eyes of a torturer, Simon thought, and watched as the senior gaoler studied the warrant. He knew it would mean nothing, because men of his class could not read.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the senior gaoler.

  ‘I come from the Mayor of Northampton to find information on the land dispute which the officer of the watch told you about. It is nothing of consequence,’ replied Simon, calmly, as he held out a silver penny.

  With a toothless grin, the senior gaoler snatched it from Simon’s hand and slipped it into his purse. ‘Yes, I remember them,’ he said, in a rasping voice. ‘We flogged and branded them on Lord Warwick’s orders. They were to be executed, although the older one – the mother – didn’t last long, and died within a couple of days.’

  Simon stepped back, his face as white as a shroud.

  The senior gaoler stopped talking and stared suspiciously at him.

  ‘My friend has a weak stomach,’ said Friar Drynk, quickly. Then with a smile and an apologetic shake of his head, he said, ‘If the mother is dead, then she cannot answer our questions, so that is the end of the matter. We thank you for your time, and will be on our way.’ He grabbed Simon’s arm, and tried to steer him out of the dungeons.

  ‘Are her daughters also dead?’ whispered Simon, tersely. He wiped at the beads of sweat that were forming on his forehead.

  The senior gaoler let out a loud, sarcastic laugh. ‘Me thinks your friend hasn’t the stomach for the rest of the tale,’ he said to Friar Drynk.

  ‘Are they dead?’ persisted Simon.

  ‘The two young ones,’ continued the senior gaoler, beginning to enjoy the discomfort on Simon’s face, ‘were very pretty and we’d never had such handsome virgins down here before, so we didn’t flog ’em as hard as the old one; had other plans for them.’ He paused and smiled at the memory, while drawing his sleeve across his face to wipe off some spittle that ran down his chin.

  ‘Because we had the warrants for their executions,’ he continued, ‘we could do what we pleased with them; no rights you see.’ He sniggered. ‘They were just dead people walking, so we turned them into whores; broke ’em both in myself,’ he boasted. ‘They struggled like a couple of wild fillies to start with, but I soon tamed them, then I sold their favours to any man who could afford the pleasure of them. By God, there were plenty of takers. After three or four weeks, I had to carry out the earl’s orders; couldn’t delay it any longer. Shame, that was, it spoilt a good thing. Mind you, the night before their hanging, we had some fun with them; I think half the troops in the castle—’

  The hunting knife caught the senior gaoler fast on the side of his neck, slicing deep from ear to ear. Blood sprayed in an arc as he fell to his knees, his eyes registering first surprise, then shock, and finally bulging in panic, as he fought for his breath. His hands frantically tried to stop the gushing blood.

  Simon moved slowly around him, watching him suffer before finally ramming the knife hard into the back of his neck.

  Friar Drynk stared with shock at the quivering figure, the knife still sticking out of his neck, blood creeping slowly out from around the body. ‘Holy Jesus,’ he whispered. ‘You have killed the man.’

  Simon stared white-faced at the dead gaoler, tears running down his face.

  ‘By the Holy Mary, we are murderers!’ cried Friar Drynk in alarm, his eyes darting around the dungeons to check they were alone. ‘You stupid bastard,’ he hissed. ‘You have put all our necks at risk, including Rose; we must leave immediately.’

  Simon stood icy cold; the red-hot rush of his uncontrolled temper had quickly cooled as the gaoler gasped his last breath. He watched, devoid of emotion as Friar Drynk struggled to conceal the body. His family was dead, and it was through his actions that they had suffered. He was their executioner. The overwhelming guilt broke his heart.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, man, help me,’ hissed Friar Drynk.

  The friar’s words seemed to tumble out of a long tunnel into Simon’s stunned mind. He moved slowly, as if his arms and legs were made of lead. He felt he was stumbling through a living nightmare.

  Between them, they hid the senior gaoler’s bloody body under a mound of bedding straw.

  ‘Come’, whispered Friar Drynk, manhandling Simon towards the door. ‘The gaoler will be missed from his duties in no time. We must leave unseen with all haste.’

  With his heart pounding in his ears, Friar Drynk led Simon silently out of the castle. They fled on horseback, leaving their bloody secret buried in the castle’s dungeon.

  They were an hour’s ride from the castle when they brought their horses to rest. Dusk was falling, and a chill evening wind swept over the hills.

  ‘Damn you!’ cried Friar Drynk at Simon. ‘You have put all our lives at risk. When they find the body, we will both be fugitives; Warwick’s men will seek us out, and what of Rose? Did you not think of her? I wear monk’s robes; where is the first place they will go? The abbey, that’s where. They will go straight to the abbey to search for me.’

  Simon stared down at his saddle. His family were dead by his actions. He might just as well have murdered them himself. His mind was full of the finality of it all. There was nothing he could do to make things right. He could not bring his family back.

  Friar Drynk could see the dreadful guilt that Simon carried on his shoulders, and knew there were no words he could say that would lessen the shame. ‘Rose is now your priority,’ he said, softly. ‘Time is short for me. I have important letters for King Edward’s allies in London, and cannot risk being caught with them on my person, so I must head for London with all speed. You need to fetch Rose and take her far away from here.’ He reached out and gripped Simon’s arm. ‘I am sorry for you, and for your mother and sisters,’ he said, with compassion, ‘but Rose is the one you must focus on, now. Danger must not befall her because of your hasty actions. If I had known you were going to be stupid enough to commit murder, I would have taken her to a safer place, far from that accursed castle.’

  The friar’s words stung Simon into replying. ‘I will head for the abbey and take Rose north to her parents. They can hide her until the situation calms down.’

  The faint noise of horses at full gallop made them turn and look towards the distant hills. Soldiers appeared as tiny specks, heading straight towards them.

  ‘Hell’s teeth! They have moved fast,’ said Friar Drynk. ‘Do you think they have seen us?’

  ‘Hard to tell,’ replied Simon, straining his eyes towards the advancing troops. ‘It would be best that we split up. You head south,’ he commanded, pointing towards some woods. ‘I will head west. If they have seen us, it will be me they follow.’

&nb
sp; Simon waited until Friar Drynk was swallowed up by the forest, then he turned his horse and ran at right angles across the front of the advancing soldiers. They all turned and followed him.

  Stoneleigh Abbey, Warwickshire

  3 October 1470

  Simon was exhausted. He had spent the night playing ‘hide and seek’ with Warwick’s men, and now, as the sun rose in the sky, he was hidden in the woods looking down on Stoneleigh Abbey. Somehow, during the night, he had managed to give them the slip, and had doubled back to the abbey to collect Rose.

  He sat on his horse, motionless and silent, watching the abbey come to life. He saw a young nun struggle out from the kitchens carrying a large bowl full of food slops, which she proceeded to empty into a large iron bucket that would later be carried down to the pigpens.

  He decided to wait until the nuns had finished their breakfasting. Once they were at their prayers, he would be unseen by most. It would then be easier to collect Rose, and escape to the north.

  As he waited, the warmth of the sun slowly heated his back, but he felt no pleasure from it. His mind was still numbed by the terrible events at Warwick Castle. His family was dead; the message kept on hammering in his brain. It sapped his will to live. He imagined, in a never-ending cycle of thoughts, his mother, and young sisters, full of life, chattering and laughing. He lent forward, placed his head in his hands, and silently sobbed for them.

  The sounds of horses and men made him look up, and his heart sank. Soldiers appeared on the road leading to the abbey. He thought they must be the ones who had been chasing him all night. He counted twenty in all. They dismounted in the grounds, and a few entered the abbey, appearing moments later with the abbot, who they then escorted to the convent.