The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  ‘It was God’s will that you were found,’ said Rose, ‘for life has not finished with you yet.’

  Simon’s hands slipped from his face; his eyes hardened. ‘Aye, but I have finished with life.’

  ‘It was not you who signed the death warrants on all those people,’ Rose said, quietly. ‘Warwick killed your family, not you. Believe me when I say they do not hold you to account for their deaths.’

  Simon cocked his head to one side and looked at Rose, quizzically. ‘You cannot speak for my family.’

  ‘The spies, and the men who took part in the plot to kill Warwick, knew the risks; their own actions caused their deaths. Your mother and sisters hold him responsible for their suffering and deaths.’

  Perplexed, Simon stared at Rose. ‘How do you know of what they think?’

  ‘The night before my execution, your mother and sisters came to me; three beautiful spirits bathed by the light of the angels. They said that, for you to find redemption, you must continue your quest against Warwick until he is dead, not to torture yourself over their deaths. Their love is with you now and always.’

  ‘Did you not dream this vision?’ Simon mocked. ‘Could not your fate in the morning have played tricks on your mind?’

  Rose slipped the cloak from her shoulders and unclasping a gold chain from around her neck, she held up the gold pendant. ‘They said to give you this as proof of what I say.’

  Simon gasped with wonder at the sight of the necklace in Rose’s hand. ‘That belonged to my mother,’ he whispered, in awe.

  Chapter 15

  The Battle of Barnet

  Barnet, Hertfordshire

  13 April 1471

  It was early evening as they advanced towards the small town of Barnet.

  John Tunstall rode with Duke Richard and the royal host, with banners and ensigns flying above them. Behind, followed the royal army. Lines of men wore leather jerkins or brigandines with assorted kettle hats or sallets upon their heads, some shiny new, others rusty with age – hand-me-downs from fathers or grandfathers who had fought in battles long ago. Daggers hung from studded leather belts; pikes, bows, swords or axes, were carried. Shouts of good-natured insults flew up and down the lines between the different lords’ liverymen, the steady beat of metal on metal, sounding out to the rhythm of their marching.

  Scourers and mounted knights rode protectively out on their flanks, while officers cantered up and down the lines cursing and encouraging the slowest, sometimes stopping to confer or issue more orders. Heavy wagons and artillery carts brought up the rear. The cacophony of a great marching army resonated out into the gathering dusk.

  As they approached the town from the south, the advanced guard could see the fires of Warwick’s army flickering out, encamped along a low ridge to the north of the town.

  ‘Keep the army to the south of the town,’ commanded King Edward, as they settled into an inn that was now his headquarters. ‘Issue orders to our captains,’ he continued, ‘that the men must rest where they stop. No one will be billeted in the town; there will be no warm comfort tonight. Two hours before dawn, we will advance on foot in complete silence, and creep to within spitting distance of Warwick’s army. He believes in his cannon; he will fire on us before first light. The closer we are to him, the safer our men will be. Warn them that any man who makes a noise and alerts them to our presence will not see the dawn.’

  ‘What is to be the order of battle?’ asked Richard, his cool, blue eyes holding Edward in his gaze.

  ‘You will lead the right flank.’

  Richard’s eyes crinkled into a smile of satisfaction.

  ‘Hastings will take the left, and I will hold the centre.’

  George, the Duke of Clarence, jumped to his feet. ‘And me?’ he asked, with discord in his voice.

  ‘You will hold the centre with me,’ replied Edward. ‘The troops you brought will form our reserve.’

  George stepped forward and made to speak, but then thought better of it. His words stuck in his throat. With his face turning crimson, he slowly sat back down.

  John Tunstall knew that George had no command. Edward did not trust him to stay true to his banner and so wished to keep him close at all times. All the others in the room knew this too, but not one face betrayed it.

  Earl of Warwick’s Encampment, Barnet

  13 April 1471

  ‘What news do you bring?’ barked Warwick at the messenger who had been ushered into his presence.

  Nervous, the man bowed and held out a letter. ‘It is from the French king,’ he said, with humility.

  Warwick grunted as he ripped it open. Lord Montagu, the Earl of Oxford, the Duke of Exeter, and other close retainers, watched as Warwick read the contents.

  ‘King Louis has made a temporary truce with the Duke of Burgundy,’ he said. ‘It would seem the door of France is slowly closing on me.’

  ‘It is no reflection on you,’ cried Lord Montagu, with false cheer. He knew how much the friendship of King Louis mattered to his brother, but also how circumstances had conspired to prevent him helping the French king as promised. ‘It means Louis cannot defeat Burgundy without you, the greatest General in Europe.’

  ‘Me thinks that Louis has lost faith in me, that my promises were empty words,’ Warwick said, with a faraway look in his eyes, his dreams of being the Prince of Holland and Zeeland now slipping away. He clapped his hands as though to frighten away these pensive thoughts. ‘Gentlemen,’ he barked, ‘as you know, the Earl of Devon and the Duke of Somerset, have abandoned us. They have turned back towards the west. They have sent news that they go to welcome that Bitch of Anjou and her son, who land at Weymouth, tomorrow. It would seem they would rather fight under her banner than mine.’

  ‘Old Lancastrians would rather fight with old Lancastrians,’ said Lord Montagu, stating the obvious.

  ‘So it would seem, for where is Jasper Tudor and his frightened little nephew, Henry? Should they not also be here with their promised four thousand men?’ cried Warwick, his frustration boiling over. ‘And then there’s that turncoat, George, my own son in-law who has deserted me and joined his brother’s banner. Ye Gods! That’s three armies gone that would have swelled our ranks and given us an assuaged victory tomorrow.’

  ‘But we still outnumber them,’ said the Earl of Oxford, firmly. ‘Our twelve thousand against their eight – and we have many cannon while they have none.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Warwick, ‘but Edward’s men will fight into the jaws of Hell for him. Ours do not fight for me. My ranks are filled with Lancastrians and Yorkists who will be fighting side by side but are still mistrustful of each other. Some fight for the Bitch of Anjou, and some would rather be fighting for Edward.’ He threw a knowing look at his brother. ‘But none fight for me. I do not have their hearts.’

  Silence settled within the tent. They all knew that Warwick spoke the truth, and none had an answer to raise his spirits without it sounding false.

  Finally, the Duke of Exeter’s voice broke the silence. ‘What you say is right, my Lord. We cannot disagree, for truth deflects all false arguments but there is one simple truth in that our men will fight for us: their captains, and we – your captains – fight loyally for you.’

  ‘Aye, you are right,’ boomed Warwick, with sudden confidence. ‘It is now too late to dwell on this subject. If we win, tomorrow, they will take me to their bosoms as though I am their brother, so away to your men and tell them we will win. In years to come, they will stand proud. They will say we were there when the last of the Plantagenets fell.’

  John Tunstall’s feet sank into the wet, sodden earth as he walked silently up the gentle hill towards Warwick’s army. A slight mist had begun to form across the ground, and a wet chill hung in the air. He was walking with Richard and Francis, with their men tramping silently behind them, their weapons wrapped in muslin cloth to muffle the clink of metal on metal. From the enemy line, they could see the flickering of campfires as they drew nearer. Finally, they
stopped.

  ‘This will be close enough,’ whispered Richard. ‘We will form our line here.’

  A messenger arrived from King Edward. ‘Your Grace,’ he said, ‘the King is forming his troops to your left, and he requests your presence while the hour is still early.’

  ‘I will come shortly,’ Richard replied. ‘John, Francis, see that the men are formed up in good order. They are to keep their harness on and their weapons ready. Tell the bowmen to keep their strings dry and post good sentries. Tell the men not to wander off, or make a noise that would alert the enemy to our presence. They know the penalty if they do.’

  John had finished posting the sentinels while Francis had checked the men on the line. He now sat alone, resting his back against an old, fallen tree trunk that lay slightly forward of his men. He looked across, towards the enemy’s lines. He was so close, he could hear them talking. He wondered what Warwick was thinking, having fought as a Yorkist all his life.

  To be over there with the Lancastrians, he must feel as welcome as a fox in a chicken coop, John mused.

  He gazed back along his own lines. All was quiet. His mind drifted back to the day they had landed near the Humber…they had marched unopposed down through the heart of England, their numbers swelling daily, and caught Warwick hiding behind the walls of Coventry. Three times, King Edward had demanded battle with him, and three times, Warwick had refused. Edward had ridden up and down outside the city walls in full harness, taunting him, but still Warwick had refused. Edward had laughed and shouted, ‘It would seem the hunted are now doing the hunting’, and then they had left for Warwick Castle to join with the Duke of Clarence, and his army.

  It was at the castle that John had learnt of Rose’s imprisonment. He felt a sharp pain in his chest as he remembered the moment he had heard of her ordeal. He had followed her trail from her arrest at the convent, to the dungeons of Warwick Castle. Her beatings and rape had unfolded with horror before him, and then her rescue by the Great Controller.

  The journey from the castle to London, to free Edward’s wife from her sanctuary at Westminster Abbey, had been a journey of bleak sorrow for John as he sought to come to terms with what had happened to Rose. He had wanted to ride with all haste for Middleham Castle, but his duty to Richard had stopped him. As they marched out of London, up Watling Street and on to the Great North Road, his heart had lifted. Every mile that passed brought him closer to the Earl of Warwick, and now, at last, in a few hours, he would have his revenge, or die in the attempt…

  The sharp crack of cannon made John jump. The hot fizz of air over his head, and then the thump as the ball hit the ground, focused his mind.

  He hurried back down the slope towards his men. He could hear their oaths and curses as they lay on their stomachs with their hands over their heads. More sharp explosions rang out. The air was alive with cannon balls, shrieking through the night sky. The ground shook with the noise of thunder as scores of cannon fired in unison.

  The men waited, their bodies tensed in fear, for the shot to land amongst them, smashing and ripping their muscle and bone to pieces. Their faces turned white with panic. Some pushed their knuckles into their mouths to stifle their screams, as again they tensed and waited, pushing themselves down into the soft earth, trying to burrow into it, wishing the ground would swallow them.

  John silently thanked God that no one had screamed out and given their position away. ‘Tis good news, lads,’ he said, softly. ‘We are so close to their lines, their shot is landing well behind us. Keep silent and all will be well.’

  Frightened faces and nervous eyes relaxed into wry smiles. ‘God bless King Edward for moving us so close,’ someone murmured.

  ‘Aye, God bless the King,’ joined in a chorus of quiet voices. The words rippled repeatedly down the line.

  Warwick stood alone at the entrance of his tent in full battle armour. He looked on as his cannon thundered into life; flame and smoke spitting from their mouths.

  Lord Montagu, the Earl of Oxford, and the Duke of Exeter, were forming their men up into battle positions. Orders were sharp, discipline hard, as they steeled themselves for the coming battle.

  Warwick had agreed with his brother’s request that they fight on foot like the common soldier. It would give them extra heart, he had argued, because they could not flee on horseback if the battle turned. Warwick had arranged for their horses taken to the rear. But to flee to where? he had pondered.

  King Louis had cast him off. That Bitch of Anjou would welcome him like the plague. Even this hotchpotch of an army he commanded wished he were on the other side, so they could kill him.

  During the night, he had realised he was not a king, like Edward or Louis, who commanded loyalty through their royal position as a right given by God. He had tried to grasp this magical quality but like sand, it always slipped through his fingers. He knew now he could not command men’s hearts, for he was not a king, but was it wrong of him to have reached for the stars? To have dreamt of such things? He felt a sense of defiance building inside of him.

  By God, it is better to have reached for the stars and failed than never to have tried at all, Warwick reasoned. And what of his dreams? They were life itself. For, if men did not dream, then they had never lived. He felt his old anger returning and it steeled his resolve. He swore that if he won the coming battle, he would take the crown of England for his own. To Hell with King Henry, that Bitch of Anjou, and her son – to Hell with all of them.

  Warwick strode from his tent, alive with purpose. ‘Sound the trumpets!’ he barked, his eyes shining with excitement. ‘Let us go to death or glory!’

  John Tunstall stood in front of a wall of men, fully encased within his armour. He was already hot; sweat streamed down his back. Richard stood to his left, Francis to his right. Behind them, the front rank slowly pushed forward under the increasing pressure from the men behind. The fog was growing thicker by the second.

  ‘It will be more like blind man’s bluff, than fighting a battle,’ shouted some old soldier behind him.

  Trumpets sounded out the advance. John heard the swish of arrows from their archers as volley after volley was unleashed blindly into the thick, white fog. Then, the lines of men were moving forward. They started to move faster. Men were shouting, some screaming out battle cries now they were running at full tilt.

  Out of the fog loomed a wall of steel. John brought his sword down from over the back of his shoulder in a strike that he had practised all his life. The young soldier running towards him screamed as the blade cut deep between his shoulder and neck, blood spurting high into the air.

  Battle of Barnet, Hertfordshire

  14 April 1471, Easter Sunday

  A dense fog hung over the field like a funeral veil. Nature hid, from innocent eyes, the barbaric acts of savagery being committed in the pursuit of absolute power.

  The morning dew that covered the field in a watery sheen would normally shimmer in the early morning sun, giving the illusion of concealed diamonds sparkling out from beneath blades of grass, but today this lush meadow ran red with blood; nature’s soft silence shattered by the reverberations of a bloody and brutal battle.

  Twenty thousand men embroiled in lethal hand-to-hand combat, the harsh metallic clash of weapons, frantic shouts, and the agonised screams of the maimed or dying, echoed out from this white shroud of death. The sheer volume and spectacle of horror made speech and compassion impossible.

  John Fletcher, arrow-maker to the Duke of Exeter, had no need to speak. He was sitting triumphantly astride a fallen knight whose main battle weapon lay just out of reach. He was defenceless, his helmet pushed upwards until the eye slits were now level with his forehead. He was blind within it.

  John Fletcher raised his rondel dagger with its slender fifteen-inch blade specifically designed for penetrating gaps in armour, and aimed it at the thin line of flesh now exposed between the helmet and the knight’s breastplate. He licked his lips as he touched the fine Italian armour and gre
edily wondered how much coin he would receive for it. With this rich bounty, he would buy his young wife gifts of silks and spices. He imagined, with lust, how she would thank him. Her soft breasts and generous mouth filled his thoughts. He placed the tip of the dagger into the gap and lightly pricked the naked flesh. He was going to enjoy inflicting this pain, enjoy watching the agonising spasm of death that would result. He wanted this knight to feel his death coming. ‘Are you ready to die, you Yorkist bastard?’ he screamed.

  Abruptly, John Fletcher stopped shouting. His mind snapped back into focus as his stomach flipped. He knew he had just committed the cardinal sin for a soldier in battle: he had hesitated. A curse of terror left his lips as he saw, out of the corner of his right eye, the curved blade of a razor-sharp Falchion sword cutting through the mist with a violence of purpose towards his neck. The sounds of battle were suddenly silent. The knight beneath him, sensing swiftly rising fear, stopped struggling.

  John Fletcher, in a frozen moment, was bound to this knight, his body rigid. Out of the corner of his left eye, he saw the sword disappearing away from him back into the mist. Still sitting astride the knight, he wondered how this Grim Reaper’s blade had missed him. Had God performed a miracle or was it some clever illusion? Then, slowly, his head toppled forward, parting in blood-soaked savagery from his neck. As the darkness of death filled John Fletcher’s eyes, he realised, to his horror, there had been no miracle or illusion.