The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  Warwick felt warm blood gushing down his throat. He opened his mouth to shout defiance at this bastard whose life he had sought for so many years, but no sound came out.

  Simon pushed the hunting knife hard into Warwick’s open mouth, ramming it with all his might through the back of his head, pinning it to the ground. ‘And that is for my father!’ he cried. Years of anger finally flowed from him as Warwick’s blood flowed free.

  Warwick felt the pain ebbing away. The world grew distant, the noise of the battle fainter. He knew his earthly time was over; how short it now seemed. Events from his life rushed through his mind in a kaleidoscope of memories, until a dam of ominous guilt burst within him. All the men he had executed, tortured, and butchered for his grand designs, flashed before him. He desperately tried to shut them out, but their faces, frozen in terror, kept looming up before him. There were too many to stop. His body felt leaden and cold as though already buried in the damp, dark earth. He heard his brother’s voice weakly calling his name, as though trying to save him from some untold terror. Then, it became weaker and faded away. Fear gripped him like a vice. There was no escape; he was falling, tumbling over and over down a long black tunnel. Screams of torment rang out in the distance.

  The once mighty Earl of Warwick started to pray frantically as the screams became louder, finally filling his whole soul with terror.

  It was early evening. Two swallows swooped low overhead, a small vanguard heralding an early summer. The sun slipped below the horizon; its last rays gently pushed down by the advancing night. The day’s bloody business lying on the blood-soaked fields would soon lay hidden under a shroud of darkness.

  Duke Richard and John Tunstall were standing quietly, just inside the entrance of a tent. In its sombre interior, four large candles burned, their brightness flickering out from each corner. In the centre, lay the bodies of John Milewater, Thomas Parr, and Thomas Huddleston. They rested on a low trestle table. At the head of the table, a large wooden crucifix inlaid with gold and precious jewels softly shimmered in the dancing candlelight.

  Five monks knelt around the bodies, each representing the five wounds of Christ. They were dressed in dark, heavy habits, the hoods pulled up over their heads hiding their features as they quietly intoned prayers for the souls of the dead men.

  Richard and John took one last look at the scene inside the tent, and satisfied all was well, stepped outside into the cool evening air where the tranquil calm of the tent was broken by the sights and sounds that greeted them. Spread out before them was the camp of a great, victorious royal army. They heard shouts of laughter and joy rippling around, reflecting their great victory. Then a hushed silence of mourning descended for comrades lost. These sounds of great sadness and joy swept around the camp as darkness fell.

  ‘John, and the two Toms were good men,’ said John, softly. ‘I remember their bravery when they helped rescue us from Bamburgh Castle.’

  ‘Aye, they have served me loyally, all my life,’ replied Richard. ‘They were both father and brother to me, and today in the heat of battle, they laid down their lives to protect me. I will build a chapel to honour them. Prayers will be said every day for their souls to rest in paradise and walk with the angels.’

  Both men stood in silence as their thoughts wandered over the events of the day.

  ‘Damn Warwick!’ cried John, sharply. ‘If he had accepted the pardon offered by King Edward at Coventry it would never have come to this bloody battle.’

  ‘Well, at least George saw sense. It was good to have him reconciled to us.’

  ‘But for how long?’ replied John, with bitterness. ‘He’s a snake in the grass, that brother of yours. Edward will need to keep him on a short leash. It seems the more he drinks, the worse he becomes.’

  Richard studied his old friend. Under the thick tangle of black hair, crystal-blue eyes looked back at him. Above the full lips was a proud Norman nose – a sign of royal blood. John’s was a face he had known since childhood. He had a good soul and Richard valued his loyalty and friendship above all else. ‘I know you have no time for my brother, and I also take no joy from his company. His many betrayals over the past few years have hardened our heart against him, but I believe it is better to have him pissing out of our tent than pissing into it.’

  ‘You are right,’ said John. ‘But mark my words; he will eventually gather enough rope to hang himself and I wager his drinking will be his downfall.’

  As they stood in the gathering darkness, Richard quietly quoted from the writer, Chastellain:

  ‘It is not surprising that it has come to this, for princes are men and their affairs are high and perilous, their natures subject to many passions, such as hatred, greed and envy, their hearts a veritable dwelling place of these evils, and it is all because of their pride in reigning’.

  ‘They are true words,’ agreed John. ‘Warwick’s body is a testament to them, and it is a lesson George would do well to heed, or one day, he will suffer the same fate.’

  A cold wind whipped across the ground. Both men shivered at the sudden chill. The night was moonless, with no cloud. The stars sparkled with intense brightness as they crowded the black sky.

  John looked up at them, and Richard followed his gaze.

  ‘Some say that each star is a soul waiting to enter Heaven,’ said Richard.

  ‘Well, if that’s true,’ replied John, ‘then plenty have been added today.’

  ‘It was Simon Langford who killed Warwick,’ said Richard.

  ‘I know. I arrived at Warwick’s body as Simon rode away.’

  ‘You did not challenge him?’

  John heard the surprise in Richards’s voice. ‘No, I did not. He killed the man we both wanted dead.’

  ‘There were many men who would gladly have killed Warwick, if they’d had the chance. I only asked if you had challenged him because of what he did to Rose.’

  ‘I would talk with her first before taking any action. Do not forget: Warwick killed the whole of Simon’s family. The man was driven by hatred and vengeance, but meant no harm to her.’

  ‘Then what of you?’ enquired Richard. ‘Will you still marry her? She has been violated and will not come to your bed a virgin.’

  John looked up at the heavens. The question caused his heart to ache. The solid rock that their love had been built on was now gone replaced with the shifting sands of uncertainty. ‘I will always love her,’ he said, quietly, ‘but will I marry her? Only when I find her, will I know the answer to that. But, what of the Lady Anne?’ questioned John. ‘If her marriage has been consummated, will you still marry her?’

  ‘If she is not with child, then, yes, I would marry her, but you are jumping the gun, my old friend. Remember, her bastard husband still lives; she is still his wife.’

  ‘Supposing she is widowed in the near future?’ said John, still wanting to hear the answer to his question.

  ‘Well, yes, I would marry her, if she is not with child, but I do not know if she would willingly marry me, now. It is a few years since we last set eyes on each other, and I now carry this curse upon my back,’ Richard said, sadly, as he flexed his shoulder blades. ‘Now her father is dead, she will inherit half of his estates, and I badly need those estates to compete with George. So, willing, or unwilling, I will marry her. She may not bring her virginity to the marriage bed, but she would bring me the wealth and lands as befits my position.’

  ‘So, you would not marry her if she had no wealth to bring to the marriage?’

  Richard laughed at the naivety of the question. ‘I do not love Anne as you love Rose. I have already fathered a boy and girl with Katherine Haute, the woman I love, and who loves me despite my affliction. Sadly, I can never marry her because of her lowly rank, so Anne would be my wife as custom dictates. It would be a marriage of convenience for both of us. She will do her duty and provide me with male heirs, and I will do mine by giving her the high status and security she requires.’

  ‘But were you not ups
et on hearing of her marriage?’

  ‘I was angry, because she was mine. She belonged to me, promised by her father. There are few women I can marry within the nobility that reflect my royal status, and even fewer that I like, but if I did not marry her, it would not break my heart.’

  ‘So if she is with child, she will die on your orders, and if not, she will live, married to you, but blissfully unaware that you would have killed her?’

  Richard let out a long sigh. ‘John, I am not as other men. I am the brother of a king and as such am bound by matters of state. I must put king and the country above all else. You must understand that I am fond of Anne and wish her no harm, but she cannot give birth to the heir of the Lancastrian throne. Imagine the great grandson of Henry V, alive and well; the country would never be at peace. Therefore, to put an end to these bloody civil wars, and secure my brother’s throne, she would have to be sacrificed. The world is a hard place, and we have to make hard decisions. It is the price we pay for our noble birth.’

  ‘I am sorry, I did not mean to offend,’ apologised John. ‘Sometimes, I speak from the heart, and not the head.’

  Richard smiled. ‘There is no offence taken. It is good when you speak so true. It gives me thought for my conscience, but come, we must attend to our duties. I am meeting with Edward and the council. Margaret of Anjou has landed at Weymouth, and although we won a great victory today, there is still much to do.’

  They clasped each other, both glad the other had survived the day.

  ‘I will check on the men,’ said John, ‘and then I meet with Francis. We have an appointment with a few bottles of wine.’

  ‘I look forward to joining you, later,’ replied Richard, as they parted to attend to their duties.

  Chapter 16

  The End Game

  Cerne Abbey, Dorset, England

  15 April 1471

  Margaret of Anjou wandered through the abbey gardens in solitary silence. For the first time in weeks, she enjoyed the sensation of solid earth beneath her feet, although, she wished it was the firm soil of France, and not the shifting sands of England that she walked on.

  In Honfleur, on the orders of King Louis, Marshall Lohéac, and his Scots Guards, had forced Margaret on to a ship with her small court, to be dispatched across the channel with all haste. For many months before this, she had worked tirelessly to stall the crossing, for she knew England was still unsafe, with Edward and Warwick stalking each other, and she was desperate to await the outcome of their final battle, for if Warwick lost, then the enterprise of England would be finished.

  Even then, fate had held them back, for as they set sail, a huge storm had blown up and driven them back to seek the safety of the harbour. There, for two long windswept weeks, they had ridden out the tempest. Many of the crew had said it was witches’ work, such was the severity and length of it, but finally, it abated, and now, after an absence of eight years, Margaret was back in this accursed land.

  Her mind filled with thoughts of Simon. It was because of him she was back in this land of madmen. She wondered where he was, and if she would ever see him again. A shiver of dread passed through her body as she wondered if he was still alive.

  Oh, God, she thought. Love is such a curse. Life would be so simple and straightforward without it, but how my heart would sing to see him.

  The sounds of footsteps caught her ears and she turned to see thirty or more soldiers striding from the abbey towards her. At their head was Edmund Beaufort, the 4th Duke of Somerset, and his younger brother, John, the Marquess of Dorset. Also with them, was John Courtenay, the Earl of Devon. Margaret’s son hurried along with them.

  She knew they had news of Warwick and King Edward. She stood perfectly still and appraised them as they approached. She thought it strange that men on their own were usually calm and rational, but the thirty men approaching her had a swaggering menace about them, with their swords and daggers swinging from their belts. She sensed an aggression simmering from their midst. Maybe, she reasoned, it was the powerful smell of sweat and leather, which caused this veneer of belligerence, or perhaps it was just something that men did when gathered in numbers; like wolves, or wild dogs, they became a pack.

  If I did not know these men, I would be fearful, she thought. But, I do know them; I am their Queen.

  The nobles bowed with a flourish; their men dropped to one knee.

  ‘Do I march for London as Queen of England to celebrate Warwick’s triumph or do I take ship to France with all haste?’ Margaret asked; her voice firm and clear so all could hear her.

  ‘Warwick is dead,’ stated Edmund Beaufort, with undisguised delight.

  A ripple of elation passed through Margaret’s body. At last, the monster was slain; his wings finally turned to stone. The man who had forced the crown from her head was now dead. She looked at Edmund’s smiling face. ‘Your father and brother served me well, and have now been avenged.’

  ‘Aye, they can rest in peace, but I cannot,’ Edmund Beaufort replied. ‘Not until we have returned the kingdom back to its rightful rulers.’

  Margaret suppressed the laughter that tried to well up from her throat, although her eyes could not disguise her amusement. ‘Me thinks France beckons with all haste,’ she said. ‘We will not defeat Edward, for the crown of England now sits firmly upon his handsome head. As you can see, I have with me only a small court, which comprises of Lord Wenlock – who is over seventy; Doctor Morton – who is over fifty and not in the best of health, and Sir John Fortescue – who is a wonder at eighty years old. Also, my son of seventeen years and his wife, two ladies-in-waiting and their husbands, and you three: nobles with little experience of war, and currently, with only thirty men between you. So, forgive me for stating the obvious,’ she said, suppressing a giggle, ‘but I fear we are not equipped to defeat Edward’s victorious army of thousands of well trained and battle-hardened troops.’

  ‘Madam, we must head with all speed down through the West Country,’ said Edmund Beaufort, earnestly. ‘The ancient Lancastrian names of Beaufort and Courteney – noble names that stretch back through the generations – will rally men to our standard. We will head for Exeter, Bath, and Bristol, gathering troops as we go. Jasper Tudor has sent word from Wales that he will join us with a large army. Edward will be no match for us.’

  ‘If you and that will-of-the-wisp, Jasper Tudor, had joined with Warwick at Barnet, then Edward would be no more,’ Margaret shouted at them. ‘You were fools to let such an opportunity slip through your fingers. Remember the saying “Divide and conquer”? Well, you have done that to yourselves. How Edward must be laughing at your stupidity. If you had supported Warwick, then I would now be heading to London to crown my son King of England, but by leaving him to stand alone you have destroyed any chance we had of winning the crown back.’

  ‘Mother!’ cried Prince Edward, his eyes shining with excitement. ‘If you return to France, it will be alone, for I head to Exeter to raise an army and reclaim my rightful throne.’

  All eyes turned to Margaret as she stood silently studying her son. She saw the fire that burned in his eyes. She had seen the same in Simon’s eyes when he had left her to attack Warwick, all those years ago. Now, her son had the madness, consumed with dreams of being a king. She knew nothing would calm his passion but she could not leave him to his fate. She would go with him and try, over the coming days, to change his mind. Fate was once again forcing her down a road she did not wish to travel.

  With icy bitterness, Margaret said, ‘You had better go and inform your wife that her father is dead. Without him, her use to us is over. This child of Warwick is unwanted baggage. Thankfully, the marriage was never consummated, so it will be easy to obtain an annulment. There are plenty of princesses in Europe who will sit better as Queen of England, and I certainly do not wish to have grandchildren who carry the blood of Warwick in their veins.’

  Prince Edward looked fleetingly at his feet, and then sheepishly at his mother, his face slowly turn
ing bright red.

  Margaret knew in an instant the reason why and her eyes widened in angry disbelief.

  Ellerton Priory, Yorkshire Dales

  24 April 1471

  Rose watched the grey mist on the surface of the river silently fanning out. It covered the surrounding Dales beneath with a great, white, misty lake, filling the ditches and hollows, hugging the cold earth with its wet touch, as though trying to smother the beauty of God’s creation. In the watery half-light of the dawn, it gave the illusion of standing on a cloud, just as she imagined the saints and angels must stand as they watched out over the world.

  ‘Come on,’ huffed Sister Mary as she waddled along.

  Rose thought Sister Mary’s little legs moved surprisingly quickly for someone of such ample proportions.

  ‘Not only must we see to the sheep,’ Sister Mary urged, ‘but because Sister Agnes is sick, we also have the goats to attend to, and we still have to be back for vespers or we will miss breakfast.’

  Rose smiled at the slight panic in Sister Mary’s breathless voice, for she had learnt that the good sister never ever missed a meal, snack, or drink.

  Rose had joined this Cistercian Order on her return from seeing Simon at Egglestone Abbey. It was a small convent comprising of some fifty nuns, not too far from Middleham Castle, and her family. She had been accepted as a novice nun, at last finding peace under the loving cloak of God.

  Sister Mary had told Rose that the order had been formed during the reign of Henry II. The poor king had ordered the murder of his own archbishop, Thomas Becket, and had then spent the rest of his life praying for forgiveness, whilst being punished by God, who turned his four sons against him, one by one. Even to this day, a prayer was said daily for his soul.

  Rose made her way to the pens. The lambing season had started and all the ewes in their small flock had produced healthy lambs. They had been put in the pens overnight to keep them safe from predators. She swung the gates open to let the sheep out into the pastures, and watched the newborn lambs run unsteadily beside their mothers; the sight left Rose feeling empty inside, for she had now chosen a childless life. Thoughts of John and what should have been flooded into her. Once again, tears welled in her eyes.