The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  ‘Rose!’ shouted Sister Mary, as she strode towards her. ‘Drive ’em up to the higher pasture. There’s good grazing there and they will produce better milk for their young ones.’

  Rose nodded, fighting back the tears.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Sister Mary, as she came closer.

  ‘Tis nothing,’ Rose whispered.

  ‘You were thinking of him, weren’t you?’

  Rose nodded.

  ‘Oh, Rose,’ said Sister Mary, as she placed her arm gently around Rose’s shoulder. ‘You cannot carry this guilt and pain forever. The men who raped you have been punished; it was not you who committed this crime. You are innocent in the eyes of God, innocent in the eyes of the world, and innocent in the eyes of the man who loves you.’

  Rose nodded, and took a deep breath. ‘You are right,’ she said, as a fragile smile creased her face. ‘I do not mean to be so weak.’

  ‘It is not weakness, but mark my words, Sir John will come looking for you, and he will love you just the same as he always did.’

  ‘He will never see me again!’ Rose cried. ‘I would rather die than feel his pity.’

  ‘Time will tell…’ said Sister Mary, quietly. ‘Time will tell…’

  As they arrived at the convent, Rose could see a horse silhouetted in the stillness of the morning mist. She could see the steam rising from its flanks; it had been ridden hard. Her heart fluttered in alarm, her pace slowed.

  Sister Mary, sensing Rose’s apprehension, slowed with her. ‘Tis nothing to concern us,’ she said.

  ‘Could be my John,’ Rose whispered, her eyes searching around, frantically.

  The sound of footsteps came from within the entrance hall. They grew louder. The great doors swung open and Rose turned to flee, but Sister Mary held her firm.

  The shape of a man stood in the gloom of the doorway.

  Rose looked with consternation towards the looming figure as she struggled to break free of Sister Mary’s vice-like grip.

  ‘Rose, you have nothing to fear,’ said the figure, as he came towards her.

  Sodbury Hill, Gloucestershire

  2 May 1471

  He walked slowly through a peaceful wood. Shafts of sunlight fractured the calm shade. Birds, feeding their young, swooped low, protecting their nests. Rose walked beside him, her delicate hand gently holding his. She was smiling, her beautiful eyes sparkling, her eyelashes fluttering as she talked excitedly about their future. As they passed a fallen tree trunk, she pushed him against it. Frantically trying to keep his balance, he clawed at thin air, and then he fell to the ground, his legs hanging over the trunk. Rose raced away, running through the forest, her laughter following in her wake. With feigned anger, he chased after her. Finally, exhausted, she stopped; her back against a tree. He placed his hands either side of her shoulders. His heart pounded. She reached up, and pulled him to her. They kissed…

  ‘Sir John…’ the words were distant. ‘Sir John…’ the voice was louder, urgent.

  John Tunstall turned away, but hands shook him. He concentrated his mind to stay asleep, to stay with Rose, but she was lost to him. His dream evaporated and he woke to see his squire’s face close to his.

  ‘In the name of God!’ John shouted. ‘No sooner do I find sleep than you take it away from me.’

  ‘You are urgently required in the King’s tent,’ replied the squire, with an aggrieved air. ‘Duke Richard has sent word that he will meet you there.’

  John placed his hand on the squire’s shoulder. ‘I did not mean to sound harsh, but sleep around here is as rare as a unicorn’s turd.’ He stifled a yawn.

  As he entered the royal tent, John noted that it would be a couple of hours until the cock crowed. Candles shone brightly, bathing the interior in a golden hue. The warmth within made the tiredness he felt even harder to control. Stifling another yawn, he watched as King Edward paced around the table in frustration, the heads of his captains swivelling from left to right.

  ‘I have been deceived,’ Edward growled. ‘Our Duke of Somerset has melted away into the night.’

  ‘I would wager he is racing for Gloucester,’ said Lord Hastings. ‘There is a bridge there that crosses the Severn.’

  Edward stopped his prowling, a look of comprehension filling his eyes. He stared at Lord Hastings. ‘So, you think he plans to join with Jasper Tudor.’ His eyes widened in sudden understanding. ‘My God,’ he whispered. ‘If he succeeds…’

  ‘Then, when we close for battle they will outnumber us two to one,’ finished Lord Hastings.

  ‘Then, he must not succeed,’ stated Richard, calmly.

  All eyes turned towards him as he rose from his chair and looked around the table. When he spoke, his voice carried authority.

  ‘The Mayor of Gloucester – Sir Richard Beauchamp – is Yorkist to the core, so will be loyal to our cause. A royal warrant should be sent, telling him that on no account must Margaret of Anjou, and her army enter the town and cross the river. The gates are to be firmly closed.’

  ‘The messenger must leave immediately,’ urged Edward, his frustration gone and replaced with excitement. ‘Our army must be roused and marching within the hour if we are to catch them.’

  Richard beckoned to John.

  John mounted his horse and placed the royal warrant safe within his tunic. The Hallet twins, also mounted, moved up alongside John.

  ‘It is a dangerous mission,’ said Richard. ‘You must avoid their army at all costs, so take the high road through Nailsworth and on to Stroud. Our scourers tell us they have taken the low road to Berkeley Castle, so with luck, you will have no contact with them. When you arrive at Gloucester, hand the warrant to the mayor and then help him organise their defences. We will follow on, a day behind you.’ He reached up and clasped John’s hand. ‘It is vital,’ he commanded, ‘that you secure those gates.’

  John smiled and nodded towards the twins. ‘We both know these two could hold the gates of Gloucester alone.’ Digging his heels into his mount, he cried, ‘See you in two days’ time, my Lord!’

  Richard watched them race like the wind, away from the royal camp.

  City of Gloucester

  3 May 1471

  Margaret of Anjou stood on the top of Coney Hill looking down upon the entrance to the city of Gloucester, its massive oak gates shut and barred. Her spirits sank. She looked around her at the faces staring silently towards the city. Her heart went out to her son, still just a boy, with no experience of campaigning, just a figurehead in this risky enterprise. Standing next to him was Anne, who now had the hollow title of Princess of Wales.

  Edmund Beaufort, his brother, John; Hugh and John Courtenay, all stood as though turned to stone, their faces grim. This terrible setback had knocked the wind from their sails.

  Lord Wenlock and Sir John Langstother joined them.

  Lord Wenlock bowed. ‘My Lady, the city is well organised in its defence. It would take a month of Sundays to breach them.’

  Margaret threw an icy look at Edmund Beaufort, and then at John Courtenay. ‘Well, gentlemen, you have brought us to this situation, so what are your plans now?’

  Edmund Beaufort stepped forward. ‘We will march for Tewkesbury with all haste. A small ford there crosses the river. I will send word to Jasper to meet us there with his army.’

  Margaret knew he spoke the words with false confidence, for they all knew Jasper Tudor had disappeared at the very moment they needed him – the man was a coward, and would betray them.

  Lord Wenlock butted in, putting all their thoughts into words. ‘We must think of France, my Lady. We have had no word from Jasper Tudor. He betrayed Warwick and I believe he will do the same to us. Edward and his brothers are but a few hours behind us and our men are exhausted. We must flee, if the House of Lancaster is to survive.’

  Edmund Beaufort knew that Lord Wenlock spoke the truth – they all did – but his pride, like his brother and father before him, overcame the hopelessness of the situation.

&nb
sp; ‘There will be no fleeing,’ Edmund Beaufort shouted, his bravado returning. ‘I, and the others, have spent long years in exile, and we have had our bellies full of it. We will head for Tewkesbury, where with Jasper Tudor, or no Jasper Tudor, we will stand and fight.’

  Margaret looked at her son. She saw in his eyes that he had lost hope in this enterprise. She knew he was no fool – without Jasper Tudor, they were doomed. Still, she thought, he is only young. He would never admit to the truth, for he would lose face with his captains. He was caught like a fish in a net. There would be no fleeing with her to France, but if she went with them to Tewkesbury, she would have another day to make him change his mind, or find a plan to save him. It was worth the gamble.

  ‘Come,’ urged Lord Wenlock, ‘we can be in Bristol in two days, and from there take ship to France, and safety.’

  Margaret saw the hate that filled Edmund Beaufort’s and his companion’s eyes. As they glared at Lord Wenlock, their hands slipped down to their swords.

  Margaret stepped between them. ‘We march to Tewkesbury with all haste. Once there, the decision to fight, or not, will be made.’

  John Tunstall and the Hallet twins looked out from the battlements of Gloucester’s great gatehouse as the Lancastrian army moved off.

  ‘Well, that’s them well stuffed,’ said George, with a knowing laugh.

  ‘They thinks they be marching for Tewkesbury,’ said Thomas, ‘but it will be more like Hell when King Edward and Duke Richard catch ’em.’

  John knew they were right. He turned away and cast his eyes over the soft, rolling hills of the Vale of Berkeley, looking into the distance for a faint dust cloud that would herald the arrival of Edward and his army.

  As he gazed at the peaceful countryside, his thoughts turned to Rose, again. A deep longing caught him by surprise. Where was she? Was she safe? The pain in his chest thumped like a hammer. One more battle, he vowed, and then I will seek her out.

  Ellerton Priory, Yorkshire Dales

  3 May 1471

  As Rose watched the young, spring lambs discover their new world, her thoughts returned to that day two weeks ago when the horseman had arrived. She recalled how she had tried to flee, thinking it was her John coming to find her. She remembered the shame that had filled her, and Sister Mary’s strong hands holding her firm…

  The man had stood before her, his long, tousled hair framing his face like a wild storm. She remembered his words: ‘Rose, you have nothing to fear’.

  Simon Langford had held his arms out, a smile softening his features. She had run to him. He had held her tightly and whispered the words that had set her free: ‘Warwick is dead’.

  That morning, he had told of the great battle that had taken place at Barnet, and how he had found Warwick standing alone with his captains.

  ‘I have avenged the deaths of my mother and sisters, and all the others who died at the hands of that monster’, Simon had said.

  Rose remembered the look of sadness that had swept across his face as he confessed his heart was still heavy with guilt. Killing Warwick had not set him free of his demons. He told her he was going to travel to the uplands to pray alone and find salvation in God’s words.

  She had watched him ride slowly away. Staring after him, she had prayed he would find redemption. For herself, calmness had settled upon her. John had survived the battle, for Simon had seen him just after slaying Warwick. Now that the monster was finally no more she had felt a feeling of elation, as though a curtain had been drawn back, letting the sunlight back into the darkness that had surrounded her for so long.

  As she stood watching the young lambs, Rose dared to think of a future with John – the spirits had told her they would meet again. The thought filled her equally with hope, and dread.

  Sister Mary called her. As Rose turned to go, her steps felt lighter, and a smile played upon her face. She did not know what the future held, but her heart was beating with hope, for finally, at last, she felt alive.

  Tewkesbury Abbey, Tewkesbury

  3 May 1471

  The day had been long and hot. Margaret of Anjou, with her daughter in-law, the Princess Anne, had ridden on horseback the thirty-six miles from Gloucester to Tewkesbury Abbey at the front of her son’s army.

  The men had suffered agonies of thirst, and all the time high up on the Cotswolds, like a circling eagle, King Edward and his army had shadowed them relentlessly, matching them stride for stride.

  Entering the abbey brought them cool relief from the hot, May sun. Margaret’s ladies-in-waiting, Lady Vaux and Lady Whittingham, along with old Sir John Fortescue sat quiet and still in the shadow of the cloisters, too tired and weary to help organise their quarters.

  Margaret watched, amazed, as Anne took charge of the situation.

  ‘Your Highness,’ Anne said, as she approached with the abbot. ‘May I introduce, Brother John Streynsham, the abbot.’

  The abbot bowed low.

  Margaret was pleased with the respect he showed, and waved him upright. ‘We are grateful for your hospitality,’ she said. The man was growing old, perhaps in his late fifties. His face was lined and worn. She considered that the huge responsibilities of the abbey were taking their toll on him, but his eyes were sharp and bright – laughter lines formed around them. She could see he had enjoyed a good life in the service of God. ‘You two seem to know each other,’ she said looking at the abbot, and then to Anne.

  ‘Aye, my Lady,’ said Brother John. ‘Anne’s aunt, Cecily Neville, the Duchess of Warwick, is buried in the large chapel she built here in 1438, and the Countess of Warwick – Lady Anne’s mother – is also a loyal supporter of the abbey.’

  Margaret noted that his voice was soft, but firm. The abbot was a man who was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. She turned her attention to Anne.

  ‘I have stayed here many times,’ Anne volunteered, before Margaret could speak. ‘My family has always had close ties with the abbey.’

  Margaret felt the glimmer of an idea forming. ‘Anne, as you know the abbey so well, please take our ladies-in-waiting and arrange our accommodation. I would speak with the abbot in private.’

  When they were alone, Margaret and the abbot sat down. She studied him with an expression of benevolence, for here was the man who could save her son. ‘My dear abbot,’ she began, ‘tomorrow, our army will join in battle against King Edward.’

  Brother John nodded.

  ‘You may not be aware,’ Margaret continued, ‘but we will struggle to win this battle.’

  Brother John was taken aback by this frankness. ‘Surely, it will be God who decides the outcome,’ he said, gently.

  ‘If only that were true,’ Margaret sighed. ‘Edward commands a battle-hardened army. We, on the other hand, have inexperienced soldiers led by the Duke of Somerset, who like his brother and father before him, is hot-headed when he should be calm, and tactically lacking when he should be inspired. If we had Jasper Tudor here we would be equal to Edward, but the dog is not here, so tomorrow, the House of Lancaster will, I believe, be defeated.’

  ‘So, why do you stand and fight if the outcome is already decided?’ asked Brother John. ‘Could you not disperse your army and take ship for France?’

  ‘My son, Edward, has always believed he would win his kingdom back with his courage and his sword, and tomorrow is his day of reckoning. Even though he has doubts now, that Jasper Tudor has betrayed us, there is still some silly romantic notion within him that says he cannot desert his men.’

  ‘So what’s to be done?’ asked Brother John. ‘You are obviously telling me this for a reason.’

  ‘Tomorrow, when the battle turns, I have arranged with certain captains – Lord Wenlock being one – that they are to safely escort my son from the battlefield. They are experienced enough to know when that time will be. Then, they will bring him here, where I now ask you to give him sanctuary, to hide him from King Edward’s men until it is safe for him to take ship to France.’

  Bro
ther John sat in silence as he digested this request. He knew, if he agreed, it would put his life and his brother monks’ lives in danger. ‘It is a dangerous thing you ask,’ he whispered. ‘You ask many to risk great danger to save one.’

  Margaret moved closer to him, her voice conspiratorial. ‘Only a few would know,’ she whispered. She saw the abbot was unsure of what to do, but he had not dismissed her out of hand, so she played her last card; she knew he was fond of Anne. ‘If my son dies, then so will his wife, the Princess Anne.’

  ‘Anne is but a girl!’ Brother John cried. ‘She has no say in any of this conflict.’

  ‘She is pregnant with my son’s child,’ Margaret whispered.

  Brother John stared into Margaret’s eyes. His mouth opened slightly as he realised what this would mean.

  ‘Yes,’ said Margaret, as she saw the abbot working out the implications. ‘If my son dies, then they could not let her live with the new heir to the Lancastrian throne growing in her belly. They would hunt her down and kill her.’

  Anne listened to the arguments that filled the room. Raised voices fired angry words around her. She watched the Edmund Beaufort, the Duke of Somerset, thump the arm of his chair in frustration; Margaret, sitting straight-backed, her arm outstretched, accusing him of leading his men to their deaths. The Earl of Devon jumped from his chair, shouting his support for the duke. Lord Wenlock wrung his hands nervously as he offered his loyalty to Margaret.

  Anne looked at her husband, who sat silently gazing into the fire, lit to keep the damp air that flowed off the River Avon at bay. He had not shown his support for the duke and his captains, who were going to stand their ground and fight. Neither had he joined his mother’s cause, whose supporters argued that they disperse their army tonight, under the cover of darkness, and then take ship for France.