The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  Tower of London

  21 May 1471

  In the distance, through the gathering dusk, lights flickered out.

  Margaret of Anjou saw them through tired eyes, their appealing charm mesmerising her, beckoning her, although she knew they held only danger.

  She was weary. In the old days, these distant lights from the great Tower meant warmth and safety; a comfortable bed and food. She shivered, not against the chilled evening air, but with fear, for a cold damp dungeon awaited her, and then maybe a short step to the scaffold.

  For her, the journey from Tewkesbury to London had been long and arduous, but for King Edward, she noted, it had been a journey of triumphant progress.

  The villagers and townsfolk had come out to cheer him on his way, and to stare at her, the vanquished queen. Some had tried to throw rotten fruit or vegetables at her, but had been chased off by her guards and although Edward had decreed that she be shown the appropriate respect for a person of royal blood, she realised she was now a figure of ridicule to be despised and tormented. There was no honour for a defeated queen.

  As she approached the outer gate of the Tower with Duke Richard, Lord Lovell, Earl Rivers, and their retainers, she saw the guards stiffen to attention. They passed through the next gatehouse into the inner ward, where they finally stopped. Yeomen of the Tower held their horses steady as they dismounted.

  Margaret looked up at the great, white tower that dominated the castle. Its walls looked cold and hard in the evening twilight. The smooth Caen stone, imported from France that provided the detail in the facing of the towers, made her think fleetingly of her home near Lorraine, and then of Simon.

  Her spirit lifted as she thought of him and then her heart sank; it was her attempt to save Simon that had brought her to this humiliation. She looked into the dark entrances to the towers, where many had entered, but few came out.

  She could see the royal chambers where she had stayed as queen. She remembered how she had ordered the walls to be whitewashed and then decorated with frescos of beautiful flowers. She wondered if they were still the same.

  Her thoughts of happier times vanished as suddenly two yeomen guards took hold of her and escorted her towards Beauchamp Tower. Their rough hands dug painfully into her arms as they dragged her brutally across the yard. She stifled a cry of anguish as the cold dark entrance loomed before her. She looked back to see Duke Richard and his two companions, being led by the constable towards the Bloody Tower, where she knew her husband, Henry, was imprisoned.

  The cell door slammed shut behind her. Margaret heard the guards walking away, laughing, and sniggering at what they would do if they had been locked in the cell with her.

  She looked around at her spartan surroundings. In the gloom, on the far side of the cell, she could see a straw pallet; near to it, stood a small table, and two rough chairs. A small, barred window looked out across the inner ward. She walked across to it and saw directly opposite, the Bloody Tower.

  Looking up, she could see candles burning brightly within one of the rooms. She reasoned it must have been Henry’s room, as he had always lit candles at his holy altar, where he prayed for hours every day.

  It had been seven years ago when she had left him, for France, and she never thought she would see him alive again, yet, there he was, only yards away from her. She stared, fascinated, at the enlarged shadows the candles reflected on to the walls, when she saw a shadowy arm raise up, a sword held within its hand. Her fascination turned to horror as the hand plunged down; her blood turned cold as she heard a loud shrill scream of terror.

  The realisation of what was happening hit Margaret like a thunderbolt. ‘They are killing Henry!’ she cried, into the darkness. She saw the shadowy arm rise for a second time, but this time, the second shrill scream was cut short.

  Margaret stood transfixed with horror, her breath coming in short gasping spasms.

  The door to the Bloody Tower crashed open, and the figure of Duke Richard stumbled out, his face reflected sheet-white by the rising moon, a bloody sword in his hand. Lord Lovell and Earl Rivers quickly followed. All three mounted their horses and raced away.

  Looking back up to the room, Margaret could see only one stationary shadow – they had left the constable to clean up their murderous actions. She walked across to a chair and slowly sat down, resting her forearms on the table. She lowered her head and silently wept for poor harmless Henry. Then, great sobs welled up for her beautiful son. She had hidden her grief well since her capture; they would never see her weaken, but now alone, the gates of her despair opened.

  Margaret of Anjou’s grief flowed in a torrent of tears. She was alone, and defeated.

  Chapter 18

  Love Triumphs

  Middleham Castle, North Yorkshire

  23 May 1471

  Rose watched the sun slowly disappear over the horizon. She had decided to sit and enjoy its waning splendour, and not to move until she saw the first star of the night.

  Her thoughts turned to the changes in her life. It felt right to be back at Middleham Castle. She reasoned it was where she belonged. The slow, tedious life of a novice nun was not for her. Sister Mary and the Mother Superior had gently steered her away from taking her vows, and finally, she had agreed with them. Their wonderful kindness had shown her that the world was still merciful and compassionate, and they had explained to her that she could never take her vows and marry Jesus because her heart still belonged to John.

  The experience of Ellerton Priory had been good for her spirit. The dreadful ordeal she had suffered at Warwick Castle was still raw and still haunted her dreams, but since she had heard of the Earl of Warwick’s death, it had become easier to bear. Justice had been done. The earl, she prayed, was now supping with all the devils of hell.

  She was sitting in Lady Tunstall’s old rooms. The Great Controller had said she could stay there while they waited for news on the outcome of the battle between King Edward and Margaret of Anjou. So, while they waited, Rose had started preparing the rooms for Lady Tunstall’s return. It was known she had arrived back in England, but where she was still remained a mystery.

  John Tunstall, and the Hallet twins, approached the castle, weary from their long hours in the saddle. They were covered in sweat, and dirt from the hot, dry dust of the early summer roads.

  It had taken five days of hard riding to get from Tewkesbury to Middleham. Now, at last, the castle stood before them. Its great granite walls were bathed in moonlight that scattered huge shadows across the ground around its base. The hour was late as they approached, and lights appeared above the Great Keep.

  ‘Who goes there?’ demanded a voice.

  ‘Sir John Tunstall and the Hallet twins on the King’s business,’ John replied.

  They sat patiently on their tired horses, listening to the urgent shouts from behind the walls of the Great Keep. While they waited, John glanced up at the stars that filled the vastness of the heavens. It occurred to him that Rose was lost in the vastness of the north. Would he ever find her?

  A small door in the great gate swung open, and a huge tree of a man eased himself through the narrow opening. Raising himself to his full height, he stepped towards them. ‘Is that you, young John?’ he asked, and then seeing the twins, ‘and you George and Thomas?’

  John slipped from his horse, and stepped towards the master-at-arms. ‘Aye, it is us!’ he cried.

  Two huge hands held his shoulders in a vice-like grip. ‘Welcome home, Sir John. Welcome home,’ cried the master-at-arms, with excitement in his voice.

  A few moments later, they were all seated in the guardroom just inside the Great Keep. The master-at-arms had ordered the kitchens to be opened, and bread and cold meats brought for their new guests. He had also sent word to the Great Controller that Sir John and the Hallet twins had arrived with news of King Edward’s victory at Tewkesbury.

  ‘A lot has happened since that day you threw those snowballs at the twins,’ laughed the master-at-arms.r />
  John smiled at the memory. Was it really over eight years ago? It was also, he remembered, the day he had fallen in love with Rose.

  ‘Aye, and he has proved his courage many times on the field of battle since then,’ said George.

  ‘You have grown from a young boy to a man, in these last eight years. I wish that I could have been with you,’ said the master-at-arms. ‘As you know, I fought alongside your father many times, but, alas, I am too old and slow to fight in open battle now.’

  ‘No slower than those two,’ replied John, nodding in the direction of the twins.

  They smiled broadly at the affectionate insult, secure in the respect they knew John had for them.

  The Great Controller burst into the guardroom, his yellow eyes flashing with excitement. ‘Tis good to see you all,’ he said, his eyes scanning their faces. ‘Now, tell me, what news from Tewkesbury?’

  ‘A great victory for our King Edward and Richard,’ replied John. ‘The Lancastrian cause is finished. Somerset and Prince Edward are slain, and Margaret of Anjou is held in the Tower.’

  The Great Controller sat down. ‘This is wonderful news,’ he said, making himself comfortable. ‘Pray tell me how the battle was won.’

  Between mouthfuls of cold meat, bread, and sweet pastries, John and the Hallet twins told the story of the campaign, and that Duke Richard was now the master of Middleham Castle.

  Turning to the master-at-arms, the Great Controller said, ‘It is time to remove Warwick’s Bear and Ragged Staff from all areas of the castle and replace it with the insignia of Duke Richard’s White Boar.’ He looked at the weary faces around him. ‘Forgive me for talking so much,’ he said. ‘I know the hour is late, and you must be weary from your journey. I have made hot water available, so wash, and then get some sleep. We will talk more at length tomorrow.’ He rose from his chair and prepared to take his leave, beckoning to John to follow.

  John and the Great Controller stood alone in the shadow of the Great Keep.

  ‘Have you come to seek out Rose?’ asked the Great Controller.

  ‘Aye,’ replied John. ‘I will travel north at first light to find her; I will not return until I do.’

  The Great Controller placed his hand on John’s shoulder and gently turned him around until he faced the inner keep of the castle. Pointing up to the battlements, he said, ‘There is no need to travel north in the morning. Do you see the lights shining out from your old quarters?’

  John nodded.

  ‘Rose is nearer than you could ever imagine,’ he whispered. With a wink and a smile, the Great Controller disappeared into the night.

  All else within the castle was in darkness; John’s heart began to beat faster.

  It was close to midnight. John stood silently at the foot of the steps – the steps he and Rose had raced down so many times, in what seemed a lifetime ago.

  He had washed the sweat and dirt from his body, and beaten the dust from his clothes as best he could. He looked up the steps as they spiralled into the darkness. Slowly, he started to climb. As he made his ascent, his earlier weariness vanished, replaced with an intense energy. Reaching the door, anticipation coursed through his veins. He leaned against the wall and tried to gather his thoughts. There was only the door’s thickness between him and Rose.

  He knocked twice. His knuckles, white with tension, were poised in mid-air as he listened for any sound. He heard a slight rustle of movement, and his body filled with emotion. Throwing the door open, he stepped into the room.

  Rose stood beside a tall, oak bench. A half-embroidered cushion cover hung loosely in her hands. She stared at John, her eyes wide with surprise.

  John stood motionless, his eyes taking in Rose’s simple, turquoise cotton dress, edged with ribbon. A ring of blue beads circled the crown of her head. Her thick brown hair tumbled around her pretty face and shoulders. He watched as tears of joy filled her beautiful eyes.

  ‘John?’ Rose whispered. Her legs started to buckle. She dropped the cushion cover and reached out with an unsteady hand for support.

  John caught her as she started to fall. His strong arms curled around her waist.

  Rose circled her arms around John’s neck, and their lips met in a kiss, then, slipping her hands away, Rose pushed John from her, releasing him for their embrace.

  They stood, a few feet apart, staring at each other, their breathing quick and shallow.

  ‘I have something to tell,’ Rose said. ‘Once I have told you, your love for me will never be the same.’ A great sob welled up from her chest. ‘Oh, John, I love you so much, it hurts,’ she cried, as tears rolled down her cheeks, ‘but I have to tell you the shameful truth.’

  John placed a finger gently against her lips. ‘I know of what you are about to say,’ he said. ‘Edward met his brother, George, for their reconciliation at Warwick Castle, and while I was there I was told of your terrible ordeal.’ He looked into Rose’s eyes and saw the pain that filled them. ‘Oh, Rose, my darling, I have been fearful of this moment ever since I learnt of your suffering, not knowing where you were, living each day wondering if we would ever be together again, but you must believe me,’ he said earnestly, his eyes filling with tears. ‘I love you with all my heart. You must not carry this shame. You have done nothing wrong.’

  He dropped his hands to her waist and pulled her closer to him. ‘You could do me no greater honour than by becoming my wife,’ he said, finally, as the tears rolled down his cheeks.

  Rose’s face broke out into a fragile smile. She slipped her arms around John’s neck and kissed him. ‘I love you as life itself,’ she whispered softly as her tears mingled with his.

  Scooping her up into his arms, John carried her towards the bedroom.

  Through the darkness of sleep, John could hear the sounds of men and horses. He tried to make sense of these jumbled dreamlike thoughts. Were they preparing for battle, or just breaking camp? Why had his squire not woken him? A gentle hand touched his shoulder; soft lips kissed his cheek.

  ‘Are you awake?’

  John opened his eyes to see Rose lean down to kiss him again. A surge of joy shot through his body. He was not under canvas on some godforsaken field, preparing for battle, but here at Middleham Castle, in his old rooms, with Rose lying beside him. He sat upright, smiling, as the night before flooded back to him.

  ‘That grin of yours couldn’t get any bigger,’ Rose laughed.

  John lent over and kissed her. ‘We must marry before the week is out,’ he whispered, excitedly. He saw the look of love in Rose’s eyes as he took her in his arms. ‘I swear we will not be parted until you are my wife.’

  Joy filled Rose’s heart – the three spirits had been right.

  Amiens Cathedral, France

  1 June 1471

  King Louis knelt in the towering Cathedral of Amiens, praying for news of Warwick and Margaret of Anjou. For weeks, he had listened to rumours and gossip about their fates, and the longer he waited, the worse the situation seemed.

  He finished his prayers and rose from his knees. Turning from the altar, he looked down the centre aisle towards the great doors at the end of the knave. There, he saw gathered, a deputation of his closest advisors. He noted they all looked dejected.

  ‘You have news of Warwick?’ King Louis asked, with a sinking heart.

  Georges Havart stepped forward, nervously. ‘Our grand designs with Warwick are finished, your Majesty,’ he said, quietly. ‘He fell in battle on 14 April at a place called Barnet.’

  ‘And Margaret, and her son, what news of them?’ asked the king, his voice full of disappointment.

  ‘She is captured, and her son slain. The Yorkists are victorious. Edward once again rules England.’

  ‘Margaret was taken to the Tower of London, and her husband put to death on her arrival,’ whispered Etienne de Loup, hoarsely.

  King Louis brushed past them, his face full of anger. Stepping out of the cathedral, he walked briskly towards his Scots Guards who were tending hi
s horse, his posse of advisors rushing to keep up with him. He suddenly stopped.

  ‘Our grand designs with Warwick, and Margaret of Anjou, have reached a dismal end,’ he cried, with frustration. ‘Our dealings with that man have brought us only sorrow. Come, we must plan on how to deal with Charles of Burgundy, and Francis of Brittany, for they will be renewing their triangular alliance with King Edward against us. They will be strengthened by this turn of events, while we are weakened.’

  ‘We must use guile and subterfuge to play for time against these adversaries who grow arrogant against us,’ said Georges Havart.

  ‘Yes, you are right’,’ said King Louis, a sudden sense of purpose in his voice. ‘We will use our wits to divide them. We are, I think, somewhat more adroit than they are at these diplomatic games. Summon the Milanese ambassador, Sforza de Bettini, and the Spanish ambassador – we have much to discuss.’ With his mind now fully focused on the future, Warwick and Margaret of Anjou were now forgotten – consigned to history.

  Tewkesbury Abbey, Gloucestershire

  5 December 1471

  John Tunstall could see the ruthless anger in Richard’s eyes, as he glared across the table at John Streynsham, the Abbot of Tewkesbury. He felt sorry for the man, whose grey and lined face reflected his terrible dilemma. To answer Richard’s question would condemn the person he sought so urgently to death.

  ‘Where is Lady Anne?’ barked Richard, again. ‘She was left in your keeping, last May, and now you deny all knowledge as to where she is.’ He thumped the table in frustration.

  The abbot flinched. ‘I – I told you, my Lord,’ he stammered. ‘She left with Lady Vaux and a few servants shortly after they buried their husbands. I do not know where they went, or their whereabouts, now.’

  ‘You lie,’ snarled Richard. He stared at the abbot with contempt in his eyes. ‘You lie to me in this house of God, you hypocritical bastard. Do you take me for a fool?’