The Dreams of Kings

by David Saunders

  Francis stood up, threw more wood on to the fire, and then slowly resumed his seat.

  The three of them, sat in a semi-circle around it, silently watching the flames lick around the new logs.

  ‘Do you wish me to escort Lady Vaux to Gloucester docks, tomorrow?’ said Francis, breaking the silence.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Richard. ‘Take ten men at dawn and escort them on to the first ship bound for France. As you are now to be responsible for the task, you must ensure that the baby is no longer called, “baby prince” or “royal prince”. All reference to his royal birth will cease forthwith, and he will now be the common son of a wet-nurse, should any ask.’

  ‘What are your plans for the Lady Anne once her son has gone?’ asked John.

  ‘You, my old friend, are also to take ten men at dawn, and escort her to Beaulieu Abbey where you will make arrangements to take her and her mother back to Middleham Castle. Also, I believe your mother, Lady Tunstall is with her, as always, her loyal companion, so you will, at last, be reunited,’ he said, smiling at John.

  John felt a ripple of excitement at the thought of finally seeing his mother.

  ‘I will travel to London,’ continued Richard, ‘to meet with Edward and ask his permission to marry Anne. He, of course, knows nothing of her child and, God willing, will never know. Also, because we are both brother and sister in-law, and first cousins, we will need a special dispensation from the church to make the marriage legal. I will see the archbishop and put that in his good hands to arrange. Once all this is done, I will return to Middleham.’

  John rose reluctantly from the warmth of the fire. ‘I will go and inform the Lady Anne of the arrangements for tomorrow and organise the men for the dawn start,’ he said, with a heavy heart.

  Middleham Castle, North Yorkshire

  15 March 1472

  Rose sat quietly, brushing Anne’s hair. It had grown so long in the last year that it now reached down to her waist. She began braiding long strands and fixing them in an intricate pattern around the crown on her head. This was the day of Anne’s wedding to Richard. It had been arranged for midday, and the atmosphere in the room was one of sad resignation.

  Rose shifted her weight. Now eight months pregnant, she found that if she sat too long in the same position, the baby pushed on her back, or side, making her uncomfortable.

  Anne turned around and gently placed her hands on Rose’s stomach. A soft smile broke across her face, as she felt the baby kick. ‘That’s a boy, if I’m not mistaken,’ she said, with a knowing look.

  Rose gently took Anne’s hands. ‘Have you any news from France?’ she asked, earnestly.

  Anne shook her head. ‘It is over three months since my baby was taken and I still have no news.’ Her hand covered her mouth as she forced herself not to cry. ‘I have no one to help me, either,’ she whispered, dejectedly. ‘Duke Richard has forbidden all mention of him. It is as if he was never born.’

  Rose could see the despair in Anne’s eyes. She longed to help, and then an idea formed in her mind. There was a rumour that Margaret of Anjou was being released back to France.

  ‘Do not despair,’ Rose said. ‘I think I may be able to arrange for regular news of your baby to come from France.’

  ‘How?’ Anne cried, her eyes searching Rose’s face.

  ‘You must trust me,’ replied Rose.

  There was a soft knock on the door. One of Anne’s ladies-in-waiting opened it a few inches. Rose heard John’s voice. ‘It is time,’ he said.

  Anne gripped Rose’s hand tighter, her eyes filling with tears.

  ‘It is for the best,’ encouraged Rose. ‘You have saved your baby’s life by doing this.’

  Anne nodded in agreement. ‘I will take strength from his memory,’ she said as she swallowed her tears, and then as though she was cladding her body with invisible armour against the forthcoming ordeal, she said, with steely conviction, ‘I am the daughter of the great Earl of Warwick, a Neville, and never again will I show such weakness.’ She rose from her seat and walked slowly from the room. With each step, her determination grew stronger. She would show only fortitude in the dark days ahead.

  Rose turned to John, who lay beside her in their bed, and blessed her good fortune. She kissed him lightly on the lips.

  He smiled at her. ‘And what was that for?’ he asked.

  ‘We are blessed to have our love,’ she said, as she snuggled up to him, knowing that Anne had gone to the matrimonial bed with clear eyes, and her head held high. No one would have known of her inner feeling towards the bridegroom. ‘I keep thinking of poor Anne. She will never know such tender love with Duke Richard.’

  ‘She has played her hand as best she can,’ John replied.

  ‘But she has no news of her baby son, and that is too much for any woman to bear; a loveless marriage, and a son who is all but dead to her.’

  ‘There is nothing I fear we can do to help her,’ said John, sadly.

  ‘There is something we can do,’ hinted Rose, and she sat up. ‘You must go and seek out Simon Langford.’

  ‘Simon Langford?’ repeated John, with a puzzled look.

  Chapter 19

  New Beginnings

  City of London

  20 May 1472

  Margaret of Anjou glanced back as she rode slowly away from the great Tower of London. She shuddered at the evil within. Death and pain stalked daily within its shadowy archways and foul dungeons. Turning her face away, she crossed herself and thanked the Lord for her safe deliverance.

  It was said that all prisoners who escaped the Tower take a legacy that they carry for the rest of their lives. Margaret knew hers was the white face of Duke Richard, with his bloodied sword. It would haunt her dreams, forever.

  She had been told that Henry’s body had been taken to the church of St Paul’s, where it had been publicly displayed to the people of London as proof of his death. Under the cover of darkness, his body had been spirited away over the black waters of the Thames to that cheerless village of Chertsey, where, without ceremony, the sons of York had secretly buried the evidence of their crime.

  Alice de la Pole, the Duchess of Suffolk, and old friend to Margaret, moved up beside her. ‘No more dark thoughts,’ she said, her face breaking out into a smile. ‘You are free of that terrible place. Tomorrow, you will arrive at Ewelme Manor, and,’ she added, with a mischievous look, ‘I have organised a small celebration for your freedom.’

  Margaret returned her friend’s smile. She had known Alice for twenty-seven years. Alice and her husband had brought her from France to marry King Henry in the April of 1445, and they had remained close ever since. Alice, now in her sixty-eighth year, had always been like a mother to her.

  ‘Thank you for petitioning the King to have me released into your care,’ said Margaret. ‘If I had been much longer in that damp and dark place I fear my health would have been broken.’

  ‘Well, now you will have gardens to walk in, and our estates to ride with horse, and hunt with falcon,’ replied Alice. ‘While we get some colour back into your cheeks we will petition the King of France to finance your freedom.’

  ‘How much does King Edward demand for me?’

  ‘Fifty-thousand crowns,’ replied Alice, ‘but he will agree to ten thousand a year spread over five years, if, of course, you agree to sign away your claim to the English throne.’

  Margaret threw her head back and laughed. It was the first time Alice had heard her laugh since she had first visited her in the Tower over a year ago.

  ‘I will willingly sign it away,’ Margaret said. ‘Not being Queen of England is no loss to me, and I believe will be of no loss to the English. Show me the contract, and I will sign it.’

  ‘That will be the easy part,’ said Alice, thoughtfully. ‘The stumbling block will be convincing King Louis to pay the ransom demanded.’

  ‘Louis will find a way, if it is to his advantage,’ said Margaret. ‘He will make sure he gets value for money before he agrees
to pay, although, the outcome, again, is of no interest to me. Sadly, there is nothing in England or in France for me to live for. Since my son’s death my heart has been cold.’

  Margaret spoke with such melancholy that it brought a lump to Alice’s throat.

  They followed the River Thames out of London stopping over at Slough, Maidenhead, and Henley. From there, they had headed north-west into Oxfordshire where they had halted to rest the horses on Gansdown Hill.

  Alice pointed out the tall turrets of Ewelme Manor, which were just visible to the eye on the distant horizon. ‘We are nearly home, my Lady Queen.’

  Margaret smiled at the affectionate term. ‘Lady Queen’ was how Alice used to address her in private, when she had been lady-in-waiting. It somehow reaffirmed the strong bond between them that had been forged on that rough channel crossing all those years ago, when she had accompanied her as a young bride to England.

  The turrets of Ewelme Manor were now dominating the skyline as they rode through the grand estate towards them. They were only decorative, Margaret knew. Since the invention of cannon, castles had become obsolete and the rich were now building opulent red-bricked houses full of comfort and rich furnishings. The march of time had rendered useless the huge, cold, draughty castles of the past.

  Margaret breathed in the sweet fresh air. It was late spring, and summer was just beginning to claim its allotted time. Carpets of bluebells spread out over the floors of the oak and beech woodlands. The white and yellow flowers of the wild strawberry shone bright and glossy in the afternoon sunlight. Amongst the clovers of the short grasslands, yellow ‘lady’s fingers’ grew plentiful, and the meadows were filled with buttercups. Nature was renewing itself. Young fledglings were learning to fly, lambs and calves to walk.

  Margaret willed herself to be happy, but although her eyes saw beauty, her heart was still heavy. She sighed; would she never break free from this heavy cloak of sadness that she wore?

  Ewelme Manor, Oxfordshire

  24 May 1472

  Margaret’s arrival at the manor house had gladdened her heart. She had walked the beautiful galleries of the house, and marvelled at the craftsmanship of its new stone fireplaces, rich tapestries, and paintings that adorned the walls. After the Tower, it was a welcome retreat of comfort and peace.

  Her rooms were sumptuously furnished with furniture from Italy and Spain, with thick North African rugs covering the floor. Her bed was a joy to behold, after the hard pallet she had endured within her cell.

  Alice had presented her with a wardrobe of new dresses and undergarments – her old worn dresses that held the dirt of the Tower were taken away and burnt. Alice had also found two of her old attendants – Petronilla and Mary – to wait on Margaret.

  Margaret felt comforted to have faces she knew and people she could trust, around her. Alice had thought of everything to make her stay comfortable.

  At first, King Edward had wanted Margaret imprisoned two miles further along the road at Wallingford Castle. Alice’s husband was the constable there, and he had told Margaret that it had been the home to other royal ladies in days gone by: Isabella, wife of Edward II, had lived there. The widow of the Black Prince – Joan, Countess of Kent – had lived and died there. Catherine of France, and even Margaret’s husband, as a boy, had stayed there. For Margaret, its cold empty turrets would have been as bad as the Tower. Fortunately, Alice had persuaded the King to let Margaret be held under house arrest at her estate.

  After bathing, Margaret dressed for the small celebration that Alice had organised. She chose a simple, white, linen dress that flowed gently out from her hips to her feet. The top of the dress was oversewn with beautiful ivory silk that tightened in at her waist, and covered the sleeves. Down the front was a double line of pearls. The simple style of the dress showed off Margaret’s natural beauty and slim figure; it pleased her.

  Her ladies-in-waiting brushed and pleated her fine, blonde hair, and finished it by pinning a ring of wild summer flowers around the top.

  Alice entered the room and gasped with delight. ‘You look beautiful!’ she cried. ‘Where is that waif from the Tower?’

  Margaret smiled as she stepped forward and hugged Alice. ‘With praise to you, she has gone.’

  ‘Come,’ said Alice, softly. ‘We have time for a walk in the gardens before the feast.’

  The sun was waning as they walked. Margaret felt the coolness of the evening air through her simple linen dress. The freedom and space of the gardens delighted her as she looked up at the big cloudless sky above. It seemed to stretch forever into the distance. How different, she mused, from the small square patch I used to glimpse at from my cell in the Tower.

  They walked arm in arm past the beautifully sculptured conifers, and the small tightly cut hedges that gave the garden its shape.

  ‘How are you feeling, my Lady Queen?’ asked Alice.

  ‘I feel light-headed as though in a dream; as if detached, like watching someone else, and scared I will wake up soon and be back in my cell.’

  Alice squeezed Margaret’s arm. ‘It is real, my Lady Queen.’

  ‘Then, I feel wonderful, and sad, all at the same time, if that is possible,’ replied Margaret.

  ‘That will change.’

  Margaret saw a smile appear around Alice’s eyes.

  ‘You are still young,’ continued Alice. ‘God will not desert you.’

  They walked slowly on in silence, until Alice stopped. ‘I have forgotten an important detail for tonight’s feast!’ she cried. ‘Carry on down to the end of this path. The garden ends there but the view across the valley is beautiful; you must go and see it. I will come back shortly to escort you into the Great Hall for our celebration.’ She turned, and hurried away.

  Margaret looked after her, puzzled, and then carried on slowly towards the end of the path, happy to have a few moments alone.

  She was so deep in thought, she did not see the figure that stepped out from the hedges and trees, and who stood, watching her approach. She sensed, more than saw that someone was there. She stopped and slowly raised her eyes.

  The setting sun was behind him, casting a shadow over his features. When she saw his wild blonde hair blowing gently in the breeze, her heart started beating faster. She saw his stance – it made her gasp: one leg straight, the other slightly bent with the shoe turned out. She knew then, without a doubt.

  ‘Simon?’ she cried. ‘Simon?’

  They rushed towards each other, their eyes never leaving the other’s face. Then, feet away, they stopped as though an invisible wall stood between them.

  Tears slowly rolled down Margaret’s cheeks; her ears hummed with the beating of her heart, and then she was in Simon’s arms, holding him tight as though her life depended on it.

  ‘I said I would come when you needed me.’ Simon’s voice was thick with emotion.

  Margaret looked up at him; her tears mingled with his, as they embraced. Their bodies clung to each other as they both felt their empty hearts fill with joy. It seemed an eternity before they relaxed. They stepped slightly away from each other, their eyes hungrily studying the other.

  Margaret spoke first. ‘It is nearly two years since you left me at Château d’Amboise,’ she said, her eyes flashing with hurt, ‘and I have endured too much because of you.’

  ‘I had to go,’ Simon said, softly. ‘I was told the fate of my mother and sisters.’

  ‘And did you find them?’

  ‘No. Warwick had them killed.’

  Margaret’s eyes softened with compassion. She moved closer into Simon’s arms, and rested her head on his shoulder. ‘I lost my sweet son at Tewkesbury,’ she whispered. ‘He was shown no mercy, and killed by that monster, Richard of Gloucester. I was taken to the Tower of London, and on my first night there, under cover of darkness, Richard came and murdered poor Henry as he prayed. The man is more ruthless than the Devil.’

  There was a silence between them. Finally, Margaret said, ‘We are all that each other
has left in this world; we must never be parted again.’

  Simon lifted her chin and kissed her, tenderly. ‘You have more than just me,’ he said, with a broad smile.

  Margaret stepped back, and studied his face. ‘Anne?’ was all she said.

  ‘You have a grandson called Edward, after his father. He is safe in France with Lady Vaux, at your father’s court.’

  Margaret reached up and kissed Simon, passionately. Tears of joy formed in her eyes.

  Hurwell Manor, Tunstall Estate, Darlington

  14 December 1473

  John Tunstall awoke with a start. He had been dreaming of the day he had been detailed, by the Great Controller, to become Duke Richard’s companion.

  Lying in the darkness, he could feel the warmth of Rose sleeping beside him. He snuggled deeper under the bedclothes enjoying this time before dawn, before having to face the cold of the winter morning.

  It was ten years ago to the day that he had attended his interview with the Great Controller. His mind rolled back over those years: Richard arriving at Middleham Castle as a young boy…now he was master of it, and married to Warwick’s daughter, Anne. She had given him a son, but now kept her own household, and rarely saw Richard, who travelled the north much of the time on official business, and who also had mistresses, and bastard children, to keep him occupied.

  Jacquetta of Luxembourg – the Queen’s mother – had suddenly died in May the previous year. She had been called a witch, but no one had found the proof, although Lord Hastings had tried hard enough.