The Dreams of Kings Read online

  ‘Why have you come?’ she asked.

  ‘I have come to continue my father’s service to you,’ Simon replied, in fluent French.

  ‘Your father was Sir William Langford, was he not?’ she questioned.

  ‘Yes, your Highness’ replied Simon. ‘He fell at the second battle of St Albans.’

  ‘Ah! So you were the young boy who killed that toad, Sir Thomas Raket?’ she said.

  ‘That is correct, your Highness, and I have come here today to offer my services to you, to restore King Henry to his rightful throne and to see Warwick’s head anchored on a spike.’

  ‘That is one head we would all like to see on a spike,’ Margaret replied, coldly. Then relaxing back into her chair, she smiled at Simon, her voice becoming warmer. ‘Come, sit beside me,’ she said, pointing to a chair.

  Simon sat down. Margaret’s eyes had softened towards him.

  ‘The man – or should I say, boy – who eliminated that devil, Raket, will always be welcomed into the court of Queen Margaret of Anjou. Don’t you agree, Pierre?’

  Out of the shadows, as though conjured up by a magician, appeared a large man who Simon could only describe as a soldier. Startled, Simon stared at him. How stupid to think that the Queen would give an audience without protection close at hand.

  The soldier, with his tall angular body, moved quickly to the Queen’s side and gently rested his hand on her shoulder. She moved her hand up and affectionately covered his hand with hers. It was such a simple act, but to Simon seemed to signal more than just friendship. He had heard rumours about the Queen having lovers; some even said that the Edmund Beaufort, the 2nd Duke of Somerset – had sired her son, Prince Edward, because King Henry was celibate. Simon had always discounted such talk, but now doubt entered his mind. Luckily, for him, the room was now quite dark so his glancing look of astonishment had gone unnoticed.

  Margaret removed her hand. ‘Pierre, fetch a taper so we may light the candles.’

  The man vanished into the shadows and reappeared with his long angular stride, moments later. The candles lit, he pulled up a chair for himself, and the three of them sat in a circle facing each other.

  Margaret spoke. ‘Simon, let me introduce you to Pierre de Brézé. The King of France, Louis XI, has kindly sent him to me with five hundred of his finest troops. Also, he has supplied money to finance our campaign against these contemptible traitors who have stolen my husband’s crown and plundered his kingdom.’

  As Margaret spoke, Simon watched her sitting proudly in her chair, her eyes sparkling as hard as diamonds. He saw that she was determined to annihilate King Edward, and Warwick’s new reign in England. Her voice vibrated with strength, and he could see the tigress in her.

  ‘We are raising troops in Scotland and the Welsh borders,’ Margaret continued. ‘More men, committed to our cause, are being mustered in the West Country, the Midlands, and the north. We will not go meekly from our kingdom – we will fight, and fight again, until we are victorious. My son will have his inheritance; he will sit on the throne of England.’

  Simon realised that this struggle was not about King Henry; he was now a minor player – a pawn in the game. It was about Queen Margaret and her beloved son, Prince Edward. The French king had his own political reasons for assisting in the conflict; the Scots had territorial ambitions. It seemed everyone had their own agenda for being involved, and Simon’s was the death of the Earl of Warwick.

  Pierre de Brézé spoke. ‘Simon, we have enough fighting men. I heard through your interviews that you are highly skilled in many tongues and accomplished with the pen. Also, you are quick of mind and your face is unknown. So, taking all this into account, the Queen and I feel your strength is not on the battlefield, but in our espionage network. With your skills, you would find employment at any of the great castles and we need someone at Middleham Castle right within the heart of Warwick’s power base—’

  ‘It is dangerous work,’ Margaret interrupted, ‘but we need information on Warwick’s strategies, troop movements – anything that will assist us to victory. The risks are great. If you are caught, torture and a slow death will be the payment asked of you.’ She paused and leant towards Simon, her eyes scrutinising his face.

  Simon perceived the next question forming on her lips; his answer to her unspoken words was already formulated in his mind, his reply irrefutably bound to his oath of vengeance on Warwick.

  Margaret sat upright, and Simon could feel the question hanging ominously in the air between them. Her face washed by flickering candlelight, she finally spoke. ‘Simon, will you serve the cause?’

  His spirit soared. To be at the centre of Warwick’s web, to watch and plot his downfall – far better this, than to just be another sword on a battlefield. Simon did not hesitate. ‘It will be an honour to serve.’

  The firmness in his voice brought a smile to Margaret's face. She rose to her feet.

  Simon did likewise. Taking hold of both of his hands, Margaret said, ‘Thank you, my brave boy.’ Her eyes were enchanting, her smile alluring. She leant forward and slowly kissed him on both cheeks. Her perfume was all at once intoxicating; her sweet breath brushed his skin as her soft lips lingered on his cheeks and in that moment, Queen Margaret of Anjou, stole Simon’s heart. Like many before, he fell under her magical spell.

  Middleham Castle, North Yorkshire

  14 December 1463

  Eleven-year-old John Tunstall waited nervously to see the Great Controller. He had been ordered to report to him at noon, sharp, but had no idea why he had been summoned. All morning, he had been dreading the midday bell striking the appointed hour, for the Earl of Warwick’s Great Controller was a man to be feared. He was responsible for the smooth running of Middleham Castle and ruled it with a rod of iron. Nothing escaped him; if you stepped out of line, his punishment was swift.

  John sat, outwardly calm, quietly watching the activity of the clerks, while desperately trying to suppress his rising anxiety. The six clerks, in this outer office, assisted the Great Controller with the administration of the castle and its estates. They drafted letters, managed the financial ledgers of expenditure and income, paid the wages to the castle’s craftsmen, garrison, and general workers, and issued all the legal documents from death warrants and small fines, to eviction notices. They were the oil that greased the wheels and without them, chaos would reign. John was now a silent witness to the efficiency and orderliness of this complex domain of the Great Controller.

  The large door that bore the royal seal of the Great Controller opened, and a thin reed-like man, wearing a black skullcap, emerged. He was dressed marginally finer than the other scribes were, and John assumed that he must be the senior clerk.

  Black Skullcap beckoned; John felt the butterflies rise up in his stomach. He felt the eyes of the clerks on him as he walked towards the Great Controller’s office. Black Skullcap held the door open, ushering him through.

  Once inside, John heard the door close quietly behind him, and he stood still as his eyes slowly adjusted to the half-light. There was one, tall, very narrow window; it seemed to starve the room of light. All was quiet, except for the sound of quill on parchment – then it stopped. Out of the silence, a voice spoke. ‘Come closer.’

  John moved nervously across the room, his eyes searching out in the dimness. He stopped before an immense desk upon which he saw sheets of parchment arranged in tall neat piles. Behind this paper defence, gazing down on him, sat the Great Controller. John felt his apprehension rising and quickly bowed his head.

  The Great Controller waved his hand towards a chair. ‘Be seated,’ he said, sharply. ‘We have much to discuss.’

  The six clerks in the outer office had glanced up as John passed through the doorway into the Great Controller’s office. They looked on as Black Skullcap closed the door and returned to his desk.

  Simon Langford rose from his chair and made his way from the outer office. Walking quickly along the passage, he entered a room that backe
d on to the Great Controller’s office, closing the door noiselessly. The room – a depository – had a number of wooden aisles running up and down its length, and reaching from floor to ceiling. On the wooden shelving were stored thousands of important documents. Each scroll was tied with a ribbon and its location recorded in a large ledger kept on a desk by the door. The room was dark and dry; a musty odour hung in the still air.

  Simon walked slowly down the aisle furthest away from the door until he reached the wall that divided the depository from the Great Controller’s office. There, he stopped, and listened for a moment before reaching out and soundlessly removing a small piece of wooden panelling from the dividing wall. Hanging on the other side of this wall, in the Great Controller’s office, was a heavy tapestry. A small hole had been cut to match where the panelling had been removed. This allowed Simon to see the back of the Great Controller, and most of his office, but most importantly, he could hear all that was said.

  John Tunstall and the Great Controller studied each other in silence. In this quiet moment, they collected their thoughts.

  John had never been this close to the Great Controller before. His only previous contact being when the man had hastened past him, tall and lean, his black robes flapping behind him. If John saw this frightening figure first, he would hide; if not, he stood still and bowed as the other swished by. But now, sitting near him, John could see why the man was sometimes called the ‘Old Owl’. His head was bald, except for a half circle of white hair that ran around the back of his head from ear to ear. His eyes were large and hooded; their colour hazel, a combination of green and yellow, the yellow being very pronounced. This made his eyes unusual, even startling. He had a small beak-like nose, and a thin tight-lipped mouth cut a scar across his lower face. He was very old: some said at least fifty-five years, which John thought made him very wise, and he had eyes in the back of his head. The nickname fitted him well.

  The Great Controller examined the demeanour of the young boy in front of him. He took in the black hair and clear, blue eyes. There was no doubt that he was a little replica of his late father, Sir William Tunstall. He looked the boy up and down one last time, and with his thoughts now composed, and satisfied that he had chosen well, cleared his throat to signal the start of the interview.

  From the accumulation of parchment stacked on his desk, the Great Controller produced a letter, which he carefully placed in front of himself. Then, looking intently at John he said, ‘I have before me, a letter bearing the great seal of our King, Edward IV. It is confirmation that he is placing his youngest brother, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, under the protection of our Lord, the Earl of Warwick. He will be a ward in the earl’s household for the next five years.’ His yellow eyes flashed up, making John jump. ‘Do you understand what this means?’ he barked.

  ‘I – I – do, sir,’ replied John, fearfully, ‘but – but I don’t understand what it has to do with me.’

  ‘It has everything to do with you!’ exclaimed the Great Controller. ‘You have been chosen. Out of all the boys in the castle, it is you who has been picked to become Duke Richard’s companion, his best friend, and protector. It is a great honour; the earl himself has approved the appointment.’

  John did not know what to say, and sat open-mouthed trying to grasp the implications of it all.

  ‘You have nothing to fear,’ said the Great Controller, sensing John’s nervous confusion. ‘You are aware,’ he continued, ‘that we live in unsettled times. Henry VI was a weak king who had inherited the madness of his maternal French grandfather, Charles VI. Henry’s father, Henry V, was one of our greatest warrior kings so it was a great shame his son’s head was too small to fill his crown. For a long time, the mystic illusion of royalty allowed the common people to believe in the divine right of their king, and I suppose people still want to believe, even after they are told the truth. But the barons and the royal court, on the other hand, knew the grim reality at first hand.’

  John sat astounded; he had never heard anybody talk about royalty in such a disrespectful way.

  The Great Controller, warming to his theme, continued. ‘Because of King Henry’s afflictions, his queen, Margaret of Anjou, was forced to rule for him. However, being a woman in a man’s world, she was also seen as weak and was distrusted by the nobles, so rebellion spread amongst the principle dukes of the realm. Eventually, civil warfare broke out, which claimed the lives of many of the nobility. So…to sum up, we had a brave, lion-hearted queen trying to defend the crown of her husband who was more of a monk than a king. The situation was hopeless and could not be allowed to continue.

  ‘It finally came to a head on a bitter snow-swept day at the Battle of Towton, in March 1461, when Edward, helped by our Lord, the Earl of Warwick, defeated Henry VI to claim the throne by force of arms to become King Edward IV. King Henry – as was, his Queen, and a few other surviving Lancastrian nobles, fled to the north of England where they are now desperately clinging on to the few loyal castles left to them.’

  The Great Controller paused. He was pleased to see that young Tunstall was listening intently to his every word, but it was now time to explain to the boy his new duties.

  ‘King Edwards’s youngest brother, Duke Richard, is a child of this violent age. Unlike you and I, who have lived in the comfort and safety of Middleham Castle, Duke Richard has lived through civil war, treachery, the violent deaths of his father and brother, and the distress of exile. So, King Edward and the earl have decided that he now requires stability, security, and friendship – I will provide the first two, and you, Master John, along with Lord Francis Lovell, will provide the last. Duke Richard will be arriving with a fast-moving armed escort tomorrow and you will be introduced to him the following day. From then on, you will be his companion.’

  Now, it all made sense to John: the sudden activity he had seen in the castle kitchens – these were the preparations of the welcoming feast for Duke Richard. He was arriving on the Thursday because that was the only day of this Embertide week that was a non-fasting day.

  ‘Do you have any questions?’ queried the Great Controller.

  John looked up. ‘It’s a big responsibility to look after a king’s brother,’ he said, ‘and I don’t even know how to address him.’

  ‘In public, it will be “your Highness” or “my Lord”, for he is a royal prince. In private, first names will suffice. But, I will offer you some advice, which you will do well to heed. Duke Richard is being trained for a life of privilege, great wealth, and immense power. You, Master John, on the other hand, are being trained for a life of service, loyalty and obedience to your Lord, so you must always remember that there is a line between you and Duke Richard. I am sure, over time, you will both decide where that line is, but remember, always be aware of it, and most important, do not step over it!’

  Behind the tapestry hanging in the Great Controller’s office, Simon Langford was about to replace the small piece of wooden panelling when he heard, in the distance, the sound of many chairs scraping backwards in unison as their occupants hurriedly stood up. The sound came from the outer office where he worked with the other clerks. He knew instantly that it signalled the arrival of the Earl of Warwick. With the hand that held the wood panelling now frozen in mid-air, Simon held his breath and looked back through the spy hole. The noise of the chairs had also alerted the Great Controller, who Simon saw had now risen from his seat, head turned to the door. He saw John Tunstall jump up, his head turning around, anxiously. The door into the Great Controller’s office swung open.

  Simon had been right, for there stood Richard Neville, the mighty Earl of Warwick. He was richly dressed, and around his neck hung the great gold chain of the office of Chamberlain of England. After King Edward, he was the most powerful man in the kingdom. Simon looked at him with loathing in his eyes, for there was the bastard who had allowed his father to be murdered, and his home violated.

  He felt the old anger welling up inside him. The harrowing memorie
s of that day, eight years ago, surged to the top of his consciousness. Then the anguish hit him; the pain that he had felt on that heartbreaking morning tightened in his chest. He nearly cried out in furious rage, but instead he slapped his hand over his mouth. His lips were dry, his hand damp with sweat. Stay calm. Be still, he told himself.

  His mind slipped back to that harrowing May Day in 1455. It was the day after the battle of St Albans. His father had fought with Henry VI and the Queen, against the Earl of Warwick and his allies. King Henry lost the battle and fell into the hands of the earl. Simon’s father, Sir William, had fought bravely and survived the fighting, only to be brutally stabbed to death – murdered – after he had surrendered to one of the earl’s lieutenants, who had then claimed, and was granted by Warwick, Sir William’s estate and manor house at Barton-le-Clay. That fateful morning, years ago now, seemed like only yesterday.

  The following events, after that bloody morning, were driven by revenge. The manor house was retaken and secured. A few of Sir Thomas Raket’s men escaped, but many more were cut down as they fled. Five were caught alive – these were quickly tried under the law and found guilty of their crimes. They were stripped and branded as rapists; their ears and noses sliced off and then they were put on public display before being hanged at Ravensburgh Castle.

  Lady Langford petitioned King Henry VI to restore their estate back to them and when he heard of the atrocities committed by Warwick's men, he agreed with her request and sent her some beautiful gowns as way of an apology.

  Although justice had been done, Simon still harboured within himself an implacable hatred for the Earl of Warwick. This arrogant man had condoned the murder of his father, rewarding his killer with his victim’s estate, unleashing a band of murderous devils on to his family and their servants. Although Simon had killed his father’s assassin, and most of his men had paid the ultimate price for their crimes, he knew his father’s soul would never rest until he was avenged, and the Earl of Warwick was dead. His hatred for the earl had increased, and in moments of solitude, his mind dwelled deeply on revenge. He had thought that over the last eight years, this passion would dim, but the reverse had happened – he finally realised that to quell this fire within him, physical action was required. His mother tried hard to counsel him against this course of action, but eventually she conceded defeat. Not long after his eighteenth birthday, Simon took his leave from his mother and sisters, and with revenge in his heart, he headed for Bamburgh Castle to join the Lancastrian cause.