Richard III Read online

  Archery is my favourite, and I’m one of the best in the entire castle. Sometimes I can even beat Sergeant Langham in a shoot-off. But today we were scheduled to practise our equestrian, or horse riding, skills. That meant the dreaded quintain yard!

  As we crossed the training ground and headed through the wide gateway into the horse paddock, we stopped to watch as an older boy got ready to tilt at the quintain. He looked incredibly uncertain and awkward as he sized up the high-standing wooden machine with its central post driven deep into the ground, and its wide swivelling arm. On one end of the arm was the shield the boy would aim for, and on the other the heavy sack full of sand that would swing round dangerously on the end of its rope. The object of the lesson was to charge your horse at the shield and strike it full square with your lance. This made the wooden arm spin wildly and, if you weren’t quick enough, the heavy sack on the other end of the arm would swing around and knock you from the saddle!

  Francis grabbed my arm. “This should be good,” he said with a wicked grin and he nodded at the boy making ready.

  I soon saw that he was one of the older boys, in fact a full squire so he must have been sixteen or seventeen years old. I hadn’t seen him before, so guessed he had been transferred from one of the Earl of Warwick’s other strongholds.

  I glanced at Sergeant Langham who stood off to one side bawling orders.

  “Come on my Lord of Gisborough; if you take much longer your horse’ll be too old to gallop!”

  He was the only man I knew who could make a boy’s rank and title sound like an insult. I guessed that this was one of many attempts Gisborough had made at the quintain. Usually boys of his age were very well-practised at this sort of thing, but it was plain to see he wasn’t a natural horseman, and his horse snorted and sidled as he tried to line his lance up on the target. Obviously Sergeant Langham had singled him out for special treatment. Perhaps he thought he needed the practice.

  Gisborough was trying to steady his lance and control what I suspected was one of the more lively horses in the castle stables. Sometimes Langham liked to have his little joke. I suppose it was his way of keeping aristocratic boys in their place; after all, as a Sergeant-at-Arms it was his duty to train boys who would one day grow up to be the most powerful men in the country. He had to let them know who was boss, at least for the time they were under his command as a teacher in the arts of war.

  “He’ll never do it,” Francis said as we watched the boy trying to balance on the horse’s back. “He’s bouncing around like a grasshopper on a drum.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Let’s just hope he’s learnt how to fall safely.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to charge before supper time, my Lord,” Langham shouted sarcastically. “Or should we ask one of the younger boys to do it for you?”

  That was too much for Gisborough and, after struggling to level his lance, he spurred the horse. The animal leapt forward and the boy almost fell off backwards, but he steadied himself and, as the quintain loomed over him, he lunged with his lance and hit the shield squarely. But he forgot to crouch low in his saddle and, as the arm of the machine swung around, the heavy sack hit him with a solid thud and knocked him from the saddle.

  He landed heavily and lay still, but as we hurried over he sat up, shook himself and coughed.

  Sergeant Langham joined us. “Your horse’s running loose, my Lord. A good knight thinks of his animal first every time. I suggest you get up and check to see if he’s hurt.”

  I could see the boy was badly winded and, despite being four or five years older than Francis and me, he was desperately trying not to cry. We all need toughening up if we want to be soldiers, but we also need encouragement.

  “He did well enough, don’t you think, Langham?” I said as I bent and helped the boy to his feet. “It’s easy to forget to duck when the arm swings round, and anyway, you seem to have chosen one of the most difficult horses in the stables for him.”

  The old soldier frowned, but said nothing. “Francis, collect his horse for him,” I went on. Then turning to the boy I said: “And I’m sure the Sergeant here will allow you the rest of the day off as you did so well. He’s a kind man really and intelligent enough to know when to let a soldier rest and recover.”

  “Oh, there’s no need…” the boy began to protest. “I can carry on.”

  “I’m sure you can,” I said. “But as you must know by now, a true knight is aware of the value of knowing when to withdraw from the battle.”

  “My Lord Prince I don’t think…” Langham began, but before he could finish he was interrupted by the boy dropping to one knee and bowing his head almost into the dirt.

  “Prince Richard, forgive me, I had no idea who you were… I mean I’ve never seen you before… I mean…”

  “That’s fine, Gisborough, just run along now. I’ve a feeling Sergeant Langham wants a word with me.”

  He certainly did. As the older boy disappeared through the archway he rounded on me. Only my position as the King’s brother saved me from anything but a good tongue lashing. But I knew that I’d be made to pay for letting the boy off so lightly. And I was also left in no doubt that Langham had little respect for Gisborough or his family. Apparently he wasn’t a true aristocrat; his grandfather had been a successful merchant who’d made himself useful to the Royal Court and so had been made a Baronet, which is almost the least important title a man can be given, apart from that of an ordinary knight.

  I’ve often found that men like Sergeant Langham, who come from poor backgrounds themselves, can be the most terrible snobs. Personally I’d sooner a man proved his worth by earning his position in life rather than inheriting it. But as a Prince of the House of York who was born into his status, I don’t suppose I’d better say that too loudly.

  As I predicted, both Francis and I began to pay for my actions that very afternoon as we tilted at the quintain, practised cavalry moves and fought with the two-handed sword until it was too dark to see.

  At one point when the sun had dropped below the castle walls, Francis made a chop at my head with his sword, and I only just parried it in time. The blades were blunted, but a skull could be cracked wide open by a two-handed sword, blunted or not. It was then that Langham was forced to acknowledge it was too dark to carry on and we were at last released from the training grounds.

  It was fortunate that we probably wouldn’t see action against the Lancastrians for a couple of days. At least our bruises would have time to heal and some of our stiff muscles would loosen up on the ride.

  Still, it was all good practice for our first blooding.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I was stiff and sore that night, but I was determined not to miss the evening meal in the Great Hall. It wouldn’t be a banquet, as such, but it would be made extra special by the fact a squadron of cavalry would be heading off to do battle the following day.

  I wanted to put on a good show and so dressed in my best clothes and even decided to put on the thin circlet of gold that is worn on the head like a crown by all Princes of the Royal House of York.

  When I heard a familiar knock at my door I knew it’d be Francis and I almost laughed out loud when he swept into the room. Obviously he’d had the same idea as me and was wearing his best clothes along with almost every piece of jewellery he owned. Every finger dripped with gold, he wore no fewer than three brooches of rubies and emeralds and around his neck he wore the heavy gilded chain of the Lovell Barons. Unlike me, he’s tall and broad and looked like a decorated tree in all his finery.

  “Very impressive,” I said with a grin. “Do you think anyone will realize there’s a boy under all that metalwork and gemstones?”

  He grinned in return: “I just want people to know who I really am. I’ve been training here as a soldier in Middleham Castle for three years now and that’s as long as you. But while everyone knows you’re Prince Richard, brother of the King, I could just be a stable boy.”

  He nodded at me where I stood warmin
g myself next to the fire. “I mean look at you, you’re every inch a prince. You’re… you’re skinny, and you even… move in the way that royalty is supposed to! But put me in the right clothes and I could be the boy who mucks out the pigs!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “You look powerful and lordly; you’re already almost as tall as the Earl of Warwick himself, something I’ll never be. Do you know how frightening you look when you’re in a bad mood? Some of the kitchen drudges take one look and just scurry away.”

  “That’s probably because of my red hair,” he answered, grinning again. “Maybe they think my head’s on fire.”

  I laughed, but then said: “Come on, let’s go down to supper. I think there’s going to be music and jugglers tonight.”

  When we got down to the Great Hall the place was hazy with smoke that rose to the rafters from the huge fire burning in the hearth in the very centre of the flagstone floor, and every bench and table was occupied. The bottler stood in the very midst of the Great Hall directing everything. He was one of the most important servants in the entire place, and he ran everything in the castle that wasn’t to do with fighting and warfare. Even so he reminded me of a general as he ordered his serving chamberlains about like soldiers in his personal army.

  Of course the knights of the household were there too and, as the Earl of Warwick was a man of such importance, there were more than a hundred of them occupying the upper tables closest to the raised platform or dais where the Earl himself sat like a king with his court.

  A soldier escorted Francis and me into the hall and thumped the butt of his spear on the flagstones when we reached the top dais.

  The Earl was dressed splendidly in rich green velvet with a huge yellow hat that seemed almost to reach the rafters. I was told later that it was specially shipped from the best hat-makers in London, and cost more than some people earn in a year. Beside him sat his wife, the lady of the castle and Countess of Warwick, Lady Anne de Beauchamp.

  At thirty-eight she was still beautiful, and as fearsome as her husband. She ran the domestic side of the castle with the same sort of discipline usually seen in an army on the march, but it was her daughter who caught my eye. Our own little Anne, who only that morning had been bickering with Francis, had been transformed into a grave and powerful lady of the castle. She wore a dark blue silken gown and a snowy white headdress and she looked on all before her with a stony gaze. I could see now that one day she would be as beautiful as her mother, and when she was grown up she’d break many hearts.

  I nodded my head to her as the rules of good manners demanded and she curtsied in return, but then as she rose to her full height again, she winked at me. I nudged Francis but he was completely unaware of me as he stared open-mouthed at the transformed Anne.

  “Ah, Prince Richard and the Baron Lovell, please do us the honour of joining us at our table,” said the Earl, his face alight with smiles and his eyes darting between Francis and me as though trying to read what we were thinking in our faces.

  A chamberlain led us to our seats. My chair stood between Warwick’s and his daughter Anne’s, and I couldn’t help noticing that mine and the Earl’s were precisely equal, down to the last ounce of gilding and up to the last fraction in height.

  Down in the centre of the hall the bottler now raised his hand and immediately the food was brought in. It was all raised high on the shoulders of the serving men in metal serving dishes and it brought with it the rich scents of roasting meats. Up on the musicians’ gallery above the main doors the musicians began to play, and soon the sweet sounds of music mingled with the smoke from the central fire and rose up into the rafters, where the huge oak beams of the roof reached across the wide space from wall to wall in a great leap.

  The buzz of voices that had been kept politely low until now rose up into a sea of sound, and the serving boys were soon scurrying around like busy ants with their tall pitchers of ale and wine. When the servants stepped forward to fill our goblets at the top table, the Earl leaned in close. “If you’ll take my advice, my Lord, you’ll drink only small beer tonight. It’s wise to keep a clear head for your first battle and campaign.”

  Small beer was drunk by everyone in the castle. It was weak and was thought suitable for even the youngest page and, though I knew Warwick was right, it took all my willpower not to defy him and order strong ale or wine. But in the end common sense won out and I beckoned up the boy with the pitcher of small beer.

  I made sure that Francis did the same, and I took some comfort when I noticed that even the knights on the high tables were being careful with their drinking. Obviously experienced warriors knew better than to risk a headache and slow reactions at the beginning of a campaign.

  In the end the meal fell short of a full banquet. The food was richer than usual, and there were more dishes to choose from, but the entertainment was limited to the musicians playing in the gallery and the Earl of Warwick’s jester – a man who was about as funny as one of Master Guillard’s arithmetic lessons on a wet Wednesday afternoon. Also many of the knights who’d be part of the cavalry I’d be riding with the next day were happy to retire early so that they could get as much sleep as they could before the early morning start.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next day dawned cold and bright, filling the inner keep of the castle courtyard with brilliant sunshine. Our cavalry force was drawn up and ready, filling the sharp clean air with the scents of horses and leather. The long line of knights glittered in the early morning sunlight with every man and horse in full armour. We had to be fully prepared; we were riding out to tackle the enemy and didn’t know precisely when we’d meet them.

  Francis and I sat at the head of the column next to Sir Roger De Castile, an experienced soldier who commanded the hundred knights of our force. He was a man in his fifties who’d fought in the long wars in France as well as at home and counted members of the French aristocracy amongst those he’d both killed in battle and also called his friends.

  “A fine riding day, my Lord,” said De Castile. “It’s cool enough to keep up a good pace, so we should be in Hexham early tomorrow.”

  I nodded. “I hope the Lancastrians will wait for us.”

  “Oh they’ll wait for us; any commander who takes the trouble to gather a fighting force will want to use them.”

  “Will they be a problem for us?” Francis asked. Then obviously thinking this sounded too timid he added, “I mean, will they put up a good fight?”

  De Castile nodded. “Well, their force is quite small, but there again, so too is ours, so an even match could make for a hard struggle. And they’re commanded by the Earl of Somerset, a man who fights before he thinks. But battles are won with brains as well as the sword, so the day should be ours in the end.”

  Francis caught my eye; these were hardly the fiery words of a warrior that we’d expected. De Castile might have been talking about getting ready to go shopping in the local market and worrying about the costs. But then the old soldier winked at us.

  “Well, as boys who’ll one day be men commanding men, I’ve told you the truth, but now I’ll show you how to put fire in soldiers’ bellies!”

  He swung his warhorse around in a clatter of rattling hooves and armour, stood in his stirrups and drew his sword in a wide sweeping gesture: “Men of the House of York,” his deep voice boomed. “We ride now to battle in the name of our rightful sovereign and monarch Edward – by the Grace of God, King and ruler of this land! We ride also in support of England and under the assured protection of Saint George, the patron of the blessed soil on which we stand. A rebel army marches even now upon the loyal town of Hexham and it is our swords alone that will save them from the terror and murderous intent of the enemy! Ride now in support of the people of Hexham! Ride now in support of this righteous cause! Ride now in support of King Edward, England and Saint George!”

  His voice rang from the stones of the castle walls and a great cheer rose up from the cavalry, and from the serva
nts and residents of the fortress who stood in a knot on the far side of the courtyard. I ran my eyes over the small crowd hoping to see Anne, but there was no sign of her.

  The knights were still cheering, and several of them had drawn their swords and circled them above their heads. De Castile bowed in the saddle in reply and then drew his horse into the head of the column again. He smiled at Francis and me.

  “That should keep them going for a while. Just remember, lads, fighting men like to believe their cause is just and that innocent lives are threatened by the enemy they’re about to fight. One good rousing speech is worth a hundred foot-soldiers and at least thirty of our bravest knights riding the very best horses.”

  I’m not sure how I felt about that; it seemed somehow dishonest. But when I looked at the cheering soldiers it felt wrong to disapprove of their sense of justice, even if it had just been created for them by their commander using fine words.

  But before I could think about it anymore, a trumpet sounded from the walls and the Earl and Countess of Warwick emerged from the keep along with Anne. They were all dressed in finery again, just as richly as the night before. They all wore jewels that sparkled and glittered in the early morning light like flames.

  Warwick nodded his head graciously and Anne and the countess curtsied deeply. In reply the entire unit of cavalry bowed in their saddles, and all was graceful and well-mannered. It was hard to remember that we were preparing to ride out to war; to fight and kill and in some cases to be killed. I may not have actually fought before, but I’d seen what a battlefield looked like after the fighting had finished, and it wasn’t graceful or well-mannered. Dead and dying people weren’t bothered by such things.