Richard III

by Stuart Hill

  The Earl led his ladies across the courtyard and soon they stood before De Castile, Francis and me. “Your first battle, my Lord,” he said to me. “How do you feel?”

  I wasn’t sure how to reply. I think it was expected that I should say I was excited and ready to kill the enemy, and that I was desperate to get to the fighting. But for some reason the words wouldn’t come. So instead I answered: “I’m enjoying the time of calm before we fight.”

  The Earl’s shifting eyes stopped for once and focused on my face. “Calm in a time of war…?”

  De Castile suddenly let out a loud, barking laugh into the silence that had fallen. “Spoken like a true campaigner, my Lord Prince! That’s exactly how I feel. We fighting men must find our times of peace wherever we can; they’re precious and few in number.”

  The old warrior laughed again. “Your training has found a veteran in this Royal youth, Warwick, you must be very proud!”

  The Earl smiled and his eyes started to rove again. “Indeed yes! As long as the calm doesn’t interrupt the fighting.”

  I leaned from my saddle and stared into Warwick’s face. “I am a fighting Prince of the House of York, and you may rest assured, my Lord, that I will kill everyone and anyone that gets in my way, now and throughout my life.”

  I saw De Castile nodding quietly out of the corner of my eye, but then he blustered into the silence again. “Come now, the ladies are here and ready to say farewell, let us receive any favours they may want to give.”

  I sat up straight in my saddle and immediately saw Anne watching quietly. I nodded to her, not knowing what she was thinking, but she smiled in return and stepped forward. She was holding two brightly coloured scarves and, standing between Francis’s horse and mine, she handed one to him and the other to me.

  “There, you can both carry my favour as you’re both my friends,” she said.

  Francis went red with pleasure, and my own face felt warm too. Only true warriors could expect favours from beautiful ladies of the court. Anne was still a girl of course, but as she was only a year or two younger than us it seemed right and fitting.

  We both dismounted so that she could tie the scarves around our arms in the approved manner. Francis was wearing a suit of armour his father had worn when he was a boy, and though it had needed a little adjusting, the armourers in Middleham Castle were highly skilled and there were no obvious joins or metal patches. My own armour, on the other hand, had only just been delivered from armourers in the German lowlands. They’d been sent patterns that gave my exact measurements and, most importantly, showed the curvature that my spine was gradually sinking into. Now when I wore the expertly made breast and back plates, no one could tell that I had any sort of problem with my back. I was just a young knight of the House of York, fit and ready to fight.

  Anne finished tying the scarves and stood back to admire them. “There, you carry my favour and honour into battle… bring them back safely.”

  Francis nodded and then coughed, but I stooped and taking Anne’s hand, I kissed it. I’d no idea I was going to do this, it just happened and all three of us blushed.

  Just behind us sat Piers Gisborough, the squire I’d rescued from the quintain yard and Sergeant Langham. I’d been knighted when I was ten years old, so had the right to have a battlefield attendant. Gisborough didn’t seem to mind acting as a servant to a knight younger than him; in fact he seemed to swell with pride when I first suggested the idea, and Francis quietly pointed out that acting as squire to a Prince would add to Gisborough’s standing amongst the other boys. He would act as my servant when we camped for the night. Anyway, it kept him away from Sergeant Langham for a while, and one day’s military action was worth weeks of training.

  In an attempt to distract us from my act of kissing Anne’s hand, I pointed at the young squire. “Gisborough’s going to battle too. Perhaps you have a favour for him as well?”

  Anne smiled. She was a kind girl and, not wanting to leave Gisborough out, she took a prettily embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to the boy. “Now you bear my honour and favour too. I expect to see them returned safely.”

  Gisborough immediately tucked the handkerchief into his armour and bowed in his saddle with much more dignity than Francis and I had managed.

  A sudden fanfare of trumpets announced that we were finally ready to ride, and we climbed back into our saddles. Anne withdrew to stand with her parents, and the castle servants cheered. With a shout from De Castile, our commander, the column clattered forward in a great jingling and jangling of armour and weapons. I turned in my saddle to wave to Anne, and throwing aside her dignity as the Earl’s daughter, she waved madly back. Francis waved too. I think he probably felt just the same as I did: we were leaving behind something we could never get back completely. We were leaving behind our childhoods.

  Within moments we’d entered the shadows of the gatehouse and the rattle of iron-shod hooves echoed back at us from the stone walls and roof. Then we were out into the day in a burst of sunshine and the hollow drumming of the drawbridge as we trotted over its wooden slats.

  Francis and I were off at last to our blooding, or at least to witness our first real battle.

  CHAPTER SIX

  We kept up a brisk pace as De Castile had said we would. The weather had been bright for the last few days and the roads were dry, so there was no mud to slow us down. We made a stirring sight as we trotted by with our brightly coloured banners and glittering armour, but the faces of the peasants working in the fields showed nothing but fear. Armoured soldiers on the road could only mean war and all the horror that brought with it. No one cheered; in a civil war I’d learned that the ordinary people of the land tried not to choose sides, in case the one they gave their support to lost.

  De Castile talked almost all the time. He talked about the weather and how it might affect the battle; he talked about the crops in the fields and the prospects for a good harvest; he even talked about music and dancing and the latest fashions coming up from London. Suddenly I realized that our veteran commander, who’d fought in more campaigns than I could even guess at, was nervous, and talking constantly was his way of keeping his nerves under control!

  When at last De Castile decided to canter back along the line to check that all was well, I nudged Francis. “I thought he’d never go!”

  Francis nodded. “If words were arrows all the Lancastrians would be slaughtered by now.”

  “You know why of course?”

  “Nerves,” my friend answered, taking me by surprise.

  Somehow I never expected big, powerful Francis to have much time for thinking or to care that much about what was happening around him. Never judge anyone by how they look.

  “My father said you should never trust a man who isn’t nervous before a fight, because he’s either stupid or knows something he’s not telling you,” Francis went on.

  “Knows something he’s not telling you? Like what?” I asked.

  “Like the fact that he could be planning to join the other side if it looks like they’re winning.”

  I nodded and looked back along the line of our cavalry and realized almost every man was showing signs of nerves: constantly checking equipment, fidgeting in the saddle and continually looking around as though expecting an attack at any moment. And many of our knights were almost as experienced as Castile himself!

  “I suppose it’s all right for us to feel nervous then?” I said.

  “I hope so,” Francis answered. “Because I’m as jumpy as a cat in a room full of greyhounds!”

  “Well, I’m as worried as a hen in a hungry man’s kitchen,” I answered, not wanting to be outdone.

  “I’m as scared as a pigeon in a pie.”

  “You’d need a lot of pastry,” I said, rapping my knuckles on the huge curve of his breastplate.

  “And what would you know about pastry and kitchens, my Lord Prince Plantagenet?” Francis asked with a grin. “I bet you’ve never been anywhere nea
r a frying pan! You wouldn’t know a cooking pot if it dropped on your head!”

  “And you would, I suppose, my Lord Baron Lovell.”

  We carried on like this for the next mile or so, pushing away our own nerves by bickering and giggling and being the boys everyone was always telling us we still were, despite everything that was expected of us.

  Gisborough joined in now and then, but he was still a little shy of me, and would only speak when spoken to. Even then he used the sort of language you only ever heard in the most formal occasions. This certainly wasn’t a problem for Francis. He’d seen me in almost every state you can think of, and so knew I was just an ordinary boy who just happened to have been born into royalty. And now that my back was slowly getting worse everyone could see I was nothing special.

  In fact as the miles rolled slowly by, my back began to ache more and more. Despite my curved spine, I like to think I’m quite fit after all the training, but spending hours in the saddle finds all sorts of muscles in places you never knew existed!

  Around midday we at last came to a wide stream that was shallow enough to wade across. De Castile decided we’d water and rest the horses for an hour or so at this point. And almost as an afterthought he also said we could eat and rest too!

  I must admit it was quite pleasant having Gisborough running around getting everything. Francis didn’t mind either, because the squire had decided to include looking after him in his duties as well!

  “Bit grim round here,” said Francis, nodding at the surrounding treeless moorland. “The entire place looks completely deserted.”

  I nodded. Despite the sunshine, a cold wind whipped over the hills and brought with it nothing but the scent of mile after mile of heather. “I’m told it’s hard to make a living in these hills; nothing grows easily, and only the toughest sheep can eat its grasses.”

  I struggled to my feet and waved Gisborough away when he ran up to help. “And on top of all of that, the Scots are always raiding. It takes a special sort to make a life up here.”

  “You like it though, don’t you?” Francis said, surprising me with his brain again.

  I laughed. “I do; the people are tough and tell you what they think whether you want to hear it or not. And the land has a wildness that’s like nowhere else in England. It would be one of the best things to rule such a place.”

  “And will you?”

  “Rule? I’m just a boy, a child. No child should rule this country even if he has an adult to help him as regent and a council to advise him.”

  “But you might have to if… if the worse sort of thing happened.” Francis insisted.

  “You mean if my brother is killed and dies without children to follow him.” I said. “Well, if that happens before I’m much older it would be a disaster, for me and for the country; this land needs a strong leader, not a boy.” I paused and lowered myself painfully back onto the rock Gisborough had covered with a cloak.

  “Anyway, it won’t happen.” I went on. “This battle we’re heading for could be the last of the war, and my brother’s as strong as an ox. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t live for years and have fine strong sons who’ll be grown up and ready to rule when he finally leaves us.”

  That seemed to end the talk for a while and we ate the food Gisborough served us in silence. All around us the knights and squires rested as well as they could, perched on the rocks and boulders that burst out of the tough grass, or eased tired riding muscles by slowly strolling up and down. The horses quietly grazed, managing to look like gentle old farm beasts despite the armour and bright heraldic colours.

  For a moment I almost forgot the coming battle but then De Castile suddenly burst into the world, shouting orders and rousing us up. “Mount up, gentlemen and my Lord Prince! The enemy awaits and there are miles to ride!”

  Soon we were clattering along the hard rock of the roadway over the moorland. De Castile set a good pace; enough to eat up the miles, but not so fast the horses would be too tired to charge and fight when we found the enemy.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  For the rest of that day we headed for Hexham over the high moors. But then, just as the sun was beginning to set, we stopped and the order was given to set up camp.

  De Castile had selected a wide flat area directly next to the road, and soon the squires, pages and the few camp-followers who’d been allowed to come with us were scurrying around putting up tents, lighting fires and securely tying and grooming the horses.

  De Castile set up strong lines of defence, with large numbers of heavily armed guards at every quarter. And a rota was made that would see the camp protected throughout the night. The Lancastrians wouldn’t find it easy to take us by surprise if they were in the area.

  Within an hour my large tent and that of Francis, De Castile and several other of the senior knights had been put up. The camp looked like the field at a tournament where knights set up highly decorated tents called pavilions, and where they also hang their shields painted with designs that show who they and their families are. But this wasn’t any sort of game.

  The atmosphere was quiet and, as the sun sank, an icy wind whipped over the moors, driving most into the shelter of their tents or around the fires. I think many people believe that an army on the march does nothing but drink and sing and have the sort of good time usually found only at feasts and banquets. But this certainly isn’t the case, not before a battle anyway. Afterwards, if they’ve won, I’ve heard there might be some who try to wash away the horrors of what they’ve seen with too much drink.

  But in my tent, the night before the battle was long. My bed was narrow, though I couldn’t really complain; most would be sleeping on the hard ground wrapped in blankets. But as a Prince of the realm my tent and travelling bed had been carried on one of the few wagons we’d brought with us.

  Thankfully Gisborough had a straw mattress that he slept on near the entrance, so I wasn’t alone. I think he was still nervous of me, but he was even more nervous of what was coming, so for once he was willing to talk.

  “This will be your first battle, I suppose?” I said into the darkness, knowing he wasn’t asleep.

  “Yes, my Lord,” he said. Then after a pause he added: “But I’ve seen many without actually fighting in them myself. When I was six there was a raid on my home. I saw men killed and injured.”

  “The enemy was driven off?”

  “Yes, they were only a small party who thought they could raid an undefended Yorkist house. They didn’t realize my father could fight like a cornered bear and all our servants carried arms. Not many rode away.”

  “Let’s hope the same can be said tomorrow after the battle.” I said.

  “You’re sure it will be tomorrow then?”

  “Almost certain. De Castile has sent out scouts to spy out the land and to find the main part of our army. They can’t be far away.”

  “The Lancastrians can’t be either.” Gisborough replied nervously. “What will we do if we meet them first?”

  I shrugged, then realizing he couldn’t see me in the dark I added: “I’m not sure; fight if we have to, but it’d be safer to retreat if we can. We’d be heavily outnumbered and if we tried to take on the whole Lancastrian army on our own… well, we wouldn’t last very long.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Gisborough replied in a small voice.

  “You don’t have to worry too much. You’ll be acting as my arms bearer on the battlefield; so you won’t be in the actual fighting. The only time you might have to go anywhere near is if someone’s horse is killed and you’re called on to take in a replacement.” I paused, realizing this didn’t sound very comforting. “But anyway, you’re my squire and as I’m not allowed to get too close to the action, neither will you.”

  “I’m not afraid, my Lord,” Gisborough suddenly said determinedly.

  “Aren’t you? Why not? We’re not going on some sort of pleasure ride, you know. People will die on both sides – probably thousands of them. Anyone who’s
not afraid of that must be mad!”

  Gisborough was silent for a while, then said. “Perhaps what I meant to say was I’m afraid, but I’ll do whatever I have to do… I’ll do whatever I need to do.”

  I thought about his words carefully “That’s different,” I said after a while. “Perhaps that’s all that can be expected of any of us.”

  The next day we woke up to news that De Castile’s scouts had returned during the night and reported that they’d found our army and that a meeting place had been agreed.

  Gisborough looked relieved when he heard, and I suppose I must have too. What I’d said earlier was obviously true. A party of a hundred knights and a few fighting squires would have been crushed by the Lancastrian army if they’d found us first.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Yorkist army cheered as our knights and squires joined them. To my eyes their numbers seemed endless, strung out as they were along the road that led directly to the town of Hexham, but De Castile insisted it was one of the smallest armies he’d ever ridden with.

  Armour glittered in the bright sunlight and flags snapped and rattled in the cold breeze. We might have been small, but I thought just the sight of us would be enough to scare off any enemy.

  Before the army set off again, De Castile took me to meet the Commander of our Yorkist force. Of course he should’ve been brought to meet me as I was a Prince of the Realm, but when on campaign there’s no time for many of the usual rules.

  As I rode by the long line of soldiers with Francis and De Castile on either side of me, many of the men cheered when they recognized the Royal device on my shield and surcoat. I’d also started to wear my own personal badge of the white boar, and I couldn’t help feeling proud as the soldiers stood and shouted in support.