by Mary Lide
Inside the barn, where there was barely room for one horse, let alone three, Philippa left the duke and duchess to themselves. The duchess was weeping, tears of fright rolling down her cheeks, and the duke was staring out of the door, morosely watching the men he should be leading prepare to defend him and his wife. The inside of the barn was dark and damp, long fallen into disrepair, but under its rafters there was a kind of loft where wisps of hay still hung. Philippa clambered up to it on a set of rungs attached to a post. There was an opening at one end under the pointed roof and when she had crawled towards it she could look out. She could see over the gate posts beyond where Richard stood, down the track they had just ridden along. And when she saw the first spumes of snow beaten up by horses riding in a troop she leaned out of the gap and screamed a warning.
Richard did not wait. Followed by some dozen men he rode out to meet them. The track had widened as it approached the farm into an open place edged with thickets, and as the first riders burst into the space he and his comrades charged at them, two by two, keeping their backs to the farm, and themselves between it and their opponents. And as the enemy horses now came tearing out of the lane each pair of defenders rode them down.
The first horsemen were taken by surprise, and went under at once. The duke’s men then wheeled smartly back to charge again, never going far from their main post, allowing some to escape if they led too far off. The soldiers they charged against were not English, as their shouts and uniforms soon proved. They were part of the new French king’s guard, out in force, making up for their negligence by trying to win back the ‘prisoners’ they had let escape. But although there were many of them and they were persistent, they were not the real threat.
After their first ranks had been cut down, the remainder drew back out of reach, stationing themselves among the bushes that edged the track. Philippa put her hands to her mouth to cut short her cry. For there, thrusting forward aggressively, eager too to be avenged, Wolsey’s men came at a gallop, in their resplendent red. And at their head rode the sergeant who had been tricked again.
Seeing him, Richard gave a yell and drove his horse on; behind him came all those men he led, the duke’s guard, who now risked their lives for their duke and his wife. Towards them rushed that enemy, men Philippa also knew, who had brought her here and with whom she had been forced into daily converse. Down below her, the duke swore unceasingly and beat his fist against the door-jamb so that it creaked in a smother of worm-eaten wood.
The two groups met with a crash, a thud, a howl that merged into one dull roar. Swords gleamed, lifted, struck, lifted again; horses neighed; there was a choked-off scream, a shout, a sudden rattle of harnesses, little puffs of snow as horses slipped, downing those who had got through. In the swirl of mud and snow it was impossible to distinguish friend from foe. Riderless horses plunged away, one dragging its rider after it. Two red-coated men, their faces masked with blood, tried to retreat towards the entrance; the men stationed there cut them down. Once Philippa had watched Richard fight alone. Now, surrounded by his friends, the flower of the duke’s company, she saw what he could do in a fair quarrel.
He thrust and thrust again, never pausing, never giving way, pivoting his horse with his knees, letting the reins go, using both hands to heft his sword. When a man crowded close to strike under his guard, he seized the man himself by the belt and unseated him. And after fending off the attack so well that he forced Wolsey’s men to withdraw under the shelter of those same trees, he and his men drew back also, too tired to shout for victory but grinning among themselves.
They reined up between the gateposts, where their companions rushed to help them off. Some were wounded and limped away; one sagged in the saddle unable to move. The open place in front of them was covered with another kind of clutter, some dressed in blue, most of whom would never move again. But Richard was not hurt. He had raised his helmet to ask questions and answer them, seizing a piece of snow to quench his thirst, keeping a careful lookout for attack and Philippa could see his face clearly. She thought, he has held them off this time. They will come again. The next time will be harder.
Richard must have thought so too. He withdrew all those whom he had set on the walls, having everyone mount, and holding them all in readiness. And down below in the barn, Philippa heard the duke shout, ‘Good lad, but watch your back,’ as he too waited for a flanking attack.
Moments lengthened, passed. It was obvious that the attackers were assessing strengths and weaknesses before deciding what to do. Richard knew his weaknesses as well as they did. He was outnumbered by three or four, and he had no reserves. They had the king’s whole army if they chose. His position was flimsy at best; he had no food, few supplies, a hostile terrain surrounded him. Added to which he had women to protect, and an English duke who was no help at all. These were facts that a clever enemy could use. The only real advantage he had was his own and his comrades’ ability and courage. That counted for something with the French, whose hearts were not so much in fighting as simply following instructions. Wolsey’s men on the other hand had more at stake, and were not likely to give up so readily. It was easy to imagine how the arguments went back and forth, the French for staying still and keeping watch until reinforcements could be brought up, Wolsey’s men for attack.
Richard knew that a concerted drive would be harder to resist. If he had been in command of the enemy he would never have made a frontal assault in the first place, and he knew where the main thrust ought to come without the duke’s telling him. Most of all he knew the value of what he defended, and the price put upon its head. As he had done in other emergencies he tried to think his way out, never giving up hope until hope itself was lost. What he did not expect was the flag of truce.
An officer came slowly out from under the trees. He was one of the French guards who had been stationed at Cluny, and he advanced in high court style, with all his braid and lace and epaulettes as if on parade before his king. True, his finery was tattered about the edges, and the gold fleur-de-lis on his saddle cloth was blood-stained but he saluted Richard with deference, doffing his hat, bowing deep, pivoting his horse right and left as to a crowd. When he spoke it was with such French flourishes that had Richard’s comrades not been in so tight a place they would have laughed. Certainly Edmund Bryce did. ‘God’s mercy,’ he said in a stage whisper. ‘He squeals like one of those pigs.’ But when the elegance had been reduced to its briefest terms the message it contained was not amusing.
‘My Lord Montacune,’ he began, formality in every line, ‘my lords all, I bring you greetings from my king although you have given me slight chance to present them. My master, François, Francis the First, bids me tell you that I am not come to cast blame, although stealing away in the night is not exactly what French courtesy is accustomed to. My king has sent me to ascertain that the former French queen is not harmed, and is content. I find it surprising that she should be here, in such a place.’ And he waved his hand disparagingly, taking in the hovels, the dirt, the broken walls. Cleverly he never mentioned the duke, although he must have known he was there, and he never spoke of what Francis really needed the queen for. Nor did he try to explain away his first attack.
Richard interrupted him, sitting straight in his saddle. ‘The queen came of her own free will,’ he said. ‘And she is no longer queen. She has put that title aside. But she still is princess of English blood. At her request we take her home.’
Before the French officer could reply, there came a startled shout from the barn. Mary Tudor came riding out towards them, pushing forward importantly, the duke riding behind her as if to stop her, his face all frowns (although how hard he tried was for his conscience to decide). ‘You speak of the queen of France,’ she cried. ‘Here I am. But I have another name. Henceforth call me by my new title. Duchess, wife to his grace, the Duke of Suffolk.’
‘Merde.’ The French officer was startled out of elegance. He reined back. ‘The king knows nothing of this,’ he s
aid after a while. ‘This is news to us.’ And to Richard, ‘God’s life man, couldn’t you have kept it quiet? That’s set a cat among the pigeons.’ Whether he told the truth (and he might have done, a terrified priest not likely to blab of a service that had been forced on him, and few others abroad on such a night), his surprise at the duke and duchess’s appearance was not feigned. He never expected them to throw away their trump card. But, on reflection he may have seen it as a way to salvage a delicate situation without losing face. After a moment’s pause he saluted the duke and the new duchess with even greater flourishes.
It was the duke’s turn to speak. ‘Tell the French king,’ he began grandly, ‘that all we require of him is safe conduct to the coast, for me and mine. And for your pains, our thanks and a queen’s reward.’ His courtier’s delicate touch this, not exactly a bribe, but a hint. And again it made the French officer hesitate, weighing opportunity. At last he replied, carefully correct, ‘My master bids me greet you and escort the queen as is just. He did not specify in which direction. If the queen does not wish to return to Paris, I and my men are at her command.’ He bowed once more, turning back to Richard to add, ‘My quarrel is not with you.’
‘But mine is.’ Spurring up behind, with his men in line, came Wolsey’s sergeant, his face livid with rage at what he took as betrayal. ‘Mine is,’ he shouted again. ‘I have been looking for you, Richard Montacune; you owe me much. And I claim Philippa de Verne as my captive as is my right.’
A hubbub broke out, everyone shouting at once. All, that is, except the duke and duchess who kept strangely quiet, although one word from them could have settled the matter instantly. The obvious claim that both Richard and Philippa were under Mary Tudor’s protection, and the duke’s, was never made, although the duchess had promised it, and the duke should have enforced it out of gratitude and respect. Richard’s angry roar was therefore doubly loud. ‘The lady you speak of is my wife. Give her title as is correct or I thrust it down your throat. And tell your men you and they answer to me; I too have a score with you. Collect your own as best you can. I will kill you first.’
The poor French officer was out of his depth. He wiped his face, horrified by this burst of violence contrary to all the laws of truce. ‘My lords, my lords,’ he began to bleat, ‘we should keep calm, no point to this. I suggest . . .’
‘I order.’ Again Mary Tudor’s voice broke in, overwhelming his. ‘My husband and I are ready. Escort us, as you are meant to do. As for the rest, leave that to those whom it concerns.’ And ignoring Richard, all that latent Tudor selfishness rising to the surface, she pushed towards the French officer, giving him her hand to kiss, smiling at him. The duke hesitated for a second. The words were almost forming on his lips, ‘Christ’s bones lad, I fight with you.’ And his men leaned forward expectantly. He hesitated too long. ‘Come Charles,’ his new duchess said, without turning round. ‘We keep these gentlemen.’ She never said a word to those others she had made such a fuss of before; she gave no explanation or regret, let the French guard surround her as they had often done in the days when she was queen, and went off with them, the duke still riding in the rear, abandoning her friends she had pretended to be so fond of.
Wolsey’s wolves raised up a cheer, and drew their weapons. Those left behind looked at each other, consternation in their eyes. The men Richard had been leading were not in fact ‘his men’, although they might have felt so, having grown used these past days to having him in charge. But they belonged to the duke. Their loyalties therefore were torn, between leaving with the duke as their commission held them to, or staying. Only one man cried out decisively, and that was Edmund Bryce. ‘By God,’ he shouted, ‘here is a disgrace that the Suffolk Blues will never live down. Desert a comrade in distress! Never.’ And he came forward to align himself by his friend’s side. Two against a troop is still not enough, but his offer made Richard’s face light up, the more so that three more quickly followed Edmund’s lead. The rest withdrew in shamed silence, and Wolsey’s men let them go, parting ranks scornfully so they could pass. ‘Now,’ said their sergeant softly, ‘We shall see who kills whom.’ And without another word he threw himself at Richard.
Left in the loft, Philippa had already begun to scramble down the ladder. When she ran out into the yard the fight had begun, the last fight between the remnants of Suffolk’s men and Wolsey’s wolves, the fight with his rival that the duke had always sworn to win. Once more there were the same shouts and screams, the same intermingling of friend and foe, blue coats and red so besmirched that both seemed grey. Even the peasants in the hut came creeping out to watch, standing with Philippa beside the gate posts. Wolsey’s men outnumbered Richard’s but at each stroke the numbers decreased for Richard’s men fought with the fury of those trapped.
They did not charge this time, but faced their enemy in a mass, letting their enemy charge at them. To and fro they swayed, as the weight of their opponents pushed them forward, pushed them back. But they held firm. And when one of their members was wounded, or even killed, the press of the struggle held him fixed in place.
Not until the remnants of Wolsey’s men drew back, did the true carnage reveal itself.
Wolsey’s guards were decimated. Perhaps five remained whole enough to ride again. Only two were left on Richard’s side, himself and Edmund. Both were wounded, bleeding from a dozen cuts but strong enough to defend themselves if the attack should begin again. No one in his right mind would have expected it to. But the sergeant was still alive, and he still wanted vengeance.
Back he surged as fast as his tired horse would allow, screaming out his curses full of hate, and behind him his four companions dragged themselves. They were professionals, trained to fight, no French fops mimicking war. But Richard and Edmund were trained too. They backed between those gateposts which perhaps had seen many such stands, forcing their opponents to come at them one by one. The first two they cut down as they came, sending horses and men stumbling in front of them, making entrance even more difficult. And blocking the way out. And in that instant the sergeant suddenly saw his chance.
Setting his most reliable swordsman to keep Richard and Edmund occupied, he and his remaining companion made for the wall, clearing it easily, breaking through the brushwood like straw and storming across the yard in a clatter of hooves. Attacked from the rear, pinned down in front, Richard and Edmund were driven apart, caught in the smaller enclosed space without room for manoeuvre. They still had the advantage of speed and agility and they could have broken out. What stopped them was the sergeant.
He had spotted Philippa. One swoop, he had her fast, hauled up against his saddle bow, his bloodied sword thrust against her neck. ‘Now yield,’ he screamed, ‘or I kill her.’
He was quick, Wolsey’s sergeant, a veteran of many wars. But Richard was quicker. Not breaking stride, relying on Edmund to hold back the other two, he thrust his horse forward so that it bounded on springs, sending it crashing upon the sergeant’s in a welter of feet and teeth. From the saddle Richard launched himself with all his force, knocking the sword aside although it cut him to the bone, bearing rider and captive to the ground. He fell heavily, but the sergeant fell heavier still. Philippa landing on her side was not hurt except for a nicked vein in her neck which bled freely. But, bruised and shaken as she was, she would have been unable to crawl away had not the peasants, taking pity, run out to drag her to safety. Amid the snow and ice Richard and the sergeant rolled and struggled with their bare hands, locked into a death-like embrace. Their swords were gone, their helmets gone, their heads, one fair, one dark, coated with mud. Richard was younger, lithe like whipcord; the sergeant tough and wily. The outcome might have been evenly matched had not the sergent’s men come to his rescue.
One of them kept Edmund at bay; the second sent his horse careening over the spot where the two men fought, trampling Richard underfoot. He turned to make another pass; Edmund’s sword caught him mid-stride. And before the last man could swerve back to do the s
ame, Edmund had turned to cut him off. The odds were narrowed then, two against two, two on horseback, two on foot. But those on foot were panting for breath, trying to pick up their swords, scarcely able to haul themselves upright.
Richard’s ribs must have been broken and his left arm dangled at his side. Blood streamed from it so that each time he moved splashes fell in dark patches. But the sergeant was hurt as well. ‘God damn your soul to hell, Montacune,’ he had breath to hiss, as he crawled towards his sword. Richard’s foot hooked out and sent it sliding under a pile of straw. And before he could try to stretch for it again, Richard had caught him with his right arm and held him fast.
The horsemen were as well matched: Edmund eager, foolhardy, young; Wolsey’s man cautious, coldly professional. He reckoned on finishing the young sprig off, then returning to his sergeant’s aid. And he would have done, cleverly drawing Edmund further away out of the yard, had not Edmund also known a trick or two. With a quick movement he had reversed directions, the pursuer now becoming the pursued, until with one final lunge, he had him pinned against the gate post. ‘That for my lord,’ he shouted and thrust. And wheeled back to help Richard.
‘My sword.’ Richard’s speech was slurred but he was on his feet, leaning against the wall. ‘Give him his. To the death he said. So be it.’ He seemed scarcely able to take a step and his hand was sticky with blood. The sergeant, gathering up his weapon, allowed himself a grin. It was the last grin he ever made. Summoning his fading strength Richard made one last mighty sweep, the movement that the sergeant remembered well. It sent the sergeant’s sword flying in the air, arching in a parabola while Richard’s own sword traced out a similar arch to reflect it. He and his opponent folded together, toppled to the ground like two bundles of rags. The sergeant never moved again, and Richard lay like one dead.