by Nigel Green
The King’s
Dogge
the story of Francis Lovell
Nigel Green
Copyright © 2013 Nigel Green
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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To Alex, Jake, Josiah and Charl
Contents
HISTORICAL NOTE
PART 1: 1470 – 1481
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
PART 2: 1482 – 1485
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
POSTSCRIPT
NOTES
HISTORICAL NOTE
Strictly speaking, this is not a book about the Wars of the Roses, but because there are references to Yorkists and Lancastrians, I have included a brief note to give the historical background.
In essence, the Wars of the Roses were conflicts fought between the rival descendants of King Edward III and their respective supporters.
The conflict started in 1399 when Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster overthrew King Richard II and went on to become King Henry IV. The Lancastrian dynasty (Henry IV, V and VI) ruled from 1399 to 1461.
Due to a number of factors, not least Henry VI’s ineptitude as king, the Wars of the Roses flared up during the 1450s. Eventually the House of York prevailed and, following his victory at Towton (1461), its leader, the Duke of York was proclaimed King Edward IV.
The Yorkist Kings – Edward IV and Richard III – ruled England from 1461 to 1485, although the Lancastrians staged a brief comeback to power in 1470-71. After 1471, as a party they were almost totally defeated and the last Lancastrian claimant to the throne, Henry Tudor, languished in exile.
Against this chronological background, The King’s Dogge begins in 1470 and concludes in 1485. The second volume of Lovell’s biography, The Last Rebel, takes up his story thereafter.
PART 1 :
1470 – 1481
CHAPTER 1
I shuddered as another blast of icy wind howled through the trees. When Sergeant Jervis selected this particular spot he had worried that we might be seen by the enemy. I had been ordered to keep as still as possible. Jervis had chosen a position by the ridge as when we crouched down we had a panoramic view of the village below us, whereas to anyone looking up the hill we would be hidden from sight.
Ignoring Jervis’s rhythmic snoring, I looked down on the sleeping village. Nothing had changed since the last time I inspected it. The twenty or so huts stood out clearly against the whiteness of the snow, and the large frozen pond glittered brilliantly in the moonlight. I inhaled the smell of the drifting wood smoke with envy as it rose up to me and rubbed my hands together to warm them.
Satisfied that all was well with the village, I looked towards the south. It was from that direction that the attack would come. I could make very little out in the darkness. I frowned as I tried to remember what I had seen of the landscape when I arrived here yesterday. As I recalled, the village was nestled between two immensely steep hills covered in trees. To the north and south the old riverbed meandered into the adjoining valleys, but because of the contours of the hills, it was impossible to see beyond the confines of our own valley. That had been another worry for Jervis. He had chewed uneasily at his lip and studied the steep slope behind us as he mulled over different tactics. If he placed us higher up the hillside, we would have greater advance notice of the Grey Wolves’ attack, but the view of the village would not be so good. In time he arrived at the only possible decision.
‘Since you are here to be tested, we should prioritise that over safety,’ Jervis said firmly. ‘But be sure to wake me when you get the first sight of the Grey Wolves.’
After Jervis left me, I continued to peer to the south looking for any sign of movement. The sound of a stone being dislodged made me spin round quickly. I froze as I heard more stones rattling down the escarpment and a rustling in the trees. A moment later first one, then another and then a third dark shape stepped out of the tree line and into the valley. I initially thought them to be horsemen, but then I heaved a large sigh of relief. The deer picked their way delicately across the snow. In the total silence of the night and in the absence of men, they felt completely safe and stopped to graze at islands amid the patchy snow.
But then they were off, bounding away as fast as they could. I scrutinised the landscape, wondering what had frightened the deer, and then gasped in fear at the shadowy figures now emerging. I waited until I was certain my eyes were not deceiving me and then prodded the snoring figure on the ground.
‘The Grey Wolves have arrived!’
Jervis rose silently. Together we watched the stealthy advance of the Scottish raiders. They approached cautiously, taking advantage of the lie of the land, at times seeming to vanish but then reappearing once they were closer to the village. As the Wolves came, they split into two groups and dissolved into the woods close to the village.
Jervis bent down.
‘One of those bastards will be just below us,’ he whispered. ‘So keep very, very quiet.’
I listened as his snores threatened to countermand his own instructions and speculated as to what the lord that I served was doing. Ever since the news of the devastating raid into Northumberland had reached him, my Lord Montague had remained shut up in his council chamber. Messengers had been sent out in all directions to gather men and supplies, and it was clear that England’s foremost soldier was preparing to counterattack the Scottish war party. If my lord was too busy in his preparations to see me, he must have thought of me because that night I was sent for by Jervis.
‘My lord has learned that it is the Grey Wolves who are raiding,’ Jervis told me.
I swallowed uneasily. The Grey Wolves were the most feared of all the Scottish raiders.
‘And he would like you to take his little test,’ Sergeant Jervis added, ‘so I’ll be taking you with me tomorrow to see just how obedient and loyal you are.’
Alone on the hillside, I swallowed hard. Whatever Montague’s test involved, it would be starting soon.
The first flicker of dawn was visible as I shook Jervis awake. He groane
d as he rose but immediately went to the ridge to inspect the valley. His eyes narrowed, and he pointed silently towards the distance. I followed the direction of his extended finger, but all I could see was a cloud of dust moving up the old riverbed.
Beneath us the village was coming to life. A man sauntered out of one of the huts. I heard the sound of voices and a baby crying. The dust cloud was growing ever nearer, and I could see glints of steel in it now. Two small children ran down to the frozen pond and laughed happily as they slipped and slid on the ice. At the sound of their play, other children ran down to join them, but the ice cracked ominously under the added weight. Still squealing with delight, the children slid back to the safety of the snow.
Their merriment evaporated into the cool air as they heard the noise of drumming hooves. They looked around in bewilderment as the noise of the horses drew closer and closer. All at once the Scottish horsemen erupted into the waking village. They swept through it, bellowing out curses of hatred as they hurled burning brands onto the thatched roofs of the huts.
Within a matter of minutes, the tranquil village descended into chaos. The children scattered, screaming loudly, as they desperately sought to avoid the terrifying grey-cloaked men on their wild horses. The Scots ignored the cries as they lobbed yet more flaming torches onto the straw roofs.
When the men of the village finally showed themselves, the Scots were ready for them. The horsemen wheeled and charged with outstretched spears. Their sharp lances beat aside feeble opposition and plunged through flimsy jerkins. The impaled villagers screamed in agony as they staggered and fell. Their wails were cut off abruptly as the Scots rode their horses over them.
Smoke was billowing from the roofs now and spread across the village. Horsemen darted in and out of the patches of smoke as they hunted their victims down. The wind caught the sparks from the burning houses and blew them on, creating yet more fires. Men and women stumbled out of the smoking interiors, waving their arms and choking. They too were met with the brutality of the Scottish horsemen.
There was movement now by the tree lines. The Grey Wolves had left their concealed positions and were steadily closing in on the stricken village. I turned to Jervis, but to my surprise he was not beside me.
‘Look straight ahead, boy!’ came his stern voice from behind me. ‘Your test is just beginning!’
I did not understand, but I obeyed the order.
The huts were burning steadily now and, as the flames rose higher, screaming women clutching their crying children emerged from the huts. They ran wildly, colliding with one another, striking out desperately at anyone who barred their path. Seeing the frenzied crowds, the Grey Wolves closed in faster and swiftly encircled the village.
The Grey Wolves moved into the smoking village, and herded the frightened children in one direction and the women in another. The women struggled in the grasp of their captors, and the piteous cries of the separated families rose shrilly above the crackling of the fires. Their appeals were in vain, and I watched immobile as the children were roped together.
‘They will look to sell them,’ the harsh voice behind me said.
I looked away in disgust. Two immensely strong hands forced my head back into its former position.
‘Keep watching, boy!’ growled Jervis.
The Grey Wolves moved forward in groups of threes and fours and used their greater numbers to separate out the terrified women. They swiftly identified their prey and closed in on them. One raider blocked the path of a fleeing girl, making her swing away from him, only for her to find another in front of her. Outnumbered and pursued, the exhausted girl collapsed, sobbing in despair.
One girl managed to break through and sprinted towards the frozen pond where the children had played only that same morning. She began to run round the large pond, but the horsemen had already seen her. They cantered forward with their spears outstretched. The girl looked round desperately. The quickest route to the safety of the woods was to cross straight over the ice. The girl tested the ice tentatively with one foot then the other. With no time to spare, she stepped on and began to slide across. The Scots made no effort to follow her. They reined in at the edge of the pool and hurled their spears over the head of the fleeing girl. I watched nervously as the girl reached the middle of the ice sheet. Then she stopped.
‘The bastards’ spears have broken the ice,’ grunted Sergeant Jervis.
The girl looked down at the strip of water that was now in front of her and then further on to the next thin sheet of ice so tantalisingly close. She began to sob in desperation and turned in miserable resignation to trudge back to the Grey Wolves on the shore.
They in turn shouted obscenities at her, and the jabbing movements of their spears told the girl what her fate was to be. The girl stopped. For a moment she let her gaze rest on the smouldering village. She could hear the screams of the other women and the heartbreaking wails of the children. A raider dismounted and hurled a rope across the ice. The girl bent down to pick it up. Two of the Grey Wolves began to pull the girl towards them. The girl looked up at her ruined village once more. She flung the rope away suddenly. Raising her head, she spat in defiance and whirled around. Gathering her ragged robe up as high as she could, she sprinted towards the widening crack in the ice and leaped into the air. The energy of her bound made me think she would make it, but then I heard a loud splash. I breathed a sigh of relief as the girl’s head and shoulders rose above the water’s surface, and she tried to pull herself onto the ice sheet in front of her. The ice fractured in her grasp. Once more the girl seized the ice in front of her, but her motions were slower now and her splashing less frenzied. The ice audibly began to crack. Again the girl reached up for the ice, but this time only her head was visible above the water. I lowered my eyes as the sound of her splashing became fainter and fainter.
‘The Grey Wolves will be rounding the survivors into the church soon’, the stern voice behind me growled.
I blinked away my tears.
‘You mean they can claim sanctuary?’
Jervis made no reply. His grip on my head became tighter.
I watched as the remaining villagers were forced towards the wooden church. They moved on without protest, their bowed heads and haggard faces testament to the cruelty of the Grey Wolves. Once the villagers were inside the church, the raiders rolled large stones against the door to seal it while others brought over timber from the ruined huts. I stirred uneasily; the grip on my head resolved into a vice. Still more Grey Wolves appeared carrying branches. They laid the timber and branches methodically around the church.
With strength I did not know I possessed, I snatched Jervis’s hands from my head and turned away from the awful sight. He made no attempt to replace his grasp. He rose and looked down at me contemptuously.
‘You were given an order, weren’t you?’ he snapped. ‘You were told to watch everything.’
‘But I can’t watch that!’
There was a blurred movement as the back of his hand hit my cheek. I fell to the ground stunned. Sergeant Jervis stood over me.
‘If you are truly loyal to my lord, you obey all his orders without exception,’ he said stonily. ‘Now am I to tell him that you are disloyal?’
I could not be disloyal to the man I served, but this was more than I was willing to bear. Sergeant Jervis hauled me up.
‘I’m going to give you one last chance, Lovell.’
I looked down at the church. The Grey Wolves were putting kindling on top of the timber now.
‘What do you wish to do?’
There are moments that shape our lives and this was mine. I realised I could not betray the trust that my Lord Montague had placed in me. So I watched.
I watched as the Grey Wolves shovelled burning embers on the kindling and it started to crackle. I watched the fire as it spread along the kindling and took hold of the wooden walls. And I watched as the flames rose up the walls and touched the thatched roof crowned with a cross. I listened to th
e screams of the dying prisoners and the laughter of the Grey Wolves. Even after Jervis had withdrawn his hands from my head, I watched.
Ratcliffe whistled as I finished my tale.
‘I heard that my Lord Montague defeated the Grey Wolves a couple of days later,’ he said, ‘but it must have been horrific.’
I glanced at my friend.
‘I had nightmares for a week afterwards.’
Ratcliffe nodded sympathetically, but made no reply, so I sat content to be with him. The two of us and Dick Middleton were the only three aspiring squires in my lord’s household. Dick Middleton was a lively fourteen-year-old, small but with a love of horses and a wish to serve on the border. Richard Ratcliffe was older, a dark-haired boy with a brusque manner that concealed a keen mind and a burning ambition to succeed in life. He and I used to talk a lot, as friends do.
‘Although in reality I should hate you!’ he burst out one day as we spoke of the future.
I sensed what was coming and tried to deflect it.
‘Look, we are not even squires yet and…’
He cut me off with a characteristic snort of impatience.
‘You know what I’m talking about!’ he snapped.
I did and felt guilty about it. The truth of the matter was that I had been handed all the good things in life, and Ratcliffe had not. I contrasted our situations unhappily. To begin with, there was the question of inheritance. My parents had died when I was very young; I had hardly known them. When I was older though, as if to compensate for my loss, I learned that as their only son and heir I would inherit their vast estates and would become a wealthy lord.
Richard Ratcliffe, in contrast, was the second son of a minor Cumbrian family; he would inherit nothing. Then there was the question of having access to influential people without whose help a man cannot rise in the world. Ratcliffe knew none of these. His training here was, he confessed, an act of charity on the part of Lord Montague. Again fortune had smiled on me though, as before they had died my parents had arranged two things which would prove immensely advantageous to me. When the wars between the Houses of Lancaster and York ended some years before, the victorious King Edward, aided by his chief supporter, the Earl of Warwick, had swept to power. My Lord of Warwick was the premier nobleman of England and, in wealth and power, he was second only to King Edward. Together with his brother the Marquis of Montague he ruled over the North of England. To have even a tenuous connection with such great men was potentially extremely useful, but thanks to my parents I had far more than that. Not only had they arranged for me to have my knightly training done at the Earl of Warwick’s home at Middleham, but they had also persuaded my lord to allow me to marry his niece, Nan. As if all of this was not enough, I had a further claim on my Lord Warwick and his brother, for it had been to Lord Montague that I had been sent to complete my training.
