The King's Dogge

by Nigel Green

  Men jumped from the moving carts but were trampled by flailing hooves or crushed beneath the wheels of moving carriages, their shrill screams cutting through the smoke and panic. Two of the wagons managed to disentangle themselves and, with their horses tossing their heads and whinnying in sheer terror, careered driverless along the riverbank.

  ‘Cease firing!’ I bellowed above the din.

  ‘The enemy is not fully destroyed!’

  The scarfaced archer leant forward to pull another arrow from the ground in front of him and made to notch it. Impatiently I struck it to the ground and gestured to where the wind had blown the smoke away for a moment. There were horsemen with lances among the Scots now – horsemen who rode down the Scots milling on the riverbank, horsemen who hunted the fleeing Scots and plunged spears into their backs, horsemen who plunged their mounts into the river to spit the desperate Scots as they tried to wade away.

  I turned away from the sight. Presently we would fire the remaining wagons and dispatch the wounded beasts. There was no chance of Berwick being relieved now, and soon the city would either surrender or be captured. The invasion could proceed, and Richard’s reputation would remain intact.

  Yet as I looked at the dead and wounded, I felt little elation, just an immense weariness.16

  ‘One, two…hup!’

  ‘One, two…hup!’

  The archers’ voices were hoarser now I noticed and despite the cold wind they were sweating profusely.

  ‘One, two…hup!’

  Their perspiration was not caused by unnecessary movement as by now the powerfully built bowmen had perfected their routine to make it as efficient as possible.

  They worked in pairs. One would pull the arrows from the body, while his partner ran his hands through the dead man’s clothing. Sometimes the arrows snapped as they were jerked out but, if they were extracted intact, the pair would share them along with everything else.

  Then one archer would take the Scot’s arms while the other took his feet and together they would drag the corpse to the edge of the burial pit.

  ‘One, two…hup!’

  The problem for the men now, I observed, was the distance that they needed to drag the dead weights. When they had started this had not been an issue since naturally they had started with the bodies closest to the freshly dug pit. But, as the morning advanced, they found themselves roaming further afield which was why they were sweating now.

  I glanced round. At the current rate of progress it was going to take at least another half day before all the Scots were heaved into the pits, so still thinking deeply I crossed over the ford.

  On the far side two bloated bodies, with spears still impaled in them, bobbed and nudged against the muddy bank. For a moment I wondered why they had not drifted downstream with the others, but then it occurred to me that they must be entangled with roots or branches below the water.

  I came to the place where the Scots had made their last stand. Being so close to the river I imagined that until yesterday it must have been a verdant, pleasant pasture with colourful wild flowers contrasting against the green reeds on the bank.

  But now it was blackened and ruined.

  All around me the charred remains of men, oxen and wagons still smouldered, while patchy grey ash covered the muddy soil.

  I was still thinking hard when I heard a sound. It was high pitched, wild and desolate; a solitary wailing that cut through the chant of the archers on the far bank. Presently other voices joined in until the shrill keening sound rose to a crescendo of grief before brokenly falling away.

  The Scottish women were mourning their men.

  And it was their grief that made me answer the question I had been brooding over.

  Why had I acted so ruthlessly in the service of Richard of Gloucester?

  And it had been ruthlessness on my part because when I had planned the two phases of the Battle of Berwick, I had not just devised a battle plan. No, what I had prepared was a strategy to annihilate the entire Scottish host.

  Nor could I pretend that I had no knowledge of how the battle might develop. On the contrary, from the moment I had unleashed the Horse Dance on the Scots I had known what their reaction would be and thereafter events had come to pass as I had anticipated.

  In truth, I had not planned a battle. I had organised a massacre.

  But in military terms, I had no other choice. If even part of the Scottish reinforcements and supplies had got through to Berwick, there could have been no invasion and Richard of Gloucester would have been ruined.

  So, how far was I prepared to go to serve Richard, I wondered.

  To answer the question I cast my mind back. I thought of Lord Montague testing me with the Grey Wolves and I thought of how proud I had been to have been able to demonstrate my loyalty to him and, at Barnet, to his brother Warwick.

  Then my mind turned to their heirs in the North. I reflected how I had come to know Richard of Gloucester and Anne Neville and how they had trusted me and how, in time, I had come to serve them and want to help and protect them.

  And how they relied upon me.

  And it was the realisation of their reliance that pulled me up abruptly. For with lightening clarity it came to me that there was nothing that would cause me to fail them. Which was surely the answer to my question.

  So now I would seal my commitment and make my oath of loyalty.

  For a brief moment I reflected on the seriousness of this, as in making such an oath I was promising to serve Richard in war and peace. Moreover such an oath cannot be lightly made; it binds a man as tightly as his marriage vows tie him to his wife and is just as sacred.

  For a moment I questioned my ability to make this pledge. But a final glance round told me that I was certain of it.

  Next to me, Nan sighed gently.

  ‘I suppose, dear heart, that Lord Stanley thought by capturing Berwick he would make a name for himself.’

  ‘“The man who captured Berwick” is how Stanley would like to be described.’

  I propped myself up on one elbow and smiled down at her. Nan gently touched my cheek.

  ‘But it was you who came out of Berwick covered in glory,’ she cooed lovingly. ‘Why do you think that everyone is talking about you?’

  ‘I’m sure they’re not.’

  ‘Of course they are, my foolish Francis. Everyone knows what you did in the West March and Burgundy. And now everyone knows that without you Stanley would have failed at Berwick.’

  ‘It will be forgotten in a day or so.’

  ‘Why do you think you’re going to be admitted into the Order of the Garter?’ Nan asked impatiently. ‘I was so proud of you when my cousin told me.’

  I jerked upright suddenly – what an incredible honour!17

  ‘And you are to be made a viscount too after Christmas,’ Nan continued. ‘Richard of Gloucester and my cousin feel that it is high time you were rewarded for everything you have done for them.’

  She nestled up against me.

  ‘But did Richard not tell you any of this when he returned to Berwick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He would have been too busy,’ Nan mused. ‘As you told me earlier, none of the original objectives of the war had been achieved but, provided the story was presented in the right way, it could be made to sound very successful.18 Richard would be a hero and could demand the extra lands and offices he wanted, but both he and my cousin had to move quickly and cleverly.’19

  ‘I suppose Ratcliffe would have helped him with that,’ I mused aloud. ‘But everyone will happily accept that Richard invaded Scotland and forced the Scots to make peace. Berwick is not a bad prize to win.’

  ‘It will build up his reputation. It is an excellent thing for the North that Richard is seen as so successful. All the old nobles and even Queen Elizabeth Woodville’s relatives served under him. Richard of Gloucester is now perceived to be the second most powerful man in the whole of England. What did he talk to you about, beloved?’


  Despite not defeating the Scots in battle, Richard had returned to Berwick in high spirits and greeted me warmly. We talked of our respective campaigns and I was interested to hear that Henry Lovell had been particularly helpful in brokering the peace treaty.

  ‘I didn’t know that you had Scottish relations?’ Richard smiled.

  ‘And French ones,’ I told him. ‘One of the French ones went on to become Chief Butler of Normandy. Do you know what a chief butler actually does?’

  He stopped to think.

  ‘No I don’t,’ he replied, ‘but I’ll find out for you. Now, Francis, we’ll meet in London in a few months and when we’re done with the business at court and parliament, we’ll return here in the spring.’

  It seemed a pity to have to travel south.

  ‘I think that you’ll find it’s worth the effort,’ he said quietly. ‘But when we return, I wondered whether you would care to go to the West March to start the conquest of the Scottish lands.’

  He took my arm and we resumed our walk along the city ramparts. Below us, Berwick was slowly being restored; to my left, workmen were already starting to rebuild the outer wall.

  ‘But would not you yourself lead?’

  We were reaching the eastern walls now and Richard stopped again and put his hands on the parapet, breathing in the clean sea air. He smiled in pleasure and looked up at me.

  ‘No, Francis, I have other matters which interest me, but I trust you and know that you will help me as you have always done.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He fell silent as we watched the glittering sea. When he spoke again, it was with calmness and certainty.

  ‘We can make the North strong now, Francis. With the Scots forced to sue for peace, we are safe. We can use money and influence to build up our region. Our people will prosper and we can look after them in body and soul.’

  ‘You’ve done well, Richard.’

  His hands were still firmly resting on the parapet. It was almost as if he wanted to reassure himself that Berwick was physically in our possession but he turned to me and smiled again.

  ‘Only because I had good men who served me faithfully,’ he said quietly. ‘And we are building on the foundations laid down by our former master, the Earl of Warwick.’

  He turned back to the sea as seabirds squalled above us. I glanced at his small form with affection. Everything that he had said was true. Under him, the North would grow stronger and its people properly cared for. He would still need our help, of course.

  ‘I will make my oath of loyalty now if you wish, Richard.’

  He looked pleased but shook his head.

  ‘I have your friendship; I value that more.’

  Next to me Nan stirred as I relayed my conversation on the Berwick ramparts to her.

  ‘So now you’ve committed yourself to Richard completely?’

  ‘For as long as he needs me,’ I said contentedly.

  She reached for my hand and squeezed it.

  ‘I would make that a very long time, if I was him,’ she whispered.

  CHAPTER 13

  Even in defeat my king still wore his normal serene expression. Nor did he express any emotion at all as hurriedly I pushed him to what I thought would be a safe place behind his knights.

  But I had selected the wrong position for him. There was a swift movement and a moment later my king was toppled over.

  ‘Checkmate again, I fear,’ said Anne Neville.

  I threw up my hands in despair for this was the third game I had lost to her within an hour.

  ‘My lady is too good for me,’ I told her ladies.

  I spoke the truth as while I thought myself a reasonable player, Anne Neville had proved herself infinitely superior. Time after time she had guessed my intentions, but at no time did I spot her own strategy until it was too late. It had been a humbling experience.

  As the door closed behind her ladies I duly turned to face her but she did not acknowledge me. Instead she gazed intently at the pieces on the black and white board.

  I waited patiently so as not to interrupt her thought process but after a few moments I saw her remove both kings from the board and place them carefully on an adjacent table.

  ‘Can you play chess without a king, Francis?’

  ‘Of course you can, my lady. All that we would do is to make one of our other pieces substitutes for our kings.’

  Anne Neville’s fingers began to drum on the side of her chair.

  ‘So if you lost your king all that you would do is to get one of the other pieces to deputise for him until you had a new king carved?’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘Exactly, my lady Then when you get your new king you just return the substitute chess piece to its former position.’

  The finger drumming stopped in mid beat.

  ‘And that is the part I struggle with most’ my lady said quietly.

  Her words made no sense, but I made no reply as Anne Neville appeared deep in thought.

  Presently she roused herself and smiled apologetically at me.

  ‘There are times perhaps when I go too fast and think too far ahead, so forgive me, Francis. Now let us come to the heart of the matter. At this time, more than on any occasion in the past, my husband needs your help if he is to prevent England from degenerating into civil war…’

  ‘…civil war?’

  ‘…and I will explain how you can help him save England.’

  The threat of civil war had arisen, Anne Neville explained, as a result of King Edward’s serious illness just before Christmas and the fear that he might die soon. Having defeated her father and Uncle Montague, the king had ruled England peacefully. For the past twelve years people in England had accordingly got used to the end of war and no one had thought of what might happen if the king suddenly died.

  ‘But he has two young sons, doesn’t he?’ I interrupted.

  ‘The eldest, Prince Edward, is twelve. He can’t become king until he’s at least sixteen. Even that, Francis, is awfully young. The problem would be that he would be influenced and controlled by his mother’s family. The queen and the rest of the Woodvilles would be ruling England effectively’

  I saw her point at once. Whilst our efforts over the past years had prevented the Woodvilles encroaching into the North of England, elsewhere things were different. Ever since King Edward had married the Lancastrian widow, Elizabeth Woodville, almost twenty years ago, her family had risen greatly in both power and influence.

  ‘Even now,’ Anne Neville complained, ‘the Woodvilles are looking to acquire more power. The Marquis of Dorset – he’s her eldest son, Francis, from her first marriage – is one of the king’s favourites. Then King Edward appointed his wife’s brother, Earl Rivers, to be his eldest son’s governor. Rivers has the boy in Wales, where – incidentally – the Woodvilles are trying to build up a power base too.’ Anne Neville frowned. ‘Do you know that there are Woodvilles on the king’s council itself? I tell you Francis, that family is getting everywhere.’

  ‘Do they have much support?’

  ‘Quite a bit in the South, I think, but we older nobility hate them for their lowly origins and grasping tendencies. We see the Woodvilles as arrogant and greedy parvenus. Not one of us would accept them ruling England through the young king if – God forbid – King Edward died shortly’

  ‘So that’s why you fear civil war? But surely the king’s council would forget their differences – if they have any – and work together for the sake of the country until the young prince is old enough to think for himself?’

  Anne Neville nodded glumly.

  ‘In theory, at least, were King Edward to die shortly, a number of different political scenarios could emerge. Obviously the most straightforward one is that the king’s council would rule in the young prince’s name until he is old enough to rule himself. It would only be for a few years, after all.’

  ‘Is that likely to happen?’

  She shook her head emphatically.

&nbs
p; ‘The council’s already split into two factions. On the one side you’ve got the Woodvilles with the queen’s eldest son Dorset leading them, and on the other side you have some of the nobles who oppose them.’

  ‘Who is leading the nobles?’

  ‘Lord Hastings together with his ally Lord Stanley – Hastings’ is an old friend of the king and his chamberlain, but he and Dorset are rivals, and it is only the king that keeps that rivalry in check. Without King Edward, there would be no chance of the council cooperating together. Both parties would try to get rid of the other.’

  It began to sound as if the quarrels between these two factions would indeed precipitate a slide towards civil war. Bearing in mind Anne Neville’s antipathy towards the Woodvilles, I wondered whether she and Gloucester would ally with Hastings and his faction. Before I had the chance to voice this thought, she spoke again.

  ‘No one of course wants a return to the civil wars that were so ruinous for England,’ she said quietly. ‘Notwithstanding the ambitions of the Woodvilles, we all desire peace when King Edward dies. The moderates in the country are therefore talking of Richard of Gloucester becoming protector. A protector, Francis, acts more or less as a king until the young prince is old enough to inherit the throne. A lot of nobles seem to view it as a way of avoiding civil war.’

  She smiled a little sadly.

  ‘It is of course an ideal solution, although I’m not sure that Hastings would readily accept losing his power. And probably the Woodvilles would prefer it if they acted as the interim government.’

  ‘Protector!’

  ‘Well, why not? Richard has always been completely loyal to this brother, King Edward. Gloucester’s seen as a good administrator and now he has an excellent reputation as a soldier. His rank and estates are second only to the king’s and he’s not allied to any faction. If you think about it, he’s the obvious choice and already men are saying that it is our – that is, his – duty to step in and prevent a conflict between the nobles and the Woodvilles.’