by Tony Riches
‘There is a track, my lord. Through some gardens and little used, by the look of it.’
‘Will it get us into the heart of the town?’
‘Yes, my lord. There are soldiers outside a tavern. It looked like they were resting.’
‘None of them were guarding the track?’
‘No, my lord. They didn’t even notice we were there.’
Richard was pleased. ‘We must move fast to take the advantage.’
He made a decision. The king’s forces were preoccupied with dealing with the main attack. It seemed the men at the barricades were holding their ground. They wouldn’t be expecting an attack from the other side of the town.
He turned to the commander of his archers, a thick set man with a deep scar on his face, gained in the French wars. ‘We are going to find a way to take them by surprise. Once we make our move I want you to follow close and have your archers ready to fire over our heads when we engage the enemy.’
‘We’ll be waiting for your signal, my lord.’ The burly commander went off to brief his men.
Still moving on foot and with as much stealth as they were able, Richard’s men rushed down the narrow lane and soon found themselves in the market-place, behind the Lancastrian defences. A small group of soldiers were building another barricade and shouted in alarm as they saw the red-coated men streaming into the streets with the banner of the bear and ragged staff flying high. Richard’s men-at-arms didn’t hesitate, cutting them down without mercy.
To make the most of his surprise, Richard ordered his personal guard to carry trumpets and to make as much noise as they could, startling the king’s forces and making them believe they were facing a much larger army. His ploy proved to be even more effective than expected, as the trumpeting echoed around the old town, confusing their enemies and making it hard to tell the direction of the attack.
The sombre clanging of a bell responded to the trumpeting as the king’s men raised the alarm. The sound was coming from the bell tower in the market square. Whoever was ringing it didn’t seem to realise the bell acted like a beacon, drawing Richard’s men to the centre of the town.
Tully started up a cry of ‘A Warwick!, A Warwick!,’ which was soon picked up by his men as they advanced into the mass of knights in full armour and soldiers in the livery of the king forming around the royal standard in the town square. Richard drew his sword and charged into the melee, shouting as loud as he could for his archers to fire. On his signal a hail of deadly arrows flew overhead. Some fell harmlessly to the cobbled streets. Most found their mark, maiming and wounding the king’s men, making it impossible for them to fight.
Richard’s men were on them before they could recover, slicing and stabbing with such ferocity the ground grew slippery under their feet with blood. Someone shouted that the king’s lords were hiding in a tavern and several of Richard’s men began smashing down the door. It gave way with a sound of splintering wood and several armoured knights rushed out and began fighting for their lives.
Richard recognised the familiar figure of Edmund Beaufort. The duke was using his sword to slash savagely into one of Richard’s scarlet liveried men-at-arms when Tully raised his crossbow and sighted. The steel tipped bolt thudded into Beaufort’s shoulder, easily cutting through his plate armour at such close range. He was distracted by the sudden pain and a soldier smashed him in the head with a poleaxe, throwing him to the ground to be trampled in the rush of soldiers who neither knew or cared who he was.
Richard didn’t witness Beaufort’s death. He was looking into the heart of the market square where he saw the unmistakable figure of the king surrounded by a guard of heavily armoured knights, including many he recognised. Some of them were bleeding from arrow wounds. The familiar figure of old Sir Henry Percy savagely hacked at the nearest man’s exposed neck with his sword as Richard watched.
He shouted to his red-coated archers. ‘Spare the commons! Go for the knights!’
Richard knew he would win the day if he could reach the king. A shower of deadly arrows struck many of the men guarding the king and as his men-at-arms charged forward Richard saw more soldiers in his uncle’s colours of murrey and blue rush from a side street. They had overcome the barricades at last. The two forces joined and filled the market square. The knights fighting around the king showed no sign of surrender, even though many had been struck by arrows and could see they were surrounded on all sides.
He spotted his uncle in the distance and fought his way through the mass of men towards him. They fought side by side. Richard found himself remembering how he had first learned what a sword could do as he hacked and thrust his way toward the royal standard in the centre of the square. He was tiring with the exertion of it all and the helmeted knight he was fighting saw his chance, striking hard at Richard’s sword hand.
The sudden jarring pain caused Richard to yell out and drop his sword and it clattered to the ground. Swiftly pulling out his dagger with his left hand, he flung himself at the heavily armoured knight and plunged it hard into the eye slot in his helmet. The man continued falling backwards, yelling in pain. Richard retrieved his dagger then grabbed his sword and turned to face the next man.
His hand was throbbing painfully as he raised his sword and wondered how much longer he would be able to fight, then recognised his new adversary. Baron Thomas Clifford, High Sheriff of Westmoreland and grandson of the infamous Sir Henry ‘Hotspur’ Percy. Richard knew that the baron had fought with distinction in France at the side of the former king’s brother John, Duke of Bedford. He saw Clifford was bleeding from severe wounds and almost unable to fight on.
Richard shouted to him over the noise of the fighting all around them. ‘Yield to me, Sir Thomas, I’ve no wish to see you dead!’
The baron realised the battle was lost and his sword dropped from his hand. It clattered to the cobbled street and he sank to his knees in submission, life ebbing from him. One by one the lords guarding the king began to surrender, surrendering their weapons as they realised the futility of their fight.
Some, including Humphrey Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, who had threatened Richard so recently, were able to run despite their injuries and sought sanctuary in the safety of the Abbey of St. Albans. Others were less fortunate, slaughtered before the order could be given for the killing to stop.
Richard sheathed his sword and cautiously removed his gauntlet. He had chosen to wear an open helmet for visibility. His new light armour had suffered dents and saved him from injury except for his sword hand, which had been struck hard by a blow during the fighting. He wasn’t sure when it happened although it felt as if one of his fingers was broken.
Richard tried to ignore the pain in his hand as he joined his uncle, who was kneeling where the king lay wounded. Blood ran down the king’s neck and he was in shock. For a moment Richard thought the king’s madness had returned.
The king stared at them both. ‘Why?’ His eyes were roving over the twisted and broken corpses of his knights, full of horror at the sight before him as if storing the memory. ‘You wound me, your anointed king?’
Richard’s uncle stood. ‘Someone tend the king’s wound. Quickly now!’
Luke Tully picked up the royal standard from where it had fallen in the fighting and held it upright. A light breeze unfurled the flag and Richard noticed the king glance in its direction as men carried him into a nearby house out of the view of the carnage.
Richard looked out across the square recognising several of the fallen bodies.
His father joined them. ‘Sir Henry Percy is dead.’ He wiped the sweat running down his face. ‘So is Edmund Beaufort!’
Richard shook his head. For all his faults, Sir Henry Percy had been family and he regretted that there was now no prospect of ever finding a peace between their families. He was not sorry to see the end of Edmund Beaufort. ‘We must go to the king. Ask for his forgiveness.’
Chapter 10 - Spring 1456
Richard stood at the bows of his flagshi
p and breathed the fresh salty air of the English Channel. The king had finally appointed him as Captain of Calais, nearly a year since the fateful death of the Duke of Somerset in the battle at St. Albans. Richard had been frustrated by the delay and powerless to do anything about it. The Calais garrison hadn’t been paid and grew desperate, seizing wool held in Calais and selling it to buy food. They had demanded a full pardon for this, as well as all the back pay due to them before they would let Richard take up his post.
The queen was also determined to stand in his way. She misjudged the mood of the London merchants and tried to silence their complaints with special courts. They refused to recognise her authority and rioted when Lord Buckingham ordered the arrest of some of the ringleaders. The delicate peace erupted into violence on the streets and the queen fled in panic from the city with the young prince, leaving the king at Westminster.
The Duke of York had not forgotten the debt he owed to Richard for his success at St. Albans or the promise he had made to give him Calais. The king’s supporters had gained a majority on the council, which made the duke’s position as Protector of the Realm untenable. He resigned from his post and asked the king to grant a full pardon for the garrison in Calais. He also persuaded the king that Richard, as Captain of Calais, would make it the jewel in the English crown once more and ensure the men were paid in future from customs revenue.
As soon as Richard’s appointment had the royal assent he wasted no time in leaving for Calais. As well as the status and generous salary that came with the post, Richard looked forward to the prospect of representing the crown and ruling England’s last stronghold in France. He was also charged by the king to engage and maintain enough ships to intercept any invaders and protect English traders from pirates that frequented the busy waters of the Channel in search of easy pickings.
Most people in England understood the military importance of Calais, which was why it had a permanent garrison of over two thousand men, England’s only standing army. Richard knew the real value of the town was commercial, one of the most important ports for the lucrative trade of exporting English wool and cloth, lead and tin to the continent. Richard had brought with him men who knew the wool trade well and promised to help him profit from the virtual monopoly the Calais traders enjoyed.
Richard also had a special mission from his uncle, the Duke of York, which was to build an alliance with Philip of Burgundy. They knew a time might come when the Lancastrians would call on Queen Margaret’s powerful connections in France. If Burgundy could be persuaded to lend support to them it could help maintain the delicate balance of power. He was also keen to develop his own network of contacts and allies, as well as to take advantage of the opportunities for gathering information from merchants and travellers.
Weather permitting, Calais was still within easy reach of Warwick Castle and London, and provided a useful base from which he could build his own army and navy without fear of interference. He had inherited the garrison and a small fleet of ships, which he planned to turn into the largest private navy in the world. Although he would miss the comforts of Warwick Castle and his London Mansion, he could return home whenever he wished and intended to make a grand new home for his growing family at the castle of Calais.
Most of all, he was glad to be away from the noise and noxious smells of London and bitter politics of Lancaster and York. He had proudly carried the king’s sword at the head of their triumphal return to the city after the victory at St. Albans. He should have known their enemies would soon regroup and Queen Margaret now had more influence than ever. Despite his best efforts, most of the key positions had now been filled with Margaret’s favourites who began to undermine everything he stood for. With the resignation of his uncle as Protector of the Realm he knew it would be harder than ever to make his mark through the Council.
As he looked towards the distant shape of the French coast, he thought about his family. They’d had to stay behind at Warwick Castle and would join him to live in Calais when safe to do so. He’d been concerned that Calais was still a dangerous place for his children. Another daughter had been born in June. They named her Anne, after her mother. Although Richard had been bitterly disappointed still to not have a son, he’d been relieved his wife and the baby were both healthy and well.
Richard sensed someone approaching across the wooden deck behind him. He turned to see Tully, who was enjoying being back at sea and already on first name terms with most of the crew. He had changed his usual clothes for the rough navy wool of a sailor, although he still wore his silver-handled dagger at his belt. Sometimes Richard almost envied Tully’s easy going life.
Tully squinted at the horizon. ‘The helmsman says we should be able to make out Calais soon, my lord.’
Richard felt a sense of anticipation as he searched for the old tower at Calais in the distance. He’d waited a long time for this moment. At first, all he could see was the endless grey-green of the sea all the way to the horizon, then he could make out a dark shape on the skyline.
‘Over there.’ He pointed.
Tully looked again. ‘I can see something. I think it’s a tower?’
‘Yes. It’s marked on the chart as the Tour du Guet. An old watch tower they use as a beacon to warn ships in stormy weather. Captains also use the tower to navigate the entrance to the harbour.’
Tully’s usual light-heartedness was replaced by a sudden seriousness. ‘What sort of reception do you think we’ll get there, my lord?’
Richard frowned as he remembered. ‘The garrison were all appointed by the Duke of Somerset. They won’t be happy to see the man who shot their lord and master.’
Tully put on an innocent face. ‘Where would you have heard a thing like that, my lord?’
‘I read the reports the Duke of York had from witnesses of the battle. One of the shopkeepers said he saw a man bring Somerset down with a crossbow.’
‘It could have been anyone.’
‘Yes, it could have.’ He looked at Tully. ‘Truth is I’ve no idea how we’ll be greeted. Lord Rivers, Richard Woodville, has been Lieutenant of Calais for the past five years. Both he and the garrison commander refused to recognise my uncle’s authority when he appointed himself Captain.’ He looked back out towards Calais. ‘Now Somerset is dead and I am here on the orders of the king, Lord Rivers has agreed to surrender his post.’
‘Who is to take his place, my lord?’
‘No one. I’m going to run Calais myself.’
Their ship was met at the approach to Calais by a pilot boat rowed by a team of swarthy oarsmen who looked more like pirates than the king’s men. They expertly helped the crew of Richard’s ship to tie up safely alongside the stone quay. Richard stared up at the ramparts of the ancient Rysbank Tower, looming over them, dwarfing the ship and guarding the entrance to the busy harbour. Seagulls called noisily and in the distance he could hear music playing. He was almost overwhelmed by the sights and smells of the town that was to be his new home.
Richard looked out across the harbour. There were ships of every kind, all bustling with activity. An old warship was being prepared to sail, with men climbing high in the rigging. Close by a fine merchantman was teeming with gangs of men using cranes and hauling with ropes and pulleys to unload heavy bales of English wool from its cavernous hold. Fishing boats were unloading wicker baskets full to the brim with live crabs. A brightly painted Langoustiner, flying the flag of Brittany, was docking at the wharf, its crew calling out to each other in heavily accented French.
Richard was pleased to see the huge bronze cannons that defended the harbour were still in place pointing out to sea. There had been rumours that the garrison had sold off some of the precious artillery in lieu of pay. He knew it would be hard work to restore morale amongst the men. They had been treated so badly they had come close to mutiny at least four times in the past year.
Overlooking the estuary to the west was the grand Castle of Calais. He had been warned that the castle had suffered from
poor maintenance in recent years. Richard planned to make it as comfortable as any he owned in England. It had once been the home of his uncle and the duke had given him useful advice about how it could be improved. He had also spent long hours sharing his experiences of Calais and the neighbouring areas of France and Burgundy with Richard. The knowledge was useful and Richard had been an attentive listener.
As he stepped from the gangplank he was greeted by the commander of the garrison, Lord Welles, accompanied by a contingent of the garrison. Richard had chosen to wear a burnished silver breastplate over his tunic, which flashed as it reflected the bright sunlight. He also had a flowing dark-red cloak over his shoulders. Tully said it made him look like a Roman Centurion, a comparison he was not unhappy with.
The effect was not wasted on Lord Welles, who seemed surprised to see the two hundred men of Richard’s personal guard assembling on the quayside, resplendent in their new steel sallets, bright red livery and fully armed with halberds, swords and daggers. Once they were formed up in orderly ranks Tully raised the Warwick banner of the bear and ragged staff. Richard felt a sudden surge of pride as he watched it unfurl in the light sea breeze.
Richard had a further surprise for the commander. His long wait had given him time to equip a fleet of fast ships armed with the latest guns. He planned to keep them ready to sail at short notice and had recruited the best sailors in Portsmouth and Dover as his crews. His captains were all staunchly loyal, with long experience of sailing in the Channel. The new fleet now filled Calais harbour, decks lined with hundreds of armed men.
He turned to Lord Welles, who was looking at the ships in amazement. ‘Where is the Lieutenant of Calais?’
The garrison commander pointed to the castle. ‘Lord Rivers is waiting for you, Earl Warwick, in the castle. That is where the formal handover ceremony is to take place.’
Richard knew the commander had been the loyal supporter of his old adversary, Edmund Beaufort and had been the main reason for the delay in his taking post. His refusal to welcome their arrival was a deliberate snub. For all that, he was a decent man trying to do his job as well as he could.
