Richard III

by Stuart Hill

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The next day dawned sunny, and with it came a lightening of our moods. We’d soon be home, we’d won our first battle and we knew there’d be a victory feast waiting to greet us because De Castile had sent riders ahead while the rest of the detachment kept pace with the wagon of the wounded.

  I couldn’t wait to see Anne again and tell her at least some of the details of the fighting. I didn’t want to say too much about the blood and the horrible chaos of it all, not because I didn’t think she was strong enough to hear such things, but because I didn’t want to remember it myself.

  We made steady progress throughout the day and, though we didn’t move as fast as we had on the way to Hexham, we slowly ate up the miles until the landscape became more and more familiar and soon we knew we were within striking distance of Middleham Castle.

  De Castile had insisted that we all wore full armour, even though we were in no danger now, because this way we’d look splendid as we rode into the castle.

  Francis had eagerly entered the spirit of things and made a point of putting an extra polish on his breastplate and helmet, and he even wore the decorative chain that showed he was a baron that he must have hidden in the baggage train somewhere.

  “I’ve seen acrobats at a fair that glittered less than you,” I said.

  “Thank you,” he answered and grinned.

  “It wasn’t meant as a compliment,” I said. “All you need is an apple in your mouth and you’d look like a roast piglet at a banquet!”

  He frowned and I waited for the insult to be returned. But instead he stared along the road that ran as straight as an arrow across the moorland. “What’s that?” He asked nodding ahead.

  I looked along the road, shading my eyes. “I don’t know… horses, I think… probably just a farmer on his way to market.”

  “No, I see the glint of weapons!” He turned and waved up De Castile who was further back down the line shouting at a squire who wasn’t dressed to the standard he wanted.

  The old soldier rode forward and joined us. “I do believe the Earl of Warwick has sent an escort to greet us,” he said after staring ahead.

  “No. It’s not that,” I answered. “There are only two soldiers and what looks like…” I paused as I narrowed my eyes. “And what looks like two women!”

  De Castile immediately ordered that we all rode as smartly as we could, or, as he put it, “in full martial readiness.”

  Soon the riders were near enough to be made out clearly and then one of the women suddenly let out a squeal of delight and galloped ahead of the others. It was then that I recognized her.

  “It’s Anne,” I said grinning at Francis. “It’s Anne come to meet us!”

  Her neat little pony thundered down on us and she expertly pulled it up to a standstill before it could crash into our heavily armoured horses. “You’re back! You’re here! What was it like? Did you fight? Were you valiant and noble?”

  I laughed at the tumble of questions. “Valiant and noble? Francis!? No he fought like a drunk defending his beer in a brawl!”

  “And you fought like a dancer; all neat and clean before making a kill that looked like a mother telling off her child for being naughty!” he answered with a laugh.

  I shrugged. “But it was a kill nonetheless.”

  “Are you hurt?” Anne went on. “Were your lives ever in danger?”

  But before we could answer, an old lady on a fat pony came wheezing up. “Mistress Anne Neville, what would the Earl and your mother say if they could see the way you are behaving at this moment?”

  This was Anne’s chaperone, whose job it was to ensure she behaved like a lady.

  “They probably would be too busy asking the same questions as me to notice how I was behaving,” she answered coolly.

  “Be that as may be,” the fat old lady answered. “I only agreed to this ride to meet our army if it was conducted with proper behaviour and seemly manners.”

  “Have I been unseemly then?” Anne asked, her eyes wide with innocence.

  “I would say that galloping your pony to meet the soldiers was less than ladylike, yes!”

  “Well, I think I was simply showing a fitting pleasure in their safe return as befits even the most well-behaved lady,” Anne answered sharply. “And anyway, stop interrupting the Prince, he was about to say something!”

  The old lady went into a flutter and I grinned at Anne. “In answer to your question, Mistress Neville, all of our lives were in danger, and no, neither Francis nor I were hurt, though Gisborough is amongst the wounded.”

  That caused a great explosion of flapping hands and ponies clip clopping down to the wounded to ensure Gisborough was truly mending. But once the ladies had ensured that was the case, we all moved on towards the castle and home.

  “There’s to be a victory banquet tonight, of course,” said Anne and smiled brilliantly. “There’s to be musicians and acrobats and dancing…”

  “And food I hope!” said Francis.

  “Lots of food. The cooks have been baking and roasting and frying since dawn this morning! I think even Baron Francis Lovell will find himself as stuffed as a goose!”

  “Good. I need my food after everything that’s happened.”

  “Then perhaps we can all meet again later,” Anne went on, looking over her shoulder to where her chaperone was giggling like a girl with De Castile. “Perhaps in your chambers before the banquet, Richard, where you can tell me all the details without interruptions from someone who thinks it’s not ladylike for me to hear about such things.”

  At that point the first flags of Middleham Castle rose over the horizon and I could just make out the design of the bear and the ragged staff that was the Earl of Warwick’s insignia.

  “We’ll tell you everything we can remember, Anne,” I said. Then added to myself quietly. “Or at least as much as we can bring ourselves to say.”

  EPILOGUE

  The lives of Richard, Anne and Francis were not to end happily, though for a time all seemed to go well. Richard and Anne married in 1472 and had a son named Edward. Richard became a great military leader, fighting in several battles against the Lancastrians. He also led a war against Scotland, during which he captured the town of Berwick-Upon-Tweed in 1482.

  In April 1483, Richard’s brother King Edward IV died and Richard was crowned King on 6th of July of the same year. But then in April 1484, his son Edward died and in the following year so too did his wife, Anne.

  Richard continued to rule, but the Lancastrian Henry Tudor raised an army against him, and on the 22nd of August 1485 the Battle of Bosworth was fought. Here Richard died fighting for his crown, the last English King to be killed in battle. Even his enemies say that he died bravely leading a charge against Henry Tudor.

  Francis Lovell remained a loyal friend to Richard throughout his life. He became Lord Chamberlain and a Knight of the Garter in 1483. After the Battle of Bosworth, Francis escaped and led a revolt in Yorkshire against the new King, Henry Tudor. When this failed he fled to Flanders, but returned in 1487 to fight against Henry once more at the Battle of Stoke Field. The Yorkists were defeated again and some say Lovell escaped to Scotland. No one knows when or how Francis died, though one tradition says he was buried in All Hallows Church in Nottinghamshire, having died of his wounds after the Battle of Stoke Field.