The King's Man (The Order of the White Boar Book 2)

by Alex Marchant

  Before long, we had tasted the bread and the wine, and had risen from our knees, and the candles on the altar were snuffed, and the gilded crucifix was being lifted and affixed to a long pole of beechwood. The priests held it aloft and led the way out into the noise and bustle of the sunlit camp.

  A trestle table had been set up outside, loaded with sweet-smelling fresh bread and cheeses and jugs of wine. Beyond it squires stood ready with a suit of magnificent armour, every piece shining like polished silver in the early sunlight.

  I swallowed hard. Of a sudden, the coming battle was very close.

  As if sensing my fear, King Richard came over to me. He had shed his morning robe and begun to don the garments he would wear beneath his armour.

  ‘Now it is time for you to leave, Matt. There is food for your journey. John tells me you will find your pony in the horse lines. Remember, go straight to Master Ashley and deliver my message.’

  ‘Of course, Your Grace. No – no deceptions. And... Your Grace…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I hope you find your happiness, Your Grace. God be with you.’

  He smiled.

  ‘And you, Matt. Now, go. And don’t fail me in this small service.’

  I knelt and kissed the great ring upon his hand, my eyes stinging once more. His other hand was heavy upon my head as I said,

  ‘Never, my lord.’

  Then I rose and walked away without another glance, not trusting my face not to betray me as I gathered my bundle, whistled to Murrey and hurried towards the strings of horses.

  It took me little time to find Bess, the smallest by far among the mounts assembled there, and in a matter of minutes we were trotting past the last rows of tents and wagons and straggling soldiers, and heading away from the camp.

  But I did not make my way towards the great highway of Watling Street as I had been told. Instead I circled round to the north, staying upon high ground when I could, always keeping the army’s camp in view.

  So I saw when it broke up – as companies of soldiers marched towards the south-west, as teams of huge horses were set to hauling black cannon, as parties of horsemen wheeled away after them, their armour catching fire in the sunlight.

  And I followed.

  May the Lord forgive me, I betrayed my King, and followed as his army marched towards battle.

  .

  20 View from a Tower

  ‘There’s no more room!’

  The man’s face loomed dark against the square of daylight far above.

  ‘He’s only a little ’un.’

  ‘And he’s wearing the King’s badge.’

  ‘Why’s he not fighting then?’

  Laughter erupted around me as the question was dropped down on us like a stone. I was thankful we were in darkness as I knew my face was aglow. Why wasn’t I fighting? Why was that the only one of King Richard’s orders that I had obeyed that day?

  Another head joined the first staring down.

  ‘Is he a deserter?’

  ‘No!’ I cried.

  ‘He’s only a boy – twelve or thirteen,’ offered a motherly voice. For once I took no offence at being thought younger than I was – perhaps it could work in my favour. But another of the villagers clustered around me was not so sympathetic.

  ‘Wearing a sallet?’

  I slipped my helmet off and thrust it into my bundle.

  ‘He’ll have picked it up after some deserter threw it down,’ the second head called down. ‘Fleeing from the traitor’s camp, no doubt, when he caught sight of the King’s army.’

  ‘Spoils of war.’ The first face laughed. ‘We’ve all done that. Send him up. There’s room enough for a little ’un – if he promises not to breathe.’

  ‘Go on, lad. Leave your bundle and hound down here with us. You don’t want to miss the fun.’

  Hands shoved me from behind and I hauled myself up the steep ladder, past a great bell hanging silent, up to the wide-open trapdoor high above. The two men there reached down to pull me through and I emerged, blinking, into the dazzling sunlight.

  More than a dozen men were gathered on the small platform atop the tower, two or three deep against the parapet at the southern side.

  The first man who had spoken, stocky, grey-haired and little taller than me, eyed me up and down. A livid scar adorned his cheek, scything it from eye to jaw.

  ‘Small enough, and not from these parts, I reckon, from the making of your jack.’

  He took hold of my elbow and forced his way through the small crowd.

  ‘Make way, make way. The lad’s come a long way to see the sights.’

  Some grumbling greeted his words, but it was good-natured, and the men parted to let us through to the waist-high parapet beyond. My companion rested his hands upon the stout carved stone blocks.

  ‘There, boy. Is the view all you thought it would be?’

  I leant forward beside him and my heart jolted within me.

  Spread out before us was the rolling countryside I had travelled through that morning. For as long as I could I had kept the royal army in sight, but at last I had had to turn away, seeking this distant vantage point. I had not been sure the ancient church would provide what I wanted. But I could not have wished for better – unless it had been riding on the wings of the hawk I espied hovering in the heavens high above us.

  Perhaps a mile or more from us, at the end of a long ridge of land, was a vast gathering. I could barely make out individual figures at this distance, but it was plain what I was seeing.

  Huge hosts of men, armies; sunlight glistening on armour, weapons, battle standards. Many, many thousands there must be. Ants against the green landscape.

  ‘Mary, mother of God.’

  The words slipped out before I could stop them.

  My grizzled companion grunted.

  ‘The King’s army has found its position, but Tudor’s is still advancing, I think. And what of the others?’

  I turned to him. His shrewd dark eyes were watching me.

  ‘My eyesight is not what it was, lad. Not since I took this blow at Barnet.’ He pointed to the scar and grinned. ‘And age is catching up with me too. I didn’t let you up here just out of the goodness of my heart.’

  ‘You fought at Barnet?’ I cast my mind back to the stories told of that battle a year or so after I was born.

  ‘Aye, lad. And barely escaped with my life. My lord picked the wrong side. I only survived by playing dead after the Earl of Oxford’s array was broken. That was due to the Duke of Gloucester, of course. His Grace the King, now, that is.’

  ‘You fought for the Lancastrians!’

  ‘Don’t be so worried, boy. It was a long time ago. And footsoldiers like us don’t get a choice who we fight for. Save if we choose to desert, of course.’ With his elbow he nudged his neighbour, who laughed along with him. ‘But if we were called, we’d be for the King today. We don’t want the French meddling in our affairs. Now tell us what you see. You’ve the youngest eyes here.’

  A glance about me showed he told the truth. Most there were older than he. Yet all had the light of excitement in their eyes.

  So I turned back to the scene laid out before me like a map unrolled upon a table. My voice sounding strangely distant to my ears, I did my best to report all I saw.

  ‘The largest army – closest to us – near the end of that ridge – that must be the King’s. I see a crowd of horses behind, and great banners flying there. I think one is King Richard’s white boar, another the royal standard. That must show where the King himself is. In the distance dust is still rising, but that army seems to have halted. At its head is a banner with a great star and a blue... another boar, I think. Is that possible?’

  ‘The blue boar? Aye. Then Tudor’s vanguard is led by the Earl of Oxford. Perhaps he’s come to make amends for Barnet, eh, lads?’ More laughter among the men. ‘What else do you see?’

  ‘Far off to the left – that other great band of men. As large as an army – but a
way from both the King’s and Tudor’s. Many knights on horseback – I see the sun flash upon their armour. But who —’

  I fell silent as King Richard’s words came back to me: ‘Lord Stanley will stand firm.’ And I thought of the ‘guest’ in the King’s camp.

  ‘Who is it, lad? Can you see his standard?’

  ‘Lord Stanley. I cannot see so far, but it will be Lord Stanley and his brother.’

  The man turned and spat behind him, away from the crowd of onlookers.

  ‘Of course. The Stanleys ever bide their time. It may be that the King will have to do without them today, but surely he has men enough – so long as Stanley doesn’t throw in his lot with Tudor at the start. How are the King’s men arrayed?’

  I tore my gaze away from the motionless Stanleys.

  ‘The King’s banner is in the centre. Ahead are row on row of men, a standard with a rearing lion stitched in silver in their middle.’

  ‘Jack of Norfolk.’ The man nodded in approval. ‘The best choice for the forward line. The King could have no one better. Then it must be my lord of Northumberland in the rear?’

  Some way behind where the King’s standards streamed proudly in what breeze there was, stood yet another formation of troops – more thousands of men and horses. The largest of their banners was clear and bright to my eyes – a blue lion on a yellow background. Such a one as had been carried aloft behind the Earl of Northumberland on the streets of London, in happier times more than two years ago. Yet, try as I might, I could not spot among his troops the white rose on blue of my fellow men of York. Had my brother Fred yet arrived to serve his King on the battlefield?

  As I described the banners to my avid listeners, upon the wind came the blare of trumpets from the King’s army, tinny to my ears at this distance. A tremendous shout went up from the ranks of men, then my senses were assaulted by the most monstrous sound. A deep boom, deeper than ever John Swynbourne had played upon his shawm, closer perhaps to a thunderclap resounding through the narrow streets of York.

  I staggered backwards under the force of it, clutching at my fellow watchers.

  ‘In the name of —’

  ‘Rest easy, son,’ my companion said, though his face too was drained of colour. ‘’Tis only —’

  Another hellish crack, then its echo, struck us.

  ‘’Tis only the cannon. See where they’re arrayed. To the left of His Grace’s flank – where those clouds of smoke are rising.’

  Flame spat, brilliant red, more smoke rose, and again the powerful retort punched my chest.

  Another flash, another crash, and dark figures could be spied, scurrying around as if in dense fog. Then an answering thunderclap sounded from far beyond Tudor’s army, and another, and soon I could see little beyond the mist drifting across the distant landscape and hear nothing but the booming of the cannon and the ringing within my own head.

  ‘And so the battle begins.’ My grizzled friend raised his voice above the uproar. ‘See the forward lines closing upon one another?’

  My eyes followed where he pointed.

  ‘The archers will be doing their worst as well as the cannon. Just thank the Lord you’re not down there among the first rows. The sky above you is black with the arrows, the smoke eats into your eyes and throat. Men, comrades, fall alongside you, in front, clutching at shafts plunged deep into their chests – their heads, faces, torn away by cannon balls.’

  His eyes were haunted by shadows from his past as I gaped at him and then back at what was unfolding far ahead of me.

  ‘Still you have to move on, clambering over bodies, slipping in the blood and broken flesh. Until the great crash and clamour as the armies meet – pikes, maces, swords – hacking, cutting, stabbing, slicing. The clang and clash of steel on armour, the thud of mace on chain mail, the crunch of axe on bone. Men’s groans, the terrified cries of horses, the stamping of boots on earth as you all try to gain purchase, to push, push back at your foes.’

  A catch in his voice, then he forced himself on.

  ‘The smell of sweat and iron sparking, the warm splash of blood, the taste of fear. Seeing the faces and eyes of your enemies in the shadows of their helmets, knowing the horror you see there they also see on your face.’

  The cannons paused, and so did he.

  Then, quieter –

  ‘Can you imagine it, boy?’

  I could. I did.

  From my eyrie in the church tower, I watched and saw and heard all that he said.

  Though distant from the battle, I could hear the screams, the clarions, horses whinnying, the far clashing of steel. See the surging movement like eddies in floodwaters, the sunlight flashing on weapons upraised and striking down, the weaving patterns of vivid liveries and standards as the battle rippled to left and right along the forward lines – for what seemed hours.

  Time passed, oh so slowly.

  ‘And still Stanley waits.’

  ‘And Northumberland,’ said the second man. ‘For what?’

  ‘For want of a backbone?’ asked a third. His words were met by grim laughter.

  ‘Or loyalty,’ the veteran of Barnet growled.

  ‘He and the King were ever rivals in the north country,’ agreed his neighbour. ‘Perhaps he thinks Tudor more likely to leave him be to have his way up there.’

  ‘Look, now!’ The veteran grabbed my arm, squinting along the line of his outflung finger. ‘The King’s vanguard is being turned back by Oxford – there to the far right. Do you see it, boy? It looks like Tudor has put most of his men there – he has few enough now in the rear. The weight of them is pushing Norfolk’s troops back.’

  His scar stood out sharp in the harsh sunlight as his head swung from side to side, scouring the scene.

  ‘There – look! The King has already committed more men to the centre. Now Northumberland must come in – to help shore up that flank.’

  But though, in the time we had been there, horsemen had galloped from the King’s party back to the Earl’s – messenger after urgent messenger – the rearguard did not move.

  More waves of soldiers surged forward from the centre into the front line and rippled out to the right edge, but still the line was being pushed back, slowly, slowly, like the tide.

  The standard of the Duke of Norfolk was always at the forefront, in the fiercest of the fighting. The silver lion reared proudly above it all. But then, of a sudden, it disappeared from view as though sucked down by a riptide below the surf of battle. It resurfaced for an instant, then was swallowed up once more.

  ‘The banner – the silver lion - where’s it gone?’ I asked.

  ‘Norfolk’s? Is he down? That will be a grievous loss to the King. Why doesn’t Northumberland come?’

  I willed the Earl to march forward to support his King. Surely he would prove his loyalty by advancing his men into the attack? Twice, thrice, more, I had seen the great white boar banner thrust into different areas of the forward line, held aloft by one of the King’s bravest knights as my soldier companion said – and I knew by that sign that King Richard himself had joined his men in their deadly struggle with the enemy.

  In my mind’s eye I saw him, urging them to greater efforts, leading them by his example, standing four-square alongside them swinging an immense war axe or his bright sword. Once only had I witnessed him brandish that sword, on that fateful day in Stony Stratford, disarming Lord Grey. After my companion’s word pictures, I imagined him now, wielding it with deadly intent, striking left, right, at Tudor’s footsoldiers, or at any of his knights who ventured so far.

  Was Henry Tudor showing such valour on this battlefield?

  Now, again, the boar banner pressed into the thick of the fighting, this time to the right near where the Duke of Norfolk’s standard had been seen no more.

  And another horseman rode back to seek the Earl.

  Yet still Northumberland held back.

  My fellow watchers were free with their curses on the Earl’s head, and more on top for Lor
d Stanley, whose forces remained unmoving off to the left.

  I described for them again the King’s withdrawal from the line, as his banner returned to the higher ground. There, they told me, among soldiers kept in reserve and horses waiting to be used, he would have a matchless view of the course of the battle, and be well placed to decide what best to do.

  From our vantage point, we saw the fighting spilling further to the right.

  ‘Perhaps Oxford senses a weakness there now Norfolk is gone,’ said one man, concern rising in his voice.

  ‘Do you think he’s dead?’ The image of the man who had greeted the King so warmly this morning sprang up in my mind. Though I knew not why my thoughts should turn on him more than many another man killing and dying on the field before me.

  The grizzled man shot me a glance full of pity.

  ‘Aye, lad, no doubt about it – dead or at least badly wounded, with many of his men. Otherwise, another of his knights would have caught up the standard – his men would rally to it in an instant. Now, instead, Oxford is piling his troops there as if he believes the line will break. See them stream along from the centre, and from his reserve far behind?’

  My eyes scanned the heaving mass of men as more trumpets sounded. The thin reedy notes hardly rose above the buzz and grumble of all the other battle sounds merging into one.

  Then, my gaze raking to the left, I spied something to the rear of Oxford’s forward line.

  ‘What banner is that?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Among that small knot of men behind the fighting. Its background green and white – upon it a red... a red dragon?’

  And in that instant I was no longer on a church tower.

  It was as though I was once again at my King’s side.