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

by Alex Marchant

  ‘The red dragon? Where do you see it?’ I heard him say.

  I pointed without speaking.

  ‘The Dragon of Cadwallader! Tudor’s symbol. Well done, lad. Francis? We have Tudor in our sight. There to the left – behind the main force.’

  ‘But, Dickon,’ Lord Lovell’s voice was weary, ‘it is the fourth time today.’

  ‘Aye, but those before were just decoys. Surely this must be him. Out there, he is not aiming to draw us into the forward line.’

  ‘But what good is that to us? The thickest press is on the right flank. And without Northumberland we have few men to spare.’

  ‘Then that is what he will least expect – that we should aim at him direct. See – he has few men himself. Oxford has thrown everything into the forward line and left him scarcely protected and stranded in the rear now the weight of the battle is moving to the right. One swift stroke and the day will be ours. And with it, an end to all this bloodshed.’

  ‘A swift stroke? You would lead cavalry there? But the way runs past the Stanleys!’

  ‘What of it? Lord Stanley has not chosen to strike yet himself, for either side, though he must see that Oxford has the advantage of us on that far flank. And he knows we still have Lord Strange. He may yet be gambling on my forgiveness for himself and his son – think it better perhaps to do nothing and watch our victory, than risk all and throw in his lot with Tudor.’

  ‘It is too great a risk, Dickon.’

  ‘Then what would you have me do? With Norfolk dead and without Northumberland we cannot now hope to break Oxford’s line.’

  ‘Perhaps... perhaps withdraw. Regroup in front of London. Live to fight another day. As your brother once did.’

  ‘My brother Edward? The forces against us that day were overwhelming. Cousin Warwick at their head and half the country behind the old King. Not like this. Not a Welsh rebel with a rabble of French mercenaries. We cannot cede him the battle.’

  ‘Yet it would buy more time. Time for more men to rally to your standard. The men of York, for instance. Your agents say Northumberland delayed mustering them so they have not yet arrived. In how many other towns has that happened?’

  ‘Perhaps too few to chance it, Francis. No, we have our opportunity now to deal Tudor a fatal blow – if we do not debate too long. But, Francis, you –’ a heartbeat’s silence, then, softly – ‘you need not ride with me.’

  ‘You wrong me, Richard, if you think I will desert you now.’

  ‘Nay, old friend, I know you would never do that, whatever the odds.’ Then, his voice firm once again, ‘To horse, then. And bring me those men who will follow me to finish this battle now.’

  King Richard stood staring out across the smoke and screams and stench of the battlefield as Lord Lovell strode off. Alone once more, motionless, his slight figure cased in plates of steel and surcoat of murrey and blue, muddied and bloodied, fleurs-de-lys, sunbursts, lions – once golden, royal symbols – hardly recognizable beneath the grime. A gauntleted hand resting on his sword hilt. A moment of stillness against the deadly backdrop of the battle.

  Then, shattering the seeming calm, a squire led up a light grey horse in full shining armour – Windfollower, dancing skittishly upon his hooves at the bustle and noise pressing in again all around. But King Richard stepped up to him, and at a word and a gentle stroke of his nose beneath the faceplate he quietened, remaining like a statue as the King, iron-clad himself, was boosted into the saddle.

  Soon the company of household knights was gathered, a sea of glittering armour, bristling lances, dark red and blue livery, snorting stallions sporting toughened steel as fine as that of their masters.

  At their head rode Lord Lovell. To one side was the King’s standard bearer, his armour and surcoat already befouled with dirt and blood, like his master’s, his strong fist grasping the staff of the great white boar banner. To the other were the shadowed faces of Master Kendall and Master Ratcliffe. Then they flipped their visors closed.

  Another squire ran up to the King, a circlet of gold encrusted with jewels in his hands. The King reached down for it, then thrust it skywards. The gems sparkled in the brilliant sunlight.

  ‘Gentlemen, this is what Henry Tudor seeks today. The crown of England. But he shall not have it. Not while I live and have breath within me. Are you with me?’

  As one, the knights roared, ‘Aye! For Richard!’ and clashed their lances against their shields.

  The King jammed the circlet down upon his helmet, then snapped shut his visor and wheeled Windfollower about. The other horses bunched up behind him in their eagerness to be off as he raised his own lance, then pointed it forward.

  ‘Á York!’ he cried.

  ‘For Richard and England!’

  Their horses began to pace down the slope, slowly at first, then gathering speed, faster, faster, until they reached full gallop. The sound of their hooves was as loud as cannonfire as they charged across the battlefield. The silver of the armour and colours of the livery blurred to the sight with the speed that swept them past the battle line and ate up the ground towards Tudor. Above it all, the white boar standard flew as I had seen it long ago upon the highest tower at Middleham.

  On and on they thundered, King Richard and Windfollower at the very front, until with a nightmare crash the charge broke like a storm-wave on the wall of Tudor’s defenders. Those men had barely time to cluster round him in defence before the impact. Surprise was still mingled with growing fear on the faces of those who died first.

  The King and his companions flung away the shattered butts of their lances and set about them with mace or battle axe. Unmounted men had little chance against them and they soon cut a swathe through the ring of defenders around the red dragon banner.

  Screams of men and horses rent the air, with the ringing of metal on metal, and the sickening crunch of blade on bone. Blood churned the earth to mud under foot and hoof, but sure of foot and hoof, the King and his men were gaining ground.

  A lone man in the richest armour could be seen by the dragon standard, thrust now deep into the ground, defended by a giant of a knight with battle axe seeming as tall as he. The goal of the charge was within their grasp. The King spurred Windfollower forward towards the gigantic knight, his own great axe slick with blood.

  Then came the shout that all had dreaded.

  ‘Stanley rides!’

  The host of horsemen were careering down from their watching, waiting place, their stag’s head banner whipping above them in the wind raised by their speed. The brightness of their armour still shone in the August sun, the scarlet of their surcoats as yet undefiled by the filth of battle. Their trumpet call rang in the shimmering air.

  ‘They come to join us at last. Now they see we nearly have Tudor.’ The King’s voice was hoarse.

  ‘Dickon, no! You know they come to destroy you. We must withdraw.’

  ‘Never! I live or die this day rightful King of England!’

  And the charge slammed into the chaos of the fighting.

  I saw it though I was not there. I felt the shock of the heavy horses smashing into, overwhelming the King’s forces, though I was not there. I heard the crash and the cries carried to me on the battle wind.

  I saw the white boar banner go down. It did not rise again.

  And a single word resounded in my head.

  ‘Treason!’

  21 Milestones

  Another milestone. And another. And another.

  It was all I could do to stop myself falling asleep – and then falling to the ground.

  Another milestone. Another mile closer to London.

  Closer to sleep.

  I could barely remember the last time I’d slept. Well and long, at least, not in fitful starts. Afraid to close my eyes.

  The night before the battle, perhaps.

  Before the waking nightmare began.

  In truth I had hardly known whether I was sleeping or awake as I stumbled down from the church tower. As calls dropped
from above, warning me to take care. As, in the half-light below, a kindly woman handed me my pack and the leash she had tied to Murrey’s collar.

  Her royal collar.

  Should I take it off and hide it?

  Murrey had whimpered, her liquid eyes gazing up beseeching, as my hesitant fingers reached out – then grasped the collar to pull her with me. The leather was rough, the gilt fleur-de-lys upon it cool to my touch.

  I had to get out of there, had to get on my way. I had a job to do.

  Astride Bess, I had ridden away from the village, back the way I had come. Seeking the old road.

  Watling Street.

  To the south, King Richard had said.

  The King —

  To the west hung a heat haze – and clouds of crows and rooks, circling.

  Everywhere men were hurrying. Mostly north or east, some south as well.

  Some were on horseback, most on foot, all rushing as fast as they could – if they could rush – often looking back over their shoulders. All were filthy, sweaty, bloodied – their own or others’ blood? Torn clothes, ripped chain mail, some struggling out of armour even as they ran, tossing it aside.

  Once, in the neighbouring field, riders hunted down a man, thrust their lances into him as he lay writhing on the ground. Dismounted to search his body. One cheered as he stripped him of his boots and held them up for his fellows to see.

  I turned away, urging Bess on. But I took my sallet from my bundle and threw it down under a hedge.

  More stragglers coming towards me, one limping, another clutching a bleeding shoulder, others with dazed eyes.

  In those eyes I saw my own.

  Then, between them —

  ‘Make way, make way!’

  I knew that voice.

  A rider on a light grey horse. Armour encasing both – dirt and gore encrusted, but burnished. Murrey and blue livery.

  My heart leapt.

  The horse was Storm.

  Cantering towards me along the lane. Scattering the trudging, defeated soldiers.

  I raised my hand and called, ‘Your Grace!’

  The stallion skittered to a halt.

  But —

  The knight was too tall.

  He snapped up his visor.

  ‘Matthew?’

  Lord Lovell’s face. Smudged with dirt, dark dried blood, an ooze of fresh red at his temple. He stared down at me.

  ‘Matthew – for the love of God, flee!’

  ‘I thought you were King Richard.’

  I could not hide the misery in my voice.

  ‘He’s dead, Matthew. Hacked down by the traitor’s men in front of me.’

  I had known it – of course I had – but to hear the words…

  ‘Where is he, my lord?’

  ‘Back on the battlefield, where he fell. The fighting moved on, till our men could fight no more. And then we broke…’

  ‘But Storm —’

  ‘I found him loose on the field and took him to save my skin.’ He grimaced. ‘You wonder at it perhaps – loyal Lovell fleeing? But we are all branded traitors by this new “king” – they say he proclaimed himself such as he set foot on Welsh soil. They are butchering all they catch – no quarter given. Not to flee would be self-slaughter. Would that Richard had left the field when he had the chance.’

  He told me of those last moments in few words: the charge, the King killing Tudor’s giant standard bearer with his own hands, the carnage as Stanley’s cavalry ploughed into their rear... the names of men who died. The Duke of Norfolk, Masters Ratcliffe, Brackenbury... Kendall.

  ‘What will happen to him?’

  ‘The King? His body will be despoiled – stripped of all he has, like any common soldier. Then, when Tudor has found him – if they can still recognize him – he will be taken... I know not where. Leicester, London? To be put on display so all know he is dead.’

  My stomach turned over. Thank the Saviour I had eaten nothing since early morning.

  ‘But Matthew, did not the King give you a message to take? Why are you here?’

  ‘I could not... go – without knowing.’

  ‘You must take it – and swiftly. It is of utmost importance – especially after... You must not fail Richard, even now. Wait —’

  As though uncertain, he paused. Glanced – left, right – over his shoulders.

  Few straggling soldiers were to be seen now – and no pursuers. For the moment.

  With difficulty, he dismounted and began to unbuckle his armour. It was slow work and he murmured his thanks as I helped. From time to time he winced as a plate brushed against his wounds.

  As we worked, he explained.

  ‘You shall take Storm – no, don’t protest. Your journey is more urgent than mine. For me, young Lincoln, Richard’s nephew, is the new king, not this traitor. I will find him when the time is right. He will need followers. Rally to his cause yourself, Matthew, one day, if you can. But meanwhile, you can carry your message more quickly aboard Storm. See, we can remove his finery too. Throw it into the ditch for some scavenger to find. Switch his saddle and bridle when you have a chance, or muddy these when you reach water. He will always be a fine horse, but it may help you escape notice.’

  He broke off, looking around.

  ‘As for me, I have only what I now stand up in. If you will give me your pony and bundle, it may be that I can make my way across country as a simple pedlar.’

  ‘There is food, too, in the pack.’

  ‘Then we will share that if you are willing – we will both need it on our journeys.’

  He reached down to pick up his sword and scabbard. Then, hesitating, he kissed it on the hilt before handing it to me.

  ‘Take my sword too. It may be of use to you – and it is a thing that no pedlar would have. Keep it safe, if you can – and return it to me if ever we meet again. Richard himself gave it to me when I was made viscount.’

  He watched as I clumsily strapped it on, his mouth curling in a humourless smile at the way it hung loose about my waist. Then he spied something else.

  ‘Is that Richard’s boar upon your chest?’

  ‘Aye, my lord. And I will always be proud to wear it.’

  ‘Your loyalty does you credit, boy, but if you value your life, hide it.’

  ‘I’m not afraid —’

  ‘Maybe not, but your task is more important that your pride. Here...’

  He deftly unpinned the badge, turned back the collar of my doublet and refastened it within so it was nestled against my undershirt.

  ‘Now, be off with you.’

  He boosted me into Storm’s saddle and raised his hand to clap him on the hindquarters.

  ‘I thank you for what you are to do. And do not worry, Matthew – I will take care of your pony. You look after yourself – and do your duty to Richard.’

  One slap and Storm was cantering again along the lane, Murrey bounding after.

  Another milestone. Then another.

  My eyes desperate to close, desperate to sleep.

  There had been a village. A well.

  I had raised the bucket, drunk gratefully.

  While Storm bent his head to the water, I mixed mud pies in the soil like a child and smeared them on his fine saddle and bridle. Plastered them over patches of congealed blood on his coat. Took out my knife, scored lines on the leather, rubbed in more filth.

  Murrey growled.

  Raucous laughter, shouts and catcalls.

  Many hooves. Marching feet.

  Round a corner, a procession of soldiers. To the front, banners that had flown among Tudor’s forces on the battlefield.

  Too late to melt away without drawing their notice. No villagers were about, all doors and windows shuttered against the uncertain times.

  I pulled Storm into the shadow of a nearby building, threw the sword belt down and kicked dust upon it. I prayed we would not be seen and my attempts at disguise tested.

  But these soldiers had no interest in a boy cowerin
g in a corner. Laughs resounded around the empty street, coarse oaths, ribald jests thrown from man to man. They were having fun, perhaps hoped for more.

  Their watchful captain, riding at their head, called to remind them.

  ‘No more, lads, no more. You heard what His Grace the new king said.’

  At his words, I had to check myself – must not step forward to catch the rest.

  But they too were pausing for water on this warm day.

  As they clustered around the well, both horsemen and footsoldiers, the leader finished his warning.

  ‘Don’t touch his face, lads. They must be able to recognize him when we get to Leicester.’

  There among them, as they jostled each other for water, was the body of a man slung over a horse.

  Naked, covered only in dirt and dried blood. Hands and feet hanging down, tied with rope under the horse’s belly.

  But I knew who it was.

  I buried my face in Storm’s neck to stifle my cry of horror.

  Another milestone flashes by.

  Can I reach the next?

  Thirty-seven more to go.

  Can I hold on? Can I make it?

  I followed them. Until they came to Leicester. Turned away from my own road, to follow his.

  All the long way back to the town that I – we – had left yesterday.

  I followed him, leading Storm, as the sorry procession filed over the old stone bridge and through the western gate.

  News had reached the town before us. Messengers. Victorious soldiers.

  ‘Tudor has won!’

  ‘King Richard is dead.’

  And crowds flocked to see him as they had the day before. As he had ridden, confidently, to battle, his crown, his armour aflame in the morning sun.

  Silent crowds. They stood lining the roads and watched.

  Some turned away in sadness and disgust. Others thronged to support the victor.

  Mingling amongst them, soldiers. Men at arms.

  Job done, horrors faced, comrades killed, wounded.

  Death escaped.

  Wine bottles clutched.

  And so the jeers began.

  As I trudged, yards behind, I heard them.

  The French I knew, though it was not the French of courtly romances or love songs.