Made King - but with undercurrents threatening the apparent tranquilit yof hte realm.
The White Hart
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This is very true....crowned an anointed but not off a tranquil realm
Chapter 24: The Rebels of Spring
King Richard- The Council Chamber, London, 22nd of April 1067
“The evidence my King is thin at best” the Bishop of Canterbury was carefully reading down the parchment, squinting as his old eyes failed him. ‘I cannot see grounds for arrest, if you issue this warrant the Duke would resist.’ He was right off course on both counts but it did not matter.
Wulfstan tossed one of the pieces of evidence quite casually onto the table “If it is not to bold off me to say, this evidence is near none existent, never mind thin. People would presume it was a fabrication.”
Richard noticed that Baron William was scowling at the Bishop of Worcester “Are you calling me a liar Lord Bishop? Do you accuse me of speaking untruths?” The Barons title could not hope to over awe the Arch-bishop but his presence could and the King noted with some amusement the deep gulp the Bishop took as he picked the parchment back up from the table.
‘All I meant was that many would argue these are loose grounds for arrest, the testimony of a few servants and a couple of disaffected Earls is not and never shall be reason to arrest a Duke.’ His fingers were trembling slightly as his eyes flitted from William to Richard, hoping he had answered correctly.
He hadn’t and the Baron shot from his seat, slapping the table hard. Now for a piece of theatre ‘Are you saying plots to murder the King in his bed should be ignored when it is a Duke who will do the deed?’
The Bishop pushed himself away from the table, his chair scraping the floor as he recoiled ‘No no, not at all….I just meant, what I was trying to say was…..’ his words were lost in his throat forcing the Steward to rescue him.
“Morcar is young my Lord and head strong, nothing short of a damning warrant will let him surrender to your judgement without resisting arrest.’ The steward picked at a piece of grease in his moustache, he was a wholesome man, as large in his girth as he was rampant in his passion for quayside doxies. He eyed the Queen sat quietly behind the King with a feral hunger.
Baron Beaumont moved onward with his argument, baiting the entire council in one move ‘Why would he resist arrest if he has nothing to hide? If he is innocent let his own testimony prove it. And if he resists arrest or the Kings summons all the world will know him a traitor.’
Richard looked behind him ever so slightly, to check the Queens face. She was not smiling openly but he sensed her joy. William had provided the evidence and with some surprise his little senorita had cooked up todays argument. Bishop Stigand, pushed himself to his feet with some effort, holding his hands out wide in a pacifying gesture, urging the Baron and the Steward to silence.
‘Lord King’ the tone was meant to be imploring but Richard recognised the condescension instantly ‘I have known the Duke all his life, and his brother. He is foolish at times, stupid some would say. But he is no murdered. These stories may in fact be words simply spoken in jest our without a care for their true gravitas.’ Richard listened though his ears were closing to the words ‘I will speak with him, I assure you. But heed our advice. It is not in our power to stop you but we have experience where you lack. Let yourself be at ease and we shall deal with this for you.’
The King smiled and bid the Bishop to sit, thinking for a moment. ‘My friend I shall bow to your wisdom on this matter for the time being, speak with him and we shall say no more about it’ the councillor’s relief was plain ‘Do not hurry yourself though, I will heed your council and you may resolve the issue in your own time. If that is all you may go about your business’
The Steward, Chancellor and Chaplain stood from their seats, bowing to the King and Queen, whilst offering a respectful nod to the baron. All three of them waited a moment before the Queen stepped forward and took a seat beside them.
Her English was much improving and they had taken now to using only it, instead of Norman-French ‘Are you really going to take their advice?’ He smiled at her and she smiled back.
‘Does the lion flee before the lamb?’ the Baron laughed at the sentence.
‘So shall I make the arrangements? I can have a force assembled before the day is out.’ William was quite the organiser and no doubt preparations had already been finally laid well in advance of today’s meeting.
Richard nodded ‘Get what you need and I shall prepare a summons for you. You can pick up men from Derby and Bedford along the way. He will not come quietly.’
William slapped the King on the back ‘We can but hope my lad, we can but hope.’
William- The South Riding, Yorkshire, 3rd of May 1067
He had left London almost a week and a half ago and they had made a reasonable march up through the Midlands before they moved into the Yorkshire moors. He had about a thousand men under arms and though it seemed excessive, considering they were only going to apprehend the one man, William wished he had more.
Wind buffeted him in the face, the chill spring wind stinging his nose and ears. He had a bearskin cloak clasped around his shoulders as a small comfort against the weather and he had a fine pair of boots lined with lamb’s wool on his feet. Richard had given him a fine horse from the royal stables and as they pushed up hill onto the sweeping wilds, he was glad he had not had to walk the whole length of the old roman road.
York itself was some days off, though he sensed it ahead of him. Like a beacon calling to him, drawing him over the high hills.
He had to confess he was somewhat excited, north of the Thames river and out of its lush green valley, much of England offered the promise of a bygone age. Civilisation retreated in the face of high winds, torrential rain and wild storms that split the open sky.
A shout from behind him broke his reverie. “My Lord, riders over on the hillside.”
He turned casually in his saddle to glance at them and then turned back to the road. There was four or five off them, though their number changed and he had spotted them two days previously, their shadow cast against the evening sky on the first night. No doubt his coming was already known in York, though the fact they had not approached suggested they knew his purpose already.
The Baron took a sip from his flask and offered a swig to his second ‘Ride on…if they have any sense they will ride in the opposite direction.’
He glanced behind at the army winding its way up the road onto the moor; he wished he had brought more.
William- Afternoon, York, North Yorkshire, 7rd of May 1067
The Walls of York loomed large in the distance and smoke from more than a thousand hearths fed up into the sky. They followed the west bank of the Ouse, as it meandered through the farmland surrounding the great walls. York was amongst the first of England’s cities to begin turning their wooden ramparts to stone and the work was progressing swiftly.
Farmsteads dotted the surrounding countryside and the Baron noticed that the locals were quite calmly going about their business in the fields, making them ready for planting. If this were Normandy and an army was approaching, friend or foe the peasantry would be clamouring at the walls to get in. Something was clearly amiss. His second-in-command noticed his confusion.
“Perhaps he plans to come quietly after all?” the young captain spurred his horse up alongside the Baron.
William noticed a small band off men gathering in the road a mile ahead, a welcoming committee? ‘Not bloody likely, I have studied this boy’ and he was a boy, having only twenty summers under his belt, though he imagined himself a King-in-waiting ‘He has spirit and ambition, they do not mix well with coming quietly.’
A single figure stepped forward from the group that they were approaching and William noticed him signal to the man behind and seconds later the flag of York, unfurled into the wet breeze. The Baron raised his hand to halt his marching men and then with a nod to his forward company he spurred his horse forward to meet the man in the road.
He called out ‘Bonjour mon ami, y at-il une raison pour laquelle vous bloquez mon chemin?’ he noted the instant confusion on the man’s face and realised he must speak only English though he did not immediately change tongue, enjoying the sight of him rummaging around in his mind for the right words.
‘Pardonnez-moi mon Seigneur…….. mais je ne parle pas très bien français’ the words came awkwardly to him, but his politeness was to be commended. He was dressed in quite a fine robe, albeit it sodden at the hem from the wet floor, he wore a thin gold chain around his neck, which suggested some modest wealth.
‘It is just as well then I speak you tongue well enough’ the Baron reigned in his horse, pulling it about and circling the short, plump little man. ‘I am not in the habit off asking twice but I shall this once……why are you in my way?’
William urged his horse forward, if his armour and helmet did not offer enough fright, a huge, muscled charger such as he had been given must stir some fear as it breath down his neck though the man did not turn to look at him.
‘I am sent by my Lord Duke to ask what business you have coming through his lands under arms?’ the man swallowed heavily and put his hands inside his sleeves to hide the fact they were shaking.
The Baron spurred his horse gently passed the man below him to address his second ‘Tell me Ralph what country is this?’
The officer looked nonplussed but he answered regardless ‘England my Lord.’
‘And who rules the Kingdom of England?’ he smiled and the officer caught his drift.
‘King Richard my Lord.’ The captain understood the jest but did not smile or laugh, but answered in all seriousness.
‘So when we are about the Kings business whose permission, save that of the Kings do I require?’ William wheeled his horse about and glared down at the man, whose knees now wobbled.
‘No other Baron Beaumont.’
William nodded in thanks and scowled down the length of his charger’s neck ‘No other authority but that of King Richard, I thought as much. So again, I ask and be warned I have little patience left, why are you in my way? I come to speak with Duke Morcar, not his fool.’
The fat, little man bowed as the colour drained from his face ‘Then I regret to inform you my Lord, the Duke is not here and you have a long ride ahead.’
His temper flared ‘Then where is he damn you?’
‘He has gone to Northumbria, my Lord’
William- Dawn, Sheffield, South West Yorkshire, 12th of May 1067
Dew glistened on the leaves and despite the chill it was a fine spring morning, the sun was just cresting over the eastern skyline and he had ordered his men to break camp at first light. Most of them were groggy, cold and tired but they had to march. He sat on his charger on a low slope watching his army rouse into life.
They had passed through Sheffield yesterday and he hoped they would make good speed to the Trent. Riders were even now flying west and east to summon men from Chester, Derby and Leicester. Ralph, commander of his personal retinue was pushing his drowsy steed up the small slope, sleep still heavy on both. He himself was wide awake, fifty years old he maybe and his bones ached but now was not the time.
“Lord if we are to continue this mad march, will you at least tell me why?” there had been little time to explain, every minute given to keeping the army moving as fast as it could ‘If the Duke is in Northumbria, why then are we heading south?’
‘Because to go north would be stupid’ gentle spits of rain hit his cheeks.
‘But of Morcar is going north then we must surely follow?’ The commander tugged his cloak further around his chin to hide it from the chill breeze.
‘We go south because the Duke will have gone south’ the commander looked at him, totally lost by the logic ‘Northumbria is a wild land, I would only go there to hide in the high fens or to seek the sanctuary of St Cuthbert, not to fight a war and that is precisely what Morcar plans.’
‘Forgive me, but then where will he go?’
‘If I were in his boots I think I would ride for Warwick’ William was quite the commander and had spent many yeas fighting for the old King, up and down the land so he knew it well ‘It is one of his holdings though it is deep within his brothers Duchy. He will if I have the measure off him right, seek to raise a force in the very heart of Mercia, using his brother as a shield and whilst he thinks we move on Northumbria and from there he will strike at the Thames Valley and seek to catch us unprepared.’
Ralph did not reply immediately but whipped the fine drizzle, that was slowly picking up pace from his face ‘Do you expect he will offer battle if we catch him at Warwick?’
‘Ha ha, I certainly hope the little English whelp is that stupid.’ The Baron kicked his horse sharply in the flank and its bolted forward down the little slope. Ralph followed in hot pursuit, racing along the sides of the column.
William- Mid-afternoon, The Burh of Tamworth, Staffordshire 19th of May 1067
Smoke filled the chamber and the air tasted slightly foul, Tamworth Burh was supposedly undergoing improvements, its wooden ramparts replaced with stone walls. Many of the servants and permeant occupants had taken up residence in the feast hall. Two hunting dogs snapped over a bone in the corner of the room and a babe was wailing incessantly, no doubt hungry for the breast.
The earthen floor was covered in rubbish and detritus, the natural outcome of so many people living in close quarters. The Baron sat at a roughly hewn table on the low dais, Cardinal Ethelwine’s bright red robes, totally out of place amongst the humanity of the space.
“You must believe me my friend I did not know that my Lord Duke was raising arms against the King’ the fat, bald palleted man ringed his fingers nervously ‘You do believe me, don’t you? You will reassure the King I am ever his servant.’
‘Your Grace I am sure your intentions were virtuous and as you said you were led to Warwick under false pretences’ he raised a cup to the Cardinal, tossing a bone from his plate to the little pup sat begging as his leg ‘I am certain the 6,000 men I have now under arms had nothing to do with your coming here today.’
The Cardinal moved to rise, heaving his hefty frame from his stool and brushing his robe clean of dust an pieces of fallen thatch ‘Since I have told you all I can regards the Dukes forces, I think is about time I return to Durham.’
‘Sit down You Grace, I am sure the King will wish to speak with you.’
The colour drained from the porcine Cardinals face, clashing starkly against the richness of his cassock ‘But…but the King he is in London and I am to make for Durham.’
‘Ahhh I am afraid, when you pass time with a rebel, events move quicker than you expect. The King will be here on the morrow, you can explain to him yourself how terribly the Duke misled you.’
William-Dusk, The Burh of Tamworth, Staffordshire 20th of May 1067
The Baron had to smile to himself at the sounds of cheers rose. He knew Richard well and had taught him what he could about war, but he was no soldier. He could wheeled a sword sure enough but not with any exceptional skill.
But as the sound of Baron Williams cheering troops rose, he realised that that was not all that fighting a war required. Richard looked magnificent. He had always been a handsome man, but as he passed through Tamworth’s gate-house atop his beautiful white charger, he appeared almost saintly. His armour shone in the evening light, the silver plate reflecting like a mirror the orange glow of the sky. He was dazzling.
Sat tall, straight backed and proud he waved his gauntleted fists at the assembled troops along the road side, smiling at them constantly. The Queen had clearly instructed him on how to behave in public. Williams heart lifted a little to see the genuine happiness on Richards face, he needed this. He needed to know his people or his troops at least offered him devotion; better though not to mention later, that that devotion came from more from the fact they believed themselves on the winning side.
The King reign his horse in at the steps to the Burhs front door, jumping from his horse, dashing up the short stair and clasping Baron Beaumont by the wrists, smiling at him. “My friend, is all in readiness?”
William stepped back from the Kings embrace ‘6,000 men drawn from across the counties. We march on Warwick tomorrow.’
The King clearly caught sight of Ethelwine, Cardinal Durham, stood behind William and offered a quizzical glance. ‘I will explain about him later.’
King Richard- The Council Chamber, London, 22nd of April 1067
“The evidence my King is thin at best” the Bishop of Canterbury was carefully reading down the parchment, squinting as his old eyes failed him. ‘I cannot see grounds for arrest, if you issue this warrant the Duke would resist.’ He was right off course on both counts but it did not matter.
Wulfstan tossed one of the pieces of evidence quite casually onto the table “If it is not to bold off me to say, this evidence is near none existent, never mind thin. People would presume it was a fabrication.”
Richard noticed that Baron William was scowling at the Bishop of Worcester “Are you calling me a liar Lord Bishop? Do you accuse me of speaking untruths?” The Barons title could not hope to over awe the Arch-bishop but his presence could and the King noted with some amusement the deep gulp the Bishop took as he picked the parchment back up from the table.
‘All I meant was that many would argue these are loose grounds for arrest, the testimony of a few servants and a couple of disaffected Earls is not and never shall be reason to arrest a Duke.’ His fingers were trembling slightly as his eyes flitted from William to Richard, hoping he had answered correctly.
He hadn’t and the Baron shot from his seat, slapping the table hard. Now for a piece of theatre ‘Are you saying plots to murder the King in his bed should be ignored when it is a Duke who will do the deed?’
The Bishop pushed himself away from the table, his chair scraping the floor as he recoiled ‘No no, not at all….I just meant, what I was trying to say was…..’ his words were lost in his throat forcing the Steward to rescue him.
“Morcar is young my Lord and head strong, nothing short of a damning warrant will let him surrender to your judgement without resisting arrest.’ The steward picked at a piece of grease in his moustache, he was a wholesome man, as large in his girth as he was rampant in his passion for quayside doxies. He eyed the Queen sat quietly behind the King with a feral hunger.
Baron Beaumont moved onward with his argument, baiting the entire council in one move ‘Why would he resist arrest if he has nothing to hide? If he is innocent let his own testimony prove it. And if he resists arrest or the Kings summons all the world will know him a traitor.’
Richard looked behind him ever so slightly, to check the Queens face. She was not smiling openly but he sensed her joy. William had provided the evidence and with some surprise his little senorita had cooked up todays argument. Bishop Stigand, pushed himself to his feet with some effort, holding his hands out wide in a pacifying gesture, urging the Baron and the Steward to silence.
‘Lord King’ the tone was meant to be imploring but Richard recognised the condescension instantly ‘I have known the Duke all his life, and his brother. He is foolish at times, stupid some would say. But he is no murdered. These stories may in fact be words simply spoken in jest our without a care for their true gravitas.’ Richard listened though his ears were closing to the words ‘I will speak with him, I assure you. But heed our advice. It is not in our power to stop you but we have experience where you lack. Let yourself be at ease and we shall deal with this for you.’
The King smiled and bid the Bishop to sit, thinking for a moment. ‘My friend I shall bow to your wisdom on this matter for the time being, speak with him and we shall say no more about it’ the councillor’s relief was plain ‘Do not hurry yourself though, I will heed your council and you may resolve the issue in your own time. If that is all you may go about your business’
The Steward, Chancellor and Chaplain stood from their seats, bowing to the King and Queen, whilst offering a respectful nod to the baron. All three of them waited a moment before the Queen stepped forward and took a seat beside them.
Her English was much improving and they had taken now to using only it, instead of Norman-French ‘Are you really going to take their advice?’ He smiled at her and she smiled back.
‘Does the lion flee before the lamb?’ the Baron laughed at the sentence.
‘So shall I make the arrangements? I can have a force assembled before the day is out.’ William was quite the organiser and no doubt preparations had already been finally laid well in advance of today’s meeting.
Richard nodded ‘Get what you need and I shall prepare a summons for you. You can pick up men from Derby and Bedford along the way. He will not come quietly.’
William slapped the King on the back ‘We can but hope my lad, we can but hope.’
William- The South Riding, Yorkshire, 3rd of May 1067
He had left London almost a week and a half ago and they had made a reasonable march up through the Midlands before they moved into the Yorkshire moors. He had about a thousand men under arms and though it seemed excessive, considering they were only going to apprehend the one man, William wished he had more.
Wind buffeted him in the face, the chill spring wind stinging his nose and ears. He had a bearskin cloak clasped around his shoulders as a small comfort against the weather and he had a fine pair of boots lined with lamb’s wool on his feet. Richard had given him a fine horse from the royal stables and as they pushed up hill onto the sweeping wilds, he was glad he had not had to walk the whole length of the old roman road.
York itself was some days off, though he sensed it ahead of him. Like a beacon calling to him, drawing him over the high hills.
He had to confess he was somewhat excited, north of the Thames river and out of its lush green valley, much of England offered the promise of a bygone age. Civilisation retreated in the face of high winds, torrential rain and wild storms that split the open sky.
A shout from behind him broke his reverie. “My Lord, riders over on the hillside.”
He turned casually in his saddle to glance at them and then turned back to the road. There was four or five off them, though their number changed and he had spotted them two days previously, their shadow cast against the evening sky on the first night. No doubt his coming was already known in York, though the fact they had not approached suggested they knew his purpose already.
The Baron took a sip from his flask and offered a swig to his second ‘Ride on…if they have any sense they will ride in the opposite direction.’
He glanced behind at the army winding its way up the road onto the moor; he wished he had brought more.
William- Afternoon, York, North Yorkshire, 7rd of May 1067
The Walls of York loomed large in the distance and smoke from more than a thousand hearths fed up into the sky. They followed the west bank of the Ouse, as it meandered through the farmland surrounding the great walls. York was amongst the first of England’s cities to begin turning their wooden ramparts to stone and the work was progressing swiftly.
Farmsteads dotted the surrounding countryside and the Baron noticed that the locals were quite calmly going about their business in the fields, making them ready for planting. If this were Normandy and an army was approaching, friend or foe the peasantry would be clamouring at the walls to get in. Something was clearly amiss. His second-in-command noticed his confusion.
“Perhaps he plans to come quietly after all?” the young captain spurred his horse up alongside the Baron.
William noticed a small band off men gathering in the road a mile ahead, a welcoming committee? ‘Not bloody likely, I have studied this boy’ and he was a boy, having only twenty summers under his belt, though he imagined himself a King-in-waiting ‘He has spirit and ambition, they do not mix well with coming quietly.’
A single figure stepped forward from the group that they were approaching and William noticed him signal to the man behind and seconds later the flag of York, unfurled into the wet breeze. The Baron raised his hand to halt his marching men and then with a nod to his forward company he spurred his horse forward to meet the man in the road.
He called out ‘Bonjour mon ami, y at-il une raison pour laquelle vous bloquez mon chemin?’ he noted the instant confusion on the man’s face and realised he must speak only English though he did not immediately change tongue, enjoying the sight of him rummaging around in his mind for the right words.
‘Pardonnez-moi mon Seigneur…….. mais je ne parle pas très bien français’ the words came awkwardly to him, but his politeness was to be commended. He was dressed in quite a fine robe, albeit it sodden at the hem from the wet floor, he wore a thin gold chain around his neck, which suggested some modest wealth.
‘It is just as well then I speak you tongue well enough’ the Baron reigned in his horse, pulling it about and circling the short, plump little man. ‘I am not in the habit off asking twice but I shall this once……why are you in my way?’
William urged his horse forward, if his armour and helmet did not offer enough fright, a huge, muscled charger such as he had been given must stir some fear as it breath down his neck though the man did not turn to look at him.
‘I am sent by my Lord Duke to ask what business you have coming through his lands under arms?’ the man swallowed heavily and put his hands inside his sleeves to hide the fact they were shaking.
The Baron spurred his horse gently passed the man below him to address his second ‘Tell me Ralph what country is this?’
The officer looked nonplussed but he answered regardless ‘England my Lord.’
‘And who rules the Kingdom of England?’ he smiled and the officer caught his drift.
‘King Richard my Lord.’ The captain understood the jest but did not smile or laugh, but answered in all seriousness.
‘So when we are about the Kings business whose permission, save that of the Kings do I require?’ William wheeled his horse about and glared down at the man, whose knees now wobbled.
‘No other Baron Beaumont.’
William nodded in thanks and scowled down the length of his charger’s neck ‘No other authority but that of King Richard, I thought as much. So again, I ask and be warned I have little patience left, why are you in my way? I come to speak with Duke Morcar, not his fool.’
The fat, little man bowed as the colour drained from his face ‘Then I regret to inform you my Lord, the Duke is not here and you have a long ride ahead.’
His temper flared ‘Then where is he damn you?’
‘He has gone to Northumbria, my Lord’
William- Dawn, Sheffield, South West Yorkshire, 12th of May 1067
Dew glistened on the leaves and despite the chill it was a fine spring morning, the sun was just cresting over the eastern skyline and he had ordered his men to break camp at first light. Most of them were groggy, cold and tired but they had to march. He sat on his charger on a low slope watching his army rouse into life.
They had passed through Sheffield yesterday and he hoped they would make good speed to the Trent. Riders were even now flying west and east to summon men from Chester, Derby and Leicester. Ralph, commander of his personal retinue was pushing his drowsy steed up the small slope, sleep still heavy on both. He himself was wide awake, fifty years old he maybe and his bones ached but now was not the time.
“Lord if we are to continue this mad march, will you at least tell me why?” there had been little time to explain, every minute given to keeping the army moving as fast as it could ‘If the Duke is in Northumbria, why then are we heading south?’
‘Because to go north would be stupid’ gentle spits of rain hit his cheeks.
‘But of Morcar is going north then we must surely follow?’ The commander tugged his cloak further around his chin to hide it from the chill breeze.
‘We go south because the Duke will have gone south’ the commander looked at him, totally lost by the logic ‘Northumbria is a wild land, I would only go there to hide in the high fens or to seek the sanctuary of St Cuthbert, not to fight a war and that is precisely what Morcar plans.’
‘Forgive me, but then where will he go?’
‘If I were in his boots I think I would ride for Warwick’ William was quite the commander and had spent many yeas fighting for the old King, up and down the land so he knew it well ‘It is one of his holdings though it is deep within his brothers Duchy. He will if I have the measure off him right, seek to raise a force in the very heart of Mercia, using his brother as a shield and whilst he thinks we move on Northumbria and from there he will strike at the Thames Valley and seek to catch us unprepared.’
Ralph did not reply immediately but whipped the fine drizzle, that was slowly picking up pace from his face ‘Do you expect he will offer battle if we catch him at Warwick?’
‘Ha ha, I certainly hope the little English whelp is that stupid.’ The Baron kicked his horse sharply in the flank and its bolted forward down the little slope. Ralph followed in hot pursuit, racing along the sides of the column.
William- Mid-afternoon, The Burh of Tamworth, Staffordshire 19th of May 1067
Smoke filled the chamber and the air tasted slightly foul, Tamworth Burh was supposedly undergoing improvements, its wooden ramparts replaced with stone walls. Many of the servants and permeant occupants had taken up residence in the feast hall. Two hunting dogs snapped over a bone in the corner of the room and a babe was wailing incessantly, no doubt hungry for the breast.
The earthen floor was covered in rubbish and detritus, the natural outcome of so many people living in close quarters. The Baron sat at a roughly hewn table on the low dais, Cardinal Ethelwine’s bright red robes, totally out of place amongst the humanity of the space.
“You must believe me my friend I did not know that my Lord Duke was raising arms against the King’ the fat, bald palleted man ringed his fingers nervously ‘You do believe me, don’t you? You will reassure the King I am ever his servant.’
‘Your Grace I am sure your intentions were virtuous and as you said you were led to Warwick under false pretences’ he raised a cup to the Cardinal, tossing a bone from his plate to the little pup sat begging as his leg ‘I am certain the 6,000 men I have now under arms had nothing to do with your coming here today.’
The Cardinal moved to rise, heaving his hefty frame from his stool and brushing his robe clean of dust an pieces of fallen thatch ‘Since I have told you all I can regards the Dukes forces, I think is about time I return to Durham.’
‘Sit down You Grace, I am sure the King will wish to speak with you.’
The colour drained from the porcine Cardinals face, clashing starkly against the richness of his cassock ‘But…but the King he is in London and I am to make for Durham.’
‘Ahhh I am afraid, when you pass time with a rebel, events move quicker than you expect. The King will be here on the morrow, you can explain to him yourself how terribly the Duke misled you.’
William-Dusk, The Burh of Tamworth, Staffordshire 20th of May 1067
The Baron had to smile to himself at the sounds of cheers rose. He knew Richard well and had taught him what he could about war, but he was no soldier. He could wheeled a sword sure enough but not with any exceptional skill.
But as the sound of Baron Williams cheering troops rose, he realised that that was not all that fighting a war required. Richard looked magnificent. He had always been a handsome man, but as he passed through Tamworth’s gate-house atop his beautiful white charger, he appeared almost saintly. His armour shone in the evening light, the silver plate reflecting like a mirror the orange glow of the sky. He was dazzling.
Sat tall, straight backed and proud he waved his gauntleted fists at the assembled troops along the road side, smiling at them constantly. The Queen had clearly instructed him on how to behave in public. Williams heart lifted a little to see the genuine happiness on Richards face, he needed this. He needed to know his people or his troops at least offered him devotion; better though not to mention later, that that devotion came from more from the fact they believed themselves on the winning side.
The King reign his horse in at the steps to the Burhs front door, jumping from his horse, dashing up the short stair and clasping Baron Beaumont by the wrists, smiling at him. “My friend, is all in readiness?”
William stepped back from the Kings embrace ‘6,000 men drawn from across the counties. We march on Warwick tomorrow.’
The King clearly caught sight of Ethelwine, Cardinal Durham, stood behind William and offered a quizzical glance. ‘I will explain about him later.’
Chapter 25: Warwick
Baron William of Beaumont-Morning, the Road to Warwick, Warwickshire 26th of May 1067
They had ambled along the road from Tamworth to Warwick without much urgency. Although they were on the way to battle William had advised that an air of calm was best, they would appear more like a military progress than a march to war. People had lined the roads and emptied the villages all along their route to come out and see their glorious King bedecked for war.
His Grace, Ethelwine, Cardinal Durham whilst wishing to fly back to his house in Durham and escape the rigours of battle had been compelled to join the march. And the sight of the scarlet red cassock, shimmering in the morning sun beside the sparkling images of the King in polished plate and mail was a striking one. If nothing else, the battle crown fixed to Richards helmet was worth looking at, the ruby inset at the front was astounding.
Warwick lay ahead of them and the road was easy. Already the Baron could see this would be a very fine spring day and they would be before the walls of Warwick by mid-afternoon. Banners snapped softly in the gentle wind and if he were not fully aware of his place in England’s history, the marching army surrounding him, led as it was by a handsome King and a Prince of the Church would set the image of Arthur Pendragon in a pale light.
King Richard-Mid-Afternoon, Warwick, Warwickshire 26th of May 1067
The poor boys hands were chaffed by the ropes that bound them and though he struggled a little, a short hard slap from the Baron had stopped his complaining. Three of his companions were dead, their bodies limp against a tree in the little glade and its freshly sprouting branches offered a little cover from the unusually warm sun.
Warwick Hill was surrounded by nearly a two miles off open farmland but then beyond that lay miles and miles of forest. The great greenwood which covered much of England’s soft heart. And it was here under the boughs of that same forest that Richard had brought his army to rest. He and William had ordered the army to stop well away from the tree lines and thanks to the Baron of Beaumont’s foresight they had managed to capture this little scouting party without much difficulty.
Duke Morcar would not suspect them missing for quite some time, indeed if the young man was to be believed then they had been instructed to keeping moving until they encountered difficulty and then retreat. The young Duke, he hoped would not imagine that Richard would waste any time on capturing such a little band and so he would be informed within hours of his enemy’s position. But the King had a different game in mind and so the capture of these riders had been essential.
“What do I do with you my boy?” Richard loomed offer him, legs braced and arms folded, staring down at him. The scout was no more than fifteen summers old and was younger than his companions by some stretch. Hot tears rolled down his face.
“Tie the little bastard to a tree and be done with him, we have the information we need.” The Baron was not a cruel man, neither was the King and killing for killings sake was not within their nature
‘I do not think that is necessary’ Richard knelt down and lifted the young man’s chin up so that he could look into his eyes, he whipped a tear of the boy’s cheeks with an almost fatherly affection. ‘If I let you live boy, do you swear you will leave this place? Return to your mother and make no trouble for your King?’
The young man nodded, but did not speak. Richard took a dagger from his belt and the boy flinched in terror though the Kings firm grip on his shoulder held him steady. The King cut the bonds and the ropes dropped to the earth as Richard rose and turned away. One of the Barons household guards stepped forward. ‘Strip him naked and put him on a horse, make sure he is well away from here before you leave him.’ Richard noticed the sense of relief passing across some of the less hardened men’s faces and a look of shock upon that of the Cardinals. ‘I am not a cruel man Cardinal Durham, in time you will see that I am a just man and I will be a just King, when and where I am able to be so. I have no desire to be a tyrant.’
The Cardinal got slightly ahead of himself and smile came to his fat face ‘Then my Lord by I ask again, let me return to Durham, I am no soldier.’
‘If you are happy for me to pull the scarlet from your back, as naked as the day you were born then most certainly you can go?’ the King smiled at William, who was trying to smother a grin. Ethelwine did not reply but simply blushed in embarrassment. His fat little, naked arse bouncing on a horse all the way up the great north road would certainly be a sight for sore eyes.
‘So then we stick to the plan? The youngling will not suspect anything is amiss so long as our noble Cardinal is true to his word’ William glared at him and the King added his gaze.
‘My Lords…..I swear….the Duke, he knows nothing of your coming….nor did I, I simply wished to return to my home and my Lord agreed.’ William gripped his swords hilt, his deep frown lines cracking slightly.
‘He will be your Lord for only a short while longer Cardinal let me assure you.’
Infantry Man-Dawn, Warwick, Warwickshire 27th of May 1067
A thick dawn mist hung over the farmland ahead of them. The sun had crested the horizon moments before and the sound of the morning chorus was almost deafening. Even the birds favoured his King, the sing and the shrieks covering the sound of chain mail being pulled on and sword edges being sharpened as the men ready for battle.
Pedrig, was from Shropshire and had twenty summers under his belt, off which six of them had been spent in the Kings service. Standing on the edge of the tree line he scanned along the line, noticing the first members of his own regiment stepping cautiously out into the fog covered fields. The scabbards had been muffled with pieces of rag to try and smother any sound of metal that might alert the enemy to their coming. Five or six minutes before him the Kings archers had moved forward in a thin line, crossbows and short-bows primed and readied as they crept through the thick mist. He couldn’t see a single sign of them now, even their silhouettes having vanished into the gloom.
A whisper went along the line, passing to his left ear as he passed it to the right “Forward”. He moved his left foot forward, his boot touching the soft earth before him and he gripped the hilt of his sword, ready to draw.
He stepped ever forward, he like the men to his left and right taking care with every step. A glance behind and he could see more men leaving the tree line, down the shallow slope onto the plain. The older man to his left, striking him on the shoulder to keep his eyes forward.
Onward they crept and he could feel his anticipation rising, anxiety joining it as the sun began to rise higher. Another hour and the mist would burn away and they would be discovered. He heard a rustle ahead and his heart stalled for a second. The man to his left nodding him on. Was the enemy waiting? How had the archers passed them without a word? An ambush?
His heart thrummed. His palm moist. His fingers flexed on the hilt.
He stepped forward, his breath trapped in his mouth as he slowly edged his blade from its scabbard.
An almighty crash followed. The sound shattering the tension in an instant. Pedrig bowled over onto his backside. Utter terror rushing through his body as a pheasant burst into flight directly before him. Everyone froze; 6,000 eyes suddenly on him.
The passing of an entire age seemed to stretch out before him as he sat there on the damp earth, waiting for his death to come. But it didn’t. Slowly, as if caring for a new born babe the older man to his left helped him back to his feet, the relief evident on both their faces, though Pedrig tried to shrug it off. An arm from behind shoved him forward.
It was impossible to tell how long it took for them to reach the Yorkist lines, but once the smell of smouldering ashes reached his nose, he knew they must be close and the silent order to halt passed from one man to the next. He crouched down low, the sound off idle chatter carrying through the fog. He recognised the accent though not the words, it was a thick sounding tone probably from the windswept coasts of east Yorkshire. Poor bastards, they were oblivious. A slight tinkle of metal sounded behind him and again his heart missed a beat.
Laughter carried through the fog from somewhere of to the right and he could just see the roofs of Warwick’s burh beginning to emerge as the sun began to peel away the mist. It was beginning to thin and he could see the archers now, or at least one of their heads, kneeling before him. They must attack. Surely, they must attack.
And then it came. Without word. Without warning. A horn blast, one clean, palling blast that peeled out across the field. What moments before had been stillness and silence now turned into something altogether different. The archer ahead of him rose. Seconds later bow strings twanged and screams followed shortly thereafter.
He rose from his position, his sword ringing as it drew from his scabbard. “ATTACK” he charged forward, giving no care to the ground beneath him as his feet hit the soft earth. The sound of thunder rose up to the far left. Horse hooves pounding the earth. He raced past a crossbowman as his bolt let fly. The fog parted and he could see the enemy.
Men blurry eyed and half asleep, staggered from their beds and rolling away from their camp fires. He ran ever forward. A man lay on his belly beneath him, clawing across the damp, dew covered grass to reach for his axe as Pedrig’s sword plunged into his back. Behind him he could hear the beat off wings as hundreds of pheasants burst into the air shrieking as the Kings men stormed forward. Another man to his side was pushing himself to his feet, spear in hand and Pedrig’s blade hacked down through the back of his neck, taking the man’s head off as his blade hit through flesh and bone.
Silence would come again but only when the screaming stopped. And the birds would not sing with joy in this place for some time to come, their spring time pleasures ruined by the sight unfolding before them. Their chicks no doubt cowering in their nests as armoured warrior butchered sleeping men.
Pedrig looked around at the chaos unfolding, arrows flying. Thumping into the backs of men who fled toward the Burh of Warwick. Horses scattering the dying embers of the cooking fires as their riders set the men who had been nursing them through the night to a similar end. Their lives ebbing away as the embers themselves hissed at the touch of the wet earth.
This would not be remembered as the battle of Warwick, this would be the Massacre of the May, the massacre in the morning mist.
King Richard-Early-Afternoon, Warwick, Warwickshire 27th of May 1067
Ethelwines nose burst under the Barons fist, blood spattering across his face. A bright purple flower emerging around his eye socket as another blow pummelled into his head from a left-hook. “YOU ARE A LYING, SNIVELING LITTLE RUNT” the Cardinal cowered, whimpering as he raised his hands to try and shield his face.
William dragged him round by the scruff of the neck, the Cardinals robe ripping as his knees buckled and he toppled to the floor prostate before the King. Richard raised a hand to halt the Baron from striking the Cardinal-Bishop again and he released his grip.
“Where is he Cardinal? You said the Duke of York was in Warwick Burh and here we are, but no Duke? Why is that?”
A great sob came from the Cardinal as he lay on the floor, groping toward the Kings feet only to take a kick in the stomach from the Baron of Beaumont. The Baron reached down, gripping the Cardinals robes and hoisting him up. Despite his fifty plus years he was still an exceptionally strong man ‘Your King asked you a question? Or do you now not know English? Must we ask you in Latin you fat, faced whelp?’
‘I have but one Lord and Master, he is the Lord My God, he is Alpha and Omega the Beginning and the End. I have but one Lord and Master…..’ he whined again as the Baron hoisted him up further, throttling him with his robes neckline.
‘I am not going to kill you, Your Grace. You said the Duke was here and he isn’t? So where is he?’ The Kings eyes were fixed on the squirming, priest. He was not angry, simply irritated.
‘Forgive me, FORGIVE ME’ tears rolled down his sunken jowls. ‘I don’t know, I swear it, I swear my King, FORGIVNESS, I beg you for forgiveness.’ The Baron went to strike him again but Richard once more signalled him to hold. Baron William let him drop to the floor again and stepped past him.
The Kings tone was icy as he looked away from the Cardinal to one of his waiting guards ‘You may go Ethelwine.’ The Cardinal looked astounded though he did not wait to be told twice, leaping to his feet and fleeing from the chamber. They both waited in silence for a moment, the King sat at the table picking at a chunk of bread, the Baron pacing. ‘He baited us, the child threw out a line and he bit it.’
‘Je vous demande pardon à mon roi’ The Baron looked sullen almost insulted.
‘My friend, you acted as you saw to be correct. And you were not wrong. The Duke came here and was going to raise the flag of rebellion, but you moved against him and so he moved again. You could not have seen this. Regardless of whether we have him or not near a thousand of his men are dead and we lost but a handful. Why should I pardon you for victory?’ Richard smiled at the Baron and invited him to sit and eat.
‘Ever the optimist….he will not get away from me again, I swear it. The runts head will be on a spike before this is done.’ Beaumont spat one the floor, a soldier’s gesture to confirm an oath sworn.
‘Do not make promises that are not within your power to keep’ Richard supped from a wooden cup. ‘He must stand trial fairly and openly and the sentence carried out as the jurors see fit, I am King and justice will be upheld whether we agree with it or not.’
King Richard-Evening, The Feast Hall, London 14th December 1067
The venison was cooked to perfection, hot grease dripped down Richards chin as he sunk his teeth into the warm meet. The Queen, his beautiful Queen was more delicate and she had taken to purchasing fine lace napkins as a matter of necessity.
He listened softly to the harpist playing in the background, a pretty red-headed woman from Ireland. For a country in the apparent grip of rebellion, one would not think if they were sat here now that anything was at all amiss. The Duke of York had seriously misjudged his support and no one not even his own brother had even hinted at joining him, a force of peasants had risen up in Derby in the August, but it had taken Baron Beaumont little more than to draw his sword for them to scatter. The battle of Warwick had sent two very clear messages and it seemed all had heeded them well. The first being that William of Beaumont was an exceptional commander, the second that no mercy would be shown to any who stood in their way.
After Warwick and the Derbyshire revolt, they had spent the summer essentially chasing a ghost. The Dukes forces were scattered and every attempt they made at an offensive move was countered by a simple march of the Barons army. Morcar could not risk a return to York or Northumbria and so he had spent most of the season trying to stir rebellion in the Lakes though with little success.
Nevertheless despite having rebels abroad the King had been forced to return to London as events on the continent moved apace. Finding Pope Alexander II to be less compliant to his wishes than he would hope, the Kaiser, a boy of but seventeen and ruler of the Holy Roman Empire had declared a new Pontiff in Ansbach. Pope Eugenius III, as named, a man ten year the legitimate Holy Fathers junior and not half the man.
Seeing an opportunity open itself Richard had decided that in the new year Cardinal Durham would go to Rome to assure the Holy Father off England’s loyalty whilst Bishop Stigand in his office as Chancellor would visit the court of the boy-Emperor.
Washing her hands in a little copper bowl offered to her by a servant, the Queen stood from her chair and offered the King her hand. “Shall we dance my husband? Let England see what a merry, carefree Christmas we shall make.” In her soft, velvet green dress she looked every bit the yule-tide sprite. He stood to join her, moving round the table and down the steps, both wearing a smile as the court clapped and cheered.
Baron William of Beaumont-Morning, the Road to Warwick, Warwickshire 26th of May 1067
They had ambled along the road from Tamworth to Warwick without much urgency. Although they were on the way to battle William had advised that an air of calm was best, they would appear more like a military progress than a march to war. People had lined the roads and emptied the villages all along their route to come out and see their glorious King bedecked for war.
His Grace, Ethelwine, Cardinal Durham whilst wishing to fly back to his house in Durham and escape the rigours of battle had been compelled to join the march. And the sight of the scarlet red cassock, shimmering in the morning sun beside the sparkling images of the King in polished plate and mail was a striking one. If nothing else, the battle crown fixed to Richards helmet was worth looking at, the ruby inset at the front was astounding.
Warwick lay ahead of them and the road was easy. Already the Baron could see this would be a very fine spring day and they would be before the walls of Warwick by mid-afternoon. Banners snapped softly in the gentle wind and if he were not fully aware of his place in England’s history, the marching army surrounding him, led as it was by a handsome King and a Prince of the Church would set the image of Arthur Pendragon in a pale light.
King Richard-Mid-Afternoon, Warwick, Warwickshire 26th of May 1067
The poor boys hands were chaffed by the ropes that bound them and though he struggled a little, a short hard slap from the Baron had stopped his complaining. Three of his companions were dead, their bodies limp against a tree in the little glade and its freshly sprouting branches offered a little cover from the unusually warm sun.
Warwick Hill was surrounded by nearly a two miles off open farmland but then beyond that lay miles and miles of forest. The great greenwood which covered much of England’s soft heart. And it was here under the boughs of that same forest that Richard had brought his army to rest. He and William had ordered the army to stop well away from the tree lines and thanks to the Baron of Beaumont’s foresight they had managed to capture this little scouting party without much difficulty.
Duke Morcar would not suspect them missing for quite some time, indeed if the young man was to be believed then they had been instructed to keeping moving until they encountered difficulty and then retreat. The young Duke, he hoped would not imagine that Richard would waste any time on capturing such a little band and so he would be informed within hours of his enemy’s position. But the King had a different game in mind and so the capture of these riders had been essential.
“What do I do with you my boy?” Richard loomed offer him, legs braced and arms folded, staring down at him. The scout was no more than fifteen summers old and was younger than his companions by some stretch. Hot tears rolled down his face.
“Tie the little bastard to a tree and be done with him, we have the information we need.” The Baron was not a cruel man, neither was the King and killing for killings sake was not within their nature
‘I do not think that is necessary’ Richard knelt down and lifted the young man’s chin up so that he could look into his eyes, he whipped a tear of the boy’s cheeks with an almost fatherly affection. ‘If I let you live boy, do you swear you will leave this place? Return to your mother and make no trouble for your King?’
The young man nodded, but did not speak. Richard took a dagger from his belt and the boy flinched in terror though the Kings firm grip on his shoulder held him steady. The King cut the bonds and the ropes dropped to the earth as Richard rose and turned away. One of the Barons household guards stepped forward. ‘Strip him naked and put him on a horse, make sure he is well away from here before you leave him.’ Richard noticed the sense of relief passing across some of the less hardened men’s faces and a look of shock upon that of the Cardinals. ‘I am not a cruel man Cardinal Durham, in time you will see that I am a just man and I will be a just King, when and where I am able to be so. I have no desire to be a tyrant.’
The Cardinal got slightly ahead of himself and smile came to his fat face ‘Then my Lord by I ask again, let me return to Durham, I am no soldier.’
‘If you are happy for me to pull the scarlet from your back, as naked as the day you were born then most certainly you can go?’ the King smiled at William, who was trying to smother a grin. Ethelwine did not reply but simply blushed in embarrassment. His fat little, naked arse bouncing on a horse all the way up the great north road would certainly be a sight for sore eyes.
‘So then we stick to the plan? The youngling will not suspect anything is amiss so long as our noble Cardinal is true to his word’ William glared at him and the King added his gaze.
‘My Lords…..I swear….the Duke, he knows nothing of your coming….nor did I, I simply wished to return to my home and my Lord agreed.’ William gripped his swords hilt, his deep frown lines cracking slightly.
‘He will be your Lord for only a short while longer Cardinal let me assure you.’
Infantry Man-Dawn, Warwick, Warwickshire 27th of May 1067
A thick dawn mist hung over the farmland ahead of them. The sun had crested the horizon moments before and the sound of the morning chorus was almost deafening. Even the birds favoured his King, the sing and the shrieks covering the sound of chain mail being pulled on and sword edges being sharpened as the men ready for battle.
Pedrig, was from Shropshire and had twenty summers under his belt, off which six of them had been spent in the Kings service. Standing on the edge of the tree line he scanned along the line, noticing the first members of his own regiment stepping cautiously out into the fog covered fields. The scabbards had been muffled with pieces of rag to try and smother any sound of metal that might alert the enemy to their coming. Five or six minutes before him the Kings archers had moved forward in a thin line, crossbows and short-bows primed and readied as they crept through the thick mist. He couldn’t see a single sign of them now, even their silhouettes having vanished into the gloom.
A whisper went along the line, passing to his left ear as he passed it to the right “Forward”. He moved his left foot forward, his boot touching the soft earth before him and he gripped the hilt of his sword, ready to draw.
He stepped ever forward, he like the men to his left and right taking care with every step. A glance behind and he could see more men leaving the tree line, down the shallow slope onto the plain. The older man to his left, striking him on the shoulder to keep his eyes forward.
Onward they crept and he could feel his anticipation rising, anxiety joining it as the sun began to rise higher. Another hour and the mist would burn away and they would be discovered. He heard a rustle ahead and his heart stalled for a second. The man to his left nodding him on. Was the enemy waiting? How had the archers passed them without a word? An ambush?
His heart thrummed. His palm moist. His fingers flexed on the hilt.
He stepped forward, his breath trapped in his mouth as he slowly edged his blade from its scabbard.
An almighty crash followed. The sound shattering the tension in an instant. Pedrig bowled over onto his backside. Utter terror rushing through his body as a pheasant burst into flight directly before him. Everyone froze; 6,000 eyes suddenly on him.
The passing of an entire age seemed to stretch out before him as he sat there on the damp earth, waiting for his death to come. But it didn’t. Slowly, as if caring for a new born babe the older man to his left helped him back to his feet, the relief evident on both their faces, though Pedrig tried to shrug it off. An arm from behind shoved him forward.
It was impossible to tell how long it took for them to reach the Yorkist lines, but once the smell of smouldering ashes reached his nose, he knew they must be close and the silent order to halt passed from one man to the next. He crouched down low, the sound off idle chatter carrying through the fog. He recognised the accent though not the words, it was a thick sounding tone probably from the windswept coasts of east Yorkshire. Poor bastards, they were oblivious. A slight tinkle of metal sounded behind him and again his heart missed a beat.
Laughter carried through the fog from somewhere of to the right and he could just see the roofs of Warwick’s burh beginning to emerge as the sun began to peel away the mist. It was beginning to thin and he could see the archers now, or at least one of their heads, kneeling before him. They must attack. Surely, they must attack.
And then it came. Without word. Without warning. A horn blast, one clean, palling blast that peeled out across the field. What moments before had been stillness and silence now turned into something altogether different. The archer ahead of him rose. Seconds later bow strings twanged and screams followed shortly thereafter.
He rose from his position, his sword ringing as it drew from his scabbard. “ATTACK” he charged forward, giving no care to the ground beneath him as his feet hit the soft earth. The sound of thunder rose up to the far left. Horse hooves pounding the earth. He raced past a crossbowman as his bolt let fly. The fog parted and he could see the enemy.
Men blurry eyed and half asleep, staggered from their beds and rolling away from their camp fires. He ran ever forward. A man lay on his belly beneath him, clawing across the damp, dew covered grass to reach for his axe as Pedrig’s sword plunged into his back. Behind him he could hear the beat off wings as hundreds of pheasants burst into the air shrieking as the Kings men stormed forward. Another man to his side was pushing himself to his feet, spear in hand and Pedrig’s blade hacked down through the back of his neck, taking the man’s head off as his blade hit through flesh and bone.
Silence would come again but only when the screaming stopped. And the birds would not sing with joy in this place for some time to come, their spring time pleasures ruined by the sight unfolding before them. Their chicks no doubt cowering in their nests as armoured warrior butchered sleeping men.
Pedrig looked around at the chaos unfolding, arrows flying. Thumping into the backs of men who fled toward the Burh of Warwick. Horses scattering the dying embers of the cooking fires as their riders set the men who had been nursing them through the night to a similar end. Their lives ebbing away as the embers themselves hissed at the touch of the wet earth.
This would not be remembered as the battle of Warwick, this would be the Massacre of the May, the massacre in the morning mist.
King Richard-Early-Afternoon, Warwick, Warwickshire 27th of May 1067
Ethelwines nose burst under the Barons fist, blood spattering across his face. A bright purple flower emerging around his eye socket as another blow pummelled into his head from a left-hook. “YOU ARE A LYING, SNIVELING LITTLE RUNT” the Cardinal cowered, whimpering as he raised his hands to try and shield his face.
William dragged him round by the scruff of the neck, the Cardinals robe ripping as his knees buckled and he toppled to the floor prostate before the King. Richard raised a hand to halt the Baron from striking the Cardinal-Bishop again and he released his grip.
“Where is he Cardinal? You said the Duke of York was in Warwick Burh and here we are, but no Duke? Why is that?”
A great sob came from the Cardinal as he lay on the floor, groping toward the Kings feet only to take a kick in the stomach from the Baron of Beaumont. The Baron reached down, gripping the Cardinals robes and hoisting him up. Despite his fifty plus years he was still an exceptionally strong man ‘Your King asked you a question? Or do you now not know English? Must we ask you in Latin you fat, faced whelp?’
‘I have but one Lord and Master, he is the Lord My God, he is Alpha and Omega the Beginning and the End. I have but one Lord and Master…..’ he whined again as the Baron hoisted him up further, throttling him with his robes neckline.
‘I am not going to kill you, Your Grace. You said the Duke was here and he isn’t? So where is he?’ The Kings eyes were fixed on the squirming, priest. He was not angry, simply irritated.
‘Forgive me, FORGIVE ME’ tears rolled down his sunken jowls. ‘I don’t know, I swear it, I swear my King, FORGIVNESS, I beg you for forgiveness.’ The Baron went to strike him again but Richard once more signalled him to hold. Baron William let him drop to the floor again and stepped past him.
The Kings tone was icy as he looked away from the Cardinal to one of his waiting guards ‘You may go Ethelwine.’ The Cardinal looked astounded though he did not wait to be told twice, leaping to his feet and fleeing from the chamber. They both waited in silence for a moment, the King sat at the table picking at a chunk of bread, the Baron pacing. ‘He baited us, the child threw out a line and he bit it.’
‘Je vous demande pardon à mon roi’ The Baron looked sullen almost insulted.
‘My friend, you acted as you saw to be correct. And you were not wrong. The Duke came here and was going to raise the flag of rebellion, but you moved against him and so he moved again. You could not have seen this. Regardless of whether we have him or not near a thousand of his men are dead and we lost but a handful. Why should I pardon you for victory?’ Richard smiled at the Baron and invited him to sit and eat.
‘Ever the optimist….he will not get away from me again, I swear it. The runts head will be on a spike before this is done.’ Beaumont spat one the floor, a soldier’s gesture to confirm an oath sworn.
‘Do not make promises that are not within your power to keep’ Richard supped from a wooden cup. ‘He must stand trial fairly and openly and the sentence carried out as the jurors see fit, I am King and justice will be upheld whether we agree with it or not.’
King Richard-Evening, The Feast Hall, London 14th December 1067
The venison was cooked to perfection, hot grease dripped down Richards chin as he sunk his teeth into the warm meet. The Queen, his beautiful Queen was more delicate and she had taken to purchasing fine lace napkins as a matter of necessity.
He listened softly to the harpist playing in the background, a pretty red-headed woman from Ireland. For a country in the apparent grip of rebellion, one would not think if they were sat here now that anything was at all amiss. The Duke of York had seriously misjudged his support and no one not even his own brother had even hinted at joining him, a force of peasants had risen up in Derby in the August, but it had taken Baron Beaumont little more than to draw his sword for them to scatter. The battle of Warwick had sent two very clear messages and it seemed all had heeded them well. The first being that William of Beaumont was an exceptional commander, the second that no mercy would be shown to any who stood in their way.
After Warwick and the Derbyshire revolt, they had spent the summer essentially chasing a ghost. The Dukes forces were scattered and every attempt they made at an offensive move was countered by a simple march of the Barons army. Morcar could not risk a return to York or Northumbria and so he had spent most of the season trying to stir rebellion in the Lakes though with little success.
Nevertheless despite having rebels abroad the King had been forced to return to London as events on the continent moved apace. Finding Pope Alexander II to be less compliant to his wishes than he would hope, the Kaiser, a boy of but seventeen and ruler of the Holy Roman Empire had declared a new Pontiff in Ansbach. Pope Eugenius III, as named, a man ten year the legitimate Holy Fathers junior and not half the man.
Seeing an opportunity open itself Richard had decided that in the new year Cardinal Durham would go to Rome to assure the Holy Father off England’s loyalty whilst Bishop Stigand in his office as Chancellor would visit the court of the boy-Emperor.
Washing her hands in a little copper bowl offered to her by a servant, the Queen stood from her chair and offered the King her hand. “Shall we dance my husband? Let England see what a merry, carefree Christmas we shall make.” In her soft, velvet green dress she looked every bit the yule-tide sprite. He stood to join her, moving round the table and down the steps, both wearing a smile as the court clapped and cheered.
Looks like Morcar will be far less successful here than he was in The Rightful King or even in my AAR. He's not going to win a rebellion where he's the only one fighting. If he had Mercia on his side, then he'd at least have a puncher's chance.
Thus far, I enjoy the Queen the most of the new cast. I hope she features prominently.
Thus far, I enjoy the Queen the most of the new cast. I hope she features prominently.
................ I like the Queen............however, it would seem you might want to recall the Roth families fortunes were its Queens are concerned.
Thanks Stylan.....I quite liked it myself on the quite....I could see it being acted lol in a movie am sure
Yeah 2nd that Pedrig scene. It was very well described indeed.
The new set up is good. It’s really a whole new story. Small point of order though: it would be very rare for a cardinal to be so ill-treated, even a traitorous one. Medieval folk had a very well defined respect for the clergy and though they might end up executed at various points it’d be pretty rare to beat them about 1st
The new set up is good. It’s really a whole new story. Small point of order though: it would be very rare for a cardinal to be so ill-treated, even a traitorous one. Medieval folk had a very well defined respect for the clergy and though they might end up executed at various points it’d be pretty rare to beat them about 1st
Lol well I accept the point perhaps on the Cardinal, the seen was a little aggressive ha, but I like to think on occasion some nobles may have seen themselves in positions of enough authority to so malign the clergy......I mean I know Beckett wasn't a Cardinal as such but he was essentially murdered
Indeed ... and his murder created a massive political crisis for Henry II, which is only solved by a rather humiliating act of contrition.
Exactly! And we should remember that not only is the Cardinal a prelate but he is prince of the Roman Church. Cardinals were virtually inviolate and to cause them harm would incur the direct wrath of the Holy Father
Aye. The shenanigans with the cardinal show boldness if not necessarily wisdom.
One would also hope it shows kindness ha, Richard so far I have written and the way I have played him is ruthless and bold, but also just
Chapter 26: A Rebel without a cause
King Richard-Afternoon, the Throne Room, London, 20th February 1068
“How did I do? The ambassador seemed quite surprised, didn’t he?” Richard and Maior sat resplendent beneath the canopy of state, having just finished an hour-long audience with the Ambassador of Leon and the Princess Gytha. She was, at long last on her way to marry the Hispanic King.
She turned and smiled at him, a cheeky grin breaking the corners of her mouth “My darling, you were magnificent. Any better and I would have to start calling you Rodrigo.”
‘It helps that I have such a fine teacher I am sure’ the Queen herself had been teaching the King her native tongue and in between their love making he was an avid student ‘I wonder though, what might you call me when I have grasped Latin and Greek?’ he chuckled softly, not a man near forty but a man in the blossom of youth ‘Shall I be Caesar or Hercules?’
Maiors laugh was melodic, soft and with heart ‘I think not Caesar, can you imagine the tantrum that would be thrown by the Kaiser, should the King of England seek to steal his heirs and graces.’
Richard paused for a moment, waving the messenger forward ‘Ahh yes quite right, perhaps when I have mastered German also we shall make a play for that fine heritage.’
They both composed themselves as the lightly armoured soldier stepped forward and saluted them both. ‘Lord King I have a message from Earl Robert.’ The guard looked around at the attending courtiers, clearly nervous at offering his news before so many listening ears.
‘You may speak freely here captain, I have no secrets from my Councillors.’ Richard noticed Wulfstan and Stigand clearly leaning forward, their ears prigged to what news was to be offered. The guard took a reluctant breath.
‘As you ordered my Lord, the Earl of Kent was arrested an hour past and is in custody, awaiting your command.’ There was a silent, inaudible gasp from the attendee’s and both the King’s senior Bishops suddenly, pulled their hearing back wishing to show no interest at all. The King jumped from his seat down the little dais and stepped toward the guard, who rose up accordingly.
‘Then let us not keep the Earl, waiting. Take me to him, I should like to see this matter settled and he set at his liberty.’ The Earl had been feigning sickness for weeks and the King had held back from ordering his arrest, but it had become apparent that he was in communication with the Duke of York. Richard had decided a heavy fine and a promise to help him capture the Duke would see the Earl released. Anything else would put his head on a spike.
Baron William-Mid-morning, The Camp outside York, London, 2nd March 1068
Rain beat down on the tents roof, it had been raining for near three days and the ground outside was so waterlogged, one carless step could see a man nearly up to his knees in mud. The Baron was sat on a low stool, a desk of sorts, made from the stump of an old tree covered in pieces of parchment. The tent flap flicked open and in strolled Robert, newly appointed Earl of Maine, Williams son, soaked to the bone.
“How is your man?” William looked up from the map he was glancing over, the wiry smile that passed over his son’s face forcing him to add clarity ‘And I don’t mean that prancing catamite, you insist on keeping company with, I mean you standard bearer.’
“Father, please be kind” he offered a pacifying gesture, though the grin offered none, Roberts taste for young men was well known, despite the Barons attempt to cover it up for him. ‘As for my man, he will recover. The horse however, broke its leg and I had to have her throat slit.’ His standard bearer had crashed, from his horse pursing Yorkist outriders the day before and for a short while they had thought he would be permanently struck dumb.
‘This ground is no good at all, we have near five hundred light horsemen and they are next to useless in this blasted quagmire.’ The army had camped before York’s walls less than a week ago and already the boots of two and half thousand men had churned the surrounding farmland into a bog of mud and human filth.
‘If you took my advice and simply attacked the walls rather than expecting the Dukes men to face you on the field we would have no real need for the horses. Have our men fight on foot with the rest and we can scale the walls before the week is out.’ Robert was a brilliant soldier and a better general, but is style of attack was exceptionally aggressive whilst his father had learnt over the years to show an air off caution. Especially during a siege, which was his forte. The Baron noticed his son scanning the stump off a desk and his eyes fixing on the royal seal. ‘News from the London?’
‘Aye, the King writes, Odo of Kent was arrested a week or so ago. He has agreed to help us catch the whelp.’ William did not elaborate, as yet plans were in the infancy but suffice to say if all went well the Duke of York would be in the Kings custody, without need to take York at all.
‘Personally I would have advised striking his head off.’ Roberts father grimaced in reply, his son and he apart from war, could not really be more different.
Baron William-Noon, The Camp outside York, 4th April 1068
Daffodils were pushing their way up finally through the soft earth and the grass was freshly greening. Spring was well in advance it seemed at the rains of the previous month had let the earth drink deep. But before the day ended it would drink on the blood off York. William watched as the defender’s army filed out of the cities gate, forming themselves into a rough battle formation.
Nearly six months off siege meant many of those now gathering would have their stomachs pressed against their backbones and starvation mixed with desperation. The Baron noticed that the number of horses exiting the gate was distinctly less than he had anticipated and he presumed that they had taken to eating the meat of their steeds as their stockpiles had run low.
His son, the Earl of Maine’s flag fluttered of too the left, Robert would be gathered with his household troops and no doubt one or two off his less wholesome young men, waiting for the inevitable order to move, whilst the Baron sat with his brutish contingent of Norman cavalry observing the enemy advance.
Spearman formed up in the York centre, men of the fyrd armed with spear and shield, lacking anything in the way off proper armour. William had set his own heavy infantry to the centre of the line and he signalled to his captain to send the crossbowmen forward. He had the advantage in numbers for sure, but these men coming now against him were desperate; hunger had eaten at their reason and for them death seemed certain, if they failed to defeat him then at best they could hope for another week perhaps off starvation or at the worst, their wives and children would face cold steel before the sunset. He spurred horse forward, moving carefully between the densely forming ranks of swordsmen.
Seeing the enemy portcullis raised and catching sight of the ladders laying in the grass, the Baron knew what was needed, these men would have to be put to flight and then he would strike hard and fast at the gatehouse.
Infantryman -Early-afternoon, The Siege of York, 4th April 1068
Pedrig stood side by side with his brothers-in-arms, his shield locked tight with the man to his left and right. His sword-arm ached and he had a deep cut in his chin that stung, like cold fire. The battle before the walls had been brief, the enemy spearmen coming on fast. He would never again doubt the proficiency of crossbowmen at dealing out death. As the enemy raced forward, Pedrig had witnessed the opening moments of slaughter in resolute silence, two whole ranks dropping dead to the ground under a wave of steel tipped death.
The Earl of Maine’s infantry had pinned the left side of the York line against the walls as the Barons men had punched a hole through the York centre, the crossbowmen killing dozens as the heavy infantry pushed the line back on itself. The combat had lasted half an hour at best before the famished survivors had caved in to the assaults ferocity and fled back through the gates.
Now they stood in York’s long winding streets, swords and shields at the ready as a contingent of light infantry formed up in front of them, terror stuck on their faces. The flag of Richmond, hung damp, from a banner pole amid the rallying men. Rain had begun spitting down from the grey sky. Pedrig flexed his fingers round his sword hilt, ensuring the grip was tight. The spearmen ahead of lowered their shafts and locked their shields, yelling obscenities, urging him to come to his death.
“Forward” came the cry from behind and they stepped forward “For King Richard and for England.”
Moments, passed and Pedrigs breath held in his mouth, his heart thumping heavy against his chest as the eyes of the spearman became clearer; they were as scared as he was. Buildings on either side rising up and making him feel trapped like a rat in a trap. A spear lunged out at the lines moved cautiously together, his sword lashing out in reply to knock the haft down.
Another came high and his shield caught it on the rim, the man to his right adding his own weight to keep it steady. Another and another followed; short, sharp nervous lunges, he could see the pale faced boy ahead of him frustrated that his spear could not nock his opponents shield aside, frustration turning to terror as Pedrig’s sword snapped through the spears length.
He lurched forward, taking a second bold swing. His sword carving a chunk out of the willow branch shield in the boy’s hand as the poor lad tried to step back. The whole line pushed forward, nocking aside the bristling line of spears. These men were tired, weak and their nerve was gone, they fought with reluctance certain in their defeat.
King Richard -Dawn, Catterick, 18th April 1068
Richards horse, trod carefully along the sloping track. To his right the ground gave way to a steep slope, covered in dense thicket and high rising trees. If he had picked well then no one down on the road below would be able to see up the incline, though he knew already who was on the road.
York had fallen more than a week ago and today he hoped would be the final act in this little play-acted rebellion. He checked his horses step, making sure it lifted his hooves high over a fallen log and he signalled to the men riding behind him to have a care. They were slowly but surely moving downward, he had been tracing the high ridge for near half a mile, ghosting slowly along the flanks of Duke Eadwins forces. Richard noticed a fox creeping down below, trying to sneak its way alongside the roadside without the notice of the armoured contingent, obviously aware of the riders moving above it, as it froze to listen to the sound off boots and hooves.
A thin fog, clawed at the foot of the trees and the air was moist from the night time mist. Today was a curious day.
In a somewhat unexpected turn of events, Eadwin, Duke of Lancaster and brother to the rebel, Morcar had decided to turn against his brother and offered the King his sword, in bringing his elder sibling to justice. It was he who now waited on the road below. He had written “in secret” to his brother, promising him men and money for his cause, if only he would meet him on the road to Catterick. Clearly the younger brother had decided his brothers cause was lost and it would be wiser to throw his lot in wholeheartedly with the winning side rather than risk ill-favour later down the line.
Richard caught a glimpse of the road, between the tree’s; two opposing bodies of men stood facing one another, the flag of Lancaster waving softly ahead of the flag of York. Morcar had brought but a handful, struggling as he was to find men for his cause. The thin track sloped downward and Richard new up ahead it would pivot sharply down the road side, through the ferns.
A horn blast sounded from below, the King noticing that the flag of York had suddenly broken off. Morcar and his companions turning sharply and spurring their horses away. Richard struck his spurs to his steed’s flanks. It leapt forward and his men followed. A full gallop along the track and down to the road below. Tree’s flew by in a flurry. “NO ONE DIES! TAKE HIM ALIVE.”
The Kings horse broke from the tree line onto the road, caught amid the fleeing Yorkist forces, his men in hot pursuit. He spurred his horse to move faster, flying along the flank of a cavalry man. The beast swerved and hit its opponent in the flank, unseating the rider. A loud crash followed as the man fell from the saddle.
Another rider toppled from his steed, as a soldier to Richards left plunged a sword through the throat of the man’s mount. Whining screams, shattering the morning quite as the terrified beast mewed and choked on his own lifeblood. The Duke was far ahead already, but three of Richards men, like wolves on the hunt pushed their horses hard against him.
He picked his target. A monk, whose mount could not keep pace. He drew his sword from its sheath. His own mount moved up alongside, its chest heaving as he leaned forward in the saddle, urging its feet to fly.
The impact jolted both riders and steeds hard to the right, as the King slammed his horse into their quarries haunches. He saw the flag of York fall up ahead as he swerved his horse again, this time into the enemy mounts shoulder and the beast reared; tossing its master to the ground. Richard reined his horse in tight as he noticed his own men circling the Duke, whom himself had been unsaddled. Three spears pointed from all sides at his body and Richard roared “HOLD!”
He kicked his own horse forward, directing a guard to watch the grounded monk and his horse. The Duke had a dagger drawn, threatening violence though he obviously knew he would die before he could land a blow.
“My Lord Duke, what an unexpected pleasure” Morcar only scowled, his eyes locked on his approaching brother. Eadwin, Duke of Lancaster bring his horse up alongside that of the Kings.
“You betrayed your own flesh and blood, for the bastard son off a doomed house?” The imprisoned Duke spat on the ground, never letting his eyes move from his kin. ‘This will be your ruin as well as mine’ he pointed to Richard who was now smiling at his little tempest ‘a hundred years they have plagued England, him and his lot, he will be your ending too my brother.’
Richard turned his horse about, a smile fixed on his lips as he called behind him to Morcar ‘You are wrong, your Grace. Your brother by this act shows me his worth and has my love.’ He went to ride on as Eadwin sought to interrupt him.
‘My King, the monk?’ Richard turned to look at Lancaster, who came up close to talk quietly with the King, curious indeed ‘The monk is innocent of any crime, I would ask he be allowed to come with me, he is a loyal servant of my family and I would not see him punished for my brother’s folly.’
The King offered the Duke a long look, then glanced at the mud-splattered brother and then to Duke Morcar and back, ‘I think not my Lord’ he offered his steed a gentle prod, urging it into a trot ‘I think not.’ And with that the discussion and the rebellion was over.
King Richard -Late Night, The Kings Chambers, London, 25th September 1068
Heavens she looked beautiful tonight, the Queens thick, black hair cascaded down over her shoulders, covering her small but pert bosom. His body longed for her, aching with desire though he could tell she was reluctant and that had caused him concern. Ever worrying off unseen foes, he couldn’t help but wonder whom had come to steal his wife’s heart.
Maior smiled at him, pulling the bedsheet up slightly to cover her breasts, Richards eyes devouring her image as he wished to devour her flesh in the heat of passion. The King noticed the bemused smile on her lips as she eyed along his thick thigh’s.
“My husband, whatever doubt sets such a frown upon your head, be at ease for I have good reason to spurn you.”
He cocked his head up onto his fist, resting on his elbow, he waved her on.
‘It is not lack of desire that forces me to bar my gates, but god himself.’ She smiled and Richard jolted up, alarmed. ‘My courses are late……I think I am with child.’
King Richard-Afternoon, the Throne Room, London, 20th February 1068
“How did I do? The ambassador seemed quite surprised, didn’t he?” Richard and Maior sat resplendent beneath the canopy of state, having just finished an hour-long audience with the Ambassador of Leon and the Princess Gytha. She was, at long last on her way to marry the Hispanic King.
She turned and smiled at him, a cheeky grin breaking the corners of her mouth “My darling, you were magnificent. Any better and I would have to start calling you Rodrigo.”
‘It helps that I have such a fine teacher I am sure’ the Queen herself had been teaching the King her native tongue and in between their love making he was an avid student ‘I wonder though, what might you call me when I have grasped Latin and Greek?’ he chuckled softly, not a man near forty but a man in the blossom of youth ‘Shall I be Caesar or Hercules?’
Maiors laugh was melodic, soft and with heart ‘I think not Caesar, can you imagine the tantrum that would be thrown by the Kaiser, should the King of England seek to steal his heirs and graces.’
Richard paused for a moment, waving the messenger forward ‘Ahh yes quite right, perhaps when I have mastered German also we shall make a play for that fine heritage.’
They both composed themselves as the lightly armoured soldier stepped forward and saluted them both. ‘Lord King I have a message from Earl Robert.’ The guard looked around at the attending courtiers, clearly nervous at offering his news before so many listening ears.
‘You may speak freely here captain, I have no secrets from my Councillors.’ Richard noticed Wulfstan and Stigand clearly leaning forward, their ears prigged to what news was to be offered. The guard took a reluctant breath.
‘As you ordered my Lord, the Earl of Kent was arrested an hour past and is in custody, awaiting your command.’ There was a silent, inaudible gasp from the attendee’s and both the King’s senior Bishops suddenly, pulled their hearing back wishing to show no interest at all. The King jumped from his seat down the little dais and stepped toward the guard, who rose up accordingly.
‘Then let us not keep the Earl, waiting. Take me to him, I should like to see this matter settled and he set at his liberty.’ The Earl had been feigning sickness for weeks and the King had held back from ordering his arrest, but it had become apparent that he was in communication with the Duke of York. Richard had decided a heavy fine and a promise to help him capture the Duke would see the Earl released. Anything else would put his head on a spike.
Baron William-Mid-morning, The Camp outside York, London, 2nd March 1068
Rain beat down on the tents roof, it had been raining for near three days and the ground outside was so waterlogged, one carless step could see a man nearly up to his knees in mud. The Baron was sat on a low stool, a desk of sorts, made from the stump of an old tree covered in pieces of parchment. The tent flap flicked open and in strolled Robert, newly appointed Earl of Maine, Williams son, soaked to the bone.
“How is your man?” William looked up from the map he was glancing over, the wiry smile that passed over his son’s face forcing him to add clarity ‘And I don’t mean that prancing catamite, you insist on keeping company with, I mean you standard bearer.’
“Father, please be kind” he offered a pacifying gesture, though the grin offered none, Roberts taste for young men was well known, despite the Barons attempt to cover it up for him. ‘As for my man, he will recover. The horse however, broke its leg and I had to have her throat slit.’ His standard bearer had crashed, from his horse pursing Yorkist outriders the day before and for a short while they had thought he would be permanently struck dumb.
‘This ground is no good at all, we have near five hundred light horsemen and they are next to useless in this blasted quagmire.’ The army had camped before York’s walls less than a week ago and already the boots of two and half thousand men had churned the surrounding farmland into a bog of mud and human filth.
‘If you took my advice and simply attacked the walls rather than expecting the Dukes men to face you on the field we would have no real need for the horses. Have our men fight on foot with the rest and we can scale the walls before the week is out.’ Robert was a brilliant soldier and a better general, but is style of attack was exceptionally aggressive whilst his father had learnt over the years to show an air off caution. Especially during a siege, which was his forte. The Baron noticed his son scanning the stump off a desk and his eyes fixing on the royal seal. ‘News from the London?’
‘Aye, the King writes, Odo of Kent was arrested a week or so ago. He has agreed to help us catch the whelp.’ William did not elaborate, as yet plans were in the infancy but suffice to say if all went well the Duke of York would be in the Kings custody, without need to take York at all.
‘Personally I would have advised striking his head off.’ Roberts father grimaced in reply, his son and he apart from war, could not really be more different.
Baron William-Noon, The Camp outside York, 4th April 1068
Daffodils were pushing their way up finally through the soft earth and the grass was freshly greening. Spring was well in advance it seemed at the rains of the previous month had let the earth drink deep. But before the day ended it would drink on the blood off York. William watched as the defender’s army filed out of the cities gate, forming themselves into a rough battle formation.
Nearly six months off siege meant many of those now gathering would have their stomachs pressed against their backbones and starvation mixed with desperation. The Baron noticed that the number of horses exiting the gate was distinctly less than he had anticipated and he presumed that they had taken to eating the meat of their steeds as their stockpiles had run low.
His son, the Earl of Maine’s flag fluttered of too the left, Robert would be gathered with his household troops and no doubt one or two off his less wholesome young men, waiting for the inevitable order to move, whilst the Baron sat with his brutish contingent of Norman cavalry observing the enemy advance.
Spearman formed up in the York centre, men of the fyrd armed with spear and shield, lacking anything in the way off proper armour. William had set his own heavy infantry to the centre of the line and he signalled to his captain to send the crossbowmen forward. He had the advantage in numbers for sure, but these men coming now against him were desperate; hunger had eaten at their reason and for them death seemed certain, if they failed to defeat him then at best they could hope for another week perhaps off starvation or at the worst, their wives and children would face cold steel before the sunset. He spurred horse forward, moving carefully between the densely forming ranks of swordsmen.
Seeing the enemy portcullis raised and catching sight of the ladders laying in the grass, the Baron knew what was needed, these men would have to be put to flight and then he would strike hard and fast at the gatehouse.
Infantryman -Early-afternoon, The Siege of York, 4th April 1068
Pedrig stood side by side with his brothers-in-arms, his shield locked tight with the man to his left and right. His sword-arm ached and he had a deep cut in his chin that stung, like cold fire. The battle before the walls had been brief, the enemy spearmen coming on fast. He would never again doubt the proficiency of crossbowmen at dealing out death. As the enemy raced forward, Pedrig had witnessed the opening moments of slaughter in resolute silence, two whole ranks dropping dead to the ground under a wave of steel tipped death.
The Earl of Maine’s infantry had pinned the left side of the York line against the walls as the Barons men had punched a hole through the York centre, the crossbowmen killing dozens as the heavy infantry pushed the line back on itself. The combat had lasted half an hour at best before the famished survivors had caved in to the assaults ferocity and fled back through the gates.
Now they stood in York’s long winding streets, swords and shields at the ready as a contingent of light infantry formed up in front of them, terror stuck on their faces. The flag of Richmond, hung damp, from a banner pole amid the rallying men. Rain had begun spitting down from the grey sky. Pedrig flexed his fingers round his sword hilt, ensuring the grip was tight. The spearmen ahead of lowered their shafts and locked their shields, yelling obscenities, urging him to come to his death.
“Forward” came the cry from behind and they stepped forward “For King Richard and for England.”
Moments, passed and Pedrigs breath held in his mouth, his heart thumping heavy against his chest as the eyes of the spearman became clearer; they were as scared as he was. Buildings on either side rising up and making him feel trapped like a rat in a trap. A spear lunged out at the lines moved cautiously together, his sword lashing out in reply to knock the haft down.
Another came high and his shield caught it on the rim, the man to his right adding his own weight to keep it steady. Another and another followed; short, sharp nervous lunges, he could see the pale faced boy ahead of him frustrated that his spear could not nock his opponents shield aside, frustration turning to terror as Pedrig’s sword snapped through the spears length.
He lurched forward, taking a second bold swing. His sword carving a chunk out of the willow branch shield in the boy’s hand as the poor lad tried to step back. The whole line pushed forward, nocking aside the bristling line of spears. These men were tired, weak and their nerve was gone, they fought with reluctance certain in their defeat.
King Richard -Dawn, Catterick, 18th April 1068
Richards horse, trod carefully along the sloping track. To his right the ground gave way to a steep slope, covered in dense thicket and high rising trees. If he had picked well then no one down on the road below would be able to see up the incline, though he knew already who was on the road.
York had fallen more than a week ago and today he hoped would be the final act in this little play-acted rebellion. He checked his horses step, making sure it lifted his hooves high over a fallen log and he signalled to the men riding behind him to have a care. They were slowly but surely moving downward, he had been tracing the high ridge for near half a mile, ghosting slowly along the flanks of Duke Eadwins forces. Richard noticed a fox creeping down below, trying to sneak its way alongside the roadside without the notice of the armoured contingent, obviously aware of the riders moving above it, as it froze to listen to the sound off boots and hooves.
A thin fog, clawed at the foot of the trees and the air was moist from the night time mist. Today was a curious day.
In a somewhat unexpected turn of events, Eadwin, Duke of Lancaster and brother to the rebel, Morcar had decided to turn against his brother and offered the King his sword, in bringing his elder sibling to justice. It was he who now waited on the road below. He had written “in secret” to his brother, promising him men and money for his cause, if only he would meet him on the road to Catterick. Clearly the younger brother had decided his brothers cause was lost and it would be wiser to throw his lot in wholeheartedly with the winning side rather than risk ill-favour later down the line.
Richard caught a glimpse of the road, between the tree’s; two opposing bodies of men stood facing one another, the flag of Lancaster waving softly ahead of the flag of York. Morcar had brought but a handful, struggling as he was to find men for his cause. The thin track sloped downward and Richard new up ahead it would pivot sharply down the road side, through the ferns.
A horn blast sounded from below, the King noticing that the flag of York had suddenly broken off. Morcar and his companions turning sharply and spurring their horses away. Richard struck his spurs to his steed’s flanks. It leapt forward and his men followed. A full gallop along the track and down to the road below. Tree’s flew by in a flurry. “NO ONE DIES! TAKE HIM ALIVE.”
The Kings horse broke from the tree line onto the road, caught amid the fleeing Yorkist forces, his men in hot pursuit. He spurred his horse to move faster, flying along the flank of a cavalry man. The beast swerved and hit its opponent in the flank, unseating the rider. A loud crash followed as the man fell from the saddle.
Another rider toppled from his steed, as a soldier to Richards left plunged a sword through the throat of the man’s mount. Whining screams, shattering the morning quite as the terrified beast mewed and choked on his own lifeblood. The Duke was far ahead already, but three of Richards men, like wolves on the hunt pushed their horses hard against him.
He picked his target. A monk, whose mount could not keep pace. He drew his sword from its sheath. His own mount moved up alongside, its chest heaving as he leaned forward in the saddle, urging its feet to fly.
The impact jolted both riders and steeds hard to the right, as the King slammed his horse into their quarries haunches. He saw the flag of York fall up ahead as he swerved his horse again, this time into the enemy mounts shoulder and the beast reared; tossing its master to the ground. Richard reined his horse in tight as he noticed his own men circling the Duke, whom himself had been unsaddled. Three spears pointed from all sides at his body and Richard roared “HOLD!”
He kicked his own horse forward, directing a guard to watch the grounded monk and his horse. The Duke had a dagger drawn, threatening violence though he obviously knew he would die before he could land a blow.
“My Lord Duke, what an unexpected pleasure” Morcar only scowled, his eyes locked on his approaching brother. Eadwin, Duke of Lancaster bring his horse up alongside that of the Kings.
“You betrayed your own flesh and blood, for the bastard son off a doomed house?” The imprisoned Duke spat on the ground, never letting his eyes move from his kin. ‘This will be your ruin as well as mine’ he pointed to Richard who was now smiling at his little tempest ‘a hundred years they have plagued England, him and his lot, he will be your ending too my brother.’
Richard turned his horse about, a smile fixed on his lips as he called behind him to Morcar ‘You are wrong, your Grace. Your brother by this act shows me his worth and has my love.’ He went to ride on as Eadwin sought to interrupt him.
‘My King, the monk?’ Richard turned to look at Lancaster, who came up close to talk quietly with the King, curious indeed ‘The monk is innocent of any crime, I would ask he be allowed to come with me, he is a loyal servant of my family and I would not see him punished for my brother’s folly.’
The King offered the Duke a long look, then glanced at the mud-splattered brother and then to Duke Morcar and back, ‘I think not my Lord’ he offered his steed a gentle prod, urging it into a trot ‘I think not.’ And with that the discussion and the rebellion was over.
King Richard -Late Night, The Kings Chambers, London, 25th September 1068
Heavens she looked beautiful tonight, the Queens thick, black hair cascaded down over her shoulders, covering her small but pert bosom. His body longed for her, aching with desire though he could tell she was reluctant and that had caused him concern. Ever worrying off unseen foes, he couldn’t help but wonder whom had come to steal his wife’s heart.
Maior smiled at him, pulling the bedsheet up slightly to cover her breasts, Richards eyes devouring her image as he wished to devour her flesh in the heat of passion. The King noticed the bemused smile on her lips as she eyed along his thick thigh’s.
“My husband, whatever doubt sets such a frown upon your head, be at ease for I have good reason to spurn you.”
He cocked his head up onto his fist, resting on his elbow, he waved her on.
‘It is not lack of desire that forces me to bar my gates, but god himself.’ She smiled and Richard jolted up, alarmed. ‘My courses are late……I think I am with child.’
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Ahh, very good way to end this rebellion. The King must be sitting a little more comfortably on his throne now.