Warwick: The Man Behind The Wars of the Roses Read online

  Even though there were only kitchen staff to witness it, the strict routine of each day had been drummed into them. As the eldest Richard saw the routine was followed as their father would wish and had to say grace before they ate. He waited until they were seated, heads bowed and hands clasped together.

  ‘Benedic, Domine, nos et dona tua, quae de largitate tua sumus sumpturi.’ He checked to see his brothers were still praying before he continued. ‘Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.’

  His brothers chorused, ‘Amen.’

  They ate hungrily, knowing there was a long wait until their evening meal. John was always first to finish and always ready to take the leftovers from his brothers’ plates. John waved his knife at Richard across the table, pretending to use it as a sword.

  ‘The sergeant told me there’s no fencing today.’

  Richard scowled at his brother disapprovingly. ‘Remember your manners, John.’

  The afternoons were usually spent riding in the woods and practising swordsmanship with his fencing master, a dour Yorkshireman. Known only to the boys as the sergeant, he had fought as the king’s Sergeant-at-Arms in France and had permission from Richard’s father to be as heavy handed with the boys as he saw fit. Richard had learned to work hard and always show the man respect or suffer the consequences.

  John dropped his knife with a clatter on the table. ‘It’s because you are going to learn to joust today.’

  Richard finished eating. ‘Yes.’

  John looked interested. ‘Are you going to use the quintain?’ There was a note of challenge in his voice.

  The quintain was a clever device which pivoted when hit with a lance, bringing a weighted sack to strike the unwary jouster in the neck. John was catching up fast. The sergeant had started pitting them against each other, goading Richard not to be shown up by his younger brother. Although the practice swords were made of wood, they were heavy and could deliver a painful blow. Richard had bruises and more than a few scars to show for his time spent acquiring his skill with a sword.

  ‘I have to master the target first, before he will let me try the quintain.’

  George had been observing the exchange. ‘We’ve been allowed to come and watch.’ He wiped a piece of bread around his plate, which now appeared as clean as if it had never been used.

  Richard frowned. He wanted to learn how to ride with a lance before his father returned from the northern border and would have liked the chance to practice without his brothers watching. Worse still he guessed that John would encourage Anne and his sisters to join him when they returned from the convent.

  A young serving girl came from the kitchens to clear their plates and Richard went to the stables to collect his horse. He enjoyed spending time in the stables, learning how to care for horses. He also learned other things from the stable lads, particularly when they forgot he was there. The duke promised Richard he could have his own destrier when he could prove worthy of it. In the meantime Richard had to contend with his own mild mannered horse. He liked to ride every day, when the northern weather allowed.

  Despite the summer heat, Richard put on a padded brigandine, the most basic form of armour, fitted with leather straps to hold it securely in place. On his head was a woollen hat to cushion the inside of the heavy steel helmet he would be wearing. He led his horse from the stables, followed by the stable boy who carried his helmet and was to act as his squire. They arrived at the tiltyard, a wide level field to the side of the castle. There was a solid wooden fence down the centre of the field, the list, in the middle of which the sergeant was fixing a shield shaped target on the end of a long pole.

  The tiltyard was overlooked by high stands with oak bench seating for spectators. On a tournament day these were filled with nobles and their ladies and decorated with their colourful banners and shields. Today there was no decoration, although Richard wished his brothers and sisters were not taking their seats to watch his first lesson. He saw Anne was also there and raised a hand in acknowledgement as she waved to him.

  The sergeant greeted him with uncharacteristic cheerfulness, which put Richard on his guard. A stocky man with straggling grey hair and beard, the sergeant had an open faced sallet helmet on his head and wore an old padded jack, studded with rivets, as well as a sword on his belt. Richard always thought the sergeant seemed ready to go off to fight at short notice.

  Today the sergeant carried a long wooden practice lance, shorter and lighter than the one Richard would use in a real joust. Painted blue and white, it was tipped with a coronal, a crown shaped metal cap designed to allow the lance to catch and hold, making it easier to unhorse an opponent or break a lance on him.

  ‘Well, my lord, are you ready to impress the ladies and gentleman?’ There was a note of sarcasm in his voice and amusement in his deep set eyes.

  Richard knew how he should answer. This was the first time he had been allowed to ride on the hallowed ground of the tiltyard, normally out of bounds to the boys. ‘I am ready for your instruction, Sergeant.’

  The sergeant examined Richard’s horse, running a critical hand over its flank.

  ‘A tolerant horse will carry you down the list, even if you sit like a sack of grain.’ He turned and gave Richard a black-toothed grin. ‘Until he learns you have little control over him and he can do whatever he wants!’

  Richard had witnessed the grand tourney as a spectator, carefully studying how the jousters rode and fought. ‘I know I must ride without using my reins.’

  ‘Why is that, do you think?’ He looked at Richard with his bushy eyebrows raised.

  ‘I need my hands free for the lance?’

  ‘Only one hand. You have to release the reins to protect the horse from the impact, or you will be disqualified. The same goes for failing to control your horse during the pass. If he stops or veers away from the list, you are marked down for a balk. If you are knocked off you mustn’t be holding on to a bridle.’ He shook his head at some distant memory. ‘I’ve seen men pull their horse down on top of them.’

  He gestured for Richard to mount his horse and led it to the run up position. ‘Use your leg pressure. If he starts going left or right, you need to press with the opposite leg. Understand?’

  Richard was growing impatient. He had practiced riding at a canter without reins. ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  The sergeant looked around. ‘Where is your helmet?’

  Richard gestured to the stable lad who was acting as his squire. The boy approached and handed him the steel helmet. He put it on. It felt heavy on his head and he leaned forward to see, as the eye slot was high to avoid the danger of splinters.

  The sergeant handed him the long wooden lance. ‘Not too fast now.’

  He watched as Richard experimentally raised and lowered the lance. Although well balanced, it was heavier than he expected and difficult to control, as a small movement of his arm made the tip of the lance swing through a wide arc.

  The sergeant stood back. ‘Aim for the target.’ He pointed. ‘Keep your lance high and don’t let it touch the ground or hit the list when you’re riding. Either could break the lance.’ He grinned at Richard. ‘Or it could pitch you off your horse.’

  Richard kept his grip tight, silently praying his horse would understand what was expected. He trotted to the run up and took a deep breath, then cantered down the list, carefully lowering his lance. He was barely able to see the target and missed it completely. Raising his lance, he turned for a second pass. Once again, the unwieldy lance wavered and missed the target. He didn’t look towards the stands, where his brother was probably enjoying the spectacle.

  The sergeant walked up to Richard and grabbed his horse’s bridle. ‘Hold your lance firmly. Couch it under your arm as tight as you can.’ He patted Richard’s arm. ‘Don’t try to adjust your aim as you approach.’

  Richard felt sweat trickling down his neck. The helmet rubbed painfully on his neck as he rode. He leaned forward so he could see right down the list to where the target was fi
xed, tantalisingly out of reach. This time he turned his head and saw Anne and his brother John were watching, although his sisters seemed to have lost interest.

  He braced the long lance as firmly as he could and cantered again towards the target. There was a clang of wood against metal as his lance struck the target and knocked it to the ground. Richard pulled up at the turning area and trotted back, raising a hand to his watchers on the stands. He heard their cheer and applause. For the first time he had a taste of what it would feel like to be a knight. One day he would risk his life in a joust against a more experienced rider. Richard couldn’t wait for his father to return.

  Chapter 3 - Autumn 1442

  A shaft of bright November sunlight shone through the trees on a large pig hanging by its back legs from a thick rope tied to a branch of the oak. Stunned by an expert hammer blow, the pig didn’t struggle, unaware of its fate. Richard Neville watched as the butcher ended its life with a single stroke of his knife. Blood sprayed from the gash across its throat onto the earth in a bright red arc and the animal made one last shudder.

  The new sword slid easily from its scabbard and felt powerful in Richard’s hand. It was his fourteenth birthday present, the most expensive thing he had ever owned. The sharp blade was perfectly balanced with a heavy silver pommel that could be used as a club in hand-to-hand fighting. He glanced across at his father, who nodded in approval. That was important. The sword was a gift from him. Richard knew his duty as the eldest son and heir to the Neville fortunes. His father had given him the same name, the same penetrating blue grey eyes and dark curly hair, the same determined ambition.

  The blade swished through the air and bit deep into the side of the pig, cutting through flesh and bone. Richard felt momentarily sickened as he realised in an instant why his father wanted him to do this. He had developed broad shoulders from daily use of the heavy wooden practice swords which strengthened his arm and developed his skill. Now he realised they were a pale shadow of the shocking reality of real sword fighting.

  He knew one day this would be for real. Their northern lands were under constant threat and he must be ready when called to fight at his father’s side. His father was also his teacher and had dark tales of how decent men died because they were too slow to kill. His life could depend on not hesitating to take the life of another man.

  The pig swang on the rope as he withdrew his sword. He glanced once at his father then lunged, timing it perfectly and spearing the pig with the sharp point. The watching men cheered and applauded as he had to twist and wrench the blade to retrieve his weapon.

  ‘Well done, Richard!’ His father shouted across the clearing, his deep voice carrying the accent of the northern families.

  Richard wiped the sharp blade and returned his sword to the leather scabbard on his belt. He liked the weight of it at his waist. His badge of rank and status, the new sword also marked him as a grown man. From now on he would demand respect from those who had known him as a boy.

  ‘Thank you, Father, although I feel I had a little advantage this time.’ His mother was also his teacher. He had learned from her the power of self-deprecation to imply a confidence he didn’t always feel. He also inherited her charm, which made him seem wiser than his years. She taught him well and he was grateful as he watched others brag. Knowing when to remain a silent observer was as important to him as any weapon.

  His father looked back at the dangling carcass and the clearing echoed to his deep laugh. Richard saw a twinkle in his eye and knew his father was proud of him. He fixed that moment in his memory and knew it would serve him well in the years to come. He knew he must also remember the terrible power of his sword. Somewhere at the back of his mind was a fearful premonition of a well-trained swordsman fighting back with even greater savagery. He pushed the thought away yet knew the image would return to haunt his dreams.

  A young groom handed Richard the reins of his horse and he mounted the saddle. He was glad he had practised while wearing his sword so it didn’t get in the way when his father was watching. Riding behind his father through the ancient oaks, Richard noticed how the leaves were turning the golden brown of autumn. He wondered how long it would be before he would use the sword to defend Sheriff Hutton, his birthright.

  He grew up playing in these woods and knew every inch of the grounds around the castle. It had once been part of the Royal Forest of Galtres, reserved by Norman kings for their favourite sport of hunting deer, as well as to provide an income from oak timber. Much of the old forest was now gone.

  Richard’s father was proud of his lineage and determined to prepare him to manage his future inheritance well. He remembered how often his parents had told him the story of their rapid rise in the world. Although they were both from old families, they were not notably wealthy when they first married. His paternal grandmother was the granddaughter of King Edward III, so Richard was often reminded he came from a long line of Plantagenet kings and had royal blood in his veins.

  He spurred his horse and matched his pace alongside his father, then glanced across, trying to judge if the moment was right. He still found it hard to guess his father’s mood. He had passed the first test of his coming of age day. He was less certain of how his father would react to the next and decided this was the time to find out.

  ‘I have a question for you, Father.’ He hesitated, not wishing to spoil his father’s mood. ‘It’s about Lady Anne.’

  His father stared straight ahead. Richard considered repeating himself, unsure if he had been heard. His father had a habit of pretending not to hear things when it suited him. He also had a reputation for being firm, yet always fair, particularly when it came to matters concerning his eldest son.

  ‘You have my blessing, Richard. After all, you are husband and wife in the sight of God.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  His father had a smile in his eyes. ‘You know what you must do now?’

  He wondered if this was another test. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You need a son to inherit all I leave to you.’

  ‘I will, Father.’ He filled with pride at the thought. ‘I’ll call him Richard!’

  His father seemed pleased. ‘You must find him the best marriage you can. Nothing is more important.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  He knew life would never be the same from this moment. He was a man, with a rich and well-educated wife from a noble background. He would one day inherit his father’s ever growing estates and become the most important Earl in the North. Soon he would have a son and would work to find him a wife worthy of the Neville name, as his father had for him.

  He thought about Anne as he rode. Over the past four years they had become close companions, despite being chaperoned at all times. She had grown from a pretty young girl into a beautiful young woman. She was now sixteen, two years older than him, although he was taller so their age difference wasn’t obvious. She had recently been helping him to improve his French.

  In return, he had been teaching her the finer points of chess, under the ever watchful eye of their chaperone, an old widow who always dressed in mourning black. Now they would be able to talk about the future and where they would choose to live. His father had inherited several suitable properties, although the castle was more than large enough to house them all.

  They would also talk about when to start a family. Thinking of this reminded him of the time they had escaped their dour chaperone. He had taken Anne to one of his favourite places, a secluded woodland glade on the far side of the family estate. He remembered it had been a perfect spring morning and the first time he had been truly alone with her. She had surprised him with a long and passionate kiss as soon as they were certain they could not be seen.

  Richard’s father had failed to explain to him the details of the facts of life and, although he had observed farm animals, he was unsure of exactly what to do. Fortunately, Anne’s late mother, Countess Isabel, had educated her fully in the secrets of lovemaki
ng. She spread his cape on the ground and made him lie with her. Then Anne started to remove her clothes.

  A shout of alarm from the men broke through his thoughts. Something was wrong. Richard and his father both reined their horses and twisted round in the saddle.

  ‘What is it, man?’ His father’s deep voice echoed across the woodland clearing to the men riding behind. As well as their groom and the butcher who had slaughtered the pig, there were half a dozen soldiers of the earl’s bodyguard.

  ‘Poachers, my lord. We saw them through the trees.’ One of the soldiers pointed into the forest.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there, after them!’

  The men spurred their horses and disappeared into the trees. Richard followed his father after them, ducking a low branch as his horse gathered speed. He had been riding with the hunt since he was old enough, although this was the first time he had hunted men. There were shouts ahead and he knew they must be catching up with the poachers. The punishment for poaching was a death sentence.

  His father was riding ahead of him and pulled up sharply. He saw a dark brown shape in the fallen leaves to one side of the overgrown track they were following. Richard spurred his horse and was soon at his father’s side, leaning over in his saddle to see. A fully grown red deer lay dead.

  His father pointed to the feathered stub of a crossbow bolt sticking from its neck. ‘A clean shot.’

  Richard heard the note of admiration in his father’s voice and examined the deer more closely. Its dark blood was staining the ground, proof it had been recently killed where it lay. ‘A mature doe. We’re in the middle of the breeding season so it might have been with fawn?’ He had grown up knowing about the red deer, which were important as a mark of his father’s status, as well as a source of venison for the table.