Á Warwick, Á Warwick!

by Dinasbran

General Disclaimer: This is an original piece of fiction and the majority of the characters are mine, all mine - the rest belong to history. Some of the events I depict are historical fact, some extrapolations others completely imaginary.

Sex and violence disclaimers: There will be violence – some quite gory, death, angst and cursing. There will also be a depiction of a loving, sexual relationship between two women – that is if I don’t get the giggles writing the latter J

Cast: Hal, Alais, Margaret

Summary: It is the early spring of 1469 and King Edward IV now rules England, his easy hand having apparently brought lasting calm. However, the storm clouds of treachery are building in the most unexpected of places and Hal Sutton, ex-archer, soon finds the peace is deceptive as hard-earned happiness comes under threat and loyalties are tested.

Note: Thought it was about time I wrote something based in both a country and a period I actually know a little bit about :P This is set during that period in English history known to later generations as ‘The War of the Roses’ though never called that at the time. In reality, it was a dynastic struggle between two noble families, that of York and Lancaster, that both claimed the crown through line of descend from Edward III. It was not really a civil war, rather an armed struggle for power between two political parties and only involved these aristocratic families and their followers rather than the whole country. Neither was the whole period chock full of battles, they were often long periods of peace between one campaign and the next. A glossary can be provided if my readers think it needs one. Okay, that’s the history lesson over, now on to the interesting bit…

Feedback, comments and constructive criticism are welcome to jaras@btopenworld.com – please feed the bard J

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March 1469 - Warwick

The pale sun is warm against my face as I sit with my back propped up against an ancient oak. The warmth even manages to permeate through wool and linen, easing the discomfort in my shoulder where the old wound is still tight and quick to stiffen. Above me, birds call enthusiastically for mates, a sure sign the spring has indeed arrived. In their eagerness, they all but drown out the faint rustle of the new leaves, bright in their youthful greenery and the slow lap of the sluggish Avon behind me. Just audible through the warbling song, I hear the familiar sounds of Sunday morning practise. The regular thunk, thunk of practise arrows hitting the butts is interrupted by a brief cheer that causes me to open one eye. Looking over to the group of boys, I am unable to stop a small smile appearing as I see young Markham looking embarrassed but proud as Master Chandler slaps him soundly on the shoulder. Glancing at the mound of earth with the one flat, slightly sloping face that forms the butt, I see the single arrow standing proud inside the circlet of willow being used as the mark. I shut my eye once more, smile still on my lips, as the sounds start up again accompanied by the occasional small cheer or groan as an arrow comes close or misses badly. Lulled by the familiar, soothing sounds I am just on the edge of sleep, despite the dampness beginning to creep through the sturdy wool of my comfortable old hose, when a familiar voice causes both eyes to open.

“Father, father!”

One boy, fair haired and blue eyed, has separated from the group and is heading in my direction. As he arrives to stand by my crossed ankles, I raise a quizzical eyebrow. “What’s the hurry, Dickon, you looked like old Nick himself was at your heels.” I am not his real father of course; he is actually my nephew, my sister’s son. Alais and I adopted him as a babe after his parents went to meet their maker; first his mother, never fully recovering from his birth; his father not long after from an accident that most who knew him suspected was nothing of the sort. So Dickon, now a robust and cheerful nine year old, had grown up to call me father. Indeed, the resemblance to his mother makes him look enough like me that many assume I am truly his father in all meanings of the word.

“Please, father, they don’t believe you can hit the mark with you eyes shut, please show them.”

Looking up I see Matt give a resigned shrug from where he is surrounded by seven sceptical young faces.

“Pleeeease,” Dickon entreats once more.

I stand reluctantly, taking the bow from where it is leaning against the tree. “Just this once, Dickon, but it is not right to boast about such things.”

Tagging along at my heels as I make my way towards the butts, he frowns at my gentle reproof. “I didn’t, father, John claimed you couldn’t do it - I just said he was wrong.”

I sigh faintly; this was really my own fault of course: a few weeks ago, I’d been watching some of the apprentices practising half-heartedly, obviously wishing they could be playing a riotous game of foot-the-ball instead. Now, I will freely admit that I do not have the patience to instruct well, as my own apprentices will no doubt verify; however, I am not the type to be violent, instead frustration at my pupils’ inability to understand even my simplest instruction tends to lead to withering words rather than blows. Therefore, annoyed by the lack lustre attempts and frustrated by their incompetence I had scathingly announced that I could do better than the lot of them with my eyes shut. Much to their annoyance, I had then done just that. The one positive outcome of my annoyed bravado was that the effect on their youthful pride had not yet worn off and their practise was as intent and keenly attended as any I had ever seen. Unfortunately, however, news of my feat, not all that spectacular in truth, had spread around the small town, growing in magnitude with each telling. Thus, what in reality had been the besting of a group of unskilled youths over fifty paces had become the defeat of the Earl’s best over two-hundred. I just prayed that my old comrades did not get wind of the tale, old friends as many still were they would still want an ‘explanation’.

“Apologies, Matt, I don’t mean to disrupt your instruction.”

“Don’t mind me, Hal,” the older man gives a wry smile, “To be honest I want to see you do it myself.”

“Hoisted by my own petard, eh?” I give a rueful grin.

He grins back, “That and a boy’s pride in his father.”

Hearing himself mentioned, Dickon chips in again. “Please, father.”

“Don’t rush me, Dickon,” I state, the cool tone of my voice enough to stop the boyish gushing, for the moment at least. Sliding the linen bag off the bow, I quickly rub my hands along the limbs a few times, enough to gently warm the yew. Bracing one end against my foot, I string it with the ease of countless repetition, giving the waxed linen a couple of experimental tugs to check the ends are securely seated in the horn nocks.

“I will loose the first with my eyes open, for the second I will close them.”

Seeing the enthusiastic if still doubtful nods from my youthful audience, I give a faint smile. Taking one of the bulbous headed practise arrows I nock it, noting as I do that the fletching are looking distinctly the worse of wear. Dismissing this, and all other thoughts, to concentrate on the task in hand, I smoothly pull the bow, As I bend into it, pulling back the ninety pounds of pent up energy, I feel the strain across shoulders and back, the complaint from the scarred muscles a sharp ache I will never be free of. Once my right hand has pulled across my chest to be below my ear I loose the arrow. I have not aimed - in the same way as with throwing a stone, I know where the shaft will land, and it does, standing quivering slightly from the impact in the centre of the circlet. Taking a second arrow, I nock it then close my eyes. Again, one smooth movement as I pull back the arrow and loose, relying totally on my body to know what it is doing in repeating what it has done so many countless times before. I hear the soft thunk as the arrow hits home and the appreciative murmur from my audience. Opening my eyes, I see the second shaft has landed an inch or so to the left of the first but still with the rosettes six inch diameter.

“See, John, I told you he could!” Dickon proudly exclaims.

I smile at his enthusiastic protection of my honour as I gently rub the aching spot in my shoulder. I should really have warmed the damaged muscle gently, not gone for full draw straight away but Dickon is not the only prideful one in our family and I, unlike he, will no doubt suffer for my sin later.

Matt nods his head towards where I continue to massage the scar. “Shoulder paining you still?”

I nod in answer then unstring the bow and replace its cover, tucking the string back into my belt pouch.

“Why don’t you use a lighter bow, Hal? No-one would question it.”

I look up, knowing that he is trying to be generous and therefore biting back on the harsh words. “I am using a lighter bow, Matt, my old one was near a hundred and twenty pounds, this is only ninety. If I go much lighter it barely seems worth the effort.” I see him colour at my dismissive words, realising that he uses a bow even lighter than that and I hastily add, “I mean no offence, Master Chandler, but you never had to earn your living by the bow. Eighty pounds is a reasonable weight for a man such as yourself who would be called up as levy only, but not for a household archer.” In truth even my hundred and twenty was considered light in such company - luckily my accuracy and speed made up for the relative lack of strength I was always going to suffer from.

Apparently mollified by my words, the older man nods his acceptance. “True enough, young Hal, but watch you don’t push it too far. You have a wife and children to look after, if you can’t work who will look after them then?”

I forebear to comment that my wife it nearly as good a fletcher as I am. In fact when it comes to the actual fletching her hands, less plagued by the damage and stress of fifteen years of archery and battle, are by far the nimblest and surest. Even if, God forbid, I could not work, or worse, she would be able to continue as femme-sole, able to run a household and a business in her own right; especially once she officially becomes accepted as a journeyman by the Guild, something I plan to see done by the end of the year, one way or the other.

Now the rest of the men of an age and soundness of body to be obliged to practise are beginning to arrive. I know I should really stay and practise as well, my conscience as well as the law dictates it. I cast a questioning glance at Matt and he nods, “Don’t worry, boy, with that shoulder you could get away without practising at all. It’s not as if the Earl is gong to amerce one of his own men, injured in his service for not being able to practise is it?”

Put like that I can only smile back, “True enough, Matt, but thank you anyway.” I nod at the practise arrows in the wicker basket, “Some of those look like they need a bit of livening up. Bring them to the shop tomorrow; it will be good practise for the new lad.”

“Aye, thank you, I will, Hal. A good day to you.”

“And you, Matt.” Retrieving my son from where he is still proclaiming my now almost mythical skill to a small gaggle of friends, I usher him back towards our home, wondering whether a small talk about pride coming before a fall may not be in order; I just need to persuade Alais to give it.

* * *

Walking up from the river, I am struck afresh by the way the skyline is dominated by the castle walls. They seem to both protect and threaten the small town that nestles to one side, draped down the sides of the hill on which the castle is built and encircled by its own protective walls. Our house, given as a gift many years previously by the Earl himself, is not far from the castle and built of the same stone, maybe even by some of the same masons. The stone is a pale honey colour, like a lighter version of the warm orange stone of my native village. The house is not overly large, fitting for an ex-archer and now master fletcher. Room enough for Alais and myself, Dickon, Edith our adopted daughter, the maid Agnes and the new apprentice, Ned. I have recently added a good sized, timber-framed workshop shop to the rear of the main building with access from the lane running alongside whilst retaining enough space for a reasonably sized vegetable garden.

A small cloud covers the sun and the light coloured stone of the castle’s walls looses the delicate warmth and now look grey and threatening. The momentary shadow passes and the castle once more seems beneficial rather than predatory but for some reason the cloud seems to have settled on my heart. I try to shake off the ominous feeling, after all I and my family are well, the country is at peace under the easy hand of his grace, King Edward, the fourth of that name and I have the favour, albeit small, of Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick. All in all, I can see no reason, God willing, for this year not to be filled with peace and prosperity, yet still the shadow remains.

Still followed by my small but noisily chattering champion, I move easily up the slope of the street leading from the east gate, deftly stepping around the worst of the horseshit and other rubbish covering the cobbled way. Within sight of our house, I pause, looking with pleasure at the stone-built manifestation of my good fortune. I am pleased with what we have made of the Earl’s generous gift and I hope and believe Alais is too. As I gaze at the solid walls, the weatherproof tiled roof, the small but largely glazed windows and solid wooden door, I feel the small cloud of doubt move from in front of the sun of my happiness.

“What are you looking at, father?” Dickon asks in puzzlement.

Looking down I see him flicking confused eyes from my face to the direction of my gaze.

“What is the matter?”

“Nothing,” I laugh, “nothing at all, in fact everything is fine.” I tousle the blonde hair and he gives the universal look of the child baffled by their elder’s peculiarities. “Come on, let us get inside, Margaret will be wanting to meet you properly.”

Margaret. The real reason I have left the practise early. I have not seen the sister who all but raised me for over ten years, not since her husband died, and there will no doubt be a lot of tales to be exchanged. Now, with her own son married and, master glover in his own right, having been gifted her business, she has accepted my invitation to live with us. Partly I had asked her in order to help with the household so Alais could complete her apprenticeship, partly because I wished to repay the debt I owe her.

* * *

Pushing open the front door of the house, I let Dickon go through first. As always, he charges straight along the passageway and out of the door at the far end and into the garden beyond. “Walk!” I shout at his fast disappearing back, then shake my head as he stops suddenly, takes the three remaining steps to the far door in an exaggeratingly careful walk then bursts through to hare off once more. “And don’t be long. You still…” but already he is out of earshot; however, I do not truly mind, he will have plenty of time to get to know his aunt and I have not really had a chance to speak with her yet. Her arrival, later than hoped the day before had left us scant remaining daylight to unload the small cart she had hired and get her belongings into the room we had prepared. By the time it had been completed and she was settled to the satisfaction of all present there had been little time for anything other than the briefest of talk before we had bid our good night’s and retired to our beds.

Still gently shaking my head at my adopted son’s rapscallion behaviour, I lay our bows over the hooks high on the passageway wall. Here in the passageway they suffer neither the extremes of heat nor cold, the hooks meaning they lie flat and suffer no damage from being propped on one nock. Satisfied that they are safely out of harms way I turn to my left and enter the main room of the house, our own small version of the great hall found in larger, richer dwellings. The room is open to the roof, the covered smoke hole still present although made redundant by the presence of the large fireplace I’ve had inserted into the far wall. The walls are plastered and over the lime wash finish are painted red lines to mimic masonry blocks. I cannot even dream of having the richly decorated walls of the more wealthy merchants and nobles but there is a small amount of twining red and green leaf work around the windows. Red and green along with yellow is also used to highlight the carving and beading on the cupboard in the far corner and the forms lining the wall.

Moving thought the doorway, I see Margaret sitting by the fireplace in the only chair. I am both surprised and yet not so, to see she is patching my oldest pair of hose. It is a scene I have not witnessed for over fourteen years, yet is so familiar as to bring an unexpected lump to my throat.

“Alais has you hard at work already, I see,” I comment lightly, hoping that traitorous tightness isn’t audible in my voice.

Margaret’s head snaps up and a smile appears on her face. “And I see you are still as hard on the knees of your hose as you ever were - I would have hoped you would have grown out of that particular trait by now.” Carefully setting the hose aside, she moves surprisingly swiftly to greet me with an enthusiastic and unexpectedly girlish hug.

Taken by the same impulse I wrap my arms around a still remarkably slender waist then lifting, I spin her around until she is giggling in my ear and crying for a halt. Setting her down, my own head spinning slightly, we both look in the other’s face.

“I barely recognised you, Hal, you have changed so,” she chides gently, “and when did this happen,” she touches the side of my jaw.

“Three maybe four years ago, during one of those interminable skirmishes on the borders. Some wild hairy Scot must have got jealous of my good looks as he tried to relieve me of my head - fortunately I relieved him of his life first.” Too late, I realise the bantering way I tell the tale, fine for the tavern or the guardroom is not what a sister wants to hear and I see the sadness in her eyes. Gentle fingers trace the scar that runs from just in front of my ear to the point of my jaw then a small smile appears on her face. “They say scars are supposed to attract women though I’ve never understood it myself - I would much rather those I loved where left intact and unmarred.”

Not wanting to dwell on such things on what should be a happy day I respond, “Whereas you, dear sister, appear to have stayed exactly as I remember,” and I speak the truth for apart from a few wrinkles to go with her forty-four years on this earth she doesn’t appear to have changed. Even the few strands of hair that our enthusiastic greeting has allowed to escape from under the proper confinement of a white linen cap still show the same pale gold as my own.

“And you are still a charmer,” she slaps my arm playfully then her face goes suddenly serious. In a low voice, she asks, “Does Alais know?”

That could only refer to one thing and I raise a puzzled eyebrow, surprised at the question I nevertheless answer in an equally quiet voice. “Of course she knows - how could she not?”

Now Margaret looks puzzled in her own right, “I thought, perhaps it was a marriage of convenience; it wouldn’t be the first or the last.”

I let out a snort of laughter then seeing her still confused expression I explain, “Alais is my wife in all things, Meg, we love each other body and soul which is more than many that are so joined can claim.” I am surprised to see the puzzled look turn to one of worry.

“Hal, you must be careful, you risk your life if you were to be caught.”

Now it is my turn to frown, “Meg, I have risked the results of discovery all my life thanks to father’s decision,” a faint flicker of guilt flares in grey eyes and I hasten to dampen it. “I do not wish that choice unmade - I would not be who and what I am now without it. But would you deny me my happiness for fear of something I already risk each and every moment of every day?”

I can almost see her thinking, her instincts as protective older sister warring with her understanding of what loving companionship can mean. Then there is a small nod, the only outwards sigh of her acceptance. A teasing smile twitches the corner of her mouth and in a normal voice she adds, “Well, at least you have shown sense in your choice of wife, Hal, unlike most other things.”

I stick my tongue out at her; reverting to the scapegrace child she had the misfortune to rear.

“Oh that is a pleasant picture I must say,” she responds, mock sternly, “it is a good thing those children of yours don’t see you behaving like that.”

“Where do you think they get their charming manners from,” a warm, laughing voice asks from behind me and I turn to see Alais in the doorway, arms folded over her ample chest as she leans against the wooden doorjamb. I wonder how long she has been standing there and what else she has heard. Meeting the twinkling light brown eyes and with Margaret’s words still in my ears, I cannot but agree that I have indeed chosen wisely. Alais is short where I am tall, dark where I am fair, soft where I am hard, but these opposites seem to make us fit together the better. Temperamentally too we are opposites, she outgoing and patient, I reserved and quick of temper, but again we seem to complete the other. Pushing away from the door, she comes to stand by me, threading an arm through mine. Then, in a low voice, she adds. “And what Hal won’t say is that I chose her, not the other way around.” Seeing the faint flicker of alarm at the words spoken outside of the secrecy of our private chambers, she adds, louder. “So, husband, what have you been telling your sister about me, all good things I hope?”

“Of course, dear wife, why would I be saying anything else,” I feign wide eyed innocence as I disengage my arm and wrap it around Alais’ waist, placing a fond kiss on her forehead below the band of her cap. She backhands a slap to my stomach with a floury hand leaving a white smudge on the front of my coat. “Just can’t your hands off me can you, sweetling,” I mutter, brushing the wool cloth clean with my free hand. Hearing the snort of laughter from my sister, I raise my eyes to meet amused but slightly embarrassed and confused grey ones. Of a sudden I realise that she is going to need time to understand and be comfortable what she has just learnt and now witnessed - after all what Alias and I share is a sin in the eyes of the church and our marriage vows would be considered blasphemous. However, whatever the church and the law may say I can see nothing evil in what we share; should the good Lord be upset by what we do, then that is between him and us but I find it hard to see why the God of love would deny us ours. Catching a faint smell wafting from the kitchen on the other side of the entranceway, I grasp the opportunity to change the subject. “So, Alias, what are you and Agnes planning as the welcome feast for my sister.”

“You shall just have to wait and see won’t you, Hal. It is about time you developed some patience so the wait will be good for you.” The tone is teasing but the words are pointed and automatically my hackles begin to rise. She is quite right of course, patience has never been a virtue I have become acquainted with, but I do not like being reminded of the fact, especially not in front of others - my pride again.

“In the mean time, Hal,” my sister interrupts, sensing the sudden cooling, “why not show me some of this town.”

“Perhaps you can also track down that son of yours,” Alais adds over her shoulder as she heads back towards the kitchen. Dickon, I have noticed, is most definitely ‘my’ son when he is up to mischief. However, the ownership soon shifts when he is being his most endearing. I do not begrudge her this foible, I know she would like children of her own, something she can never have whilst she remains true to me. Once, not long after we had exchanged our vows, I had been struck to the heart by the look of longing on her face as she had held a neighbours newborn child. Racked with guilt and drunk from my attempts to dispel it, I had finally suggested she should find herself a man to give her the child she wanted - that I would release her from the marriage, claim it to be unconsummated. The anger of her response had jolted me out of my self-pitying stupor, the tears in her eyes adding another layer to the guilt as she had replied, “Hal, it is you I love. I accepted I would never bear a child when I chose my life with you and I will not break our vows just for my own selfish desires.” Then she had left me, now guilty for a whole new set of reasons, by the fast fading fire and retired to our chamber - the slam of the door sending the message that I was not going to be welcome that night. Then Kate, only a few years older than me, had died and any doubt that I had done the right thing in adopting my nephew had vanished as I saw the joy on Alais’ face as she had held the babe, cooing over the tiny fist wrapped around her chucking finger.

My recollections are broken as another arm snakes through my own.

“Now then, little brother, are you going to show me the town or not.”

“Anything in particular you wish to see?” I ask as we make our way towards the front door. Having to part arms to pass through the doorway I let Margaret go first. Following I catch an even stronger whiff from the kitchen and sniff appreciatively.

“It does indeed smell good,” Margaret comments, “I look forward to tasting it.”

“As do I,” I agree, opening the door for her, “I just hope she hasn’t spent the entire week’s household money on the one meal.”

A quick glance at my face confirms that I am not serious, and she smiles back then slips her arm through mine once more. “So, where to?”

“To St Mary’s I think. It is a fine church even if the priest is a prurient little rat of a man.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see her head shake slightly from side to side, a gesture of exasperation that is familiar even after so many years. “As irreverent as ever, I see, Hal.”

“It must be you bringing out the worst in me.” I reply, giving her a teasing grin.

There is an arch little smile in response then a finger is prodded into my ribs without disturbing the matronly appearance my sister gives. I let out an undignified yelp of surprise and the smile increases in size and archness.

Scowling slightly as I try to decide on a suitable revenge, I nevertheless guide her across the street, helping her over the open drains and around the occasional piles of manure. The smell is more noticeable today I realise, one of the less pleasant effects of the spring warmth, but it is not unbearable. Byelaws keep the worst of the waste at bay, butchers who dump offal on the streets are now heavily amerced, and most therefore cart their waste to the pits on the edge of town, and the tanners are forced to work outside the town’s walls. Owners of noisome privies or pits are penalised and forced to improve them and householders obliged to keep the part of the street outside their house clean. Even then, there is still plenty for the rakers, the official street cleaners, to do in the town’s attempts to keep the disease carrying miasmas at bay.

A number of times I am hailed by acquaintances who ask if the ‘lovely young woman’ at my side could possibly be the sister I have been telling them so much about. When informed that it is indeed she, all the men, without exception, courteously add that they can barely believe it as she barely looks old enough to have been anything more than a mere babe in arms when I was born. Margaret blushes slightly at the compliments then, between one hail and the other, gives me a sly look. “Have you told the whole town I was coming, Hal, or has the crier been doing it for you?”

Now it is my turn to blush. I had not realised I had told so many people of Margaret’s impending arrival, had not realised how happy I was that she had agreed to stay with me, that she is actually here. “Well, you are sort of special, Meg, despite being my sister,” I blush again even as my sister does. With our matching pale colouring we must look like a pair of rosy apples. Desperate to change the subject I am thankful to spy a familiar tower. “Nearly there,” I announce and lead her onwards towards our goal.

* * *

The meal had been as good as the smell had suggested and Margaret and I both complimented Alais on the fine food. She in her turn had heaped all the due on our maid, Agnes, who all but glowed by the time her prowess in the kitchen had been thus praised.

Now the linen tablecloth has been neatly folded and placed in the cupboard, the trestles, boards and forms once more against the wall. With darkness established the candles on the stands around the fire have been lit. Ned, the apprentice, and Agnes have both returned to their duties then their beds, Ned in the loft above the workshop, Agnes on a small truckle bed in the warmth of the kitchen.

Dickon, freshly scrubbed and thankfully on his best behaviour, is now formally introduced to his aunt. After a few minutes initial stiffness, he is soon coaxed into telling of his latest scrapes. Margaret listens attentively, occasionally exclaiming appropriately at some particular daring feat, other times gently pointing out that perhaps what he had done was not all that sensible for a young man of nearly ten years to be doing. Every now-and-then she casts an amused glance in my direction, obviously remembering the similar scrapes I’d gotten into at the same age. I feel a faint blush start at each amused glance, thankful that she restrains from telling Dickon and thereby destroying any fraternal influence I might still have. The blush is not being helped by Alais who, noticing the slight redness on my neck, starts whispering sweet nothings in my ear that only make the blush worse. There is of course one way I can stop the teasing comments but I don’t think Margaret is quite ready for that yet, nor Dickon come to that, so I have only my never very effective warning glare to rely on – and it is proving as useless as usual.

Margaret is also introduced to little Edith, our adopted daughter who’s story is, if anything, even sadder than her brother’s. Now a bonny little two year old who doesn’t seem to have a bad thought in her head she had been found by Dickon wrapped in nothing more than a scrap of blanket down by the Mill bridge. We had tried to find her parents but no one would or could come forward. Eventually I had come to the sad conclusion that she was probably another unwanted daughter whose parents hadn’t the courage to drown their child as I little doubted had been their original attention. Their unusual meeting seemed to seal an immediate bond between our two adopted children. Dickon took his self-imposed role as his foundling sister’s protector very seriously and I had never seen a cross or irritated word aimed at his sister who traipsed around the house at his heels like a pet dog. She in her own turn appeared to worship her big brother; indeed her first word had not been for either of her adopted parent’s but instead as slightly drooled ‘ikun’. As Dickon sits on a stool telling Margaret his tales, little Edith is climbing all over him as if he was some sort of short, stumpy tree. He takes it all without batting an eyelid, only occasionally setting her gently back on the ground when her perch gets too precarious or uncomfortable. Eventually she falls asleep in his lap and I can almost hear my sister’s thoughts as she looks at the unusual scene - it is indeed almost too sweet for words. Alais having removed the slumbering infant to place her in the cot in our room, I then suggest to Dickon that it was time he was also in his bed. It is obvious from the stubborn look in his eye that he is not happy with the idea but thankfully his traitorous body is sending other signals. It isn’t long before I am carrying his sleepy little body through the dark house and up into the small room above the joint buttery and pantry that he is lucky enough to have for his own - at least until his sister becomes old enough to share it with him. He is asleep almost as soon as his head hits the bolster and I tuck the blankets around him before returning down the steep stairs.

Finding the hall now empty, I check the fire has been properly damped down then snuff the one candle left to give me some light. Passing through the door at the far end, I find as expected that the two women have retired to our small parlour and its still merrily crackling fire. This room is a relatively new addition, taking up half of what had originally been the workshop until I had added the larger one that ran at right angles to the original building. A doorway in the new wood-framed partition wall leads through to the other half of the old workshop that is now occupied by Margaret’s chamber, a staircase leads from the parlour up to a small dark landing from where a small opening looks out onto the hall below and a single door leads into our chamber.

The warmth of the room prompts me to remove my coat so I am now just in doublet and hose, hanging it on one of the hooks in the back of the door. Settling on a stool that I pull up near to the fireplace, I lean back to rest against the wall and look at the two most important women in my life. They are sharing the backed form against the opposite wall, faces bathed in the soft light coming from the fire and the beeswax candles in the sconces on the walls. A slow smile creeps across my face as I ponder on how lucky I am.

“Just like the cat that got the cream isn’t she?” Alais comments teasingly. It always amazes me how easily she swaps like this, the he becoming a she as soon as we are safely ensconced in our private chambers.

“My very thoughts exactly,” Margaret answers, smiling in her own turn. Then a faint frown creases her brow and I get the impression she wants to ask something but doesn’t quite know how.

“Ask, sister, I have no secrets from you, after all you did change my napkins for me.”

A brief roll of the eyes then she asked, “How on earth did you two ever…” she floundered for the words.

“Meet?” I prompt.

“Fall madly in love?” Alais adds, grinning wickedly and getting an eye rolling of her very own.

“Meet, I suppose,” Margaret decides, then with a small uncertain smile adds, “and then the other.”

“I found her in my father’s byre, soaking wet, bleeding like a stuck pig and growling like a mad dog,” she pauses for a suitable moment then adds with a feigned love-struck awe, “it was love at first sight.”

I stick my tongue out at her. I know it is not an adult thing to do but these two seem to be regressing me to my obnoxious youth.

Margaret’s eyes have widened at the overly dramatic if not completely inaccurate description. “Truly?”

“She exaggerates just a little, but yes that is near enough how it happened.” A small grin at my wife, “I don’t remember the love at first sight, but then I was too scared to notice anything very much.” My grin fades as my mind goes back all those years. “It wasn’t long after I had joined Lord Sudeley’s household. He had gone south to meet up with King Henry and the Duke of Somerset and we, of course, went with him… “

May 1455 - St Albans

I had been so proud when I was asked to join the household of Sir Ralph Boteler, Lord Sudeley. One of his captains had seen me practising, been impressed by my accuracy and the fact that at sixteen I was already pulling a hundred pound bow, and as a fletcher, albeit only an apprentice, I could also prove useful. Father and sisters had tried to persuade me from taking up the offer but as always my pride had pulled me, that and a sense of adventure that was even stronger. Father could of course have forbidden it but not without revealing the deception he had initiated and the lies he had been telling for over sixteen years.

My pride had only grown when I had been provided with a livery jacket in my lord’s colours. With it I also got a long sleeved padded jack to protect my upper body and a steel open-faced sallet, brimless so not to impede the bowstring but with a tail to protect the back of the neck. With the light, archer’s armour, I also got a short sword and a buckler - the small shield used both for deflecting blows and for punching.

Now that pride has been replaced by fear - palm sweating, knee weakening, bowel loosening fear. Reflexively I grip and re-grip my bow, then nervously wipe my damp palm on the livery coat. Another wipe then I grip the bow again, finding an odd comfort in the familiar feel of the smooth yew, the other hand nervously fingering the heads of the arrows tucked through my belt.

The man next to me notes my nervousness, a veteran of many such occasions he gives me a toothless, mirthless grin. ”Don’t fret yourself, young Hal, I reckon they are going to talk this one to a standstill. And if they don’t we got the gates and ditch nicely reinforced now – they’re not going to get through.”

I nod nervously but still I look with trepidation upon the vast host arrayed against us. I have never seen so many men and cannot count their number. The multi colour banners and standards flapping and cracking in the wind show the multitude of lords arrayed against us. Foremost in the centre of the main battle is a red banner with a white ragged staff, the only one I recognise, the badge of the Earl of Warwick, one of the wealthiest nobles in the kingdom. I had been to Warwick a number of times with my father to trade, it was after all only a days walk from my village, I had seen the same badge on the men that guarded the castle gates. Tough, strong looking men that wore their red coats and the white badge with obvious pride – and now I was expected to fight them.

A group of horsemen, their white harness glinting in the sun, emerge from the far gate and canter up and through the front of the centre battle.

“Looks like they’ve finished the parley.”

“You think they’ll leave?” I feel both relief and disappointment that a battle may have been averted.

“Hopefully,” the older man frowns, “Now I don’t like the look of that one little bit.”

Turning my gaze In the same direction I see a faint ripple move along the ranks of the enemy, like the wind over corn, and then I realise they are moving – towards us and at speed.

“Looks like all the talking was a waste of breath,” is the laconic comment from my companion as he pulls an arrow from his belt and calmly nocks it. I do the same as do all the others around me. Then we wait for the command.

With a sudden, startling yell that is half cheer, half scream, the enemy’s flanks charge towards the two gates that guard the entrances to the town. Archers all along the enemy’s line shoot their arrows into the defended areas, the sound of so many arrows and the sight of the shafts passing in black waves is unnerving. They find their range and the steel tipped shafts begin to fall on us like a deadly rain. “Nock!” the first order coming from behind us is redundant, “Draw!” bows are raised and drawn in one single movement, a heartbeats pause then, “Loose!” and a sheet of arrows goes back the other way, falling on the fast approaching foe. Now, returning volley for volley, it seems that the sky has turned black.

Concentrating solely on the practicalities of nocking, drawing and loosing it is as if I am in another world, oblivious to what is going on around me. I can hear the shouts and screams but they seem somehow distant and unreal, then a choking sound beside me catches my attention. Glancing to the side, I watch in fascinated horror as the toothless man falls slowly to his knees, hands fluttering ineffectually at the shaft sticking out of his throat. Then a great fountain of blood erupts from his mouth and he collapses twitching to the ground. I immediately throw up everything I had eaten that day, my vomit adding to the blood and piss already staining the ground. Then a hand grabs my shoulder and drags me upright. With a rough shake, the captain who had first spotted me shouts in my ear.

“There is your enemy, Sutton,” I look at the advancing enemy and now I can see individual faces, some snarling and cursing, others strangely emotionless, “now kill the bastards.”

Calmer now, and more aware of what I am doing and what is happening around me, I do as ordered. No longer shooting unthinkingly, I pick my targets, drawing and loosing shaft after shaft into unprotected faces, unarmoured legs, anywhere an arrow would have the chance of penetrating. As they get closer, the armour piecing bodkins begin to take effect. Although the majority shatter or slew off on impact, a few strike true and pierce the armour and more men are falling. Screamed orders come from behind and we fall back as the men-at-arms move forward to take the brunt of the hand-to-hand. Still as they fight we hover, taking shots where and when we can.

Eventually I use the last of the score of shafts tucked though my belt and there seems to be no more to hand. Glancing around I see my fellow archers drawing falchions or short swords and unhooking bucklers, others grasp the vicious wooden, nail studded mauls that appear to be relatively harmless mallets until you realise the head had been hollowed out and filled with lead. Drawing my own sword, hoping I can remember at least some of the rough-and-ready instruction my comrades have been giving me, I move forward to join the affray. Working in pairs or threes, we overwhelm any better-armed man that manages to breach the main defence, bearing them down by sheer weight of numbers until we find a gap in the armour. A man in half harness, wearing murray and blue swings his poleaxe at me; the heavy head consisting of cutting axe blade, crushing hammer and thrusting spike on the end of a six foot ash shaft more than capable of stoving in steel plate or mangling the body under a jack’s soft armour. Ducking under the blow, I throw myself at him. Arms wrapped around his torso I try to trip him, tangling my legs with his. Obviously startled by the move he pauses before beating down hard on my head and shoulders with a gauntleted fist, unable to bring his poleaxe to bear or draw his dagger. I can feel the blows even through sallet and padding then my fellows come to my aid and I feel the man start to tip. Letting go as he falls, I move to hold down his body and right arm whilst another grabs the left before driving the ten-inch blade of his rondel dagger into the unprotected armpit. The man screams, the sound echoing oddly inside the visored helmet and the bevor he wears across lower face and throat, struggles briefly then goes still. Scrambling up, I am hit hard across the back of the head; the sallet stops my skull from being crushed but I still fall stunned across the man we have just slain. I roll woozily onto my back in an attempt to defend myself against the follow-up blow but see none coming. I send up a brief prayer of thanks, relieved to realise it must have an accidental blow - the end of a polearm perhaps, swung wildly in the intense melee. Shaking my head clear, I now manage to get to my feet then join two other Sudeley’s as they struggle to take down a man in full harness – the archer lying at his feet, shoulder and front already soaked in blood, indicating this one isn’t going to be taken so easily.

* * *

Despite the advantage in numbers that our enemy has, it soon looks like we are going to hold the re-enforced gate and drive the Duke of York’s forces back. In a brief gap in the fighting, I can see that the rush of men coming at us appears to be easing. Then there is a panicked cry shouting that the enemy are behind us. At first, we do not believe it, then it comes again and again and we begin to glimpse men in red with the ragged staff badge behind us, coming from the market square. Fearing being trapped, men begin to flee. Initially just one or two, then more join and soon the solid defence we’ve been mounting drains away like sand in a glass.

The realisation of the sudden reversal is like a bucket of cold water, shocking me out of the strange calculating calm. I can see no sign of my lord’s personal banner and, thinking he is down or already fled, fear grasps me with renewed ferocity. I am turning to join the running men when an arrow hits my jack. I stare down in amazement at the arrow sticking out of my chest but it appears the thirty layers of linen had done their job as I can feel no pain. Pulling out the arrow, I notice automatically that it is an armour-piercing bodkin, square sectioned and solid with a waisted middle allowing for deeper penetration once the armour is pierced. However, against the soft armour of the jack it was of less use – a thin pointed bodkin for use against mail might have been a different matter.

All this passes through my mind in the second it takes to wrench the arrow from my jack and toss it to the ground but then I am hit again, this time in an un-armoured leg. I stare is surprise at the protruding shaft but feel no pain and turn to join my fleeing comrades, thankful to find my leg still bears me. Still feeling nothing from my injury, I cross the street behind me, moving through gardens, over walls and fences and into the countryside beyond. Glancing over my shoulder as I run, I see scurriers and prickers, mounted and lightly armoured men, running down their fleeing foe and the sight put an extra spur to my flight. Now the pain in my leg is cutting through my fear. Finally, it gives way and I crash to the ground, screaming as the impact breaks the fletched end off the arrow and drives it further through.

Once able to concentrate on something other than the blinding, throbbing pain now coming from my thigh I look around for somewhere to hide, knowing I can run no more. There is a hawthorn hedge not far from where I have fallen and I drag myself painfully into its cover. I have already lost my sallet in the rout, having thrown it to the ground to lighten my load, and the thorns dig harshly into my scalp and hands but the jack protects my body and soon I am deep under the bush. I see faint movement through the entwined branches and dark green leaves and now the sound of injured and dying men breaks into my awareness. My stomach heaves again and again in reaction to the fear and pain, the sights I have seen and the men I have killed, until my throat is raw and my guts hurts. How long I huddle there, I do not know but eventually I slip into welcome unconsciousness.

* * *

A hand grasping my ankle shocks me into wakefulness and automatically I kick out.

“Looks like we have a live one here,” a gruff voice comments.

A face moves from side to side outside my barricade of thorns and branches as he tries to see me. I try to shuffle back and groan as pain flares in my leg. I also don’t appear to be able to open one eye, which panics me until I rub off enough of the encrusted blood for the lids to part.

“Looks like one of Sudeley’s by the livery, hurt as well.”

I can see his eyes now, brown and with fine wrinkles at the corners that makes me think he must smile a lot, although he is frowning slightly at the moment.

“Let me finish the bastard then,” another voice comments, “Reckon I can thread a bolt through that lot easy enough.”

“No, he’s only a boy by the look of him. And you heard what that the Duke said - kill the nobles but spare the commons.”

There is an unhappy grunt from the crossbowman. “Alright then, on your own head be it. I’m off to see if I can find richer pickings.”

“Come out of there, lad, I won’t hurt you.”

I can’t obey the instruction, even if I wanted to. “Can’t” I manage to get out through parched lips, “Stuck.”

The frown above the brown eyes deepens, “Alright then, lie back and I’ll pull you out.”

I look into what I can see of his face and decide to trust him, though it appears I have little choice. Leaning back, I wrap my arms over my face. I feel hands on my ankles and then I am being dragged out from my protective shelter, biting back on the groans that well up as my injured leg is stretched. I can’t stop the cry though when the head of the arrow still protruding from my leg catches on a branch. Then I am out in the early evening light, my rescuer standing over me.

The first thing I notice is the red coat and the white ragged staff. My rescuer is one of Warwick’s men and, for a moment, I think he looks familiar. Then he draws his dagger and I feel panic rising. He was lying after all and now he is going to finish me.

“Easy, lad, I just want to look at that leg of yours.”

I stop my crawl but lie still as death as he kneels down and uses the dagger to slit the leg of my hose. He studies the wound for a moment as I stare in fascination at the way the bloodstained wooden shaft emerges from the angry, swollen flesh. The man rummages around in the bag hanging by his side and comes out with a couple of lengths of linen and a small earthenware costrel. He looks at me, forcing contact with his brown eyes.

“My names Grey, lad, John Grey, what’s yours.”

“Hal… Henry, Henry Sutton.”

“First time at all this?”

I nod, wondering if my inexperience is so obvious.

“Well, young Hal, I am going to take that arrow out. It most likely will hurt more coming out than it did going in so you’d best take a swig of this.”

He hands over the costrel and I unstopper it. Taking a wary sniff, it appears to contain a vinegary wine but anything will do at the moment and I take a swig. It is strong and very vinegary but it washes the taste of vomit out of my mouth and I take another mouthful.

“Here, that’s enough,” Grey takes the costrel back. Rolling me on to my side, he grasps the arrow then gives me another look. “Ready?”

I nod.

He pulls.

I faint.

I come around moments later to feel something that feels like liquid fire being poured over the wounds, the resulting pain enough to make me faint again.

The second time I come around I mutter weakly, “God’s blood, Grey, you certainly weren’t jesting about it hurting more coming out.”

“Sorry ‘bout that, lad, but washing wounds with this seems to help in stopping ‘em going bad, at least that’s what I have found. Here, you might as well finish it.”

I empty the costrel and the fierce, rough wine is now dulling the pain. The linen has been wrapped tightly around the leg though there are already red spots seeping through.

“Where are you from, lad?” My saviour asks.

“Warwickshire.”

A glare appears on the older man’s face, “What you doing with Sudeley’s lot then, why aren’t you with the Earl.”

“Live on one of Lord Sudeley’s manors.”

“Ah,” the man nods, “from the south of the shire eh?”

I nod my confirmation.

“Well you’ve got a long trip ahead of you, youngster. My advice to you – get rid of the livery. I’d say get rid of the jack but you’ll need the warmth at night. For the first day or so try and avoid people if you can. Having armies tramping over your farmland does not lend the average yeoman to be particularly kind to stragglers, especially injured ones.

I nod my understanding and he holds out an arm. I grasp it and am pulled easily to my feet. My head swims for a moment, partly due to being suddenly upright, partly to the wine, then clears. I try my injured leg and am surprised to find it bears my weight if not without complaint then strip off the now filthy and foul smelling livery coat and throw it unceremoniously to the ground.

“Head just west of north, after ‘bout ten miles you should be near a little market town by the name of Luton. Should be alright from there on, just head north-west but it will be a fair old walk – you’d be best to find somewhere to heal up first. You have money?”

I pause then nod hesitantly, “A little.”

“Well I hope it is enough.” He looks at me steadily, “Don’t be afeared to loot if you come across any dead un’s, boy. They don’t need it anymore and you do.” At my faint, unhappy nod, he claps me on the shoulder. “And should you feel the need to try soldiering again, try the Earl next time, eh?”

I nod again, and give a faint smile. “I will, Master Grey, thank you.”

“Good lad,” he grins, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes creasing, then turns and moves away, pausing every now and then to check a body.

Noting where the setting sun is, I turn to the north and start my limping progress away from the battlefield and into the unknown countryside.

* * *

I walk late into the night for as long as my leg holds. I take my saviour’s advice and ignore my innate distaste in order to search the few bodies I come across that haven’t already been stripped of everything they have. I now have a pewter costrel, dented but water tight, a leather bag that still contains some bread and cheese and, much to my surprise, nearly nine shillings in coin. My purse thus greatly increased I feel more confident in getting home, assuming my leg doesn’t fester. I also take a light bladed falchion, my own sword having been dropped in my flight. With the warning from Master Grey still ringing in my ears I really don’t like the idea of being armed only with the dagger still hanging from my belt if some vengeful yeoman should find me.

Feeling my leg finally beginning to give way, I start looking for somewhere to rest up for the remainder of the night. It has been raining steadily for the last hour and I am thoroughly soaked and really don’t want to try and sleep under a dripping hedgerow. I am about to give up the search for somewhere more suitable when some straight edged shapes loom out of the darkness. Moving closer, it appears to be a farm with a couple of separate byres. Need for somewhere dry wars with the instructions to stay clear of people and this time I ignore Grey’s advice. Limping heavily, each step now sending a jolt up pain up my leg, I move up to the door of the byre furthest from the house. Pulling it open a slit, I slip in and let it close behind me. In the darkness, I can smell only clean hay, no sign of animals - it appears I have found a hay-byre. I bury myself into the hay, take a mouthful of bread and cheese then a draught of the water before lying back and covering myself with more of the dried grass.

* * *

I must have got only a couple of hours of cold, uncomfortable sleep before the early summer sun peeps through the gaps in walls and roof and wakes me. My entire body feels like one massive bruise and my head is pounding. I take a small bite of bread and cheese and more of the water, having to fight to keep it down. Even this small act seems to take all my energy and I have to lie down again. Then I hear laughing voices, coming closer. In a growing but helpless panic, I watch as the door to the byre opens and a boy and a girl enter, both carrying hayforks. I meet the girl’s eyes.

We stare at each other.

“It’s a bandit,” the boy shouts and runs from the byre. I hear his receding voice shouting, “Father, father, there’s a bandit in the hay-byre.”

The girl however does not scream or run, instead she lowers the hayfork until it is pointed directly at my chest.

“Don’t look much like a bandit to me, a sorry, half-drowned rat perhaps, but not a bandit.”

I am amazed to hear amusement in her voice; I don’t think I would have reacted so calmly to finding one such as me.

“And a hurt rat at that.”

Now a man’s voice can be heard coming towards the barn, “What do you mean, Jack? A bandit? This better not be one of your pranks.”

Grey’s word come back to haunt me and now fear gnaws at my guts as I struggle to get up, “Leave me be,” I growl, finally having reached wobbly feet. “Get out of my way,” I growl once more and take an unsteady step forward only to see the hay covered floor coming up to greet me at an alarming speed. Lying face down and stunned, I feel gentle hands turn me over. I try to reach for first falchion then dagger but each are swiftly removed from my frighteningly weak grasp and thrown out of reach. The world is spinning now and I am shivering violently.

“Please, just let me go, I won’t hurt anyone.” I am not feared of being killed now, somehow I know this girl won’t let that happen; now I fear discovery, something that scares me more than death.

“You have an ague,” the girl comments as gentle hands restrain my feeble struggling, “and that leg looks a mess. If you go now you’ll most like end up dead.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I mumble, “Need to get away.” I manage to get to a sitting position this time.

“What do we have here?” a man’s voice, harsh and commanding and I turn increasingly unfocused eyes in his direction.

“Let me go,” I plead again, to the same lack of effect.

“I think he must be one of those soldiers we heard had passed through, father.”

“I agree, daughter.” I am surprised when there is no anger just curiosity in his voice. “Household? Levy?”

“Household.”

“Whose?”

“Sudeley’s”

“There was a battle?”

I nod then add, anticipating the next question, “At St Albans – least I think that was the name.”

“And the King lost?”

I nod again, wondering why he asks so many questions and why the byre appears to be spinning so. The unsettling feeling becomes too much and I have to lie down again.

“We should help him, father.”

“Aye, Alais, we will.”

I am surprised almost speechless; this is not what I was expecting. Then I remember and try in vain to struggle up again. “No, you can’t, I need to…”

“Father, can you and Jack fetch something to carry him on?”

I am surprised when the father, with a faint nod, obeys his daughter’s instruction, taking a reluctant son with him. I stare up at the face of the girl as she stares thoughtfully down into mine. A strikingly beautiful face I now fuzzily notice, with strong cheekbones, a fine straight nose, full soft lips and light brown, almost golden eyes. All this framed by dark wavy hair still flowing girlishly loose over her shoulders. The golden eyes meet mine and I see a faint frown appear between them.

“Now why are you so scared of us looking after you?” she muses out loud, looking me up and down intently. I feel like a rabbit entranced by a stoat, I suspect I look like one. “Don’t worry, little soldier, we aren’t going to hurt you.”

I try to shake my head, I have given up trying to move anything else, and feel tears of frustration and panic and fear beginning to well. “No, you don’t understand, I can’t…”

“I think I do. What is your name?”

“Hal… Henry.” I reply.

No, your real one.

Startled, I look into those golden eyes and see kindness and understanding.

“I will be treating you, father will leave it to me and Jack can be kept away. Mother died four years ago and there is no one else in the house.” She pauses, letting the words sink in. As they do, I realise she is offering me secrecy if I will take it, “Now, what is your real name?”

“Henrietta,” I breathe the nearly forgotten name my mother gave me then the darkness claims me.

Continued in part two…