The King's Dogge (11 page)

‘How does she come into it?' I asked.

‘Her father, Warwick, rose up in rebellion against King Edward and the Woodvilles,' snorted Ratcliffe. ‘In fact, come to think of it, he killed two of them.'

He paused reflectively.

‘Possibly, had he lived longer he would have got rid of them all. Anyway that is one major grudge that the Woodvilles could have against Anne Neville.'

‘How does she view them?'

‘With contempt!' came the uncompromising retort. ‘To Lady Anne, the queen is wholly undeserving of her title. Her numerous relatives are to her greedy and selfish and their ambition far beyond their abilities.'

He glanced at me.

‘Well, she is Warwick's daughter, Francis. Anyway the last thing anyone wants is the Woodvilles intruding in the North. We need a success to stop these rumours. Can you help us?'

I thought quickly.

‘There would need to be a period of rest and recuperation following the campaign in the Debateable Land, but I could keep this to a minimum and so advance the timing of the raid into Scotland.'

Ratcliffe's face lit up when he heard this.

‘That will stop the damaging talk against Gloucester,' he said happily, ‘and it will prevent the Woodvilles from meddling where they are not required.'

He rubbed his hands together.

‘Yes, this will turn the tables of that family. You'll find Gloucester and his wife grateful to you, Francis.'

I shook my head.

‘I'm not doing this for reward.'

Ratcliffe gave me a look of pure amazement but then nodded.

‘I suppose you are rich enough not to be motivated by money,' he agreed. ‘But as a matter of interest, why are you helping?'

The simple answer was that I by now knew I was of use to Richard. Over the past two years I had come to know him better and increasingly liked what I saw. Moreover, when Nan and I had visited him and Anne Neville, we were treated not only like friends but as confidants. As far as I could see they held nothing back. They spoke freely of the challenges that faced them in the North and, as they did, I began to gain an idea of the sheer scale of what needed to be done if their region was to be made prosperous and secure. At times, when he and I were alone, Richard would speak of his own unfitness for the role that he was called on to play. At first I was suspicious of this, fearing that such humility was feigned, but after a while I knew it to be genuine. I sympathised with him too as leadership, whether it was for the West March or all of the North, is a lonely position and what man does not at times feel wholly inadequate for the task ahead? I believed that it helped Richard sometimes to have someone to confide in apart from his wife, and in turn this began to bring out in me the desire to help and protect him and Anne Neville. This was not a concept that Ratcliffe would comprehend.

‘I believe it is my duty to help,' I told him.

Ratcliffe snorted approvingly.

‘Well, try not to fail him in the Debateable Land or in Scotland afterwards, because we are all relying on you.'

The results exceeded all my expectations. Operating from secure bases, our fresh troops and well-fed horses erupted furiously over the south and east of the Debateable Land, cutting a swathe of destruction and leaving nothing in their wake.

Initially, our men operated cautiously, using guides and outriders, but as the trail of destruction grew, so did their confidence. They began to leave the fortresses while it was still dark to maximise their range. Fortunately, they were blessed with bright days of snow on the ground, rather than in the air.

The method of destruction we devised was simple. Scouts would identify potential targets, and our troops force would surround the hamlet, forming a circle around it. The outer buildings would be set fire to first and then the troops unleashed. Resistance was light, except from Skiam's followers who, while invariably heavily outnumbered, fought in the desperate knowledge that death awaited them, even if they surrendered. Any male villagers who attempted to fight were to be killed, but the remainder, as well as women and children, were spared. Anyone trying to escape from the village was ridden down – an easy target for mounted men with long spears.

A few survivors made it to the borders and were found half dead from cold and hunger at Solway Moss, but with our ruthless system of destruction, the majority of the population perished. Despite the necessity of this course of action, it was not a campaign of which I was proud, but it proved successful beyond all our hopes. Within three weeks, the whole of the east and the south had been cleared completely and Dick sent a messenger on to us. He wished to mount a final series of raids, culminating in an all-out assault in the north-west of the region. He guessed, at this stage of the campaign, that this was where Skiam and his remaining followers would have fled. He asked me if I would bring up the remaining 200 Carlisle horse and supply additional fodder for a two-week campaign.

I rode north a few days later at the head of a number of creaking wagons, escorted by the Carlisle horse, who were eager to join in the assault. Presently I rendezvoused with Dick and Thomas Broughton.

‘How many men do you think Skiam has left?' I asked them.

Broughton shrugged.

‘There can't be many and they must be more or less exhausted by now. They will be no match for us.'

Dick Middleton proposed to divide our 800 men into two groups operating on alternate days, a tactic that had worked well so far. We would further subdivide the two groups so that one could approach from the east and one from the south.

‘To be honest though, Francis, in Skiam's place I would try to flee north into Scotland. But let's finish the job.'

I rode with Middleton and his men a day later. We passed through burnt-out hamlets and destroyed farmhouses, but otherwise the country was white and empty. Far to our left, twin spirals of smoke indicated that our fellow patrol had found something worth destroying but of Skiam and his followers there was no sign.

We patrolled for much of the day and returned to camp, following this same routine for a week. Nevertheless we were thorough in our search. Still we found no trace of our enemy either in the bleak salt marshes or in the oozing peat bogs and deserted beaches. We were making the last patrol of the campaign when Dick finally signalled a halt and rode over to me. He exhaled clouds of breath when he removed the wool wrap that he and his men wore across their lower faces.

‘I think that we are probably in Scotland now, Francis. We'll go three or four miles to the east and then return to Carlisle. There's nothing and no one here.'

He gave instructions for the men to water their horses and returned to me.

‘I would say that this is the end of the Debateable Land. We'll rest here for a while and then we'll be back in half a day.'

Half frozen, I nodded back; it was the end of the campaign. We had not found Skiam, but I was not overly concerned. No one could live in the Debateable Land for a long time, let alone use it to attack from. It was victory, but I was too cold to enjoy it.

A little later we crossed the Kirtle Water on our way back to camp. The winter campaign was over. It was now time to launch the first major raid into Scotland.

C
HAPTER
6

‘
H
orsemen!'

Edward Franke pointed up the valley.

The archers had seen them too. At the sound of sharply issued command, they dismounted. Their horses were led to the rear of the column to join the packhorses, guarded by a small number of men-at-arms. I sighed as the captain signalled for his men to notch their bows. This was the second time in two days that the Scots had threatened our advance but were too cautious to attack, which was a pity as we would have destroyed them with ease. The Scots would not be reckless enough to attack bowmen head on, but they would try to manoeuvre round to strike at our flanks or to our rear. Of course, they would have been unaware that the Carlisle horse was out somewhere to our right and left, poised to take the Scots on their flank as they attacked.

The Scots had not obliged us last time though. On this occasion, I suspected they would hold their position for a short time and then withdraw. Our advance up the valley would continue and I was hopeful that we could break into the heart of Scotland.

‘They're leaving!' someone shouted.

Sure enough, the small band of Scots ahead of us retreated further north up the valley. I looked to the hills on the right and saw that a small number of Middleton's horse were now in sight. There were probably some to our left, but I couldn't see them. I gestured to John Fennell to remount his archers.

‘That's the trouble,' said Broughton. ‘They won't stand and fight.'

He looked wistfully after the departing Scots.

‘Why did you bring him?' he gestured at John Fennell, the giant captain of archers. ‘You could have picked anyone.'

‘He doesn't have the keenest mind, I know, but his men trust him, and when he heard about the raid he came to me and begged for the opportunity to join us. He pleaded with me – I couldn't refuse him.'

Broughton nodded.

‘It was good of you to give him the chance when there are other more experienced leaders. Now Francis, we must move on; the days are long up here and we should be able to cover a good few miles before nightfall. Then perhaps tomorrow we could move out of the valley and continue our trail of destruction into the heart of Scotland.'

He moved back to his position at the rear of our small column, and I turned to Edward Franke.

‘Tell me, Edward, what have we achieved so far?' I asked as we resumed our march.

He rummaged in his saddle bag and produced a rumpled piece of parchment.

‘Eight villages, twelve large farms and sixteen small ones destroyed.' He turned to me. ‘Mind you, Francis, we won't be able to keep going much longer.'

‘Why not?'

He consulted his parchment.

‘Allowing for the fact that we have been advancing from side to side for the past ten days, I believe we are now fifty miles from the border. At the moment, it takes the packhorses two to three days to bring us supplies. From today, we will be moving due north; each day we advance adds another day to the supply chain and we require thirty packhorses worth of supplies a day. You are extending your line of supply too far.'

I bit my lip irritably; any hope of a quick campaign, organised with minimal supplies, was proving futile. It had been impossible to live off the countryside, as I had hoped we might.

It would be infuriating to have to return now. Once we were through this valley, I was certain we would find ourselves in the heart of Scotland. Our raid had been highly successful so far. We had faced no opposition and, despite the lack of ale and wine, morale was high among the officers and men.

‘There are more supplies coming up tonight,' I said. ‘We can go on a bit further, Edward. After all, when we return the supply chain will become shorter.'

He looked sceptical.

‘I suppose so, although we are low on most things and the supplies are late – they should have reached us yesterday.'

I felt he was being too cautious, but by the end of the next day, when the packhorses had still not arrived, I began to grow similarly concerned. I asked Thomas Broughton to take men to bring in the errant supplies.

‘I'll do a sweep of the South, Francis, and watch out for any Scots. Mind you, I don't suppose I'll see any. All they seem to do is run away.'

I spent the day with Dick Middleton examining the horses while the men rested. My own presence in the inspection was pretty superfluous; his knowledge of horses exceeded that of any other man. He found little fault in the small, shaggy horses that comprised the Carlisle horse, but he was scathing about the condition of the palfreys that carried the archers and men-at-arms. Being large men, the archers required bigger mounts than those used by the Carlisle horse. He took the matter up with the giant captain of archers, John Fennell.

‘Your men care nothing for their mounts. They don't look after them – look how many are missing shoes and those over there are lame. Do you know how many of these poor beasts have sores on their backs? No, of course you don't.'

Captain Fennell was unmoved by this outburst. Like all archers, he viewed horses as a convenient way to move his men into battle and his priorities lay elsewhere with the numbers and types of arrows, dry strings and the direction of the wind, but he was sensitive to Dick's passion and promised to look at the worst cases. If Master Middleton could advise on treatments, he would be grateful.

‘That lumbering ox of a man,' Dick snapped, as we walked away. ‘He doesn't care for his animals at all – I tell you Francis, it's shameful how they are treated.'

‘You've always loved horses, Dick, haven't you?'

‘I'm sorry Francis, I get excited, but yes I do love horses.' He looked round at the grazing beasts. ‘Sometimes, I believe they are like friends.'