Brian Wainwright - The Adventures of Alianore Audley

‘She wants to see the Duke, sir,’ reported the guard.

‘Come on, then,’ said Rob. ‘Let’s wake him. This should be interesting.’

I won’t repeat what Roger had to say to me when he found me in Gloucester’s tent, delivering my news. There are some words which are not out of place in a military camp, but which no lady or gentlewoman should allow her quill to form.

Richard thanked me for my trouble. There was a moment when I thought he was going to smile, but he didn’t quite make it.

There was no sign of his hump. He even looked taller than usual as he escorted me to the King’s pavilion.

Cousin Edward heard me out, and then gave a series of brisk orders to wake the camp and move off. His way of thanking me was to lift me off my feet and give me a big kiss, followed by a playful slap across my behind.

‘We’ve got the bastards!’ he bellowed, laughing. ‘There’s only a ferry at Tewkesbury, and they’ll never get their army across before we catch them. Well done, Alianore! I was going to fine Roger for marrying you without my consent, but I’ll remit that now. You’ve earned it.’ It took me a minute or two to realise that he was joking about the fine. At least, I think he was.

Once home I got out my sewing box and waited for Roger like a good wife. Three trips to chapel each day. Food for the poor at the gate. All that stuff.

I lost two brothers at the Battle of Tewkesbury. (Sir Humphrey Audley and my bastard brother, James, both of whom were slightly more Lancastrian than Margaret of Anjou.)

My brother John, Lord Audley, lost several pints of blood through fighting for York.

Wenlock was killed by Somerset, who believed (wrongly) that he had turned his coat half way through the fight. It served him right for burning my furniture.

Prince Edward of Lancaster died flying the field, slain by Clarence’s men. (Some say that Richard killed him in cold blood, but that is a damnable lie. I had the truth from Richard himself, so I know.)

Most of the other Lancastrian leaders were dragged from sanctuary in the Abbey and beheaded. (Sir Humphrey Audley was one of them, I’m afraid.)

Margaret of Anjou and Anne Neville were captured and sent to London.

Poor old Mad Harry died in the Tower. ‘Of pure displeasure and melancholy.’ (If you believe that explanation, you’ll believe anything.)

It was all over. Cousin Edward was safe again on England’s royal throne. Free to get on with important things, like drinking, feasting, and playing hazard with Hastings for first crack at Mistress Shore.

Roger came home to me in a litter, sore wounded. The fool had only gone looking for the very thickest part of the fighting instead of volunteering to guard the baggage like a sensible human being. Several months went by before he was able to set foot to floor again.

In the interim George Clarence got up to his tricks once more. He wanted the whole of the Warwick inheritance for himself, and this meant that he had to prevent his brother Richard marrying Anne Neville. The girl had been put in his care, and he hid her away in a London cook-shop.

The fiendishly clever Georgie had forgotten one tiny detail. Anne was a lady. Indeed, as Warwick’s daughter she had been brought up more or less as a princess of the Blood. She’d never in her life had to comb her own hair or fasten up her own gown. I need hardly add that she had neither a Cockney accent, a red face nor rough hands, while no one had ever got around to training her to dish out mutton pies. In short, she did stand out just a scintilla. It took Richard all of three days to find her.

To my surprise, Roger and I were invited to the wedding.

It was a very quiet affair. In fact, they couldn’t have kept it quieter if Anne had been six months pregnant. (She wasn’t of course. Richard was not at all the sort to enter the lists until all the requisite trumpets had been blown. I don’t know how he ever managed to father those two bastards of his. He probably received a royal command to do it, in writing, with the Great Seal of England attached.)

As I danced with Roger that night, he produced a smile that had me worried.

‘Gloucester has offered me an appointment in his household,’ he told me.

‘You are the King’s knight,’ I objected. (I don’t usually state the obvious, but this was a special occasion.)

‘The King approves. He wants someone at Middleham whom he can trust.’

‘At Middleham? Bloody Middleham?’

‘That’s why we’ve both been chosen,’ he confirmed.

‘Me too? Up there, in the twenty foot snowdrifts? With the wind blowing off the fells and turning my face to leather? With no one to visit but the Fitz Hughs and the sodding Scropes of Bolton? You have got to be plucking my garter!’

He shook his head. His was still grinning. ‘Nope!’

‘Look,’ I said, desperately, ‘if you’re still angry with me for what I did before Tewkesbury I’m sure I can find you a whip somewhere. There’s no need to be bloody cruel!’

‘Middleham it is,’ he said, remorselessly.

I woke up next morning with a hangover that would have crept into George Clarence’s top ten. When my maid combed out my hair it felt as if someone was playing a drum solo in the middle of my brain.

I’d just about reached the point where I could string three words into a sentence without a groan when I received a message that the King wanted to see me. Court etiquette prevented me from returning the first answer that came to mind.

The Chamberlain showed me into the Presence. He was very polite, but I caught him weighing me up, as if he wondered how much I’d fetch per pound. That was Hastings all over. He probably ran a brothel in his previous life.

Edward was sitting on his bed, chewing an orange. He stood up to greet me, throwing the fruit away. It sailed out through the open window and hit a passing Woodville.

‘Ah, Cousin,’ he said, with a warmth that made me suspicious from the first, ‘so glad you could find time to drop in. I’ve never thanked you properly for the service you did me before Tewkesbury.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ I shrugged. ‘Any time.’

‘We remember that even when you were in Warwick’s household you did your utmost to warn us of his treachery. We hope that you’ll agree to continue to keep an eye open for our interests up at Middleham.’

‘You want me to spy on your brother?’

‘Why not come straight to the point?’ Edward laughed.

‘The King is concerned that the Duke of Gloucester may come under unfortunate influences in the North,’ Hastings said. ‘The Duke’s personal loyalty is, of course, unquestioned.’

‘I’ll tell him that. I’m sure it’ll make his week. So, in short, you do want me to spy on him?’

‘Certainly not. The King wishes you to be responsible for the gathering of intelligence throughout the North. Scotland will also come under your wing.’

‘Lord Hastings,’ I said, ‘you are obviously winding me up to some tune.’

‘Not at all, my lady. The job is yours if you want it.’

I could not have been more amazed if he’d proposed to offer me to the Sultan of Turkey in a straight swap for Jerusalem. My mouth had dropped open so far that if you’d been quick you could have stabled a horse in it. I calmed myself down by framing the obvious question.

‘What about the pay and conditions?’ I asked.

‘You can rely on me to be generous,’ Edward grinned, chucking me under the chin. (I was probably expected to go all wobbly at the knees at this point. In all fairness he was very attractive, and if we’d both been free and he’d wanted to make me Queen of England I dare say I’d not have needed longer than a weekend to think it over.)