Brian Wainwright - The Adventures of Alianore Audley

Richard was ill-advised to risk his own life at such a crucial moment, but I dare say that the sight of Tudor, who was riding under the banner of a king of England, wound him up to some tune. It is, moreover, easy to be wise after the event. If Richard had succeeded, however narrowly, the battle would have been won, and he would have reigned in peace for years. As it was, he came very close to victory. Close enough to kill the giant of a man who was carrying Tudor’s banner. I suspect that Mr. Tudor was very much in need of a change of armour at this point.

But then, of course, William Stanley and his men put in their groat’s worth. In all the confusion I doubt whether they were certain of what they were doing, with, as I said, two identical royal banners and – in their armour – two fairly identical kings in the middle of it all.

Richard was hacked down. His last words, as reported to me, were: ‘Treason, treason, treason!’

Was it treason? Was it a mistake? I don’t know.

My old friend Rob Percy was among those killed with the King. So were Richard Ratcliffe and Robert Brackenbury, and many other decent fellows whose names have not intruded into this Chronicle.

The battle was over. There’s no point in hanging around once your leader is dead. If you do, you’ve a good chance of hanging around one of the local trees until your bones drop apart. That’s what happened to William Catesby, who was captured. I’m pleased to say that Roger did what any sensible man would have done in the circumstances. He waved goodbye to Northumberland, and fled the field.

I was back at Leicester, at the White Boar, sorting through the latest intelligence reports. My first inkling that something was wrong was when the landlord went up a ladder with a pot of blue paint, and started to make some subtle changes to his inn sign. It seemed an odd time to decide that the place needed a new image.

Then the fugitives began to arrive, in ones and twos at first. Francis Lovell was among them, and he went to the trouble of calling in to tell me to get the hell out of town. I asked him if he was quite certain that we were beaten. After all, some Yorkists ran all the way from Barnet to London back in 1471, crying defeat, and were left very red-faced when it transpired that King Edward had turned things around and won the day.

‘Richard is dead,’ he said, miserably, ‘it’s as certain as that.’

I cannot begin to describe how horrified I was, so I won’t bother to try.

‘Help me destroy the Intelligence papers,’ I pleaded. ‘We mustn’t allow them to fall into the hands of the enemy.’

There were only the live records at Leicester, of course. (The archives were back at Nottingham Castle.) We started to burn them, down in the kitchen, but it was a hopeless task. There were too many of them, and we only succeeded in stifling the fire. In the end we borrowed a cart from the landlord, loaded it up as best we could, and tipped the papers into the River Soar.

I must admit that I kept a few choice documents back, for insurance purposes, and Francis Lovell left with a few more stuffed into his saddlebags. My selection included one real peach I had uncovered during my rootings at Westminster, a file of Hastings’ that had never been indexed, but which Richard, on grounds of chivalry, had forbidden me to publish. Chivalry is a luxury that you can afford when you’re on the winning side, but when you’re pinned to the ground, and there’s a knife at your throat, you jolly well have to land your kicks where you can.

It was then that Roger arrived. I don’t think I have ever been so relieved to see anyone in my life.

‘Get me out of this damned harness,’ he barked impatiently. ‘It’s time to go. The neighbours are about ten yards from my behind.’

I think it’s fair to say that we slipped out of the north gate of Leicester at about the same time that Tudor and his sordid gang of foreigners and traitors marched in from the west. They brought Richard’s body with them, naked and slung over a horse, as if they were anxious to demonstrate that they didn’t have any manners. I’m glad that I wasn’t around to see it.

My son Harry has brought eternal disgrace upon the proud name of Beauchamp. Having wasted some five years at University, he has come home at last and announced, bold as brass, that he now wishes to become a cursed lawyer! I don’t know what his father will say. A man has a right to expect better from his own flesh and blood.

The influence of Harry’s friend, Geoffrey Archer, is much to blame. Geoffrey, Guy’s eldest son, went to University with Harry, when they were both fifteen, to act as his servant and to study at our expense, so that he might one day serve us in some useful capacity such as steward or priest. However, boys get into bad company at Oxford, and Geoffrey developed an interest in the law. This was no great shame in him. He is, after all, the son of an archer, and has his way to make in the world. Harry has no such excuse. He should seek out a respectable troop of mercenaries to join. There’s always a war somewhere to provide a gentleman with honourable employment.

Still, it’s good to have all my boys home again.

Thomas takes life rather seriously, as befits his father’s heir, but he is a fine jouster, and would make a great and worthy knight if he had a half decent king to serve, instead of a snivelling, shuffling, Welsh accounts clerk. As for Rick, he has always been the scapegrace of the family, and although he has settled down somewhat since we found him a place in his cousin Audley’s household, he much prefers to idle around at home, swiving, boozing and seeking mischief. He openly names my nephew Audley a fool, and speaks of finding himself a better master, but he’s far too lazy to do more than talk about it.

My sons have their faults, but they are close to each other as fingers on a hand, and don’t quarrel among themselves like many brothers I could mention. Geoffrey Archer is like another link in the chain, and the four of them treat Constance like a princess, which is exactly what the girl does not need. I’d never have learned to stand on my own feet if I’d had brothers like that. No wonder she has a head full of silly notions. Her tears have incensed them against Humphrey Berkeley, and I just hope that their father gets home before things get out of hand.

Constance is absurdly quiet. She sits mending one of Thomas’s shirts. Suddenly, her big blue eyes lock straight on me.

‘Mother, I won’t really have to marry Sir Humphrey, will I?’ she demands.

‘That’s for your father to say,’ I tell her.

‘Have I no right to say what I want?’

‘Every right, so be it that you do as you are told. My brother bade me marry your father. End of story. I don’t see why you should be any different.’

One of the advantages of maturity is that you can bend the truth to some tune and get away with it, especially when you’re dealing with your children.

As I write this my sons and Geoffrey are practising archery in our garden. I can watch them from the big window in the solar, where I have my desk. I can’t imagine why they have suddenly become interested in toxophily, but they have a good teacher in Geoffrey’s father, and I haven’t seen many arrows off target. Guy was Champion Archer of The West of England for donkey’s years. He was so good, in his prime, that you couldn’t get a bet on. Not unless you could persuade him to compete under a false name, which we did manage on the odd occasion.

Guy joined Roger and me somewhere north of Leicester, as much by luck as anything else, and the three of us hurried to Nottingham, where we burnt a few more files. It was just like the old days.

We were pressed for time, of course, for we knew that Tudor’s men could not be very far to our rear. It was obvious that they would want to secure Bessy as a top priority, to say nothing of her cousin, young Warwick, who was also at Sheriff Hutton. I took it upon myself to break the news to Bessy. Her shoulders shook when I described the manner of her uncle’s death, but she bore up well. She was King Edward’s daughter right enough. I began to speak of her aunt in Flanders, and the ship waiting at Scarborough.