Julian Rathbone - Kings of Albion

The pale man is John Clegger, the fat man is Will Bent, the woman is the Queen and the screaming child is her son, if not her husband's, Edward, Prince of Wales. I low did I know who they were? Clearly you have not been paying attention. I came across them all in Coventry, on the day I was taken, and at my trial.

But I, of course, am not Uma the Witch, hut John Coombe of Annesbury, and my horse, Dobs, is not only an unusual yellow in colour but very big. I think they are all more frightened of the hone than of me, although I have managed to get poor John Coombe's sword out of its scabbard and am waving it, as best I can, over them all. I manage to give Clegger a full knock with the flat of it over his ear, which nearly takes off his head and sends him sprawling into the ditch. Yet he gets out of it and is soon running and stumbling through the corn on the other side. Will Bent makes off on the other side.

Madam, of course, since she is a queen, has forgotten me, doesn't know me from Adam. Or Eve. She collects herself, as a queen should, gets back her breath, boxes her son's ear, which he correctly takes as a request to stop his row, and does so, apart from an irritating snivel. Then she draws herself to her full height and gives me a most severe look.

I get the message and get down off Dobs' back.

'Young man, your manners are despicable. Do you not know who I am? Of course you do.'

What am I meant to do? Bow? Fall on my knees? Knock my head on the ground?

I give her a nod and say, 'Glad to have been of service, ma'am,' before I begin to lead Dobs away. Then I stop, gather the reins in my hand, and grasp the pommel, which I can only just reach, as if intending to mount again.

'Stop. What is your name?'

'John Coombe,' I say, remembering.

'Master Coombe, you will take me to Denbigh. In Wales. It lies some thirty miles or so away to the west. I have friends there who will pay you well. Your horse looks big and strong. I will ride in front of you, my son will ride behind you. But first, please pick up the belongings of mine these ruffians, who were meant to be looking after me, were attempting to steal.'

I think about it for a moment. I have a maxim in life that has always, or almost always, stood me in good stead. You may, Mah-Lo, be able to guess what it is. Quite simply – say yes.

Say yes to everything that comes along. I think my tale so far demonstrates how well I follow this maxim. So, although I have no reason to like this woman, or her brat of a son, I say yes. The prospect of payment helps, of course. I have already established that the total of John Coombe's readily negotiable wealth is a sixpenny piece and two farthings.

'All right,' I say, 'but your son can pick up your things.'

She gives that some thought. Then: 'Edward? Do what the young man says.'

I manage to make a cushion from the less expensive of her clothes and strap it on Dobs' crupper. I then give Madam a bunk-up. She sits pertly, in the side-saddle position, and gets a good grip on Dobs' yellow mane. I get up behind her. Then I get off again because Edward can't climb up on his own. I hoist him on to Dobs' back behind the saddle. It's impossible now for me to get between them. I get down again, lift Edward down, pick up her sack, tie it behind the saddle, put Edward on top of it and get up again. We're off.

After five minutes she begins to talk.

'When we heard that vile bastard Warwick was on his way north, Buckingham said it would be best if the King went with him and the army while I and Edward went the other way. That way, if things went badly, they wouldn't get us all in the same net. Not that we expected any such thing. Not only are right and God on our side, we had six very big cannons. God tends to side with the big guns.' We jog on. 'So I went north to Eccleshall, and waited for news. Lord Lovell was the first with them and told us how a rainstorm had rendered the cannons useless, how our army had been beaten, Buckingham killed, and the King taken. So I took horse and, with my two stewards and my son, set off for Denbigh. At Malpas more news reached us. York, the most evil-minded sod of a bastard of the lot of them, was on his way from Ireland and would be made king. Those cretins Clegger and Bent decided to make the best of what now seemed a bad situation by robbing me. And you turned up.'

Not a word of thanks.

We jog… on and on.

I am apprehensive that she will penetrate my disguise. Of course she does. As soon as we have crossed the first brow of a hill and are descending on the further side, Dobs takes it into his head to break into a slow gallop or canter. I am thrown forward. To avoid falling over the horse's ears the Queen forces herself to lean backwards. I let go of the reins and clutch her waist, which is small but strong. Behind us the Prince screams again. Once we are on the level, his mother turns her head a little and brings her cheek close to mine.

'I think, mistress, we should change places.'

I assume my gruffest voice. 'Why should we do that?'

'Because you are a woman. I felt your breasts against my back. And because you do not seem to be properly in control of this beast. Probably, being of low birth, you do not have the art. Anyway, I am taller than you and will be able to see better where we are going than you can with me in front of you.'

So we go through the whole rigmarole again, including, of course, getting the Prince down and up again.

We spend the night in a tiny Welsh inn, three rooms, of which only one is made available to us.

Her Majesty allows me to share it with her and her son, only requiring me to leave the room when she wants to pee in the bucket provided.

'A Commoner,' she says, 'should not see her queen pissing.'

My lowly rank does not preclude her from asking me to pick up the tab. Since Her Majesty has insisted that she and the lad should dine off three brace of skylarks and a couple of quail grilled on skewers over a charcoal fire with strawberries and cream to follow, and a breakfast of hot milk, new-baked wheaten bread and half a dozen coddled eggs, we are lucky that the woman who runs the place (she wears a shawl and a tall conical black hat) professes herself satisfied, just, with sixpence-halfpenny.

I thus learn two important lessons about the rich and powerful. They become rich by never spending their own money. They become powerful by having horses to ride and knowing how to do it.

On the evening of the second day we arrive at Denbigh Castle in the principality of Gwalia or Wales. This is a wild and inhospitable land, peopled with savages much like our mountain and forest tribes. It lies along the western borders of Ingerlond. Denbigh itself is close to Ingerlond and the country is not much different, though bleak, featureless hills with impenetrable woodland in the valleys lie to the west. When we arrive we find Denbigh, or Dinbych, as the Welsh say, to be a small town nestling in the shade of a large castle. The outer wall was a mile in circumference, enclosing the town, with a large, almost palatial keep set in an inner area laid out to terraced gardens. It is occupied by a Welshman, a sort of chieftain, called Owen ap Maredudd ap Tewdyr.

I think 'ap' must mean 'son of.

Forgive me. I have to weep when I think of Owen.

Ah… Hah!

He was six feet tall, had broad shoulders, strong arms, oh, very strong, and legs like trees. His chest was deep and formed like a barrel or a bell. His hair was white, cut short, but with one black lock or streak in the middle. His brows were still for the most part black. His lace was coppery red and his hands too, but his body white as snow. His mouth was broad, and small-toothed, his breath sweet like well-water or milk… All, in their way, marvels, for he was an old man, sixty years old.

Well, well. He welcomes us, he and his children and his children's children, for he is by family tradition and his own history a supporter of the King and Queen's cause. There are good reasons for this, which he tells me when I catechise him about it all.