Julian Rathbone - Kings of Albion

Our army, however, for all new recruits joined it daily out of fear of the looming presence of the Queen's and because many were tenants of York himself, remained much the same size or even diminished: the further we got from London the more the original drafts melted away and returned home.

At the solstice we came close to a town called Wakefield and at a distance from it of a mile or so to a huge grey castle, called Sandal Castle, set on a hill amongst woods and fields. This was the very midnight of the year, when, just as at the height of summer the sun dipped below the horizon for a mere five hours or so and the sky remained bright even after it had gone, now the reverse was true. Now it was up for barely five hours, remained low in the sky even at midday, often behind cloud, had no heat in it and left the nights long and impenetrably dark. Being that much further north it was worse than Calais. Though why this should be was beyond me to work out.

Sandal Castle, though huge, with a keep as big or bigger than that of the Tower, could still not accommodate an army of some six thousand. Nor had it been properly provisioned. Nevertheless it was a safe refuge and all York's captains urged him to keep his army within the walls or close up outside them until Eddie March could come to his aid – for aid he needed. The Queen's army now numbered twenty thousand at least. On their side the Queen's captains were desperate to bring him to a fight while they had such a huge advantage.

You will already have gathered from the scenes in London described in my last letter that this York was a wild, uncontrolled, proud man, easily angered, and impatient. Desperate to be king in name as well as fact. Urged to remain within his castle's walls he threw some furniture about and shouted, 'Would you have me shut my gates for fear of a scold? Would you have all men call me a coward and a sot? For they certainly will if I give in to a witch whose only weapons are her nails and her tongue.' Which was irrational, considering that as well as her nails and her tongue she had three times as many men and cannon as he had.

Christmas came, the rime when Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus. They do this, as indeed we had already seen in Calais twelve months before, by drinking themselves stupid over twelve days, and eating enormous amounts of meat, both of which stimulate the production of choleric humours especially in men sanguine by nature. The Queen played on this. She sent heralds into the castle who taunted York with being afraid of a woman. Meanwhile his victuallers reported that food was running out and, worse still, strong drink, and that the Queen's army lay across his supply lines.

Worse than that, all attempts failed at dealing with the human waste of six thousand men kept within walls. It was not something these Ingerlonders were good at. Quite simply, after seven days of shitting everywhere, there was shit everywhere, freezing and thawing out of doors, gently steaming in corners indoors. Yet, his only hope and best strategy was to stay put and hope March would soon come out of the west with reinforcements.

Then, on the night of the twenty-ninth, while most of the notables were in the castle hall chewing over the stringy carcasses of laying hens slaughtered for the table, there was a sudden clanging of feet from the passages, a timbered nail-studded door was thrown up and a guard of five men surged in with a mud-bespattered but armed knight in their midst wearing a surcoat with a white diagonal cross on a red ground, the arms of the Nevilles, appliqued to it. Hauled to a spot on the floor just below where York was sitting, the following conversation took place.

'My name and style are Arnold Fiennes, knight, and I am of the affinity of Andrew Trollope-'

'He's an arrant traitor,' cried our noble duke. 'Fifteen months ago, at Ludlow, he defected. Bugger off.'

'Not so. Your Grace, he merely put himself in mind of his oath to King Henry. He is mindful now of that oath, and recognising that you are here in the King's name will side with you if tomorrow you will bring forth your power against the Queen.'

'How many men has the old bastard got?'

'Six thousand, Your Grace.'

'Bloody hell, that should do it.'

This Trollope – which, by the way, is a word signifying harlot, so is an odd name for a warrior – was an old man who, when he was only fifteen years old, had fought for King Harry at Agincourt and in many campaigns since; moreover, lie had been captain of Calais for a time. This all led to his harbouring a grudge. He had done so much service for royal masters over so long a period he believed he should have been a lord many times over. But the Normans are so jealous of their blood they are reluctant to ennoble any who may be tainted with Inglyssheness, unless it be in the female line, and so plain Andrew he remained.

York was blinded by pride but not so Brother Peter, who did not think we should allow ourselves to be caught on the losing side. He was all for getting out of it while we were unscathed. At first light, an hour before dawn, he managed to talk us through. Wrapped in our cloaks we passed for burgesses of Wakefield going back to town with orders for food and so forth.

The track from the castle took us across an open stretch of land, known as Wakefield Green, kept in better times as grazing for the castle's cattle and sheep and even those of the common people. It took us down a gentle rise to a river with a bridge then up again, over a distance of half a mile or so, to a low, rounded ridge between two patches of woodland. The river was a brook only, almost dry and what water was in it frozen, easily crossed anywhere but yet an obstacle if one was in a hurry.

There was not a soul in sight as we left the castle by a sallyport a bribed sergeant had opened for us. Behind us the walls and dungeons of the casde rose up through the mist, impregnable and safe – it would take even cannon a week or so to breach them and great expense of powder. In front and around us the meadow was so whitened with frost, which crunched beneath our feet, it put me in mind of the way countrywomen at home spread washed sheets and so forth over bushes to dry.

In the woods the cackling crows rose from their roosts in the crowns of the trees and were answered by the jackdaws in the castle – it was as if the Queen's army had melted away in the night. But as soon as we breasted the ridge we saw this was not so.

Below, stretching back into the countryside, was a vast camp of tents and makeshift shelters made out of bent hazel branches with cloaks and blankets thrown across the hoops. The tents were round and in front of them standards drooped from poles and shields were hung on lances. Brother Peter, whose knowledge was encyclopaedic, had just begun to identify these: 'Somerset,' he began, 'Northumberland. Exeter, Devon and Clifford…' when we were arrested and taken to the Queen's tent.

She was beautiful, yes, but with a hard meanness in her lips, a harsh voice, or a voice made harsh by constantly having to be heard in the company of proud men with few manners. Having heard we were from the castle she was all for taking our heads off there and then but first asked us if we knew the intentions of York.

'Madam.' I said, 'we are travellers in your country and as such have much to be grateful for. We have been received everywhere with kindness and we have been honoured with hospitality from both sides in this sad conflict. It would therefore be invidious of us to…'

Her anger appeared to deepen, although I was speaking with no more ceremony than a prince should. However, at that moment a bishop to whom Brother Peter had been whispering intervened. 'This holy friar,' he said, 'has news that will interest us all. Even as we speak, York, believing Trollope will fight at his side today, is preparing to bring his power on to the field.'