The Wrath Of Kings - A Medieval Fiction By Philip Photiou

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The solitary tallow candle flickered and fizzed, its diminishing flame struggling for breath, while an expanding pool of melting fat rooted it firmly to the barrel head. Mesmerized by the tremulous orange glow, Philip Neville, a twenty-six year old manorial knight, knew he must soon rise from his bed, but not yet. With a heavy groan he pulled the coarse woollen blanket tight up under his chin and allowed his mind to wander. It was the same every morning, he would lie in bed until the last possible moment, mulling over a host of trivial matters.
Today however, was different; today he must prepare himself for battle, but there was little motivation to move, so he turned on his side. Blinking in the shadowy darkness, he rubbed away the muck crusting his eyelids and pondered on the fact that before the day was over, he could be fighting for his life, a thought that both excited and terrified him. By escorting the supply wagons to Pontefract, he had missed the fighting at Ferrybridge, but he knew today, he would be in the thick of it.

Twisting his neck round, Philip noticed the candle flame almost level with its puddle of fatty residue. Rolling onto his back he stared at the spluttering light and mouthed a silent prayer, soliciting the Almighty for courage, and promised to make a pilgrimage if he survived the forthcoming fight. Even as he whispered the oath, he knew he would not honour the bargain and his own weakness incensed him.

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Leaving the wagons at Ferrybridge the previous evening, Philip Neville and his retinue rode on to the village of Lead, where he spent the night carousing with a score of Warwick's liege men. Too drunk to find his esquire, he bedded down in a cow shed with Sir Edmund Grey, the forty five year old 4th Baron of Ruthin. Staggering into the building long after midnight, his head spinning, the inebriated knight narrowly avoided stepping on several sleeping soldiers, sprawled wherever space permitted. Struggling to remove his damp cloak and boots, he slumped down. Assuming the excessive amount of wine gushing through his body would help him sleep Philip licked his lips and closed his eyes.

As soon as his head hit the straw, he went out like a light. Several hours later he was woken by a deep, rasping drone. The sound emanated from the flapping mouth of Sir Edmund, who lay on his back grunting and wheezing unconsciously. No matter how hard Philip tried to drop off, Grey's snoring kept him awake. He cursed, he threatened and he finally threw a boot at the cause of his aggravation, to no avail; Grey quivered but never woke.
The candle finally hissed into oblivion and the amorphous dancing shadows vanished into the darkness. Jerking aside his blanket with a growl of frustration, Philip pulled on his boots and hurled a final stream of invective at the rousing nobleman, who had caused him such a frenetic night.

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“Good morning,“ Sir Edmund mumbled, coming out of hibernation and frowning at the vile film furring his tongue, made worse by the acrid tinge of tallow fumes.
“Take your good morning and stick it up your arse, My Lord!“ he snapped, drawing the heavy black cloak around his shoulders before storming out of the cow shed.

Long before dawn, the Earl of Warwick's sprawling encampment, centred on the tiny hamlet of Lead in Yorkshire, rumbled into life. By the time Philip was up, the mishmash of several hundred colourful tents bustled with activity. The strong, familiar stench of wood-smoke and horse shit did not bother Philip Neville as he crunched over the frosty ground in the early hours of Sunday, 29 March, in search of his retainers. He took even less notice of the sergeants barking orders at unkempt, sluggish soldiers, whose trembling bodies yearned for the comfort of their beds. Nearby, the womenfolk stood huddled around crackling fires, blankets cocooning their bodies as they laughed and mocked the disjointed antics of their loved ones.

Discovering his mixed bag of archers, men-of-arms and servants, where he left them camped behind an enormous marquee close to the little church of St Mary's, the perturbed knight booted the nearest blanket-covered body.

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“Get up!” he bellowed, envious of their ability to sleep through noise. “Get up you dogs!”
Coughs, curses and a series of bodily noises better let out than kept in, erupted from beneath an assortment of damp coverings. Slowly they emerged, bleary eyed, scratching and complaining. Once they were on their feet, Philip left to find Thomas Markham, an on loan esquire, and Ashley Dean, his page. Those who went without supper the night before would have nothing this morning, for the supply wagons were still bogged down miles back on the Ferrybridge road. Many a man cursed the commissary for the lack of sustenance as they grabbed armour and weapons, and made their way to the assembly area.

Having located his esquire and page in a small tent, close to the Earl of Warwick's grand pavilion, Philip shared a frugal breakfast of cold herrings and wine. With his hunger satisfied, he instructed Thomas to merge their men with Warwick's retinue.
“Boy, fetch my horse.“
“Yes, My Lord!” the nine-year old, sandy haired page yelped, running from the tent.
Trading a grin with Thomas, Philip told the fifteen year old esquire, to help him into his armour before carrying out his duties. Markham wiped his greasy mouth on his sleeve and obeyed.

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Once harnessed in a suit of polished, plate armour, Philip Neville waited for his horse, punching his gauntlets together, impatiently.

“My Lord, Hotspur is in good spirit this morning!” the boy gasped, struggling to drag the huge, rebellious courser by its bridle.
“You took your time,” Philip complained to Daniel, his heavy jawed groom, before taking the traces and waving Ashley away. “He was difficult, My Lord, and would not obey me.” Daniel apologised, rubbing the chestnut stallion's white face.
“You stay in camp when the army marches!” Philip said firmly, stabbing a finger at young Dean to emphasis his order. The boy hung his head and sloped away.

Placing his armoured foot through the stirrup, Philip gripped the saddle with both hands and hauled himself up onto Hotspur's back, an act that caused his stomach to churn violently.
Holding the reins in his left hand, he sensed the animal's agitation and wound the straps around his steel fingers for better control. Stroking Hotspur's neck with the soft, leather underside of his gauntlet, Philip closed his eyes and breathed deeply until his insides settled. Hotspur flipped his dark mane from side to side and champed at the bit to attain comfort, before allowing himself to be steered over to

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the Earl of Warwick's marquee. Easily recognised by the huge banner flying near the entrance, Warwick's grand pavilion stood at the heart of the encampment. Drawing up near the entrance Philip acknowledged several captains he knew and waited for his cousin Richard Neville, and his elderly uncle, Sir William Neville, Lord Fauconberg, to join him. They were already late for a pre-arranged rendezvous with the King.
“Make haste, My Lords!” Philip urged, as the two men strolled leisurely from the tent, his patience wearing thin as the unseasonable cold caused his body to tremble involuntary.
William Neville ignored his nephew's impertinence and spoke amiably to his subordinates. Anxious to be away, Philip rubbed his chin irritably and Fauconberg glared up at him.
“Be patient!” he snapped, his thick, white beard sprouting from his shiny helmet like weeds from a wall. “The king will wait!”
“Ignore him, uncle,” Warwick smirked, while an esquire straightened the heraldic tabard covering his breastplate, “he cannot hold his drink.”
“'Tis not the drink, I am weary, my page slept better than I!” Philip hissed.
“Yes,” Fauconberg said with a frown, “I hear you have insulted Sir Edmund Grey?”
“I don't give a fig for Sir Edmund.”
“Then you'd better!” Fauconberg bawled, “Remember your place!”

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Warwick's smile broadened into a grin and Philip rolled his eyes, before turning away releasing a contemptuous snigger as he did so. It was fortunate for him that Sir William did not see them.

Once mounted, the three knights turned their horses east and rode the short distance to the camp of their king, just as dawn's early grey light filtered across the dark horizon. Despite wearing a satin-lined, leather arming doublet beneath his armour, Philip felt the raw wind penetrating every crack in the steel shell and chilling his very bones. Disorientated by lines of torches planted to illuminate the various routes to the king's camp, Fauconberg drew his horse up smartly and asked a group of soldiers for directions. Their slurred, ludicrous responses irritated the old warrior and he cursed them for the cod heads they were.
“Patience uncle!” Philip smirked, only half noticing the snow floating in the air.
Unimpressed by his nephew's insolence, Fauconberg dug his spurs in sharply and galloped on, growling to himself.

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It was eight years since Philip Neville came home from the war in France. His return was preceded by a reputation for ruthless barbarity and the cold blooded murder of French prisoners. This was an illusion, a rumour put about by those who saw him fight at Castillon, but over time the truth became distorted. In reality no prisoners were killed, he was merciful and magnanimous, though he enjoyed the acclaim of his fabricated notoriety. Born at Seward House, the family home ten miles south of York, in 1435, Philip detested studying and daydreamed of becoming a knight. Loathing his strict tutors, he was habitually in trouble for lacking the desire to learn. With her husband, Sir George Neville, away fighting the French, Philip's mother, Lady Joan, found her rebellious son difficult to control. Almost at the end of her tether, she asked her brother-in-law, Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury, for his advice. He responded with an offer to train the boy and give his life direction.
And so, in his eighth year, Philip Neville travelled the short distance to his uncle's home at Sheriff Hutton, where he would learn the art of becoming a page, the first step to his dream of knighthood. Philip found life under Salisbury's tutelage hard, and the mind-numbing chores of serving wine at tables, grooming horses, polishing armour, studying Latin and French, dancing, attending church and etiquette, bored him. They were however an integral part of the demanding process, so he persevered.

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On his twelfth birthday, Philip was appointed esquire to his uncle and his training stepped up a level. Now he learned how to put on armour in the right order and to ride and fight with a variety of weapons ranging from the bow to the lance. At first he fought against a straw dummy known as a quintain, before being pitted against other esquires. To develop his weak arm muscles, he was forced to use swords much heavier than normal and practised for hours in all weathers. It was during his time at Sheriff Hutton that Philip fell under the influence of his cousin Richard, the future Earl of Warwick and his three brothers John, George and Thomas.
Philip's father, George Neville, was a feisty, outspoken knight, serving in France under John, Duke of Bedford. When Bedford died, he sided with his brother-in-law, Richard, Duke of York. George's candid views on the Duke of Somerset caused him to be recalled to England in 1445. During his journey to London George Neville was foully murdered and left in the road. Whispers that Somerset had arranged his violent death oozed into every Neville household, but nothing was ever proven. Barely ten years old at the time of his father's murder the deed fuelled Philip's germinating hostility toward the Beaufort clan, an emotion nourished by Neville propaganda.

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When his young brother, Michael, came to Sheriff Hutton to begin his training, in 1447, Philip tried to indoctrinate him with his béte-noire of the Beaufort's. Though he had been his father's favourite, Michael failed to grasp the significance of Philip's burning resentment. Two years younger and five fingers shorter than his brother, Michael did not enjoy the rigid discipline of Sheriff Hutton. Within six months, the disillusioned youngster had returned home, to find his mother remarried to the Duke of Somerset's younger brother, William Beaufort.

Preceding the outbreak of war in England, Philip, seeking adventure, and his sixteen year-old brother Michael, regretting his decision to forsake knightly training, served together in France, as esquires under Sir John Talbot. Talbot permitted the boys to join his army as a favour to the memory of their father. At the battle of Castillon in July 1453 the brothers fought side by side, furiously hacking a way through a circle of French men-of-arms, to escape by the skin of their teeth. Defeated at Castillon, but with their reputations assured, Philip and Michael returned home to their mother and younger brother, Thomas. For his service in France, Philip received that which he craved, knighthood, but he was far from content.
Distressed by his stepfather's connection with the much-despised Duke of Somerset, Philip Neville found himself unable to inhabit the same house as a Beaufort. Bidding his mother adieu he left on an

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extended visit to the two manors bequeathed him by his late father. These humble holdings, North Marston in Buckinghamshire and Stratton Audley in Oxfordshire, provided Philip with a modest income, enabling him to raise a small band of retainers and servants. Life away from his cousins proved too tame and he quickly returned to Yorkshire. Philip enjoyed his time with the Nevilles, jousting, hunting, hawking and fighting with their pro Lancastrian neighbours, the Percys. At a joust, which took place at Coventry, Philip broke his left elbow and wrist, several fingers and damaged both ankles, but this did not dissuade him from doing it again. Philip's aggressive spirit was the reason for his injuries, for he never knew when to stop. By the mid 1450's the animosity between Henry Beaufort and Richard Neville had blossomed into open hatred and Philip detested the Queen's pet as much as his kinsmen. Already at odds over a land dispute, the schism between Warwick and Somerset widened with each passing month. King Henry and Queen Margaret trusted the corrupting influence of Somerset, and their names were added to the Nevilles' list of enemies. The tension finally broke at St Albans, on 22nd May 1455, where Philip fought alongside Sir Richard Ogle, when Warwick's men smashed through the barricades and brought victory to the Yorkists.

Less than six years later, Warwick met another Lancastrian army on the same ground, only this time Philip tasted the bitter fruit of defeat. When a visit to his mother at Seward House, ended in an

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acrimonious quarrel with Michael, who had received his spurs for service to King Henry at the St Albans re-fight, he left. Infuriated by his brother's misguided loyalty and envious of his easily earned knighthood, Philip joined his cousin, Richard, in London. Carefully avoiding Lancastrian patrols, he saw first hand the destruction caused by Margaret's army as it advanced south. Burned villages, rotting corpses and weeping widows lined the route to the capital. During the Queen's devastating march, a body of Lancastrian horse struck North Marston and Stratton Audley, destroying both manors and their outlying farms. When his eyes fell on the blackened ruins, Philip's rage knew no bounds. Kicking in several charred timbers, he spat out an oath to take revenge on those responsible.
The eldest of Sir George Neville's sons would never forgive the queen for the unwarranted destruction of his property. With his source of income gone, he was forced to indenture himself to the Earl of Warwick, for the paltry price of sixty marks a year, but he promised to pay every man who remained in his service. The three men-of-arms, six archers and three servants, who made up Philip Neville's retinue, vowed they would serve him faithfully and wait for their wages.

At five feet eight inches tall, Philip Neville was strong but not powerfully built and his soft, brown eyes could show gentleness one moment and hatred the next. He disliked his dark wavy hair, which, in windy weather, stuck out unkindly, but refused to cut it short. Never one to forgive an injustice

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against family or friends, Philip would allow an incident to fester, until he came up with a perfect plan for revenge. Generally good-natured, this impatient, reckless member of the Neville clan was easily embarrassed, preferring to face a horde of mad Frenchmen, unarmed, than suffer the indignity of dancing. Despite marriage offers from a number of eligible families, Philip Neville's heart was set on Elizabeth Percy, the nineteen-year-old offspring of the late Sir Thomas, Lord Egremont. Regrettably, the ancient rivalry between the two families condemned their relationship to a world of secrecy and deceit, but Philip was determined to hold on to his tentative happiness, and he prayed that one day the status quo might change. The couple courted for more than a year, using coded names in correspondence and meeting at secluded locations. Philip had not heard from Elizabeth since her father's death at the battle of Northampton, a year ago, and assumed she held him liable.

Thank you for reading.

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