The Wrath Of Kings - A Medieval Fiction By Philip Photiou

1 of 10.

Flickering in its own grotesque pool of melted wax, which rooted it firmly to the top of a large barrel in the centre of the draughty barn, a near-spent tallow candle spluttered faintly, its low erratic flame gasping for breath. Watching the mesmerising orange and blue light dance violently as it fought for life against the wind whistling through numerous gaps in the decrepit wooden building, Philip Neville knew he must soon roll out of his straw bed. With a heavy sigh he pulled the coarse woollen blanket close up under his stubbly chin and sulked. It was the same ritual every morning, no matter where he was. He would wake and lie in bed until the last possible moment, his mind mulling over the most trivial of matters.

Today, however, was different; today he must put on armour and prepare for battle, but there was little motivation to move, yet, so he let out a deep groan and turned onto his right side. Blinking in the near darkness, he used a fingernail to chip away at the crusted muck irritating his eyelids and reflected that at some point this day he could be fighting for his life; a thought that both excited and terrified him. By escorting the supply wagons to Pontefract the day before, he had missed the fighting at Ferrybridge, where his cousin Warwick was wounded, but today he knew he would be in the thick of it.

2 of 10.

Twisting his neck around, he noticed the candle much lower now, the flame almost level with its puddle of fatty, rank residue and he mouthed a silent prayer, soliciting the Almighty for courage and promising to make a pilgrimage if he survived the forthcoming fight. Even as he whispered the oath, he knew he would never honour his side of the bargain and his own weakness incensed him. Soon he must force himself from his snug, if somewhat malodorous, bed, but there was still time, time to make senseless promises he knew he would never keep, time to contemplate on his mistakes in life and time to fantasise on lewd images of Elizabeth Percy, the woman he hoped one day to marry.

Having spent the previous night carousing with a score of Warwick's liegemen, Philip Neville had returned to camp, only to find his cosy billet commandeered by the Duke of York's uncle, Sir Henry Bouchier, brother to the Archbishop of Canterbury, and his retinue. Forced to share a dank, draughty cowshed with Sir Edmund Grey and five other knights, Philip staggered into the building sometime after midnight, his head spinning. Tottering on his heels, he struggled to remove his belt and boots and slumped down onto a makeshift bed, assuming the excessive amount of wine gushing through his veins would put him to sleep.

3 of 10.

As soon as his dizzy head hit the straw he was gone, only to be rudely awaken several hours later by a deep, rasping drone coming from the wide open mouth of Sir Edmund Grey, who lay on his back grunting and wheezing unconsciously. No matter how hard Philip tried to drop off, Grey's snoring kept him awake. A strong odour of stale urine, cow shit, rotten straw, and anger at having his sleep disturbed, kept him up for most of the night. He cursed, he threatened and he finally threw a boot at the cause of his aggravation, to no avail; Sir Edmund quivered sporadically but never woke. As the candle finally hissed into oblivion and the strange dancing shadows on the walls vanished, Philip jerked aside his blanket with a growl of frustration and hurled a final stream of invective at the rousing knight, who, unintentionally, had caused him such a traumatic night.

“Good morning” Sir Edmund mumbled, stretching his arms as he came out of hibernation, slapping his lips together and frowning at the vile film furring the roof of his mouth and the acrid tinge of tallow fumes.
“Take your good morning and stick it up your arse, my lord!” Philip snapped, pulling on his boots and jumping to his feet, before grabbing his sword belt and storming out of the building in a foul temper.

4 of 10.

Long before dawn broke over the tiny hamlet of Lead in Yorkshire, the Earl of Warwick's sprawling encampment had come to life and the mishmash of several hundred gaudy tents was a bustling hive of noisy activity. As Philip squelched through thick, slippery mud in the early hours of Sunday, 29 March, in search of his retainers, he took little notice of the company commanders barking orders at unkempt, sluggish soldiers, whose numbed senses and weary bodies yearned for the comfort of their beds. Nearby, the womenfolk stood huddled around blazing fires, inadequate blankets cocooning their shivering bodies, as they laughed and mocked the disjointed antics of their loved ones.
Discovering his mixed company of a dozen archers, men-of-arms and servants camped behind an enormous marquee, Philip kicked their blankets to rouse them.
“Get up!” he bellowed, the dull throbbing in his head a legacy of too much alcohol and not enough sleep. “Lazy dogs!”

5 of 10.

Coughs, curses and a series of bodily noises, better let out than kept in, erupted from beneath an assortment of dew-dampened coverings. Slowly they emerged, bleary eyed, bewildered and scratching at their bodies before coming to and dressing themselves for battle. Once they were on their feet, Philip went to find Thomas Markham, an on loan esquire, and Ashley Dean, his nine-year-old, freckle-faced, sandy-haired page. Those who went without supper the night before would have no breakfast this morning, as the supply wagons were still bogged down ten miles back on the muddy road from Ferrybridge. Many a man cursed the commissary for the lack of sustenance as they grabbed armour and weapons, and whinged loudly on the way to their assembly area.

6 of 10.

Having found his esquire and page in their small tent, not far from the Earl of Warwick's giant pavilion, Philip shared a scanty meal of smoked herring, bread and wine before ordering his esquire to collect their men and merge them with Warwick's retinue. Before leaving to find a barber, Philip turned to his page and asked for his horse.
“I will fetch him sire!” the youngster yelped eagerly, dropping his wooden plate and running from the tent.
Trading a grin with Thomas, Philip told him to fetch his armour and help him dress before joining the others.

Once shaved and harnessed in a suit of plate armour, Philip Neville waited for his horse to arrive, tapping a foot impatiently.
“My Lord, Hotspur is in good spirits this morning!” the boy grinned, pulling the rebellious courser by his bridle.
Taking the traces Philip waved the lad away.

7 of 10.

“You took your time”, he growled at his groom Daniel.
“He was difficult this morning, My Lord, and would not obey me.”
“You stay in camp when the army marches!” Philip commanded in a stern voice, pointing a finger at Ashley to emphasis his order. The boy hung his head dejectedly and sloped away, dragging his feet.
Placing an armoured foot firmly into the wooden stirrup cup, Philip took hold of the saddle with both hands and, releasing a guttural moan, hauled himself up onto Hotspur's back, an act that caused his thumping head to spin.
Taking the cracked reins in his left hand, he wound the straps around his fingers, stroked the animal's neck with the soft leather underside of his plate-lined gauntlet and spoke soothingly to the beast. Hotspur shook his dark mane and champed at the bit to attain comfort before trotting over to the tent of Sir Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick. Drawing up outside, Philip acknowledged several captains he recognised and waited for his cousin and his uncle, Sir William Neville, Lord Fauconberg, to join him; they were already late for a pre-dawn rendezvous with the Duke of York.

8 of 10.

“Make haste, My Lords!” Philip urged, as they appeared from Warwick's massive blue and red striped marquee, his patience wearing thin, while the unseasonable coldness chilled his armour, causing his body to tremble and his nose to run.
Sir William, standing almost eight inches shorter than Warwick, ignored his nephews exuberant outburst and continued issuing orders to a scattering of subordinates. Anxious to be away, Philip rubbed his face irritably and Fauconberg noticed his agitation.
“Be patient!” he snapped, his thick, white beard sprouting from the close-fitting helmet like weeds from cracks in a wall. “Edward will wait!”
“Ignore him, uncle,” Warwick smirked, while an esquire straightened the heraldic tabard covering his armoured breastplate, “he has had a most uncomfortably night.”
“My damned page slept better than I did!” Philip hissed. “Yes,” Fauconberg said, amused, “I hear you have insulted Sir Edmund?”
“Bugger Sir Edmund”
Warwick's smile broadened into a grin and Philip remembered his insult and rolled his eyes, before allowing a contemptuous snigger to escape from his cracked lips.

9 of 10.

Finally, ready to ride, Philip and his companions turned their horses east as dawn began to filter across the horizon, and cantered the short distance to the camp of their kinsman, Edward, Duke of York. Philip wore only a satin-lined, leather arming doublet beneath his armour, and the raw wind easily found the joints, and penetrated until it pierced his very backbone. As they rode, the heat from Hotspurs flanks radiated through the steel greaves covering Philip's lower legs, warming that part of his body. Unsure of York's whereabouts, Fauconberg stopped to question a group of soldiers, but their slurred, alcohol-induced responses irritated the old warrior and he cursed them for the codheads they were.
“Patience, uncle!” Philip smirked.
Unimpressed by his nephew's impertinence, Fauconberg dug his spurs in sharply and galloped on. His sudden burst of speed threw cold, wet mud into the air and brought forth a howl of outrage from the soldiers.

(End of free preview).

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