The Wrath Of Kings - A Medieval Fiction By Philip Photiou

1 of 10.

The near-spent tallow candle spluttered and fizzed, its faint, erratic flame gasping for breath, while a pool of expanding melted wax rooted it firmly to the top of a barrel. Watching the orange light quiver as it fought for life against the wind whistling through every crack in the barn, Philip Neville knew he must soon roll out of his makeshift bed. With a heavy groan he pulled the coarse woollen blanket close up under his chin and sulked. It was the same ritual each 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 don armour and prepare for battle, but there was little motivation to move, yet, so he turned onto his side. Blinking in the near darkness, he used a fingernail to chip away the crusted muck irritating his eyes 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 missed the fighting at Ferrybridge, 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, its flame almost level with the 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 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 and to contemplate on his mistakes in life. Time also, to fantasise on lewd images of Elizabeth Percy, the woman he hoped would, one day, be his wife.

Having spent the previous night carousing with a score of Warwick's liegemen, Philip returned to camp late, only to find his cosy billet commandeered by the king's uncle, Sir Henry Bouchier. Forced to share a 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 boots and slumped down, assuming the excessive amount of wine gushing through his veins would put him to sleep.

3 of 10.

As soon as his head hit the straw he was gone, only to be rudely awaken several hours later by a deep, rasping drone coming from the flapping 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, rotting straw, and anger at having his sleep disturbed, kept him up 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 but never woke. The candle finally hissed into oblivion and the amorphous dancing shadows on the walls vanished. Jerking aside his blanket with a growl of frustration Philip hurled a final stream of invective at the rousing knight who, unintentionally, had caused him such a traumatic night.
“Good morning,” Sir Edmund mumbled, coming out of hibernation and frowning at the vile film furring the roof of his mouth, made worse by an 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 in a foul of temper.

4 of 10.

Long before dawn broke over the tiny hamlet of Lead in Yorkshire, the Earl of Warwick's sprawling encampment came to life and the mishmash of several hundred gaudy tents was already a hive of bustling activity. The familiar stench of body odour, horse sweat, alcohol and human excrement did not bother Philip as he crunched across the frosty ground in the early hours of Sunday, 29 March, in search of his retainers. He took even less notice of the captains barking orders at unkempt, sluggish soldiers, whose numbed senses and weary bodies yearned for the comfort of their beds. Nearby, their womenfolk stood huddled around blazing fires, inadequate blankets cocooning their bodies, while they laughed and mocked the disjointed antics of their loved ones.

Discovering his mixed bag 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 the assortment of damp coverings. Slowly the men emerged, bleary eyed, bewildered and scratching at their bodies before coming to and dressing for battle. Once on their feet, Philip went to find Thomas Markham, an on loan esquire, and Ashley Dean, his nine-year-old, 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 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.

Finding his esquire and page in a small tent, close to the Earl of Warwick's grand pavilion, Philip shared their scanty meal of smoked herring, bread and wine. His hunger satisfied he instructed Thomas to collect the men and merge them with Warwick's retinue. Before leaving to find a barber, he turned to his page and ordered him to bring his horse.
“I will fetch him My Lord!” he 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 carrying out his orders.

6 of 10.

Once harnessed in his suit of plate armour, which fitted him like a glove, Philip Neville waited for his horse to arrive, tapping a foot impatiently.
“My Lord, Hotspur is in good spirits this morning!“ the boy struggled, pulling the rebellious courser by his bridle.
Taking the traces Philip waved his page away.
“You took your time,” he complained to Daniel, his groom, as he accompanied the boy.
“He was difficult this morning, My Lord, he would not obey me.”
“You stay in camp when the army marches!” Philip said firmly, pointing a finger at young Dean to emphasis his order.
The boy hung his head and sloped away, dragging his feet dejectedly.

7 of 10.

Placing an armoured foot firmly into the iron stirrup, Philip took hold of the saddle with both hands and hauled himself up onto Hotspur's back, an act that caused his stomach to churn.
Holding the 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 breathed heavily until his insides settled. Hotspur shook his dark mane and champed at the bit to attain comfort before trotting over to the Earl of Warwick's tent. Drawing up outside, Philip acknowledged several exiting captains he knew 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 their King.

8 of 10.

“Make haste, My Lords!” Philip urged, as they appeared from Warwick's massive red, white and blue striped marquee, his patience wearing thin, while the unseasonable coldness chilled his armour, causing his body to tremble involuntary.
Sir William ignored his nephew's impertinence and continued issuing orders to a scattering of subordinates. Anxious to be away, Philip rubbed his face irritably and Fauconberg noted 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 page slept better than I did!” Philip hissed.
“Yes,” Fauconberg said with a frown, “I hear you have insulted Sir Edmund?”
”I don't give a fig for Sir Edmund”
“Then you had better, boy!” he snapped, “Remember your place!”
Warwick's smile broadened into a grin and Philip rolled his eyes, before turning away, allowing a contemptuous snigger to slip from his lips, fortunately Fauconberg failed to see his reaction.

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. Philip wore a satin-lined, leather, arming doublet beneath his armour, but the raw wind easily penetrated the joints and chilled 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, at least. Unsure of the king's whereabouts, Fauconberg stopped to question a group of idle soldiers, but their slurred, alcohol-induced responses irritated the old warrior and he cursed them for the codheads they were.

“Patience, uncle!” Philip smirked, half noticing the lightly falling snow.

Unimpressed by his nephew's insolence, 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.

Thank you for reading.

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