Chapter One
THE WIND FROM THE EAST
News of the battle of Shrewsbury blew east with the wind--and that wind carried away for ever the life I had known. Soon I was to be whisked out of my quiet life and across the seas, to a land and into adventures stranger than the very wildest of my imaginings.
Mine had not been a bad sort of life, on the whole. It was true that my mother had died at my birth but, since I had never known her, I could not miss her. For my father, though, her memory was ever brought alive in me. Her family, the Watertons who had been for so long seneschals of Pontefract Castle, were a small, dark, fervent race--some said, with Welsh blood in them--and she was a typical Waterton. My father treasured a portrait of her, painted for him on a roll of parchment by a wandering artist. He carried that portrait with him always and had shown it to me so often that I knew her features well. She had been as slim as I, with the same dark hair and brown eyes, even the same expression--an intent eagerness that was also shy. In contrast, my elder and only brother was as large-boned and blond as my father himself--the Branthwaites had always been big.
Since brother Richard was a true Branthwaite and would be his heir, my father had seen to it that he was fully trained for that part. When seven years old, Richard had been sent off to be a page to Lord Furnival in Sheffield Castle where, as well as learning the arts of courtesy and service, he had been given a good grounding in the martial arts. Afterwards he had constantly accompanied my father, be it to court or to camp. He had seen service in the marches of Wales, during the rising of Glendower. Following that campaign, Richard had been made armiger. Later, as one of the squires of the great Hotspur himself, he had fought the Scots at Homildon Hill when Earl Douglas was taken. Richard could carry himself with the pride of a proven warrior and might hope soon to be knighted.
Very different had been my own upbringing. Perhaps because I reminded him so vividly of the wife he had loved so deeply, my father had kept me always by him--always, that is, save when he went off to the wars. Whenever father travelled to other manor-houses or to court, I was allowed to act as page with the other boys of my age; but I had not been sent to live and learn away from home, as Richard and most of those other boys had been.
During those visits and at home, I had learned some part the skills proper to a page; how to serve at table, to recognize and blazon coats of arms, to play backgammon and chess, to sing songs to citole and psaltery, to hawk and even to hunt. Yet I was not allowed even to begin upon that other and greater part of the training of a page--his training in the arts of war.
In falconry and in venery, yes, I had certain abilities that father could admire. There was my skill with animals, for instance. The most fractious falcon, the fiercest dog and the most rebellious stallion would alike respond to my voice and touch, becoming tranquil and obedient. As a result, I was an able falconer and a confident rider to hounds, out-racing and out-jumping all but the very ablest of the field. Father was very proud of this, even when he was anxious about my safety. Yet, despite my ability in riding, I was not permitted to try my skill with the wooden lance in the practice tourneys that the other pages so much enjoyed.
Father was proud also of my skill when hunting on foot. I had a quick eye for tracks and for those slighter disturbances of grass and plants that told of the passage of animals. Moreover, since I was light in build and quiet in movement, I could find and follow deer or wild boar and approach grouse or bustard with a facility that even John Stacey, father's huntsman on our rough upland demesne, could not surpass.
Yet certain of my attitudes puzzled both John and he: and perhaps these were additional reasons why I was not permitted to progress to that second stage of a page's training. Why was it that, when I went out hunting on foot alone, I brought home game so seldom? They did not understand and I felt unable to explain. The truth was that I had come to find pleasure in merely observing animals and birds and learning of their lives; in watching the hares cavorting under the March wind, the snipe drumming its bounds above the steep fields, the fox-cubs rolling and playing at the mouth of their earth or the roebuck feeding in the coverts. I could not account, even to myself, for this abnormal attitude of preferring to watch creatures alive than to kill them--what, after all, was the purpose of animals and birds, save to provide sport for gentlemen? - so I did not try.
Why also was it that, having ridden in the front rank of the hunt till the very end, I seemed never in evidence at the finish? When the unfortunate quarry was being torn to pieces or given the "coup-de-grace", I seemed never to be there. This, father could not understand. Surely I must take pleasure, as a gentleman's son should, in such spectacles? Yet it seemed I did not; how odd!
From whatever causes--his lack of confidence in me, his over-protectiveness toward me--father would neither send me away from home to be trained in the techniques and strategies of combat nor, despite his own considerable skills, give such training to me himself. Even a basic instruction in swordsmanship was denied to me.
Moreover, as I grew older, my situation worsened; or so I considered. When father went off to fight in the border wars, I was be left behind in the safety and boredom of our manor house of Holdworth, a boredom broken only by my daily ride to Sheffield Castle. There I was given instruction, not in the martial skills for which I yearned, but in manorial administration and accounting, the speaking and writing of Latin and the intricacies of religious doctrine. I was a reluctant pupil but Lord Furnival's chaplain was a firm and formidable teacher. Despite my unenthusiasm, I learned much from him.
On his return my father, who was no sort of scholar, enthused over my abilities with book and pen in a fashion I found ominous. When I besought him once again to have me trained as a soldier he did not definitely refuse, but nor did he respond positively to my plea. He seemed unwilling to quench my ardour for such training, but equally unwilling to permit me to proceed with it, instead advancing reasons for delaying any decision--reasons that were clearly quite specious. Uneasily I suspected that he was intending I should enter the church--a common enough fate of second sons of gentlemen.
However, I was determined that it should not be my fate. Insofar as I could, I had long been striving to give myself the training that my father was denying me, the training proper to a knight's son. This was not easy. I had acquired an old sword but, having no one with whom I could practise, I found it hard to improve my swordsmanship. To fence with one's shadow, and fiercely to attack bushes and trees, is not enough; I knew myself to be an execrable swordsman.
Nor did I fare much better in my attempts to train for tournaments. In one of our upland pastures, ringed by horse-chestnut trees that both protected me from view and served as targets, I practised secretly with a long ash-pole that I had fashioned into a lance. However, a tree is a very different thing than a mobile, mounted opponent and, for all my flourishes of horsemanship, I felt I was making little real progress.
So I taught myself other skills. I could throw a stone further and more accurately than most, by hand or with a sling. In addition, by standing long with heavy cross-stave in outstretched hand and by persistent exercising at the butts, I had made myself into a fair archer, able to outshoot most of the Hallamshire yeomen. My father knew of these abilities but, since they were not considered proper skills for a gentleman, he discounted them.
I had a third skill, learned from a Genoese traveller who had strayed into northern England and been engaged to tutor me in French; but that skill I kept secret, since I knew father would despise it also.
Nevertheless, though my oddities troubled my father and his over-protectiveness troubled me, our mutual affection did not diminish. Indeed--perhaps because of that deprivation brought to all three of us by my mother's death--there was a great love between my father, my brother and me.
My father had long been a close friend of Henry Percy, that handsome, forceful, passionate warrior whom men called "Hotspur". He had been at Henry Percy's side when Henry Bolingbroke was brought back to be king. The two had shared in the early triumphs of that monarchy, but they had shared also in the disillusionment that followed. As the rift between King Henry and the Percys grew ever wider, my father had of course given his support to his friend. Though father was no great noble but a mere knight, he spoke forcefully and well; and, because he was Hotspur's friend, he was listened to. In consequence, the King had marked him down as an enemy.
By spring of the year of our Lord 1403, the quarrel had become so bitter that Hotspur was gathering an army about him. It was inevitable that my father and Richard should ride west, with what levies they could recruit, to join Hotspur's camp.
The number of those levies, unfortunately, was few. Old Lord Furnival had no strong links with Hotspur, nor with the King for that matter; he was sitting tight in Sheffield Castle and showing no favour to either disputant. The ironworkers, smiths and knifegrinders of Hallamshire cared too little about what went on beyond their valleys to be involved in this conflict; they would not rally to such a cause. Though my father's renown as a warrior was great, our fief of Holdworth was not extensive and there were few who owed him fealty. Only thirty local men could be persuaded into following him.
My father's squire had been killed at Homildon, yet he would not accept me as his squire, preferring instead to promote John Stacey to that position. Nor would he permit me even to join that meagre band. Father was apologetic, but firm; I was too untrained a warrior and, since someone had to be left in charge of the demesne--who better than I, whom he could trust? However, as we both knew, he had accepted other, equally untrained soldiers into his following. The truth was that father could not bring himself to risk his beloved younger son in the bitter affrays of civil war.
So I watched them ride away, father and Richard in scarlet surcoats and bearing the scarlet shields with the three silver badgers of the Branthwaites, their followers in a motley collection of surcoats, some scarlet, some azure and hastily stitched with the Percy emblem (the five golden fusils joined in fess), most jacketed in leather or in cloth unadorned. Well, this might only be a small contribution to Hotspur's army, but many others would rally to his cause. Since that cause was just, it was sure to prevail! So I believed, as I watched them ride away that spring morning.
The weeks went slowly by and grew into months; spring burgeoned into summer; and the quarrel between Hotspur and the king ripened toward the civil war that all were expecting. A steady trickle of news flowed over the hills into Hallamshire. Sir Richard Venables of Kinderton and Sir Richard Vernon of Shipbrook, two worthy warriors, had rallied to Hotspur's standard; the Earl of Worcester had joined him also and Hotspur's father, the Earl of Northumberland, was raising a second army. The Welsh under Glendower had promised to rise against the king and Hotspur's former prisoner, Earl Douglas, was rallying the Scots to invade England yet again, this time in Hotspur's support. Some said even that the Prince of Wales, who had been Hotspur's friend, would side with the rebels against the king; but always I doubted that, for what would be the Prince's fate if his father were dethroned? Yet it did seem as if an irresistible tide was rising to overwhelm the Bolingbroke; and since I was sure Hotspur was invincible--and especially so when my beloved father was at his side--I had no fears about the outcome of the imminent conflict. Rather did I wish it might be swiftly over and my father and brother triumphantly home again.
There was, in truth, little for me to do during those weeks. Old Walter Tinsley, our steward, Peter the bailiff and Cerdic the reeve had the affairs of our demesne well under control. I would check the accounts with Walter once a week, ride around the manor each morning and discuss the farming plans for the next day with Cerdic, and each evening dine at the high table with Walter and Peter to discuss the day's doings. It had been father's custom always to invite them to dine with him, except when he had guests; and, in father's absence I was glad of their company. However, I could have wished their concerns were less parochial and their conversation more stimulating.
In the afternoons, whatever the weather, I would exercise for an hour or more. First I would practise slashing with my heavy, blunt sword at an upright wooden post till my wrist and shoulder ached. Then I would shoot arrows at a "saracen" cut from an old board. I did this from progressively greater distances, with, across or against the wind, to see how my arrows would behave in flight and with what force they would hit the target, so this exercise was more interesting. Only occasionally would I take my horse to that secluded pasture and practise with my "lance"; I had become bored with that endeavour.
When my practising was done, I would wander off on most days into the woods that choked our Pennine valleys, up along the gritstone edges or across the bleak moors behind, to look for badgers or buzzards or whatever else I might sight. Though I took my bow, usually I returned empty¬-handed; and the servants would puzzledly shrug their shoulders yet again.
What was hardest during those weeks was being deprived of the company of my peers. There was indeed nowhere for me to go. Though I did once ride into Sheffield, it was to put in hand an order I wished executed privily, not to visit the Castle. Until the coming conflict was resolved, I could expect no welcome there.
From my mother's family there had developed an estrangement so profound that I could not seek companionship at Pontefract Castle either. My uncle, Sir Hugo Waterton, was now its seneschal. He was a restless, discontented and land-greedy man whom I had never liked; even when I was small, father told me, I had bawled in dismay whenever I encountered him. Of late, however, he had given us good cause for a much stronger distaste. Sir Hugo had obtained or fabricated--we were not sure which--a document that, he claimed, gave him title to our feofdom. As he well knew, his claim had little justice. However, as he knew also, it would be settled, not in court but in the coming battle. If the king won, his malice would ensure that his judges granted Sir Hugo the title; if Hotspur won, the claim was assuredly lost. In the meantime Sir Hugo held Pontefract for the king. Had I tried to visit that castle--and I had no desire whatsoever to do so--I would have been turned from its gates.
July came and with it, at last, the news of the proclamation of revolt. Men said that Hotspur had rallied an army of 15,000 already. He was advancing on Shrewsbury and the Prince, who held that town, must soon capitulate. Meantime, Northumberland's army was marching south and the Scots also. The climactic battle must be at hand, surely? Yet the days passed and it did not happen. My restlessness became ever more extreme, as I became ever more impatient for the good news that I was confident must come. Our demesne received little of my attention in those weeks.
Then came the tiding that the special order I had placed had been fulfilled; and, one bright Monday morning, I mounted my horse to ride into Sheffield again. There had been no rain for a week or more, yet the day was humid. Moreover, there seemed a tension, an expectancy, in the air. Was there a storm coming, or was this tension merely a product of my own thoughts?
My horse was a handsome white stallion, a full fourteen hands high--a big horse for one so small as I, and of such uncertain temper that he had been named Firebrand. For that reason, father had left him behind; but I knew I could trust Firebrand and was proud to ride him. I had put on a surcote of scarlet silk from Genoa, which had been carefully emblazoned with the three silver badgers of the Branthwaites. It was much the most expensive garment that I possessed and more suited to a tourney than to a country ride. However, when I would be riding so close to Sheffield Castle and the vacillating Lord Furnival, somehow I felt it necessary not just to indicate, but to stress, my family identity.
Because that ride, in a sense, marked the end of my childhood, I remember it well. Eastward I headed, out of our demesne lands; through the hamlet of Holdworth where were clustered the cottages of our villeins, the children calling merrily to me as I passed and exclaiming at my bright cloak; then down among the dappled light and shade of Loxley Chase, to follow the banks of the little River Loxley till it tumbled into the Rivelin. After so dry a spell, even their combined waters were shallow; Firebrand was only fetlock deep when we forded the river, to follow the well-beaten track along the west bank of the Don into Sheffield.
It was Fair Day. I lingered in the shade of the castle walls, examining the stalls of velvet, wool, ribbons and furs; harking to the cheapjacks as they pattered to the crowds about medicaments which, they claimed, would cure all ills; watching a juggler as he tossed more and more balls ever higher and higher; and listening with pleasure to a group of goliards who were making music on shawm, pibcorn and psaltery.
Since this was such a small fair, I was startled to encounter a man bearing a square frame about his shoulders, on each corner of which a hooded hawk was perched. I bargained with him a while for a splendid goshawk, but its price was too high for me.
Lord Furnival's steward was hovering nearby, eager to buy yet unwilling to be seen in my company. Mischievously I bowed ceremoniously to him and was much cheered by his evident embarrassment. Then I bought bread from a pestour and, after eating it and sampling the wares of a buxom alewife, went on my way.
I had only a few miles farther to ride, up the valley of the Sheaf to where a wooden wheel was trundling its waters to foam. Here was a little forge where knifegrinders worked, under the supervision of one Adam of Heeley. Men said he was the best craftsman in all Hallamshire; and it was to him, a few weeks before, that I had entrusted my commission. He was a short, square man with a brusque manner and little time for civilities. "Well, Master Simon," he said, "Ah've done some funny jobs in my time, but none so rum as this. It took three tries to get 'em cast, with all thy fuss about weight and balance and all; and Ah'm none so sure they're reet yet. Any'ow, Ah'll fetch 'em so tha can see for thiself."
He brought out for me a shallow wooden box lined with lambs wool. In it were packed the special items I had ordered him to make; twelve small, shining knives, each with heft bound in leather, with heavy curving blade and pointed tip. These were throwing knives, made to the model of a single Italian knife left for me by that Genoese traveller two years earlier. I had practised often with that knife and knew it to be quite as dangerous a weapon, at short range, as any arrow from a cross-bow. However, one such knife was not enough, for it might all too soon be lost. I had needed more and my father's prolonged absence, though so much regretted, had at least afforded me the opportunity to have them made.
I picked up one of the knives and tested its balance, then touched its blade against my finger, wincing as it cut into my skin.
"Aye, they're sharp enough," Adam laughed. "Tha mun take care! And they'll cost thee a pretty penny. Three castings, it took....A groat apiece they'll be; and Ah hope tha can think the money well spent, for it seems a reet waste to me! What does tha want wi' knives with such little blades? Ah can see no use in 'em."
I grinned at him, picked up one of the knives and, with a quick flick, threw it at a tree-stump. The blade buried itself so deeply into the wood that it took quite a pull to release.
Adam nodded slowly. "Aye, so that's thi idea; Ah see now....Sharp enough they are; keep them so and they'll serve thee well. And tha'd better have t'original knife, too, while Ah think on." He went again into the forge and returned with the little Florentine blade, putting it into the box and wrapping the box in sacking. I handed Adam four florins, plus an extra groat for luck. He gave me a quick word of thanks and a brief salute, then disappeared back into the forge; time was not to be wasted on further civilities!
As I rode away, I wondered if he'd ever again receive such an order; somehow I doubted it. I was glad to have those throwing-knives at last and I whistled as I rode back into Sheffield. That was to prove the last thoroughly happy hour I would enjoy for many days.
Even as I drew near to the fair, I was aware that something had happened. The people were no longer straggling about the stalls and the goliards' music had ceased. Instead, the crowd had coagulated into little clots, talking avidly and in hushed voices. Recognizing one of the yeomen from Bradfield, I hailed him: "Hey, Robin, what's the news?"
He looked at me solemnly and shook his head. "Why, Master Simon! There's word come east of a battle--a big battle. Ah reckon it's bad news for the Branthwaites: for they say Hotspur's army has been broken by the King and the Percy himself slain."
Hotspur's army defeated? Hotspur himself fallen? No, it could not be; surely it could not be....
Yet, though none knew how the news had come, it seemed dishearteningly definite. King Henry had marched across England faster than any had believed possible, to relieve his son the Prince in Shrewsbury. He had challenged battle with the rebels before the Earl of Northumberland and his troops had arrived, before even the Welsh had rallied. With profound unwisdom, Hotspur had accepted the challenge--and lost. There were no real details yet as to who had lived and who had died, save only that Hotspur himself was dead. That indeed was enough, for without his leadership the revolt must collapse.
While I asked anxious questions, cloud was spreading to blanket out the sun. As I rode home there came rain, steady, soaking rain, as if the very heavens were weeping at the downfall of a hero and a cause.
During the next two days, more news drifted across the Pennines as the first soldiers from the broken army fled homeward. It seemed Hotspur had been infected with madness. He had given battle to the King when there was no need to give battle; and he and the Douglas had led a charge when there was no good reason to charge. They had seemed irresistible at first. The Earl of Stafford and Sir Walter Blount had been slain and the Prince of Wales sorely wounded; even the royal standard had been beaten down. Yet that charge brought disaster, for Hotspur was struck by an arrow and died almost instantly.
After that, the rebel army disintegrated. The Earl of Worcester, Sir Richard Venables and Sir Richard Vernon had been taken. Two days later--on the very Monday of my ride into Sheffield--they had been executed at the High Cross in Shrewsbury. Yet this did not sufficiently assuage the king's fury; he vented it further by having the dead body of his one-time friend Hotspur crushed between two millstones and afterwards beheaded and quartered.
If that was the king's mood, there could be no mercy for my father and brother; but of them I could gain no news. Surely they must have been involved in that charge, yet they were not named among the slain. If they had been captured, Richard might have been forgiven but my father would assuredly have died at the High Cross. They had not been taken, then....Was there hope that they might yet escape the king's wrath? Might they be fleeing homeward to Hallamshire? Might they be seeking refuge in the Welsh mountains with Glendower, or going to exile in Scotland, perhaps, or France? I could not guess; and, as you may imagine, those were restless days.
Sometimes I waited for tidings in or about the manor house; sometimes I ranged the moors and woods, always on horseback now, looking out for fugitives; and twice I rode into Bradfield, to offer frantic prayers in its little church. At dinner I would talk gustily with Peter the bailiff and old Walter, then fall silent. Those were difficult times for them also, for all three of us knew the days of the Branthwaites at Holdworth manor to be numbered and our futures uncertain.
It was on Saturday that, at last, the word came on another day of rain, with mists clinging to the hillsides and the paths ankle-deep in clay. Out of the rain and into the courtyard came a solitary, mud-bespattered horseman-John Stacey, my father's erstwhile huntsman and squire. Surely he would not have left my father; did this mean my father was dead?
Before even the groom had seen John and run out to take his horse, I was by his side. As he dismounted, I seized him by the shoulders. He was so weary that he swayed in my grasp.
"John, I'm blithe that you're back--but my father, and Richard? Are they dead? What has happened?"
He looked at me and sighed. "Nay, they're not dead. Your father was wounded right enough, but he could ride. After the battle, we got him away, Richard and I....But he's gone; Richard and he, they're both gone--gone to Rockall--gone to Lyonesse!"
foreword chapters 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 (more chapters will appear in the future)
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