Revenge by David Pilling

he had feared going off into the unknown without a companion. Nothing he said, however, could persuade Henry to change his mind, and the two parted with bitter words and a curt farewell.
    After buying food and clothes for the journey and a pack-horse to carry Richard’s harness, he and Mauley set off south for the coast.
    Mauley had travelled the length of England many times in his adventurous youth, and knew the way to Portsmouth. After four days of hard riding along unfamiliar roads, sleeping in the open and constantly looking over their shoulders for any sign of pursuit, they reached the coast weary but unscathed.
    Now penniless, Richard sold their pack-horse to pay their passage across the Channel. The money raised wasn’t enough, so with extreme reluctance and not a few tears, he sold a few pieces of his father’s harness to an armourer’s shop near the market cross.
    “Less weight to carry,” said Mauley, trying to cheer him, “and less for me to clean, since it appears I must serve as your esquire for the time. An esquire, at my age!”
    “How old are you, Mauley?” asked Richard. Not that he cared, but he was desperate to take his mind off the shame of selling his father’s gear.
    “Difficult,” the other man replied, rubbing the grey bristles on his chin. “I was but a child when the news of Harry the Fifth’s death reached my village. Fifty, maybe? Far too old to be running about after some hare-brained outlaw knight.”
    He meant that as a joke, but Richard scowled. The rough deference Mauley had always shown him had fallen away noticeably since they fled Staffordshire. If it continued he feared the man would start treating him like an equal. But there was nothing to be done. Mauley was currently his only friend in the world, and it wouldn’t do to alienate him.
    “Your loyalty shall be rewarded,” Richard promised, “when we are safe in France.”
    They hired a Flemish sea-captain from Dondrecht to take them to Boulogne on his cog, the Waardeburc , and after a blessedly smooth crossing ventured inland to seek out the army of the Duke of Somerset.
    Richard was aware that Somerset had been camped at Guines since the previous winter, from where he mounted constant raids on Calais and outlying districts in an effort to dislodge the Earl of Warwick’s garrison. He knew nothing of the latest situation, and the Flemish captain could tell them nothing for certain.
    Fortunately they encountered a crippled English soldier, slumped on a bench outside a tavern in the little town of Marquise, north of Boulogne. He informed them that Somerset was still in place.
    “Warwick’s gone, though,” he added. “He and his father sailed weeks ago, taking two thousand men with them. They left a strong garrison in Calais. Too strong for Somerset to root out, try as he may. And he will, because that one doesn’t know when he’s beaten. A lot of good men have died for the sake of the Duke’s pride.”
    He plucked at the stump of his left leg, which ended at the knee. “Not me, though,” he said cheerfully. “A cannon-shot ended my soldiering three months ago. I’m better off out of it. Let the Norman bastards tear each other to pieces, I say. Care for a drink, then?”
    Richard, whose own family originated from an obscure little village in southern Normandy, thanked him coldly, but said no, they must press on. They left the cripple sitting in the sunshine, happily contemplating his stump and a jug of ale.
    They reached Guines to find Somerset still in place, but in desperate straits. The town itself was a damp and depressing place situated in a shallow and marshy valley, its streets swimming in mud from recent heavy downpours. Richard and Mauley gave the place a wide berth and rode straight to the castle, an impressive fortress north-east of the town and separated from it by a wide moat.
    The captain of the garrison greeted them at the gate and escorted Richard and Mauley to meet the Duke. Richard’s first