impression of Somerset, whom they found at sword-and-buckler exercise in the inner bailey, was of a proud, headstrong and aggressive youth, unsparing of his opponent as they sparred back and forth across the yard.
Somerset was tall and sinewy, with crisp fair hair styled into the unflattering military bowl-cut fashionable among the warrior aristocracy. He was not much older than Richard, and radiated a sense of arrogance and aggression that was the mark of a typical high-born nobleman.
“Reinforcements from England, eh?” were Somerset’s first words when the captain had informed him of the newcomers. He left off sparring, waving at his partner to go away, and ran a cool eye over Richard.
“One poor knight, in rusted harness,” he said, which made Richard blush – Mauley had somewhat neglected his duties as a squire – “and one man-at-arms with grey in his hair and a missing eye. God help us, is this all the Queen could send?”
“Pardon, lord,” said Richard, bowing rather stiffly. “I am no knight, but a gentleman of Staffordshire. I am Richard Bolton and this is my squire, Nicholas Mauley. The Queen did not send us. We came of our own accord.”
Somerset grinned. “Well, then, I should be grateful,” he said. “We have few enough volunteers. Welcome to Guines, Richard Bolton, though you will find little here but short rations and hard service.”
As the cripple at Marquise had said, Somerset’s remaining soldiers were too few to make any impression on Calais. Their numbers were depleted thanks to recent defeats and the death or capture of many of their allies, and morale among the survivors was low, as were food and supplies. A direct assault on the town was impossible, as was a protracted siege, for Warwick had left it too well-defended and supplied.
Richard was condemned to stay inside the castle and chew his nails. After a fortnight of this tedium, he stood up at dinner in the great hall and issued a rash challenge to single combat.
“I will take on any man present,” he declared, swaying slightly, “save His Grace the Duke.”
Sir Andrew Trollope, a vastly experienced soldier and the Duke’s closest confidante, was first to his feet. Trollope was captain of the Calais garrison, the turncoat of Ludford Bridge, and the most famous English soldier in Christendom.
He was an ugly fellow. His head was round as a cannonball, balding and with a neatly trimmed black beard, shrewd little blue eyes, and a much-broken nose that had set at an unfortunate angle. In his drunken state, Richard had forgotten the man was present.
“I accept!” cried Trollope, banging the table with his fist, “and will meet you in the lists tomorrow at dawn.”
“Let us hope your head has cleared sufficiently by then, Bolton,” Somerset said wryly. “I would be sorry to lose a man so soon after his arrival.”
Richard’s head stubbornly refused to clear, thanks to excess of wine and almost total lack of sleep as he shivered and prayed through the night. He had condemned himself to single combat with one of the most dangerous men alive, and could only beg God to see him safe.
The next morning found him in the tiltyard outside Guines Castle. He adjusted the straps of his tilting helm, took the heavy lance from Mauley, and hefted it carefully. He had only ever participated in one formal joust, at Tutbury Castle two summers gone, and was sorely out of practice. His destrier, Gwen, shifted under him and pawed the earth, eager to be off.
“Calm, calm,” he muttered, though he felt anything but. His mouth felt stale and dry, his skull throbbed with the after-effects of the wine that had loosened his tongue the previous night, and his whole body trembled with nervous excitement.
He squinted through the narrow slit of his visor at his opponent at the other end of the lists. Trollope was a small, compact knight, covered in gleaming steel harness. His surcoat displayed his livery of three white stags on a green field. He
Somerset was tall and sinewy, with crisp fair hair styled into the unflattering military bowl-cut fashionable among the warrior aristocracy. He was not much older than Richard, and radiated a sense of arrogance and aggression that was the mark of a typical high-born nobleman.
“Reinforcements from England, eh?” were Somerset’s first words when the captain had informed him of the newcomers. He left off sparring, waving at his partner to go away, and ran a cool eye over Richard.
“One poor knight, in rusted harness,” he said, which made Richard blush – Mauley had somewhat neglected his duties as a squire – “and one man-at-arms with grey in his hair and a missing eye. God help us, is this all the Queen could send?”
“Pardon, lord,” said Richard, bowing rather stiffly. “I am no knight, but a gentleman of Staffordshire. I am Richard Bolton and this is my squire, Nicholas Mauley. The Queen did not send us. We came of our own accord.”
Somerset grinned. “Well, then, I should be grateful,” he said. “We have few enough volunteers. Welcome to Guines, Richard Bolton, though you will find little here but short rations and hard service.”
As the cripple at Marquise had said, Somerset’s remaining soldiers were too few to make any impression on Calais. Their numbers were depleted thanks to recent defeats and the death or capture of many of their allies, and morale among the survivors was low, as were food and supplies. A direct assault on the town was impossible, as was a protracted siege, for Warwick had left it too well-defended and supplied.
Richard was condemned to stay inside the castle and chew his nails. After a fortnight of this tedium, he stood up at dinner in the great hall and issued a rash challenge to single combat.
“I will take on any man present,” he declared, swaying slightly, “save His Grace the Duke.”
Sir Andrew Trollope, a vastly experienced soldier and the Duke’s closest confidante, was first to his feet. Trollope was captain of the Calais garrison, the turncoat of Ludford Bridge, and the most famous English soldier in Christendom.
He was an ugly fellow. His head was round as a cannonball, balding and with a neatly trimmed black beard, shrewd little blue eyes, and a much-broken nose that had set at an unfortunate angle. In his drunken state, Richard had forgotten the man was present.
“I accept!” cried Trollope, banging the table with his fist, “and will meet you in the lists tomorrow at dawn.”
“Let us hope your head has cleared sufficiently by then, Bolton,” Somerset said wryly. “I would be sorry to lose a man so soon after his arrival.”
Richard’s head stubbornly refused to clear, thanks to excess of wine and almost total lack of sleep as he shivered and prayed through the night. He had condemned himself to single combat with one of the most dangerous men alive, and could only beg God to see him safe.
The next morning found him in the tiltyard outside Guines Castle. He adjusted the straps of his tilting helm, took the heavy lance from Mauley, and hefted it carefully. He had only ever participated in one formal joust, at Tutbury Castle two summers gone, and was sorely out of practice. His destrier, Gwen, shifted under him and pawed the earth, eager to be off.
“Calm, calm,” he muttered, though he felt anything but. His mouth felt stale and dry, his skull throbbed with the after-effects of the wine that had loosened his tongue the previous night, and his whole body trembled with nervous excitement.
He squinted through the narrow slit of his visor at his opponent at the other end of the lists. Trollope was a small, compact knight, covered in gleaming steel harness. His surcoat displayed his livery of three white stags on a green field. He
Similar Books
