The King's Dogge (2 page)

Their merriment evaporated into the cool air as they heard the noise of drumming hooves. They looked around in bewilderment as the noise of the horses drew closer and closer. All at once the Scottish horsemen erupted into the waking village. They swept through it, bellowing out curses of hatred as they hurled burning brands onto the thatched roofs of the huts.

Within a matter of minutes, the tranquil village descended into chaos. The children scattered, screaming loudly, as they desperately sought to avoid the terrifying grey-cloaked men on their wild horses. The Scots ignored the cries as they lobbed yet more flaming torches onto the straw roofs.

When the men of the village finally showed themselves, the Scots were ready for them. The horsemen wheeled and charged with outstretched spears. Their sharp lances beat aside feeble opposition and plunged through flimsy jerkins. The impaled villagers screamed in agony as they staggered and fell. Their wails were cut off abruptly as the Scots rode their horses over them.

Smoke was billowing from the roofs now and spread across the village. Horsemen darted in and out of the patches of smoke as they hunted their victims down. The wind caught the sparks from the burning houses and blew them on, creating yet more fires. Men and women stumbled out of the smoking interiors, waving their arms and choking. They too were met with the brutality of the Scottish horsemen.

There was movement now by the tree lines. The Grey Wolves had left their concealed positions and were steadily closing in on the stricken village. I turned to Jervis, but to my surprise he was not beside me.

‘Look straight ahead, boy!' came his stern voice from behind me. ‘Your test is just beginning!'

I did not understand, but I obeyed the order.

The huts were burning steadily now and, as the flames rose higher, screaming women clutching their crying children emerged from the huts. They ran wildly, colliding with one another, striking out desperately at anyone who barred their path. Seeing the frenzied crowds, the Grey Wolves closed in faster and swiftly encircled the village.

The Grey Wolves moved into the smoking village, and herded the frightened children in one direction and the women in another. The women struggled in the grasp of their captors, and the piteous cries of the separated families rose shrilly above the crackling of the fires. Their appeals were in vain, and I watched immobile as the children were roped together.

‘They will look to sell them,' the harsh voice behind me said.

I looked away in disgust. Two immensely strong hands forced my head back into its former position.

‘Keep watching, boy!' growled Jervis.

The Grey Wolves moved forward in groups of threes and fours and used their greater numbers to separate out the terrified women. They swiftly identified their prey and closed in on them. One raider blocked the path of a fleeing girl, making her swing away from him, only for her to find another in front of her. Outnumbered and pursued, the exhausted girl collapsed, sobbing in despair.

One girl managed to break through and sprinted towards the frozen pond where the children had played only that same morning. She began to run round the large pond, but the horsemen had already seen her. They cantered forward with their spears outstretched. The girl looked round desperately. The quickest route to the safety of the woods was to cross straight over the ice. The girl tested the ice tentatively with one foot then the other. With no time to spare, she stepped on and began to slide across. The Scots made no effort to follow her. They reined in at the edge of the pool and hurled their spears over the head of the fleeing girl. I watched nervously as the girl reached the middle of the ice sheet. Then she stopped.

‘The bastards' spears have broken the ice,' grunted Sergeant Jervis.

The girl looked down at the strip of water that was now in front of her and then further on to the next thin sheet of ice so tantalisingly close. She began to sob in desperation and turned in miserable resignation to trudge back to the Grey Wolves on the shore.

They in turn shouted obscenities at her, and the jabbing movements of their spears told the girl what her fate was to be. The girl stopped. For a moment she let her gaze rest on the smouldering village. She could hear the screams of the other women and the heartbreaking wails of the children. A raider dismounted and hurled a rope across the ice. The girl bent down to pick it up. Two of the Grey Wolves began to pull the girl towards them. The girl looked up at her ruined village once more. She flung the rope away suddenly. Raising her head, she spat in defiance and whirled around. Gathering her ragged robe up as high as she could, she sprinted towards the widening crack in the ice and leaped into the air. The energy of her bound made me think she would make it, but then I heard a loud splash. I breathed a sigh of relief as the girl's head and shoulders rose above the water's surface, and she tried to pull herself onto the ice sheet in front of her. The ice fractured in her grasp. Once more the girl seized the ice in front of her, but her motions were slower now and her splashing less frenzied. The ice audibly began to crack. Again the girl reached up for the ice, but this time only her head was visible above the water. I lowered my eyes as the sound of her splashing became fainter and fainter.

‘The Grey Wolves will be rounding the survivors into the church soon', the stern voice behind me growled.

I blinked away my tears.

‘You mean they can claim sanctuary?'

Jervis made no reply. His grip on my head became tighter.

I watched as the remaining villagers were forced towards the wooden church. They moved on without protest, their bowed heads and haggard faces testament to the cruelty of the Grey Wolves. Once the villagers were inside the church, the raiders rolled large stones against the door to seal it while others brought over timber from the ruined huts. I stirred uneasily; the grip on my head resolved into a vice. Still more Grey Wolves appeared carrying branches. They laid the timber and branches methodically around the church.

With strength I did not know I possessed, I snatched Jervis's hands from my head and turned away from the awful sight. He made no attempt to replace his grasp. He rose and looked down at me contemptuously.

‘You were given an order, weren't you?' he snapped. ‘You were told to watch everything.'

‘But I can't watch that!'

There was a blurred movement as the back of his hand hit my cheek. I fell to the ground stunned. Sergeant Jervis stood over me.

‘If you are truly loyal to my lord, you obey all his orders without exception,' he said stonily. ‘Now am I to tell him that you are disloyal?'

I could not be disloyal to the man I served, but this was more than I was willing to bear. Sergeant Jervis hauled me up.

‘I'm going to give you one last chance, Lovell.'

I looked down at the church. The Grey Wolves were putting kindling on top of the timber now.

‘What do you wish to do?'

There are moments that shape our lives and this was mine. I realised I could not betray the trust that my Lord Montague had placed in me. So I watched.

I watched as the Grey Wolves shovelled burning embers on the kindling and it started to crackle. I watched the fire as it spread along the kindling and took hold of the wooden walls. And I watched as the flames rose up the walls and touched the thatched roof crowned with a cross. I listened to the screams of the dying prisoners and the laughter of the Grey Wolves. Even after Jervis had withdrawn his hands from my head, I watched.

Ratcliffe whistled as I finished my tale.

‘I heard that my Lord Montague defeated the Grey Wolves a couple of days later,' he said, ‘but it must have been horrific.'

I glanced at my friend.

‘I had nightmares for a week afterwards.'

Ratcliffe nodded sympathetically, but made no reply, so I sat content to be with him. The two of us and Dick Middleton were the only three aspiring squires in my lord's household. Dick Middleton was a lively fourteen-year-old, small but with a love of horses and a wish to serve on the border. Richard Ratcliffe was older, a dark-haired boy with a brusque manner that concealed a keen mind and a burning ambition to succeed in life. He and I used to talk a lot, as friends do.

‘Although in reality I should hate you!' he burst out one day as we spoke of the future.

I sensed what was coming and tried to deflect it.

‘Look, we are not even squires yet and…'

He cut me off with a characteristic snort of impatience.

‘You know what I'm talking about!' he snapped.

I did and felt guilty about it. The truth of the matter was that I had been handed all the good things in life, and Ratcliffe had not. I contrasted our situations unhappily. To begin with, there was the question of inheritance. My parents had died when I was very young; I had hardly known them. When I was older though, as if to compensate for my loss, I learned that as their only son and heir I would inherit their vast estates and would become a wealthy lord.

Richard Ratcliffe, in contrast, was the second son of a minor Cumbrian family; he would inherit nothing. Then there was the question of having access to influential people without whose help a man cannot rise in the world. Ratcliffe knew none of these. His training here was, he confessed, an act of charity on the part of Lord Montague. Again fortune had smiled on me though, as before they had died my parents had arranged two things which would prove immensely advantageous to me. When the wars between the Houses of Lancaster and York ended some years before, the victorious King Edward, aided by his chief supporter, the Earl of Warwick, had swept to power. My Lord of Warwick was the premier nobleman of England and, in wealth and power, he was second only to King Edward. Together with his brother the Marquis of Montague he ruled over the North of England. To have even a tenuous connection with such great men was potentially extremely useful, but thanks to my parents I had far more than that. Not only had they arranged for me to have my knightly training done at the Earl of Warwick's home at Middleham, but they had also persuaded my lord to allow me to marry his niece, Nan. As if all of this was not enough, I had a further claim on my Lord Warwick and his brother, for it had been to Lord Montague that I had been sent to complete my training.

I met Ratcliffe's gaze.

‘I've been very lucky.'

He gave a hoot of laughter and punched me lightly on the arm.

‘You're set for life!' He grinned, but then his face fell. ‘If I'm to get anywhere in life, I need a good and generous lord to serve and a good marriage too.'

He looked down at the table.

‘I know I can succeed if I get the right chance,' he said wistfully.

Considering his intellectual abilities, there was no doubt that Richard Ratcliffe would be an asset to anyone once he had completed his training.

‘I'm sure you will,' I reassured him.

As our military studies continued our friendship deepened, but our interests diverged. While I remained fascinated by all aspects of soldiering, increasingly I sensed that Ratcliffe wanted more. Politics rather than warfare attracted him. Such was his interest that he pounced on every piece of news and gossip and dissected it meticulously. Then he passed the news on to me with his own analysis of what would happen next. As a friend I feigned interest in his speculations, but usually my mind strayed as he talked. For all that I will never forget what Ratcliffe told me the day I returned from the Scottish borders. He had sought me out directly.

‘Have you heard the news?'

‘Dick Middleton and I have spent the last two months with the light horse on the border,' I laughingly protested. ‘Men up there are more concerned with the Scots than politics.'

Ratcliffe waved away my excuse. To him the danger from the Scots was irrelevant. What really mattered were the actions of the great men of the world.

‘The world has been turned upside down.'

‘Again?' Ratcliffe's political world was always being upended.