The Knight of Swords and Spooks (3 page)
Cooking fires covered the fields with a haze of smoke, but through the smoke George could still smell the foul scent of the toilet pits and the filthy men.
From time to time, he saw knights practising with lances, while soldiers watched and cheered from the banks.
The gates in the city walls were crammed with people hurrying in and out, carts carrying food and weapons, beggars trying to cadge coppers and teams of huge horses pulling mighty bronze cannon along the roads.
Ratcliffe’s small troop waited for the traffic at the gate to clear, and that allowed Robin to catch up with George on his pony.
“Look at the crowds!” Robin said cheerfully. “If you slip away, they’ll never find you in this mob!”
“Slip away?”
“Escape! Save your life, Master George. The first chance we get, we’ll flee. My family in Lancashire will look after you till this is over … even if Henry Tudor wins, your father will be safe.”
“So I will be safe?”
“No, no!” Robin moaned. “If your father helps Henry Tudor to win, then you will be too dead to enjoy the victory – Ratcliffe will see to that!”
The men-at-arms pushed George ahead and through a gap in the crowd. Inside the city walls, the market stalls were in danger of being crushed by the masses and even the houses were shaking. Only the mighty castle looked safe and solid. But, once he was inside, George knew he would never escape.
As they came near the gatehouse, he looked around. His guards were talking to the soldiers at the gate. Robin sat at the back of the line and nodded his head. The old man climbed down from his pony, stiff and aching from the ride.
George took one last look and tumbled down from his saddle; as soon as his boots touched the cobbles, he was running back down the road.
Robin swept a cloak over the boy’s head and dragged him down an alley and into a doorway.
They were lost before Ratcliffe knew they were gone. The doorway led into a tavern. The tavern was jammed with men looking for ale to wash away the dust of the scorching day. There was no way to fight their way through the crowd.
Robin saw a gap between two women and slipped into it, but the gap closed before George could follow. He was stuck at the doorway.
There were angry voices in the alley and a young woman cried, “They went that way, my lord … into the tavern…” then, “Ohhh! Thank you, sire,” as Sir Richard Ratcliffe handed her a piece of silver from his purse.
Soon Ratcliffe’s sunburned face loomed over George and his strong hand grasped the boy’s hood and dragged him from the doorway.
“I should kill you for this, you little puppy. And when the battle is over I
will
kill you. No matter what happens, I
will
kill you!” he snarled. “For now, I need you alive … but your old servant will die in the castle dungeons as soon as we find him.”
Robin, however, was nowhere to be seen.
“A knight – a true knight – would not try to escape from a promise his father made. From now on,” Ratcliffe said, “you will not be treated like a young knight. You will be treated like the miserable prisoner you are. From now on, you will be held in chains – chains as hard as King Richard’s heart.”
The army marched from Nottingham two days later. It stretched for miles along the English roads.
At its head was the round-shouldered shape of King Richard III. And, just behind him, his prisoner, chained to a pony and guarded by the menacing Ratcliffe.
The king led his army westwards to where he knew the enemy were coming. “You will see how a knight fights,” Richard promised the boy. “What is your name, young Stanley?”
“George, Your Majesty.”
“Ha! George, eh? I had a brother called George, you know?”
“No, sire.”
“Yes,
brother
George,” he said bitterly.
“What happened to him?” the boy asked.
“He betrayed us. Took sides with our enemies … I had to have him executed in the Tower of London. My own brother. You cannot trust anyone. And I do not trust your father.”
“He’s still my father,” George said. “I cannot call him a traitor.”
King Richard nodded. “You are a good knight – and a loyal son. I had a son, you know.”