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Rose of Honor
By
H. A. Covington
The Casting of the Die
Spring, 1457
I.
We arrived at Raby Castle, in the northern English county of Durham, on a rainy
afternoon in early April. Our horses clattered across the drawbridge after the queen's
heralds had formally demanded entry and the castle gates were opened. The royal
entourage had been strung out along the road since before dawn, slogging onward after a
miserable night spent huddled around hissing campfires in a sodden meadow beside a
roadside inn wherein the queen had slept. In the pre-dawn darkness and drizzle we had
struck the pavilions, folded the soggy things and heaved them onto carts, and then we
trudged through the mud towards Raby.
We were a small army, over five hundred of us in the entourage: noblemen, knights of the
guard such as myself, noble ladies and their tirewomen, soldiers, priests, minstrels,
clerks, courtiers, scullions, valets, pages, squires, archers, doxies, leeches, porters,
clowns, laundresses, pastry cooks, astrologers, heralds, huntsmen, and hornblowers. At
the centre of it all was the queen herself, Margaret of Anjou: a proud, strong and beautiful
woman whom some believed to be possessed by the devil. So she was. The devil that
possessed our queen was hate, endlessly athirst and unslakeable, and she was perforce
dragging us all with her as she toured the kingdom from end to end in search of support
for her most cherished goal in life, the destruction of the Plantagenet Duke of York and
all his kinsmen. For in Anno Domine 1457, the year of which I speak, the two great
Plantagenet houses of York and Lancaster were mortal enemies, and ill fared England.
I am Sir John Redmond, born outside Tavistock in Devonshire. In that time of which I
write, I was then a landless knight in the queen's service. As I had not been among the
fortunate ones chosen to remain behind in London with the Tower garrison, thus it was
that on that misty afternoon so long ago in the days of my youth, I found myself leaning
on my saddle pommel in the fine drizzle in Raby's outer courtyard. The castellan, a
rotund little man in ill-fitting armour, stood bareheaded as Margaret stepped regally from
her litter. Then he knelt upon the muddy flagstones of the courtyard and kissed her hand,
formally surrendering the keys of the castle to her. The amenities now over, the castellan
escorted the queen and her ladies into the great hall and thence to their chambers. We
knights of the household dismounted and handed over the reins of our horses to squires or
servants, save for a few such as myself who were too poor to afford either and who
perforce led their destriers to the stables ourselves. As the last of the entourage crowded
into the wide outer ward, the gates gave a lugubrious squeak and crashed behind us, a
precaution against surprise attack.
At the stables I snagged a skinny young groom, slapped a penny into his hand, and gave
him specific instructions on the care and feeding of my war-horse, Thunder. I had to look
out for the animal, since he was all I possessed in the way or worldly goods save for my
sword and my wits, the customary legacies of a younger son. After having seen Thunder
off-saddled and his manger filled with oats, I inquired of the groom the location of the
bachelors' dormitory and set off in search of my bed for the night. I had feared that by
delaying at the stables I would be late in grabbing a bed, but most of the knights had
stopped off in the hall for a drink to take off the chill, and there were few besides myself
in the long, low chamber with groined stone vaulted ceiling. The room was clean, the
mattresses newly stuffed with straw and purged of vermin, and fresh new rushes crackled
underfoot. Throughout the castle, signs of preparation for this rare royal visit were
manifest. Tapestries had been cleaned and patched, burnished harness adorned the men-
at-arms, the stables boasted new-cut bracing timbers, and the sleeping chamber smelled
of perfume and fresh linen which I savoured. Castles generally stink, and so would this
one in a few days, but by then no one would notice
After testing several of the beds along one wall of the room I found a soft mattress and
threw my helmet and my saddle bags down onto it. This reserved for me only one side of
the coarse linen pallet, for another knight would share the other half. This was a rather
comfortable arrangement. In some castles we had visited it was three or four to a bed,
while in others, cramped Norman keeps built just after the Conquest, we knights had to
sleep on the rushes in the great hall along with the soldiers, the servants, and the dogs. I
eyed my gear and shrugged. If one of these Lancastrian pugs tossed it aside and took my
bed I'd remove the intruder with a fist in the face. It was ironic that so far the only
fighting I had seen in the queen of England's service had been with the arrogant young
men of her retinue, over just such paltry things.
In the great hall, the servants were busily setting the board for the evening meal, their
task rendered more difficult by the throng of courtiers who milled around the trestle
tables, congregated in the aisles conversing, and crowded around the ale kegs for a
draught. There was a good deal of laughter, pummeling, and loud ostentatious horseplay,
albeit a bit more nervous than usual, for we were deep into Yorkist territory. Richard of
York was raised from childhood right here in Raby Castle, and the Neville family which
had then held the fief were now his most powerful allies. Cecily, Duchess of York was a
Neville herself. We Lancaster men called her "Proud Cis" and several cruder epithets, but
to her husband's adherents she was still "the Rose of Raby". A babble of voices drifted
across the cavernous hall "God split me, this stuff is sour!" someone swore.
"Mayhap you are drinking from a chamber pot!" Laughter
"My mail is rusting from the rain."
"I wish in the devil's name Her Grace would stay put for a while, like York at Ludlow!"
"Ah, who's that fair bit hoisting the trencher of livers?" In nine month's time they'll have
to replace every maidservant in the castle, I reflected. I strode over to the keg, grabbed a
pewter mug, and bulled my way through the milling knights and squires to draw myself a
drink. When I had first come to court seven months before I would have hesitated before
shoving any of these young blades aside. Then I had been alone and friendless, confused
and overwhelmed by the bustle and the ceremony and the immediacy of politics and
statecraft. Being new and last in the pecking order I had been bullied and badgered by the
court bravos for a while, but many of them found out that I could only be pushed so far,
so that now I was generally left alone.
Filling my mug with the sour beer, I drank deeply and brushed my long reddish-brown
hair out of the forth and out of my eyes, making a mental note that I needed to trim it. A
hand clapped me heartily on the shoulder, making me choke. It was Tommy Caxton, a
blond, wiry young Staffordshire knight who was my only friend in the entourage. "Well,
how's the terror of Dartmoor?" he cried.
"Drunk already, are you?" I asked
"Nay, just glad to be in out of that bleeding drizzle and behind stout walls, instead of
lying out in the heather like we did last night waiting for some Yorkist rogue to sneak up
on me and cut my throat. John, my lad, even though you are an ignorant West Country
savage and devoid of every grace and virtue, I mean to do you a good turn. Being a
previous visitor to this dingy little keep, I'm going to introduce you to one of the
chambermaids I know, as accomplished and accommodating a wench as ever I have
known, who but for a slight token of your affection..."
"Since when...?" I began, cocking my eye at the grinning knight, but he cut me off.
"Oh, don't be such a damned prig," he insisted, tugging at my sleeve. "Come on, let's take
a walk, and maybe drop a few stones on the swans in the moat for merriment." I allowed
myself to be led outside into the chilly, darkening courtyard, still thronging with menials
and men-at-arms and those unloading the carts. The castle servants were lighting the
cressets, iron baskets filled with pitch-soaked straw, and they sputtered and hissed in the
damp twilight. Tommy jerked his head and we mounted the stone stairs to the parapet,
where he leaned on a merlon.
"Right, what's all this about?" I demanded. "You know I don't go in for whores."
"You didn't mind lovely Janet at Christmas in London, at the Twelfth Night revel,"
returned Caxton.
"So I suffer occasional lapses. Why are we out here getting wet and chilly all over
again?"
"I have something to tell you and I want you to know about it before the whole bleeding
court finds out, which God knows will be soon enough," he said.
"Well?" I asked, frowning at Caxton's unusually serious tone of voice.
"I overheard Wiltshire and Hungerford talking. There's been a rider in from the West
Country, awaiting Her Grace's arrival here. Do you know a Devonman named John
Brinton, a landed knight of Tavistock?"
"I know him well indeed. He's my brother-in-law. Married my oldest sister, Melissa.
Taught me swordplay and the longbow. What about him?" I asked.
"Get this: Brinton, his two sons, and your brother William Redmond rode into Ludlow
about a week ago!"
"Damnation!" I cursed angrily. "It's bad enough that my father refuses to attend the court!
Now I'm in for it! Has the queen heard yet?"
"If not, she will very soon."
"What about my father? Has he gone to Ludlow as well?" I asked.
"No, Lord Redmond seems neutral thus far. From the snippet of conversation I overheard
I gather that he's sitting tight, nor does it look like he'll make a move any time soon." I
nodded. Now that William had gone with York and I was here at the court of Lancaster, I
could imagine my sire's feelings. He must be the most puzzled by my behaviour, for
while brother William had never made any secret of his Yorkist propensities, I had
simply left home abruptly and taken service with Margaret, telling no one of my secret
personal reason for so doing."
"Old Brinton is a fine man," I said. "Now that he's gone to Ludlow, a good many in
Devon will swing towards Duke Richard's party."
"I don't know Brinton," said Tommy, "But I have heard that he is a man of sufficient
influence so that Margaret's grip on Devonshire is now shot to hell in a handgun. I don't
know what her reaction will be where you're concerned, but I wouldn't gamble on it being
pleasant. And I do know how the majority of the court will react."
"I can handle those bog knights and clods in the entourage," I growled. "I've broken
enough heads around here to make them back off. But I'm worried about the queen. The
only reason she took me on was to keep my district in Devon sewn up by showing favour
to the son of a local landowner. I don't think she quite trusts me, under the best of
conditions."
"Should she?" asked Caxton flatly.

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