Revenge Read Free

with the long nose and pointed chin. She was dressed entirely in scarlet under her fur-lined gown, and her icily beautiful face was pale with tension. Her long fingers toyed nervously with a set of rosary beads as she listened to the distant sound of fighting.
    None minded the drunken chaplain sitting and swaying slightly on his little pony, though one or two of the soldiers had cast envious glances at James’ wineskin. If it were not for the Queen’s presence, they would have tried to take it from him.
    “By rights,” James said aloud, not caring who heard, “I should be on the battlefield, fighting for the King with sword and buckler. I was the eldest son, you know. But God spoke to me.”
    “Bacchus, was it?” quipped one of the soldiers, to sniggers from his mates, and earning himself a furious shouted rebuke from his captain.
    Ignoring the interruption, James belched and wiped the spillage from his greasy ginger beard.
    “Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned,” he cried, spreading his arms wide and raising his eyes to Heaven. “I have fathered bastard children on my flock, and pilfered money from the poor-box, and brawled and swilled and fornicated. My punishment is to be thus, weak and helpless to assist my kin as they fight on the side of the righteous.”
    He continued in this vein, beseeching Heaven and listing his sins in ever more lurid detail, until the captain of the men-at-arms left his post by the carriage and trotted up to him.
    “Here’s a fine-looking man,” James slurred, offering his wineskin. “Broad shoulders, a grim visage, and a beard like a spade. A soldier, by God! There seem to be a lot of them about today.”
    “Shut your mouth, you old fool,” hissed the captain, tapping the pommel of his sword meaningfully, “or, priest or no, I will cut your tongue out. Understand?”
    “Bloated and foolish I may be, but old?” James cried in mock offence. “I am but five-and-twenty, sir, and a better man than you, or any of those lackwits behind you.”
    The captain struck James across the face with the back of his steel-gauntleted fist, and sent the priest reeling out of his saddle.
    “ Mea Culpa ,” he mumbled as he lay on his back, holding his bleeding nose. “I didn’t realise I was addressing such a mighty warrior, that strikes defenceless men of God.”
    “Just be silent,” the captain said moodily, turning his horse and riding back to the carriage. James looked around for his darling and saw it lying nearby, the precious grape of Gascony leaking from its nozzle. Whimpering at such a terrible waste, he quickly glanced around to check no-one was watching – James retained a sliver of pride – and crawled over to the puddle of wine and started to lick it up.
    When that bounty was exhausted, James upended the limp wineskin. There was none left. Not a drop. To compound his misery, there were no taverns or wine-shops open in Market Drayton - the people of the town had either fled, or were hiding behind locked and barred doors, doubtless praying for deliverance. Whoever won the battle, York or Lancaster, the soldiers of the victorious army would soon fall to pillaging local shops and homesteads. No commander on either side would be mad enough to try and prevent them.
    James couldn’t blame the townspeople for fleeing or hiding, but he badly needed a drink. He regarded sobriety as an arid plain, and walked it as little as possible.
    His pony nosed at him affectionately, but he batted her away. The carriage and its armed escort were still present, and the mean-eyed woman James took to be the Queen of England had aged about twenty years in an hour. The battle was still raging in the east, and she was clearly desperate for news, snapping at the other ladies in the carriage whenever they dared to speak.
    “No wine,” James muttered, rubbing his throat. He was parched, like a dried-up river bed in high summer. Sweet Christ, the battle had to end soon, didn’t it? How long could men stand