Summer 1439

The great rambling castle of Sheriff Hutton near York, built by John Neville, third Baron Neville de Raby, had been improved over the years as the family grew and Richard’s father prospered. One of the ground-floor rooms had become a library and many of the books were family heirlooms, some in languages few could decipher. Others belonged to Richard’s mother, who rarely returned from York or London without an addition to her collection and had brought many of her father’s books to Sheriff Hutton. Some of the most ancient of these were in Latin, his booty from English victories in Normandy.

His mother taught Richard to read. She would read aloud to him in English and French, long into the dark evenings until the candle burned down to a flickering stub. As he grew older his mother would sit with him patiently while he learned the skill of making sense of each word. She would gently prompt him if he was stuck on a word, encouraging his questions and showing him how to translate each sentence and understand the deeper meaning.

From all her precious collection of rare books and manuscripts, Richard’s favourite was the Livre de Chevalerie. The old book’s brown parchment pages, full of colourful images of jousting and lavish banquets, allowed him to enter a world of chivalry and knighthood. He read from it in the evenings at Sheriff Hutton and imagined himself as the great knight Sir Geoffroi de Charny, equally praised for skill at leading campaigns and honoured for his chivalry and courtly ways.

As the eldest son he could look forward to an easy life as a noble baron. There would always be servants to tend to his every need. Richard had been brought up to know that one day he would inherit the northern estates of Sheriff Hutton and Middleham Castle. Now he had been told he would also one day inherit the vast estates in the south.

The library also served as a scriptorium and study and was where the boys would be found each morning, improving their writing, French and Latin. Richard’s father placed great importance on their learning and took a close interest in their progress. He had made a strict rule that they were only allowed out in the sunshine once they had completed the work set for them, to the satisfaction of their tutor.

Richard took his sharp knife and trimmed the nib of his new quill as he had been shown. He was writing a letter to his father, who had been absent most of the summer with his duties as Warden of the West March. He knew the Warden was an important position, responsible for safeguarding the country from invasion by the Scots and the pay was a thousand pounds a year. Although Richard’s father made light of it, he overheard his mother once saying that securing the wide expanse of the northern border was dangerous and often thankless work.

Dipping the quill into the pot of thick black ox-gall ink, Richard carefully formed a swirling letter R then spelled out the rest of his name at the end of the letter. He sat back, pleased with the result and allowed it to dry before showing it to the old priest who had the task of teaching them. The priest wore the traditional cappa clausa, a grey, hooded cape over a long woollen tunic with a heavy leather belt. A hard man to please, he looked at Richard’s parchment with an appraising eye.

‘How old are you, Richard?’ His deep voice carried the hint of a northern accent.

‘I will be eleven at the end of November.’

‘Well, Richard, if you keep up your studies I believe we can make a scholar of you after all.’

He felt a frisson of pride at the priest’s words, although the confusion about his future plans was troubling.

‘I am to become a knight. It is my brother George who will be a scholar.’ Richard frowned at the misunderstanding, then realised the priest had made a jest at his expense. He was learning more than skill with a pen and languages from the old man.

He looked across to where George was diligently copying a Latin text in his already neat hand. George had his mother’s serene nature and, although not eight years old, had been destined for the church ever since Richard could remember. Richard could hardly think of anything worse than to turn your back on the glory of knighthood, to never marry or have sons. To live a life of prayer and devotion to the church. It didn’t make any sense.

His other brother John was looking out of the window at something which had caught his interest. John was a gifted student and was able to read without apparent effort, although he was rarely seen reading a book unless he had to. Tall for his nine years, he already had their father’s heavy build, as well as his bluff manner. Sometimes he would argue with Richard. The two years between them always put John at a disadvantage, which only served to make him even more resentful and competitive.

Not present in the library was their third brother Thomas, still treated as the baby although he was now two years old, or their six sisters, who were schooled with Anne by nuns from the convent near York. Anne was Richard’s wife, chosen by his father. At the same time, his father arranged a generous dowry to secure a second marriage. Richard’s older sister Cecily had married Anne’s brother Henry, heir to the earldom of Warwick, binding together the names of de Beauchamp and Neville.

Richard’s first memory of Anne was hazy. Her father was the Lord of Abergavenny and for some reason that was where they were married. It seemed a long time ago, although he clearly remembered the excitement of that day. The people of the bustling Welsh town came out of their houses and cheered as his grand procession rode through their narrow streets with twenty mounted guardsmen front and back. For the first time Richard had realised he was someone of importance, different from the people who called out his name.

His mother had explained the ceremony to him and helped him rehearse his words. He was dressed in the finest velvet with a flowing cape over his shoulders and a heavy gold chain around his neck. He remembered Anne had a long dress of white silk that rustled as she walked. She had carried a bouquet of white roses and their wedding was blessed by a red-faced bishop wearing a tall mitre. There were speeches and feasting that seemed to go on forever. It all had no meaning for him, as he had only been seven years old.

There had been talk of Richard following the tradition of going to live at Warwick Castle with Anne’s family. Her father, the Earl of Warwick, was a renowned soldier knight who personally taught the King to use a sword and would have been the ideal tutor for Richard. Anne’s father’s untimely death at Rouen earlier that year was soon followed by that of her mother, so young Henry was now the new Earl of Warwick. His sister became a duchess and Anne was sent to live with them at Sheriff Hutton.

Richard would never admit he sometimes felt intimidated by Anne, who at two year’s older than him seemed so worldly wise. At least his father had chosen him an attractive girl from a noble family. She could play the lute and sing tunefully, embroidered his initials on his shirts and often came to watch him practice sword fighting. They were more like brother and sister than husband and wife. It seemed strange to Richard they would one day be required to have children together and produce an heir to the Neville fortune.

The discordant clang of the noon bell in the high tower shook Richard from his reverie. The boys were excused by the priest and raced each other down long, echoing corridors to the refectory, John easily winning with his powerful stride. Family meals were formal affairs in the great hall, presided over by his father at the head of the long oak table. Today was a simpler fare, freshly baked bread and slices of cold salted pork, washed down with weak small ale that tasted of bitter hops.

Even though there were only kitchen staff to witness it, the strict routine of each day had been drummed into them. As the eldest Richard was required to see that the routine was followed as their father would wish. He also had to say grace before they ate. He waited until they were seated, heads bowed and hands clasped together.

‘Benedic, Domine, nos et dona tua, quae de largitate tua sumus sumpturi.’ He looked to see his brothers were still praying before he continued. ‘Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.’

His brothers chorused, ‘Amen.’

They ate hungrily, knowing there was a long wait until their evening meal. John was always first to finish and always ready to take the leftovers from his brothers’ plates. John waved his knife at Richard across the table, pretending to use it as a sword.

‘The sergeant told me there’s no fencing today.’

Richard looked at his brother disapprovingly. ‘Remember your manners, John.’

The afternoons were usually spent riding in the woods and practising swordsmanship with his fencing master, a dour Yorkshireman. Known only to the boys as the sergeant, he had fought as the king’s Sergeant-at-Arms in France and had permission from Richard’s father to be as heavy handed with the boys as he saw fit. Richard had learned to work hard and always show the man respect or suffer the consequences.

John dropped his knife with a clatter on the table. ‘It’s because you are going to learn to joust today.’

Richard finished eating. ‘Yes.’ He looked at his brother. ‘Sir Geoffroi de Charny wrote that the joust is one of the most important skills for a knight to master.’

John looked interested. ‘Are you going to use the quintain?’ There was a note of challenge in his voice.

Richard was aware his brother John was catching up fast. The sergeant had started pitting them against each other, goading Richard not to be beaten and shown up by the much younger boy. Although the practice swords were made of wood, they were heavy and could deliver a painful blow. Richard had many bruises and more than a few scars to show for his time spent acquiring his skill with a sword.

‘I have to master the target first, before he will let me try the quintain.’

George had been observing the exchange. ‘We’ve been allowed to come and watch.’ He wiped a piece of bread around his plate, which now looked as clean as if it had never been used.

Richard frowned. He wanted to learn how to ride with a lance before his father returned from the northern border and would have liked the chance to practice without his brothers watching. Worse still he guessed that John would encourage Anne and his sisters to join him when they returned from the convent.

A serving girl came from the kitchens to clear their plates and Richard went to the stables to collect his horse. He enjoyed spending time in the stables, learning how to care for horses.  He also learned other things from the stable lads, particularly when they forgot he was there. The duke had promised Richard he could have his own destrier when he could prove worthy of it. In the meantime Richard had to contend with his own mild mannered horse. He liked to ride every day, when the northern weather allowed.

Despite the summer heat, Richard put on a padded brigandine, the most basic form of armour, under an iron breastplate, fitted with leather straps to hold it securely in place. On his head was a woollen hat to cushion the inside of the heavy steel helmet he would be wearing. He led his horse from the stables, followed by the stable boy who carried his helm and was to act as his squire. They arrived at the tiltyard, a wide level field to the side of the castle. There was a solid wooden fence down the centre of the field, the list, in the middle of which the sergeant was fixing a shield shaped target on the end of a long pole.

The tiltyard was overlooked by high stands with oak bench seating for spectators. On a tournament day these were filled with nobles and their ladies and decorated with their colourful banners and shields. Today there was no decoration, although Richard wished his brothers and sisters were not taking their seats to watch his first lesson. He saw Anne was also there and raised a hand in acknowledgement as she waved to him.

The sergeant greeted him with uncharacteristic cheerfulness, which put Richard on his guard. A stocky man with straggling grey hair and beard, the sergeant always wore an open faced sallet on his head and a padded jack, studded with rivets, as well as a sword on his belt. Richard always thought the sergeant looked ready to go off to fight at short notice. Today the sergeant carried a long wooden practice lance, shorter and lighter than the one Richard would use in a real joust. It had been painted blue and white and was tipped with a coronal, a crown shaped metal cap designed to allow the lance to catch and hold, making it easier to unhorse an opponent or break a lance on him.

‘Well, my lord, are you ready to impress the ladies and gentleman?’ There was a note of sarcasm in his voice and a twinkle of amusement in his deep set eyes.

Richard knew how he should answer. It was the first time he had ever been allowed to ride on the hallowed ground of the tiltyard, which was normally out of bounds to the boys. ‘I am ready to listen to your instruction, Sergeant.’

The sergeant looked at Richard’s horse, running a critical hand over its flank.

‘A tolerant horse will carry you down the list, even if you sit on his back like a sack of grain.’ He turned and gave Richard a black-toothed grin. ‘Until he learns you have little control over him and he can do whatever he wants!’

Richard had witnessed the grand tourney, as a spectator, many times, carefully studying how the jousters rode and fought. ‘I know I must ride without using my reins.’

‘Why is that, do you think?’ He looked at Richard with his bushy eyebrows raised.

‘I need my hands free for the lance?’

‘Only one hand. You have to release the reins to protect the horse from the impact, or you will be disqualified. The same goes for failing to control your horse during the pass. If he stops or veers away from the list, you are marked down for a balk. If you are knocked off you mustn’t be holding on to a bridle.’ He shook his head at some distant memory. ‘I’ve seen men pull their horse down on top of them.’

He gestured for Richard to mount his horse and led it to the run up position. ‘Use your leg pressure. If he starts going left or right, you need to press with the opposite leg. Understand?’

Richard was growing impatient. He had practiced riding at a canter without reins. ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

The sergeant looked around. ‘Where is your helmet?’

Richard gestured to the stable lad who was acting as his squire. The boy approached and handed him the steel helmet. He put the helm on. It felt heavy on his head and the only way he could see out was to lean forward, as the eye slot was high to avoid the danger of splinters.

The sergeant handed him the long wooden lance. ‘Not too fast now.’

He watched as Richard experimentally raised and lowered the lance. Although well balanced, it was heavier than he expected and quite difficult to control. He found a small movement of his arm made the tip of the lance swing through a wide arc.

The sergeant stood back. ‘Aim for the target.’ He pointed. ‘Keep your lance high and don’t let it touch the ground or hit the list when you’re riding. Either could break the lance.’ He grinned at Richard. ‘Or it could pitch you off your horse.’

Richard kept his grip tight, silently praying his horse would understand what was expected. He trotted his horse to the run up then took a deep breath, then cantered down the list, carefully lowering his lance. He was barely able to see the target and missed it completely. Raising his lance, he turned for a second pass. Once again, the heavy lance wavered and missed the target. He didn’t look towards the stands, where his brother was probably enjoying the spectacle.

The sergeant walked up to Richard and held on to his horse’s bridle. ‘Hold your lance firmly. Couch it under your arm as tight as you can.’ He patted Richard’s arm. ‘Don’t try to adjust your aim as you approach.’

Richard could feel sweat trickling down his neck. The helm was slightly too large and was now rubbing painfully on his neck as he rode. He leaned forward so he could see right down the list to where the target was fixed, tantalisingly out of reach. This time he did turn his head and could see Anne and his brother John were watching, although his sisters seemed to have lost interest.

He braced the long lance as firmly as he could and cantered again towards the target. There was a clang of wood against metal as his lance struck the target and knocked it to the ground. Richard pulled up at the turning area and trotted his horse back, raising a hand to his watchers on the stands. He heard their cheer and applause. For the first time he had a taste of what it would feel like to be a knight. One day he would risk his life in a joust against a more experienced rider. Richard couldn’t wait for his father to return from the Western March.

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