Chapter 37 Petey
Petey
The brassy crackle of a medieval fanfare pierced the air, nearly making me jump out of my skin. I was sitting on a hay bale overlooking a huge expanse of common that had been roped off for the re-enactment. Around me, hundreds of locals chattered and squealed with excitement.
“There you are, Petey darling.”
It was Bunny Winters, pushing her way through the crowds with coffee.
She plonked herself down beside me and handed me a cardboard cup that was as hot as the centre of the sun.
As my fingerprints melted off my hand, I thanked her.
The trumpets burst into life again. This time I could see them.
There were three buglers, dressed like medieval heralds, marching towards us.
Behind them, drummers, beating out their warmongering tune.
“Golly, it’s exciting, isn’t it?” Bunny said.
“I don’t really understand what’s going on,” I confessed.
Bunny looked shocked. “The Battle of Buckford Field changed the course of our nation’s history. You’ve heard of the Wars of the Roses, at least?”
I nodded. “The wars between the house of York and the house of Lancaster for the English throne.”
Bunny seemed pleased.
“Richard the Third was killed up the road at the Battle of Bosworth Field in 1485. The Battle of Buckford Field took place the day before. The Lancastrians were encamped in the ancient oak wood, which was no doubt slightly less ancient back then, when they saw the Yorkists crossing the ford on the River Buck. Where the Long Water is now.”
“Got it.” I made the mistake of sipping my coffee, scalding my mouth.
“The Lancastrians—lead by Richard de Valois—attacked. They waited until the last man was across and they were boxed in between the hill and the river, and barrelled across Home Field on their horses and slaughtered them. It significantly weakened the Yorkist forces. Anyway, every year since at least the ninth baron’s time, they’ve re-enacted the battle on the day of the village fair.
William is playing Richard de Valois, obviously. ”
“I see,” I said, my tongue gingerly exploring the roof of my mouth to see what was left of it.
On the field, the soldiers were taking their places.
The sun was glinting off suits of armour, poleaxes, and swords.
Not everyone was in full armour. Some were in maille (you don’t call it chain mail, I discovered, if you want to stay in William’s good books), most wore livery coats (don’t call them tabards, for the same reason).
All wore helmets—I thought that probably had more to do with modern health and safety than historical accuracy.
“For clarity, so I don’t make a massive faux pas and find myself beheaded, which side are we on?”
“Catherine de Valois was queen consort to Henry the Fifth. We’re Lancastrians. The ones on the right.”
I recognised the name de Valois. It was the bit of William’s surname he never used.
“Holy shit, is William descended from Henry the Fifth?”
“Oh goodness no. Nothing like that. There’s no English royal blood in William’s veins. Sorry to disappoint you.”
I shrugged.
“Just the French royal blood,” Bunny said, leaving me astonished.
But before I could ask more, the trumpets were blowing again and the men were on the move, the clink-clank of metal echoing across the field.
It was already awesome before William came riding in on Achilles, both in full battle gear, with his sword aloft, rousing his men to charge.
The enormous white stallion was thundering across the field, the gold fleur-de-lis embroidered on the red and blue of the cloth that draped his flanks fluttering in the wind.
Behind him, a rank of archers loosed their rubber-headed arrows, and the whole crowd counted down from five to one together—obviously a much-loved tradition—until a swathe of Yorkist men clutched their chests or arms or heads and fell to the ground, or bravely struggled on.
Soon the village common was alive with the sounds of battle.
Of men roaring in courage and wailing in pain, of swords clashing and horses whinnying.
I sat there, unable to take my eyes off the spectacle.
All the TV producer in my brain could think was, this would make great television.
I put my coffee down, took out my phone, and started recording.
“I’m going to get a different angle,” I told Bunny, and crept along the rope separating us from the action until I found a good vantage point, away from the crowd, where I could film without disturbing anyone.
A few minutes later the field was littered with dead Yorkists.
I watched as a small boy in black-and-white livery, ten if he was a day, limped bravely towards William.
He was dragging one leg, his left arm held against his chest as if it were broken.
His sword was held out in his right hand.
I was willing to bet that boy’s name was Matthew and his father’s name was Andy.
William circled Achilles around him, then dismounted some twenty feet away and marched across the battlefield towards him with his sword at the ready.
“He’s very impressive, isn’t he?” A man’s voice. Not one I recognised. I glanced across. He was suited but scruffy.
“The little boy?” I said. “He’s brilliant.” And he was. He and William were circling each other, swords extended, waiting to see who would strike the first blow. William was twice his height and six times his weight.
“Not him,” the man said. “Your fella.”
“Sorry, have we met?”
The man shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve done a bit of business with William in the past, though.”
On the field, Matthew struck the first blow, the clank of metal on metal slicing the air.
William batted it away, and Matthew went again.
William pretended to be knocked back on his heels, and the little boy drove home his advantage, pressing forward.
Then William lurched towards him, roaring like a lion as he swung the sword down—only for Matthew to dodge out of his way.
“Have you set a date for the wedding yet?” the man said.
“Sorry?”
“It’s the talk of the village. I was wondering if you’d chosen a date.”
“Not yet,” I said, annoyed but not wanting to be rude.
On the field, young Matthew struck a blow against William’s leg, and His Lordship was stumbling around like a pro wrestler, milking the moment for all it was worth. The crowd was on their feet, jumping up and down, cheering.
The man stepped closer. I took a step away. “I only ask because there was no engagement announcement in The Times, and I noticed you haven’t applied for a marriage licence yet.”
“Pardon?”
I properly stopped to look at him then. His face was familiar. Where had I seen it?
On the field, Matthew was stumbling around as if exhausted.
He fell to one knee, then both knees. William, also feigning exhaustion, put a hand under his helmet and ripped it from his head, tossing it aside.
The crowd roared. William was rounding on his prey.
A woman shouted, “Get up, Matthew! Run him through!” The boy crept forward, head hanging, sword on the ground, as if accepting his fate.
William played the crowd, raising a gauntleted hand to his ear, as if he couldn’t hear them, or as if he wanted to know if they were ready for the terminal act.
The crowd bayed for blood. But then—as William was about to strike—Matthew thrust his sword up, up, up.
It glanced off William’s armour, and he made out he had been pierced in the flank.
The crowd whooped and hollered and stamped their feet.
“What I can’t work out,” the man said as William raised his sword, “is how long you two have actually known each other.”
William plunged his sword into Matthew’s belly, and the boy fell.
All around us the crowd cheered. The trumpets started playing.
All I could do was stare at the man who had the audacity to ask these kinds of questions.
I stopped filming, put my phone in my pocket.
I was about to ask him who the bloody hell he thought he was when I realised I already knew.
“You’re Gary Ashworth.” I’d seen his photo byline in The Bulletin. The man smiled. It was slimy and insincere. “I think you’ve had quite enough out of William and me for one day, mate.”
“I have a few questions, though, Peter. Because there’s a few things don’t quite add up.”
“Our private life is none of your business.”
I glanced at the field, where William had young Matthew on his shoulder, surrounded by dozens of cheering re-enactors. All over the common, ovaries were exploding.
“I understand,” Gary said. “But when’s the first time you ever came to Buckford Hall?”
“Again, that’s not your business.”
“Oh, but it literally is. My business is the truth, Peter, and you ain’t telling these people the truth. Are you now?”
I swallowed, my Adam’s apple slowly descending below my collar before reappearing holding a flashing neon sign that said guilty.
“No announcement. No marriage licence. No evidence you’d even heard of Buckford Hall before you started filming The Love Manor. Not to mention a string of gentlemen in London with some very interesting stories to tell about the man who has supposedly won Lord Buckford’s heart.”
“You absolute snake.” My fists clenched. Was I about to punch my second person for the day? In front of the whole village? In Vivienne Westwood?
“What do you want, Mr Ashworth?” I sneered.
“I want a story for tomorrow’s newspaper.
I don’t mind which story it is. I want a nice big Sunday read.
An exclusive. I could write the inside story of the Bisexual Baron Buckford’s soon-to-be-wedded bliss.
Assuming this engagement is real, of course.
Or I could always write up the surprising stories I’ve been told about what you get up to on your Friday nights in Vauxhall. ”
My blood was thumping so loudly through my temples, I didn’t hear the thunder of hooves until Achilles was almost on me.
Gary Ashworth’s body flew across the grass like a skittle.
William reached a hand down to me. I grabbed it and he swung me up into the saddle behind him.
His hair was windswept, his breathing heavy.
I wrapped my arms around his armoured waist. His sword was pointed squarely at the reporter on the ground.
“Did he threaten you?” William asked me.
“Yes.” And then I whispered, “He knows. He wants a story or he’s going to print it— and worse.”
It was only then I looked around. The whole village was staring, slack-jawed and gobsmacked. Gary Ashworth was on the ground, his hand up to his face. William circled Achilles around, sheathed his sword, and addressed the whole village.
“Let it be known that I, William Stanley Leaf Richard George Winters-de Valois-Winters, the seventeenth Baron Buckford, love this man. I will marry this man. I intend to spend my life with this man. Make no mistake, if any man tries to come between us or threatens the incredible happiness ahead of us, I will hunt them to the ends of the earth and I will exact a terrible price from them.” William pointed a gauntleted finger in the direction of Gary Ashworth.
“And that includes members of the press.”
I was flagstaff rigid. Achilles turned on a tight rein.
“How was that?” William whispered over his shoulder.
“Sexy as hell. That French royal blood really tells.”
“Mother’s been telling tales, I see.”
“Let’s get out of here,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Carry me off into the sunset, for crying out loud.”
“Right you are!”
As we galloped across the common, I leant into William’s ear. “Did you mean it?”
“What’s that?”
“That you love me. Did you mean it?”
“Of course I did. I think you know that.”
As Achilles’s hooves trod the road back to Buckford Hall, every cell in my body was bursting with a sensation I’d never experienced before. I couldn’t name it, but it felt the way I imagined the earth must feel in spring, when it explodes with new life. Overwhelmed, I cried.