Captain Of The Wight

By Dorothy Davies

In 1488 Sir Edward Woodville and some 440 men from the Isle of Wight set sail for Brittany and battle. Only 1 boy returned to tell the tale of disaster, all were slaughtered by the French.

This little book tells a piece of missing Island history first in fiction, as the author seeks to discover the true reasons for Sir Edward's mad gesture, then from the pages of the Isle of Wight Journal,long since defunct, which spells out the background to the campaign and its aftermath and finally the original medieval report of the campaign. For all history lovers!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fiction4All
• Release date: Feb 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370357987

Dorothy Davies

Dorothy Davies, writer, medium, editor, lives on the Isle of Wight in an old property which has its own resident ghosts. All this adds to her historical and horror writing.

Book preview

CAPTAIN OF THE WIGHT

Dorothy Davies

Published by Fiction4All at Smashwords

Copyright 2017 Dorothy Davies

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is dedicated to:

Sir Edward Woodville, a brave and courageous knight who lost his life in Brittany, fighting for a cause in which he believed.

Every man and boy who left the Island with him to fight in Brittany and whose bones rest there still.

Diccon Cheke, the boy who left to fight in Brittany and who somehow managed to escape the battlefield. In doing so he had the unbelievably sad task of bringing the news back to the families.

Percy G. Stone, (1856-1934) Island architect, historian and poet.

Everyone who ever left the Island to fight in a war, no matter when, no matter where and who did not come back. Your sacrifice is not forgotten. War is not pleasant, sometimes it has to be fought for whatever reason: national pride, justice, liberty, and it does mean that men (and women) die. Every village and town on the Isle of Wight has a war memorial, they carry many names of the brave men who went to war. We remember, for example, proud regiments such as the Isle of Wight Rifles whose career spans many years and many conflicts including: 1859-1914 – South African War, 1914 – 1918 – Gallipoli, Egypt and Palestine, commemorating the men who took part in the siege of Kut and those who fought at Gaza: Freshwater alone lost 75 men at Kut.

I hope this small book will be a memorial to every person from this treasured island who made that supreme sacrifice. May they never be forgotten.

Special thanks go to:

Carisbrooke Castle Museum staff, especially Dr Mike Bishop for his help with the book launch and Chris Yelland, for help with research for both Sir Edward Woodville and Earl Rivers.

Martin Eager, for his kind permission to use the outstanding photograph as the cover image,

Mary Holliday for being a historical sounding board for ideas and information as well as a wonderful friend,

Charles Kidd at Debrett’s for detailed information on chivalric titles,

Terry Wakelin for being my rock and anchor throughout the writing of the book – and always.

PROLOGUE

Carisbrooke Castle gleams in the sunshine, solid stone, invincible, awe inspiring in its majesty. The gateway and towers were newly constructed under the direction of the last Lord of the Island, Antony Woodville, Lord Scales of Newcelles and the Isle of Wight, 2nd Earl Rivers. Sadly, he has been dead these past five years. He was beheaded on the orders of Richard of Gloucester, later to be crowned King Richard III. King Richard himself has been dead for three years. He was cut down on Bosworth field by the forces of Henry VII, aided by the treachery of his own nobles.

The handsome knight who rides out beneath this great gateway is the brother of Earl Rivers. This is Sir Edward Woodville, Captain of the Isle of Wight, once a Yorkist, now a Lancastrian vassal of King Henry VII. His brother’s execution is the reason for his change of loyalties; it is a reason well known to the men he surveys. He is a proud man and to have been appointed Captain of the Isle of Wight was pleasing, as it helped him to keep his brother’s name alive through the newly-built Woodville Gate and in his own work on the island.

Today’s gathering is not an occasion that anyone could have foreseen.

There is an ongoing war in Brittany, one that involves honour and chivalry. Sir Edward asked permission of the King to take an army to Brittany and fight for the honour of Lady Anne, who was caught up in the politics of the French king, but King Henry refused. It was not part of his plan to allow Sir Edward to go. Being a Woodville, that is, having a mind and will of his own, Sir Edward declared his intention to go to Brittany anyway and sent out an array, a call to arms, to the men of the Island.

Here they are, awaiting the words of their leader, the finest that could be found on the Isle of Wight. Here are Bremshet, Brutenell, Hackett, Knight, Lile, Lisle, Mewys, Oglander, Popham, Roucley, Urrey and young Diccon Cheke. They are well mounted, accoutred in chain mail, swords at their sides, each carrying a lance. Armour, battle-axes and other arms are in a cart painted with the Woodville colours. Each man wears a surcoat marked with a red cross over their chain mail, the cross of St George. Pennons in the colours of the Isle of Wight flutter from the lances. It is a grand sight, enough to stir the heart of any watcher.

With great good heart, four hundred yeomen and forty gentlemen ride away toward St Helens, toward the four ships moored there, awaiting them. They go with anticipation of battle and of glory.

Only one would return.

Chapter One

London was a fascinating, ever changing, ever enchanting city in ordinary times, but now it was in celebratory mood, it really showed its lively face. The narrow, winding, dusty streets were crammed with people of all ages and all professions: street vendors collided with and importuned the clerks and clerics who were rushing here and there clutching papers, books and leather pouches which might – or might not – contain valuables. Pickpockets eyed the pouches and wondered but only took a chance when the throng was thickest and their crime unlikely to be discovered. Children darted through the crowds, making the most of the confusion to steal a pie here, a piece of fruit there, or if they were really fortunate, something they could sell. The May sun shone on the aristocrats who were arriving for the ceremony, it sparked colours from spur and sword, dagger and jewels, as well as highlighting the buxom wenches busy plying their trade, making the most of the good feeling sweeping through the Londoners. A Coronation brought everyone out onto the streets, old and young, rich and poor and, if you were smart, there was a chance to leave being poor behind and become rich for a while, for many were free with their money in such celebratory times.

London’s tailors had worked far into the night to finish their commissions on time. Such a grand occasion meant every invited guest needed new clothes for it was a time to display wealth, rank and standing in court. Not that the tailors were complaining, the commissions had been many and rewarding, the long hours they and their apprentices had spent stitching had enriched them considerably.

Edward Woodville rode through the throng, one hand on the hilt of his fine sword, the other guiding the thoroughbred chestnut gelding he had chosen from his stable that morning. He was wearing a new jewelled doublet which had been delivered late the previous evening. He had examined it closely for any defect but the garment was perfect, despite the heavy workload his tailor had complained of. He had given the man an extra gold coin and noticed his eyes light up. It had its own reward, paying extra for something. The next time he ordered new clothes, he knew he would get the very best attention.

The barking dogs, the jingle of harness and hooves, the chink of arms as his men closed in around him, the noise of the crowd and the ever present mournful cries of the gulls which haunted the river became one sound, the London sound, as he thought of it. He had become so used to it that with the merest hint of change he would be on guard, ready for trouble. He knew well that Londoners were jovial when happy but that a brawl could turn into a riot in the blink of an eye. It was best to be prepared. He registered the impression of individual faces: the grinning cheeky look of an urchin diving between people’s legs and attempting to get across the road between the procession, without success, the flirtatious smile of a heavily painted buxom maid with gold hair and cornflower blue eyes, the disapproving scowl of an old crone, her heavily lined face stamped with her dislike of the pageantry, making Edward wonder, briefly, why she had bothered to be part of the onlookers. A black bearded man with a deeply scarred forehead made Edward clasp his sword hilt even more firmly. The man might not be trouble, but he looked as if he could be. London faces, London people, so many crammed into such a relatively small space, no wonder there were fights, robberies and the inevitable deaths! How could a king rule such diverse people and keep their loyalty? They were out for themselves and who could blame them for that? On a higher level, were not the Woodvilles doing the same thing?

Today there would be no problem, outside of a few scuffles, of that he was sure. Londoners loved a pageant and there had been plenty of that in the lead up to this coronation. Days of celebrations, starting with the investiture of more Knights of the Bath, always a glorious occasion, conducted with style and richness as only King Edward could do it. Musicians entertained those who were prepared to make a street party of the occasion and wine flowed freely, keeping everyone happy. There had been processions and formal meetings as the Queen (his sister - would he ever get used to that fact?) was greeted by the Mayor and Aldermen of the City, then escorted to the Tower, to the luxurious apartments set aside for royal visitors. There she was left to rest before being prepared for today, The Day, when the crown of England was to be set upon the head of a Woodville.

The Woodville fortunes had gone from mediocre to brilliant, from impoverished to riches, from Grafton in the middle of nowhere, well, Northamptonshire anyway, to London in the space of a year. Who would have thought that his sister, a widow with two small sons and a title from a Lancastrian that would hardly gain her access to anyone anywhere, in his opinion, should suddenly find herself being courted by a Yorkist king? Not only that but to actually marry the King, too!

Today she was to be crowned Queen of England. Today his mother’s most cherished ambitions were to be realised. He sometimes wondered if the dowager Duchess knew how much he had discovered of her efforts behind the scenes to promote her many children into the court hierarchy where their futures might be assured. He had made it his business to find out what she had done for them all and had to admit it was working well. First his brother Antony had secured the permission, the hand and seemingly the love of the widowed Elizabeth Scales, so that overnight he became Lord Scales of Newcelles and acquired a veritable string of properties from one end of England to the other, then his sister Jacquetta became Lady Strange - and now this! Surely this must be the ultimate accolade! Whatever people might say about them - and there was plenty to be said, according to Court and street gossip - about their taking over the court and stealing honours, land and positions for themselves, today King Edward was acknowledging the family and his Queen with a very public Coronation. There were many prepared to make the most of their invitations and do their best to be noticed. The colours, the perfumes, the flowers and the endless lilt of voices combined to make another layer of noise on top of that which the Londoners were creating by their very presence. There was a sense of unreality about it, as if at any moment the dream would shatter as if on waking and there would be no coronation, no riches, no places in court.

As they approached Westminster, a rider mounted on a beautifully groomed grey and escorted by men at arms pushed his way through the crowd, heading for Edward. He was