AUTHOR, ALEX MARCHANT, SHARES AN EXTRACT FROM HER HISTORICAL NOVEL, 'THE ORDER OF THE WHITE BOAR'.

Introduction to the extract

The Order of the White Boar is the first in a sequence of four books telling the story of the life and legacy of the real King Richard III through the adventures of a group of youngsters in his service.  It begins in July 1482 when Matthew, young son of a York city merchant, joins the household of Middleham Castle in Wensleydale as a page. The owner of the castle, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, governs the north of England on behalf of his brother, King Edward IV, and has been away fighting the Scots since the spring. Since arriving at the castle, Matt has made friends with Alys, a ward of the queen, Roger de Kynton, a fellow page, and little Edward, the duke’s only child. However, owing only to his relatively lowly origins, it seems he’s also made an enemy of another page, a vicious bully named Hugh Soulsby.

*****

One afternoon in late summer Matt and his friends go for a ride in the countryside around the castle with all the other pages and Alys’s maid, Elen. Some take hawks to practise hunting, including Roger’s bird, a merlin called Lady. Unfortunately Matt, being only a middling merchant’s son, doesn’t even have his own horse, and so Hugh arranges a very special one for him to ride. A young, very large, barely trained stallion belonging to Duke Richard – ominously named Windfollower. Matt is too proud to refuse to ride it. All goes well, until...

The shadows of trees edging the meadow were lengthening and ahead of us rabbits were emerging from burrows among their roots. Roger was riding with me, chatting about how well Lady had flown, when Hugh spurred his horse alongside us. Upon his broad face was a jovial smile.

‘Let the ladies continue homeward, de Kynton. I say we should have some real sport. A silver piece for the first falcon to catch a rabbit.’

Roger couldn’t resist. We reined back our horses and he and Hugh dismounted, while I pulled Windfollower round to gain a better view. Alys, passing, glanced across in concern, but she continued on with Elen, leading the tired Edward on his pony.

‘Your bird shall fly first as it’s the younger,’ said Hugh

Both boys took the hoods from their hawks’ heads. Lady began her familiar bobbing routine and the light of the hunt flared in Roger’s eyes. He reached skywards with the hawk on his gloved fist and released her. She floated for a moment above him in the air, then shot like a bolt from a crossbow towards the nearest of the rabbits, turning at the last instant, her clawed feet outstretched.

That was the last thing I knew with any clarity.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Hugh’s gauntleted fist point down towards the ground and the lure in his other hand flung towards my horse’s hooves. His falcon instantly followed it and the horse, startled, reared up, kicking out with its front feet at the bird.

I grasped desperately at the reins, then felt the great muscles bunch up beneath me, and the horse sprang forward in a panic. Before I could do anything but cling on, he was carrying me at a gallop across the meadow, past the startled faces of Alys and Edward, scattering the grazing sheep, heading for the castle.

Alys cried ‘Matt!’ in alarm as we passed, then angrily ‘Hugh, you —’, but anything she called him was lost in the wind whipping past my ears and the thundering of hooves as we sped on.

I tugged on the reins, trying to stop the horse, but it was in no mood to obey. It simply tossed its head as it ran, showing the whites of its eyes.

It told me what I had known all along. I was too small to control it properly. Now, to avoid being dashed to the ground, I had to focus simply on hanging on.

I clutched at the mane with my fingers and at the sides with my legs, feeling the raw strength throughout its powerful body as it galloped on. And I prayed to God, Jesus and the Virgin Mary that I should not be killed.

Up ahead loomed the rear wall of the castle and it struck me with the force of a blow that we were heading straight for the water-filled moat. Its steep sides and dark depths would mean death for us both if I didn’t act quickly.

With a strength born of pure fear, I wrenched the horse’s head to the left. To my relief it didn’t buck or fight it, but veered that way, though without slackening its pace. Now side on to the moat, we were charging down the slope towards the outskirts of the village.

A yell and a pounding of hooves made me look back as best I could.

Alys, crouching low on her chestnut, was galloping headlong across the meadow towards us. Our abrupt change of direction meant she was gaining ground. By the time we reached the dirt road into the village she was only yards behind us.

Another desperate cry from her. I caught only the words ‘People… village…’

But it was clear what she meant. As we careered onwards, hooves kicking up mud from the roadway, villagers were scattering before us. Up ahead mothers were rushing to gather up their playing children out of our path. Screams tore at my ears. An old woman crossing slowly, turned, resting on her stick. Her eyes widened at the crazed horse plunging towards her.

Dragging at the horse’s reins and mane with what strength I could muster, I steered it to the left again, taking the danger away from the people on the main street. Now instead we were racing across garden plots down the hill towards the river. All the while I could hear the thunder of two sets of hooves as Alys followed, still shouting wordlessly, trying to keep pace, maybe to gain on us.

We passed the last of the houses, flashed across the Leyburn road and on to the water meadows.

As we crossed the road at a flat-out gallop, a group of riders halted on the old stone bridge. Colourful pennons flew above them, the low sun glinted off burnished harness.

A shout went up from them. As I glanced across, two of the foremost riders peeled away and launched themselves towards us, seeking to head us off.

I pulled back on the reins again, but the horse did not respond, bolting still along the river’s bank. Flecks of foam were flying backwards now into my face. As I turned to blink them away, I saw one of the unknown riders catch up with Alys, stretch out an arm to grab her horse’s bridle and pull her to a stop.

She screamed ‘Not me! It’s his —’, then her voice died away behind me.

The other rider drew level with me, crouched low over the neck of his galloping horse, matching Windfollower’s pace stride by stride for a few seconds. A glint of blue eyes, concentrating hard under a dark brow, and he flung out a gloved hand to grasp my reins. With the gentlest of backwards pressure on my horse’s bridle, he eased us all to a shuddering halt.

In a trice, he was down from his mount and standing at the head of mine. He stroked its nose gently, speaking calming words to it. It tossed its head once, blowing hard through flared nostrils, then lowered it beneath his touch. Its whole body was shaking beneath me, its great sides heaving with the effort of breathing. And I was quaking too.

I drew my right leg across the saddle and slipped down the great height to the ground. Then my legs buckled beneath me and I found myself in a heap on the floor.

The man laughed, but not unkindly, and then his hand was beneath my arm helping me back to my feet. His other hand kept a firm hold on my horse’s bridle.

As I raised my head, I saw he was a slight man, hardly taller than Roger, clad in an ancient leather jerkin and mud-flecked hose. Although young, his face was serious. There were lines around those intense eyes I’d glimpsed earlier, whether of laughter or something else I couldn’t tell.

A frown darkened them now.

‘Well, lad,’ he said, ‘explain to me, I pray you, why you were riding a horse that is not yours and that you clearly cannot control.’

Before I could answer, Roger came to my rescue, galloping up to us at the head of a small troop of pages, as though leading a cavalry charge.

Their sudden arrival caused pandemonium.

Windfollower began to buck and kick again in fright. My rescuer struggled to control him, while catching hold of his own horse in an attempt to stop it bolting in its turn. Meanwhile, Alys, still atop her chestnut pony, was being led towards us by the other stranger. She was shouting at him that she had had everything under control until he had interfered.

The two men, the one slight and dark, the newcomer taller and fair, glanced at each other. My rescuer shrugged and laughed again.

‘Perhaps it would be better to go into the castle. We can sort the matter out there.’

So saying he swung himself back into his saddle and, gathering the reins of both horses, rode with them to join the company of horsemen waiting on the road. The other man turned his horse about and followed, leading Alys behind him despite her protests. The whole company set off again along the road, and in a minute or two had disappeared into the village.

I was left standing alone, among the pages milling around me on their horses. Hugh and Lionel were not among them.

Roger stuck out his hand. I clasped it and he hauled me up to sit astride his horse behind him.

‘Perhaps you are safer riding with me this time.’

Without another word, he pulled his mount’s head around and together with the other pages, we rode more sedately back up through the village and into the castle’s outer courtyard.

***** 

BLURB

How well do you know the story of the real King Richard III? Not as well as Matthew Wansford.

Matthew, a 12-year-old merchant’s son, has always longed to be a knight. And his chance comes in the golden summer of 1482 when he arrives at Middleham Castle, home of King Edward IV’s brother, Richard, Duke of Gloucester – valiant warrior, loyal brother, loving father, good master.

Soon Matt encounters a dangerous enemy. Hugh, a fellow page, is a better swordsman, horseman, more skilled in all the knightly arts – and the son of an executed traitor. A vicious bully, he aims to make Matt's life hell.

Yet Matt also finds the most steadfast of friends – Alys, Roger and Edward, the Duke’s only son. Together they forge a secret knightly fellowship, the Order of the White Boar, and swear an oath of lifelong loyalty – to each other and to their good lord, Duke Richard.

But these are not times to play at war. Soon Matt and his friends will be plunged into the deadly games of the Wars of the Roses. Will their loyalty be tested as the storm looms on the horizon?

For readers of 10 and above, ‘The Order of the White Boar’ tells the exciting adventures of Matt and his friends in the months leading up to 1483, the ‘Year of the Three Kings’. Books 2, 3 and 4 of ‘White Boar’ sequence – The King’s Man, King in Waiting and Sons of York – follow Matt’s further adventures as he serves King Richard III through to the fateful summer of 1485 and beyond…

Buy link: https://mybook.to/WhiteBoar

Linktree: https://linktr.ee/alexmarchantauthor

COMING SOON: On Friday 18th April, Dawn Treacher shares an excerpt from her book 'The Seeds of Murder'.