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 swordwas 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.
