A YORKIST RAIDING PARTY

The autumn descended gradually that year. As gently as a rusted sword sliding slowly into bare ground. 

The brown leaves of the English oaks were heavy with dew, the branches quivering in the morning light. The air was chilled but not cold, sunshine casting the forest in gold for the final swaggers of the calendar.

The soldier, Gwynplaine, was fatigued. He had been lumbering his pack over wide grasslands before he'd reached that wood. His sabre jostled as he trudged through the mud, its basket hilt banging against his belt.

A toad licked the leather of his boot.

He had been with his York company on a raiding party before losing his way.

The men had become weary of battle and sought shelter in one of the many grand houses garnishing the Pennine estates. Here they could eat, sleep, release their load and perhaps wash away the blackened blood of Lancaster's men. They would also commandeer new weapons and mint for the imminent fray at Towdon.

But somewhere, in the dense Bowland forest,  Gwynplaine had been detached from this band and never reached the house.

After staggering wildly through scrub and brush he knew he was hopelessly lost.

His best plan now was to carry straight on through the trees in the hope of finding a river or trail which he could follow out of the endless woods.

The morning turned to midday. Shortly he came upon a grassy pool. Appearing clear and fresh, weighed down by army pack and halberd strapped to his back, the soldier loosened his dented cuirass and dipped his neck tie into the silver water to wash his hands and nape. He placed his helmet on the grass and dipped his face and long hair into the pool, at once cooling and soothing his chafed skin. He drank deeply and savoured the cold water rushing over his parched lips as he slaked his immense thirst. His throat felt unnaturally dry, as dry as bonemeal, as he drank.

Crows hopped across the bank sods.

In the distant marches his company, now resigned to him missing, had settled on a large regal house to sack. 

The owner, Lord Pendule, terrified of what they might do to his wife, bade her escape via the ginnel to the marsh. But she refused and only when he implored her for the sake of their unborn child did she relent and sobbing, turned with coin, water, pot and food through the sequestered snicket just out of sight.

But it was too late. A scouting pikeman, keen for a kill, came upon her and pushed his iron-tipped lance deep into her belly. She looked down at the impossible timber and moaned louder and louder until the soldier let go. Lady Pendule fell to her knees clutching the unwanted thing impaling the new life within her; gouts of their blood reddening the ground. 

With this she fell, full-poled and crawled into the yard. She grasped for Pendule, out of reach and watched as her beloved, unaware of her plight, tried to buy their guaranteed safety. 

He placed a gold coin in each of the Yorkists' pockets. He nodded as he did so, in deference, but also affirming the hoped-for meaning of his gift.

When all were proffered the warriors also nodded and suddenly, cruelly turned on the Earl.

They hurled him to the ground and laughing, each soldier took his turn to pierce Pendule's soft body with halberd, pike and sabre. He screamed in agony and stared in disbelief at their barbarism.

His faithful chimp, Fairsnape, dressed as his knave, was appalled and attacked several of the soldiers, flinging them aside. 

It tried bravely to protect its master, ripping off the white rose flag from a crumpling Yorkist. But despite its size and strength Fairsnape was savagely skewered through the ribs by the company's bitter captain, Ravenscar.

Fairsnape's almost-human eyes sought his master's forgiveness as the soldiers hurled its bleeding bulk against a tree where it fell into the undergrowth. Horribly injured and dazed, it waited and slowly crawled away into the forest scrub leaving a thick trail of blood where a wet flag dragged along the ground.

Profoundly gored and crying, the Lord Pendule gasped, as he now saw his crassly wounded wife just visible by the wall. He stretched  out an arm from his mangled frame and forged his departing spirit into one final wailing testament of "I LOOOOOOVE YOOOOOU!", before a billhook impaled his breast and with a sickening gargle he was gone.

Lady Pendule stared incredulously at the butchery of her husband and close to insanity she screamed an oath so chilling and plain that all those bloody curs of York froze still.


"I swear by the life of my Lord and of our broken child, so terribly metalled in my gut, that you Yorkists shall be braddled and poured by a hand of this Lancashire house before Autumn has fell. This is my curse on you all".

Fairsnape heard the Lady's aching words and saw his master so cruelly hooked by these grievous wolves. It wept into its palms and felt nothing but hatred for the the white rose they all carried. 

"M-a-s-t-e-r ugh oo", choked Fairsnape and as it banged its head upon the ground it began to imagine the Lady's terrible vengeance they so richly deserved.

Secreting into the shadows of the pines, the monkey made for the cover of the deep forest and after some hours had found a safe and hidden thicket where it sobbed till its simian heart broke like a bird's skull. Heaven took it but it was only sleep and dreams made it shake, damned dreams of human kindness, untold agony, gold and bloody reckoning.

Beyond the chase Gwynplaine slept in the autumn sunshine, small flies boozing on the blood dried-up upon his halberd. He dreamt of running through the crouchbacks with his razor bill, dispatching them in fine arcs and severing their handiness in the field. His face was showered with roses red-thick with blood and as they dripped into his cracked mouth he awoke panting, his shirt soaked with sweat, steaming in the cold evening air.

Rooks screamed in the oak tops.

He set out once more and shambled through sharp briars and thorn, slicing wildly with his sword and shredding his hands. Spots of blood flecked his cuffs, ruff and face and he panted and puffed, becoming increasingly anguished in the clasp of the agonising tangle. A large rose-thorn slit his cheek clean open and his cuirass was drenched in red. He screamed and cursed the land that irked him. His white rose banner was stained red.

Gwynplaine shuffled into a distant clearing like the battle-torn, a blood-soaked sack of cassock and steel. He only half-noticed a man on all-fours before he fell down like a bag of guts. 

He awoke violently to the cold slap of skin across his scabbed face. He opened his crusty wet eyes to half-see the fogged outline of a man stood erect over him.

"Ugh!" the man demanded, its face hidden in slit sunlight.

The soldier gripped the hilt of his sabre and began to draw. Quicker of hand, the man swirled a palm down onto his head and clamped it tight.

"Be still Sir, be still, I mean you no ill", flustered Gwynplaine, sensing the jittery grip of this hairy knave.

"I am Gwynplaine, soldier. And to whom do I speak?"

"Ugh Ugh," grunted Fairsnape still grasping his head.

Gwynplaine squinting, held up his empty hands as a sign of goodwill.

The man standing in blinding sunlight very slowly released his scalp.

"May I rise Sir?"

Fairsnape stepped back and lowered his arms to the ground but all the while staring at the soldier.

Gwynplaine stood and saw for the first time that the man was really a large monkey, an animal-man he'd heard whispers of in the loud bars of Whitby docks.

He noticed fully how drenched the monkey was in blood. He also noticed the white rose flag hanging ragged from his pocket and immediately relaxed. This was a Yorkist ape-man. One of his own, no doubt the mascot of a raiding company and like himself lost.

Fairsnape grinned alarmingly and scratched his hairy chin. He trusted not any man other than his master now dead. He eyed however the reddened rose banner draped on his sack and knew this soldier to be of his Master's pack and therefore his own.

Fairsnape pursed his mouth and grinned again, this time with no malice.

The soldier sighed and moved to release his sack. He realised that he was starving and sought make food before he collapsed.

"Sit awhile Sir Ape" Gwynplaine gestured kindly. "I am to make broth, which I fear we both need after much toil".

Fairsnape scratched his nose.

Gwynnplaine lit a fire and readied a pot from his supplies.

"Yes my friend, we are greatly fatigued from bloody cuts and would welcome a hot cup I wager," reasoned the soldier.

Gwynplaine busied himself with fruits, herbs, garlic, roots and stream-water from nearby and nimbly stirred them together. The pot was set upon a small fire of brash. Smoke rose like a dead man's soul and soon spooned the steaming soup into wooden beakers.

He passed one to the monkey, who having positioned himself on a large boulder, sat and held it like the Host,  clasped with both of his leathery hands to warm them in the evening chill. Like the man he blew the broth and drank. The meal was completed with bread from the soldier.

Both full, Gwynplaine brought out a large flask of rum and offeted it to Fairsnape. The chimpanzee gulped heartily and burped.

The soldier did the same and they both laughed and drank some more.

When the flask was empty Fairsnape was quite drunk and lolling round the clearing, dragging his hands on the scrub and slapping the trees. 

Holding a hide of water Gwynplaine flicked some at Fairsnape laughing  loudly at his antics. Before long both were emptying beakers of water over each other causing both to roll around with laughter.

With one final cup each they guffawed and threw the last of water at one another. Their waistcoats were soaked.

Bracing each other and howling, it was then that Fairsnape noticed the soldier's hanging flag. It was drenched and as the blood washed off it, the red rose had turned white.

"Ugh, ugh, ugh," moaned the ape as it pointed at the flag.

Gwynplaine looked down and saw too. The ape grimaced with menace and beat his chest.

Gwynplaine drew his sword and held it out towards the chimp.

"Stay back Ape Man! So you don't like the white rose eh! You must be Lancastrian scum after all! And to think I had you down as Yorkshire like me!"

Thinking of the men who had slain his master and lady Fairsnape leapt. With flailing arms he pounced on the soldier, who despite gashing the ape's cheek, was knocked unconscious to the ground.

When he awoke Gwynplaine found himself pinned down by large rocks on his hands and feet. He was spreadeagled and naked.

Fairsnape took the soldier's sword and to Gwynplaine's horror, drew it slowly down his forehead and his face in a central line, along his throat and down his torso.

The soldier screamed and tried to free himself but the rocks were too great to budge. Blood welled from the slit along his body and panting heavily he begged the ape to stop.

Fairsnape, eyes burning with hatred, panted back and kneeling over the man's abdomen, pushed his fingers deep into the cut and into Gwynplaine's body.

The soldier shrieked in pain but to no avail. The ape tensed his great muscles and drew his hands apart. The soldier's ribcage began to split and gradually fan outwards. With one final bloody heave it fell open like a cupboard.

Gwynplaine bellowed in agony as Fairsnape took hold of his guts. Staring in disbelief he watched as his own innards were pulled out and slung next to him steaming. It was the last thing he ever saw as death took him away.

Fairsnape continued to gut the body, bone it and eventually de-glove it. Finally and bathed in blood, the ape held up a perfect suit of Gwynplaine's skin.

"Ugh, ugh," he nodded.

The suit of skin was placed flat on the ground. Fairsnape removed all his knave's clothing and made them into a neat pile behind a bush. He folded out the skin so that it was open. He then laid down with his back on top of the skin. He gently eased his arms into the skin arms and then his legs as if putting on a pair of trousers. Lastly, Fairsnape pulled the hair and head bag over his own head and peered through the eye holes that had once been Gwynplaine's.

It was a tight fit as the Yorkist had not been a large man but the ape was able to move around quite well in his new 'suit'. He dressed in Gwynplaine's bloodied clothes and for all intents and purposes looked like him.

Gathering the soldier's sack and weapons the ape-man strolled off through the forest grinning. A toad leapt off his sleeve as he did so. "Ribbit!"

Jackdaws coughed in the canopy above.

It was dark when Fairsnape reached the House of Pendule. Flaming braziers stood at either side of the gateway, where a Yorkist sentry sat on watch. The fires cast shadows all round him and he blew into hands to keep warm.

When he saw Fairsnape approach he stood and stared.

"Gwynplaine, where the fuck have you been? Jesus Lord, you look like you've seen some action. The Captain thought you'd deserted. Christ, he was mad!"

The ape-man patted the sentry on his back, grunted and shrugged and without pausing for breath grabbed his head and shoved it face down into one of the burning braziers. The sentry screamed but Fairsnape pushed harder until the whole head was alight. There was no more sound coming from it.

He continued down the path to the house flinging some smoking scalp into the long grass. He removed his bag and chattels and left them behind a pedestal.

He opened the great doors gently as he had always done and steeped in darkness crept silently into his home. He moaned at the loss he felt for his beloved master and his lady. He had never felt pain like it and only the thought of revenge could salve the wound.


Fairsnape headed for the kitchen downstairs. All the servants had either been slain or escaped. He re-kindled the large fire and hung a cauldron above it. Next he repaired to the counting house nearby and dragged in sack after sack of gold and silver, the master's tithe from his tenant farmers.

The ape laboured and toiled in the kitchen into the small hours as he tipped the coins into the cauldron. He kept the fire stocked and the flames danced under his supervision. He stirred the melting metal until it was molten and nodded his satisfaction.

"Ugh, ugh, ugh," he approved.

Like a wraith he carried the pot to the pulley, where he turned the huge iron handle. The cauldron rose slowly through the ceiling hatch beyond the kitchens, the halls and up into the barracks where the Yorkists were certainly resting. The pot stopped in the nook behind the fire and swung gently on its hook.

Fairsnape bound up the grand stairs taking four steps at a time and nearing the end gate-vaulted over the balustrades until he was facing the barracks door. He eased it open and slid in.

He grabbed the pot of molten gold and silver and swung it over the fire to re-heat it. Some of the sleeping men moaned and shifted in their plump Lancastrian beds. Fairsnape stopped and looked, twitching his nose. When quiet again he unhooked a huge ladle from the fire wall and once stirred his golden pool.

The barracks were rigged with a ceiling pulley for the cauldron for feeding hungry troops. Fairsnape pulled the large smoking pot into the centre of the room, where it was lowered and wavered just above the stone floor.

The ape took the ladle and drew a full measure of red-hot metal. He loped over to the first of the sleeping Yorkists, their foul Captain Ravenscar and gingerly opening his mouth, poured the ladle's contents in. The gold sizzled as it entered the soldier's mouth and throat and his eyes shot open in shock, but no scream could be heard as the metal instantly burnt away his vocal chords. As it traveled further and slid into his stomach, it evaporated the acids and formed a bowl of gold, where it cooled and set. Some leaked out at the bottom but just a drop. The Captain choked to death, twitching as the gold set and then, completely still, smoke rising from his open mouth, nose and eyes.

Fairsnape repeated this procedure ten more times until every soldier who had rid him of his master was repaid so. These were their wages, the wages of wrath. The eleven invaders lay dead, their hands transfixed into rigid claws.

The ape stood and stared at his handiwork, the large ladle in his thick hand, metal dripping from it like amber broth.

He ripped off Gwynplaine's skin and threw it in the fire. Next he brought a set of sharp knives from the kitchen and set about his final task.

He butchered the bodies in the way he had seen the cook carve pigs, slicing, boning, removing. Gradually he found the gold again. 

Taking the cooled metal from each of the Yorkists he stared in wonder at them. He lined the metal up on the large table. Eleven golden ladles with long handles and deep bowls, where the metal had settled.

They gleamed in the firelight.

Fairsnape polished the ladles with rags and hung one on the wall above each of the mangled bodies.

The ape scratched his face and trotted downstairs into the kitchen to look for some fruit. He wondered if he would ever need to make any more golden ladles for his house again.