“Give the word to regroup. Gather your men. Now get me another horse. We’re not through here.”
Even as he spoke, Edward could feel his abused body reviving, could feel a surge as energy began to flow again. The excitement that had been only a flickering, a warming flush, was now searing him with flame. It was contagious; he saw it reflected in their faces. Victory was in the air, even stronger than the stench of blood.
“Now,” he said.
Edward of Lancaster listened as John Wenlock explained why he had held the center back, had not come to Somerset’s support. He was saying something about Gloucester, saying that Gloucester had moved too fast, that there’d not been time. He’d deemed it best to hold the center in their position, make the Yorkists come to them. It would have been madness to throw away the natural advantage they had here, the rough ground that once before had halted the Yorkist vanguard so effectively. He couldn’t have saved Somerset, he insisted; it had been too late for that. To have moved out would’ve been only to sacrifice the center, too. Surely Prince Edward could see that.
Edward couldn’t. Wenlock’s words beat against his tired brain; he struggled to make sense of them. Somerset had expected the center to come to his support. Even if Wenlock was right…He’d still watched, done nothing while Somerset’s men were butchered. That much Edward’s shocked mind could understand; he saw it on the dazed faces of the men around them. And he saw, too, the question that would pass no man’s lips but was in each man’s eyes: Why had he, Edward, not countermanded Wenlock? Why had he sat there, watched like one stricken dumb as York and Gloucester savaged the Lancastrian vanguard? How could he explain his paralysis of will…even to himself?
“Surely we should have taken some action…done something!” He wanted to believe Wenlock. Bon Dieu, how he wanted to! The center was his to command with Wenlock. Had he failed Somerset, too? Should he have acted when Wenlock didn’t?
“It was too late, Highness. We could only have doomed our own men. Somerset would say the same, would not have wanted me to sacrifice their lives in a meaningless gesture, to risk your safety for men already beaten.”
Someone muttered, loud enough to be heard, meaning to be heard, “Like bloody Hell he wouldn’t!”
Wenlock raked the men with cold eyes; either unable or unwilling to identify the culprit, he quelled them with his stare, turned back to Edward.
“I had to make a command decision, Highness. And I have no doubt it was the right one. My lord Somerset did not foresee that York would conceal men in yonder knoll or that Gloucester would rally so swiftly to his aid. I had to decide what was best for my men.”
Edward stared at him, this man who had fought for Lancaster at St Albans, for York at Towton. “But Somerset expected our support,” he said, almost inaudibly.
“I did assume you were in agreement with me, Your Grace.” Wenlock’s voice was suddenly flint. “You did not, after all, raise any objections at the time. Did you?”
Edward flushed. He had a blurred glimpse of faces, shocked, enraged, uncertain. A forgotten piece of battle lore floated to the surface of his mind, dealt with the dangers of letting men see their battle commanders fall out among themselves. He opened his mouth, not at all sure what he meant to say, and then, like all the others, he was turning, staring at the rider coming up the hill toward the Lancastrian lines, coming at a breakneck gallop that had every man there expecting momentarily to see the animal go down, to see a foreleg snap like kindling. It stumbled once, but regained its balance, came on. Edward hardly recognized it as a horse, its muzzle dripping froth, eyes glazed and rolling back with fear, so streaked and smeared with blood that it was impossible to tell what color it once was, white or grey. He was staring with such horror at the horse that it was some seconds before he looked to the rider, and stunned, recognized the Duke of Somerset.
Somerset was as ghastly a sight as the horse he rode, drenched in Yorkist blood, and, shouting like a madman, so incoherent that his words were lost, conveyed only a rage such as none among them had ever seen in any sane man.
Edward was frozen in the saddle. Wenlock, too, seemed incapable of moving, staring at this bloodied raving apparition as if he doubted his senses.
“Judas! Traitorous son of a Yorkist whore! Where were you when my men were being butchered?”
Wenlock suddenly seemed to recognize his peril. One hand went to his sword; he started to speak. He was never given the chance. Somerset spurred his maddened mount against Wenlock’s; the other horse reeled under the impact, stumbled to its knees.
“By Jesus, this will be the last time you do York’s dirty work!”
Even as he spoke, Somerset’s battle-axe flashed up and over. The force of the blow sliced through Wenlock’s helmet as if it were parchment; the blade buried itself in his skull. Brains, bone, and grey-white tissue were flung into the air, splattered the closest of the soldiers. Wenlock made no sound; he was dead before he hit the ground.
Somerset stared down at the body. Gradually his breathing slowed, no longer came in convulsive gasps. He raised his head, looked about him, and was sobered by what he saw on the faces of the encircling men. They thought him mad; it showed in their wordless watching, in the horrified eyes that slid away from him, looked anywhere but at his face.
For the first time he became aware of Edward’s presence. He turned his heaving mount toward the boy.
“Highness…” he began, his voice jerky, like one learning to talk again after years of enforced silence.
Edward’s horse shied away from the bloody monster Somerset rode. Edward, too, seemed to shrink back.
“I assure you I am not mad,” Somerset said harshly, gave a queer choked laugh that made him wonder if he spoke the truth.
No one answered him. Edward seemed no more able to meet his eyes than the other men. For a span of time that had no meaning for him, could not be measured in terms of minutes or hours or any known standard, Somerset sat motionless, staring at his Prince, staring but not seeing, the only sound in his ears that of his rasping, labored breathing. Then two things happened at once.
Edward said suddenly, “It wasn’t my fault, Somerset! Say it wasn’t!”
At the same time, Somerset heard his name being shouted. A rider was shoving his way toward them; men were scrambling out of his path, letting him pass. Somerset turned in the saddle, recognized his younger brother John, who’d been with Devon’s battle.
“Have you all gone mad?” John’s eyes took in the scene before him; his face changed.
“Jesú! I do believe you have!” He wrenched his gaze from Wenlock’s body, back to Somerset’s face.
“Edmund, get hold of yourself, for sweet Christ’s sake! Devon is dead, and York is now turning the center upon us! Lady Mary, have pity! Have you been stricken blind and dumb? Christ, man, look!” And he gestured wildly toward the battlefield, toward the oncoming army of York.
Somerset tried. He broke his heart trying. Shouting until his voice failed him. Striking about him with the flat of his sword at his fleeing soldiers. Spurring his shuddering mount upon the men of York until the animal quite simply came to the end of its endurance and no longer responded to the rasping of the silver rowels or the pressure of the bit in its bloodied mouth. Even then, he persisted. Scorning his own safety, he took chances that bordered on madness. But courage was no longer enough, not now.
The Sunne of York bannered the field, swept all before it. The heart had gone from the Lancastrian army. They’d seen their vanguard slaughtered, seen their leaders turn upon each other. Now men cast aside their weapons, sought only to save themselves, and Somerset alone tried to hold them against York.
Devon was dead. So was Somerset’s brother, John Beaufort. Prince Edward had long since fled the field, urged on by the bodyguards sworn to see to his safety. Somerset’s men drowned trying to cross the Avon, died trying to reach the sanctuary of the abbey. Somerset found himself upon a field with his dead and the exultant soldiers of the White Rose, a
nd as he raged among them, cursing and sobbing, even death seemed to elude him; until at last he sank to his knees, had not the strength to rise, to lift his sword, watching through a red wavering haze the death of the House of Lancaster.
A number of fugitives from the battle had found sanctuary in the nave of St Mary Abbey. The church was soon packed with exhausted apprehensive men, who lay bleeding upon the patterned tile floor, sprawled in the Lady Chapel, before the high altar, even against the font holding its sacred store of holy water, listening with wildly beating hearts and shuddering breath as the priests tried to deny entry to the pursuing Yorkists.
Most of the men seeking sanctuary were foot soldiers; most, but not all. Among them, too, were the battle captains of Lancaster, those who’d survived the carnage on the field, and their fear was greatest for they knew they could expect no quarter from York. Two of their number, Sir Gervase Clifton and Sir Thomas Tresham, edged closer to the north-porch entranceway, where the black-clad figure of Abbot Streynsham stood, blocking the light and barring the way.
The outer doors had been forced, but the Abbot had positioned himself before the inner door that led into the nave, holding aloft the Host, and for the moment, at least, he’d managed to halt the vengeful tide that threatened to engulf the abbey in blood. Under his outstretched arm, the trapped men saw Yorkist soldiers shoving closer, their voices raised in rising anger. They were reluctant, however, to lay hands upon an Abbot, and for the time being, were contenting themselves with shouted abuse. Clifton and Tresham knew, though, that their constraint could give way at any moment; it need only take one man, one willing to force his way into the church.
“Ye cannot enter a House of God for killing.” The Lord Abbot had all the authority of his Church in his voice. He stared the men down, said with daunting certainty, with the glacial assurance of one accustomed to being obeyed, “These men within claim the right of sanctuary. Dare you call upon yourselves the wrath of Almighty God by harming them? Those who would despoil God’s Church do so at the peril of their immortal souls, take upon themselves eternal damnation.”
The soldiers shifted, unwillingly impressed. Within the abbey, the men waited, scarcely breathing.
“Do you forget, my lord Abbot, that the abbey of St Mary the Virgin is not a sanctuary church?”
Clifton and Tresham crouched down, trying to see without being seen. The men seemed to have cleared away from the door. They could glimpse a sweeping silvery tail, saw hooves strike sparks against the flagstone, and realized that the knight who had spoken had ridden his stallion up onto the very porch of the abbey. That the speaker was a knight, they’d known at once, even before seeing the destrier, for the voice had the unmistakable inflection of rank.
The Abbot was eyeing the stallion with outrage, stood his ground even though the roan’s withers were within reach of his hand.
“The right of sanctuary has been recognized by Holy Church since the Lord did say unto the Vicar of Christ, ‘Thou art Peter, and upon this rock will I build my Church, and the gates of Hell shall not prevail against it.’ ”
“The right has been recognized, yes. But not every church can offer sanctuary. This abbey has no royal charter. Nor has it been named a sanctuary church by papal bull. And you do know that, Abbot John, quite as well as I.”
Abbot Streynsham flushed and then went pale. There’d been nothing of the awe of the priesthood in that cold derisive voice, only arrogance and a sophisticated knowledge of canon law such as few laymen would have. For the first time he peered up into the face half shadowed by the upraised visor. Even as Clifton and Tresham were chilled by a suspicion neither dared voice aloud, they saw the Abbot kneel upon the porch, say in a suddenly submissive voice, “I do implore my sovereign lord’s pardon, but I did not at once recognize Your Grace.”
Edward stared down at the Abbot, his face expressionless. He heard his name echoing within, passing from man to man with a fear that was palpable.
“Stand aside, Holy Father,” he said, and the soldiers of York surged forward, only to halt in uncertainty, for the Abbot had not budged from the doorway.
“My liege, you must not do this,” he said urgently, compellingly. “Do not profane your victory with blood spilled within the confines of a Church of God. Have you not reason this day to be grateful for His favor? Would you now repay His bounty with blood shed in His House? For your soul’s sake, my lord, consider!”
For a long moment, while the fugitives within the abbey trembled and the Abbot held his breath, Edward looked down at him, saying nothing. And then he nodded grudgingly.
“You do argue more like lawyer than priest.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Belike as not, they are one and the same. Very well. The lives of the men within the church are yours. I do give them to you. Spoils of war,” he said mockingly and neatly backed the roan off the abbey porch as the Lancastrians reacted with joy to their reprieve and his own men with a surprised soured acceptance.
Within the abbey, men were laughing and embracing one another; others seemed stunned. Tresham and Clifton stared at each other, unable to credit their deliverance, and then they, too, embraced, began to talk both at once, with the feverish animation of the reborn.
Almost at their feet, a man lay slumped against one of the soaring stone columns. He’d not moved, not spoken a word, listened with utter indifference as Abbot Streynsham sought to sway Edward of York. Now he raised his eyes, stared up at Tresham and Clifton. His face was so caked with blood and dirt that recognition would have been a challenge even for his loved ones; he bore an already yellowing bruise above one eye, and more than any of them, he did look as if he’d bathed in blood, for it was matted in the tangled brown hair, crusted on his armor, even flecked his eyebrows. It was impossible to tell how much of it, if any, was his own, for the eyes were beyond revealing pain, were empty of all emotion. When he spoke, there was nothing, either, in his voice; although the words themselves were harsh, the voice was not, was totally devoid of feeling.
“Do you truly believe York shall let you live once he finds out the names of the men within this church?”
Tresham was taken aback, snapped, “Why not? He did give his word. Did you not hear?”
“Aye, I heard. Now you tell me this, Tresham. If the abbey were filled with knights of York, how long would we have let them live?”
Tresham had started upon hearing his name. He bent down, squinting into the shadows, gasped. “Jesú! Beaufort! I did hear you fell on the field!”
Somerset merely looked at him, and Tresham felt emotion stir, perilously akin to rage. Somerset had managed to sour the hopes he’d taken from York’s unlooked-for leniency. Somerset had also, as he saw it, brought them all to ruin with his vainglorious battle plan. The relief of turning his anguish upon a tangible target was sweet beyond belief.
“After the work you did this day, I’d as soon hear nothing more from you about what you think York will or will not do. God knows you had no luck reading him on the field! Nor should I need remind you that if you prove to be right and our lives forfeit, you, my lord Somerset, will be the first to lay your head on the block!”
Clifton stepped quickly between them, for the murderous temper of the Beauforts was as one with legend. But Somerset didn’t move, just stared up at Tresham.
“Christ on the Cross, man,” he said slowly, “do you truly think I care?”
There was movement behind them. Sir Humphrey Audley, another who had little reason to expect clemency from York, was shoving his way toward them.
“Edmund, thank God!”
Somerset said nothing, seemed not to recognize him, although Audley was a friend first of youth and then of manhood.
“About your brother, Edmund…” Audley began, then saw the absurdity of offering condolences for a private grief when the world as they knew it was in ashes.
Clifton now said, with all too obvious hesitancy, “Do any know if Prince Edward was taken?”
All around them, conversation
hushed. Among the men huddled against the font, one now rose to his knees, turned an ashen face toward them. Audley recognized John Gower, sword-bearer to their Prince, felt a sick surge of dread. But Gower’s words were unexpectedly hopeful.
“I was separated from my young lord when my horse took an arrow in the gullet. But he was well mounted and making for the village when last I did see him, with none in close pursuit. Those with him would not let harm befall him, that I do know. I think it most likely he did escape.”
Clifton breathed a hasty prayer of thanksgiving. So did Audley. And then a voice spoke from the shadows behind them, an unfamiliar voice that said flatly, “No…he did not.”
They all turned, toward the tiny chapel of the Holy Child, toward the unknown speaker who lay panting against the altar. He wore the badge of the slain Earl of Devon, and his face was grey with the exhaustion that allowed no other emotion but indifference. He was bleeding profusely, seemed as careless of that as he did of the hostile stares he’d drawn upon himself.
Audley found his voice first. “What do you know of our Prince? Speak, man, and God save you if you lie!”
The boy—for they saw now that he was little more than that—acknowledged the threat with the same uncaring apathy. He looked at Audley with ageless eyes, said briefly, “He’s dead.”
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Gower flung himself forward, with a cry that was both sob and curse.
“You lie! God rot your soul, you lie!”
Several men laid hands on him before he could reach the young soldier, who had yet to move, who watched incuriously as the struggling Gower was borne down upon the tiled floor, where he suddenly went limp, began to heave with dry shuddering sobs.
Kneeling beside Somerset, Audley saw the tremor that shook the other man’s body, and said urgently, “Be you sure, lad? For Jesú’s sake, think before you do answer!”
The Sunne in Splendour Page 49