The moon rose and the city of Gloucester lay on their left shoulders. They passed it with their heads high and backs straight, ready to strike wherever they were aimed. The spring grass was flattened in a great swathe ahead of them. Every man marching along with Edward knew they were close, that when the sun rose, they would land a blow hard enough to shatter a royal house.
Margaret tried not to let her son see her nervousness, though of course he read it anyway. He had spent some part of every day for the previous ten years with her, either at her father’s estate in Saumur or in the royal palace and gardens of King Louis. Prince Edward knew his mother too well, perhaps. He took one look at her and his eyes darkened, as if a light had gone out behind them.
‘Is the news so terrible, Mother?’ he asked.
Margaret smiled tightly and dismissed the panting scout who had come in. The young lad looked as stricken as she was. He had taken away some part of her hopes, to replace them with an old fear.
‘I had not expected him to pursue us quite as quickly as this,’ Margaret said. There was no need to name the one who had come after them, springing out of London like a cat waiting for some tiny shift in the grasses. Edward of York had come at the charge and Margaret knew she was not ready to face him, if she could ever be. She still remembered the multitude of the dead, that nation on the field that had come to the banners of Lancaster around Towton, out of loyalty to her husband. They had been slaughtered by the young king who raced to catch her then. He’d stood in line and he had fought and killed as if he could not tire.
She shivered, crossing herself at the thought that someone had stepped over her grave. She could hear the voice of the river ahead, the sound of water rushing in a million tons over stones. As if in answer, she heard another roar sound behind, just two or three miles away across the fields. She was truly afraid then. Edward had come and she was still in England.
For what seemed an age, Margaret’s army stood poised on the brink of the fording place, with Wales almost close enough to touch. The River Severn had narrowed with each mile inland and the water was certainly shallow there, but still black as the night over them. It was hard to be sure they were even in the right spot and Margaret had men casting lines with stones to check the depth was not too great for them. All the time they waited for the sound of horns and marching men approaching. Of all her enemies, Edward was the least predictable. He might wait until dawn, or he might just rush her lines in the darkness to create murder and madness wherever he touched.
The stars had turned around the north for some good part of the night by the time Somerset agreed with Baron Wenlock and Earl Devon that the York forces had made camp. The scouts reported no movement from the enemy and Margaret’s exhausted men lay down to sleep at last in the fields. News of their arrival had spread to the town nearby and lights showed in the blackness there as lamps were lit and a deep note sounded from the bells of an abbey. Margaret did not know if it was to warn the sleeping townspeople about her army or the soldiers of York, but it seemed a death knell, booming through the night.
Somerset rode up and dismounted with Courtenay, Earl Devon, and Baron Sir John Wenlock, all three men bowing to the queen and her son. Prince Edward watched them with an expression of stiff seriousness in the torchlight, taking his manner from the more experienced lords.
‘We could still cross tonight, my lady, if you wish it,’ Somerset said. ‘I’ll put a chain of men into the shallows and guide the rest over without lights to alert our enemies.’
‘But that is not what you want,’ Margaret guessed from his expression. She too was weary, her head feeling thick and clotted with the need to sleep.
Somerset smiled, pleased. He exchanged a glance with Wenlock and Earl Devon. Margaret saw that the three men had already discussed what they intended to do. Coming to her was no more than a formality and she set her jaw in irritation. She understood rather better than Somerset imagined. They needed no charade of asking her permission, not really. Margaret knew she had no great military experience. She expected men like Somerset and Wenlock and Earl Devon – aye, and even her son – to make decisions on their own wits and strength and skill, not wait on her order.
‘You have the command, my lord Somerset,’ she said a little curtly. ‘Perhaps you should tell me what you want to do.’
‘Thank you, my lady, for your trust,’ he said, bowing again. Margaret decided she did not like this son as much as his older brother. Perhaps it was true that all the good wines had been drunk, leaving just the bitter dregs.
‘We could cross the river,’ Somerset said, ‘but it would take all night and the forces of York will do it in half the time tomorrow morning. We would have exhausted our men further and gained nothing except to have them fall on us as we retreat.’
‘And instead?’ Margaret said.
‘I would have the men drawn up here, my lady. The river will be useful cover on that flank. The men are committed to you – and to your son. I believe they will not run, though I will position them away from the fording point, so they would have to get past York to cross. After that, my intention is to hold the ground while the house of York breaks itself against us.’
‘And you believe we can win?’ Margaret said. Lord Wenlock made almost a growl of assent through his moustaches. Somerset and Devon both nodded slowly.
‘I believe so, my lady,’ Somerset replied after a moment, ‘with God’s grace. No man can say more than that – and I would rather show you in deeds than oaths or promises.’
She smiled to have her own words thrown back at her.
‘Where shall I stand?’ her son said, his voice tight with strain as he tried to look as stern and forbidding as the other three. Somerset glanced at him and scratched his cheek with a rasping noise against the stubble.
‘Edward of York prefers the centre, Your Highness. His brother Richard is likely to command a wing, left or right I don’t know. I do not know all of the men facing us, but I would not like to put you in reach of either of them. Perhaps you could command our reserve companies, Your Highness. It is vital work and you’ll have the river on your elbow. If you can hold the ground there, I’ll be able to bring all our archers out to the left. Do you think you can remain steady under fire, without rashness? It will be a brutal day, Prince Edward. Your mother will remain behind the line, in the town of Tewkesbury. Actually …’ He paused as if the idea had just occurred to him. ‘It would be no shame for a young fellow of your years to wait with her.’
Prince Edward’s initial excitement had faded as he heard where Somerset wished to put him.
‘What? No, my lord Somerset,’ he said firmly. ‘If Edward of York holds the centre, I believe I must stand against him to win my spurs. Unless you think I can make my name while hiding behind my mother’s skirts? No? Have no fear for my youth, my lord. I have waited all my life for this moment.’
‘Ah, you see, that is what I fear, Your Highness. I … have my own desire to see vengeance, but that does not mean I will go rushing upon the enemy with a wild shout, do you understand? Battles can last an entire day and must be taken as strong spirit, in sips and drops, rather than a huge draught that might leave you senseless or break your mother’s heart.’
Edward developed two pink spots high on his cheeks as he answered, his voice curt. His mother smiled to hear him speak with such clear authority.
‘Well, I have heard you, my lords. The centre is where I will stand. I will simply have to try not to disappoint you tomorrow.’
Somerset shook his head, flushed and uncomfortable.
‘I am sorry if I have embarrassed you, Your Highness. If I could, I would offer my life tomorrow and see you spared from harm. I have no sons of my own – and you are … you were my father’s hope when he died, my brother’s when he stretched his neck on a York block. In their memory, I would give my life to save yours – all to see the sons of York made cold and broke.’
There was a terrible passion in Somerset as he spoke the last and bo
th Prince Edward and his mother looked away rather than observe his most intimate pain.
‘I will command the centre square,’ Edward murmured once again. He had not understood all he had heard and he wished to be certain the lords had not taken away what he wanted with their speeches.
‘I’ll stand with you then, if I may, lad,’ Lord Wenlock said. When Prince Edward nodded, the old man reached out and clapped him soundly on the back.
Somerset came back to himself at the words and nodded. With formality, he bowed to queen and prince.
‘It is settled then. My lord Courtenay, Earl Devon, will take the left wing. I will take the right – and Prince Edward and Wenlock the centre square. Very well. I will tell the men to sleep, as best they can. When it is over tomorrow, I am at your orders. I’ll know better then if we should go on into Wales – or back to London to display the body of York for the crowds.’
‘I will pray for it,’ Margaret said. ‘Go to your own rest now, Edmund. I will ask God for our victory tomorrow. We can make it all anew if Edward falls. With men like you, my lords, we can begin again.’
22
Edward could already see the sun’s dim haze of gold in the east and he breathed out, relieved it would not be like Barnet. He’d understood how much good fortune had played a part in his victory there. He did not dwell on it, as he did not dwell on anything, but it had given him pause. Perhaps luck had given him Warwick and Montagu in the end. He would win the rest with strength and endurance – and he would be more ruthless than those who faced him.
His weary army had moved up at first light, bringing a dozen cannon carts trundling along with them. The teams of young men who had bowled them along the roads were just about finished, bent over and staggering, so tired they could barely stand. A few had gone down on the way, feet broken under a wheel or with an arm wrenched by the spokes. Yet the rest would still play their part.
As the mists continued to thin and swirl, it did not please Edward to see the forces of Lancaster arrayed across a wide line and somehow six or eight yards above his men, as if they floated on air. It was no more than a mild rise in the land, but still it meant his soldiers would be fighting uphill as they attacked. They were already tired after the vast distance they had marched to cut Margaret off.
Edward grumbled to himself, but there was little he could do, at least before the sun thinned the mists and he could see the landscape around them. His brother George sat just a few places away in line, looking up at the standing ranks of Lancaster in awe almost, as if they were a religious vision. Edward tightened his mouth in reaction to seeing Clarence with his own hanging open. They made a fine, brave sight, it was true, with huge banners flying, the blue and yellow of Somerset, the red and yellow of Devon, the black and white feathers of a Prince of Wales. Edward did not know the three black heads on Wenlock’s banners and had to point and ask one of his heralds. He knew old man Wenlock by reputation and was just surprised to find he was still alive. Edward wondered if Margaret had lost so many that she had to rely on boys and ancients.
His brother Richard came cantering across the marching lines, kicking up clods of loose earth and mud as he went.
‘Did you see Somerset on our left?’ he called. ‘He bears a grudge, they say, for his father and his brother.’
‘Why not?’ Edward retorted. ‘I do myself – and I lost better men than old Somerset and his lad.’
‘Yes, Brother, I believe I am aware. Still, I heard he has fire in his blood. If you’ll let me take the left wing, I would sting him first with cannon and arrow. Let me see if I can enrage and draw him out, away from that ridge.’
Edward nodded his assent. He trusted his brother – and Lord Hastings, for that matter. He understood how much a battle depended upon that trust. It could not be one great general leading his men, at least not with so many. It was a brotherhood and he realized he was more comfortable on the field of war than any quiet room in London or Windsor. He was made for the battle shout, the clash of arms. Silence and peace wore him down like a mill wheel held to him.
While Edward brooded, Richard of Gloucester raced off with a dozen captains falling in behind him, rearranging entire companies so that they halted and took up new positions on both flanks. The task was made no easier by the land they crossed. The forces of Lancaster sat serene on their escarpment, but every York company was forced down tiny paths between hedges, or made to seek out a gate at the end of a field bordered in hawthorn bushes they could not push through. It was deliberate, of course, which did not make it easier to bear. Edward could hardly blame his enemies for choosing a spot that suited them and interfered with his best deployment. Yet he found himself trotting down a labyrinth of hedge-alleys, separated from his own men as if he was working through a maze. He’d lose sight of the Lancaster forces in the mist or just by the lay of the land and overgrown banks of thorn. In armour, he was sweating like a blacksmith, lacking the vital calm he needed to command well. He could feel anger simmering in him. He welcomed it.
Edmund Beaufort, Duke Somerset, looked down on a landscape of white and dark green, broken by patches of marching men or horsemen hurrying the rest along. What he saw pleased him well enough. He’d seen the extent of the farming ditches that lay to the south of his position as he’d formed the men. It gave him some satisfaction to watch the banners of York go wandering off down ancient tracks as they tried to find their way back to the main direction of advance. If it would not have meant sending orderly ranks into that broken ground and losing their advantage, he’d have been tempted to make a dash down and surprise the enemy before they could truly form up. He did not give the order and watched instead as they found their way closer and closer. They would arrive sweating and weary, he thought.
At one point, the centre of York’s army trudged up a rise in the ground so that they were almost level with Somerset’s banners, but then had to watch them rise once more as the ground dropped into a culvert between the two forces. Somerset smiled at a glimpse of armoured men clambering over a stile in a field, half a mile off. He had no desire to give them the slightest advantage, not when he stood for the rightful king of England and his son.
Margaret had ridden away with just four guards at first light, seeking out a spot in the town where she would have to wait for news. Somerset did not envy her that. For all the danger he would face, he did not think he could have endured hours of silent worry, waiting for word from the field.
His men were ready, armed in good iron that would not break, clad in fine mail or the best plate. Many of them had painted the metal, so that they stood like shining beetles in dark green or red. The poorer knights and men-at-arms stood clad in shades of rust, in armour their fathers had worn.
Somerset could see their confidence. They had the rising ground and the numbers to hold it. More, they seemed to understand how right it was to consider themselves superior to the stumbling, perspiring ranks coming along towards them. Somerset saw determination in his men and he was well pleased. He saw some of them gesture mutely to those they glimpsed in the parting mists. They wanted to begin. Numbers were not the only coin on the scale of victory in battle, Somerset knew that very well. There would come a moment in any conflict of arms when an ordinary man would want to run. If he did, and if the contagion of his fear spread to those around him, his cause would be broken, his women taken, his land enjoyed by others. Yet if somehow he did not, if he could find it within himself to remain with his friends and his companions in iron, he would be Sparta, he would be Rome, he would be England.
‘I believe we will break them here,’ Somerset called suddenly across the heads of his men. His horse snorted and threw its head up, forcing him to walk it in a tight circle as it settled back down. ‘They will come against us and we will say “Enough” to them all. Enough to their petty spite, their ambition! Call enough to all of it. We have a king. His son, the Prince of Wales, stands here on the field with us.’ They cheered as he took another breath and his usual dour mood ea
sed just a fraction, warmed by their voices.
‘Call “Lancaster” or call “Wales” if you will. But call an end to these usurping beggars, who are not fit to wear the crown of our realm.’
The cheering grew louder as they laughed and stamped in reply, showing their approval and casting off the nervousness of waiting to be attacked. As he cheered with them, Somerset saw the banners of Gloucester come through the mist ahead, seeming close enough to touch. He looked for the man himself and saw him there, in armour of green or black, his dark-blond hair unbound and no sign of a helmet. He looked every inch a cruel knight. Somerset felt all his years as he stared down at the eighteen-year-old, riding with his hands held high and lightly on the reins, making his horse step over the rough-turned rows of clay and grass.
The mist was thinning then under the sun’s warmth. Though dawn had barely come, Somerset could watch as Richard of Gloucester brought a mass of brown-clothed archers up on his wing. He saw too the black pipes of cannons held between two cartwheels, aimed and set with blocks and braziers. Trails of grey smoke carried far on the morning breeze that stole the mist away.
Somerset was aware of his captains calling orders for shields to be brought up. His men would have to endure for a time, that was what came of choosing a spot and deciding to stand there. His own archers would answer. Though Somerset had no cannon, he had yet to see one worth its name on the field. They had a place in battering down the walls of a fortress, that was proven work, beyond any doubt. Where there was movement, where men could overwhelm the cannon teams, he saw no future in the filthy things, all noise and smoke, as if brave men should run screaming from those things alone.
Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors Page 28