A Bloody Field by Shrewsbury

by Edith Pargeter

  “I will,” he said, and led the way down from the wall to the inner ward where the horses waited. A dozen of his knights and squires attended him on that ride from the castle, down the steep, curving Wile to the English gate. The barriers were already open wide, the portcullis raised, and the foremost horsemen were clattering over the draw-bridge and across the four nearer arches of the bridge itself. The prince lighted down from his horse and stood in the gateway to receive his father.

  “My liege lord, we rejoice to see you. You are come in good time.” He held the king’s stirrup, standing slender and straight and grave as his father dismounted and embraced him.

  Under Henry’s brushing lips the boy’s cheek was stiff and cold as stone, and his eyes wide and clear and quite inexpressive, though that could have been the blank emptiness of shock followed by relief. If he was loyal, he had passed through an ordeal of waiting which was not to be taken lightly, and he might well be wrung and drained now that it was over. And if he was disloyal…The chill face under the parental kiss, the unspeaking eyes, might cover a disappointment he could not show to the world. All this wild ride had passed in hoping and praying never to have to know on which side this boy’s heart inclined, and now that he held him by the shoulders and peered attentively into his face, the king was wracking his heart and tormenting his judgment, after all, to discover the truth. Now he would have given everything but his threatened crown to know for certain what he had devoutly prayed he need never know. Prayers are heard, he thought bitterly, searching in vain the clear brow and impenetrable gaze, from this face I never shall know, not even if he willed me dead.

  “My lord, will you now dispose our defences yourself ? You know what numbers I am left with here, but I trust you’ll find I have looked as well as I might to our most urgent needs. And we are well provisioned. If it please you take over the command, I will deliver you account of all.”

  “We have other accounting to do,” said the king shortly, and took his hands from the boy’s shoulders and swung himself back into the saddle. “They cannot be many hours behind us, come, we have to secure the suburbs against them. Why have you not fired the foregate? Do you want to leave them an easy approach, and the means of filling in your ditch? See to it! Get the people inside at once, and put torch to the houses. My lord of Stafford, see everything within here, and the gate made fast, and follow us to the castle.”

  The loyal chivalry of England were clattering in orderly columns across the draw-bridge. It would be an hour before all the foot soldiers and the wagons were within, the armourers and servants and baggage-horses. The prince mounted silently, and followed his father, like a dutiful son, a few paces to his side and rear as they rode back to the castle.

  “You have no reports of Glendower close?”

  “No, sir. We had scouts out yesterday, but there’s no sign, and even if they have turned back from the south already, I think they cannot be here for at least two or three days. I have a good man out now across the river. He will send us word if I prove wrong. But I am sure they will not move so fast.” He meant, and he was not alone in marvelling at it: Their plans can never have taken into account that you could move so fast!

  And why? Why, or how? What had stung and driven him into so outdoing himself ? For me? the boy wondered, but could not believe he mattered so greatly to this dry, harsh, absent man. Yet he could have fought for his crown wherever he chose, he reasoned feverishly, without this breakneck race. He has near twice as many men, surely, as Hotspur can possibly have brought so far in so short a time.

  Quietly and passively he rode at his father’s elbow, and faithfully he rendered account of his stewardship. That he was already in half-armour had been noted before ever he was kissed, that he knew, having eyes that missed nothing. Upon probation he was accepted as satisfactory. But loved enough to stir that chilly blood into fire? That he doubted.

  By his own test, God had chosen. He was not yet sure how Henry, prince of Wales, had chosen.

  * * *

  It was in the early evening of that same day, Friday, the 20th of July, in the year of Our Lord fourteen hundred and three, that Lord Henry Percy brought his host, now some fourteen thousand men in all, to the spot where the road from Newport joined the road from the north, and swung left with it towards the castle foregate of Shrewsbury, the single dry-shod gate of a river-girt town, some mile or more distant. The countryside through which they marched was green and rich and lazy with summer, a land of fields and hamlets and scattered copses, undulating only very gently. North-eastwards it subsided with equal gentleness into the flatter plains of Cheshire, without a break. In this equable landscape they had already remarked, long since, the column of black smoke riding up into the summer sky, billowing darkly in middle air before it dispersed in an evil, russet-grey cloud drifting to westward, and making the declining sun angry and baleful. The flickering glow from beneath lit it only briefly and at long intervals; nevertheless, it was recognisable.

  “They’ll have fired whatever’s beyond the wall,” said Douglas, riding easy and tireless at Hotspur’s side. “Harry, I doubt you’re expected yonder.”

  “Archie, I doubt I am so!” And he laughed, freely and gladly, to see this evidence of resistance. “Ah, but I had a sweet pupil there, a foe after my own heart! He has no more than a handful to stay him, and he fires the foregate against me, and sets me at defiance. Oh, but I’m glad of him! I set out to have him without a blow, that’s the truth, but I’ll buy him as dear as I must, and never grudge what he cost me, if I can but put him out of risk and out of the battle. I tell you, I’d rather lose my throw outright than harm a hair of his head. We shall have to tread softly here, softly, or he’ll impale himself on our lances, and that I’d never forgive.”

  They were riding at the head of the long column, the earl of Worcester behind with the rearguard, and only a couple of mounted scouts, one a Shropshire man, out before them, sounding the way ahead and harking back to the marching army ever and again to ensure continual contact. They had measured their pace from Stafford to be sure, so far as certainty is possible in human affairs, of being well ahead of any move the king could make, and yet to allow as much rest as was wise to men who had marched long distances and had good need to conserve their strength for the collision to come. A fair part of the chivalry of Cheshire rode at their backs, Sir Richard Venables, baron of Kinderton, Sir Richard Vernon, baron of Shipbrook, a formidable contingent of Cheshire archers, and knights from both Cheshire and Shropshire. With the Percy levies, and Douglas and his Scottish knights, a very worthy company.

  “And did you think to take this prince of yours without resistance?” Douglas asked mildly, watching the mounting column of smoke blacken and blot out the sun.

  “This prince of mine is not such a creature as may ever be taken without resistance. But I did think to trim the possibilities so far as to tie his hands out of danger. Short of this,” he admitted, and frowned thoughtfully before him where the pulsing fires flashed fitfully under the darkling cloud. “If he resolves on fighting to the death, there’s a back door I know of, though I’d meant it only for Owen when he comes. With so thin a garrison as Hal has here, we might get a party inside the wall by night.”

  “A fair enough risk for a royal hostage,” said Douglas.

  “He will not be a hostage. There shall no ill use be made of him.” Hotspur’s face was forbiddingly grave. What was to become of Hal in the new dispensation was more than he had yet considered, but it was God’s truth that so far as lay in Hotspur’s power, no ill use should ever be made of him.

  They were drawing steadily nearer to the outer fringe of the suburb that sprawled outside the castle gate. The first broken shapes of what had been shops and houses showed blackly, billowing acrid smoke across the sullied fields, and glowing dully under the murk that was their only remaining roof. With the coming of the early evening a fresh wind had sprung up from the south-west, and was sweeping the bannerole of smoke crosswise in a long, flau
nting streamer, uncovering by brief glimpses the crenellated crest of the wall beyond, and the towers of the castle. Hotspur’s eyes narrowed against the shifting, smarting smoke and the delusive light, holding fast to those jagged outlines against the sky. They could hear timber beams bursting like bombards, and the fallen wood of doors and shutters crackling like a fire of thorns.

  Hotspur’s hand tightened smoothly on the rein, and his horse, instantly responsive, checked and eased to a halt in a few paces, and stood quivering. Hotspur glanced once over his shoulder, and waved the following ranks to a halt.

  “Sound the recall,” he said to the trumpeter who rode attentive at his back, “and fetch the outriders back to us. Let’s hear what they have to say. This is beyond reasonable. I would not have supposed he had even the men to spread his devastation so far. Much less,” he said with dark uneasiness, “the will. He does not love destruction, if he has no fear of it.”

  The trumpeter sent a piercing call before them, bright brazen gold shearing into the smutty blackness. In a few minutes it brought the nearer of the forward scouts cantering back out of the sluggish, wallowing fog that covered the road ahead. He dropped the fold of his cloak that he had been hugging across mouth and nostrils, and wiped his soiled face.

  “My lord, it’s all but impassable ahead, the whole foregate’s burning. John Rowan has ridden forward to see if he can make out more of their dispositions, but the wall’s manned, and heavily. I would not have believed the prince could have so strong a force here.”

  “How long ago do you suppose they put fire to this quarter?” asked Hotspur intently.

  “My lord, not above five hours, I swear. And not in one or two places, but a dozen. And, my lord, I have not been so far ahead to be certain, but it seemed to me that all the houses close to the castle ditch had been not merely fired, but razed. There’s a clear zone round the gate, clean of smoke.”

  “It’s impossible!” said Hotspur in the softest and bleakest of whispers, to himself rather than to them. “He would have needed thousands of labourers. He had not the men by him for such a task. And if he had, he would have found them better work!”

  The earl of Worcester was trotting up to join them from the rear of the column as the second outrider came blundering towards them out of the foul darkness ahead, face-down on his arm, and oozing black tears down his furrowed, sweating face. He was the Shropshireman, and he knew his Shrewsbury.

  “My lord, the place swarms! They’ve razed the houses all along the ditch, and massed more archers than I dreamed they had along the wall. They’ve marched out a guard of pikemen and bowmen before the gate, in cover of the rubble, and are making shelters there for cover. I’ve been as close as man can get, and I make them more than two thousand men outside the gate, and at least as many well-placed inside, to pick off any who get through as fast as they come. If they’ve laid out so many, they have at least as many in reserve, and more resting for the relief. There’s not a hope of carrying the gate against such odds.”

  There was no doubting his report; the evidence of the destructive activities of some thousands of men was there before their eyes. They looked at one another frowningly, incredulous still.

  “I left him with barely a thousand to his name,” said Worcester positively. “He has got reinforcements from somewhere. But in God’s name, where? You cannot whistle up an army out of the ground. You’ll not attempt battle now on such terms, Harry? At this hour, and after such a march?”

  “No, impossible!” By Monday Glendower would be there on the other side of Severn, and Edmund with him, with all the Mortimer arms. No, there was not so much haste that they could not wait to be certain. And if they could not get in but at too high a price and too great a risk, yet they could prevent young Hal from getting out. For whatever force he had found from some secret resource of his own, it could not be as great as now it showed. The town was mounting an elaborate deceit to ward off attack, or else attract it upon the best available terms. It was too transparent; and Hotspur was not merely holding his own quarrel in his hands now, but his nephew’s crown. Risks which might have been acceptable to him, on his own account he could no longer contemplate. “No, we’ll wait our own good time to fight. We’ll draw off and camp overnight. John, you know this river of yours. Is there a ford within reach where we can hold touch with the Welsh bank, out of range of the town?”

  “Yes, my lord, at Shelton, to the north-west, by the Whitchurch road. We shall have to circle the bend of the Severn—half a mile back by the road we came. I’ll bring you there.”

  He had had a bitter check, and he sat silently for some minutes, coming to terms with it. Tonight he had hoped to have a base, well-provisioned, with ample accommodation for his men, excellent communications westwards, and reinforcements on the way from both north and west. And most of all, and his heart grieved and fretted at the shattering of this hope, the prince disarmed, immobilised, out of danger, spared any ordeal of choice between rival affections and conflicting loyalties. That was over. He must deal with things as he found them. But he waited to have the mastery, not only of his face, but of his heart and will, before he turned about and withdrew to a night camp somewhere in the meadows north of the town. Nothing was lost but soft lying, a little indulgence by way of better eating, and a degree of security. But what was security, and who possessed it, in this world?

  He sat with his hands lax and open on the rein, his eyes fixed upon the towers of the castle, seen fitfully between the coils of smoke. And as he watched, the wind, freshening boisterously with the changing temperature of the evening, suddenly tightened its hold and drew back the black folds as a hand draws a curtain, sweeping them strongly aside and delivering to view a long segment of the wall, clear against the westward sky. The same gust drew out fully the great banner on the tower, spreading it vauntingly before Hotspur’s eyes, every colour and every shape seen clearly for one long moment. He had excellent eyes, keen, long-sighted and tireless, able to pick out detail and stoop upon it like a hawk striking. He reared his head, suddenly rigid from heels to hair, and the horse shuddered under him, and froze to the ground in sympathy.

  “No!” he said in a whisper, to himself, not to them. “No, he could not! It’s impossible!”

  “What is it?” Douglas demanded, stiffening to the same tension. “For God’s sake, man, what is it you see?”

  “Nothing but a banner on the wall,” said Hotspur, and laughed briefly and bitterly. “Dear God, I blame myself ! How could I have miscalculated so grossly? I should have known! I should have done him justice—if he could no longer fight for himself with a whole mind, there was one for whom he could!”

  “The prince’s banner?” said Worcester, with blank incomprehension, peering through haze as the smoke doubled back across their field of vision. “What of it? I see nothing curious in it.”

  “Uncle, your eyes are less sharp then mine, or you see what you will to see. Watch now—the wind freshens again. There!”

  The wind took the heavy silks again, and spread them triumphantly to view, the deep blue with the fleurs de lis of “France moderae,” the blood-red of England with the three golden lions, the arms of the royal house. “Do you see any silver label of cadency there?”

  The regal colours, distant as they were, streamed clear before them for a long, derisive moment, before they were veiled again in recoiling fronds of smoke. And it was plain to see that there was no silver bar, with three teeth pointing downwards, set across the upper quarters of the device. What they had taken for granted as the arms of the prince was, in truth, the royal banner itself, without any badge of cadency. They caught the truth of it, in all its implications, and sat mute and motionless, staring until the caprice of the wind veiled the phenomenon from their sight.

  King Henry, Henry of Lancaster in the new dispensation, had done the impossible. By what frenzy of jealousy or prodigy of anxious paternal love he had achieved it might never be known, but somehow he had conveyed a clumsy, unwieldy, slow
-moving army of twenty-five thousand men, with all their baggage and supplies and camp-followers, a quarter of the way across England in less than three days. It was not the prince of Wales with a hapless skeleton force, but the king of England with all his host, who waited to confront them in Shrewsbury.

  13

  In Shrewsbury there was disorder wherever the soldiers were not, and order of a disorderly kind where the soldiers were, order that meant a systematic looting of all citizen armaments and stores of food, and the billeting of troops wherever there was space for them, in every household and barn and workshop, in every orchard where the summer nights made sleeping in the open air possible. No army is ever popular where it must set to work to feed and partially arm itself at the expense of the citizens. Yet Shrewsbury welcomed this army with gratitude and relief, and grumbled less than usual about its depredations. English feeling here had always been heavily on the king’s side, simply because the English here lived so close to the peril of Wales. To trade across the border was one thing; to be threatened by a large Welsh army, reputedly already hammering at the gates, was something very different.

  The panic rumours grew after the firing of the castle foregate. Surely the Welsh were coming, in strength, to kill and rape and rob. A half-demented friar preached at the Cross, and laid all the town’s sorrows at the door of the Welsh within the gates. Within an hour after the houses outside the wall began to burn, the first house within the wall was burning, too, the house of a Welsh baker. The soldiers quartered on him put out the fire before it set light to a whole district of the town, expelled the raiders, and sent them away with a flea in the ear. But they only acquired a few more enthusiasts round the next corner, and went on to the next house. By then every Welshman resident within the walls was a secret agent and a traitor, waiting to let the enemy in. Doors were broken open, shutters wrenched away from windows, household furnishings stolen, and a few people beaten and wounded. Sometimes the king’s soldiers, if they were at hand, intervened to save worse chaos and injury. Sometimes they let be, and went on indifferently with what they were doing, for indeed they had more than enough to do.