‘No, he was right,’ York replied. ‘I would rather be dragged from sleep over nothing than surprised in my bed. Look at me, lad. Tell me what you saw.’
The young man stumbled over his answer, his eyes glazed as he looked anywhere but at the Duke of York.
‘The front ranks went in without a whisper, my lord. All quiet. Then they gave a shout and I thought I heard fighting. The rest of them rushed forward all at once and then they were gone and I blew the horn. That’s all I know, my lord. It were the noise, more than anything I saw. Hunters don’t yell, my lord, not as I know it.’
York turned away, staring out at deep woods that suddenly seemed to possess a gloomy menace as he peered into them.
‘How many went out?’
The guard captain answered him.
‘I saw them forming up at the gatehouse, my lord. Two hundred, at least. Some with bows.’
‘Not brigands, then. Two hundred soldiers would be too many for a few ragged thieves.’ York cracked his knuckles, his hands clenching.
‘You’ve heard nothing since?’ he said to the younger guard.
The man shook his head mutely.
‘Stay here then, and keep watch. Call down anything you see at all. There is an army within a day’s march of this fortress. If they are in my woods, I want to –’
He broke off as a small group of men came racing out of the trees, sprinting across the open ground. There could have been no more than forty of them, running like hares. York gaped, seeing that they had their eyes on the keep and were gesturing. Some of them pointed back into the shadowy trees behind.
‘Christ!’ York spat, running back down as fast as he could go. He managed to stay on his feet, though the stairs blurred under him and his steps thundered as he crossed the inner drawbridge to the main yard.
‘Form on the gate!’ he roared across the open ground. ‘Prepare for attack! My horse! To me.’
It felt like the blink of an eye since he had been warm and asleep under the blankets. York shook his head, forcing calm where panic might destroy him. Salisbury was out there and he had come under attack. The only response was to overwhelm whoever was fighting in the trees, to throw every man in Sandal Castle at them.
York saw his son Edmund among those about to pass through the main gate. His heart pounded hard enough to make him feel faint and he reached out and pulled the young man close to him, bending his head to speak.
‘Edmund, take the lover’s door out, on the west side. You know where it is. Get far away from here and wait out the day.’ The tiny door was hidden high on the outer wall, invisible to any attacker. Yet York had shown it to his sons, parting thick ivy to show them where one man at a time might escape. Calling it the lover’s door hid its true purpose, a secret way out when the fortress was about to fall.
His son looked shocked at the suggestion.
‘Is it an attack, then? The queen’s forces?’
‘I don’t know,’ York snapped. ‘Either way, you are not part of it, Edmund. Take two men with you and use the door. I can’t be worrying about you today.’
He reached out and kissed his son on the cheek, embracing him for an instant. ‘Go!’
Edmund might have spoken again, but his father turned his back as his horse and armour were brought. York sat on a tall stool placed under him, while servants bound and strapped thigh-plates and spurred boots on to his feet. He saw his son was still standing there, looking longingly through the main gate as it opened, revealing the desperate men trying to get back in.
‘Go!’ York roared at him, startling Edmund into movement.
York stepped away from the stool in a sudden motion as the hunters came rushing past. He grabbed one of them by the jerkin, almost taking him off his feet with the violent check to his speed.
‘Who attacks us?’ York demanded.
‘I didn’t see any colours, my lord. I thought I heard them call “Percy”, but they were coming from all directions and I was …’
‘How many? Where is Salisbury?’ York shouted, making the man cringe in fear.
‘I didn’t see, my lord! There were many men, but the trees! I don’t …’
With a growl, York shoved him aside. His men were pouring out across the drawbridge, forming ranks outside the fortress like grain spilling over the land, shuffling aside to let more and more come out into the light.
York went out to them as soon as he was encased in armour, walking his mount through and holding his helmet and sword in one hand. Outside the walls, he could feel the wind that blasted across the open ground, carrying the scent of ice with it. He shoved his helmet down, fastening the strap at his throat. He nodded to the soldier who offered his clasped hands, putting his metal boot on to them and mounting in one swift movement. He heard the man curse as a spur sliced the ball of his thumb, but York didn’t look down. Instead, he raised and then sharply dropped his hand.
The captains roared the order to march while half their number were still inside the fortress. Sandal had not been designed for thousands trying to get out, but York was imagining Salisbury being brought down like dogs on a bear. He could feel every passing moment as a stab of fear and anger, and he would not wait. He walked his horse with the line, staring at the dark trees with something approaching dread. His head jerked up to listen as a horn sounded somewhere in that thicket of shadow and green shade, a thin weak sound, far away.
‘With me!’ York bellowed along the line. He dug in his spurs and his horse jerked into a trot, the reins held like bars of metal along its neck.
The men doubled their pace, jogging across the field with him, leaving the castle and safety behind.
Salisbury cried out in pain as something whirred past his eyes, striking his shoulder and vanishing into the bushes. His horse reared, kicking out at someone below as they grabbed for his reins. The forest had come alive with men, running in silently from every direction. Salisbury had turned and turned again, thanking God he had brought his sword and swinging it in great arcs that kept them away. The men with him were fighting savagely to keep themselves alive and the earl safe. He wasn’t certain by then which way Sandal Castle even lay, but he knew he had to break free, if he was to have any chance at all.
They’d barely entered the deep wood when the assault had begun. Salisbury still had no idea if the enemy had been waiting for him, or if he’d sprung an ambush before they were ready. None of that would matter if he couldn’t get back, yet the chances were vanishing before his eyes as the soldiers around him were cut down. Most of his hunting party wore mail-shirts, garments so valuable that they would never be left behind. They had no shields though, and precious few heavy blades, just daggers and small axes that a man might carry on his belt. Those who sprang at them in the gloom between the trees swung war-axes and long swords and wore helmets and mail of their own.
On the far edge, some of Salisbury’s men broke and ran, cursed by those they left behind. He could understand it, God knew, he could understand it. Wherever he looked, men were creeping up on him and his sword arm was growing tired. They seemed to rise out of the thick bracken, faces scratched and torn and stained green, teeth bared as they grabbed his men and struck and struck until they breathed blood and fell.
One of his hunters had tried to blow a horn, the sound barely begun before an arrow slotted through his chest and he collapsed. Another snatched it up and tried to run and blow the note at the same time. He was stopped by a mailed arm held out like a bar, so that he crashed down to his back and flung the horn to a third. That man blew a long note and somehow lost his nerve in doing so, sprinting away through the thick undergrowth with three enemy soldiers on his trail.
Salisbury looked around, feeling terror and a sense of helplessness. There was no end to them, and his men were being murdered all around. He dug in his heels and the horse lunged over a bush, snorting and screaming in thick panting breaths. The earl saw a man running between two trees and launching himself in a great leap at him. He swung his sword a
nd felt the blade cut before he was sent tumbling on to his back. His horse bolted then and Salisbury could only watch it go, stirrups flying wild.
A bearded man dropped on to him, appearing from nowhere. Salisbury struggled, but he was much weaker. The man was snarling in Scots Gaelic as he brought an axe up over his head.
‘Pax! Ransom!’ Salisbury yelled, seeing every pore and scratch on the man’s wild face.
To his relief, his attacker got off him and backed away, breathing hard and leaning on the long handle of the axe, watching him. As Salisbury sat up and tried to speak, the young Scot lunged with sudden speed and punched him into blackness.
York heard the horse before he saw it. His own mount was struggling through the trackless forest, forced away from the wandering threads of animal paths by the need to keep in line with his men. He reined in at the sound of pounding hooves and his heart sank when he recognized Salisbury’s mount, running berserk and already battered by all the thorns and branches it had scraped through. The panicking animal saw no way through the line of men and they held shields up to it, forcing it to come to a skidding halt and spinning in place, kicking out.
‘Let it through!’ York cried out to them, pressing on. ‘They can’t be far away now.’
He could see some of the path the animal had made and he tried to follow it back, though it jinked and turned so many times it was almost impossible. He thought he could hear a noise ahead and he held his arm out straight until his captains saw it and repeated the gesture, halting the lines of men in silence.
The woods became still, all animals and birds long fled from their presence. York craned to catch the direction he needed and then made out the sounds of moving men, the calls and voices of enemies in his forest. On his land.
He pointed over to the source of the sounds and as his men marched forward once again, they saw the forest move ahead of them, a line of soldiers that seemed to stretch as far as they could see. The ranks with him were sighted at the same time and a great howl went up on both sides. York raised his shield and slammed his visor down, bringing his sword up for the first blow.
The armies crashed together and there was no room for manoeuvres or formations. One line buckled against the other and every death was a sweating, grunting murder, close enough to breathe the same air and be spattered by the other man’s blood when he went down. York struck and struck at anyone he could reach, using the height of his mount and his long sword to terrible effect. Yet in the moments between each blow, he could see a host of soldiers coming on the left and right. He was being flanked by a larger force. York gave a cry of grief for Salisbury, but he had no choice.
‘Fall back in good order! Keep your faces to them, but fall back on the castle.’
He roared the order again and heard his captains repeat it at the top of their voices, already stepping back. It was a hard business and some of them were just London lads, rough-trained and overwhelmed by a savagery they had not known to expect.
The enemy soldiers heard his order and pushed on. York set his jaw when he saw some of them wore blue and yellow. Percy men, come to take revenge for all the masters they had lost. He moved back in circles, wheeling his mount and trotting for a dozen paces before turning again and facing those who pressed in. He could not recall how far he had come from the castle, not with any certainty. Every step was hard, with axe-wielding, roaring men rushing against them, sweeping blades across as if they were scything barley. York’s soldiers fell and scrambled up as they retreated, trying to present a wall of shields, but still watching their feet to avoid the roots and briars. They could not help crowding into the centre, looking for support in numbers, though it left the men on the flanks to be thinned out and cut down.
York circled back once again and saw a brightening ahead. He prayed to God it was not a simple break in the foliage. He crossed himself and gave the order they wanted to hear.
‘Now. Run and reform in the open!’ His men were pelting away while he still shouted and he had to canter to stay abreast of them, his horse leaping bushes and coming out into the winter sun and wind. He had not been wrong. Sandal Castle lay ahead and there were thousands of men rushing to stand in ranks on the clear ground, panting with their hands on their knees and anger in their faces.
The feeling of clean wind and space restored their confidence, making them want to meet the men who had terrified them in the gloomy forest. They raised their weapons and roared a great challenge as the trees vomited soldiers right across the length of the field.
The first ones were met with a clashing line of shields and stabbing swords, but more and more came out, flanking even the massed ranks gathered before Sandal and pouring around them. York turned his horse on the spot, seeing Scottish warriors racing across the ground, holding their swords low until they leaped up, crashing down on to the shields and mail of his men. His heart shrank as he spotted archers trotting out on the flanks, protected by hundreds more who stood with swords and shields before them, so that they could not be reached.
The arrows began to fly a moment later and the battle surged back and forth in front of the castle. All York’s forces were committed, with no reserve, nor any way to break the flood of soldiers still coming through the trees in greater and greater numbers. Hundreds of the attackers were killed, but there were always more to hack at his lines, roaring and shoving. Arrows flew like flocks of birds, dropping men, or forcing them to raise their shields so they were vulnerable to a gutting blow beneath.
York was forced back and back with his men, until he sat his horse in the third rank, not fifty yards from the gatehouse of Sandal. He could not retreat over that small drawbridge. Just as it had slowed their leaving, the narrow entrance would be choked with bodies if they tried to gain the safety of the walls. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and filling his chest with air he had known all his life. When he opened his eyes, he saw Margaret.
The queen rode a chestnut mare, with a dozen bearded Scots as her personal guard. They made a cluster at the very rear of the battlefield, barely out of the trees as she watched. York was no more than three hundred paces from her and he could see her smile. He thought he recognized Derry Brewer at her side and he shook his head.
For an age, York searched the battlefield with his gaze, looking for the slightest hope. The fighting went on around him and every moment brought his men closer to a complete rout. It was finished and he worked his tongue around his mouth, drawing spit enough to speak. Carefully, he sheathed his blade and raised his right hand.
‘Peace! I surrender myself. In the name of York, put up your swords.’ He had to repeat the words at the top of his voice before he was heard.
His men stared up at him in shock, perhaps more in relief. They too could see the way the battle had been going. Those at the rear laid their blades on the ground and raised their hands to show they had done so. York could hear the same command echoed on the other side. The sounds of fighting faded slowly, to be replaced by the cries of the wounded and the dying, suddenly harsh and shocking in that greater silence.
33
It was no small thing to disarm an army. Men who had borne swords and axes for years developed an affection for them. The owners were reluctant to give them up, just to be thrown on to a pile to rust or to be given to some unworthy sod. The wind pushed and flapped at them all, making them shiver and wrap their arms around themselves now that the heat of the fighting was over.
Lord Clifford took a group of horsemen right around the fortress of Sandal, seeking out any armed men of York who might still be waiting in ambush. On the frozen field, panting soldiers on both sides checked themselves and their equipment, looking for wounds they had not felt before. Many of them cursed to find cuts or even arrow-holes, staring at them in wonder as they hacked strips from their tabards to bind them.
All of York’s men were searched for blades. When they had no weapons, Somerset sent his soldiers back to take their mail-shirts. They grumbled and cursed, of course, thoug
h they knew better than to refuse. Under the trees, the piles of equipment grew: helmets and shields, mail, armour and axes all thrown together. The dead were stripped of anything of value, with even their boots tugged off and piled. After a time, all the corpses were barefoot and the grim soldiers came back amongst them once more, carrying away the dead to be laid out on the hard ground, folding their arms across their chests.
The work took hours and the sun was over the horizon by the time the first survivors were allowed to leave. In groups of a dozen at a time, those who could walk were pointed south and told to go. Some of them wore masks of frozen blood, or showed new pouting mouths where blades had cut their flesh. Others pressed their hands over seeping holes, or nursed stumps and rocked where they sat, pale and sick with the pain. The ones who would not walk were left to sit and die in the wind, staring at nothing.
Derry Brewer made a point of speaking to a few of York’s captains as they turned to leave. Many of the battered, shivering men would walk all the way to their homes, stealing or starving until they were far from Sandal and all the memories of that loss. He did not doubt some of the survivors would be found dead on the road over the next month, while a few would be caught taking food and hanged. Derry merely mentioned that strong ones, unwounded ones, might choose to wait around Sheffield. He told them they might have a chance of joining the ranks of the queen’s army as they came south. They laughed at him, but it was a long way home and they had no food. Derry knew some of them would remember and wait. He didn’t like to see good men wasted, not with the armies of March and Warwick still unaccounted for.
The sun was heading down into the western hills, staining the sky. York’s sword had been taken from him, though he had been left his armour. His horse had been led away and his hands were firmly tied behind his back. Two soldiers took up position near him, growling at those who might have come close to spit or land a blow. They said nothing to him and he waited, left alone while his enemies cleared away the detritus of the battle.
Wars of the Roses: Trinity (War of the Roses Book 2) Page 37