by Sandra Worth
The King’s trumpets sounded the battle cry. Richard advanced his banner.
~ * * * ~
Chapter 33
“Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought,
For friend and foe were shadows in the mist,
And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew.”
John and Warwick stood together in thick fog. Behind them ranks of fighting men stretched away into the mist, their plumes limp, their banners sodden in the heavy dampness. Warwick’s Dun Cow of the Nevilles was barely visible, the normally bright tones of his scarlet and silver Bear and Ragged Staff drained of colour. An unnatural stillness hung over the field. Cannons boomed, horses neighed, and there was the clink of metal, but no murmur of voices. No human sounds.
Warwick looked steadily into his brother’s face. Beneath his raised visor, John’s face was set and haggard, and his dark blue eyes held a curious expression, almost as though John didn’t see him. The unease that had kept him company all night mounted into a stark cold fear unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He forced a long steady breath. “Are you all right, John?” “Never better,” said John in an odd tone. “I don’t understand,” said Warwick anxiously. “You wish to lead your men on foot when normally you direct the battle mounted, from the rear.”
“Normally there is no fog.”
Warwick gave a terse nod. “Of course.”
“Men’s minds are uneasy, they fear treason,” John said in a voice that seemed to come from a long way off. “I recommend you follow my example and tether your horses at the rear.”
Warwick hesitated. A man in armour had little likelihood of escaping alive without a horse. Fighting on foot would put the lie to rumours of treason, show the Lancastrians the Neville commitment to their cause, and give their own men heart. They had little love for the cause for which they were risking their lives, and the Lancastrians returned their hatred. But the truth was, he didn’t want to die. What if traitors had sold him out? How would he flee without a horse? There had always been bad blood between the Beauforts and the Nevilles, yet here they were, aligned with one another. Even Exeter, who commanded the left wing of their army, had feuded with them for years, and Oxford, who commanded the right, distrusted them though he was married to their sister. Both had fought against them in earlier battles.
Aye, a twisting road had brought them to Barnet. Treason was what they all feared, what they whispered about John, his conduct at Pontefract, letting Edward slip past unmolested like that. John had always been a bit too fond of Dickon, a bit too loyal to Edward. Yet John had chosen to fight on foot, condemning himself to death if victory were not his.
Could he follow his brother’s example?
His own chances of survival were better. He’d be behind his brother’s line, in charge of the reserves, close to the trees in Wrotham Wood where the horses were tethered. Despite George’s desertion, he still outnumbered Edward by a generous margin: twelve thousand to nine. And he had artillery, while Edward had few guns. Comforting odds. So why was he not comforted? Maybe because Edward had something better. Unholy luck.
Already luck had played in Edward’s favour. Fog had helped the Yorkists. He couldn’t even be sure that the cannons, which had fired blindly through the night, had done their work and inflicted damage before they closed in for hand-to-hand combat. Moreover, he hadn’t been able to discover Edward’s battle position. That alone was cause for unease.
I recommend you follow my example and tether your horses at the rear, John had said. He glanced uncertainly at the powerful bay destrier that his squire held for him. Fortune. He hadn’t realised until this moment how aptly he had named him. He searched John’s face but it was as though his brother were carved of stone. He seemed to have lost awareness of him, of all around him. He had been acting strangely all month, ever since Pontefract, Warwick thought, noting the pallor of his skin. John had the look of a man who stood beneath the shadow of the great black wings that open above the dying.
And that was the question, wasn’t it? Could he commit himself to fighting on foot if it meant he was signing his own death warrant? Warwick swallowed, found his voice. “I’ll tether Fortune in Wrotham Wood.”
He gazed at John, mindful of the others who had failed him: his son-in-law George, who had deserted at the first opportunity; his brother George, who had wasted no time grovelling before Edward to save his own skin. Only John was at his side now— John, who had opposed him… Only he had answered the call of kinship, would fight for him, though his heart lay in the enemy camp. Without warning he was stricken to the core, swept with a curious mingling of gratitude, brotherly love, regret, despair, fear, and a strange longing for he knew not what.
“Maybe I should have accepted Edward’s terms…” he said, breaking the silence he had never broken before; admitting to doubts his pride would have crushed before. His brother made no acknowledgement, and for a moment he thought John hadn’t heard.
Then John said, “In battle there are easy answers to everything.”
Warwick knew there was no more to be said, that he should bid his brother farewell, but he found himself unable to leave. He stood motionless in the milky grey dawn, thinking how strange it was that this battle should fall on Easter Sunday, the day his great treaty with King Louis creating him Prince of Holland and Zeeland was to have been ratified. King Louis, who had professed admiration and affection, called him “cousin” and “brother,” then mocked him by making peace with Burgundy.
Strange, too, that even now, even after all the disappointments of his life, the disillusionments, the perfidy of kings and betrayal of kin, hope still stirred in his heart. Hope of survival; hope that somehow all would be well in the end, would be put back as before. In a dry, cracked voice, he said, “Then this day will decide all.” It was a question.
John made no reply.
A wild panic seized him. He heard his brother’s voice like an echo from an empty tomb, “God be with thee, and keep thee,” and watched his tall, shining figure move ghostlike into the murky gloom. “And God keep thee, my fair brother of Montagu!” cried Warwick suddenly after him.
But his brother was already gone, swallowed up by the swirling fog.
~*~
From his command position in the centre, John stared into the fog ahead, unable to see anything through his narrow visor slit but solid white mist. How he hated fog! The small noises of the Yorkist army came to him vaguely, muffled by his armour, nearly drowned by the sound of his own laboured breathing in his ears. He was hot, his face flushed, already covered with tiny beads of perspiration, yet he was so cold he shivered inside his clammy armour.
Warwick’s trumpets blared. Gunfire crackled. A hail of arrows whistled overhead and quickly vanished. From beyond the wall of mist, Edward’s trumpets responded. John gave a start. They sounded surprisingly close. Out of the blankness, a great shout went up. The Yorkists were coming on the run.
They were indeed close! Less than five hundred feet away instead of the customary five hundred yards. He wondered dimly what other surprises the battle held. He made the sign of the Cross, and plunged forward at the head of his troops.
The two armies collided with a mighty crash of steel.
~*~
Richard heard the sounds of combat to his left, on John’s line, and knew that something was wrong. Why hadn’t he closed with the enemy? Why hadn’t his arrows been answered?
The ground had grown wet and muddy and was sloping steeply down beneath his feet. Realisation dawned. He froze. This was not the plateau. This was the marsh! In the dark, Edward had misjudged their position. The three Yorkist battalions were not directly opposite the three Lancastrian battalions, but misaligned—much too far to the right—and he was descending down into the marshy ravine that protected Exeter’s flank. If they were discovered, they’d be trapped, slaughtered like pigs in a pen.
His men had fallen silent, were looking at him. He saw that they understood all too well. He pointed left,
to the west, towards the woods. Grimly they turned, groped their way up blindly, silently, into the fog. If they could make it up the slope without being discovered, they’d surprise Exeter on his rear.
~*~
As Richard was making his discomfiting discovery, the Earl of Oxford, who commanded the right wing of Warwick’s army, was learning the same and revelling in the knowledge. His right wing far outflanked Hastings, and he had no harsh terrain to contend with. He immediately swung eastward, behind Hastings, and smashed into his flank.
Men were taken by surprise. They cried out in horror, dropped their weapons, and ran. Hastings’s left wing collapsed. With Oxford himself in hot pursuit, the Lancastrians chased the fleeing Yorkists ten miles to Barnet, where the Lancastrians stopped to pillage and celebrate their victory with drink. Some of the fleeing Yorkists managed to reach London and awaken the citizens with shouts of a Yorkist defeat.
~*~
Surrounded by his squires and household knights, Richard emerged from the ravine. He’d taken Exeter by surprise, won a brief advantage, but now he and his men were fighting desperately to keep from being forced back into the marshy hollow below. Reinforcements from Warwick’s reserves had poured into Exeter’s wing, swelling his ranks. Richard’s men, outnumbered, were pressed up against a thicket of steel. His squire, John Milewater, was dead at his feet, struck down by an arrow. Beside him one of the two Toms—Tom Parr, whom he had made his new squire—was battling three yeomen at once and losing. Richard wanted to go to his aid but he himself was fighting two steel-capped yeomen. Tom fell to his knees. Richard heard his plea for quarter. He tried to cut his way to him but the yeomen were putting up too fierce a fight. He saw the poleaxe plunge downward, saw Tom’s body twitch convulsively. With a howl, Richard bitterly drove his battleaxe into the nearest stomach. One of the yeomen staggered, clutching his belly. There was a look of surprise in the man’s eyes as he crumpled, spurting blood over Richard’s armour.
While Richard watched in horror, the second yeoman charged him like a madman with his spear. Richard recovered and quickly sidesteppedthe blow byputting out a foottotrip him,amanoeuvre he’d learned years ago under John’s tutelage. He cleaved his battleaxe into his back. Killing a man in battle was not what he had expected, not glorious and heady. He swallowed the bile that rose to his mouth and turned to engage the next adversary who was already upon him. They fought hard. The knight went down, but Richard was wounded. The knight’s broadsword had pierced his pauldron, slashing his right shoulder. Thankfully, it was not his good arm. Thomas Howard, the Friendly Lion’s son, appeared at his side to ward off other challengers, and his household knights closed around him in a wall of steel so he could consult with his battle captains.
“We’re hopelessly outnumbered! We must have reinforcements!” they gasped.
“No!” shouted Richard over the crash of steel, the screams of terrified horses, the cries of dying men. He couldn’t move his right arm; his shoulder had begun to throb and his gauntlet was filling with blood. For a moment his head swam. He shook himself to clear it. “Hastings’s wing has collapsed! My brother needs his reserves! Send word to the King not to commit his reserves, that we will hold!”
“We cannot hold! ’Tis folly! We’re fighting both Exeter and Warwick! We cannot hold!” they shouted back.
“We’ll not deplete the King’s reserves!” he roared. “’Tis an order!”
~*~
In the centre, the fighting was savage. John’s green and gold Crowned Griffin, emblem of the ancient Montagues, bobbed in the fog amid a sea of spears, swords, battleaxes, and struggling men who now writhed forward, now fell back like a gargantuan tide. They were holding, but no more than that. Each time he tried to break through the Yorkist centre, Edward would appear leading reserves, an awesome mighty figure on his black warhorse, hewing a path before him with his strokes of death.
Panting for breath, John stepped back after a kill and called for a messenger. At the signal, his knights closed around him like a steel hedge.
“I need more men!” John shouted above the din of clashing metal, thundering hoofs, and cries of battle. “Send to my brother Warwick! I need more men from his reserves!”
The messenger, scarcely more than a boy, dug in his spurs and galloped off into the fog. John went back into the fray, engaged the next adversary. While he was still locked in combat, Warwick materialised out of the fog, fighting his way forward, leading men to the front. John retreated, let his knights converge around them so they could confer.
“Edward’s left wing under Hastings is destroyed!” cried Warwick. “But fighting is fierce on Exeter’s wing—Dickon continues to inch forward, though he’s heavily outnumbered!”
Beneath his visor, John couldn’t suppress a smile.
“Oxford’s sent word! When he rallies his men in Barnet, he’ll return to the fray and strike at the rear of Edward’s centre!” Warwick’s voice held a rasp of excitement. “Victory’s in sight, brother!”
John nodded his plumed helmet. Warwick withdrew to bring up more men and John went forward to exchange blows with a Yorkist knight. The knight gave ground, stumbled backwards, fell. John raised his sword. The man died. John pushed ahead, stepping on bloody dead men, severed limbs, and a sprawling body in a padded leather jerkin, ripped hideously open from throat to stomach, exposing violently red gutted entrails.
John caught his breath, momentarily unable to move. His stomach was heaving in the old familiar way and the sour taste of bile, bitter as gall, stung his throat. This was his nightmare. This was the world gone mad. This was Hell. This screaming of dying men, suffering horses; this stench of blood and gutted entrails. This vile fog that stank of offal and hid unspeakable horrors. Once he hadn’t minded killing—once, when he was young, fearless, and had fair cause. A friend’s death at the battle of St. Albans, on this very road, had changed that. Seventeen years old, sliced through the belly, disembowelled like that man, his friend had died cruelly in his arms. Since then, he’d been unable to abide the stench of blood. Just so, they told him, had his brother Thomas died at Wakefield. Sliced open.
His head cut off.
Sweat was blinding him. He could taste its pungent salt on his lips. In his gauntlets, his hands were sticky, his fingers stiff and cramped from wielding his sword. The fog swirled around him. Swords flashed; men fell. Cries of York and Neville mingled in the murk. He stumbled forward, nearly tripped over the body of a man without arms. The man moaned.
O God, my Creator, how much longer? cried John silently.
~*~
Richard’s throat was raw from shouting commands, his ears deaf from the din of clashing metal and the shrieks of men and animals. His right arm hung limp, useless at his side, the pain was shattering now. Cannon shot and arrows rained down through the dense clouds that shrouded the field. Many of his household men were dead. Thomas Howard had taken an arrow in his gut, had fallen at his feet, and strangely, he’d had time to think of the Friendly Lion, that Thomas was his only son.
He didn’t know how much longer they could hold. With the help of Warwick’s reserves, Exeter was pressing them back, foot-by-foot back down the steep hill that they had climbed. But he had to hold! Edward needed his own reserves. By sheer force of will he gathered his failing strength and directed it into each blow of his battleaxe.
Then he heard it, the roar that came from somewhere far away in the mists, somewhere along John’s line. A thunder that first started as a growl and built into a fury that shook the earth. Richard and his adversary both lowered their weapons, turned towards the sound.
~*~
John halted when he heard it, swung around, stared into the misty reaches to the right of his line. He could see nothing of what was happening on his wing. The ground shook beneath his feet, the roar grew into a ferocious clamour. Men were cursing, shouting angrily. “Treason!” they cried. His flank guard sent a flock of arrows suddenly hissing into the milky greyness. “Treason!” came the shouts, louder
now. Out of the mist rode a cavalry force bearing the Yorkist emblem of the blazing sun, cutting down his men. John pushed up his visor, turned back. Something was wrong! Terribly wrong! The Yorkist emblem loomed ahead of him. There could not be two!
In a flash, he realised the appalling, tragic error.
This was not Edward’s crimson and gold banner of the Sun in Splendour! This was Oxford’s crimson and silver banner of the Star and Streams! The two emblems were much alike. These were Oxford’s men returning from the pursuit to what they thought was the rear of the Yorkist flank! In the fog, they couldn’t see—didn’t know—that the collapse of Hastings’s wing on the east and Dickon’s flank attack on Exeter in the west, had wrenched the battle lines from east-west to north-south.
They were killing their own side!
Even as Oxford discovered his error and reared up his horse with an oath, John’s archers sent another volley of arrows into his midst. Curses and shouts of betrayal shrilled in the air. Oxford and his men recoiled, turned their horses, galloped off into the fog. John’s men picked up the cries of “Treason!” and ran after them.
Confusion broke the Lancastrian ranks. Throwing down their weapons, men turned and fled. Voices yelled in triumph as the Sun banner erupted from the fog and smashed through John’s centre. Weapons beat down his pennon; beat down his men. All about him they were falling. He parried the blows as best he could, but they were raining down with stunning force. Through his visor slit, he could see his enemies’ murderous eyes, hear his own panting breath. Blood was bursting in his ears and nose. The blows smashed through his armour. He slumped to his knees.