By now the sun was well risen and had dispelled the mist; its beaming brilliance reflected off the polished armour of Warwick and his household knights who were massed on horseback at the far end of the street. At the entrance to the marketplace a Lancastrian mounted troop lined up and began a charge, starting at a slow trot and building up speed as they thundered between the closely shuttered houses and workshops. Their horses’ iron-shod feet churned up the hard-packed dirt of the thoroughfare, forming a choking cloud of dust and when they passed beneath us we could hear the riders spluttering and coughing inside their helmets. Wisely Warwick kept his arm raised, holding his troop steady at the street’s end where they could still breathe clean air, waiting for the enemy to come to them, maces, swords and shields raised against their dust-blinded attackers. Meanwhile my archers sent a shower of deadly missiles raining down on the Lancastrians, hardly able to miss their targets at such close quarters. Injured horses reared up and fell, throwing their riders and impeding those who came behind them who were forced to a halt directly beneath our deadly shower. Those with sense turned and galloped back up the street, their backs briefly making perfect targets for our armour-piercing arrows until Warwick’s mounted men moved up to pursue them and I gave the order to stop firing.
Several unseated Lancastrian knights gathered swiftly around one of their number and forced their way into the shelter of the inn through the street door beneath us. The prominent member of the group displayed a ducal coronet around the band of his helmet and a portcullis on his surcote. I beckoned one of the nearest archers over to me and whispered under the earflap of his leather coif. ‘Do not go out the way we came in but seek a way down through an upper window and over the outhouse roofs. Find the Earl of Warwick and tell him the Duke of Somerset is at the Castle Inn. Say I sent you. Go!’
The lad was a nimble youngster selected for his climbing skill and I watched him scramble easily over the ridge of the roof and disappear before turning to issue more orders to the rest of my men. ‘Those of you with the longest range find a position from which to fire into the main square. You will not be able to see your target but fire around the area of the market cross and you should cause some consternation at least. Stop if you see any of our badges entering the square.’
As these orders were obeyed, I made my way along the parapet and back through a gable door into the roof-space. The last man up had replaced the hatch that led down into the upper floors and I eased it back slowly, fearful of attracting attention but I need not have worried. Loud voices carried up from below and the gist of the conversation was not hard to decipher. The Duke of Somerset wanted another mount.
‘Fetch me Blanchard from the horse-lines!’ he shouted to one of his companions. ‘A horse is worse than useless in these narrow streets but that devil Warwick is mounted so I must be. And try and catch the bay! He was not badly wounded, just frightened. I cannot afford to lose a good horse. And hurry, man, hurry! I need to get back out there.’
I grinned to myself. Clearly Somerset was an angry man and angry men did not fight well. Warwick needed to get here quickly to seize that advantage. I crept back out onto the roof, hoping Somerset would draw all attention to himself so that his supporting knights would not think to wonder where the arrows that felled their precious horses had come from. If they did they would be up the stairs in moments and we would be cornered on the tiles. It would be a tricky platform to fight on.
Luckily it was not long before we heard a loud hammering from below and the squire calling out in a fearful tone. ‘Your grace’s horse is here but you must be quick. Warwick’s knights are not far away.’
I peered over the parapet and saw the squire holding a well-armoured horse. The inn door opened cautiously and several helmeted knights stepped out onto the street; at the same time Warwick and his retinue came charging around the corner at the crossroads and with rowdy shouts plunged back down the thoroughfare, causing the Duke of Somerset’s warhorse to swerve and prance, preventing him from mounting. He stepped back from the stirrup and hastily drew his sword as his own knights gathered tightly around him in a defensive semi-circle.
Warwick’s horse slid to a halt a few yards away, his own knights close behind and they all dismounted. ‘I would not want it said that we did not fight on equal terms, my lord of Somerset!’ Warwick yelled through the visor of his helmet.
The young earl had drawn his sword and sent his horse careering off down the street with a blow from the flat of the blade. Those of his retinue followed behind and, with the herd instinct kicking in, Somerset’s horse broke away and followed them. Now I could clearly see the two hostile groups lined up, facing each other across the narrow street, all visors closed, swords drawn and shields at the defensive. The Beaufort portcullis confronted the Warwick bear like a gate threatening to cage a wild animal.
‘There can be no equal terms in a city street, Lord Warwick!’ Somerset shouted back. ‘My soothsayer has predicted I will die in a castle.’
‘Ha!’ Warwick retorted with scorn. ‘Not in a castle, Beaufort – at the Castle Inn. Look up, my lord duke!’
It was the oldest trick in the book but Somerset fell for it. He looked up and saw the inn sign above his head but had no time to register its significance or gather his defences before Warwick was on him, catching him a brain-shaking blow on the helmet, while his house knights were engaged by the Warwick retinue. The clash of metal on metal and blade on wooden shield was suddenly deafening and I instinctively fell back from the parapet, alerted by a shout behind me.
‘The king’s standard has fallen, Captain!’ yelled one of the archers who had been firing in the direction of the market place. ‘The day must be ours!’
I hurried forward along the gutter to reach his vantage point and sure enough there was no longer any sign of the royal standard flying above the market cross. Then there was a loud clatter of hooves and I saw horses cantering fast across the road junction at the top of the street and recognized Richard’s distinctive dapple-grey war-horse and, coming from the opposite direction, the green eagle standard of the Earl of Salisbury. They turned into the market place together.
‘Cease firing!’ I roared at the archers. ‘Sling your bows! Friends in range!’
Seeing my orders obeyed, I turned back to the parapet and peered over again. Below me was mayhem. Only four knights were still on their feet and one of them was Warwick, his sword still in his hand, blood dripping from its blade. Somerset was on his knees nearby, head down and gauntleted hands feeling desperately about him, as if searching blindly for his sword. Meanwhile another knight stepped in front of Warwick, challenging him, sword and shield raised. The front of his shield was painted in a gold and blue chequer-board crossed by a horizontal red bar, which told me instantly that behind it was Lord Clifford, the Earl of Westmorland’s one-time ward and squire, the same Thomas Clifford who, as a young man, had helped Sir John Neville abduct Cicely to Aycliffe Tower.
I drew an arrow from my quiver and nocked it onto my bowstring. I could easily have shot Clifford through the visor but instead I kept my metal-tipped arrow trained on Somerset, confident that I could leave the other man to Warwick as long as the duke did not rise and take the earl from behind. Although I was now sworn to York, I myself did not wish to be responsible for killing or wounding Thomas Clifford, having liked him as a lad when I had served with him on the northern march before he gained his majority and his knighthood. In my opinion he was a fine knight but I presumed Warwick would overcome him and take him for ransom.
Warwick fought like a man possessed, giving no ground or favour to his older opponent. Clifford was barely defending himself against the young earl’s vicious onslaught. Meanwhile the Duke of Somerset had located his sword and was heaving himself to his feet, although it was now evident that there was blood flowing freely from a wound under his sword-arm, near the buckle of his breastplate. At this point, just as I was beginning to haul on my bowstring, I heard once more the thud of hooves on the
hard ground of the street and caught the flash of yellow and green from the corner of my eye. Hal of Salisbury with his green eagle shield-crest was bearing down on the scene and, seeing his son about to be attacked by two knights at once, rode down Clifford with the metal point of his lance, taking him with a savage and deadly blow and sending him sprawling backwards, while Somerset gave a blood-curdling yell of fury and threw himself at Warwick, sword raised. He must have been disorientated however for he misjudged his slashing thrust, leaving his guard down and allowing Warwick to strike him with another cutting blow under the shield-arm while parrying Somerset’s swipe with his own shield. It may not have been intentionally lethal but clearly the blade pierced a vital organ, causing Somerset to buckle over and crumple to the ground face down. Under my alarmed gaze, within seconds the combined actions of father and son had apparently taken the lives of two key members of the Lancastrian affinity. If the battle had not been over when the king’s standard fell, it certainly was now.
I called my men to order and we hurriedly left the roof, returning to the empty taproom and exiting to the street through the inn door to find that the rest of Salisbury’s retinue had arrived and were busy checking the wounded, removing arms and taking prisoners. Dick of Warwick was jubilant, making no secret of the fact that he had achieved his objective in triumphing over Somerset and congratulating his father for removing the threat from Clifford. Neither of them had yet noticed that the king’s standard had fallen in the town square but when I told them they immediately remounted and rode in that direction, while I mustered the archers in their wake, intent on discovering if there was more work for them to do seeing off the rump of the Lancastrian force.
We found the Duke of York by the market cross where King Henry’s standard had been raised, but the monarch himself was no longer there. Scores of bodies lay about on the cobbles of the square and blood flowed freely along the gutters. Only a few of the casualties seemed to be moving, uttering moans and cries of varying intensity. I immediately sent two of the archer-sergeants to check for living wounded.
The duke came forward to meet Salisbury and Warwick, his expression grim. ‘His grace the king took a stray arrow in the neck and has been taken into one of the houses for treatment. It is a tanner’s shop I believe, where they have the necessary tools for removing arrow-heads.’ He gestured towards a large corner premises where a tanned hide hung over the door and his worried look deepened, as well it might. If the king’s wounds were to prove fatal the country would be thrown into chaos and York may well be held responsible. However strongly he had felt about the weakness of the king’s rule he had not intended regicide. Nor was the king the only casualty of Warwick’s archers’ remarkable fire-power. At Richard’s feet the Duke of Buckingham was slumped helmet-less, a feathered flight protruding ominously from the left side of his jaw. One of his squires was in attendance, reassuring him that someone had gone to find a cart to carry him to his tent.
‘The Duke of Buckingham is my prisoner,’ Richard continued. ‘Humphrey here was advising King Henry to retreat when he took an arrow himself. I have taken his bond as my prisoner and there are many other casualties of your archers, my lord of Warwick, as you see.’ He gestured around him, indicating several members of the royal household, identifiable by their swan badges and red rose livery, lying wounded around the base of the steps leading up to the cross. ‘These men could not protect the king or themselves from a fusillade fired over the roofs and those who should have hastened him to safety seem to have fled like cowards.’
Warwick immediately began issuing orders to members of his retinue to remove the weapons of all men lying in the square, taking the oaths of the wounded and assessing their need for help. ‘Surely some of the monks will have medical skills,’ he suggested. ‘Shall I send my herald to ask the abbot?’
‘York herald has already gone,’ Richard told him. ‘Give me your assessment of the military situation as it stands, my lord. The day is ours without a doubt but where is the devil whose misrule caused this unnecessary confrontation? Where is Somerset?’
‘Dead,’ said Warwick succinctly. ‘We fought in St Peter Street and he would not surrender when clearly beaten. When Lord Clifford came to his aid my father took him out with his lance and in my own defence I was forced to strike Somerset a fatal blow.’
I could not see any sign of remorse as Warwick said this, nor did York display any. The two men exchanged meaningful nods and made the sign of the cross. ‘God absolve them both,’ said Richard solemnly. ‘I will ask the abbot if graves may be found at the abbey. I have heard that Northumberland is also dead.’
The gates of St Albans Abbey fronted the square and various monks were now to be seen cautiously emerging, clutching bags of salves and bandages.
‘I believe we may thank Almighty God that his grace the king appears to have received only a flesh-wound,’ Richard told the abbot, who led the procession. ‘The arrowhead is being removed in that house over there,’ he indicated the tanner’s shop. ‘A stitch or two and immediate applications of your ointments may prevent infection.’ He turned to Hal. ‘Perhaps the Earl of Salisbury would accompany you to escort his grace to the abbey and also deploy a guard so that only known members of the York affinity may be granted access to him. The king must be kept secure from those traitors who have surrounded him hitherto.’ Richard proclaimed this in a loud voice, making it clear to all in the square that King Henry was now under the care and protection of York.
At this point Richard’s standard-bearer suddenly appeared from behind the market cross carrying not only York’s crested escutcheon but also the royal standard. ‘What should be done with this, your grace,’ he asked Richard. ‘I found it thrown onto a midden in one of the back gardens.’
The duke’s face darkened. ‘The traitor who discarded that should be hung, drawn and quartered!’ he declared furiously. ‘Never should the royal standard of England be allowed to touch the ground, let alone be foully defiled.’ He glanced around and catching sight of me beckoned me over. ‘Take the standard into your possession if you please, Sir Cuthbert, and see that it remains with the king. Guard the crown and the royal sword as well. We shall need to restore the king with all his regal honours to their rightful place in London as soon as his grace is fit enough to travel.’
Bowing compliance, I took the standard from the bearer, consulted briefly with my second-in-command telling him to report to the Earl of Warwick for immediate orders and followed the procession of monks who were now heading for the tanner’s shop in the corner of the square. When we entered we found that the arrow had been removed and King Henry provided with a temporary dressing which he held against his neck to stem the bleeding but he looked pale and shocked and said nothing. It was the first time I had been so close to the king and I was surprised by his physical slightness. Free of their armour most knights were broad of shoulder and muscular from a lifetime of military training but although tall, King Henry had the physique of a clerk or a cleric. After the abbot had introduced him, the infirmarian immediately set about with needle and silk thread, inserting several stitches into the royal wound and applying a greenish salve before binding it neatly. I could not help admiring the stoicism of the king during what must have been a painful experience and was pleased to see him able to rise from his chair afterwards and walk slowly from the shop, leaning on his squire’s shoulder for support. The heavy royal sword had already been removed from his belt and I took possession of it, shouldered the royal standard and fell into step behind my half-brother Salisbury who had placed himself at King Henry’s other side. As we entered the abbey I noticed that a substantial guard in York livery was now present at the gates and I wondered what would become of a king who, although the words had not been spoken, was to all intent and purpose now a prisoner of war.
33
Baynard’s Castle, London, 1455–1456
Cicely
I wrote to my sister Anne, expressing my sorrow and concern at the wounding
of both her husband Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham, and her eldest son, Lord Stafford, during the confrontation at St Albans. I told her I prayed for their full recovery. She did not reply. They did recover, however, and so did young Henry Beaufort, wounded as Earl of Dorset but now the new Duke of Somerset – one of the young heirs of the St Albans fallen, who included Lord Poynings now Earl of Northumberland and John Clifford, heir to his father Thomas, Lord Clifford. Together with our estranged son-in-law Harry Holland, Duke of Exeter, and his partner-in-crime Lord Egremont, these five noble young firebrands had all publicly sworn revenge on York, Salisbury and Warwick. Richard had vowed to bring peace and justice to England but there was no denying that the battle at St Albans had made the task he had set himself vastly more difficult.
Wearing his crown and with his bandaged neck concealed under a high-collared crimson doublet, King Henry had been escorted back to London in solemn procession, unarmed but with his great sword of state carried before him by the Earl of Warwick. I watched the king ride into the city, Richard and my brother Hal close beside him and surrounded by Yorkist retainers. To the people who flocked to see him pass, their monarch must have cut a forlorn figure. However, due to the presence of Warwick, who had made himself London’s darling, its citizens welcomed the royal procession with its Yorkist white rose badges. Because most of his household had scattered after the battle, King Henry did not take up residence at Westminster Palace but lodged instead at the bishop of London’s palace near St Paul’s church. The queen remained at Greenwich Palace with the infant Prince of Wales, where she was said to have gone into deep mourning for the Duke of Somerset. She ignored my offer of a visit to express my condolences. I was shaken by the death and injury of so many key nobles, I imagined like most of England, and wondered whether the country would dissolve into chaos, or if Richard could possibly claw it back from the brink.
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