There was definite contact but it was impossible to know whether the lance had found a vital spot because impulsion carried us past each other and into the next line of cavalry. All I knew was that my shield had taken the force of his lance while mine drooped from my arm, shattered and useless, which was the sign of a good impact. I hurled it away and unhooked the mace from my saddle. For close fighting on horseback it was my weapon of choice and I brought it crashing down on the nearest red rose badge I could see. Not for the first time the thought shot through my mind that it was never sensible to attach your badge to your fighting shoulder for the studded metal ball made contact and my opponent’s battleaxe flew from his hand. Wheeling my horse around and ducking under his neck I swung it back-handed at the Lancastrian’s steel-clad shin and saw the greave dent like a plough-share as the injured knight toppled from his horse. There was one soldier who would not walk off the battlefield I thought and blocked a sword slash with my shield, whipping my mace up to swing it under the raised arm that had made it. Once again there was a clang as the mace scraped steel but before I could ascertain the damage I was past that opponent and wheeling back to look for Edmund.
Finding a small gap in the mêlée I risked lifting my visor to look once more towards the castle hoping to see the black-bull standard, but instead I saw something which made my blood freeze. Our infantry were still streaming out of the castle gate but to either side of them Lancastrian foot-soldiers could be seen charging out of woodland and bearing down on their flanks. Within minutes not only would we be greatly outnumbered but we would also be cut off from any retreat to the castle. Also, as the gates were open Lancastrian forces were peeling off to make an incursion into the fast-emptying castle. Not only had John Neville failed us once more but my gut feeling that our battle plan had been leaked was proving right.
‘God damn you, John Neville!’ I shouted out loud. He had not come when we needed him and even if he did bring his men up now it was certain that he would see York in a hopeless situation and turn away. In the second that this thought ran through my mind I turned my head and saw Richard’s horse rear up and throw him from the saddle. Blood was spurting from under the stallion’s chamfron where a blade had slit his nostril. I drove my spurs into my destrier’s sides to try and smash my way through to Richard’s aid but found myself blocked by a knight whose shield-crest I instantly recognized – five gold caltrops on a blue ground. Sir Gerald Copley. He must have come down from the north in Northumberland’s or Clifford’s army for he wore the red rose on his shoulder.
‘Stand, bastard! You are going to die!’ he screamed.
I did not stop or make a reply because, despite his deadly challenge, I knew instinctively that he would not allow me to make any kind of stand. My horse was already at a charging trot and I urged him on, swinging him to the right when he was a yard from Copley and raising my shield. His sword blow slammed into it, giving me a split second to bring my mace down on his horse’s forehead. The chamfron rang like a bell and the horse staggered but it did not fall. I wheeled my destrier to take advantage of Copley’s exposed rear and dealt him a passing blow on the back plate of his cuirass but I had to reach out to do so and could not get my full force into it. Now my back was to him but his charger was still stunned and would not respond to his furious kicks and yanks on the reins.
‘Did no one teach you how to ride a horse, Copley?’ I yelled, circling his stricken steed. ‘You are not driving an ox-cart!’
Surrounded as we were by the resounding clash of arms and the shrill shrieks of wounded men I doubt if he heard my jibe but it gave me satisfaction to make it. However, fighting a man on a stationary horse from the advantage of a moving one seemed to dull my lust for combat and instead of rushing in to take advantage of my mobility, I held back for a few moments, steeling myself to make the deadly blow that would rid me of a mortal enemy. I could not free my mind of the thought that this was my wife’s brother, the boy with whom she had shared a nursery and whose mother had been her mother. Paradoxically I found I could almost enjoy his screeching frustration as his great horse shook its damaged head and tried and failed to obey his clumsy aides. But as I watched a mounted man-at-arms wearing the white rose appeared from the surrounding crush with his battle-axe raised, slammed into Copley’s horse and dealt its rider a crushing blow to the back of the head. I saw Gerald’s helmet split. The impact of the collision unbalanced his injured horse and down they went together in a welter of flailing hooves. I was spared the inevitable sight of his spilled brains as Copley disappeared under the iron-shod feet of his assailant’s mount.
I made the sign of the cross and turned away, unexpectedly grateful to the unidentified man-at-arms who had saved me from making the gruesome choice of killing or being killed by my wife’s brother. After that I began to fight automatically, using a lifetime of experience at practice and skirmish to block and parry, wheel and charge, until at last I reached the place where I had seen Richard part company with his horse and where his standard still flew. He was on foot, back to back with Edmund and with his dismounted retinue surrounding them, all ferociously fighting off a series of red rose contenders for the honour of killing the Duke of York and capturing his banner. I plunged into the fray, wielding my mace with a vicious energy I had not known was still in my armoury. At length I managed to smash and dance my horse through to the Yorkist circle which, recognizing the bend on my Neville shield, parted to let me in.
‘Take my horse, Richard!’ I screamed over the screech of metal on metal as I battered off a foolish knight who seemed to be fighting without a shield and soon succumbed to my side-swipes. ‘We are surrounded. We have to retreat now!’
‘No retreat,’ he yelled back. ‘Take Edmund up with you, Cuthbert, and get him out of here. That is an order!’
‘I – will – not – leave – you,’ panted Edmund, who was clearly exhausted, handling his sword like a slippery fish and staggering under his full armour-plate.
One of the circle-knights managed to slice through the hamstring of a horse whose rider made the mistake of getting too close and sprang back as it came crashing down beside him. As the knight pounced on its winded rider Richard took advantage of the diversion to turn on his young son and shout fiercely at him through his visor. ‘Do not dare to disobey me, Edmund! You heard Cuthbert. We are surrounded. You have fought well. Go now and go with God.’
‘I do not go willingly, my lord father. May God protect you!’ Edmund’s voice choked as he put his foot in my stirrup and somehow I managed to haul him up in front of me. I could feel my horse sag at the weight of two men in armour, even if one of them was a comparative lightweight, and I knew we could not go far. ‘You take the left hand side and I will take the right,’ I shouted at the part of Edmund’s helmet where his ear would be. ‘We will have to fight our way out of this.’
Richard’s retinue opened up to let us out of their ring and closed back around their lord. They were all on foot now and must have known they were fighting for their lives as knights fell one after another, slain, wounded or exhausted. I saluted them solemnly as dead men and urged my charger into as much pace as he could muster. Jinking and swerving we slashed our way out of the throng of fighting men and headed for the woods lining the banks of the River Calder which skirted the battlefield to the west. Having studied the terrain from the castle battlements I knew there was a bridge which led to the town of Wakefield and that if we could get there I would find a temporary refuge for Edmund among the Yorkists who made up the bulk of the inhabitants.
It was a case of pushing my tired horse to his limits of speed because, although I could not see behind us due to the trees, I could hear the thunder of hooves on our trail and they had the terrifying sound of a hue and cry, as if our pursuers knew exactly who we were and were determined to stop us. As we broke out of the woods on the other side my heart lifted.
‘There it is, Edmund. There is the bridge to Wakefield. We will find friends there.’ But my brave horse
could go no further. The poor beast simply stopped and shuddered and then sank from beneath us. His great heart must have failed. ‘We will have to run. Take off your helmet and surcote and head for the bridge and I will watch our backs,’ I told Edmund as we picked ourselves up.
The youngster obeyed orders. When he pulled off his helmet, his face was ashen but he did not speak or delay. He had the air of one who was beyond thought, almost beyond hope. He knew he had left his father to die on the battlefield and now he thought there was little chance of staying alive himself. But he was too young to die. I was determined to prove him wrong. I rolled up his surcote and helmet and flung them into the river. In this perilous situation, it was unwise to be identified as a son of York.
He was nearly at the bridge when two horsemen broke out of the trees and immediately put up a shout. ‘Stop, Yorkist coward! Stop and surrender!’
I could see Edmund hesitate and stumble on the word ‘coward’ and screamed at him ‘Do not listen! Keep running!’ as I stepped out in front of the galloping horses. Both riders wore the same crest on their surcôtes, the blue and gold chequer-board and red bar of the Cliffords, and I put myself in the way of the leading horse because I hoped it might swerve and unseat its rider. It was a desperate action against what I feared was about to be a calculated act of vengeance for I recognized the young baron who had accompanied Somerset to the parley on Christmas Eve and had stared so hard at me. Unfortunately this horse did not swerve. It had been well-trained and simply flung me aside like a rag doll and galloped on. With a clanging thud, I landed face down in the hoof-churned grass of the riverbank, dazed and completely winded.
For a full minute everything went dark and I struggled to get a single breath into my lungs. My head felt as if it would burst inside my helmet but I could not move a muscle to take it off. Fortunately the visor was still down and it kept my face out of the mud so that when I did manage to draw breath there was enough air leaking through the slits to serve my starved lungs. I could not see because I could not lift my head but I could hear shouts at the bridge.
‘Who are you, coward? Name yourself!’ I took it to be Clifford’s voice. A sudden vision came to me of the scene at St Albans when Dick of Warwick had been fighting this man’s father, unaware that the Duke of Somerset was coming at him from behind. It had been my brother Hal who had impaled the senior Clifford with his lance, enabling his son Dick to deal a fatal blow to Somerset. I tried to cry out that York was not to blame for the senior Clifford’s death but I had not enough breath even to croak.
To my everlasting shame I could do nothing to prevent what happened next but by the devil’s aid I managed to lift my head enough to observe a deed that would for ever be seared on my memory. Edmund had said nothing but threw his sword at Clifford’s feet in a gesture of surrender and should have expected capture and ransom but there was no chivalry present on the arch of that bridge.
‘Bah! I need no name for I know who you are.’ Clifford had his dagger out and his blood up. ‘You were at York’s shoulder at the parley. Your father slew mine and I will slay the accursed son of York!’
His dagger, sharp as a barber’s razor, sliced through the flesh of Edmund’s smooth throat; I saw the lad’s young blood flow and his eyes widen in shock before his body crumpled against the bridge railing and slumped to the ground. My neck could support the weight of my helmet no more. It dropped back into the mud and my whole body was wracked with a silent scream.
I was witness to a murder but they thought that I was dead – killed in the crash with Clifford’s horse. Nevertheless they came to make sure. Clifford’s accomplice put the toe of his steel-plated foot under my cuirass and tried to roll me over but found my armoured body too heavy. So he bent and lifted my head then dropped it back. ‘Neck’s broken,’ he said, ‘but I’ll have the sword.’
‘No!’ Clifford’s tone was peremptory. ‘That is the Bastard of Middleham; one of the finest knights my father ever fought alongside. His sword should be buried with him. If you want to remember the day we killed York’s son, take his. Come, let us go. The day is ours. We have work to do.’
They left me and I slowly started to breathe again. When I dared to lift my head, I saw them disappearing into the woods, the squire leading his horse with Edmund’s body slung over the saddle. Slowly I sat up, wiped the mud from my visor and removed my helmet. Then, as if he knew I was alive, my own horse came back from the dead. He raised his head, looked around then heaved and kicked himself to his feet. Man and horse stood staring at each other in shock across an expanse of muddy grass. I nodded at him encouragingly and he began plodding towards me, taking one step at a time, testing his legs. I did the same, astonished to find that they worked. I took his reins and swung myself into the saddle. As we crossed the bridge he shied at the sight and smell of blood on the planking where Edmund had bled to death and I began to sob.
44
Baynard’s Castle, London, January to March 1461
Cicely
Those winter months were dark indeed. If it had not been for Margaret I do not think I would have emerged sane from that black time. The mere thought of what the fiendish Lancastrians had done to my family sent me deep into the pit of despair and I thought about it almost every minute of every hour of every day. I had not seen them with my own eyes but York herald’s description had been enough to stamp a picture in my mind and whenever I closed my eyes I could see the severed heads protruding above York’s Micklegate Bar and, worst of all, for some reason Edmund’s was always smiling at me.
‘Why does he smile?’ I groaned at Margaret when we were together in the chapel at Baynard’s Castle. This was where I spent much of my day but if during my prayers I ever chanced to close my eyes they immediately flew open in alarm. ‘My sweet, innocent Edmund! What is there to smile about, being murdered at seventeen?’
‘Perhaps he is smiling because he is innocent and therefore he is with the saints in heaven.’ Margaret murmured her words of comfort on her knees beside me as she almost constantly was. ‘Or perhaps he does not want you to be sad.’
At not quite fifteen years old, she had given herself the task of mothering her mother and gratefully I let her, weeping in her arms and begging her not to leave my side. She must have wondered why I hardly mentioned Richard or Hal in my lamentations, especially as she mourned her father at least as much, if not more, than her brother, but I could not forgive Richard for taking Edmund into the thick of the battle and I could not forgive Hal for killing Clifford’s father at St Albans and sowing the seeds of revenge in the young heir’s mind. Theirs were the other two heads that my fevered mind’s eye saw rotting on the Micklegate Bar but theirs were grinning in the rictus of death, not smiling the way Edmund’s was. His smile was for me alone, a smile of love and tenderness which I did not deserve and could not abide.
I had learned of the dreadful defeat and of the deaths of my menfolk on the eve of Epiphany and for the first time in my life I had swooned with shock, unable to stomach the idea that their heads had been severed from their bodies and displayed on pikes as traitors. But it was Cuthbert who related the whole horrifying tale of the battle and its aftermath.
I had barely recognized him when he arrived back at Baynard’s in the middle of January. He had been forced to travel by night and on a circuitous route in order to avoid Lancastrian fiefs and strongholds and when he entered my solar I took him for a stranger until I saw Hilda run into his arms with cries of joy. His hair had turned completely white and he was so thin his clothes hung off him like the rags on a scarecrow. Moreover his demeanour was utterly forlorn, his face pale and unshaven and his eyes red-rimmed and constantly downcast. As soon as he extricated himself from Hilda’s embrace he flung himself at my feet, craving my forgiveness in a voice that was hoarse with grief.
‘I am sorry, Cicely. I could not save him. Forgive me. I could not save your boy!’
I stood up and forced him to rise. When I put my arms around him I could feel the bones of
his shoulders through his jacket. Never far away, my tears flowed freely down my cheeks as I drew him to a window seat and beckoned Hilda to follow. ‘It could never be your fault, Cuddy, never!’ I croaked. ‘Tell me; please tell me of my poor Edmund’s death.’
In halting words he related the events of that fateful day and the terrible details he had discovered of its aftermath. There were long pauses in Cuthbert’s narrative while he blinked back tears and tried to compose himself but this was the gist of his tale and how I learned of the dreadful ignominy inflicted on my husband by drunken and vengeful Lancastrians in the great hall of his own castle.
‘They found him dead on the battlefield and carried his body in triumph up to Sandal Magna along with Edmund’s. There they hacked off Richard’s head, crowned it with a paper crown and impaled it on a pike, waving it around like a puppet while spitting on it and mocking “the man who dared to think himself a king!” Then they cut off Edmund’s already almost-severed head and mocked him as “the son of the would-be king!”. The next day they brought our loved ones’ remains to Pontefract where they threw them into unmarked graves.
‘But our poor brother Hal suffered torture. Having been captured, naturally he expected to be held for ransom but at Pontefract he was shown Tom’s body, which had also been taken from the battlefield, and forced to watch as his son’s head was hacked off. Then Hal himself was publicly denounced as a traitor and summarily executed in the castle bailey. There was no trial, no justice, just a jeering crowd, an axe and a tree-stump. They sang bawdy songs as all four heads were waved aloft on pikes and then taken to York in procession, there to be exposed to the crows and the ravens on the Micklegate Bar.’
Red Rose, White Rose Page 43