Your lady mother is making preparations to send George and Richard to Burgundy. I have tried to convince her that the children will be quite safe here and that her decision to send them away will only increase the Londoners’ apprehensions. She is overreacting, not like her at all. But I fear Edmund’s death has robbed her of reason, and she won’t be at peace until your younger brothers are safe away. She is importuning Duke Philip to receive them.
As for me, I do well enough, but as usual, there aren’t enough hours in the day. I am trying to raise an army, not without success. The Londoners’ terror has them coming forward in droves. They would rather face the Scots on a battlefield than have them overrun the city. However, arming and equipping them is a problem. Richard Lee is the mayor this year and, as you may know, is no friend to us. But I have no complaints. The city fathers have just voted me another loan. Yes, I take back what I said about dithering old women. They're an enormous help.
I have written to our friends abroad, imploring them not to abandon us in our time of need and assuring them that with the help of God all will end well. Philip, God save him, is standing by us. Louis’ envoy, the Seigneur la Barde, is still with me. I have just granted him an extension of his safe-conduct. And I have written to his Holiness and the Duke of Milan, assuring them, as I assure you, that all is not lost. I imagine all our friends in Europe are waiting to see how many of our chestnuts we can pull from the fire.
We shall surprise them, fair Cousin. Be of good cheer. We shall prevail in the end, you and me, together.
Come to me as soon as you can.
Against the sullen sky, a hawk wheeled in a wide circle, riding the air currents, a beautiful, deadly predator on the lookout for easy prey. Edward felt so much better, as he folded the letter and tucked it away. Thank God for Warwick. If the Yorkist cause didn’t collapse completely, it would be due entirely to his will and determination.
A man-at-arms was toiling up the path. “God save your Grace,” he said, touching a knee to the ground. “This fellow has just ridden up. He wishes to have words with you.” He jerked a thumb at the man behind him, a pale clerkly-looking fellow, muffled in a serviceable cloak and riding a roan cob, which the man-at-arms was holding by the bridle.
“Greetings,” Edward said pleasantly.
The man jerked a bow. “My name is Nathaniel Fry, your Grace. I serve Lord FitzHugh as steward. My lord and his brother-in-law, Lord Greystoke, wish to have speech with your Grace if er… that is, if they can be assured of their safety.”
Edward was acquainted with the names if not the men themselves. Reports said they had been at Wakefield – on the wrong side. It had always been his father’s policy to welcome without rebuke anyone who wished to change sides, and he had been rewarded by some very useful men: Sir John Wenlock, Humphrey Stafford and Lord Audley among them. It was a wise policy. Edward decided; he would adopt it.
“Assure your lords that they have nothing to fear from me or those about me. I shall be at Wigmore Castle tonight and probably for several days. If your lords are nearby, let them come to me there. I shall be most happy to receive them.”
The man bowed again, more deeply this time. “I shall and many thanks, your Grace, for your courtesy.” Taking the reins from the man-at-arms, he swung up into the saddle and started away through the gnarled apple trees.
“Two more turn-coats,” Richard Herbert said scornfully.
Brother William reached out and calmly smacked the back of his head. “A good thing it is too, young idiot. The more that desert the She-wolf, the better for us.”
They arrived in Wigmore with no light to spare, and while the men settled in the towers and outbuildings, Edward and his captains filled the great hall with the roar of conversation as they downed barrels of ale and devoured the simple but hearty meal prepared for them.
In due course, the two Lancastrian lords arrived with their entourages and were given seats at the high table close to Edward. At first, they were wary and ill at ease, but Edward’s easy manner and courtesy soon had them relaxed, and they began to speak of Wakefield and its aftermath and how the whole business had left a foul stench in their nostrils. They didn’t notice the tension in Edward, but Hastings did and adroitly steered the conversation to the Scottish alliance. It was that, they conceded, that had completed their disillusionment with the Queen. The promise to surrender Berwick, even if never accomplished, was something that no patriotic Englishman could stomach, and then to follow that piece of unparalleled perfidy with the promise of unlimited plunder on English soil – it was not to be borne. Though they still professed themselves loyal to the King, they could no longer support a party that stooped to such appalling measures.
Between them, they had brought Edward three hundred men and something more. After putting away a vast quantity of food, the barrel-bellied Fitzhugh asked offhandedly, “So, what are you going to do about Wiltshire and Pembroke?”
“Wiltshire?” Edward repeated, stiffening.
After glancing around the table at the blank faces, Fitzhugh said, “You didn’t know? Wiltshire has answered the Queen’s call to arms by raising an army of French and Breton mercenaries at his own expense. Also, he’s arranged for a contingent of his own Butler clansmen to cross from Ireland. They’re all to land at Milford Haven any day now and join Pembroke.”
“How many?”
“Maybe two thousand.”
Edward looked at Will Herbert. “Do you credit this, Will?”
“I do. It’s a marvel none of my people heard anything, but it answers our questions. We’ll get confirmation within a couple of days of their landing.”
Edward could scarcely contain his excitement. The Earl of Wiltshire was arguably the most hated man in England. Although not entirely responsible for the Crown’s penury, he had done nothing to alleviate it and much to increase it, while burdening the poor with unsupportable taxes and filling his own coffers to the brim. He had run off as soon as the Calais earls landed at Sandwich and was generally reckoned a gross coward for that. Jasper Tudor was a different sort, reputed to be a stern, self-disciplined man. He was Henry’s half brother, Edward remembered, fruit of the curious union between Queen Katherine and that Welsh upstart.
“Are you going to give battle?” Fitzhugh asked in surprise.
“Do you think we’re fools enough to leave a hostile army at our backs?” Edward said scornfully. “Aye, by God, we’re going to give battle.”
He was filled with an exhilarating rush of confidence. He knew what he must do and neither God nor Satan could turn him from his purpose.
He could not sleep that night for excitement. No, it wasn’t excitement exactly. It was bloodlust, pure and simple. He could feel it throbbing in his veins, tingling in his fingertips, setting his heart pounding like a frantic drumbeat. It was a heaven-sent opportunity and he could no more resist it than he could resist the lure of a lovely woman. The Welsh army was probably inferior in numbers. It would be an easy victory. That didn’t matter. He would smash it. He wanted to see Wiltshire’s head on a pike; he wanted to see the Teme valley awash in blood. Perhaps that would be enough to avenge Edmund’s death and assuage his grief. And it would show his enemies that Warwick wasn’t the only one among the Yorkist leaders who was a force to be reckoned with.
The following day he rode out of Wigmore with only a few companions and returned to that place where he had stopped the previous day, climbed the hill through the old apple trees and sat on the same stone to look out over the same country. But this time he was looking at it with a different perspective: as a possible battle-site. And as a possible battle-site, it had much to recommend it.
That was on January sixteenth, and the news of Wiltshire’s landing arrived at Wigmore five days later.
“Pembroke won’t want to host thousands of foreigners any longer than necessary, so we can assume they’ll be ready to march just as soon as the new arrivals have rested. Three, four days at the most. So… which way will they come?” Unroll
ing a map of South Wales and the marches and holding it down at each corner with whatever was handy, Edward beckoned Will Herbert forward. The rest tried to look over their shoulders, which was no easy thing.
“Here’s Pembroke Castle,” Herbert said, stabbing a finger at a promontory on the south coast of Wales. “There’s no doubt they’ll come through Carmarthen to Llandovery here but then there are two choices. The first goes on to Brecon in the Usk valley. The summit of this road is low enough to be passable even in a bitch of a winter like this. Also, Brecon belonging to Buckingham, they’ll be among friends and will have the opportunity to get fresh provisions. From Brecon they’ll likely come through Hay-on-Wye to Leominster and then north. The second route goes from Llandovery through Bulith and New Radnor, both lordships of York, and they would have to go through a much higher and more exposed pass that is likely to be snowbound. From there to Presteigne. Jasper Tudor is no fool. We must remember that he is campaigning outside the normal campaigning season. He’s going to need food for thousands of men and forage for thousands of horses. Nothing is growing in the country through which he must pass and precious little in the barns after last year’s poor harvest. There is also the dangers of more snow and the afflictions that can result from severe cold: chilblains, frostbite, etc. And let’s not forget that a portion of his army are mercenaries. How many toes will they be prepared to lose for a cause not theirs? After the winter we’ve had, they’ll need a good road, so I believe they’ll take the easier route to Brecon. Hay-on-Wye to Leominster is a good road too, and from there they’ll be on the old Roman road north.”
“Yes,” said Sir Walter Devereaux, “but if Wigmore is to be their first objective and not Ludlow, the route through Presteigne makes more sense.”
Will Herbert shook his head adamantly. “Only because it would put them nearer to Wigmore when they emerged from the Cambrians, but for the reasons I’ve already stated, I feel sure they’ll take the southerly route.”
Lord Audley folded his arms on his chest, looking grim. “It’s equally possible that from Leominster they can take the road east, cross the Severn at Worcester and be away to the Queen before we can do anything to stop them.”
While Herbert was gathering himself for a furious tirade on thick-skulled Englishmen, Edward said, “It’s possible, but I don’t think so. Every report we’ve had suggests they’ll come this way. Even Fitzhugh agrees. But you’re wrong if you think there’s nothing we can do to stop them. We have good scouts out there. The moment we learn they’re heading east instead of north, we’ll know we’re mistaken and if we push hard we’ll still be able to overtake them before they reach the Queen. But they won’t, for the same reason I won’t leave the marches until we’ve destroyed them.”
He returned his attention to the map. “Once they leave Leominster, they’ve got the Lugg to the east, Wales and the Cambrians to the west, Wigmore and Ludlow to the north and steep hills and valleys all around. It’s country Jasper Tudor doesn’t know nearly so well as his own bit of Wales. Right here –” his finger stabbed at the map “– is Croft Castle, the home of Sir Richard, my old governor.” He flashed a smile at the man himself, who was part of the company.
“Good Lord,” said Herbert. “That would be an excellent place for an ambush!”
“And in case of defeat, they’ll have nowhere to run except back toward Leominster. Whereas, if things go badly for us – and I don’t expect they will – we’ll be able to fall back on Croft Castle.” Edward stepped back so the others could see the map better. “I suggest we leave the men where they are until the enemy is closer, while we move on to Croft Castle – it’s only four miles away – and when we’ve had another look at the land, we can better decide how to deploy.”
“I can’t see any flaw,” Sir Walter Devereaux said, looking with some surprise at the youth who used to invade his lands to steal birds’ eggs from the cliffs of the Long Mynd escarpment.
Moving back to the table, Edward began to roll up the map. “I don’t have to tell you all how much I want this,” he said, somewhat diffidently. “But I want you to know that if I didn’t think we had a good chance of winning, I’d turn around and march away. I’m not afraid of battle, but nor am I afraid of taking to my heels if the situation warrants it. I don’t intend to risk your lives or our men’s lives needlessly. I’d rather we all lived to fight another day. Above all, I don’t want another Wakefield.”
Pembroke and Wiltshire took exactly the route Black Will Herbert had anticipated to Leominster. From there they took the Roman road following the River Lugg toward the village of Aymestrey and Wigmore Castle beyond. They would have seen that the Yorkist army, commanded by a mere lad, had committed the basic blunder of deploying with a river to its rear, for the Lugg lay on his army’s left flank but then looped around to the west so that it lay to the rear also. Edward was counting on the fact that neither of the two leaders had much soldiering experience and would fail to see the defensive advantages of the site.
He watched from a hilltop as the enemy drew up in three divisions facing his own three divisions. It did not occur to him to swoop down on them while they were in disarray, for that would have been dishonourable and not in accordance with the tenets of chivalry governing the way battles were fought. He wanted no acts of dishonour to stain his name. He intended to win the battle on merit, not by treachery. The enemy would have time to get into position to receive a full frontal assault before trumpeters announced the onset of hostilities. He was confident it would be over by Sext.
Two valleys cut through the limestone escarpment that rose gently from the Herefordshire plain to cross there at right angles. The Lugg ran to the east of and paralleled the Roman road and to the west was a steep and wooded bank forming the slope of one of the valleys, an excellent place in which to station archers to fire down on massed troops. Edward’s army was positioned on an east-west axis a few hundred yards south of the point where the road to central Wales bisected the Roman road. A great stone cross marked the crossroads, a memorial to one of his Mortimer ancestors. It was Candlemas, the Feast of the Purification of the Virgin, and a visible sun was peering over the horizon. All of these things, Edward thought, were good omens. Also, his army was comprised mostly of the household retainers of the marcher barons, who would be fighting on home territory and in defence of their native soil; the enemy were mainly foreigners and mercenaries, who had no stake in the outcome.
He gave the right wing to Will Hastings, the left to Lord Audley and sent Will Herbert and two hundred archers into the trees of the wooded slope to unleash a firestorm of arrows on the enemy left. Although the swollen river was behind his lines, he had not put himself into a trap because there were two good bridges, one to the north and one directly east of his position, both leading to Croft Castle. Furthermore, he didn’t intend to defend his position, in fact, but was resolved to attack, attack, attack, until the enemy was cut to ribbons. The river between would have been a serious impediment.
Returning to his men, he summoned his squire to help him finish arming.
“How do they look, my lord?” Richard Herbert asked as he knelt to fit the greaves to his lord’s well-shaped calves.
“Rather undisciplined, to tell the truth. It’s always difficult to manoeuvre a large body of men in an enclosed space, but Pembroke has the further handicap of having no less than five different nationalities under him: French, Breton, Irish, Welsh and English, which means up to five different languages. Hardly surprising if he has difficulty making his orders understood.”
He fell silent, listening to the sound of shouting, odd shouts with a thread of real fear in them. With one greave on and the other still in the hands of his squire, he mounted his horse and looked around.. All seemed to be as it should be, except that something was rippling through the men, like a shiver of wind blowing through a wheat field. There was a chorus of shouts and exclamations, and on the faces of those closest to him, he saw raw fear, transmitting itself from man to man.
Some dropped to their knees, some hid their faces, some did both. Will Herbert was standing nearby, glaring at the sky.
“What is it?” Edward asked him.
“Christ in Heaven!” the Welshman said in a hoarse whisper. Then he too slipped to his knees as if hamstrung.
Seeing a pointed finger, Edward followed the direction and the hair on his neck stood on end. He blinked. It was impossible and yet how could he doubt the testimony of his own eyes? There in the sky hanging above a clear horizon were three suns. Three suns! And everyone could see them. He made the sign of the cross three times and looked back at the men around him. They were falling to the ground like autumn leaves, crying out in sheer terror, babbling prayers and throwing their weapons down.
“We cannot fight today!” they cried. “It is an evil omen!” And that too was a sentiment that quickly spread from man to man.
It was a superstitious age. Edward had heard that a woman in Bedfordshire had hung her sheets out to dry only to find them ruined by a bloody rain. A farmer in Warwickshire had reported the birth of a two-headed calf. And now this – three suns in Herefordshire. As superstitious as any, Edward shared the prevailing view that all were portents of some cataclysmic event or disaster. He saw that the men were reluctant to fight but he wasn’t about to be cheated of his battle because of a manifestation of… whatever it was.
Edward stood well over six feet tall. His great height and strength compensated for his youth. In full armour, as he was now, but without his helm, he was a magnificent figure. The soldiers tore their eyes from the heavens to look at him as his voice rang out. “There is nothing to fear here. This is a good sign, for these three suns represent the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Therefore, be of good heart, and let us go against our enemies in the certain knowledge that God has blessed our cause!”
This Sun of York Page 48