Then he too went to his knees and thanked God. When he arose, others followed suit and soon they were all standing, picking up their weapons, murmuring not about omens now but about miracles. Within a few moments, the phenomenon was gone and a single sun continued on its path. The superstitious soldiers went into battle heartened by the belief that they had witnessed a manifestation of the Holy Trinity.
So Edward had his battle. And he had his victory.
Chapter 53
February 1461 – Hereford
Shortly after the bells of Tierce had rung out from the magnificent cathedral that dominated Hereford’s skyline, a procession was seen winding its way down Church Street into the crowded marketplace. The townsfolk stood in the knife-edged wind, wrapped in their warmest, stamping their feet and blowing on their fingers to keep warm. They were waiting for the executions.
After defeating his enemies in battle, Edward chased them all the way to Hereford. He wanted Wiltshire and Pembroke, but they had escaped him. Instead of a jackal, all he got was a toothless old dog.
First came the baleful figure of the executioner. He rode a black horse and was shrouded in black from head to foot. His face was hidden by a black hood, with three holes in it: two for the eyes and one for the mouth, in case he wanted to speak. He held his axe cradled in the crook of his arm, as a mother might hold her baby or a bishop his crosier. Next came two carts carrying the ten prisoners. They had their hands bound behind their backs, wore no cloaks and were shivering in the chill February air. Some glanced in abject terror toward the platform that would be the last thing they beheld of this mortal world, and then they screwed their eyes shut, and their lips moved in silent prayer. Some were weeping, although they tried to hide it, and others glared aggressively at the people come to watch their last anguish. Certain elements in the crowd offered catcalls in return.
But the most interesting of them all was Owen Tudor, the father of Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke. The women nudged each other and whispered. Queen Katherine’s comely squire was an old man now, with white hair instead of gold, and faded blue eyes caught in a net of deep wrinkles, and few teeth. He wore a fine red velvet doublet with a fur collar, and he neither prayed nor wept, but looked into the crowd, nodding vaguely.
Directly behind the carts came Edward, riding his big grey destrier. Horse and rider had laid aside their armour. He was dressed in unrelieved black under his furred cloak, with boots of gleaming leather and a heavy sword at his side. A natural crowd-pleaser, on this day he was as solemn as any and kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.
The earl was followed by six knights, not one of whom was over thirty. Then came some other great men and then an archdeacon from the cathedral come to solemnise the proceedings. Finally came three score men-at-arms who spread out around the square facing the crowd, alert for mischief.
It was almost like a market day. The fat host at the Three Tuns, to no one’s surprise, had rolled a barrel of ale out into the street and even before he could tap it a queue had formed up with pitchers and flasks to be filled. The cook shops had sent out their apprentice boys, who were moving through the crowd, crying the particular delights of hot pies, fat, greasy sausages or fried eels. They too were doing a lively business. There were even a couple of whores swinging through the crowd touting for custom. The agile scrambled for elevation, the better to see, and everyone went quiet with expectation. All the windows around the marketplace had their shutters open and were jammed with faces. The town’s dignitaries stood in a huddle under the ancient elm tree that shaded the Three Tuns’ forecourt, trying to look suitably grave. There were no stalls or booths set up today, and a stark platform three steps high, surmounted by an old wooden block reigned in the middle of the square.
“They’ve been laying bets on whether you’ll spare old Tudor,” Hastings told Edward as they rode into the square. “The women hope so. His liaison with Katherine of France has made him a rather romantic figure. They reckon he must have been fair indeed to capture the heart of a queen.”
“And what do you think?”
Hastings shrugged. “I think you will have your way.”
“I will.”
The carts came to a halt before the platform. Edward and his knights ranged themselves to one side, from where they would have an unimpeded view of the executions. The archdeacon mounted the steps of the scaffold and stood with his prayer book open in his hand. The executioner mounted after him. A complete hush fell over the crowd. Everyone could hear a bullish-looking brute in one of the carts bawling like a baby.
When the axe fell on the first neck, someone screamed. It was the man who was weeping. He collapsed in a quaking babbling heap on the floor of the cart. One of the Scudamore brothers kicked him and snarled something. The crowd booed and hissed. They hated to see that kind of thing. It disrupted the dignity of the proceedings, and in any case, it did no good. The men-at-arms selected him next and had to have the help of two of their comrades to haul him up the steps, so frantically was he bucking and wriggling. He was beheaded as quickly as possible, and was just as dead as if he’d gone to his death peaceably; only his family would hear how he had died without dignity and would be ashamed. After that everything went smoothly.
One by one the ashen-faced prisoners were taken down from the cart by two of the men-at-arms and had their laces unfastened, or their collars stripped away to bare their necks. Then they were hustled up the stairs to the platform where they knelt in the blood of those who had gone before and laid their heads on the block. While the archdeacon murmured his prayers and made the sign of the cross, the headsman swung his axe, the head fell, and blood spurted in a crimson arc from the severed artery.
Owen Tudor was the last man. Before the men-at-arms could come for him, he got down by himself and went to kneel before Edward. The crowd strained to hear him. “Fair lord,” said Owen, “will you not show mercy to a man of many winters?”
Edward had never ordered men to their deaths before, but he had no compunction about doing so. There was no room for pity in him. Frowning, he said bitterly, “You shall have the same mercy your friends showed my brother – a man of few winters.”
The soldiers came for him. At the earl’s nod, they leant down and lifted him to his feet.
As they led him away toward the scaffold, he was heard to say mournfully, “This head shall lie on the block that used to lie on Queen Katherine’s lap.”
Everyone agreed later that the executioner had done a good job. Every head fell with just one blow. There was no butchery as was sometimes the case. When it was all over, the bodies were taken to the cathedral and the ten heads were arranged on the steps of the market cross to form a pyramid, with Owen Tudor’s at the apex.
……….
Later that day, alerted by one of the men guarding the heads, Edward went back to the marketplace with Will Hastings and Will Herbert. It was already dark, but the wind had dropped. The blood on the scaffold and block had dried. An old woman was there, kneeling before the pyramid of heads with a woven basket beside her. Her grey hair hung to her shoulders, uncovered, in a ropy tangle. She had her hands together and was rocking and moaning. If it was a prayer, he could not make out the words. Then she took from her basket certain items and began to transform Tudor’s head. Her back was so bent she was forced to look through her grizzled eyebrows to see what she was doing. She cleaned the blood that had dried on his face, washed and combed his hair, gently closed his eyes. His was the only head that received her ministrations. When she had finished, she set it apart from the rest. Finally, going back into her basket, she removed a small candle and looked around for something with which to light it.
“Who do you suppose she is?” Will Hastings asked.
The man-at-arms drew back when she approached him, but she fastened a speckled hand on his arm, and he offered little resistance as she drew his torch toward her and lit her candle. Then she crept back to the market cross shielding the candle flame with her hand.
”Some crazed old crone,” said Herbert. “I did hear of a woodswoman who loved him long ago before he took up with the old Queen. Maybe this is she.”
“Shall I chase her off, lord?” one of the guards asked.
“No, just leave her be. She’s doing no harm.”
She was lighting more candles and placing them around the head.
He was once as I am, full of life and spirit. He loved women. He was loved by a Queen. He had taken Tudor’s life in an act of reprisal, only to find it changed nothing. Edmund’s ghost rode him yet. He’d not be satisfied until Clifford’s gone to his just reward.
Hastings gestured toward the old woman. “Maybe she’s a ghost – the ghost of the old Queen!”
She had ringed Tudor’s head around with a score of candles. In the darkness, the thing looked like some grotesque pagan altar. Furtively crossing himself, Edward said: “Let’s get out of here. This place is beginning to give me the creeps.”
“Do you ever wonder if we’ll end up like that? On a scaffold in some marketplace?” Hastings asked as they started walking back.
“I haven’t thought about it,” Herbert said stolidly “I’m not much given to morbid introspection.”
“I don’t fear death but I’m terrified of pain, and whenever I watch a ‘heading I can’t help thinking how much it must hurt!”
Herbert laughed. “I’d sooner die in bed or battle, but failing that I’d settle for a ‘heading. It’s quick and clean.”
“How do you know?”
“Eh?”
“Clean it’s not. There’s an awful lot of blood in the human body, and it makes a terrible mess when it’s let out. And how do you know it’s quick? Supposing old Tudor’s down there experiencing everything and thinking, ‘Dear God, someone take away this damned headache!’”
Chapter 54
Baynard’s Castle – London
The sound of many hooves in the cobbled courtyard drew Cecily to a window. Looking below, she recognised the scarlet livery of her nephew, the Earl of Warwick and her heart at once gave her a nasty jolt. The last time he had come it was to bring her the stunning news of Wakefield. Although day had broken, most people would still be at Mass or breakfast. It was very early for anyone to be calling unless it was urgent. As Warwick entered the house, she hurried to meet him.
Cecily had no difficulty reading his face. Not bad news, then, she thought with such relief that her knees went weak. There had been so much of that recently. First Wakefield, and pain so vast it filled the world. And Margaret’s advance south with a horde of Scots marauders. It was unbelievable that an English Queen should act in such a fashion. London was terrified.
Although he wore the requisite black, Warwick appeared to be his usual self: confidant, energetic, jaunty, no sign of sorrow. Was it true what someone had told her? That he’d said Wakefield had cleared away two redundant fathers to make way for two abler sons? Was it possible that any man could be so cold?
“You’re looking well,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.
“And feeling better than I have in days. I’ve received some very good news, and I wanted to bring it personally.”
“I could use some,” Cecily said, leading the way into the hall.
They made themselves comfortable by the fire. Having ascertained that he hadn’t yet broken his fast, Cecily ordered ale and food served. Meg appeared with a full-grown tabby cat in her arms. With a shy smile at her famous cousin, Meg settled at her mother’s feet and the cat settled in her lap. She was fourteen and had little of the family beauty. Although she had the blonde hair and blue eyes, her mouth was too wide, her nose too short, her eyes too round, and her brows too thick. Worst of all, the disproportionately large hands and feet were inimical to any claim to beauty and tended to make their owner awkward and clumsy. If she had beauty at all, it was in her complete disregard of its absence, her artlessness and genuine caring for all God’s creatures, and the charm and courtesy she had in common with the rest of her siblings.
The news had to wait until Warwick had satisfied his appetite with salted herring, poached eggs in Béarnaise sauce and oat cakes, during which time Cecily and her daughter made small talk that required little contribution from their guest. As soon as he had finished, Warwick said without preamble, “Edward has won a great victory over the Earls of Wiltshire and Pembroke!”
Cecily was surprised into saying, “Edward has?” before realising that neither the words nor the tone in which they were spoken was very complimentary to her son. She shared a smile with her daughter.
“Oh, how wonderful!” Meg said. “Do tell us all the details, please, my lord.”
Warwick was grinning hugely, obviously taking pleasure in his young cousin’s accomplishment, and was happy to comply. “It’s hard to believe that he’s still in his teens. Amazing lad! He did everything right. I couldn’t have done better myself. Hardly had he time to recover from the shock of Wakefield when he heard that Wiltshire and Pembroke were in South Wales raising an army, but he kept a cool head and marched to intercept them at a place called Mortimer’s Cross. From what I gather, the place he chose gave him every tactical advantage. Since he had the superior numbers, Wiltshire and Pembroke should have had a stratagem in place to overcome that, but it’s clear they had none. Edward had the foresight to station archers on a wooded ridge overlooking the battlefield, and the deadly fire coming from there took a heavy toll before a blow could be struck. Wiltshire had the command of that wing, and once he saw that the battle wasn’t going his way, he took to his heels. Pembroke fought on for a time but it was hopeless, and he was soon seen disappearing into the west. It lasted no longer than two hours, but it was a savage fight. To the victor go the spoils. And the cleaning up. Edward had the enemy decently buried in a mass grave.” He grinned at Margaret. “I wish I had more details, but messengers tend to be terse. I’m sure he’ll be writing himself soon.”
“And he wasn’t hurt?” asked the mother.
“Not a scratch. Incidentally, a strange thing happened on the morning of battle. Three suns appeared in the western sky.”
Margaret gasped, crossed herself. Cecily crossed herself too, and said slowly, “I remember hearing about such a thing when I was a girl at Raby. Everyone believed the world was coming to an end.”
“I recall reading something about this phenomenon once. It’s called a parhelion and is caused by sunlight striking ice crystals. Of course, that’s the scientific explanation, of which the men under Edward knew nothing. Predictably, they took it to be a sign of divine displeasure and said they wouldn’t fight. After that, Edward went among them, rallying them, and telling them that the three suns represented the Holy Trinity and that it was, in fact, a sign of divine favour. So the men were cheered and went into battle with a good heart.”
Once again Cecily was taken unawares and spoke without thought. “Edward said that?”
“Surprised you, didn’t he?” Warwick nodded, grinning at her bemusement.
“Deo Gratis!” She made the sign of the cross on her breast. Of course, he’d always had a glib tongue. “I am happy he is safe. Did Wiltshire and Pembroke escape?”
“I’m afraid they’ll live to bedevil us another day. At least Pembroke will. The best that can be said of Wiltshire is that he’ll live to run away again. The only one of note who fell into Edward’s hands was old Owen Tudor, Pembroke’s father, and him Edward had executed in the marketplace at Hereford.”
Cecily caught her breath, but this time she managed to refrain from saying ‘Edward did that?’ “And the bodies..?” she asked, unable to bring herself to be more explicit.
Warwick looked surprised. “He had them decently laid out in the cathedral, Madam. What did you expect?”
Deo Gratis! But what did I expect? It is that the world is running mad? There are no certainties anymore. How could she predict what her boy would do when he had just commanded and won a battle and condemned several men to death on his own authority? She hadn’t s
hared her husband’s opinion that their eldest was irresponsible and impulsive, and she had always felt intuitively that instead of trying to amend his behaviour, Edward responded indifferently to carping and criticism, shrugged it off and went merrily on his way. Of far more concern to her was his predilection for dubious pleasures. Pleasure before duty, pleasure before breakfast, pleasure before everything – that was Edward. In Cecily’s opinion it was no way for anyone to live, but especially not a great lord predisposed by birth and rank to play a significant role in his country’s future. But perhaps all that was needed was a little more maturity, and the tragedy at Sandal appeared to have done just that. He had certainly acted as swiftly, as decisively and as responsibly as even his father could have wished, and God had crowned his efforts with success. But thank God it hadn’t turned him into the kind of conscienceless brute she couldn’t have countenanced.
“I see I must readjust my thinking,” she said, smiling faintly. “My eldest boy is now a man.”
“He is, indeed, and has been for some time. I’m not surprised that he did so well. I have the advantage of you in that I fought with him at my back at St. Albans and in command of my right at Northampton. I tell you frankly, he’s a born soldier and has a better grasp of tactics than men far older and more experienced. His contribution to both battles was notable.”
“High praise coming from Warwick,” Cecily murmured.
“Oh, I recognised the mettle in him early.” Warwick examined the lees in the bottom of his cup. “He and I are going to do great things together, mark my words.” Pitching the last of his ale down his throat, he rose to his feet. “Well, I’d better be going. I just wanted to give myself the pleasure of bringing you a little happiness during your time of trouble.”
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