“There are no choices. You have to hold, or you and I are done for. I’ll send help as soon as I can.” Taking the water bottle from Warwick, Edward tipped back his head and had a long drink and then poured some of the water over his face. “Hard to believe a man can sweat in this kind of temperature,” he said and, with a parting smile, jammed his helm back on and climbed on his horse with an agility that suggested reserves of energy as yet untapped.
The left was holding now in spite of Warwick’s pessimism, even beginning to push the enemy back a little. The right was still folding back, on the point of breaking, and when Lord Fauconberg pleaded for help, Edward sent his reserve in to shore it up. The crisis was over for the moment, and the two sides continued the bloody struggle, slogging it out with weary, trembling limbs, exhausted almost to the point of collapse, with neither making much headway for all the lives that were lost. But Edward had committed his reserve, and he very much regretted it, wondering if he would pay for it before the day was over. In every battle there comes a key moment when one final concerted effort can make the difference between defeat and victory, and every instinct told him that that moment had not come and when it did he would have nothing to meet it.
Thousands lay dead, thousands more wounded. When the Lancastrians drew off to gather their strength for another attack, both sides were assailed by the moans of the dying, the screams of agony and the pleas for help from those stricken on the field. The Lancastrians were almost spent, but when they looked up the slope, it was to see their foes still in possession of the crest, an invincible wall. And perhaps they saw the Yorkist King riding back and forth across the field, rallying his men, his energy and courage inexhaustible, a splendid and inspirational figure to all who saw him in his blood-splashed armour and mounted on his huge destrier. And perhaps they compared him to the King for whom they fought, kept behind in York so that no harm would befall him.
The light began to fade into the dismal grey of the winter twilight, and the fight showed no signs of abating. Once more the Yorkists dug in their heels, ready to withstand another attack, and when it came the lines buckled, wavered, were on the point of collapse. The key moment had come – but for Lancaster, not for York. If Somerset used his reserves now – if he had any – Edward knew his men would not be able to withstand an assault from fresh troops. They would break at the first charge. Even in the centre, his men were beginning to look over their shoulders for avenues of escape.
Warwick stood in one place and let the enemy come to him. He fought on mechanically, hacking, thrusting. Sometimes his blows met fresh air, and he would find himself thrown off balance, his torn knee wrenched as he struggled like a man flown with wine to stay on his feet. His squires begged him to leave the field, but the thought of being beaten again filled him with dull rage. So he fought on, though his strength was gone, knowing himself fortunate that the enemy was as weary as he.
And then the miracle happened.
A great shout went up and ran down the line, gathering intensity until it was a full-throated roar of triumph. Edward retreated to his command post to see what was going on. Norfolk’s men were coming down the road behind Fauconberg’s division, picking up their pace as they neared the battle, led by the gallant, dying Duke himself. What a tremendous sight! But what a dismaying sight it must have been to the enemy, who had given all they had and had nothing left with which to meet the onslaught of two thousand fresh troops. Although I wished him here earlier, Edward thought to himself, he couldn’t have arrived at a better time for maximum impact.
He sent a messenger off to his cousin. “Tell my lord of Warwick that Norfolk is here, that he must hold for just a little while longer. Tell him –” he paused and smiled; even in his grimy, blood-streaked face, that smile was like the sun coming out “ – tell him the battle is all but won.”
Instead of bringing his men up to join Fauconberg, Norfolk continued up the road until they had outflanked Exeter’s wing. Archers went to work immediately while the men-at-arms formed into ranks. They fell on the rear and flank of the men facing Fauconberg with such an impact that even those in the centre felt its final tremors. On the right, Lancaster’s line was pushed back and back until it was almost at a ninety-degree angle to the rest of the army.
“On, lads!” Edward roared. “These whoresons are done for. Let’s finish ‘em off!” He could see in the eyes of those brave enough to raise their weapons against him that they knew it, too. They were beaten, bloodied, exhausted. Edward urged his men on to one last great effort. The whole centre surged forward, breaking the Lancastrian centre division into little fragments of resistance, which fought on for a while before being pushed off the ridge. At last they broke and ran.
The entire Lancastrian army shattered like glass and scattered in all directions. Some ran up the road to Tadcaster only to remember when they got there that their leaders had ordered the destruction of the bridge over the Wharf to prevent their enemies escaping that way. Some tried to run up and over the plateau upon which they had started that day, to find refuge in Towton. And many stumbled down the churned up, blood-soaked slope, which would henceforth be known as Bloody Meadow, to the little stream that was no wider than the height of a tall man. There so many died, either drowned as they plunged into the rushing current or killed by pursuers before they could get across that the dead made bridges for the living to scramble over. Where Cock Beck entered the Wharf at Tadcaster, pink stains were seen in the water. In whichever direction they ran, they were pursued, cornered, cut down.
Unlike previous battles, Edward and Warwick had given no orders to spare the commons whenever possible and only the lords killed. It was to be a fight to the death with no quarter given. After ten hours of fighting against an obstinate enemy, their men didn’t feel inclined to mercy anyway. They went on the hunt, slaughtering any they found with as little compunction as they would kill rats in a granary. Some of the Lancastrians had discarded their weapons and armour for easier flight, but others chased down and cornered put up a last desperate defence.
Eventually the sounds of battle died away, and all that could be heard above the wailing of the wind was the sounds of dying: the sobs, the prayers, the anguished groans and the occasional piercing scream. The snow fell silently on the still, shattered bodies of Towton field.
Chapter 63
March 1461 – The North
Edward wandered on foot down the crest of the ridge upon which his forces had fought, into the valley and toward the little brook, trailed by a small guard of which he was oblivious. He was suddenly conscious, however, of a strange complexity in his composition. In battle he fought with an almost mindless ferocity, cutting men down as if their lives were worthless, inflicting terrible wounds with as little compunction as he had hacked at the practice beam as a boy. There was no place for conscience on a battlefield, nor for pity or sorrow, yet he was unaware of disengaging these aspects of his nature until faced with this bloody aftermath. Now humanity returned and those suspended emotions rolled over him in a flood. The extent of the carnage was appalling. There were thousands of slain, perhaps tens of thousands. As he moved among them, sparing himself nothing, he realised that many had not just been killed in battle but had been cut down in flight, stabbed, hacked, bludgeoned again and again in a killing frenzy. He reached Cock Beck where the rushing water stirred the dead limbs of heaped bodies and raced over blank faces. There were still living men among the mangled and dismembered corpses. He could hear the sounds of unimaginable distress all around him, groans and whimpers and cries. Someone far off was screaming repetitively, the same note, the same duration over and over again.
“Here is the Earl of Northumberland!” came an excited shout from one of the groups who were combing the field, separating the living from the dead, Yorkist from Lancastrian, followed by the terse pronouncement, “Dead.”
Such wanton cruelty had not been present at St. Albans, Northampton or Mortimer’s Cross because the order had been to spare the co
mmons whenever possible. He had given no such order at Towton, and the result was a slaughter whose proportions had yet to be revealed. Northumberland, Yorkshire, Cumberland, those counties termed The North, had rallied to Margaret’s banner, even as the Scots were deserting it and would mourn their sons for years to come.
In the bloody and agonising convulsion that was Towton field, a dynasty had been born. And Edmund was well and truly avenged.
Edward found Warwick in the porch of Saxton church, propped against a saddle with his leg armour scattered around him and a surgeon bandaging his damaged knee. He looked like a puppet with the sawdust running out, ashen of face and sunk in an attitude of utter weariness. As Edward dismounted, his horse stood with muscles bunching and twitching under the grey coat. It rolled a black eye at its master, who paused to caress the blood and foam-flecked muzzle, before ducking under the majestic head. Warwick made an attempt to rise but was relieved when he was waved down. Edward came to him with his hand outstretched to grasp him by the wrist. Their eyes met, locked, in an emotional rush that communicated without words all that needed to be said.
“I’ve ordered several burial pits to be dug,” said Edward, easing himself down beside Warwick. His voice was still raspy. “Cousin, the number of dead is… is unbelievable. Some of our men are still in pursuit of fugitives. I’d like to call them off, but I’m afraid they’re too scattered. I’ve passed the word anyway.” For all his youth and vitality, he too was bone-weary.
“After having to fight so damned hard our men are bent on retribution,” Warwick muttered, “though where they get the stamina is beyond me. We should away to York. Henry and Margaret are there.” He winced. “Christ save us, man, have a care! That’s my flesh, not tree bark!”
“I’ve sent Lord Fauconberg to arrest them and to follow if they’ve fled.”
“Damn them to Hell.”
“As for me, I’ve no intention of entering York covered in gore and reeking of the battlefield. I intend to retire to clean myself up and put on my finest raiment, and I expect those accompanying me to do likewise. When I enter York, Cousin, she will have no doubt that she is receiving her King.”
“Do we know how many men we lost,” Warwick asked after both had fallen silent and closed their eyes.
“Too damned many.”
Warwick opened his eyes to peer at the profile beside him. “But you are King in truth now, Edward. Though Henry still lives, he is in flight, and I think he’ll find few willing to aid a fugitive former King. Seldom are crowns won without bloodshed.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
Perhaps, thought Edward, tomorrow, when I’m rested, victory will begin to feel like victory, and I’ll be able to reassure Edmund’s ghost that the price he paid was well worth the rewards I’ve gained.
……….
The pursuit of the fugitives continued the following day. All the way around Towton and as far as York, ten miles away, corpses had to be collected by the victors for burial in the five huge pits by Saxton church, where Lancaster and York lay side by side in the embrace of death. It had been such a vicious battle that nearly one-third of the men engaged in it went into those pits.
Among the fallen nobility were the Earl of Northumberland, whose father had been killed at the first battle of St. Albans, Lords Dacre of Gillesland, Neville, Welles and Mauley, as well as Andrew Trollope, a name Warwick was pleased to hear added to the list of dead. Somerset and Exeter had gotten away to York on horseback before their men had even realised they were gone, and Wiltshire too had made his escape.
While the pursuit continued and the burial pits filled up, Edward rode to York, already knowing that Henry and Margaret had fled. Although Warwick’s great estate of Middleham lay only forty miles away, York was a Percy stronghold and held fast for the house of Lancaster. Unless he stamped his authority on the city, it would continue to be a refuge for his enemies, a thorn in his side. The snow had stopped, but the westerly wind was cold and biting. Edward sat on his horse outside Micklegate Bar, just as Margaret had done three months earlier, and pulled his cloak more closely about him, staring up at a flock of birds fluttering across his vision. He followed their flight until they settled into the skeletal grey branches of the beech trees nestled against the town wall.
He had to steel himself to bring his gaze down and look at the skulls still impaled on spikes above the gate. It was hard to know what he felt. A little relief, certainly, because Edmund’s blue eyes weren’t looking at him in eternal reproach – Why weren’t you there, Edward? – his father’s face wasn’t set in lines of disapproval. In fact, Edmund had no eyes, nor did his father have much flesh left, yet they were still recognisable. The searing grief was gone, leaving in its place only a deep sadness that he already knew would diminish with the passing years. So this was by way of a valediction, a final prayer before Edmund was sealed forever in the past.
But there was anger, too, that the citizens of York had not seen fit to remove these pitiful relics before his arrival. It was easier to focus on the anger.
A portal in the gate opened and out stepped, of all people, John Neville, Lord Montagu, Warwick’s brother, who had been held hostage since the battle of St. Albans, and only spared the axe because Warwick held Somerset’s brother. Obviously none the worse for his latest incarceration, Montagu went down on one knee, swept off his cap and bent his head. “My gracious lord, may I take this opportunity to tender my felicitations on your Highness’s elevation to the royal estate, which is yours by right.”
“My thanks, Lord Montagu.” Edward dismounted swiftly, raised him up and pulled him into an embrace. “By Our Lady, my heart rejoices to see you free and safe, John. Here, greet your brother.”
“Do try to stay out of trouble this time,” Warwick said, grinning as he leant down from his horse to grasp his brother’s wrist. They were fond of each other, but not given to the kind of demonstrations of affection that Edward was.
The King had regained his horse and saw that the gates of the city were opening. Within he could see a group of leading citizens, all dressed in their ceremonial robes, standing very quietly. Of cheer and welcome, there was none. Edward might be Duke of York, but the title was in name only. He had nothing to do with the city that was considered the capital of the north. The leading citizens looked upon their new sovereign with considerable apprehension, as well they might. They had given him no reason to view their city with favour.
“We hear that our adversary Henry of Lancaster and his wife are here,” Edward said to John Neville, loud enough that those waiting within the gate could hear.
“No longer, Sire. They fled in the night, which is of course why I’m here. It seems I was forgotten in the panic to depart. This morning I was released by the good citizens who prevailed upon me to beg your Highness to forgive them if they have offended you and to confirm them in the liberties, franchises and rights they have enjoyed since olden times.”
Edward heard this little speech in increasing anger. Walking his horse forward until he was within a few feet of the group of citizens, he looked from face to face with eyes as chill as the Yorkshire skies. Although they had pleaded with John Neville to intercede for them with this unknown prince, who had the authority and the power to disenfranchise them, or lop off a few heads, or levy heavy fines, not one of them bent a knee or dipped a head or gave any other sign that they were in the presence of royalty.
“I am not pleased that York offered refuge to Henry of Lancaster and his wife while they sent their soldiers to destroy me and the lords of the blood and my true subjects,” Edward said softly. “Nor am I pleased that so many from this city chose to disregard my proclamation and take up arms against me. Nor, sirs,” he added, his voice hardening, his eyes colder still, “am I pleased to see that York lacks the simple compassion to remove those beloved remains from above the gate before sight of them could sadden the eyes of your King and my noble lord of Warwick. You would have been wise to do so before speaking to me of f
orgiveness for your offences. Whether I shall extend my grace to York is something upon which I must reserve judgment. We shall see how she conducts herself in the future. Now, have those heads taken down immediately. Where are the bodies?”
“Pontefract,” a disembodied voice mumbled from the knot of citizens.
Edward stiffened, raked them with hard blue eyes, his mouth thinning, until it seemed all youth had fled from his face.
Another ventured, “They were given Christian burial at the house of the Mendicant Friars in Pontefract, Lord King.”
“Then to Pontefract the heads shall go, to be interred with the bodies. I charge you to see that it’s done with all honour.”
The man who had spoken inclined his head, and after a moment’s thought allowed it to sink lower. The others glanced at each other and tacitly decided it would be prudent to follow suit. Edward found himself looking down on half a hundred bent backs. Above the crenellated walls of the town the sun rose warm and bright, signaling the end of that winter of sorrows.
###
Thank you for reading my book. Reviews are the best gift readers can give to authors. If you enjoyed it, I hope you will take a moment to leave a review at your favourite retailer.
Thanks.
Susan Appleyard
About the author:
I was born in England and learned to enjoy English history at an early age. I also enjoyed writing stories, so I am able to combine two of my passions. Now I spend half the year in Canada with my children and grandchildren and the other half in Mexico with the sun and sea. It’s a great life.
A note from the author
I have long held the opinion that history is interesting enough without needing much in the way of embellishment. However, since I am a novelist and not a historian and my books are intended for entertainment rather than education, I do have to add elements not found in a strictly factual non-fiction book. For instance, as soon as I add a line of invented dialogue or mention the weather, the book becomes fictionalised. That said, I do make an effort to keep embroidery to a minimum. I don’t invent characters to carry the plot, only minor characters such as Edward’s lovers in Calais, who are meant to exemplify his eclectic taste in women. Nor do I invent facts although, of course, I put my own interpretation on them. The one exception was the love affair between Anne and Thomas. They did in fact become lovers and later married. But all else is our fiction.
This Sun of York Page 57