by Paul Doherty
‘For God’s sake, man!’ he screamed through the slits in his helm. ‘We are to advance!’
‘The Duke of Somerset,’ Wenlock murmured, ‘has taken a force. He will circle the enemy. We have only to stand our ground.’
‘We are to charge!’ another commander said.
Wenlock, however, his visor raised, looked like a man caught in a deadly fear, his face pasty-white. He fumbled at his reins and pulled his horse away. Sir Raymond again lifted himself up in his stirrups. He could already see that their left flank was beginning to disintegrate, the men either running towards the centre or back across the fields in the direction of Tewkesbury. Somerset’s right, however, still stood firm: Tresham, Somerset’s principal commander, turned his horse and galloped up towards them, helmet raised. He was screaming abuse at Wenlock, pointing his arm towards the enemy. Suddenly Tresham’s horse stumbled, its front legs caving in. Tresham was thrown from the saddle, his body bouncing on the ground like that of a child’s toy.
The Yorkist archers, now emboldened, were running forward, taking up a closer position; behind them, the massed ranks of Edward of York’s cavalry and men-at-arms, their banners flapping, blue, gold and red; the black lion of Hastings, the white lion of Howard. Wenlock still dithered. A roar came from the right, Sir Raymond stared in disbelief. Somerset’s lines were crumbling. Throwing down their arms, the men were running back up the hill behind them. A messenger came riding through, an archer covered in dust and sweat, eyes red-rimmed and staring, voice nothing more than a creak. He flung his arm towards the disintegrating ranks on their right.
‘The Duke of Somerset,’ he gasped, ‘is in retreat! He did not encircle the enemy but ran straight into Richard of Gloucester. Look, his banners can be seen!’
Wenlock’s commanders, lifting their helms, looked to their right. Somerset’s men were fleeing the field and, in the distance, they could see the huge war banners bearing Richard of Gloucester’s insignia, a white boar rampant. Sir Raymond grasped Wenlock’s arm.
‘Stand!’ he shouted. ‘Stand if not charge!’
As if in answer, Raymond heard a fanfare of trumpets from the front. He turned his head and knew the battle was lost. Edward of York had ordered a general advance and a wall of Yorkist steel, solid and impenetrable, was coming in an armed mass towards them. Wenlock turned and fled, the others, including Sir Raymond, followed suit. Behind them they heard the screams and yells, the shimmering clash of sword and armour as the Yorkists met what was left of the Lancastrian front line. At the top of the hill Wenlock reined in, took his helmet off, mopping his face with his hands. He stared around.
‘The Prince!’ he cried. ‘In God’s name, the Prince!’
‘He did not retreat,’ a voice called.
Sir Raymond and others were about to ride down, when pounding along the brim of the hill, their banners held high, came Beaufort and others. The Duke’s rage was terrible. He had lost his helmet, his hair was matted with blood, which ran in rivulets through the dust which masked his face. He did not bother to rein in; his horse crashed amongst them and Beaufort, bringing his axe back, smashed Wenlock’s head, turning it into a bloody pulp. He then lifted his boot and kicked his erstwhile commander’s corpse from the saddle. Beaufort, his eyes mad with fury, glared at the other commanders.
‘So die all traitors!’ he screamed. ‘Wenlock has lost us the battle!’
A shout went up from the melee at the foot of the hill: ‘The Prince is down! The Prince is down!’
Raymond stared back. The dust of battle cleared momentarily in a puff of wind. The gold leopards rampant of Prince Edward’s banner had disappeared. The pennants of York were now clear and the remnants of the Lancastrian army were breaking.
‘We must flee!’ Beaufort shouted. ‘Seek sanctuary in the abbey!’
The Hospitaller, however, just stared open-mouthed towards the battle line. Someone was walking towards him, tall, erect, steel-grey hair cropped, face burnt swarthy by the sun. The man, unnoticed by the men dying and struggling around him, was moving slowly, arms raised in friendship. In one hand he carried a white rose, in the other a red.
‘Otto,’ Sir Raymond whispered. ‘My brother? My brother, what are you. .?’
He felt his arm shaken. One of Beaufort’s squires was staring beseechingly at him.
‘Sir Raymond, we have to flee!’
The Hospitaller looked back. His mind was playing tricks. The vision had vanished: all he could see was a line of men hurrying towards him. Grasping the reins of his horse, he dug his spurs in and followed the rest, galloping across the meadow towards Tewkesbury.
Matthias had woken just before dawn: the house was quiet, his mother and father still sleeping. He dressed hurriedly and, remembering the attack the night before, put on a belt which carried a small sheath knife. He stole down to the kitchen where he ate some bread and salted bacon, and gulped at a cup of watered ale. He stood listening: nothing, except the birds chirping under the eaves. He went across and pulled back the shutter. The day looked set to become a beautiful one. Matthias bit his lip. He felt guilty. He really should wait for his parents but permission had been given, and sometimes adults could change their minds. He stared across at the crucifix, finished the rest of the ale and, still feeling guilty, went across and knelt down, staring up at the face of the crucified Christ. He would, at least, say his prayers.
‘Remember this, my soul, and remember it well. The Lord thy God is One and He is holy. And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy mind, with all thy heart and all thy strength.’
Matthias paused as he heard the floorboards creak above him and, grabbing his small leather bag in which he had placed some bread and fruit, he rushed down the passageway and out of the front door. He slipped over the cemetery wall and ran through the long grass, relishing the wet dew, which splashed his hands, and the morning breeze, which cooled his brow.
Within a short while he was in the village. The high street was empty. A dog ran out barking but, recognising Matthias, slunk away. Two fat sows, rooting amongst the midden-heap, looked up, great ears flapping, before they returned to their work. The doors and windows of the Hungry Man were shuttered and locked. A few of the peasants were already up, ready to leave for the fields. Fulcher’s younger daughter, Ethelina, went by with a yoke across her shoulder from which hung two pails of milk: the blacksmith was a wealthy man and had his own small pasture with a few fat-bellied cows. Any other time Matthias would have stopped to beg for a drink but he was frightened that someone might learn where he was going and decide it was best to check with Parson Osbert.
Matthias sped on, only slowing down when he noticed the old woman sitting on the gallows stone, a basket of herbs in her lap. Old Bogglebow: the hag, Margot, from Baron Sanguis’ manor house. No one really knew why the manor lord kept her but the gossips whispered that Baron Sanguis, interested in the black arts, had used Margot to divine the future. Indeed, or so Parson Osbert had whispered, Baron Sanguis had asked Margot to discover whether York or Lancaster would be victorious in the war. Only then did the Sanguis family make its decision, pinning its hopes to Edward of York. Six weeks earlier the baron, accompanied by his son, twelve yeomen and six men-at-arms, had marched east for the great road to London to place their swords at the disposal of the Yorkist princes.
Old Bogglebow rarely came into the village — sometimes to beg. Other times she’d wander in the forest to collect flowers and herbs for her potions and elixirs. No one dare insult this ancient, one-eyed crone with a face as lean as a hatchet, twisted mouth and a tongue steeped in bitterness. Matthias had occasionally glimpsed Margot as she moved like a spider through the village. Now he walked slowly: he did not want to show he was frightened of Old Bogglebow. He meant to pass her by and had almost done so when she called out.
‘Matthias, isn’t it? The priest’s brat. How is your father, and the fair Christina?’
Matthias stopped and turned. The old woman studied him, her one good eye gleaming li
ke a freshly washed, black pebble, the other hidden by loose flaps of skin. Her face was snowy-white, her hair too, and the boy wondered if she had rubbed some powder into both; her bloodless lips parted in a half-sneer. She was holding one of the flowers the hermit had pointed out yesterday. Matthias recognised the venomous monkshood.
‘Aye, Matthias,’ she declared. ‘So, where does Matthias go?’
‘About my own business.’
She got up and hobbled towards him. Matthias recalled how she was supposed to have been born with a club foot.
‘Clever, clever boy,’ she declared. ‘They say,’ her head came forward, scrawny neck now tight, ‘they say you are a clever boy.’ One hand, thin and cold like a claw, reached out and touched him gently on the cheek. Matthias flinched but held his ground. ‘I know where you are going, boy. To the village of the dead, to meet your friend the hermit.’
She was trying to be sweet but Matthias caught the venom in her words. She was now watching him closely, her one good eye studying his face as if she intended to remember every feature.
‘Can’t I go with you?’ she simpered.
‘The hermit’s not your friend,’ Matthias replied. ‘If you want to see him, you should go yourself.’
‘One has to be invited into a great lord’s presence,’ she cooed back. ‘But remember me to him, won’t you, boy? Say sweet things about poor Margot. Tell him how fond I am of you.’ She drew closer and Matthias caught her stink. ‘I am your servant, Matthias. Anything you want, a potion, an elixir. .?’ She grasped him by the shoulder, her nails dug deep into his skin.
Matthias squirmed. ‘Let me go!’ he cried. ‘You are hurting me! I’ll tell-’ He was going to say his father but he stopped short because the change in Margot was so dramatic.
She clasped her hands together, bowing, making small jigging movements like Matthias had seen other old women do in front of the sanctuary lamp.
‘Oh, don’t tell the hermit,’ she whispered. ‘Please, I never intended to hurt, only to serve you. Look!’ Again the clawlike hand came up.
This time Matthias didn’t wait. He ran like the wind along the trackway into the wood. He went as fast as he could. Only once did he stop, where the soldiers had attacked him last night. He looked fearfully into the undergrowth: he could see where the grass and plants had been beaten down but nothing else. He hurried on. The hermit was true to his word. Matthias found him waiting outside the old, crumbling lych-gate.
‘I thought you wouldn’t come.’
The hermit crouched down. He drew the boy to him, hugging him gently, softly stroking the back of his head.
‘It’s good to see you, Creatura,’ he whispered. ‘You are well?’
‘Those soldiers,’ the boy blurted out. ‘Those wicked men last night-’
‘I followed you,’ the hermit replied. ‘I wanted to show you that you had nothing to fear.’
‘But the soliders? That voice!’
‘They have gone.’ The hermit grinned. ‘And I am the best of mimics.’
‘Did you kill them?’
‘They have gone.’ The hermit stood up. ‘And they’ll never trouble you again, Creatura.’ He stared down in mock anger. ‘You are later than I expected.’
‘I met the witch. Margot, Old Bogglebow. She wishes to be remembered to you. She was strange. She wanted to meet you. She said she was my servant but I don’t think she is.’
‘No, she isn’t.’ The hermit picked up a staff leaning against the wall. ‘Such people, Creatura, are nothing but meddlers. They crawl into the darkness and take to themselves powers they should not, and cannot have. I do not like Margot. But, come, we must be in Tewkesbury soon.’
‘Are we walking there?’
‘No, no. I’ve got a surprise for you.’
He led him along a trackway. Matthias didn’t understand how he knew his way but, just before they left the wood, the hermit took Matthias into a small clearing where a horse, saddled and harnessed, stood hobbled, eating the grass. It was a fine, smooth, deep-chested bay. The hermit stroked its muzzle and whispered gently in its ear.
‘Where did you get it from?’ Matthias asked as the hermit swung him into the saddle and climbed up behind.
‘You ask too many questions, Creatura. I found it wandering. It’s probably from one of the armies. You are comfortable?’
Matthias enjoyed the ride. The trackways were hard, the horse fresh and strong, and it moved along in a fine canter. The hermit was silent. Now and again he’d pause at the top of a hill and stare down, murmur to himself and then ride on.
As they skirted Tredington and took the road to Tewkesbury, Matthias began to realise something was wrong. His parents had taken him here on market days. He was used to the carts and barrows, the hucksters and the traders, the cheerful banter of men looking forward to a good day’s trading. Now the people on the roads were different: grim-faced, heads down, they hurried along as if they wished to be indoors, well away from what might happen. On two occasions they met parties of soldiers, horsemen galloping hither and thither, their clothes stained with mud, white flecks of foam on their tired horses. Two foot soldiers, probably deserters, drew their swords and approached the man and the boy, but when the hermit turned to face them they slunk away.
They entered Tewkesbury just as the bells of the great abbey were tolling for morning prayers. The streets and lanes were strangely empty. No stalls or shops were open. Journeymen and traders stayed in the taverns with the doors closed and windows shuttered. No children played in the streets, even the wandering hogs and dogs had been penned in. A funeral cortege passed them, the mourners walking quickly, and the old priest who preceded them gasping and stammering at his prayers.
‘What’s the matter?’ Matthias asked.
‘It’s the battle,’ the hermit replied. ‘As I told you, Matthias, blood will be spilt, armies will shatter. Princes will topple. The ravens will feast well tonight. Women will be widowed and children made fatherless. This is a dreadful day.’ His voice grew grim. ‘Remember, Creatura, all life preys on life. Now, I have someone to see.’
They rode through the small town and up into the abbey close. They dismounted and the hermit led the horse around into the monastic enclosure. A lay brother, followed by the guestmaster, came out to greet them. The latter apparently recognised the hermit and shook his hand warmly as his companion led the horse away to the stables.
‘It’s good to see you.’ The old monk’s tired face was lit by a smile. ‘And who’s this?’ He pointed down at Matthias.
‘My friend and companion, Matthias Fitzosbert. His father is priest at Sutton Courteny.’
The man’s smile faded. ‘Yes, yes, quite. And what do you wish here?’
‘To pray in the abbey.’
The guestmaster blinked and wetted dry lips.
‘It is not safe to be in Tewkesbury today, my friend. Father Abbot has received news from the battlefield. A terrible and bloody struggle has taken place. Edward of York carries all before him. Men from the Lancastrian army have been deserting all night, stopping at our house, begging for alms.’
‘I just want to pray,’ the hermit replied.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ The monk led them forward. ‘Morning Office is finished and Mass has been said. Do you wish food, drink from our refectory?’
The hermit shook his head and, clasping Matthias’ hand, he went through a side door into the soaring nave. Matthias stared in disbelief: great columns marched the length of the church up to a gloriously painted sanctuary whilst the carved roof above him looked as if it were held up by magic. He stared in amazement at the shafts of light pouring through the multicoloured, painted windows.
‘I have loved, oh Lord,’ the hermit whispered, ‘the beauty of Thy house, the place where Your glory dwells. This, Matthias, is the gate of Heaven and, indeed, a terrible place.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Matthias whispered.
His father had never brought him here and, caught up in wonderment, Mat
thias did not know where to gaze first. The wall paintings drew him, striking in their glorious vigour: angels swooped, satyr-faced demons were spat out of the fire of Hell, the just were carried by Christ in judgment; St Anthony preached to the fishes; Lazarus was swept up into the bosom of Abraham.
‘Look!’ he cried, but the hermit had walked away. He was staring at a painting on the far wall. Matthias, curious, ran across, his sandals slapping on the hard paved floor. Matthias gazed at the painting: a beautiful woman, her naked body white as alabaster, hair of spun gold, stood beneath a tree: one hand covered her breasts, the other the secret place between her thighs. She was staring at the figure of a glorious young man clothed in the sun. Olive-skinned, lustrous-eyed, he was holding a rose towards the woman. Matthias noticed it had no thorns. When he looked at the hermit, his friend’s face was tragic and sad, silent tears running down his cheeks. The hermit extended his hands and touched the painted rose, then the beautiful woman. He muttered something Matthias didn’t understand then, folding his arms across his chest, went and sat at the foot of a pillar lost in his own thoughts.
4
The Lancastrian retreat into Tewkesbury had turned into a bloody rout. Most of Margaret of Anjou’s army fled across the open countryside, only to be cut down in the great meadows which stretched down to the Severn. Somerset and the other commanders, Sir Raymond included, decided to seek sanctuary in Tewkesbury Abbey. They had to fight every foot of the way into the town. The Yorkists, moving fast, tried to cut them off in a ring of steel. Sir Raymond fought like a man demented, with all his fury, rage and frustration, not only at the defeat, but in the certain knowledge that he would never fulfil his vow. On the edge of the town they ran into a party of Yorkist horse but the Hospitaller led his companions through. Tying his reins to his belt, Sir Raymond wielded his sword, cutting and slashing at the contorted faces and eager hands ready to pluck him from the saddle. His sword scythed the air, slicing through armour and chain mail, biting deep into bone and flesh. The cobbled streets ran with blood, turning the town into a butcher’s yard. At last they were through, though three of their party were down, two killed, one a prisoner.