by Clint Dohmen
Before engaging, Simon watched to make sure that his cousin Duncan and his archers had made it safely to the rear. He needn’t have worried, though; his cousin was swift and smooth as he maneuvered his men through the lines and had them begin firing angled volleys over the heads of the frontline troops.
“Wrrrraaaaaggggggghhhhhhhhh!” Simon roared as he ran forward into battle.
Kojiro blocked an overhead axe swing towards his own head with his right sword and parried a sword thrust aimed at Neno’s torso with his left as he moved to the Venetian’s right. He ran his blade down the shaft of the axe where it cut through the attacker’s leather glove and sliced off four of his fingers. Kojiro then swept the screaming man’s legs out from under him, stepped over him, and with sword blades whirling, went to work on another slow, clumsy opponent.
Simon stepped to Neno’s left, bashed a Yorkist swordsman on the head with his shield, and stabbed forward at a mace-wielding attacker to his front. With his reach advantage, he was able to keep his mace-wielding opponent at bay with regular sword thrusts, while he continued to rain down blows on the head of the dazed swordsman to his left. After the fifth blow from Simon’s shield, Neno sidestepped and struck upwards into the man’s groin area with his naginata, cutting straight up through his genitals and into his abdomen.
When Simon turned all of his attention to the mace wielder, the man knew he was outclassed. He desperately lunged forward, bringing his mace down towards Simon’s head. Simon blocked the blow with his shield, stepped forward, and placed his right leg directly in the middle of his opponent’s legs. Then, as if drawing a semicircle with his toe, he swept his opponent’s left leg forward and out from underneath him with a swift reaping motion. It was a trick he had learned from Kojiro in the sweltering heat of Venice. The man fell squarely on his back, and Simon ended his life with a stab down through the visor of his sallet.
Kojiro, on Simon’s right, both swords moving so quickly they were barely visible, was cutting the less experienced and less skillful Yorkist men-at-arms down like wheat. Although a knight wore twenty kilograms of armor, most of the rank-and-file soldiers wore much less, and Kojiro’s Arai-forged blades were cutting leather, cloth, and flesh like butter.
The hand-to-hand combat was ugly, bloody, and quick: it was especially quick for the dim-witted, of which there were plenty. A dim-witted peasant, with little in the way of armor except an ill-fitting iron breastplate, doubtless acquired from a fallen friend or foe, poked his sword at Simon while shouting vile profanities.
For his temerity, Simon chopped down at the hardened leather codpiece the man was wearing. The cut was so quick, the peasant did not feel a thing, but he did notice that his codpiece was now lying in the muddy grass. Regrettably, it was still full of its contents. Then the blood began to flow, and in total shock, the peasant made another bad decision; he turned and ran headlong into a poleaxe: one wielded by a fellow Yorkist.
Simon used the opportunity to strike under the armpit of the knight wielding the poleaxe. In order to provide mobility, this knight had neglected to use mail underneath his armpit, and Simon’s Arai blade cut straight through to the bone. The poleaxe, as a heavy, two-handed weapon, was effective in crushing armor, but with only one usable arm now, the knight had no hope of dislodging it from the dim-witted peasant and bringing it to bear on Simon.
Simon moved to the knight’s right, and in a mighty swing, brought his sword around squarely into the lightly protected area behind his knee. The knight collapsed, losing more blood than he could ever hope to recover as Simon moved on to his next opponent.
The Lancastrians fighting beside Simon, Neno, and Kojiro fought with the same zeal; they had lived on the run for most of their lives. Now that they were back in their native England, they were not going to go away quietly. As Simon’s column punched through the first rank of Norfolk’s vanguard, the cries echoed up and down the line, “For Henry and St. George!”
“Henry and St. George!”
0845
Dadlington Hill
Lord Stanley’s position
The messenger from Richard arrived on an exhausted horse that was covered in sweat and foaming at the mouth. The rider reined in from a gallop just short of Lord Stanley. It was impolite at the least and a maneuver that could have gotten him killed by one of Lord Stanley’s bodyguard at worst, but Lord Thomas Stanley showed no concern. His men left their weapons sheathed.
“The King orders you to enter the fight immediately or he will behead your son,” the messenger panted. “Furthermore, your own head will be forfeit when this day is over.”
“Thank you for the news, dear messenger. Please inform the King that I have other sons.” And with Lord Stanley showing no desire to speak further, the messenger yanked his exhausted horse’s head around and spurred it back towards King Richard.
0900
Behind Henry’s lines
“Any thoughts, Jasper?” Henry asked.
“Oxford’s vanguard is doing well,” his uncle allowed. “The Lancastrians are advancing on the left, the French are holding the center although they are hard-pressed, and the Welsh are holding firm on the right, anchored by the marsh. So far we’re lucky, but only Norfolk’s men are committed. Richard’s men are still being held back, and they’re more than double Norfolk’s number. I doubt they’ll be held for much longer.”
“What about Northumberland?”
“He has not budged from his position. It appears Lord Oxford’s assessment of his character was accurate.”
“And the Stanleys?”
“God knows. Both of the messengers that we’ve sent came back with answers that couldn’t possibly be any more noncommittal.”
“But we are going to need the Stanleys.”
“At least one of them, yes,” Jasper admitted.
“Then I will go personally to Sir William. Richard has already declared him a traitor, and he did help get us through to England.”
“Not your stepfather?”
Henry pulled a face. “Lord Stanley has yet to provide us with any overt assistance, so he has less to lose by waiting it out.”
“We can’t pull any troops from the front lines to escort us across the battlefield, Harry. If we bring men to the rear, it will look like we’re running away and surely cause a rout.”
“I won’t need them,” the king hopeful countered. “I’ll be passing behind our lines, with the marsh between me and Richard’s army.”
“Well, I don’t like it, but it may be a gamble we can’t afford not to take. Without at least one of the Stanleys, we will most likely succumb to sheer numbers in the long run.”
“William Brandon,” Henry addressed his standard-bearer, “we’re riding for the hills to the south.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Chapter 42
0910
Left flank of Duke Oxford’s Vanguard
The Lancastrian Column
SIMON WAS PROUD of his fellow Lancastrians. The long years of war had whittled their numbers down to only the heartiest and most loyal, and they fought like it. Unfortunately, the French column on their right had stalled and looked to soon be overwhelmed. The cavalry protecting their left flank were making a good showing, but they were becoming fewer and fewer in number. Regardless of how bravely the Lancastrians fought, it would not be long before the enemy would be on both flanks and to their rear.
A shouted question from Kojiro cut short Simon’s visions of a heroic death and living on forever in song.
“What is that damn awful noise?”
Hmm, Kojiro just used the word damn. I must be more careful with my choice of language around him, Simon thought. After all, Aldo may be right about hell, and there’s no need to drag anyone else down with me.
Then he heard the noise, too.
0910
Center of Duke Oxford’s Vanguard
Philibert de Chandee’s position
Philibert’s lines were cracking. He had perhaps minutes left before
the skilled Yorkist billmen would be through his lines and attacking his standard. Then he heard the most beautiful sound in the world: bagpipes. The Scots Guards had come.
The bagpipes were a musical instrument of war. The haunting and eerie sound resonated from the goat skins and reed pipes and lent encouragement to a breed of people who needed little encouragement to fight. They also struck fear into the hearts of enemies who knew the fury of the men who fought to their tune.
In front of the men playing these instruments marched Sir Walter Scott. As Sir Walter passed Philibert he raised the visor of his armet in salute, and his standard bearer planted the cross of St. Andrew next to Philibert’s blue and gold fleur-de-lis standard.
“Bonjour,” Sir Walter Scott yelled out in greeting.
“Bonjour,” Philibert returned the greeting casually, revealing none of the anxiety he was feeling, anxiety caused by the knowledge that being taken prisoner fighting against the English in England was an experience he wholly wished to avoid.
Sir Walter Scott’s booming voice rang out over the sounds of the bagpipers. “For Scotland and St. Andrew!”
“For Scotland and St. Andrew!” The refrain came back at him in one voice from the mouths of the elite Scottish Guards. Born and bred to war in the fierce Scottish Highlands and drilled until only the best remained, they had an impact on any battlefield far larger than their actual numbers.
Sir Walter Scott did not lead from behind. He raised his sword, called out again in Gaelic, and charged forward into the Yorkist line with the rest of his silver- and blue-armored Scots.
0915
Left flank of Duke Oxford’s Vanguard
The Lancastrian Column
“That noise, Kojiro, is one I never thought I’d be happy to hear,” Simon said. “It’s the Scots. A race you would never want to meet for any purpose, unless they’re fighting by your side.”
Kojiro remembered their fierce competition with the giant Scottish captain in France. “Good,” he replied as he thrust both swords at once under the neck plating of a Yorkist knight.
Simon could see a blue and silver wave rolling over the Yorkists to their right. At their front, even at this distance, there was no mistaking the hulking form of Sir Walter Scott.
0915
Behind the Duke of Norfolk’s lines
“Someone has brought the damn sheep-shagging Scots to the party,” Norfolk mumbled. This battle is turning into a bad joke; Lancastrians, Welsh, French, and now the bloody Scots. And of course, that explains the infernal racket; the Scots seem incapable of fighting a battle without bringing a sodding band with them. What Englishman could possibly side with Henry and this horde of foreign invaders? he thought bitterly.
“The right is breaking, my lord,” the herald brought the bad news to the duke.
“How is that possible? We outnumber them,” Norfolk said in disbelief.
“They broke through our extended line in a wedge formation, and now they’re rolling our flank from behind. Our men are starting to run. The panic is contagious.”
“Very well. Thomas, shall we remedy this situation?” the Duke of Norfolk asked his son, Thomas Howard, the Earl of Surrey.
“Indeed,” the earl replied as he lowered the visor on his helm.
“To me!” the duke called to his mounted cavalrymen and household guard. Without further discussion, the Duke of Norfolk and his son charged straight for the crumbling right flank.
0920
Left flank of Duke Oxford’s Vanguard
The Lancastrian Column
Is that the Duke himself charging at us? Simon wondered. He saw a column of horsemen carrying the Duke of Norfolk’s white lion on a red and white pennant. The initial cramped melee had devolved into a more widespread brawl. This was an advantage for skilled swordsmen, but it also would make them easy prey for mounted knights on horseback.
Simon looked at Neno, about twenty feet away, carving up the Yorkists who were foolish enough to get within range of his deadly naginata. Simon parried a blow from a Yorkist axe, stabbed the man in the neck, and yanked his red rose and dragon standard out of the ground where he had planted it. Simon then yelled for Kojiro to follow him and sprinted towards Neno.
“Pike wall on my banner! Pike wall on my banner!” Simon screamed at the top of his lungs. As men looked up from their individual fights and saw the cavalry thundering towards them, they followed Simon’s direction.
The Yorkist men-at-arms thought the enemy was running from them, and they followed on their opponents’ heels until they ran into the pikes, billhooks, and halberds that had formed very quickly around Simon’s standard. Simon was about to give the command to brace for cavalry, but even as the duke himself galloped into view, he could see it was no longer necessary. The Yorkist foot soldiers who had chased what they believed to be their fleeing prey formed a barrier of men that prevented the duke’s cavalry from charging home into the as yet not fully formed pike wall.
“Dismount and attack!” the duke ordered as he realized they had lost the opportunity to bring a cavalry charge home. The duke himself remained mounted, but his son, the Earl of Surrey, dismounted and led the household guard forward into the Lancastrian line. With the duke’s cavalry dismounted and the pike wall no longer necessary, Simon, Kojiro, and the Lancastrian swordsmen once again struck out into the enemy.
Kojiro had watched one knight dismount from the head of the cavalry column, and he could see that the others followed him. Kojiro thrust, cut, and slashed his way towards the person he knew to be their leader.
As Neno was bypassed by the surging Lancastrian swordsmen, he found himself in the unusual circumstance of not having anyone to kill immediately, so he selectively searched for targets. One stood out: the man on the horse. In the chaotic melee taking place in front of him, the horseman had no immediate bodyguards.
The Duke of Norfolk saw the huge man with what looked kind of like a halberd coming for him, and was not worried. He rode at the man and closed the distance quickly, but when he hacked downwards with his sword, the man did not do what peasants always did when attacked by cavalry, which is either stand still in paralyzed fear or run. Instead, his target parried his attack skillfully, moved in close to the duke’s charging horse, and chopped down onto his helmet, mangling the right cheek piece.
The duke could taste blood coming off his cheek. He did not like it. He was in the process of wheeling his horse to return and teach this peasant a lesson when the arrow struck. In a case of bad luck worthy of the bards, a bodkin tipped arrow released from a two-hundred-pound draw weight Welsh bow sailed through the newly created opening in his facial armor.
The arrow did its work quickly, penetrating his head and severing his cerebral spine. As the duke’s lifeless body tumbled from his horse, the Yorkist men nearby, who had seen the shot, began to run.
First it was a trickle, but fleeing was always contagious. Once the man next to you was no longer there to protect your flank, you had to run for your own safety. Eventually, Norfolk’s entire vanguard collapsed.
Duncan Bevan saw that it was one of his prized Carmarthen archers that had hit the Duke of Norfolk. In fact, it was an archer from Kidwelly that Duncan knew well. “I suppose you’ll want an extra ration of whisky for that shot won’t you?”
“No, but I’ll have his armor, of that you can be sure,” his bowman replied.
Kojiro had almost reached his target when a cry echoed up and down the Yorkist ranks: the Duke of Norfolk was dead. But even as enemy soldiers broke and ran all around Kojiro, the man he was seeking did not. If anything, that man fought with greater ferocity.
Kojiro reached him just as he was removing his sword from a Lancastrian knight. The man screamed in rage and thrust his sword at Kojiro who knocked away the blow with his left sword, thrusting forward with his right. They battled for five minutes, circling each other and exchanging stabs, thrusts, hacks, and slices.
The man was a good swordsman, just not quite as good as Kojiro. When
the Earl of Surrey thrust, he always stepped forward with his right foot. Kojiro took advantage of this. On the next thrust, Kojiro parried the blow to his right and stepped forward to the knight’s left. Once parallel to his opponent, Kojiro grabbed the knight’s right arm, thrust his own right leg forward, then swept it backwards. This reaping motion caught the knight’s right leg in mid-sweep, pulling it forward and out from under him. The knight tumbled onto his back. As he lay helplessly on the ground, a Lancastrian with a poleaxe smashed the side of his helmet, rendering the newly fatherless Earl of Surrey unconscious.
Although they had broken the right flank of the enemy’s vanguard, Simon knew the battle was far from over. And almost as if the enemy could read his thoughts, rank after rank of King Richard’s troops began to move. To the left, newly arrived enemy cavalry took up position to charge the tattered remnants of the Lancastrian cavalry.
0930
King Richard’s lines
“Norfolk is dead, Majesty, and some of his men are fleeing the field.”
“What of his son?”
“We’ve gotten no word, Majesty.”
King Richard was raging. “I want an attack across their entire front right now. And cut off Lord Strange’s head and take it to his father. He will learn the price of treason.”
A relay of messengers carried forward the orders to attack while a single rider carried the order back to execute Lord Strange.
Chapter 43
Behind King Richard’s lines
LORD STRANGE DID not think his chances for surviving the day were good, perhaps fifty fifty at best. He knew his father had made plans to support Henry, but he also knew that if the battle turned convincingly for Richard, his father would likely switch his support to the king. It was a tradition after all, and one that had served their family well. They had not become one of the richest families in England by happenstance.