by Nigel Green
I ignored his gaze and let my own eyes climb the steep slope behind the horsemen. High above them sentinels manned the high walls of Berwick13 and even as I watched, a strong force of men-at-arms began to descend the hillside. I guessed that the Scots would be adopting forward positions so as to give additional notice of a surprise attack by our men.
Sourly I wondered why the Scots believed that they had to be so vigilant. After all, by now their spies in our camp would have reported that morale in the English camp was so low that our force was not even the slightest threat to their great fortress.
Angrily I clenched my fists. Morale was so bad by now that we had been obliged to place additional sentries round the camp. Officially it was explained that this was a precautionary measure against a surprise counterattack. In reality all our men knew that the sentries were there to stop them deserting.
In my heart of hearts I could not blame our would-be deserters, for our campaign at Berwick was proving disastrous for them. It was not just the lack of rations that was reducing our men to skeletons, nor was it the extreme cold which caused so many of them to lose fingers and toes14, rather it was the defeats.
For twice now the Scots had beaten us and badly. Both of our frontal assaults had been bloodily repulsed and with such loss of life that no one in the army had the slightest confidence that a third attack would fare any better. Nor indeed that we could ever capture Berwick.
But we had to, I thought grimly. If we could not capture Berwick, then Richard of Gloucester would be exposed to complete and devastating humiliation. He would be ridiculed by his enemies the Woodvilles and reviled by the men of the North.
And that had worried Ratcliffe the most.
He had found Nan and I at Minster Lovell, my boyhood home, and from the moment that he politely asked to see round it I knew his business to be serious.
For Ratcliffe was only polite when he needed something desperately.
But for all his impatience, he had made an effort as I proudly showed him where generations of Lovells had lived and loved. He admired the siting of the old house by the river and liked my idea to build a tower in the south-west of the quadrant.
But when we came to the circular dovecot and he heard the cooing, he dropped his feigned interest.
‘Doves are symbols of peace,’ he had snarled. ‘We need war.’
I had given up at that point and led him back through the crowded courtyard into the solar. Once the door had closed behind us I had asked what he wanted.
Swiftly Ratcliffe had summarised all that had happened while I had been abroad. Insofar as the North was concerned, it appeared that Richard and Anne Neville had used the time well to further strengthen their position as undisputed rulers of that region.
Wishing to minimise the constant threat from the Scots, Richard and Anne had actively promoted war with Scotland. They had argued that a successful campaign now would vastly reduce the Scottish military capability in the future.
King Edward had fully accepted his brother Richard’s argument and had raised a special tax to pay for the war.
‘It was originally envisaged that the king himself would lead the army,’ Ratcliffe had added, ‘but he was not well enough, so Gloucester took command. Of course, that made perfect sense. Everyone knew that he was the man behind the war.’
‘And the woman behind him, Anne Neville,’ I had chuckled. ‘After all a successful way led by her husband would greatly enhance his prestige, not just in the North but throughout England.’
Ratcliffe had winced at that, so I had guessed that we would presently come to the problem. I listened attentively as he had continued.
The strategy had been carefully planned. The invasion would naturally be launched from the English East March, since Northumberland was the English county nearest to the Scottish capital. It was quickly accepted that the key objective in the decisive first phase of the campaign would be to capture the Scottish citadel of Berwick. This clearly had to be secured, since to advance in strength into Scotland with Berwick still in Scottish hands, was too great a threat to the English Army’s lines of supply and communication.
As preparations progressed excitement rose in the North, Ratcliffe had reported. So great was the antipathy of all northerners to the Scots that the prospect of defeating them in battle and having a peaceful border seemed a God-given gift.
Men began to see glory and gain for themselves in the campaign too and the numbers of those volunteering their services increased daily.
But even as Richard and Anne Neville rode ever-growing waves of popularity, it all went horribly wrong.
Richard made a terrible mistake.
Reverting to his fatal habit of impetuosity, he had tried to capture Berwick prematurely and had failed. Alerted to the threat to Berwick and their country, the Scots had poured reinforcements into that redoubtable border fortress. By doing so they made it impregnable.
Desperately the English had tried to maintain the siege or at least to contain the Scots in Berwick. Lord Stanley had taken his levies from Cheshire and Lancashire to try to do this, but Ratcliffe had not been optimistic. In his view, success was unlikely. After all, if Richard of Gloucester had failed in the campaigning season, how was Lord Stanley supposed to capture a reinforced Berwick in the middle of the coldest winter that there had ever been?
‘But the invasion cannot proceed without Berwick being secured,’ I had clarified.
‘Exactly,’ Ratcliffe had snapped. ‘But since we cannot capture it, the campaign will have to be called off and Gloucester will be humiliated.’
I had not been able to disagree with his conclusion. Gloucester had instigated the war and had worked up everyone to fever pitch about it. But now not only was he going to have to dampen expectations, but also he would have to admit that it was his own impetuosity that had led to the cancellation of the war.
I shuddered as I thought about it. The Woodvilles would crucify him for that, and at their instigation even his supporters in the North would vilify him. How quickly they would forget all the good things that Richard and Anne Neville had done for them and how savagely they would turn on their benefactors.
As I listened to Ratcliffe, I felt my anger grow steadily. Of course Richard had acted both impulsively and foolishly in trying to capture Berwick prematurely. But what was one mistake when put aside all that he and Anne had achieved in the North.
Not that the Woodvilles would care about that, I thought miserably. They would see Richard’s mistake as a golden opportunity to pounce on him and Anne, and would look to exploit the vulnerability of their position by poisoning men’s minds against them.
And because human nature is weak and men susceptible, the malicious rumours and damaging innuendos would quickly take hold.
The more I brooded on the vindictiveness of the Woodvilles, the more I felt my hackles rise. Their cowardly campaign would doubtless be secretly devised and subtly orchestrated, but it would be devastatingly successful.
And, as a result, Richard and Anne’s supporters would abandon them, as they had left my Lords of Warwick and Montague, I recalled. Well, I was not going to allow it to happen to their heirs in the North.
I met Ratcliffe’s anxious gaze. I knew what I had to do even if I had no idea of how to do it.
‘I will ensure that Berwick is captured,’ I promised.
A few weeks later, I reported to Lord Stanley and placed myself and my men under his command, since he was older and doubtless more experienced.
But three weeks later, fearing that the tactics that he and his captains were using would never succeed, I put my own plan forward.
He had listened carefully with the twin lines of worry growing ever deeper between his eyes while he slowly stroked his pointed beard. He had asked a number of extremely perceptive questions and begged me time to consider. I’m not sure how many choices he had left to him though; he had already tried two other options.
The first, a seaborne attack on the eastern si
de of Berwick had been unsuccessful. His second attempt was two weeks after I arrived at Berwick. The idea of an assault on the north-west of the town had initially looked promising, since the ground there is more favourable than elsewhere, but the assault was a disaster. I grimly recalled it.
We had started confidently. The long columns of metalled men had easily waded across the river at low tide and, brushing aside the feeble Scottish defences on the far side, had skirted round the castle which dominated the south-west of Berwick. Moving inexorably northwards, they established a supply point out of enemy range. Archers were moved forward to provide covering fire for the assault, while the men-at-arms prepared to advance towards the city walls.
The first attack was beaten off fairly easily by the Scottish archers on the city’s battlements, but the second attempt was a much closer-run affair and, for a short while, the three great storming ladders rested against Berwick’s walls, before we were driven back. As our troops withdrew from the attack, Lord Stanley and I conferred with his three captains.
‘What do we need to do to succeed next time?’ Lord Stanley panted.
The elder captain, a former mercenary, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, while his two colleagues remained silent. Clearly they were content to be guided by the older man’s experience. He glanced at Berwick’s castle on our right and then at Lord Stanley.
‘The tide turns in two hours, my lord,’ he began. ‘So it’s obvious that we only have time for one more attempt. We can’t risk being stuck on this side of the river and not be able to cross back into England.’
Lord Stanley nodded. To be in hostile territory without any means of retreating was clearly folly.
‘So it follows that we need to throw everything we’ve got into this last assault,’ the captain continued. ‘We need to lay down a heavier barrage prior to the assault so that the Scots will be keeping their heads down as the infantry approach the walls.’
‘How do you do that?’
The captain gestured to our archers who were protecting our right flank from an assault from the Scots in Berwick Castle.
‘Use those men to supplement the main assault, my lord. With their extra firepower, we can get our men’s ladders up against the walls and Berwick will be yours.’
‘But that would leave our flank totally exposed!’ I protested.
‘Against what?’ he jeered. ‘If there are any Scots in the castle, which I am beginning to doubt, why haven’t they fired a single arrow against us so far? My guess is that they have mustered all their archers at the point we are attacking.’
He turned to Lord Stanley.
‘My lord, it does not make sense to keep half our archers standing idle and watching for an imaginary danger when, with their assistance, the main attack can succeed.’
I began to object, but Lord Stanley courteously stilled me as the deep lines of worry furrowed ever deeper between his eyes.
‘It’s the quickest way to end the siege, my lord’, one of the other captains started, but he was silenced with an irate gesture.
We waited for a few moments. Lord Stanley glared at Berwick Castle to our right and tried to assess the danger that lurked within. At last, conscious of the fact that shortly the tide would be turning, he reluctantly came to a decision.
‘All the archers will join the main assault!’ he commanded.
The three great ladders served as standards for the troops. The trio of assault groups grimly moved towards the walls of Berwick. Above them, massed volleys of arrows darkened the sky as our archers expended their stock to provide cover for the advancing infantry.
I am not sure how lethal those volleys were, but the absence of returned fire indicated that our archers’ fire was serving its primary objective of keeping the Scots quiet.
Presently, the three great ladders were propped up against the walls and men clustered round them. A moment later, the first wave began their ascent. Seeing this, our archers ceased firing and, laying their bows aside, drew their swords in anticipation of joining in the assault.
A scaling ladder is not a place to linger, but Lord Stanley’s men were faster than any I had ever seen and presently there was a great cheer as the first of them was seen waving his arms at the top of the battlements. And then another joined him and then a third. Sensing victory, the troops at the bottom of the ladders jostled each other in their eagerness to ascend. As they clustered together beneath the great ladders, the concealed archers in the castle suddenly opened fire.
It was devastating. From their greater height, the Scots had full view of the whole English force and, firing ten arrows a minute into tightly packed troops, they made it a killing field. Overwhelmed not only by the unexpectedness of the assault but by its sheer ferocity, men stood momentarily frozen while volley after volley pounded into them.
Within minutes the assault on Berwick degenerated into complete confusion. Men ran in all directions trying to avoid the deadly hail of death that was engulfing them, while others simply dropped or staggered out of the maelstrom, feebly pulling at protruding arrows.
Recovering from a daze, I moved quickly to where Lord Stanley stood.
‘Sound the recall!’
He looked confused and gave the order reluctantly. Even as the trumpets sounded their doleful notes, I looked up at the city walls in horror. I realised now how cleverly the Scots had planned this.
Scottish men-at-arms flooded onto the city walls and began to swamp those troops who had ascended the ladders. Vastly outnumbered and attacked from two sides, Lord Stanley’s men stood little chance. Presently, I could see that dark shapes were being hurled from the battlements.
Worse was to follow. Having secured the city, the Scots now turned their attention to the long ladders while the archers in the castle continued to flay the infantry below them. Ignoring the hysterical screams of the troops marooned on the ladders, the Scots used forked poles to push the ladders away. Two fell away completely, hurling the screaming troops to their deaths, but the third ladder swung out and then, for some inexplicable reason, bounced back against the walls. The violent jolt was sufficient to dislodge the majority of the men, but a handful doggedly hung on, unable either to ascend or to climb down.
They remained there for some moments, faces raised in supplication to the Scots on the walls. It seemed that they would be saved as no move against them was forthcoming. My hopes proved ill-founded; men approached the top of the ladder, two of them carrying what looked like a tub. The liquid poured from the tub seared through the upturned faces of the men on the ladder. They raised their hands instinctively to try to assuage the indescribable agony of the quicklime upon their skin. As they fell below, the Scottish archers on the battlements lined up; working in conjunction with the Scots in the castle, they shot arrow after arrow at the fleeing troops.
‘We were routed.’ Lord Stanley spoke firmly, but with fierce intensity.
I sat silently with him in his tent. The disastrous assault at Berwick had been bad enough, but the flight that followed had been a disgrace. In their panic to escape, our men had simply run, discarding weapons and bows. No attempt had been made to recover the stores or to assist the wounded.
I clenched my fists in anger. There had been many wounded who could have been saved as the Scots had made no attempt to pursue us. Many of these could have been treated, but neither Lord Stanley’s captains nor his men had bothered with them in their haste to escape. Indeed, as far as I could recall, Lord Stanley’s captains had appeared to be leading the rush to cross back over the river before the tide rose too high.
‘We’ll have to try an alternative plan,’ Lord Stanley began. But then he froze in shock and looked at me wildly. ‘What’s that noise?’
I listened but could hear nothing. Excusing myself, I went outside and listened to the sounds that drifted across from the Scottish side of the river. At last, satisfied that I was correct, I returned inside.
‘It’s the Scots,’ I told Lord Stanley grimly. ‘They’re tortu
ring the men we abandoned.’
He bit his fist in horror.
‘What a way to celebrate their victory! I pray they will be tired of it by tomorrow.’
He was wrong. In order to convince Lord Stanley’s men of the inadvisability of making further attacks on Berwick, the Scots devised a cruel deterrent.
At the base of the long curtain wall that straggles down the hillside from Berwick Castle, there was a small stone fortification. Positioned on the very edge of the river, the fortress was designed to provide additional protection to the castle itself.
At low tide, the little fort could fulfil this role quite well, but when the tide rose the fortress’ usefulness was compromised as it became submerged by the waters. Unperturbed by this defensive weakness, the Scots made good use of the fortress. Every day a fresh batch of prisoners was imprisoned in it at low tide.
For ten long evenings Lord Stanley’s men watched petrified as the tide rose. They tried to block out the frantic screams of the comrades they had abandoned, as they slowly drowned in the dark.
Brutal though the Scots’ tactics were, they succeeded. Even Lord Stanley lost his enthusiasm for all-out assaults.
A day later he agreed to my plan.
‘So Gloucester will send ships in order that we can blockade Berwick by sea,’ he summarised, ‘while I and my men try to contain the Scots here.’
‘That’s right’ I agreed. ‘Now while you do that I’ll take my horsemen and archers behind the enemy lines and stop all reinforcements and supplies reaching Berwick. With no supplies, the Scots will weaken and then we can capture it.’
Lord Stanley thoughtfully stroked his beard. ‘It could work,’ he admitted, ‘but if you are defeated then I have not got enough men to capture Berwick. I would have to abandon the siege and the invasion could not proceed.’