“Your grace,” said Ashley,' “humbly I crave pardon. It.is not often that I lose command of my thoughts and speak heedlessly. Truth is, your grace, we are, all four of us, the sufferers by delay. The closer comes the prize towards us, the more our impatience unmans us into reckless speaking.”
“Yea, yea, sire,” cried Heron. “It is for love of you, your grace, that I am impatient and speak harshly. I would pluck you the crown with one blow and my spirit bridles at delay. After you have been crowned, have no fear, I will ask no other reward than to be present on that glorious day.”
“Nor I,” squeaked Skelton. “Well paid am I in serving you. If my good friends, Masters Heron and Ashley, and I should sometimes jest together roughly, it is only in comradeship, your grace. For often are we jovial together and right loving in our hearts.”
Blinking away tears, hot-cheeked, the prince glared up at them, hating them. They, far more than Henry Tydder, were his enemies. Had it not been for their promises and their wheedling and flattery, he’d have remained content with simple things. Now he was their prisoner while his soul remained at Michael’s Mount in Katherine’s company. Too late to repine or to cry against fortune. He had travelled too far ever to turn back, ache though he did for love and peace. These men had snared him in their ambitions, in the rancour of Heron at having, for some unrevealed reason, had to flee his home in London; in the lusts of Skelton who, at the mention of cheap women, seemed to lose his wits as though he had munched cockle-tread and was bewitched and moonstruck and useless in council; and in the hunger for justice for poor folk that drove the restless Ashley forward. He was their mammet and they did not care for him. Had any straw-man offered in his place, they’d not have cared so long as they might satisfy their own hatreds and desires.
“Are we to stay here all the day,” he cried, “quarrelling like boys from school? turphurting in each other’s faces? There, before us, lies Exeter, and we have swords and axes for our hands. Send to the trumpets, Ashley, summon the men-at-arms. One charge and we’ll kick through those gates, please God, or we’ll die fighting. I do not care.”
“You need your harness, sir,” said Heron. “You are too precious to risk your life.”
“Precious to you, ay; but life means little to me. I am weary of it and of your continual bickerings. I don’t like armour. I’ve not been trained in the wearing of it and it weighs me down and hinders my blows. I will fight as I am.”
“Pray, nay, sire,” stuttered Skelton, “take thought, if not for your dear self, for these poor folk who follow you. Should you be slain or taken, assuredly will they suffer. Would you betray them by your royal courage which is like — is it not, friends? — to that of your bold uncle, Dickon the Third, when he’d not wait at Bosworth but charged on his White Surrey. Let not you be too hasty, as he was, for you and Warwick in the Tower are the last sprigs of the White Rose, and England cries under tyranny for you.”
Ashley noticed that the lad’s lips were twitching like a boy’s when on the edge of tears. His impatient anger had left him, that ay of defiance breaking from him in a moment of weakness, and now he looked contrite and miserable.
“As you will,” sighed the prince. “Bring me my harness.”
They must conceal his strong body as though it were valuable and fragile; they must sheath it in steel from crown to toe. Hidden behind the plates, the man was forgotten. Instead, a figure of war, godlike as Mars and as impersonal as a statue in a niche, was built as symbol of battle and victory. Flesh might be shielded, but what shield was there for the heart? Cover him with plates riveted so that they might open a little, seeming to breathe like scales when he moved; screw down the helmet, giving him merely a barred vision of the green world; yet still, the man within, although hidden, lived and knew fear. At least, once the vizor was down, he could weep and not be seen and no one could tell whether he sweated and shivered in dread. Caged in steel as he was, as Heron, Skelton and Ashley would cage him in their ambitions, he was no longer living, he was an oyster dreaming of the sun that he could barely see. Armour was detestable; and he remembered how it had held him from taking Katherine in his arms until with love’s fingers she had freed him of the trappings of hate and death.
His elderly squire, Thomas Astwood, strapped the sword to his side but he could not feel it through the metal; then the man gave him a spear to hold in a metal hand, and never before in his life had he managed a spear. “When they had hoisted him on to his destrer, he pressed his feet down in the stirrups, arching the solerets that pinched his instep, and fumbled to bring his iron-coated leather fingers firmly up under the vamplate; and the spear wavered, rising and falling and swaying from side to side.
As though from very far away, he heard Astwood tell him: “Your grace, keep the point up, press your hand firmly under the vamplate and grip hard. The point should he, slanting, between the destrer’s ears; and when you charge, gaze neither to right nor to left; give the destrer freedom and look along your lance; keep your eyes on its point.”
How could he keep his eyes on the point when he did not know how to balance it and to hold it steady? Too late had he become a student of chivalry; and killing, unless you were attacked, had always seemed to him a foolish sin. These poor devils of Cornish-men, unarmoured, mostly weaponless, were going soon to their deaths; and he, dear God, was leading them! Those walls of Exeter were strong and he had no great cannon with which to pound a breach; and at any time, the banners of the Earl of Devonshire — if he and his men had not already entered the city — might rise above the hill-tops and charge down on him. This was not war such as he had heard sung of in blood-stirring ballads or told around the fire by old warriors at home. This was real war in which one could be easily killed or, worse, maimed or crippled.
Clumsily, he pushed up the vizor and blinked in the sunlight; and with hot rage he saw that he was the only one of the council dressed in steel. Heron, Skelton and Ashley still wore their soft doublets-and woollen hose, their hoods tossed back to show their faces and their eyes calmly watching him.
“God’s bones!” he cried, and the steel clicked in the rivets as he shook. “God’s bones!” he cried, “am I to be your mammet even up to death? Was it for this that you drew me from my lowly comforts; that you might toss me to your enemies like a cat to the hounds? I who until this day have never used a sword in anger, who hates even the killing of conies, must I be sent for your damned ambitions alone against the enemy?”
“Your grace,” said Heron, “I never pretended to be a warrior. I am a merchant and for me to fight would be but felo-de-se. I am your steward and your treasurer.”
“Steward of no household, treasurer of no treasure,” cried the prince, “you are a coward, sirrah! as you, mouse-hunting Skelton, a lion in wenches’ chambers and a cur amongst men, you, too, are a coward. My uncle at Bosworth had traitors about him, but they were never cowards. His household died beside him, ay, they fought to the death, like noble Norfolk; and although his standard-bearer had both his legs chopped off, he yet held up his master’s banner while he bled to death. They did not skulk and watch, except for damned Northumberland who dallied for the fruits of treachery and was later murdered for it by the people. But you, you’ll not have even the rewards of treachery. Whether you fight or run, Tydder will hang you when he gets you.”
“I’ll follow you, sire,” chattered Skelton, “I was but waiting to call the archers. Then will I dress me in my armour. Before God, my lord, that is the very truth or may my veins run fire.”
“You are right to rebuke us, your highness,” said Ashley, white to the lips. “We three are cowards, being city-dwellers who have never worn iron; but if you will tarry, I will ride with you. It shall never be said that I let my master go alone to danger … Where is my harness?” he shouted at the servants lounging among the wagons. “Bring my armour yarely!”
Groaning, he climbed out of the saddle and began to unbutton his doublet; and the prince n
oticed how thin he was in his shirt, his neck like a plucked fowl’s and his arms having little flesh.
“Nay, Master Ashley,” he said. “You are old and lack the strength for such exercise. I will ride alone.”
“Nay,” smiled Ashley and sought to catch his bridle. “Wait for me, sire!”
Already, the prince had moved away, kicking his horse with the prick-spurs, and signalled to the musicians. Behind him, on the hill his men were forming roughly into ranks, the mounted men-at-arms in the van, archers and the others — what could he call them, for they were not soldiers and mostly they lacked weapons? — crowding behind them. Their shouting and excited talk dropped to a murmur when priests stepped forward, crosses raised, and prayed before them. Those on foot bent their knees, and those on horseback lowered their heads, while some of the footmen plucked up crumbs of soil to press against their lips as a last earth-housel lest they die unshriven in battle, and others kissed the ground.
Shrill sounded pipes with the moaning of horns, loud screamed the trumpets and rub-a-dub-dub went the drums and nakers, until the music was lost, sounding forlornly under the shouting of men, the clash of horses’ hoofs and the clatter of steel when with the cry: “Forward, banner, in the name of Jesus, Mary and St. George,” the huge, disordered host at the tail of the prince’s destrer rushed in a roaring torrent down the hill towards the walled and silent city by the river Exe.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AT THE GATES OF EXETER.
ON TO the North Gate rushed the prince’s army. Had they been armoured and strongly armed, the city would have been theirs, beyond doubt. Courage they had, and Cornish stubbornness, but few of them had dangerous weapons, saving their hands and sticks. Many, however, carried long-bows, a weapon with which, like the Welsh, they were deadly. But arrows’ heads cannot pierce stone walls. All that the archers could do was to aim high in the hope that chance shafts, falling within the city in a rain of death, might find a mark. And out of the city, from the walls, came answering shafts into the packed mass of defenceless men.
There was no time for fear. There was no time for thought. Shouting to deafen himself, the noise stinging inside his ears, the prince charged. He had flung aside the spear and wielded a sword, so perfectly balanced hilt with blade that he could not feel its weight. His horse was as excited as he amid that clamour and the screaming trumpets. Tossing its head under the steel chamfron, the crinet along its mane clicking its rivets, it charged on safe hoofs, never slipping. With such a burden on its broad back, it could move little faster than at a walking-pace: it could not gallop, canter or trot. Easily, gently, it ambled forward while arrows flicked out of the sky and glanced off its metal covering.
Men were screaming, cursing, howling as they fell. In their excitement, many had pushed into the van, out-running the slow horses, and those with bucklers held them high, knives or axes in their right hands, to ward off the shafts. An eternity did it seem to the prince that he was riding down that slope. Time had been struck dead and he was on a hobby-horse rocking himself along in make-believe. Immeasurable distance away was the green earth below, while within his helmet the roaring and shouting became a dull buzzing that hurt his ear-drums. His vizor down, he could see little beyond his destrer’s pricked ears rising out of holes in the crinet. In his excitement he began to shout hut the noise was like thunder and seemed to press upon his eyes.
He was not afraid … That realization brought with it a cruel joy, a lust to maim or kill men who were strangers to him; and the need brought near-ecstasy, like love. Never, he felt, had he known such happiness before. Drunk on his men’s shouting, believing himself secure against death in his metal carapace, like some, old knight with Merlin’s cloak, he grinned and all the muscles and sinews of his young body became vibrant, taut, while the sword was a flame of sunlight in his hand. Before the shock of such a charge as this, even a city must tumble down, he felt; but, steadily from the walls the archers took aim with bolt or arrow while they dodged behind the crenellating; and the gate, when the princes troops reached it, stood firm.
A trench had been dug before it, too wide for the horses’ leaping, and the prince had with difficulty to pull back his excited destrer on the slippery edge. Panting then he had to wait, biting his lip and mumbling furiously to himself, under the shooting arrows and a hail of stones, while his foot-soldiers pushed forward, tumbling into the ditch and scrambling up its other bank, to batter on the gates. They had not thought to bring with them gunpowder or faggots for kindling! O, fools, unschooled in warfare. Firm stood the gates, blunting the edges of axes and snapping the points from swords and knives. And from the top of the wall the defenders bent their bows and shot at the attackers, or they hurled down masonry and muck and carrion and other rubbish.
Back … back … Raging, the prince commanded the trumpets to sound the retreat; and, cursing, almost blind with rage and disappointment, he turned his horse’s head, his men turning with him.
“Nay, sire!” he heard someone shout and saw a steel fist grip his reins. “I told you, the North Gate were best.”
Ashley had not loitered to dress cap-a-pie. Helmet, gauntlets and plates on chest and back were all that he had waited to don, being so humiliated by his prince’s scorn that he cared not whether he were killed if only he might prove his loyalty.
“You?” said the prince, and tears were in his eyes.
Had Ashley led to him a trained, well-armed army, his relief could not have been greater. Fiercely, with love, his steel fist caught his friend’s, and he smiled into his eyes. He was not alone, after all, the pawn of others’ plotting.
“To the North Gate!” he shouted and waved his shining sword. “To the North Gate, fellows, follow me!”
Towards the north he turned his horse; and there again the gates were shut and barred, ditches dug before them. Had he possessed cannon or any siege-engines, that day would have been his; but again he and his men were forced back before the steady arrow-flight of the besieged. Then, to his relief, the prince saw the pioneers, bucklers raised against arrows, run forward with armsful of wood, with logs and with bundles of faggots. Someone, the Lord God be' thanked, had at last remembered how cities could be captured. Into the ditches, the logs and faggots were thrown and men tossed in with them whatever they could find, stones and mud and rubbish, while down from the camp hurried other pioneers with faggots and further rubbish.
All the time, the arrows flew but none could find a chink in the prince’s armour as he stood open to death, alone save for Ashley, commanding his men to make more speed. He could have sung, so blithe he felt because he was not afraid. As in most things in life, the fear of being afraid had been greater than the reality when the terror was faced at last. Sleepless, haunted nights and moments of trembling he could not control had he suffered in anticipation of this testing day; and now, unwounded, unscratched, a god amongst mortals, he sat his destrer, excited to think that soon he would be killing other men, slashing a path through flesh to England’s throne.
But the work of the pioneers was slow. Slowly, the ditches were filled, slowly faggots smeared with brimstone were piled before the gates, and slowly, the dead men rose higher. Close by the prince on the grass a man lay quivering, his head bloody because a large stone had hit it, and his body twisted like a snake with a broken back while he tried to writhe himself along as though to drag himself to safety where there was no safety. Then suddenly, zing, with a singing hum like a wasp’s, an arrow quivered, its leather emperons trembling, in the man’s arched back. With a startled grunt, he jerked and lay still, his limbs going loose after he had made a few twitches like that of a fish on land; and the prince bowed his head and crossed himself and muttered an Ave.
The death of that one unknown man, a short broad-shouldered man with the blue-pocked skin of a tin-miner, was to the prince like the death of a brother. Never had he seen the fellow before that he could remember, and he was as ugly as a gnome and very hairy. Yet
his death came as a pang to the prince’s young heart. The recent joy in battle left him and he felt cold inside the steel. This quarrel was not of that poor devil’s choosing. Doubtless he left a wife and children or, at least, a sweetheart, and a father and mother; and they would live to mourn him and to curse this. Sunday of 1497 that had spelled his useless death. Had he understood anything of the cause? had he really cared whether his leader were Prince Richard or Perkin Warbeck or even the Jew Brampton? had he left home and loved ones in the hope of righting wrongs put on him by foreign Westminster? or, being young and strong, had he run whistling after adventure, for new towns to see, new women to love, different foods and drinks to be relished? Whatever the dream that had led him, it was gone now with the spirit leaking out in his heart’s blood.
“Sire,” said Ashley who was watching him and read his thoughts in his eyes, “it is only a dead man and one mayhap more fortunate than his fellows.”
“You talk like a priest,” cried the prince, his voice catching on a sob. “In death there can be no good fortune. What if he lived like a worm in the mines underground, was he not a man and had he not dreams, no doubt? He too had flesh that could feel cold or relish the brotherly feel of warmth before a fire. Doubtless he loved some woman and she him; doubtless he bred in her and his children will weep for him as though he had been as great as any king.”
“The common folk,” said Ashley, “no doubt have feelings similar to ours; but how can a blind man interpret the sun? He knows that somewhere there is a brightness, and that is all. So with fellows such as this and his womenfolk. They are oft unhappy in their lot and pray for better liquor than the muddy ale which is all they can buy; but set them in a palace and they’d run mad, destroying beauty because it was not theirs. Envy, at least, they know; ay, that is the spring in most of them, as it was in me in youth.”
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