Warwick: The Man Behind The Wars of the Roses

by Tony Riches

  Margaret was reading a beautifully illustrated book of French poetry he’d bought her in Calais. Anne must have guessed the book was valuable yet didn’t seem to mind him giving it to her. Richard looked across at Margaret as she read. She must have sensed his attention as she glanced up at him. She had the same enigmatic look in her eyes he’d found so hard to resist in her mother and he felt an unexpected sense of loss.

  A noisy commotion outside the door disturbed their peace and Richard was standing up to investigate when the door burst open. His brother John stood there, his eyes red from riding hard into the wind. Richard knew at once the news was bad. He took him to his study, a large panelled room with bay windows overlooking the busy River Thames, and closed the door behind them.

  His brother had never been one for words. ‘I bring you the worst news, Richard. Our father is murdered. Our brother Thomas and the Duke of York are also dead.’

  Richard stared out of the window, watching a small boat trying to sail up river against the current. He could feel tears welling in his eyes. The news was too much for him to take in. His father had always been so invincible. His brother Thomas had been in his study just before Christmas, enjoying a drink with him and recalling their adventures as young boys. The Duke of York was supposed to be the next king and now he was dead.

  He saw his brother was shaking with emotion. ‘How did it happen?’

  John wiped his eyes. ‘That’s the worst of it. Father was captured and held at Pontefract Castle. He somehow managed to escape and was set upon by his enemies. I don’t know who they were.’ He looked at Richard, a haunted expression on his face. He tried to compose himself. ‘They cut off his head, Richard. Put it above the gates of York, next to the heads of our uncle and our brother.’

  Richard had a whiskey decanter on his desk. Made from Venetian glass, it was engraved with his crest and had a pair of matching tumblers. He poured generous measures into the tumblers and handed one to his brother. They sat in silence for a moment, lost in memories of their father. The strong drink helped a little.

  ‘What about Edward?’ Richard spoke softly, hardly daring to know the answer.

  ‘As far as I know he’s safe. Never made it north.’ John took a sip of his drink. ‘His brother Edmund is also dead.’ He shook his head. ‘I liked him.’

  ‘Do you know how the Duke of York died?’

  ‘There are all sorts of stories going round. I spoke to one of the archers who escaped. He said Trollope’s men wore your red livery and pretended to be reinforcements.’

  Richard swore. ‘That bastard Trollope. I should have had him executed!’

  John crossed to the window to look out at the boats. ‘Middleham Castle is yours now, Richard, and Sheriff Hutton, as well as all the lands as far as the border.’ He drained his goblet and turned to Richard. ‘I suppose that makes you the richest man in England?’

  Richard was surprised at the note of bitterness he heard in his brother’s voice and realised he was right. He would be even wealthier than the king.

  ‘I’m sorry it had to be this way.’ He looked across at John. ‘I will raise an army and avenge our father. Our brother too. Queen Margaret will regret the day she ever set foot on English soil.’

  Snow fell softly in St. Albans, the scene of Richard’s first great victory and now the place he knew he may die. It had started so well, with his triumphant march from London to intercept the queen. His work to form an alliance with Philip of Burgundy had paid off. He detested the man yet five hundred battle hardened Burgundian soldiers now swelled the ranks of the men who came from as far as Kent to rally to his cause. The nervous Londoners raised funds to pay for equipment and supplies. The magistrates had even freed Luke Tully from his jail cell, where he had been locked up for brawling, to help rid England of the Lancastrian threat.

  Richard was commanding the main army, with the Duke of Norfolk’s men on his right flank and his brother John in command of the army on his left. Their spirits had been raised by recent news of Edward’s victory over Jasper Tudor at Mortimer’s Cross in the Welsh Marches. They could have used his army now. It was said that Edward had led the fighting himself, routing the Lancastrians with overwhelming savagery. Richard was unsurprised when he heard the news. It seemed his young friend was building quite a reputation.

  Luke Tully raised his spade in greeting when he saw Richard riding up to inspect progress with defending the northern approaches to the town. His hair was longer and he’d started growing a beard to ward off the cold. Dirty and dressed in his work clothes, Tully was hard to distinguish from any of the men working on the trench.

  ‘We’ve been digging for four days now, my lord.’ Tully leaned on his spade and looked at his handiwork with pride. ‘I hope they don’t decide to turn around when they see what we’ve been up to!’

  Richard dismounted from his warhorse to take a closer look. ‘Glad to see you are providing a good example to the men, Tully.’ He rubbed his hands together to warm them. ‘How are your crossbowmen getting on?’

  Tully picked up one of the new shields. ‘It’s large enough to protect a kneeling man. I’ve had them hammer these long nails so the points stick through.’ He held it up to show Richard. ‘Quite a weapon all on its own.’

  ‘What about the caltraps?’ Richard had ordered all the blacksmiths he could find in London to make him the deadly devices. If a horse or man stepped on one they would be out of the battle, possibly crippled for life or worse if the wound became infected.

  Tully pointed to where sharp points could be seen poking through the dusting of snow. ‘We’ve laid down hundreds of them.’ He looked at Richard enquiringly. ‘Who is going to collect them all up once we’re done?’

  ‘We’ll have plenty of prisoners. It will be good to see them doing something useful before we let them go again.’

  A cannon blast sounded and they both spun round to see where it had come from. The unmistakeable sounds of men yelling and fighting drifted across from the town. It seemed impossible. They had been taken by surprise.

  Richard shouted. ‘Trumpeters! Sound the alarm!’

  Tully dropped the shield he was holding and called his men. ‘Get your sallets on, men!’ He pulled his own battered sallet onto his head and looked around for his sword, cast aside while he was working. ‘To your weapons! We’re under attack! ’

  Richard mounted his horse and galloped back towards the town, joining the other knights, who were responding to the sounds of fighting. As he rode he wondered how the queen’s men could have possibly have got past without being seen by his lookouts. He charged into the town and headed towards the battle.

  The narrow street ahead was filled with men fighting hand-to-hand. Powerful memories of his first battle in St. Albans came flooding back. Above the fighting Richard saw the archers he had stationed in the upper floors of houses were picking their targets with care, killing one of the enemy with every shot at such close range. His barricades were well built and doing their work. The problem was that too many of his men were still far away at the northern defences.

  A man screamed in agony and fell backwards as an arrow struck him in the neck, another immediately taking his place. Then the barricade across the road gave way with the sound of splintering wood and yelling men surged through, brandishing halberds. Richard drew his sword and charged them, slashing viciously left and right.

  He was losing control of the town. The queen’s men must have marched through the night, arriving from the north-west much earlier than expected. She had caught him unprepared. The only thing to do was to ride back and rally his men. All their work on the northern defences was wasted. Worse still, the men were spread out over a wide front. He would struggle to organise them to defend the town.

  He recognised the commander on his right flank, Sir John Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, close by and rode up to him. ‘What happened?’

  The duke had been wounded in the face and was without his helmet. ‘The men from Kent.’ He wiped at the
blood on his injured cheek and winced with pain. ‘That bastard Lovelace has betrayed us and let the queen’s cavalry through our line.’ He shook his head. ‘There were hundreds of them.’

  Richard was astounded that the steward of his own household, Henry Lovelace, had been one of the queen’s men all along. His disloyalty might have cost them the battle.

  ‘My brother?’ Richard had put Lovelace under John’s command.

  ‘I haven’t seen him. I’m sorry, Richard.’

  Richard saw his men were gathered ready to advance on the town.

  ‘Wish me luck, Sir John.’ He turned as he was about to go. ‘Get yourself to the rear-guard. Take care!’

  Richard led his mounted knights in a second charge at the enemy soldiers spilling from the town towards them. This time their fighting had the edge of desperation and men fell wounded and dying as they broke through. An arrow cracked off his breastplate with a violent metallic thud. The enemy kept on coming and Richard realised he was outnumbered. Reluctantly, he ordered the trumpeters to sound the retreat.

  He waited in his furthest defences on the outskirts of the town. Scouts had been sent to see if the king was still in their keeping. After all the preparation and planning, he realised his life depended now on what he decided to do. A familiar voice called out behind him. He turned to see Tully wearing his mail coat and carrying an expensive sword. Richard guessed he’d taken it from one of their attackers. Tully’s red Warwick surcoat was ripped and he had lost his helmet in the fighting.

  ‘You took a bit of tracking down, my lord.’

  Richard was pleased to see a familiar face. He looked at the sky. ‘The light is failing. We could be overrun once darkness falls.’

  Tully was silent for a moment, scanning the dusk for any sign of movement. ‘The men fought bravely today, my lord.’

  Richard realised even Tully was starting to feel demoralised. ‘They did.’ He shook his head. ‘We were betrayed again, Tully. And we are outnumbered. I don’t know how the queen raised such an army.’

  ‘It’s getting colder.’ Tully rubbed his hands. ‘The men will be hungry.’

  He knew what Tully was saying. The men were suffering in the relentless winter winds. Despite the harsh penalties for desertion they would soon start slipping away, knowing this battle was lost.

  A movement caught his eye and his hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword.

  Tully pointed. ‘It’s only some of our scouts returning.’

  They watched as the men came within hailing distance.

  ‘What news?’

  ‘They have taken the king, my lord. His guards are held prisoner and the town is lost.’

  Richard cursed the queen and all she stood for. He should have left the king in the safety of the Tower. It had been an act of bravado to bring him with them and now he would pay the price. Few were loyal to the queen, yet he had seen how easily men would rally to the call of even such a weak king.

  He called to Tully. ‘Tell our trumpeters to sound the retreat. We must withdraw while we can.’

  ‘We’ve lost, my lord?’

  ‘We’ve lost this battle, Tully, not the war.’

  As they rode in the darkness Richard looked back over his shoulder through the drifting snowflakes. There was no sign of anyone following them, although he could see flickering fires in the town of St. Albans. The aftermath of the battle would be looting and destruction. He had heard stories of how the Lancastrian army had pillaged and raped as they passed through towns and villages on the way to the city. He decided he must play on people’s fears and make sure there was no welcome for the queen when she arrived in London.

  They rode back through the night and found Edward’s army. Edward was in celebratory mood after his victory at Mortimer’s Cross. Richard listened to his account of the battle, where he’d had revenge for the death of his father by beheading Owen Tudor. Edward’s mood changed once he heard what had happened at St. Albans.

  Richard looked at Edward. He was no longer the boy he had first met. ‘It’s time, Edward. The people need a king who can sort this country out once and for all. Not one who is half mad and can’t even rule over his wife!’

  Edward looked at him for a moment and Richard wondered if he was remembering how they had planned this when they sailed around Lands’ End in heavy weather. That seemed long ago now. Both of them had lost their fathers and a brother to Queen Margaret and he wanted vengeance.

  ‘I’m ready, if you would have me as your king?’

  Richard put his hand on Edward’s shoulder. ‘You are the king now. Wait here until I send for you.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To London. To rally support for a new king!’

  Richard began gathering supporters as soon as they reached London. The queen was still in St. Albans, her army preferring to pillage the town and in no hurry to enter the city. He couldn’t believe his luck. She had let him get away. If he moved fast, there was time to put his plan into action.

  He addressed the large gathering of worried Londoners. Nobles and merchants, soldiers and commoners had assembled to hear what he had to say.

  ‘The queen and her army of thieves will be here soon, banging on your doors.’ He paused, raising his voice so they could all hear. ‘Are you going to stand by and let her take all you have worked for?’

  Their reply was as he expected.

  ‘Do you think this vengeful French Queen will look mercifully on those who sent her fleeing for her life?’

  The mutter of dissent grew into a roar of disapproval.

  One of the merchants shouted support. ‘We must not let her into our city!’

  Richard drew his sword and held it high for them to see. ‘We are not defeated. Henry has recognised Edward of York as the rightful heir!’

  The people cheered, calling out Edward’s name.

  Richard raised his sword again. ‘With our new king we can keep our enemies from the gates of London!’

  They knew the truth of what he said. Although many of them had sworn loyalty to Henry they were tired of living in the shadow of the Lancastrian threat. Many of Richard’s men had been killed or wounded at St. Albans, with more than a thousand either deserted or taken prisoner. Now with Edward’s army, he had more than enough to hold the capital. Word soon spread and more knights rallied to the cause, eager to be on the winning side.

  He sent word to Edward, who rode into London with twenty thousand knights and forty thousand men in his silver and blue livery, the banners of York and his many supporters flying proudly. Richard had arranged for him to give thanks at St. Paul’s and take the throne at Westminster Abbey. Richard watched proudly as his new king refused to be crowned until he had rid them of the Lancastrian threat.

  The queen’s men arrived too late. London was barred to her. Even when her envoys used King Henry’s name the reply was the same. Now Richard knew he could pursue Queen Margaret of Anjou and deal with her. The time had come for a new king to show he could truly lead his people. Although he was only eighteen, Edward had proved he was ready to take the throne.

  The men sang a bawdy marching song at the tops of their voices, in high spirits as they marched north, defying the bitterly cold wind. The Lancastrians were in retreat and were causing havoc and destruction as they went. The last reports were they had been camped near the River Aire in Yorkshire. Richard led the vanguard and reached the Ferrybridge, a small town on the great north road and an important crossing point to Pontefract Castle. The queen’s men had destroyed the old stone bridge to slow them down. There was no other place to cross, so Richard’s men had to close the gaps with wooden planks.

  A yell from one of the men working on the bridge was followed by a splash as he fell into the freezing water. Arrows filled the air. They had fallen into a deadly trap. Lancastrian archers were waiting for them and many more fell dead into the icy river before Richard rallied his men and managed to cross the makeshift bridge. They charged the enemy and were con
fronted by a determined rear-guard, left behind to slow their pursuit. The sheer weight of numbers meant the battle was short lived.

  Richard set up camp on the north bank of the river. His men lit fires, tended to the wounded and settled down for the night. Richard and his commanders found lodgings at the inn in the town. Aware he was close to where his father had been killed by Lancastrian supporters, he took care to ensure his personal guard were alert and ready if needed.

  He was woken early. ‘My lord! We are under attack!’

  Richard began strapping on his armour. ‘Have my horse ready, be quick.’

  He rushed back to the camp to find a full scale battle raging. Men in his red livery lay dead and dying. Once again, he had let the queen’s men take him by surprise. Archers mounted on horseback were circling and firing a relentless hail of arrows from all directions, firing at close range at Richard’s men with devastating effect.

  Richard yelled as an agonising sharp stabbing pain told him he’d been hit. Glancing down, he saw the shaft of an arrow sticking from his leg. The bodkin arrowhead had pierced the closed greave on his leg, his armour slowing the force of the impact. He couldn’t fight on with the wound and ordered the retreat, riding in search of someone to help remove the arrow.

  He recovered consciousness and realised Tully was carefully bandaging his leg.

  ‘I caught an arrow.’ His voice sounded hoarse and weak.

  Tully continued winding the bandage. ‘I was there when they took it out. You were lucky, it came out cleanly.’

  Richard winced as Tully pulled the bandage tight. ‘It hurt like hell!’

  ‘They cauterised your wound.’

  He remembered now. He had felt the numbing heat of the glowing red poker. Followed by the sickening smell of his flesh burning before he passed out.