Queen Marguerite and her seven-year-old son were in North Wales, where they had taken refuge after fleeing the Northampton defeat. I rushed to meet them there and guided them to the safety of Harlech Castle where a ship was found for them to sail to Scotland. Once there, Marguerite had acquired the sympathy of its Regent, the recently widowed Queen Marie of Guelders and obtained substantial financial and military support. As her part of the bargain Marguerite had betrothed Prince Édouard to a Scottish princess and promised to return the border town and castle of Berwick to Scotland, perhaps unaware that this was a move that would be as unpopular among the English people as the loss of France had been.
Meanwhile disaster had overwhelmed the Yorkist cause. While Marguerite was still marching her Scottish force south, an English Lancastrian army led by the Duke of Somerset had headed north and caught up with and confronted the Duke of York at Wakefield in Yorkshire. In the ensuing battle York had been killed, his second son Edmund, Earl of Rutland, cut down while fleeing the field and the following day Warwick’s father, the Earl of Salisbury, had been captured and beheaded in Pontefract Castle.
While this twenty-four hours of bloodletting was going on in Yorkshire, Queen Marguerite’s uncontrollable army of Scottish mercenaries had been looting and committing acts of violence across the far north. Undaunted, the Duke of Somerset united with them and they marched on London together, jubilant at the destruction of York and determined to release King Henry from the Tower and return him to his throne. But accounts of the rampaging Scots had travelled before them to London and prompted its rich merchant-citizens to close the city down.
Warwick’s men defended London, while Edward of York combined forces with William Herbert to raise the white rose in the Marches. Bombarded by reports of armies wreaking havoc across the kingdom, in my worst dreams I pictured the crown of England being kicked around the realm like a football, with no telling on whose head it might finally land.
Committed to defending my own and Prince Édouard’s Welsh territories, I had recalled my men and artillery from Denbigh to my standard and hired a mercenary contingent from my cousin, King Charles of France. Unfortunately James Butler, Earl of Wiltshire, had been appointed to command it; the former favourite of Queen Marguerite and the man who had deserted me at St Albans. Whether I liked it or not, by rank he would be my second in command when we confronted Edward, now calling himself Duke of York, who was waiting on the Welsh border like a crouching lion, daring me to defy his right to be there.
‘Think of your son, Myfanwy,’ Jane told her friend sternly. ‘Davy is not yet a year old. He needs his mother.’
Fixing Jane with her violet eyes, Myfanwy clasped her hands in a pleading gesture. ‘But I know Davy will be safe here, Jane. I cannot look after him better than you but I can look after both Owen and Jasper if I go with them. Denbigh was just a siege but this conflict could decide who wears the crown. It will be more than a skirmish and there will be wounds a-plenty. No, I will be needed by our men and I will go with them.’
As if to illustrate her determination a log fell in the hearth, emitting a shower of sparks. Owen slammed down his cup and shoved back his chair ‘There is no more time to discuss this. Jasper and I have much to do. If you are among the camp followers when we depart tomorrow then you are there and you will have to fend for yourself, Myfanwy.’
My father was right; with men and armaments to organize we did not have time for domestic squabbles. However, true to her word, when my retinue and Owen’s troop gathered in the Outer Ward at dawn the following day, Myfanwy was there among the carts and cannons, mounted astride a sturdy palfrey with stuffed saddlebags, her slight body armed against injury and the winter cold by a padded gambeson and a fur-lined cloak. Where she had acquired all this at such short notice I did not like to ask but I had to admire her resourcefulness.
‘She is a brave woman,’ Jane said, following the direction of my gaze. ‘I loaned her my cloak. I pray she will be safe.’
‘She will not be going into battle, Jane.’ I bit back a protest that the cloak, lined with costly minerva, had been my New Year gift to her.
‘For a female there are other forms of danger.’ Jane’s expression was grim.
I put my arms around her, not wishing the subject to sour our farewell.
We took the high route through Brecon once more, marching fast, mostly because our task was urgent but also to keep warm. Winter had come to the peaks and snow was lying on the high passes but even so we reached the River Wye in only five days. Keeping to Buckingham’s Lancastrian lordship and following the Welsh bank below the long bluff at Hay we cut east towards Leominster, thus far encountering no opposition. But we had now entered York territory; in the afternoon, as we approached a village called Kingston from the south, our scouts brought back reports of a large troop encampment a few miles beyond it to the north. Edward of York had brought his army out from his castle of Wigmore and chosen his battleground beside the River Lugg.
Owen urged that we camp near Kingston where there was good flat ground with fresh water in the river. Lord Wiltshire was not a happy man. ‘We need meat,’ he complained. If I judged it right he was scornful of the mercenaries he commanded, who would not move unless they were paid every day and who spoke languages he did not understand. I could only hope that when it came to a battle his captains would correctly and speedily interpret his orders into Irish, Breton and French but it was not a situation I relished. ‘There were deer in the woods behind us.’
‘York deer,’ I said grimly. ‘You run the risk of losing men in a skirmish if Edward’s soldiers get wind of a foraging party.’
‘It is either that or commandeering the farmers’ oxen.’ Wiltshire gestured across the wide valley, which was dotted with farmsteads set in pastures that would be lush with grass in summer. ‘There must be some fat ploughing teams around here. Will your men not also demand meat?’
‘Our men are locals,’ Owen said gruffly. ‘They fend for themselves. I have seen a good number of fresh hares and rabbits slung from their belts. All they need is fire and sleep.’
‘And what will you eat tonight, Sir Owen?’ Wiltshire’s contemptuous stress on my father’s title made my hackles rise. He was no more than a jumped up bog-Irish peer himself but I held my tongue. I knew the folly of an argument between commanders on the eve of battle.
Owen’s teeth gleamed in a smile, although the angry glint in his eye told a different story. ‘Heron, I fancy, my lord, it is no problem for a Welsh archer to bring down a slow-flying heron. I expect the innkeeper’s wife will cook it for me.’
‘I do not doubt it, sir,’ I said. I knew it would be Myfanwy roasting the heron over a campfire and keeping her man warm in a bed at the inn that night. Turning to Wiltshire I made a proposal.
‘We should go together to the Prior of Leominster, James, and arrange to buy some mutton. The town is famous for its wool, and there will be sheep a-plenty for butchering.’
* * *
Edward of York had chosen his battleground well. He must have ridden these fields and meadows as a boy. Perhaps he had surveyed this spot when he was a young squire learning military strategy from his governor Sir Richard Croft, whose castle I could see from my chamber window at the inn, where I too was staying. The young heir of York was powerfully at home among his friends and allies in this lush and fertile valley.
There was something else I could see in the frosty light of dawn on that second day of February. A cold mist clung to the surrounding hills and in the east the sun was rising through its icy haze. As I watched, an awesome and alarming sight dazzled my eyes. Instead of a single sun climbing into the heavens there were three; one central golden sphere with rays of silver streaming out from its circumference, attended by two smaller orbs standing sentinel on either side. I had heard tell of such a phenomenon but never seen it for myself and those who had described it to me had not done justice to its power or conveyed the sense of fear and wonder it evoked. There was no denying th
e trembling of my limbs and the sheer terror that set my heart pumping like a smith’s bellows. Surely God was sending a portent but what message did it convey on this dawn of battle? Was it victory for one side or the other, and if so which? Or was it a sign of the Almighty’s disapproval of the brotherly blood that would be spilled that day? I made several panicky signs of the cross to fend off any evil omen but found I was unable to tear my gaze from the miraculous spectacle on the horizon.
The three suns remained suspended for as long as the mist lasted, which seemed like hours but could only have been minutes. When it lifted it took the two attendant sundogs with it and the world was left with one brilliant sun in a clear blue sky and what could only be described as perfect fighting weather. I blinked my eyes repeatedly but it was as if the image had seared itself on my eyelids and every time they closed I saw that portentous triumvirate burning fiercely before me again. Then my ears picked up the sound of singing; male voices raised in a familiar hymn, which seemed to be coming from an invisible choir. Almost blindly I pulled on my hose and brigandine and stumbled to the door where I could hear urgent hammering on the planking.
It was Maredudd, lugging the leather bag containing my armour. ‘Quick, my lord! You must arm and away to the camp. The enemy is making battle lines and our men need rallying. Some of the French are threatening to leave!’
I shook my head to clear it. ‘Did you see the three suns, Maredudd? Is that why they are leaving? Are they frightened?’ I watched him tip the armour parts onto the floor and sort through them for the first piece.
He glanced up at me, puzzled. ‘Frightened, my lord? No. They are complaining about their commander, their food and their conditions. They say they cannot fight in these circumstances.’
I think my eyebrows must have knitted together, so fiercely did I frown at hearing this. ‘Tell me, did any of them mention the three suns in the sky?’
Maredudd buckled a greave to my left calf. ‘No. What three suns?’
‘You mean you did not see them?’
‘Obviously not, my lord.’
‘It was a sign from God, although I do not know what it signified. But I will visit the camp as soon as you have tacked me up. I have things to say to those Frenchmen!’
By the time I reached Wiltshire’s camp it was in chaos. The French and Breton mercenaries were muttering together, while the Irish had seen the three suns and were on their knees singing psalms, convinced it was a sign of God’s displeasure. Their commander was making no effort to address their fears. ‘You have to reassure them, James,’ I urged, keeping my voice low to prevent it carrying through the fabric of his tent.
Wiltshire raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘And what language do you suggest I use?’
I could see that his heart was not in the battle ahead, let alone in quelling the present uproar in his camp. ‘Sign language for all I care,’ I retorted. ‘Promise the French and Irish an extra groat for the day and show the Bretons that you believe the suns were sent by God to encourage them. Surely you can do that.’
He stared at me in bewilderment. ‘Do you really believe that yourself, Jasper?’
I threw up my hands. ‘It does not matter what I believe! It is what they believe that counts. That is what I am going to tell my camp and then we shall form our battle lines and deploy to confront York. There is no time to lose.’
A year ago, after York had fled to Ireland, Wiltshire had returned from his exile in Burgundy and, like me, been made a Knight of the Garter and as I raced to rally my own men I raged inwardly that he had woefully failed to grasp the motto of that august order of chivalry; Honi soit qui mal y pense – Evil be to him who thinks it. My army assembled beside the River Lugg, I turned to find Owen as agreed on my right – and I sent up a prayer of thanks when Wiltshire and his mercenaries lined up on the left flank as arranged, so that we presented a united front to the Yorkist ranks. Everyone was on foot, cavalry was too vulnerable to artillery and arrow-fire. Some commanders chose to order the battle from horseback but I believed that gave the infantry the impression that we were not all in it together and had vetoed Wiltshire’s suggestion that we did so. It was immediately obvious that our enemy had done the same, for as we waited for the heralds’ last minute parley the two sides began to hurl a barrage of taunts and threats, promising each other death and the fires of hell in all manner of violent ways, and our men aimed most of their vitriol at the lofty youth in the van of the opposing army who was standing, hand on sword, defiant.
I had never before encountered the eighteen-year-old who now called himself Duke of York. Edward had been too young to attend court while I lived in my brother’s royal household and, at an early age, had been sent to Ludlow to get his education and training on his own rich Mortimer estates in the Welsh borderlands. Now that I was close enough to study him, gleaming in his polished armour and still helmetless before the battle began, I was surprised to see that he was not thick-set and dark-haired like the father for whose death he was seeking revenge but lean and outstandingly tall, his flaxen-hair blowing in the breeze as he stood head and shoulders above his men, like a crane among chickens. Even when a helmet covered his hair there would be no hiding this giant among his soldiers. I wondered how I would have felt at his age and in his position, leading an army into the maelstrom of all-out battle, concluding that I would have been exceedingly nervous and at the same time extremely anxious not to show it; much the same as I felt now, facing my first full battle command, just as he was.
I had sent my heralds to parley with his but it was only a formality. Whatever his frame of mind, there was little chance that Edward would let us melt away into the landscape because for him it was fight, or lose everything, either in battle or with his head on the block. I could not suppress a secret admiration for an eighteen-year-old facing up to such a choice.
It took a few tense minutes for the parley to fail and the heralds walked back to their respective lines hurling their warders high into the air. Roars arose from the opposing lines, closely followed by opening salvos from both batteries and immediately the agonized cries of the wounded began to merge with the blood-curdling yells of the hale. Swords were raised and pole-arms lowered for the charge.
What none of us on the Lancastrian side had noticed was that during the hiatus of the parley, Yorkist longbowmen had covertly taken up positions at the edge of a tree-belt on the other side of the River Lugg. They had begun firing their armour-piercing war-arrows almost before the heralds’ warders had landed and although Owen’s Welsh archers quickly returned their fire a number of his company had fallen before Wiltshire’s French arbalesters had wound up their first crossbow bolts. Meanwhile my men braced themselves for the onslaught from Edward’s infantry advance, saving their energy and allowing the Yorkist hotheads to expend theirs by charging at us pell-mell over the rough, frost-hardened ground. We held them off successfully, although the fighting was intense. Meanwhile the guns were exchanging fire to deafening effect and the enemy artillery found an unfortunate number of casualties amongst my men. We were soon tripping over fallen comrades, our feet slipping in their blood.
At first I and my retinue were too busy fighting off Edward’s knights to notice anything except what was in the immediate range of our visors but when the Yorkists strategically backed off to re-group I took the opportunity to survey the battleground. Owen’s men had not moved in to surround the Yorkist advance as we had intended and looking to the right I saw with a shock the depletion of his ranks. The Yorkists meanwhile seemed as many as ever; I could not see that our guns had damaged them. But looking to my left I felt my stomach lurch with shock. No one was firing our guns and Wiltshire and his fifteen hundred mercenaries, who should have been fighting in a wing formation, were nowhere to be seen; they had simply disappeared, as if the ground had swallowed them up. A clue to their line of escape came to my attention; a significant pack of the Yorkist right wing heading in hot pursuit, past the main core of the fighting and towards our camp, where
no doubt Wiltshire had been first to get to his horse and make his getaway at the gallop. A string of violent oaths echoed within the confines of my helmet as I had a sickening realization that this was a replay of St Albans; the same man, the same disappearing act. Only this one was to have a more devastating effect.
The enemy, on witnessing the departure of our left wing, redoubled the force of their attack. It was obvious that our position was rapidly becoming hopeless. I saw my father still fighting valiantly, keeping his footing but being forced back towards the steep riverbank. In a fortuitous gap in the almost constant blast of enemy cannon fire I yelled at Maredudd, who was close by me, viciously hacking away at the enemy.
‘Get to the herald, squire! Tell him to sound the retreat. This battle is over for us.’
I hoped the formal signal might achieve an organized retreat but no sooner had my herald’s trumpet sounded and the men put up their shields and began to back off, than Edward of York waived all control of his force, which immediately became a horde of snarling, vengeful demons, intent on cutting down as many Lancastrians as each of them could individually manage. What should have been acknowledged as a military surrender became not a retreat but a rout of the bloodiest kind. There was no time to think, let alone regroup and defend; suddenly it was every man for himself, in a terrifying race for survival.
First of the Tudors Page 23