John Tunstall lowered his sword and looked at the red mist in front of him. He had seen it before at beheadings. Once the victim’s heart stopped beating, minute droplets of blood hung suspended in the air, forming a shimmering translucent red mist; a dance of death being performed over the headless corpse. It amazed him how something so delicately eye-catching could be created from an act of such violence. He kicked the body off the knight and with great strength pulled his old friend, Francis, from the mud.
Francis raised his visor and smiled, weakly. ‘The bastard was just about to surrender.’
John had no time to reply, as men wearing Warwick’s colours burst through the mist.
Upon seeing two fully armed knights, they turned tail, back into the fog, except for three young brothers: farmer’s sons, who saw rich pickings and glory in slaying them. Their father’s rudimentary lessons in fighting had taught them how to trip a knight with their pikes and then finish him with their daggers.
The biggest boy rushed towards John, his blue eyes shining with excitement, a look of triumph already on his face.
John knew from the boy’s rash lunge that he handled a plough better than a pike. The move to trip him was ill shaped. Lifting his foot in a move he had practised a thousand times, and holding his sword in both hands, he pirouetted in a tight circle. Spinning with lightning speed, he brought his sword up in a fast sweeping motion just above the boy’s hip bone, and then saw the look of surprise on the boy’s face.
The boy’s last terrified and confused thought as the coldness of death grasped him was that of his father saying that knights on foot were slow and clumsy. The blade sliced through his midriff, cutting him clean in half.
Francis dispatched the second boy, who had hesitated at the sight of his brother’s bloody death.
The third boy dropped his pike and fled back into the fog, now a cowardly harbinger to their father.
The messenger reached Warwick at the rear, and the young knight burst through the fog with Lord Montagu’s name upon his lips.
‘My Lord…your brother begs more troops. The men protecting our right flank under the Earl of Oxford have disappeared into the fog. Our lines were not aligned with the enemy’s, and in the confusion, his men have disappeared, chasing phantoms into thin air. The Yorkists have now swung around and are attacking our exposed flank. We cannot hold them for much longer.’
‘Damn Oxford!’ cried Warwick. ‘Exeter has already drained my reserves in his fight with Gloucester; we have none left to send.’ He looked with dismay towards his loyal retainers.
‘We must bolster your brother’s line ourselves; rally his men and restore order if we are to win!’ cried one of the retainers.
‘Aye, we must hold the line until Oxford returns,’ shouted Warwick, with false belief, for he doubted he would ever see him again.
Warwick knew victory was slipping away. For the first time in his life, he felt totally alone, just himself within his own skin. No one could help him; he had no more grand schemes or plots left to turn events to his advantage. There was nothing left to pull out of the fire. Edward was winning and the game was finally up.
‘Exeter is down!’ a rough voice shouted, from the fog.
‘Exeter is slain!’ cried another.
A man appeared, blood flowing from a deep gash on his arm. Warwick took a step back in alarm.
‘Tis finished!’ the man cried. ‘Our Lord Exeter is dead!’ Then, with eyes wild with panic, he disappeared back into the mist.
Warwick looked on in stunned silence, towards his brother’s line, just as the early morning sun burst through the fog.
In the distance, he saw a tall, dashing figure dressed in shining armour, the sun gleaming off the golden crown upon his head. He watched with dismay as King Edward, mounted on a beautiful white horse, his banners flying before him, smashed with all his might into the centre of his brother’s wavering lines, driving with all his force towards Lord Montagu’s Pennant. With horror, Warwick saw it fall.
John Tunstall scanned the battlefield as the sun finally drove off the morning fog, and saw, with relief, Richard standing under his battle standard, axe in hand, fighting with his natural rhythm and strength, showing no quarter or mercy. He motioned to Francis to follow him.
The bedlam and noise of battle sounded out all around them. Piles of disfigured corpses crowded their vision. The fighting was at close quarters – brutal and bloody.
John felt the sweat streaming from every pore in his body. His blood felt on fire; his sword arm, numb. He had to find respite soon, for he knew battle fatigue was setting in.
Moving towards Richard’s standard, John saw the enemy was starting to thin out, slowly moving away. They knew the carnage two fully trained knights could inflict, but this was something much more momentous. He realised, with elation, that the enemy’s stomach for the fight was deserting them; it was as if some unknown force had swept across the battlefield like a plague. He prayed that this was that gathering moment when the battle finally turned in their favour.
The Lancastrian army had sensed an unseen force. It had sucked the courage from their bodies and filled their hearts with despair. Their hopeless clamour of resistance was growing weaker. Their frightened eyes flicked all around, seeing, as though for the first time, this bloody field that surrounded them.
Hearts pounding, bodies sweating, the cold taste of fear filled them, and then a silent irreversible order whispered into all their ears, for slowly, in unison, they started retreating. Their backwards steps, slow at first, became quicker. Finally, dropping their weapons, they turned and ran in blind terror, their courage gone. Deserted by their God, the Lancastrian army was in full flight.
The beautiful green English countryside spread out before them. The same fertile land that proud tenant farmers, yeomen, and shepherds had tilled, grazed, and nurtured to feed their families was now their enemy, a hunting ground for the chasing Yorkist army. Many knew that they would be dead by the morning, buried beneath the wet, bloodied mud.
John and Francis arrived beside Richard’s standard in time to watch the fleeing Lancastrian army. Removing their helmets, they let the cool air refresh their sweat-stained faces.
‘Tis sweet relief from the hellish heat of battle,’ said Francis, as he took a cup of cool, watered wine from a young squire. He drank thirstily.
Orders were now being shouted. A sense of urgency filled the air.
John knew they must unleash the cavalry and seize this opportunity to finish the enemy. Excitement was starting to build within him. Now, it would be like the old days he had heard so much about, before the battle of Agincourt where the English longbow had made full-frontal cavalry charges suicidal, but this fleeing army was a different proposition. He watched with growing impatience as the squires removed their horses’ battle armour to make them more fleet of foot. He knew the king’s scourers were already awaiting the signal to charge. These mounted men-at-arms who normally protected the flanks of the foot soldiers when marching, became lightly armoured cavalry. In battle, they were fast, ruthless, and would terrorise a fleeing army.
Richard saw the frustration in John’s eyes. ‘Patience,’ he said. ‘The enemy cannot escape its fate. They are exhausted and in complete disarray. We will catch them as swiftly as the falcon catches the hare.’
With banners flying, and bugles sounding out in victory, King Edward, with a large force of retainers, rode across the battlefield towards them. Reining in his horse, he leaned down and clasped his brother’s hand, his eyes shining bright with the elation of triumph. ‘The day is ours!’ he cried, with elation. ‘My army fought with fearless courage. Warwick is vanquished!’
‘Our victory will not be complete if he escapes to fight another day,’ replied Richard, with cold logic.
Edward studied his younger brother, knowing he was right. Warwick had cut himself adrift and could not be saved from his fate. With Richard’s cool gaze never leaving his face, he finally uttered the words that woul
d have been unthinkable only a short time ago. ‘Warwick must not leave this field alive!’ he cried, to his assembled cavalry.
Richard gave a self-satisfied smile. Warwick was going to pay for what he had done to the Lady Anne, and to all his future plans. ‘Twenty gold coin to the man who slays him,’ he shouted, with vengeance in his voice.
Edward raised his sword high into the air and roared with jubilant triumph. ‘With the help of almighty God, we simple soldiers have won a great battle; it is now time to finish this day in glorious victory!’
The assembled cavalry raised their weapons in salute to their king, and then with trumpets sounding, one thousand mounted men-at-arms, knights, and nobles, set loose, knowing that their thundering noise would strike fear into the fleeing army.
John was filled with excitement. This was his first, full cavalry charge. He had ridden in skirmishes and minor engagements with Richard, in Wales, but never in full battle order. He had trained and dreamt of this moment since he was a small boy and now it was real. Mounted on a fine horse, wind in his face, sword in hand, he was at last a worthy knight. He knew his father would be proud, watching over him. This moment would be a jewel in his memory, for this was what he was born to do, and this is what he lived for.
As he galloped over the fields towards the fleeing army, he thought of Rose. Scanning the horizon, he looked for Warwick. It is time for the bastard to pay for what he has done to her, he affirmed.
The old foot soldiers left behind to guard the battle standards, watched with knowing eyes as the cavalry hunted down their prey. They would shortly start stripping the corpses that lay around them, searching for gold or coin. They knew that the rules of survival for a fleeing soldier were simple: if he was within one mile of the cavalry, he was dead; two miles, he had a fifty-fifty chance; three miles, he would survive. The light and fleet of foot lived, the wounded, fattest, or oldest, died. It was the ancient law of nature – survival of the fittest.
Richard Neville, the mighty Earl of Warwick, finally admitted to himself that the battle was lost. He watched as his men-at-arms broke ranks and fled the field like rabbits before the fox. Also fleeing, were the farmers and yeomen, normally solid and strong, but now reduced to a terror-stricken rabble. He knew more would perish in this rout than had died in the battle. Death held no glory for the losers.
His heart became heavy with grief as he recalled his younger brother, John, the Marquess of Montagu, being overwhelmed and cut down. Warwick knew that despite joining his cause, John’s heart had always been with Edward. He had fought as a Lancastrian because Warwick had deemed it so, and now his brother was dead, killed for a cause he did not believe in.
A great weariness came over him. This last great effort for supremacy had left him exhausted, and his advancing years weighed heavily.
Am I not the maker of kings, he thought, the mightiest Lord in the land? How have the men that I cultivated – nay, nurtured – within my own household, who I then promoted to the highest ranks in the land, brought me to my knees?
A sharp anger filled him. A small spark of defiance started to glow within him, stiffening his resolve. The Bitch of Anjou was landing at Weymouth. If he could reach her, then he could still triumph over Edward and his brothers. These three sons of York will live to regret opposing me. This battle may be lost, but I can still win the war and avenge my brother’s death.
He gathered his thoughts. Around him was a small band of loyal and trusted retainers who were waiting for his order to retreat. He knew they could hear the dull pounding of the advancing cavalry in the distance. Their faces stained with sweat, blood, and mud, and they watched him with uneasy eyes.
‘We must make for the horses,’ said Sir James Metcalfe, with a calmness that betrayed no fear, ‘or stand and fight.’
Warwick smiled ruefully at the challenge, and then with one last resolve, he swung into action and gave the order to retreat.
They started running to the rear. The ground was soft and wet, and Warwick’s body, now past the invincible glow of youth, struggled across the open ground, his heavy armour sapping his strength. He felt only shame as he lumbered clumsily along, shame at this ignominious retreat. He stopped to gather his breath and noticing his young squires leading their horses towards them, he pulled off his helmet to saviour the cool air. ‘With God’s good grace, we will disappoint Edward’s cavalry!’ he cried.
His men cheered and redoubled their efforts to outrun the charging tide of horses behind them.
Warwick’s spirits rose. He would, against all the odds, live to extract his revenge on those sons of York. He felt the elation flowing through his veins…then it changed. A sudden uneasiness filled him, turning his stomach. Why had his squires stopped moving?
The Earl of Warwick’s squire realised the situation was desperate. He and the other young attendants were on the brow of a small hill, moving towards their retreating lords, when he saw in the distance the advancing Yorkist cavalry. Quickly calculating the distance between them, the squire realised with a sinking heart that the odds were against them – the earl had left his retreat too late.
The squire brought Warwick’s horse to rest at his side, and the other squires did likewise with their mounts. They turned their frightened eyes towards him. As the most senior amongst them, his eighteenth birthday was only weeks away. Some of the younger boys had only just seen their fourteenth. He could see that they were full of fear, and some had tears in their eyes. This timid little army stood in silence.
The great warhorses stood proudly beside them, dressed in their shining armour; the bright, coloured patterns of their master’s standards embroidered on their blankets. Silver bells hung from their armoured reins. They stood perfectly still; just the occasional flick of a tail or the twitch of an ear was all that moved as they waited with discipline for their next orders.
The squires were dressed in their thick, padded livery jackets, and heavy woollen breeches; their only weapon was a small dagger hanging from their belts. They were never expected to fight; only to serve their masters. Before the battle, they had been full of mischief and high spirits, playing pranks on each other and receiving the occasional slap from their betters for their devilment. They had listened to the old soldiers’ tales of courage and bravery in battles past. They all thought today was going to be a glorious victory and nothing had prepared them for the bloody reality of war. They had watched it all unfold before them: the cannon, the archers, and the full-frontal assaults. The sights had shocked their senses. Some had wet themselves with fright, whilst others called out softly for their mothers.
The Earl of Warwick’s squire knew it was a lost cause. He was not going to throw his life, or their lives, away. He addressed them quickly, urgency in his voice. ‘If we continue, we will be put to the sword by the Yorkist cavalry, for it is too late to save our masters, although we are duty bound to try.’ He paused as their eyes widened in fear. ‘Or, we could retreat and save ourselves,’ he said, quickly, trying to lessen the shame of even uttering them. ‘The choice is a simple one: we must choose between life and death.’
Frightened heads could only stare back at him, their voices frozen with fear.
‘Raise your hand, if it is to be retreat.’
Hands shot into the air.
‘Then, mount!’
The senior squire’s order jerked the boys into action, their young bodies moving quicker, relieved at their deliverance. They were no longer concerned with Yorkist or Lancastrian causes, lords or masters. They would have signed their souls to the devil to survive. Now, they had their lives back, they began to swiftly ride away.
The Earl of Warwick’s squire stopped on the brow of the hill and looked back. He watched as Warwick and his men stood frozen, staring after him. He felt the shame for deserting them burn into his soul, and then made his escape.
Warwick and his retainers stared with disbelief as their only hope of escape disappeared into the distance. He was stunned that these lowly dogs woul
d even dare to be disloyal to him, but he knew his eyes were not lying. In these final moments, even his young squire was betraying him. The realisation cut into him like a knife – they had been abandoned to their fate. The ground now shook with the sound of the advancing cavalry.
Warwick knew their time had run out. This was the day; this was the moment they would face their deaths. They turned to face the oncoming enemy; this small band of brothers, now abandoned, formed a defiant straight line. Warwick moved along it quickly, gripping each man’s hand in a silent farewell. No words were spoken – no words were needed. They had spent a lifetime fighting together. He remembered the adventures, battles, intrigues, and plotting, and of course, the women…what a time they’d had. If he was going to die, he could not have chosen better company.
His men raised their swords in salute, and the anger in Warwick’s eyes softened, replaced with pride. He checked his armour for one last time, and then threw his helmet aside. He wanted the sun on his face when he died. He walked forward, away from his men, sword drawn, to face the oncoming cavalry.
Warwick did not hear the horse that bore down on him from the rear, its sounds hidden by the thunder of the advancing cavalry. It caught him unawares; such was the swiftness of it. The rider’s mace caught him hard on his right shoulder, and he spun forward, smashing into the ground. He knew his shoulder was broken, his sword arm now useless. He saw his comrades rushing to protect him, but they were overrun by the first wave of cavalry. He saw his attacker spin his horse around and slip from the saddle. Warwick looked up into a face cold with hatred – a face surrounded by wild hair. In the far reaches of his mind, the man’s features registered.
‘Who are you?’ Warwick hissed, between teeth clenched in pain.
The man gripped Warwick’s hair, yanked his head back and ran a razor-edged, hunting knife across his throat. ‘My name is Sir Simon Langford, and this is for my mother and sisters,’ he said with venom.
The Dreams of Kings Page 39