Anne felt anger that he had been forced into this situation. She had grown fond of Edward, and now loved him. They had been forced to marry to satisfy her father’s and King Louis’ pursuit of power, and although she had tried not to like Edward, she had found him handsome and charming. They shared a bed as husband and wife, but he had not forced himself upon her. It was only after she had learnt that Duke Richard had sired two children with a lowborn wench that her interest in Edward had blossomed, and although he did not know it, he had helped mend her broken heart.
She remembered the first time they had made love. He had been tender and thoughtful. With each eager thrust of his young body, her love for Richard had faded away. After that first night, they had become insatiable young lovers, craving each other’s body. Sometimes, she felt ashamed of her lustfulness, but she could not stop herself. She craved the excitement of their naked intimacy.
Anne stood up and went to join Edward by the fire. He looked into her eyes as her hand sought his. There was gentleness in his look and she wished they were back in France, safe from all this madness.
Edward sat for a while and then gently squeezed Anne’s hand as though it was some sort of secret sign. He stood up and stepped into the centre of the room. The swiftness and intent of his movement stopped the heated arguments between the opposing parties. All eyes stared at him.
‘There has been enough talking,’ Edward said, his voice firm. ‘We have an army of brave men camped outside with captains, dukes, and a prince to lead them, so tomorrow, we stand and fight, and may God grant us victory.’
There was a murmur of approval.
‘Somerset, we leave at three of the clock to prepare our army. Until then, I wish you good night and advise you all to get some rest, for it will be a hard day tomorrow.’
Margaret sat silently, watching her son as he left the chamber, with Anne following closely behind him.
Edmund Beaufort, and his captains, rose from their chairs, and gallantly bid her good night. He left, trying to hide the look of triumph on his face.
As they were leaving, Margaret beckoned Lord Wenlock to stay. Once alone, she quietly whispered instructions to him.
Edmund Beaufort, standing silently outside the room, watched with mounting anger at their secret conspiring.
Chapter 17
Battle of Tewkesbury
Tewkesbury, Gloucestershire
4 May 1471
The great guns of King Edwards’s army: Dijon, Messenger, Fowler of the Tower, Newcastle, and London, thundered out across the dawn sky.
John Tunstall felt the ground tremble. He looked out across the battlefield towards the enemy. They had, against their backs, the River Tirle. To their right, he could just see the town of Tewkesbury emerging through the dawn light, its great abbey beginning to dominate the skyline.
He felt sorry for the men who opposed them. This ragtag Lancastrian army only stood to fight because they were too tired to run any more. They knew that King Edward had never lost a campaign, so the physical battle was already won. He heard the whoosh of arrows join the heavy thump of the artillery.
He looked down the lines of the King’s well-disciplined army. Lord Hastings was commanding the right flank, Edward – the centre, and Richard – the left.
The trumpets to advance rang out. The butterflies in John’s stomach disappeared. He stepped forward with Richard and their men, advancing towards the enemy.
Lord Wenlock sat upon his battle horse surveying the advancing Yorkist army. He crossed himself and thanked the Lord that he had survived their frightening rain of cannon ball and arrow. He watched with disbelief as the hot-headed Edmund Beaufort, stung into action by the Yorkist bombardment, abandoned his solid defensive position and started moving his troops towards the enemy. The man is a fool, Lord Wenlock thought. With him in charge, we will be easy pickings.
Edward, Prince of Wales, sat beside Lord Wenlock, watching King Edward’s army struggle through the thick hedges and waterlogged ditches, towards them.
A messenger arrived from Edmund Beaufort. ‘You are to advance with all speed and attack them before they make solid ground,’ he cried.
Lord Wenlock drew his sword. ‘I will order the advance,’ he replied, calmly, as though discussing the weather.
Prince Edward made to draw his sword, but Lord Wenlock pushed it across him.
‘There will be no advancing yet,’ Lord Wenlock whispered. ‘Only if Somerset breaks the flank of Edward’s army, will we advance.’
They watched as Edmund Beaufort and his men started their outflanking manoeuvre. It was then that Lord Wenlock and Prince Edward saw the two hundred Yorkist scourers hidden in a small copse not far from the duke’s left flank. It was a trap set by Richard of Gloucester, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. They watched in horror as the Yorkist cavalry charged at the duke, catching him completely by surprise, and then, Richards’ troops turned to attack him on his right flank. Caught on both sides, the Lancastrians went down like corn before the scythe.
Men began to flee, and Edmund Beaufort, realising all was lost, broke free, and raced towards Lord Wenlock.
Lord Wenlock waited for him to arrive, his helmet still held by his squire, his reins still slack in his hands. ‘Get ready to signal the retreat, for Somerset has lost us the battle, as I knew he would,’ he said, with a wry smile. ‘It is time to implement your mother’s plan and seek the safety of France.’
As the duke thundered up, Lord Wenlock winked at Prince Edward, and then turned to greet the duke.
Edmund Beaufort stood up in his stirrups, and brought his battleaxe down with all his might on to Lord Wenlock’s head, cutting his brain in half. Lord Wenlock’s eyes rolled up into his head; the wry smile frozen, as he tumbled from his horse.
‘That traitorous bastard has betrayed me!’ roared Edmund Beaufort.
Seeing the duke slay their leader, Lord Wenlock’s men dropped their weapons, and fled the field.
John Tunstall looked at the fleeing army as they raced towards the river. He knew there would be no escape for them.
Evesham Abbey, Worcester
7 May 1471
Margaret of Anjou knelt before the high altar. To her left, knelt Anne; to her right, Lady Vaux and Lady Whittingham.
Her three companions were praying for the safe return of their husbands, who they had last seen three days ago, preparing for the coming battle.
Margaret prayed for her son, and that Lord Wenlock had escorted him from the battle to the safety of the abbey. She knew that all of her group were exhausted, not knowing if their men were alive or dead.
The abbot placed his hand gently on each of their heads in turn and said a prayer for the safe return of their loved ones, whilst monks on either side of the great altar sang gently in support of them.
Margaret knew this ceremony was pointless because the battle had taken place before they had arrived at Evesham. Their men were either dead, or alive, but it was all they knew to do, and it stopped them going mad with the uncertainty of it all. She rose from the great altar, and followed by her small court, walked slowly through the Chancery and out into the morning sun. She screwed her eyes up against its brightness, and as they slowly adjusted, she heard footsteps approaching. They were solid and regular, not the soft sound of monks walking.
She turned with apprehension to see who approached. Her stomach turned over, for there, stood Sir William Stanley, one of her most hated enemies. She supposed that he had been sent on King Edward’s orders to tell them the battle was lost.
Sir William stood gloating in front of her, a triumphant smile fixed upon his weasel face.
Margaret’s three companions gathered round her, clinging desperately to each other.
‘I have three widows and a childless mother before me!’ he cried, with mocking laughter. ‘Your son, and your husbands, ran before they had even fought. They have paid the price for their cowardice and—’
Margaret, her eyes flashing as hard as di
amonds, launched herself at Sir William. Like a tiger, she was upon him, her nails ripping down his face.
He fell back on to the stone pathway, the shock of her frenzied attack freezing his actions.
A young Yorkist knight, who had seen more than enough death and mutilation over the past days, stepped forward and dragged her off. A man-at-arms held the point of his sword at her throat.
Sir William slowly stood up, blood streaming from his wounds.
‘You thought you could drain the spirit out of me,’ Margaret hissed with venom, her eyes blazing with hate.
Sir William stepped back from her.
‘You delight in the death of my son, and our husbands, you serpent of the Devil. You are the lowly dog of the underworld; you will never bring me to my knees.’ Then, throwing her hand out, her long finger pointing directly at him, she cried, ‘I curse you, your sons, and all your generations to come. May you all die of hideous causes, and may the world bring sorrow to all your doors.’
Sir William pulled his sword from its scabbard and pointed it at Margaret. ‘Stop your foul cursing,’ he shouted, ‘or I will silence your tongue for ever!’
Margaret lunged forward at him, but the young knight held her firmly. ‘You put no fear in me, you murderous dog!’ she shouted back.
Sir William drew back his sword and thrust it forward. Lady Whittingham threw herself in front of Margaret, and the sword blade buried deep in her chest. With a scream, she fell dying.
The young knight released Margaret and drew his sword against Sir William. ‘Have you not seen enough killing?’ he shouted. ‘God will show you no mercy for this foul deed.’
Sir William, his sword dripping with blood, his face white, hurried from the scene as monks came running from the abbey
‘You will burn in Hell for this wicked act!’ screamed Margaret at his departing back.
Lady Whittingham, with a dark red stain spreading across her chest, lay with her head resting in Anne’s lap.
Margaret knelt beside them, and gently took Lady Whittingham’s hand.
The abbot joined her. ‘I have sent for the senior healer,’ he said, softly.
Margaret looked at him, knowing from the look in his eyes that it was hopeless.
Lady Whittingham moved her head slowly to look at her mistress. She smiled, weakly. ‘I will join my husband in death,’ she whispered. ‘I would be with him in Heaven than live without him on earth.’ A shudder racked her body and then her heart was still.
Margaret looked down and saw her gentle smile, frozen forever. Her lifeless eyes stared up at her. The abbot leaned forward, and gently closed them.
They sat in the abbot’s house, their faces wet with tears. Their men folk were dead, and the horror of Lady Whittingham’s murder filled their minds. An elderly monk handed them each a goblet of strong wine and gently tried to soothe their sorrow.
The young knight entered the room and seeing their wretched state made to leave.
‘I would have you stay,’ said Margaret. ‘I wish to know the events of the battle.’
He turned and walked slowly towards her. Anne and Lady Vaux gathered round, clutching each other’s hands for comfort.
‘There was no battle,’ he said. ‘Somerset saw to that.’
‘I knew he would be our undoing,’ said Margaret, bitterly.
‘On the morning of the battle, your army was defending a strong defensive position. We knew the battle would be hard. There were ditches and hedges in front of us that would slow our advance, and then we would have had to battle uphill to reach your positions. To our complete disbelief, Somerset abandoned his defensive line, and led his men to attack the Duke of Gloucester’s right flank, but Gloucester had secretly hidden a force of cavalry in a small copse further to his right, and they attacked. Caught between them and Gloucester’s troops, Somerset’s men were slaughtered, but he somehow escaped and galloped towards Lord Wenlock and the Prince Edward. He killed Lord Wenlock with a single blow to his head. It was the signal for the entire Lancastrian army to take flight.’
‘Do you know the fate of my son?’ asked Margaret, softly.
‘Yes, my Lady, not all of your army fled the field. Your son, along with Sir William Vaux, Sir Robert Whittingham, and a small band of brave and loyal men, stood their ground and fought bravely for your cause, but it was hopeless and they were overwhelmed.’
‘Did you show no mercy when our brave men were surrounded?’
‘King Edward had commanded there were to be no prisoners taken.’
Margaret stared at the knight for a long time. Finally, she asked, ‘How did my son die?’
‘He died bravely. He was the last Lancastrian standing. It was a noble and brave end. Richard, Duke of Gloucester delivered the fatal blow. You should all take pride that your men died bravely. King Edward treated their bodies with respect. They lie in Tewkesbury Abbey awaiting a Christian burial.’
‘And what of Somerset, and his companions? What was the fate of those cowards who abandoned our men to die?’ asked Lady Vaux, with disgust.
‘They fled to Tewkesbury Abbey where they sought sanctuary, but Richard of Gloucester dragged them all out. He tried them for treason and sentenced them all to death. They were beheaded in the market place at Tewkesbury the next day.’
The three women sat still and silent, staring at the young knight as though in a daze.
Margaret broke the silence. ‘So, Richard, the Duke of Gloucester, was determined to remove all who had a claim on my husband’s throne?’
‘Yes. He said there would be no peace until all the royal blood of the Lancastrian line had been spilled on to the earth.’
Margaret of Anjou, Anne, and Lady Vaux, sat on thick hay in the back of a simple cart, as though they were peasant girls away to the harvest. There were two cavalrymen bringing up the rear, and two ahead.
The three of them sat in shocked silence at the deaths of their men folk, and the murder of Lady Whittingham. Her body, still warm, lay wrapped amongst the hay. They travelled back to Tewkesbury, taking her to be buried alongside her husband. The warm May wind had dried their tears, leaving fragile lines of grief upon their faces.
Margaret moved closer to Anne. ‘We must talk of the future,’ Margaret whispered, gently taking Anne’s hand. ‘I have lost a son, and you are now a widow.’
Anne nodded and placed a hand on to her slightly swollen stomach. ‘But, I carry my husband’s child,’ she said.
‘Yes, you carry his child, and my grandchild, but if King Edward and his brothers discover this, then you will not live. He could not take the chance of it being a boy and so the true heir to the throne.’
Anne nodded again, and then her eyes flashed with defiance. ‘They have killed my father and my husband,’ she whispered, ‘but they will never take the life of my unborn child. I swear this on the Holy Cross of our Lord.’
‘So, we must have a plan,’ said Margaret, with quiet determination, ‘a plan that will hide the pregnancy. I believe that once we are back at Tewkesbury, King Edward will take me into his custody. He will either kill me, or imprison me, but whatever the outcome, I will not be able to help you.’
Anne’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Please, do not leave me to face this alone.’
‘We will have no choice in the matter, but what is important is that you find sanctuary, somewhere for you to carry your full term in safety. If we are to outwit Edward and his brothers then you must follow my instructions.’
Anne looked into Margaret’s eyes. ‘If it saves my child, I will do whatever you say.’
‘Good,’ replied Margaret. ‘We know that when we arrive at Tewkesbury, I will be detained, but once you are in his presence, you will ask permission to bury your husband with honour, within the abbey, and to remain there to mourn for him and your father as custom dictates. Also, request to bury Lady Whittingham alongside her husband. They cannot refuse such an honourable request. Lady Vaux will then seek out a safe sanctuary for your term with the help of the
abbot, whom I know to be loyal to you and your family.’
‘But what of Duke Richard?’ said Anne, in frustration. ‘He will not know I am pregnant so will still want to marry me, not for love, I know, but for the inheritance from my father. He will want my lands and wealth for himself.’
Margaret considered this. ‘You must send him away by telling him that you will not marry the man who helped kill your father and who killed your husband. Tell him that you will need time. Tell him you will let him know when your heart has eased. Do not refuse outright; if you give him hope he will leave you alone. Once the child is born, you can then follow your conscience, for you are a widow of great wealth and do not have to answer to any man. If you are delivered of a boy, promise me you will send him to France for safety. My father will help you. Lady Vaux knows my father’s court well, but the boy must never be in England. Promise me this.’
‘I will do, or say, whatever is needed to protect my baby,’ said Anne, defiantly. ‘But, I will never marry, or forgive Duke Richard for what he has done to me and my family.’
The smell told them they were nearing Tewkesbury. The sweet, sour, aroma of death wafted towards them. They held their lace handkerchiefs to their mouths, and then they saw the first quartered bodies stuck up on poles on either side of the road leading into the town.
Anne and Lady Vaux huddled down into the side of the cart, their bodies retching in horror. Margaret stood and looked out across the battlefield. She had led her own army many times and had seen the aftermath of warfare. She saw the mass graves being dug, the bloodied and broken bodies being thrown into them, and she knew as they were buried, so too finally, was the Lancastrian cause.
Then, she saw the heads, seventeen in all, stuck on sharpened poles at the end of the line of quartered bodies, like a grand finale of horror. She saw the Duke of Somerset’s, and then the Earl of Devon’s, his eyes wide in terror, his tongue sticking out, frozen in his death scream like some hideous gargoyle. Next, she saw the severed head of young James Gower, her son’s sword bearer. A gasp of surprise left her lips; that they would behead someone so young.
The Dreams of Kings Page 42