“My lord,” one said, “this is one of your scouts.”
“Give me your report then, quickly,” urged Warwick.
“My lord, the queen’s army is nine miles from town and closing on the Dunstable Road.”
Warwick’s demeanor took a sour turn. “Are you sure it’s the main body?”
“Yes, my lord. There is no question.”
“You had better be right, or I’ll have your liver for my breakfast.” Without waiting for a response, he turned his horse and spurred it back toward the north at a full gallop. When he reached Norfolk’s tent, he yelled for the duke to come forth. The duke was having difficulty focusing his eyes in the dark when he came out dressed only in leggings and a shirt.
“The queen is coming from Dunstable and is only nine miles off. We must redirect your men to join with my brother in town. If we move now we’ll have time to redeploy before daybreak.”
“Very well. Captain!” Norfolk called hurriedly. After giving instructions to his captain, he looked disapprovingly at Warwick. “How is it that we have been so deceived?”
“I don’t know, but I assure you I’ll find out when this is over,” he said darkly.
When the men of Norfolk’s command were roused, Warwick began to feel satisfied that he had met this challenge successfully. But at just that moment, the sounds of men yelling assailed his ears. It was coming from his brother’s position, where the Dunstable road entered town.
He spurred his horse southward again and arrived in town to see his brother’s archers unleashing volley after volley into the night. He found John with his sword drawn behind the second line of archers yelling encouragement to his men.
“What’s happening?” asked Warwick as he came up on John. “Who are you firing on?”
“It’s the queen’s whole army, as near as I can tell,” said John, wide-eyed with anger. “We were not prepared, but these are fine men. We have repelled their first assault, but they’re coming again.”
“That fool scout said they were nine miles away. I’ll have his bloody head under my foot when this is over.”
The earl’s men were in chaos. The queen could not have picked a better time to attack. Warwick realized bitterly that if John’s archers had not been up to the task, they would already have lost this battle, and even as it was, if he did not get his troops organized, they would soon be overrun.
“You must hold them here,” he shouted at his brother. “I’ll get you help as soon as I can.”
Montagu acknowledged with a wave. As Warwick spurred his horse back to the north, the next wave of Lancastrians was approaching the archers.
*
Hours of fighting in the dark passed, and Montagu’s archers had not budged. The Lancastrians, realizing the futility of continuing the attack in this location, withdrew and regrouped toward the north. Warwick had managed to organize the division of men which had been originally ordered to redeploy and directed them to oppose the queen’s army which was now attacking at the north end of town. In the dark, the two sides fought without respite. Little advantage was gained by either.
When the first light glowed over the eastern horizon, the Yorkists had finally gained on the Lancastrians and pushed them out of the town into a large field to the west. Norfolk’s men were engaged by another division of the queen’s army on the north end of town. Margaret had obviously gathered an army much larger than Warwick had imagined, and its sheer numbers would win the day if one of the three fronts was not won soon. The best bet was John’s archers, who were now only guarding the southern approaches to the town against light incursions.
Warwick sent word that John was to fall back on Warwick’s position where together they would turn the tide of the battle. Within an hour, he was pleased to see his brother approaching from town. But his hope of a quick victory did not last long. To his surprise, the Lancastrians had broken through the left side of his lines and were slaughtering his men by the hundreds. That side had been well secured by his Kentish men under the command of Lovelace, a gentleman who had fought for the Duke of York at Wakefield and escaped that disaster to fight again here.
Through the din of the battle, shouts of “treason!” could be heard from within the ranks, and Warwick’s lines began to crumble. Several soldiers came running up the small lane that was normally used by the townsfolk to cart the hay off the fields that were now drenched by the blood of hundreds. Warwick drew his sword and positioned himself to block their way.
“Hold, you bloody cowards! Stop or I’ll take your heads here and now.” They pulled up before the earl, sides heaving and lungs gasping for air.
“My lord,” said one between breaths, “we do not desert. But the men of Kent and their commander have gone over to the queen, and we are being slaughtered. We sought to find a place to regroup, but they’re too close. They are hard on our heels now, my lord. You must fly or you’ll be taken sure.”
Warwick was devastated. The men of Kent were some of his fiercest fighters and he would have trusted them with his life. More men were running from the carnage, and Warwick motioned for the three he stopped to go on, which they did without hesitating. When John Neville’s troops arrived moments later, he knew that it was too late to fight on.
“I’m sorry, John,” he said angrily. “We are betrayed and must flee. Come, we’ll run north and see if Norfolk has established a defensible position.”
With a harried and bloody remnant of their army, Warwick and his brother sped north to where they had first set up the main body of the army, before learning that the Lancastrians would attack from the west. But when they arrived, Norfolk’s men were in flight before a formidable division of Margaret’s army. Thousands of Yorkist soldiers lay dead and mangled on the field. At the sight of that turmoil, Warwick’s men lost hope and began to flee in all directions.
“We must be gone!” yelled John to his brother. “The day is lost.”
Reluctantly, Warwick nodded and they spurred their horses to a full gallop away from the slaughter.
*
King Henry sat on the makeshift throne in Margaret’s tent. The queen sat on a suitable chair brought in from the abbey, which she had placed next to the king. Beside her, opposite the king, stood the Prince of Wales, now seven years of age. Northumberland, Clifford, Somerset, and Sir Andrew Trollope were also in attendance, as were many dignitaries normally attached to the royal family. The king seemed dwarfed by the throne upon which Margaret had sat so easily. He was clearly uncomfortable.
“My lords, you have all excelled this day,” announced the queen, “and we are deeply grateful for your loyalty.” All of the lords bowed to the royal family and mumbled about their sacred duties.
“And now,” she continued, “we have joyous matters to tend to.” With that she leaned over to her husband and hissed something into his ear.
“Yes, of course,” he said quietly. He looked around trying to remember something. “I…I need a sword.” The lords looked at one another, attempting to ascertain the protocol in such a situation. Northumberland stepped forward.
“If Your Highness would so honor me, I ask that you use my sword, which has been devotedly wielded in your defense a hundred times this day.” When the king hesitated, Margaret spoke for him.
“We would be honored to use such a sword, my lord,” she said, with a blistering look to her husband, and motioned him toward Northumberland’s sword, which had been laid at the king’s feet.
Henry slowly lifted the sword and softly thanked the earl, who bowed deeply in return. Henry stood and asked that his son come before him. The young prince complied. Dressed lavishly in brigandines covered with purple velvet, he bore himself with poise before the gathered gentry. He kneeled before his father, who touched both his shoulders with the sword.
“With this sword I knight thee, Ed
ward Plantagenet, Prince of Wales.” The prince stood to thank the king and then turned to the gathered lords, who knelt.
That ceremony being accomplished, the queen was back to business. “And now, my lords, we must march with haste to London, as no other obstacles stand in our way. The dangerous rebels are routed and we must secure the kingdom from further rebellion. Tonight we will stay at the abbey, but at first light our course is set to London.”
“Your Majesty,” Northumberland did not know whom to address, and therefore directed his eyes to the floor. “Your Majesty, I feel I must again ask that you order the pillaging of towns in this area be stopped. I greatly fear that we will garner much ill will if this behavior continues.”
The queen was not in a charitable mood. She had suffered much outrage as a result of this rebellion, and now that it was almost over, she felt that her soldiers deserved any reward she could give them. Besides, the southern lords had not given her the support that she felt they should have, so some pillaging in these southern counties seemed appropriate.
“I have promised the men that they may take the rewards that they so richly deserve. I will not, at our moment of victory, deny them. Sir Andrew, have our losses been listed?” Northumberland stepped back, knowing that there was no point testing her further.
“As pertains to those of noble blood, Highness, only two. Of all others by my rough count, only about a thousand. The losses to the Yorkists numbered in the many thousands, and I was unable to glean an accurate count as a result.”
“The two of noble blood that we lost, who were they?”
Sir Andrew referred to a small square of parchment and then responded, “Sir James Luttrell, and Sir John Grey of Bradgate Manor.”
CHAPTER VII
Samuel was relieved to find such an ideal place to pass the daylight hours. The wind-sheltering privets put them about twenty paces off the road. They had walked all through the night and were exhausted. Worse, they had not eaten anything since supper the previous night when they had been forced to flee. For now, they would manage, but tomorrow they would have to find food.
And then there was the larger question of their destination.
“I tell you that we have only one option.” Oliver was insistent. “We must find the Earl of March. He knows me and will give us shelter.”
“He doesn’t know me, Oliver, and if he discovers I served under Northumberland, he will not take the time to spit on me.”
“Then to whom would you suggest we turn? You’re a soldier and I, a page. These are not skills that are highly cherished in any town I know of. And how long do you suppose it will take Clifford to get word out to every village and town between here and York about us? We are still very much in the sphere of his northern friends.”
Samuel did not have an answer. He sat back on his elbows and stared absently at the bare tree limbs. The morning light streaked red on thin, wispy clouds. He felt a growing mood of desperation. If they could not go back, and had nowhere to go forward, what was left?
“If we could make it back to York, we could blend in with the locals. And Clifford would not be expecting us to go back there, do you suppose?”
“I think there’s little hope of making it that far,” said Oliver. “But it may be our best hope anyway.”
“Then it’s settled. When we get to York we’ll do our best to find some labor that will meet our immediate needs, and we’ll keep our ears open for news of the earl.” Samuel was settling in to a comfortable position. “Of course, you realize that given the result of that battle at Wakefield, the earl may already have lost his head on the queen’s block.”
Oliver was sitting cross-legged next to him with his eyes on the road through a small opening in the hedge. He sighed heavily.
“If that’s true, then God has planned a short life for us as well.”
*
Samuel came to consciousness reluctantly. Oliver was shaking him urgently, but it did not register right away; he had been in a deep sleep, the first in quite some time. As he regained his senses, he saw that the sun was high in the southern sky. Oliver’s thin face and protruding ears filled his vision when his eyes came into focus.
“Wha…?” Oliver put his hand over his mouth before he could finish. Signaling for silence, he helped Samuel to his knees and pointed through the hedge toward the road. Not more than a stone’s throw away, three men were surrounding a fourth. The victim was surprisingly agile and managed to hold the others at bay for longer than Samuel thought possible against such odds. He wore the clothes of a field hand, with a coarse woolen tunic and loose leggings, gray-brown, and filthy. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, but his face was lined and timeworn.
At last, one of the thugs managed to trip him from behind. He fell backwards and hit the ground with a loud grunt. The largest of his attackers put his knee on the victim’s chest, and reached for a knife sheathed near his hip. Oliver whispered urgently in Samuel’s ear.
“We must help him.”
Samuel pulled him back down. “Wait, you can’t help him by being a fool.” He reached for his bow and pulled an arrow from the quiver. He nocked the arrow and peered through the hedge to take aim. The large robber had pulled his knife and had it poised above the victim, ready to strike. With the mindless precision that was honed by years of training, he drew back the string and let loose the arrow. It struck the large man in the chest, easily passing through his ribs and heart.
The highwayman jerked back and then fell forward, dead before he hit the ground. The other two looked down at their partner, then looked toward the direction from whence the arrow must have come, terrified, expecting another deadly strike from out of nowhere.
From behind the hedge, Samuel stood, another arrow nocked and ready, and walked slowly toward the thieves.
“I’ll give you both a three count to flee before I loose another one.” His voice was as steady as his hand on the string. “And if I see you so much as look back, you’ll have one each in your backs before you take your next breath.”
Having no intention of testing Samuel further, they looked at each other for half a second, then turned and fled down the road as if the hounds of hell were close on their heels. Their victim pushed the dead man away.
“That was an impressive hit, my friend,” he said gratefully. “I thought my time on earth was done for certain.”
“I had no choice. He would have killed you.” He pushed the dead man with his foot so that he could see his face. “I’m sorry, but I had no choice,” he repeated quietly.
Oliver was surprised to see Samuel’s remorse. It was not what he expected from a professional soldier. “These were deadly thieves, Samuel. They deserved little better.”
“Indeed not. I am Nigel of Devon, and I owe you my life — a debt that I will not take lightly, if I can know your names.”
“I am Oliver, and this is Samuel, both from the north counties.” He did not see any reason to give the man too much information. “We were resting after a long journey when we heard your distress. It was a lucky thing for you that we were nearby.”
“Lucky, indeed,” Nigel said, looking carefully at Samuel. “Tell me where you learned such skill with the bow, my friend.”
Samuel saw no reason to prevaricate. “I served in the Earl of Northumberland’s personal guard.”
Nigel’s eyebrows raised, several suspicions confirmed.
“He trained you well,” he said, after a short pause. “You both look as if you could use some rest and food. I know a tavern in Richmond, a day’s walk from here to the south, where we can stay in safety and get a good meal. Do you travel that way?”
Oliver hesitated for a moment, glancing quickly back to Samuel.
“We are headed for York.”
“Good. Then it’s settled, if you don’t mind the c
ompany? I know I’d feel safer.”
They both knew it was probably their best chance to get a real meal anytime soon, but the risks of traveling on the main road to Richmond during the day were great.
“Have you come from the north, then?” asked Samuel.
“Yes, I had business near the Scottish border and was headed for London when you came across my path, by divine grace.”
“Did you not see any riders bearing the colors of any northern noble?”
“I saw no riders of that description,” said Nigel, puzzlement in his voice. “Do you seek such riders?”
“No,” Samuel hesitated, “we thought we saw them during the night. We were probably mistaken.”
“It’s not easy to miss such riders, even in the night,” said Nigel, scratching his head. “Would you rather wait here for a while to see if they return?”
If Nigel hadn’t seen any of Clifford’s men on the road north of here, it was possible that they had given up the search. After all, it seemed likely that Clifford needed his resources elsewhere. And the thought of the promised meal drove him to carelessness.
“No,” he said finally, “we’ll go with you now.” A quick look to Oliver confirmed that he was of like mind. Hunger was a powerful motivator.
*
Richmond was a relatively large town, located almost halfway between Northwood and York. It stood on high ground that rose from a dense wood and was dominated by an eleventh-century castle on the apex of the hill. The town itself had become a regional center for trading goods, and was populated by a rapidly growing class of merchants who took advantage of increasing trade between regions, despite the civil wars.
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