by Livi Michael
He would not want her to embrace him, but she stood close enough to him to feel the heat from his young body passing into hers. ‘The people need you,’ she said, ‘they need their king.’
He did not respond at first, then unexpectedly he moved his hand so that it touched hers. She slipped her hand quickly into his and felt a pang of joy as their fingers intertwined. They had not touched like this for a long time.
But now they stood together, hand in hand, facing the unknown shore.
46
Strategy
Queen Margaret and Prince Edward her son … landed at Weymouth on Easter Day and so by land they rode to Exeter and there met with Edmund, Duke of Somerset, Lord John his brother, Courtenay, Earl of Devon and many others. And on Easter Monday tidings were brought to them that King Edward had won the field at Barnet and King Henry was put in the Tower again.
Warkworth’s Chronicle
When she heard these things the miserable woman swooned for fear, she was distraught, dismayed and tormented with sorrow, she lamented the calamity of the time, the adversity of fortune, her own toil and misery; she bewailed the unhappy end of King Henry which she believed assuredly to be at hand …
Polydore Vergil
During the days of fierce debate that had followed the queen’s collapse Dr Morton had devised a plan. He persuaded her generals to send a small contingent from Exeter to Shaftesbury and Salisbury, to convince the people there that the main army was on the way.
In fact, the main army was on the road to Glastonbury, via Taunton.
From Taunton they sent another party of men to Yeovil, with the false news that the queen’s army was travelling to Reading. These towns duly raised the alarm and sent messengers to their king.
They needed time, Dr Morton had said. Time to recruit men, and time for Jasper to muster his army in Wales. If they could reach the Severn before King Edward, their forces would combine with Jasper’s and they would outnumber the Yorkist host. He’d suggested this strategy skilfully, by inference and implication, so that by the time it was adopted both the Duke of Somerset and the Earl of Devon were convinced it was their idea.
Such was his way.
Now he rode with the queen to raise her spirits, since she was still distressed. He encouraged her to have hope. All those peers who had hated Warwick would rally to their cause now that he was gone.
‘They’ve not rallied to it before,’ she pointed out.
‘Not while Warwick was alive,’ he replied. ‘It is better for us that he is out of the way. The nobles did not trust him. Some of them hated him.’
The queen was silent, wondering how many of them hated her.
But it was her husband she was asking them to support, and her son. And in this respect at least the plan appeared to be working, for almost all of Cornwall and Devon had risen to the prince’s cause.
He rode ahead, with his Beaufort cousins. At first the Duke of Somerset had sent riders ahead to stir the people up, but soon there was no need. In each town they came to the streets were lined with people calling out blessings to the prince, cheering him on.
The prince was delighted, of course. He rode taller in the saddle, turning back on occasion to give her a smile of childlike joy. She smiled back at him, how could she not? She had never seen him so happy.
She herself remained less visible, knowing that the Yorkist king had branded her as a Frenchwoman born and mortal enemy to this our land. She hung back, surrounded by a party of men. And Dr Morton kept her company, soothing her despite her misgivings. They’d heard that Edward had set off after them, taking the whole armoury of the Tower with him, as well as Warwick’s artillery that he’d captured at Barnet.
‘It will slow him down,’ Dr Morton said.
But Edward had wasted no time. He’d sent commissions of array to fifteen counties, including the ones they were passing through.
‘But he is not here,’ said the doctor, ‘and the prince is. Whose army are they joining?’
He spoke with a calm assurance and the queen allowed herself to be comforted. He was not impressive to look at, small and balding. He was somewhat older than she was, she guessed, though in fact it was difficult to guess his age. As long as she’d known him he’d been losing his hair, but he had pink cheeks and very bright eyes. In profile his face came nearly to a point.
She’d known him for more than fifteen years yet knew little about him. She suspected that he was of humble origin; one of the new men of this age who rose according to ability rather than blood. He’d been educated at Cerne Abbey, in which they’d stayed, by the Black Monks of the Benedictine Order, then at Oxford. In 1455 Archbishop Bourchier had recognized his ability and presented him at court. Within two years he’d been appointed chancellor of the young prince’s household, then Lord Privy Seal. Yet he did not appear to be an ambitious man.
He had drafted the bill of attainder against the Yorkists in 1459, a bill so controversial that others had refused, calling it a most vengeable labour. He’d been captured at Towton and imprisoned in the Tower, from where he had somehow escaped. He would not say how, whereas another man might have boasted of it, presumably because it would implicate those who had aided him. From there he had joined the queen in France, and been with her on successive excursions to Scotland, France and England.
He said nothing of these changes of fortune, except that it had pleased God to send him many adventures, for which he had endeavoured to be grateful. He didn’t look like an adventurer, or a warrior, yet he had survived. He gave nothing away, spoke softly, used speech to parry and thrust. And yet she trusted him, and allowed him to mend her spirits. And his plan was working since each day their army grew. Even from high ground it was no longer possible to tell where the long line of massed troops ended.
The night they reached Glastonbury they lit their fires and cooked whatever they had poached or found. The air smelled of smoke and roasted meat. The queen stepped out of her tent. The darkness was suffused by an orange glow from so many fires. She lifted her eyes beyond it to where the stars hung like tiny beacons in the night sky. A discordant singing rose; it was possible to imagine an angelic chorus joining in.
Impossible to imagine any God who would desert them, or fail to protect her son.
They passed through Glastonbury to Wells and even when the untrained people who had joined them ran riot through the town, sacking the bishop’s palace and breaking open the prison, she was not distressed. For the bishop was their enemy and the prisoners might remain free as long as they joined their army. As for the rioting and looting, she could not afford to pay them so they would have to take what they could. ‘An army must eat,’ she said.
And she smiled at Dr Morton, and he at her, and they pressed on with the next part of their plan. Which was to send a small contingent from Wells to Bruton to spread the rumour that their army was heading towards Oxfordshire, then London.
To delude the Yorkist king.
47
Pursuit
‘God damn and blast them to hell,’ the king said, but softly, having turned away. He didn’t think any of his councillors had heard.
And he had closed his eyes. Hopefully they would think he was praying.
He was not praying. He was hoping to awaken in himself some feral instinct such as birds or wolves have when tracking prey.
It had taken him five days to reach Gloucester, where his scouts had told him that the queen’s army was approaching Bath and was preparing for battle. Accordingly he had pitched camp outside Cirencester. But then he’d learned that this was yet another ruse – they had actually turned towards Bristol.
A good and strong-walled town where they were greatly refreshed and relieved by such as were the king’s rebels … wherethrough they took new courage … and sent fore-riders to a town nine miles from Bristol, called Sudbury, and appointed a ground for their field called Sudbury Hill.
The Arrivall
Of course he’d followed them and sent his scouts i
nto the town. Where they’d met an advance party of Lancastrians and were taken by surprise, having grown used to not finding them. The outcome was not good.
He’d given orders that the wounded were to be seen to, the dead buried, and then had pitched his camp near the slopes of Sudbury Hill while knowing in his heart that the enemy had gone their way. And he was right. His spies had climbed the hill from where they could see for miles in every direction, but there was no sign of the queen’s army.
Which was huge by now, it was said, and yet invisible, leaving no traces.
And so the king had closed his eyes, hoping for revelation.
It would not do to lose his temper here among his councillors. And there was no point going to Bristol to punish all those who had aided the queen. That would come later.
He knew what he should not do, but he didn’t know what to do.
He drew in a long breath through his nostrils as though trying to detect the scent of blood. He was aware that everyone was watching him. He could feel their gaze on his back.
He’d always had a belief in the instincts of beasts – his hunting birds, his dogs – that primitive, deadly skill. He’d felt something close to it in battle when his feet knew where to place themselves, his arm when and how to strike. In battle, he believed, something else took over him, looking through his eyes, propelling his limbs. Anger or fear was the enemy of this skill. What he felt in battle was not anger but something he believed was close to communion with God; closer, at any rate, than anything he experienced in church. What he felt now, however, was darker than anger; a rage that was rooted in his soul. He struggled to think clearly.
They were in an angle of land from which the only way out was either to cross the Severn or to move north-east across the Cotswold escarpment. Either way would delay them and give the queen time to meet Jasper’s forces.
His councillors were waiting for him to speak. He turned back to them. ‘Show me the map again,’ he said.
The map was spread out on a makeshift table and held down at the corners by stones. It showed the route of the river.
‘They will look for a place to cross,’ Lord Hastings said.
‘That could be anywhere,’ said Clarence. He had expressed more impatience than anyone at the delays and misdirections.
‘It could not be anywhere,’ Hastings said. ‘It could be here –’ he indicated towards Berkeley – ‘or here –’ he pointed towards the Cotswold Hills. ‘Either way, they’ll be moving north.’
‘Unless they’ve turned back south.’
The king ignored his brother. ‘What do you think?’ he asked Hastings.
‘They’ve lost time already,’ he replied, ‘on the detour to Bristol. Our spies should find them soon.’
‘Yes, they’ve been good at that,’ said Clarence. But his younger brother Richard spoke up.
‘In either case,’ he said, ‘if we travel north we keep them between us and the river.’
‘Unless they cross it,’ Clarence said.
‘There are not many crossing-places,’ said Hastings. ‘Our spies should see them easily if they try.’
‘Our spies have not seen them at all,’ said Clarence. ‘Except when they walked right into them.’
‘What is your suggestion?’ King Edward said amenably.
‘I think we should divide the army – cover all possible routes – but for God’s sake waste no more time!’
King Edward turned to his stepson, Thomas Grey. ‘What do you think, Tom?’ he asked.
Thomas Grey was the youngest member of this council. Too young to go into battle, his mother had said, but the king had taken him nonetheless. Taken him under his wing, he’d said, and the queen had said it would be less dangerous for him to be under the enemy’s wing.
He spoke slowly, but the king knew he was savouring the moment. ‘I think the duke is right,’ he said, and both the king’s brothers looked at him. ‘I think we should go towards Cheltenham and keep them between us and the river.’
Clarence started to speak but the king raised his hand. ‘Hastings?’ he said.
Hastings pulled his mouth down. ‘It’s a better road,’ he said. ‘We should gain time.’
‘You’re wasting time even discussing this,’ said Clarence.
‘The queen’s army have lost time,’ said Hastings mildly. ‘They cannot be far away.’
‘And yet we can’t see them,’ said Clarence. ‘Perhaps they are travelling underground.’
‘If you have nothing helpful to say, brother,’ said the king, ‘say nothing.’ And he met Clarence’s scarlet glare impassively.
‘We should act now,’ said Richard unexpectedly into the short silence that followed.
The king closed his eyes again. In his mind the three courses proposed to him seemed like a crossroads or symbol of the Trinity. Or like the nails of the cross itself between which he and his army hung suspended.
Show me what to do, he prayed, but there was nothing; no guiding light, no deep-seated primitive urge. Nothing.
He could do nothing.
It was a fourth option. And not the worst, because he did not like to act in doubt or uncertainty. He could remain where he was and wait for his scouts to bring him news.
He opened his eyes.
Young Thomas was watching him with his mother’s hooded gaze. George was glaring at the ground and Richard was looking at the map, while Hastings sat on the bench with his eyes closed and his eyebrows raised as if surprised by some internal vision. But as Edward straightened slowly they all looked at him.
‘We will wait here,’ he said, and saw their expressions change. ‘It’s dark – I don’t want to chase across rough country in the dark when we have no idea where to go. The scouts will return soon. Any news is better than none.’
‘Suppose they don’t bring news?’ Clarence said.
‘Then we will have rested at least,’ said the king. ‘We will set off at dawn.’
Early in the morning, soon after three o’clock, the king had certain tidings that [his enemies] had taken their way by Berkeley towards Gloucester. Whereupon he sent certain servants to Richard Beauchamp, son and heir of Lord Beauchamp … commanding him to keep the town and castle of Gloucester for the king … [The queen’s army] came before Gloucester about ten o’clock where their intent was utterly denied them by Richard Beauchamp … of this demeaning they took right great displeasure and made great menaces as if they would have assailed the town [but then] they took their way to Tewkesbury where they came about four in the afternoon … by which time they had travelled their host by night and day and were right weary, having travelled thirty-six miles through foul country without any good refreshing … and the greater part of their army were footmen and could not have laboured any further …
The Arrivall
UNKNOWN SOLDIER I
The drumming of feet and the heat and the pain in the side and the smell and the thirst and the sweat chafing everywhere, Lie down, a voice says to me clear as day, lie down, but if I do it I won’t get up, there’s the pull of the earth to take me back into it, the drumming of feet and the heat and the pain and the thirst …
Once in church they told me man is special, marked out from the beasts, for he can stand and lift his eyes heavenward and see the stars. But here I am, shoulders bent, feet drumming, eyes full of sweat – on my way like any beast to death.
So they were compelled by weariness to abide and pight them in a field at the town’s end; the town and the abbey at their backs, afore them foul lanes and deep dykes and many hedges … a right evil place to approach as could well have been devised.
The Arrivall
UNKNOWN SOLDIER II
There it was again, the smell of apples, faint and far away. Don’t know where it could have come from, not this place, not this time of year; no food, nothing for two days and nights. The stink of men, yes – horseshit and fear and sweat. But if I turned my head a certain way, lying down, there it was, like a distant star.
Then I thought of my girl’s face, and how she let me lift up her skirts.
I lay on ground that was baked to a rock, the man next to me farting in his sleep. I could hear the priest moving among us to hear our sins, but I was holding on to mine. I thought of how long it might take to die, on the end of a spear or sword. And then I thought that there’d be two things I’d miss most in all this world – the smell of apples and my sweet girl’s fanny – and whether or not to tell that to the priest.
I closed my eyes and tasted the two scents of apples and my girl. And I hoped I’d make it through to see or smell or touch either of them again. I hoped I’d make it through.
The Battle of Tewkesbury: 4 May 1471
Upon the following morning the king set all his host in good array, ordained three wards, displayed his banners, blew the trumpets, committed his cause and quarrel to Almighty God, to our most blessed lady His mother, the glorious martyr St George and all the saints and advanced upon his enemies, approaching their field, which was pitched in a marvellous strong ground, full difficult to be assailed … Nevertheless the king’s vanguard sore oppressed them with arrow-shot and they fired back both with arrows and guns …
The Arrivall
From her position at the top of a hill Queen Margaret could see it all: the encumbered movement of armies through ditches and bushes.
It had not been part of anyone’s plan to stop here. In thirty-six hours her army had marched almost fifty miles through the difficult terrain of the Severn Valley. If things had gone according to plan they would have rested in Gloucester instead of being forced to march on until even their horses were dropping.
They’d tried to cross the river, but the bridge was too narrow and in poor repair. Some dispute had gone on for almost a hundred years over who was responsible for its upkeep. So finally, defeated, they had pitched camp in a field.
And it was a good field, she could see that. It was surrounded by thick hedges, bordered by a wood and two brooks to the south and east. Yet the king’s army came on, slashing through hedges, clambering through the ditch.