Treason

by Meredith Whitford

  ‘And the Prince of Wales?’

  ‘Skinny, pale, going to be tall. Pale hair, brown eyes – pure Woodville. Healthy, though. You’ll see him when we go down, everyone is here, downstairs – well, I daresay Edward is upstairs; the way he and the Queen looked at each other there’ll be another baby nine months from now. Mother’s arranged a great feast. Martin, there will be a conference tomorrow then we march out on Friday.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Northwards. Warwick is to the north of London, none too far away. Word is he has about the same numbers as we have.’

  ‘His chief captains?’

  ‘His brother Montagu of course, and Oxford and Exeter.’ He grimaced on this last name, for the Duke of Exeter had been married to his eldest sister Anne. After a stormy marriage Anne had obtained a divorce, and it is an understatement to say there was no love lost between the two sides. ‘Martin, the King has given me command of the vanguard.’

  Well, leading the vanguard is an honour, but with a chill I remembered that Richard’s great-uncle the Duke of York had led the van at Agincourt, and died. It was the most dangerous position.

  ~~~

  We marched out on Saturday the thirteenth of April, along the northern road. Just through Barnet, at dusk, the scouts ran back to say Warwick had halted a mile ahead, forming his army up across the road. At once we halted and pitched our camp. I’m always surprised by soldiers’ speedy genius at looking after their comfort; I had barely dismounted when campfires were crackling and the cooking pots were out. Some made do with roasting a rabbit or pigeon, others fried ham or eggs while some stewed meat and vegetables into quite elaborate meals. I was well fed, therefore, of their kindness as I went around my troops. They were in good heart, their faith in the King complete. Well, so was mine, but I was afraid, with that gut-churning terror only battle brings. Leaving the latrine for the third time in an hour I ran into old Lord Say, whom Edward had placed with Richard because of his experience.

  ‘Sir Martin, all secure?’

  ‘I think so. Fed and bedded down. They know we’ll move up early.’

  ‘Good. I wish that damn’ cannon fire would stop, it shreds the nerves. Warwick likes artillery.’ It shredded my nerves too, which was probably the idea, or else the enemy didn’t know we were out of range. ‘Frightened?’ the old gentleman suddenly asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Everyone is before a battle. In and out the latrines, shitting blue lights. Some throw up. The ones who don’t are the ones with no imagination, and they’re often not the best fighters.’

  ‘Good.’ He was looking at me so kindly I told the truth. ‘It’s not death so much as…’

  ‘The thought of being maimed? Living out your life crippled, blinded, gelded even? Bless you, that’s every man’s great fear. We put our trust in the Lord and know our souls are safe, we go into battle shriven, but we all fear living on as half-men.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I speak of what the Church would call a sin – but in my experience many men make a compact with a friend, so that if they are so gravely wounded life would be unbearable… well, you take my meaning?’ I did, even without his graphic little gesture. ‘But don’t dwell on it, son. Trust the Lord and our cause, trust your good armour and weapons. You fight with the sword? The axe? The mace is best left to big men like the king or when you’re fighting mounted.’

  ‘Sword, mostly; the axe too.’

  ‘The young Duke uses the axe. If you’re handy with it it’s useful, providing you have room for a good swing. Sword and dagger are my preference. If you’re in close, remember the two best places, groin and throat, in through the gaps in the armour. Keep your visor down.’ I didn’t want to hear him explain why – I knew. He patted my shoulder, blessed me, and moved on.

  Despite the cool night, Richard’s tent-flap was pinned open. Stripped to shirt and hose he and the squires sprawled on the floor, scoffing chicken.

  ‘Martin, good. Where have you been? I looked for you.’

  ‘I was having a cheering talk with Lord Say.’ This wasn’t sarcasm, for that little conversation, ghoulish though it may sound, had left me in better heart. I did not repeat what he had said about arranging with a friend to get myself finished off in extremity. The Bible says ‘Thou shalt do no murder’, but the rule doesn’t hold in battle, where killing is no murder. And afterwards? Richard was devout; how far would love go in conflict with Holy Church? I had often suspected Edward paid no more than lip-service to religious teachings; perhaps I could ask him. Or no, better do it myself. But if one ended handless – blind – I had heard of a man whose neck broke, leaving him paralysed –

  ‘Martin, what’s wrong? Are you ill?’

  Clammy with gooseflesh, retching, I could barely manage the one word: ‘Imagination.’

  ‘God, yes.’ Richard took my hand. His was as cold as mine. ‘Imagining the worst. Not death; or not a quick death.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, in God’s name,’ said Francis Lovell, with a sigh that nearly burst his lungs, ‘I thought I was the only one. You’ve had experience, so I thought it was only me.’

  ‘No. All of us. I think,’ Richard gave me an odd slippy glance, ‘one can only trust in one’s friends, and in Providence. And not talk of it, or I for one will go into screaming hysterics. Have a drink, Martin.’

  We were interrupted by the flare of a torch and the King’s voice. He had Lord Hastings and Clarence with him. Hastings would lead the rearguard tomorrow, with Clarence safely stowed behind the King in the centre, in charge of the reserve.

  It looked like a commanders’ conference, but the King stayed us when we rose to leave. ‘It is nothing you can’t all hear. In fact I wanted to ask you, you trained with Warwick – does he have any tricks up his sleeve? Other than driving me raving mad with his artillery?’

  We thought. John Milwater said. ‘He’s keen on those new-fangled handguns. They’ll never be of use in battle, of course. And he always said that being caught flat-footed in battle at St Albans taught him the use of flank attacks.’

  ‘He’ll have no chance of that tomorrow,’ Clarence said. If that was the extent of his understanding it was a good thing he wasn’t leading his own wing.

  Edward made due note. ‘He’s spread out east-west across the road ahead. The land drops away to our right, we’re on a plateau of level ground. Warwick is tucked away snug behind a lot of hedgerows. We shall take up the same formation, three wings abreast. Oxford has their right wing, Exeter the left. Richard, the van takes the right so you are facing our dear brother-in-law. He’s a good fighter, he’ll press you hard.’ Richard nodded. ‘The thing is,’ Edward went on, ‘Warwick will press on our centre, and therefore I will need you, Richard and Will, to hold as long as you can, and longer, without calling on the reserve. It’s a matter of fine judgement, but you can always last that bit longer than you think. So the word is, hold, and spare the reserve for the last push. Be alert for flank attacks – well, you know. We’ll move up closer near to dawn, right in close so their guns overshoot us. Move up silently so he doesn’t know our range, allow us the element of surprise.’ He broke off, rubbing his hand over his face and through his hair. Those big hands were trembling. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Nerves. It’s these last few hours... ’

  ‘You’re not afraid!’ Clarence burst out.

  ‘Of course I am. Every sensible man is.’ Clarence was almost green, but at this he managed a smile. He was genuinely terrified. Serve him right. What could it be like to know he was as responsible as Warwick for bringing us to this? Twenty thousand men, twenty thousand possible deaths, through his hubris. And did he understand that he had been given the reserve because no man would follow him in battle? I wondered too if Edward was tempted to put George in the forefront of the battle, for a convenient and blameless death. Sometimes I wish he had. I would have.

  ‘In battle,’ Edward said, ‘in the thick of it, you’ve no time to think or be afraid. Which is as well. It is now, the night
before, that I think of my responsibility. A king is married to his country, to his people. Or, say, he is like a father – responsible – one does one’s best, as a father or husband would with his family – one tries to govern well – to keep the peace – to provide – and always the responsibility is one’s own – alone – and the knowledge ... If it comes to war, you ask men to fight for you – if your cause is just it is no sin, but if sin there be, it falls upon the king – your subjects are masters of their own souls yet the sin is on your head – ’ He spoke as if to himself, or perhaps to George. Suddenly he broke off as if waking. ‘Sorry. Maundering. I’m tired. Have we covered everything? Then I’ll say goodnight. Get some sleep. Eat what you can in the morning, even if you feel no hunger. Don’t drink wine or thirst will torture you. Don’t drink too much water or you’ll piss yourselves; most unpleasant, and I speak from experience. Be ready by three at the latest, we’ll move up then. Well, goodnight. God keep you safe tomorrow, my loyal friends.’

  Richard followed them out, and in the doorway Edward enfolded him in a hug, kissed his mouth and his brow, and made the sign of the Cross.

  We managed some sleep, although we had thought we could not. By three we had heard Mass and were armed, and although last night’s fear had gone we were all nervy. Time seemed out of joint, slowing or speeding up. I watched Richard, and hoped I looked as tranquil. We ate without appetite, forcing down bread and cold bacon, and took one cup of watered wine each, for spirit. Then it was time. We made no gestures of affection, spoke no hopes. It wasn’t necessary. We went with God’s blessing, and each other’s.

  Fog had fallen in the night, reducing visibility to a few feet. Probably it would lift soon after dawn, but that would be too late. We had to fight now. So, carefully, we moved up as close as we could to the enemy lines. It is no easy task moving an army in silence, and the fog made everything worse. We could hear the enemy soldiers talking as they made their own preparations. I stood beside Richard, Francis behind us, Rob Percy to my left, Parr and Milwater on the right. We crossed ourselves and kissed the earth.

  Our trumpets sounded. Warwick’s answered. Cannon fired, but the shot passed harmlessly over us. So did their arrows. They didn’t know we were so close. Our guns boomed. Our archers fired, and we had the range.

  We were moving steadily forward, but something was wrong. The ground was falling away before us, we were running down into emptiness. Somehow we had overshot Exeter’s left wing. In the dark we must have formed up too far to our right. No enemy ahead, no visibility, the slope leading us ever downwards. I remembered that the hollow was called Dead Man’s Bottom. Richard’s trumpets yelped the order to wheel left. Up the slope we climbed, hard going in armour. I heard some incredible thumping din and thought it cannon, then realised it was my own breath echoing inside my helmet.

  Up and up, then level ground underfoot. We wheeled further left. And now the enemy were in front, I saw Exeter’s badge on the men facing me. Then for hours I ceased to think. In battle your training takes over and you only act and react, you keep your commander’s flag in sight, strain your ears for orders. I saw a man go down with an arrow in the face – the idiot had put his visor up. Christ, was mine down – yes. Noise, it’s so noisy. There’s Rob. Where’s Richard? We’re moving left still. A blow sends me reeling – someone using a mace. Blood coating my arm, blood all down my armour. Being left-handed is useful, they always cut to my right; it leaves my heart side dangerously exposed, though. My sword’s too bloody to grip. Wipe it. Press on. Cut, thrust, parry. A man in front of me looks up, the fool, and I see the gap at his throat and in goes my dagger. Parr beside me, and an axe nearly has his arm off. Move forward, no longer to the left. I’ve lost Richard’s banner, and risk lifting my visor. There it is, I was straying right. Visor down just in time. Cut a man’s throat and my sword sticks in bone. Pull it free. Thirsty, so thirsty. And Edward was right, I’ve pissed myself. A blow across my back sends me staggering forward. Rob rights me. We’re moving faster. That’s Richard, using the axe and he’s red from head to foot. He’s taken a man’s head off with one blow.

  They rush us, dozens together, they’ve been waiting. We are falling back. The King’s runner tugs at Richard’s arm and I hear: ‘Can you hold?’ No, I think, but Richard says yes. Spare the reserve. Hold. Oh Lord help us, the White Boar banner’s down, Richard, Richard, Richard, he’s down, he’s not moving. I run, Francis with me and unbidden he guards my back while I lift the visor. Pure relief. Not Richard. Then sadness. John Milwater has followed the White Boar to the end of his life.

  There’s the banner again and Richard by it, using his sword now. Francis falls, rises, stabs short-armed and runs on. Good fighter, that boy.

  We’re advancing. Faster. Our pike-men are doing stalwart service. The enemy ranks are thinning before us. Another runner comes from the King and now I’m so close to Richard I hear the plea and his reply, ‘We can hold. Tell the King I need no reserves.’ There’s blood coming from under his gauntlet. No time to ask. Advance. Press on. Back to back with Rob as Exeter’s men close in, and we fight like that for a while, each protecting the other’s back. They’re down. I’m winded, I can’t go on. I have to. Snatch a breathing space, hands on my knees. Take another blow, a bad one.

  More of Exeter’s men. So noisy. Hot. Thirsty. How long has it been? The sun is up – five? Six? Noon? A blow across my back and I hear my armour crumple. Where’s Richard? Tom Parr is down. Richard bends over him and shakes his head. Press forward. And we’re running, I’m using my axe now, the enemy are turning, turning, running away, and the ground’s clear ahead. No, the enemy reserve’s come up – no, it’s the King, see his Sun in Splendour banner, they’re the King’s men and that great figure is the King himself, blood all over him. We’ve cut through to join up with our own centre. Exeter’s gone. Press forward, but now there’s no one to resist us. It is over.

  I’m sitting on the ground, my sword stuck upright between my knees, my helmet off. The bliss of cool air on my face. My hair’s sopping and sweat has rucked my arming doublet under my mail; agony. I pull off my gauntlets. Am I intact? Seem to be. A tall man, all red, hauls me to my feet and hugs me, kisses me. The King. What’s he saying? Yes – ‘It is over.’ Someone shouts that it’s seven of the clock, the battle took a scant three hours. We’ve won. Glory be to God, we won! Exhilaration floods me so that I could run all the way back to London like Pheidippides taking the news of Marathon. Or no I couldn’t, I’m battered and sore and bruised and tired, so very tired. Where’s Richard? Why was he not my first thought? Oh Lord, Holy Mother Mary, where is Richard? Where’s his banner? It’s there. Richard’s sitting on the ground and George of all people holds him as he bares his arm. He’s hurt, a dagger must have penetrated under the wrist join, for a great cut runs from wrist to elbow. George is talking to him, worrying, calling him ‘Dickon’ and ‘my dear’. It’s not for George the traitor to do that.

  ‘Richard.’

  ‘Martin. You’re wounded?’

  ‘No. Bashed about; it’s nothing. Richard, thank God you are safe. Let me see that arm.’ The cut was deep, gaping. There was no jetting blood, however, and he could move his hand; the blade had missed the great blood vessels and sinews.

  Hearing me, the King loomed over us. He swore, and told me to take Richard to the surgeons’ tent. ‘Dickon, you were beyond praise, I knew I was right to give you the van. Thank you. George, my thanks to you too. Will, you were magnificent.’ I doubt if Richard heard. Hastings nodded, too exhausted for talk. I bent to help Richard to his feet but the King said, ‘Martin, you’ve a whacking bruise on your brow. Go with Richard, be sure the doctors tend you.’

  Outside the surgeon’s tent I recognised Lord Say lying on a litter. His squire wept beside him, and the question did not have to be asked. Richard looked down, his face full of sorrow. ‘He was a good man. A good fighter.’

  ‘Do you know John Milwater is dead?’

  ‘Yes. I saw him go down. And Tom
Parr, God keep them both.’

  The King’s own doctor, Doctor Hobbes, came to help Richard. He had the unusual qualification of being both a surgeon and a physician; after years as surgeon with the army he had managed to get himself accepted for what the profession considered the higher trade of physician. He inspected me, moved my head gently, asked about double vision and nausea, and passed me fit. I could not watch some of the sights in that tent, my worst nightmares. Nor could I look too closely as Doctor Hobbes tweezed shreds of cloth from Richard’s wound. When he reached for a great curved needle George turned green and bolted, but I managed to stay, and stay on my feet. Richard couldn’t watch it either, so I held his hand and we stared resolutely into each other’s eyes till it was over. Doctor Hobbes poured wine over the wound to cleanse it, and I thought Richard would pass out. I drew his head against my shoulder until the bandaging was done, then we were out of there as fast as we could go.

  Outside Francis said, ‘There’s sad news. I’m sorry. Lord Warwick is dead, his brother John too.’

  For two years I had schooled myself to think of Warwick impersonally as an enemy, but this news hurt. After all, Warwick had been kind to me, had educated me. And I had liked John Neville for his kindness and modesty, his steadfastness.

  Richard said dully, ‘How’d they die, in the battle?’

  Francis’s hazel eyes slid sideways. His voice shaking he said, ‘After. Warwick was unhurt. He saw the day was lost and he tried to get to the horses back behind their reserve. Impossible to run in full armour. Our men caught him. John tried, I think, to save him. They were both killed. Richard, I used your name, I put men to guard their bodies. Our men were – taking vengeance. Rob is there.’