‘Thank you, Francis. I – will you two come with me?’ It was a request, not an order, but of course we went to where the two bodies lay. The King was there, looking down expressionless. Clarence knelt nearby, vomiting. No wonder, for I won’t write down details of how best to kill a man in armour once you have got him on the ground and lift his visor. I saw Richard’s lips move in prayer, and I tried to pray too, but all I could think of was, ‘Lord have mercy.’ I suppose it was as good as anything.
Edward stirred. ‘‘Seulement Un’ – his motto. Ah well, the wheel turns. George, arrange a wagon, have them taken with all good care to London, to St Paul’s Church. Come, my friends.’
When they stripped John Neville’s body of his armour, they found he had fought for his brother wearing Edward’s badge, concealed.
And that was the battle of Barnet, as it came to be called, fought on Easter Sunday the fourteenth day of April in the year 1471.
~~~
London gave us a reception that made Thursday’s seem like a polite murmur, though in truth I was too tired and aching to enjoy it. That day and evening I swung between the euphoria of victory, and a bleak sorrow that came close to sickness. Battle-deaths might be no murder, but only a brute could be unmoved. My friends felt the same; there was relief, but none of the high spirits I had expected. None of us could talk of anything else, however, and over supper we pieced together the day’s action, the shape of the battle.
The fact is that, as I had thought, at the start in the darkness we had formed up too far to our right. Warwick’s army wasn’t evenly across the road, and only part of Exeter’s wing had been to our right. So we had formed up more or less with Edward’s centre facing Warwick’s left, and our right was way off to the side, on the lip of Dead Man’s Bottom. Thus, when Richard’s wing fought its way back up out of the hollow we made an inadvertent flank attack on Exeter’s extreme left. Over on our left, Hastings had been attacking not the enemy right as he thought but the right part of their centre. Oxford, driving forward, had found, like Richard, no enemy before him and had wheeled left and fallen on Hastings’ unprotected left flank. And routed it. Hastings’ men broke and fled, running frantically back through Barnet Town – some got as far as London with the news that the King had been defeated. Then Oxford’s men gave up chasing the deserters and charged back into the battle. However, the two flank attacks had swung the whole battle-line about so that it ran north-south instead of east-west. Thus Oxford’s men fell not on the King’s but on their own; in the poor light Oxford’s Star-with-Streamers banner was confused with the King’s Sun in Splendour. It seemed like treachery when half of Oxford’s force saw the other half attacking it, and they did much damage to themselves before any order could be brought. Then Hastings’ men rallied, the precious reserve was used, and Edward fought like a lion in the centre. Over on our right Richard’s wing savaged Exeter’s. And so through valiant fight and confusion, the battle went to our side.
~~~
The next day we heard that the Lancastrians had landed at Weymouth on the very day of the battle. Hearing of Warwick’s death, Margaret of Anjou had been all for going back to France, but her son and advisers over-ruled her. There was no sure news of their numbers, but over the next day or two we heard they were apparently marching on London, gathering a sizeable army as they came. Jasper Tudor was in Wales, and he would be able to raise thousands of men there. We had to stop the two forces joining up.
Lady Warwick had fled into sanctuary at Beaulieu when she heard of her husband’s death. No one knew what had become of Anne Neville.
~~~
We celebrated St George’s Day at Windsor, then began the march to meet the Lancastrians. Once started, we set a cracking pace, for word came in that men of the west country were flocking in their thousands to the enemy banners. Any venture towards London had been but a feint, Margaret of Anjou was said to be heading for Wales where she would join up with Jasper Tudor and his force. She had gone to Bristol, I don’t know why, but when she heard of our advance she headed in our direction. Or so we were told. On May the second they were said to be nearly at Sodbury Hill and ready to meet us in the field. Margaret’s chief captains were the Duke of Somerset, Lord Wenlock who two years before had kept Warwick out of Calais, the Earl of Devon, and, of course, her martial son.
The weather was more like high summer than spring, clear and hot: bad weather for moving an army at speed. Gratefully we pitched camp on Sodbury Hill, and the moment we had eaten the entire army fell into an exhausted sleep. Not for long. At three in the morning our scouts pelted back to tell us we had been duped and the Lancastrians were racing through the night for Gloucester. They were heading for Wales, as probably they had meant to do all along.
‘And we are not going to let them,’ said the King. ‘We must stop them crossing the Severn. Jasper Tudor has thousands of men, we’ll be outnumbered two to one if he joins that mad bitch. Richard, send Gloucester Herald with mine, tell the Governor of Gloucester he is to keep the enemy out, I don’t care what it takes. She won’t have time to set a siege so tell the Governor to bar the gates, fire on her, whatever is necessary. If they let her through I’ll burn that city to the ground and dance in the ashes. Tell the Governor I am not a day away and he is to hold to the last man. Get going!’
The heralds raced for their horses, and we set about waking our men and getting the army moving. Grumbling, hot, foot-sore, the men fell in, and by four we were on the move. It was a race – the next Severn crossing after Gloucester was Tewkesbury, and we had to reach it first.
I still dream about that day’s march. Jesu, it was hot. We began in full armour, but by ten in the morning it was strip or be boiled alive; more literally, die of heat stroke. Even brigandines were torture enough with their chain-mail sleeves and metal plates between two layers of leather. By midday we were a motley crew, sleeves rolled up, men marching bare to the waist with their shirts bound around their heads, here and there some stalwart, red as a lobster in remnants of mail. One group marched blithely in nothing but boots and braes, and I wished dignity would let me join them. The Lancastrians travelled along the low ground, and foul country it was, all lanes and ditches and woods. But I think they had the best of it, for we took the higher ground with nary an inch of shade or whisper of breeze. There was no water, no fodder for the horses. Once we came to a brook and our horses smelt the water and damn’ near bolted. So did our poor men, but the baggage wagons churned up the shallow stream so much that by the time the vanguard had crossed, the water was little more than mud, so fouled it was undrinkable. Men drank it just the same; it was that or die. I would have sold my soul for a mug of cold ale – a safe offer for there was no drink but the dirty half pint in my flask. I should have kept my gloves on, for my hands were so sunburnt I could hardly grip the reins. We were all burnt red except where sweat mingled with dust.
Gloucester held against the Lancastrians. The scouts galloped back to tell us the Governor had barred the gates and primed his cannon, and from his walls defied Queen Margaret. She couldn’t believe it. They say she was nearly demented, raving in French (a tactful touch that had the townspeople jeering). She was all for besieging the city for daring to defy her, but her captains bundled her onto her horse and dragged her away raving. On to Tewkesbury.
Pushed, an army can do thirty miles in a day. We did more than that, in weather more like Spain or France than England in May. Men were shambling with exhaustion, horses dropped in their tracks, but we kept going, for we had the enemy in sight and they were a bare five miles away and clearly in a worse state than us. The scent of victory kept us going – and the King. I saw that day why men would always follow York’s sons, for Edward and Richard (and even, credit where it’s due, Clarence), led their men as if it was the greatest game on earth. The darker Richard suffered less from the sun, but Edward and George were badly burnt, and we all sweated off several pounds that day. But they kept their spirits up, they laughed and made jokes as they rod
e, they cantered back and forth along the lines cheering the men on with that inspired mixture of praise and wittily foul abuse that’ll keep soldiers going. It worked, not least because the men saw their commanders sharing every hardship. (The King of England with a wet handkerchief knotted round his head is a picture I’ll treasure to my dying day.)
But for all the royal men and we company leaders could do, the army was on its last legs. We would be lucky to get five more miles.
But we did not have to. At Cheltenham our scouts reported that the enemy army had closed on Tewkesbury and there had given up. Queen Margaret could throw all the tantrums she liked, her army could go no further. Battle, if battle there would be, now would be fought outside Tewkesbury.
At this our men took heart. Edward had held back food and drink for precisely this, and once we had refreshed ourselves we moved on, quite briskly now the end was in sight, and pitched our camp for the night three miles from the enemy. Edward stood high in the stirrups so every man could see him, and shouted, ‘Well done!’ at the top of his voice. I daresay Henry V was more eloquent, but no more effective. Then our sunburnt, tired, filthy King went into his tent and was asleep straight away. It was the same with all of us.
~~~
Again Richard led the vanguard, but this time we were on the left. Again the King commanded the centre with George behind with the reserve, and Hastings had the rearguard over on our right. It was foul land for a battle. Perhaps I should draw a little map, but I’m no artist, so I shall describe it and let you picture it in your mind.
See a ridge of high ground running east-west. Place on it the Lancastrian army facing south. On their left is a stream attractively named Swillbrook. On their right, a woody hill. At their backs, the town of Tewkesbury and its abbey. Further back on their right, a slope down to the Avon. In front of them, and in front of us, is a patch of uneven land cut by lanes and ditches, hedges and little hills. Filthy territory for a battle, but that was where the Lancastrian army had collapsed the night before, and we were giving them no chance to move.
We attacked at first light. The vanguard had the fun of discovering just how impossible the terrain was. We couldn’t get near the enemy, so we held back and left it to our archers and cannon. We were facing Somerset on their right, and he made a flank attack, sneaking round under cover of the little hill on our left wing. Damn near took us by surprise, too, but we rallied, re-formed our lines to face them, and fought. Barnet all over again: press forward, slashing, hacking, making what ground is possible. Time passes – hours? Can’t tell.
I go down and this time I’m dead, I see the axe come down. Then it is gone. Richard is there, standing over me and up goes his sword and my killer is gone too, he’s down, bleeding, his head half off his shoulders. I hear, ‘Are you safe?’ and I shout ‘Yes,’ because after all I am, and Richard hauls me up and I’m back into it.
Fight on: Somerset is falling back. Then the group of spearsmen Edward had hidden on that hill rush down on Somerset, making enough din for an army. It works, Somerset’s lines break, they’re running. We chase them across that meadow down towards the Avon, and it’s a massacre. The King crashes forward with the centre and Richard’s trumpets order us right, onto the naked right flank of the enemy centre. I see the Lancaster prince, he must think it’s a tourney, see his pretty gilded harness and his decorated armour. And what is happening, that’s Somerset riding up to him, up to Lord Wenlock, he’s screaming in fury that Wenlock should have supported his attack on our left. And, Jesu, he lifts his axe and hits Wenlock, cleaves his skull with one blow, I see the two halves of Wenlock’s head flop apart. And that’s it, the Lancastrians see their leaders butchering each other and they’ve had enough, they’re retreating, running, and now we are after them full pelt, our whole army, and the enemy is no longer an army but a fleeing rabble. The Swillbrook ran red, and now they call that slope down to the Avon ‘Bloody Meadow’.
Many of the rebels took shelter in the Abbey. Still lit with the fury of battle, the King charged after them and pounded on the closed doors. The abbot came out and looked up at his King. Brave man, he said, ‘You will not defile the Lord’s house with slaughter. My son, be merciful. These men within have sought sanctuary here. They are under my protection.’
‘This church has no Papal Bull giving sanctuary rights, father. But I offer pardon to the men within. They need have no fear. Look.’ He cast aside his weapons, signing to the rest of us to do the same. ‘Father, I seek only to list the men within. There will be no killing in God’s house. Step aside, I pray you.’
With a resigned little gesture the Abbot obeyed. The church held that metallic smell of blood, and in the dim light we saw some hundreds of men slumped in the posture of defeat.
‘Who’s that?’ the King said, and strode forward. ‘Somerset?’
‘Yes.’
‘And have the rest of your captains scurried here? Ah yes, I see them. Traitors. What of your prince?’
Somerset’s face twisted. ‘Surely you know? He is dead.’ Edward’s face didn’t change. ‘Clarence’s men overtook him as we fled. Cut him down.’
‘That’s the way of battle. Where is he?’ Somerset waved a limp hand and we went to where a priest crouched beside a tomb, cradling a dead body. Margaret’s Edouard wasn’t pretty any more.
‘Is it he?’ Edward asked Richard.
‘Yes.’
‘So, the end of Lancaster. My lord Abbot, I pray you see he is given proper burial.’ He raised his voice to fill the church. ‘For the common soldiers, my offer of pardon stands, you need have no fear. But you, Somerset, and the other leaders, have rebelled against my lawful rule and you will pay the penalty. Traitors die, Somerset.’ With that he turned about and left the abbey.
On Monday the sixth day of May, Richard put on his Constable’s robes and with the Duke of Norfolk, Marshal of England, proclaimed the death sentence on Somerset and a dozen others. They were beheaded in Tewkesbury marketplace.
~~~
But that wasn’t quite the end. At Coventry news came that the Bastard of Fauconberg was attacking London. (This gentleman, as his name suggests, was the illegitimate son of Lord Fauconberg, one of Warwick’s kinsmen.) London held valiantly, Anthony Rivers and Lord Essex drove Fauconberg back, and when the King sent a small detachment of his army, Fauconberg scuttled off to Sandwich.
On our third day at Coventry, Sir William Stanley sent word that he had found Margaret of Anjou and some of her ladies in a nunnery across the Severn.
‘I must see her,’ Edward said without enthusiasm. ‘I hope her son’s death has convinced her that her cause is dead, but she has to understand. Women have no place in war... What is she like?’ He had never seen her.
Remembering Ludlow, Richard said, ‘A virago. Proud as the devil. Very French. Adored her son.’
‘Hmm. Well, Stanley’s bringing her in tomorrow.’ Miserably he repeated, ‘I must see her.’
The back window of Richard’s bedroom overlooked the courtyard. The following morning, dressing, we gathered there, curiosity overcoming good taste, to see Margaret of Anjou brought in.
Stanley had put her in a common baggage cart. She was a haggard, greying wreck in a filthy gown, her eyes staring sightlessly, dribble running from a slack mouth. Did I pity her? No. Oh – honour her belief in her husband’s right, understand her grief for her son, yes. But for the rest, fuck the bitch. She was pathetic now, even pitiable, but she had shown England no pity.
The cart rattled to a halt out of our sight. Behind it came a group of mounted men guarding a pale girl. It was Anne Neville. Guarding her – what need, what could she do? No, those men were to blazon her new status as prisoner, one of the defeated rebels. Little Anne.
The horse they had given her was far too big for her, and the brute was fighting her every inch of the way. Her hair was bundled in a coarse linen snood of the kind servants wear, and her horrible black gown, mourning for her father and uncle, had been borrowed from some much bigger w
oman. She was dusty and travel-stained, she was trying to keep her place on a man’s saddle – and she rode with her head high and her face resolute. The Lady Anne Neville. I think that’s when Richard fell finally and forever in love with her.
Stanley called the halt. One of his men told Anne to get down. She looked around.
‘Is no one to help me dismount?’
‘Rebels don’t get waited on, so no, there is no one to help you dismount.’ Viciously accurate, Stanley imitated Anne’s aristocratic voice with its sweet underlying hint of Yorkshire. ‘Get down or fall down, it’s all one to me.’
I doubt Anne had ever in her life dismounted unassisted. There was no mounting block, and that horse would have been too high for the average man. As she swung her leg over the horse’s rump her skirts got caught up, and for a moment she was revealed bare to the waist. Stanley’s men laughed, and one shouted a filthy remark and pumped his hips obscenely.
Richard vaulted the windowsill down into the yard and flattened that man with the sweetest right hook I have ever seen. Another took an elbow to the groin, and waddled away. I think Stanley’s men had not recognised Richard; he had reached only the shirt and boots stage of dressing, he hadn’t been shaved or brushed his hair, and he looked scruffy and insignificant. I arrived just in time to stop Stanley drawing his sword.
Anne was still struggling off that horse. Gently Richard clasped her waist and set her on her feet.
‘Anne... ’
‘Richard!’
‘Y-your Grace – ’ stammered Stanley. It was pretty to see him writhe.
‘The King sent you to bring this lady with courtesy to him. Watch yourself, Sir William.’
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