Anne turned away. She’d never seen a man die in battle.
Margaret continued her tirade. “Though your father is now dead, you will bear the responsibility for his misdeeds.” Anne feared for what she meant by the last statement. “We have nothing more to say to each other,” Margaret remarked.
Anne looked once more at the countenance of Margaret of Anjou, attenuated and old as the primal desires that drove her. Tonight there was a new emotion written across the woman’s face. Terror. They, two women, a wife and a mother, should have been able to comfort one another. But the Queen was right. They had nothing further to say.
II. CHAPTER 4
In the night, Edward of York pushed his tired, foot-sore soldiers to within three miles of the Lancastrian position at Tewkesbury. His scouts told him the enemy line was strung out across the knoll above them.
Edward grinned in relief. “God be thanked they didn’t make it to Wales. We’ve got them penned in between our lines and the rivers Avon and Severn. They will have no place to run.”
He ordered the wagons, grating and bumping, to bring up supplies. His trumpets kept signaling his forces forward. Closer. Close enough so that the Lancastrian forces and their treasonous Queen could not escape. He ordered meat and ale for his men.
“What do we know of the whereabouts of their queen, Margaret of Anjou?” Richard’s question was more of a concern about Anne, for surely she would be with the mother of Prince Edward.
“They say she is but a mile distant at Gupshill with three ladies, including Lady Devon, whose husband, Lord Devon, faces us this day.”
Richard knew that one of the other two ladies must be Anne. So near. So exposed. Cannons can misfire, retreating men often cut down anyone in their way. “My vanguard struggles across the devilish rutted countryside to take up a position facing Lord Somerset who will be defending the Lancastrian right wing.”
“May Somerset rot in hell,” Edward said dryly. “I came to his rescue once, and this is the way he betrays me. The traitor will not see the end of this day.” He questioned Richard about the obstacles he and his men faced. “The hedgerows before your lines are extremely thick, Richard. Can you make your way through them?”
With difficulty, but my men are determined.” Richard gazed into the night. “The Lancastrians make no effort to conceal themselves. They crash about and light campfires that reveal their position. We can cut them down with cannon.”
Edward nodded. He could almost remember a time when gunpowder was a novelty. Now a cannon could turn a man into flying bits of flesh. He smiled at his brother in the summer darkness. After Barnet, Edward had unquestioning faith in Richard. “Clarence and I will take the center position, where opposite camps Lord Wenlock and unbattle-tested Prince Edward. You will defend my left flank and Lord Hastings will be on my right flank where scouts say Lord Devonshire is preparing his army. We will be in a strong alignment against their forces. I will place a detachment of spearmen at your disposal nearby, should you need them. Somerset’s a wily fighter.”
“I will hold my lines, brother.” Richard thought of Barnet and the terrible confusion in the fog. Tomorrow, in contrast, promised to be a clear, summer day.
At Gupshill on May 24, the day dawned bright and early. While dressing and combing her hair, Anne listened for any sound, some indication of the impending battle. Everything had been moving toward this hour. Her father should be here, she thought. He was one of the orchestrators of this event. Out there in the morning light was both the future and the end. Everything had converged at Tewkesbury: Ambition, betrayal, expediency, ruthlessness, and years of animosity. Could any good come of this? And she? Would she, in some way, be a victim again today? Thirteen months, an endless time, had finally reached its ordained moment.
Abruptly there was the call of trumpets. It could have been a tournament on a fair spring day. Margaret ran quickly to the main door and looked out. Anne pulled her cloak about her. The two other women hovered in the background. There was the clear and deadly roar of artillery, twice repeated. Anne’s lips moved in words without thought. “God be with us now and in the hour of our need.” Richard, she cried in silence, live. Live and, somehow find me.
The first runner came with news. His face was a wreath of smiles. “Somerset attacked the vanguard led by the young whelp Richard of Gloucester,” he told them. “Gloucester and his men floundered-gave ground. They’ll soon be carrion, bloating in the sun.”
Margaret, her face drawn after her night’s vigil, nodded and crossed herself. “All well and good. Now return and report how goes the battle at the center where fights my son.” She cared little for the condition of the haggard runner.
Anne said nothing. It was cold in the May morning, cold at the center of her being. She knew Richard would be at the side of his brother. She felt helpless and grasped the rough door rim. Close by some glossy blackbirds sang in a pink-blossomed almond tree. The days ahead would soon be warm. All over England, from here to Middleham, people would be busy with routine work, bringing in the spring crops, the tending of baby animals, caring very little whether York or Lancaster died upon the field. Anne put her hands over her face, wondering why her cheeks were flushed while her hands were as cold as ice. She cared. Oh God, she cared so much!
THE BATTLE OF TEWKESBURY
II. CHAPTER 5
On the battlefield, Richard, fighting among the hedges, coolly rallied his men. They must charge Somerset again, he told his captains. Their losses were light. Richard forced himself to concentrate. These men would live or die by his decisions. Somerset, thinking he contained Richard, moved his forces westward to the slope of a woody knoll and assaulted Richard on his left flank counting on support from Wenlock. Sensing a disaster, Richard called upon the small detachment of spearmen, hidden nearby, to charge at Somerset with great shouting, as though they were a main force.
Somerset was taken back by the spearmen, and in the confusion, Richard attacked him full on. His horse reared. His trumpeter blared the advance. The Lancastrian line wavered. Richard pushed harder as he cut down men whose faces he never saw. His horse jumped the hedges and his axe arched in a whirl of light and dripping blood. Somerset’s men panicked and fled the field, racing across the meadow for the Avon River behind them. Those trapped Lancastrians who survived the axe and sword of Richard’s men drowned in their heavy armor trying to ford the river. Richard then turned his forces eastward against Wenlock’s army preventing him from supporting Somerset.
King Edward, now realizing that Richard was able to attack the right flank held by Wenlock and the young Prince, assaulted the center of their line with a fierce charge. At that moment, Somerset, who separated from his retreating men, came upon Wenlock cursing in fury and slew him with a mighty blow of his battle axe, thinking that Wenlock had betrayed him by not supporting his attack on Richard’s forces.
Being forced back by the Royal forces and seeing their captains slaying each other, the Lancastrians fled the charging Yorkists. Many took refuge in Tewkesbury Abbey or hid in the town. The Duke of Clarence ran down Prince Edward, fleeing for the sanctuary of the Abbey as well. Despite his plea for mercy, the would-be-king was slain by the eager sword of Clarence.
King Edward watched the pursuit of the Prince by Clarence, and rode hard with Richard to prevent the imminent slaughter. But Clarence had already taken the life of Prince Edward to demonstrate his loyalty to the King. Edward was not angry. “You have borne yourself well this day, my brother, and I regret not that you have slain the young Prince. His evil mother is responsible for the death of our father so the scale is balanced. With his death, the Lancastrian cause dies.”
At that moment, a knight appeared before the three brothers and breathlessly impeached them to make haste to Gupshill. “We have captured young Edward’s sword bearer who tells us that Margaret of Anjou is attempting to flee to Wales across the Avon. She was in a great rage when the messenger left her and she was threatening the daughter of Warwick.”
“Take Clarence with you, but spare the Queen so we can properly expose her before the people as a pretender to the throne and enemy of the realm.”
Riding across Bloody Meadow, Richard and Clarence collected a small detachment of men and raced for Gupshill.
At Gupshill, another messenger brought the news to Margaret. It was James Gower, Prince Edward’s own sword bearer, who carried the message. Wounded and ashen, he slid from his horse, attempting to bow.
“God has forsaken us.” Gower vainly struggled for control. “Madame, the battle goes badly. All is tumult. I was separated from the Prince when the center position disintegrated. The Yorkists press hard.”
Anne handed the sword bearer a cupful of water.
“Richard of Gloucester did not give way. The King’s scrawny brother fought on. It was Somerset who retreated.” The messenger stumbled over the words, fearful of his own report. “Wenlock has been slain.”
“Wenlock. No!” Anne’s exclamation startled the others.
“Aye, Somerset killed him. He crushed his skull with a battle-axe. Somerset cried treason when he did it, Princess. I know no more.”
Anne sank down on the low, stone doorstep and hid her face as her hair fell about her shoulders. Tight fear grew. Her father, Uncle John, Wenlock, they’d all been at Middleham once, as had Richard. Had fate some terrible cycle to complete? “Fate be kind,” she whispered to the hard ground at her feet, knowing it was a plea of futility.
As from a far distance, Anne heard the faint voice of the sword bearer continue with a pitch of terror mounting in it.” Madame, there is more. The Prince is also slain, by the sword of the Duke of Clarence. You and your ladies must take sanctuary further from the battle. I can escort you. We could cross the Avon. There’s a boat waiting. A haven in Bushley.”
Margaret whirled upon him. “Coward! Craven knight! You were to see to his protection. Leave me before I end your life on this spot.” The shaken sword bearer bolted for the door and was gone into the night with screams of Margaret echoing behind him. Margaret then turned her rage on Anne. Her reddened eyes blazed with fury. “My son is dead. Our cause is lost. You have been a curse on me since you first arrived at my household.” She barred the door and pulled out a dagger she always kept on her and slashed the air as she moved toward Anne.
Lady Katherine Vaux and the Countess of Devonshire, who up to now was happy that no bad news had come of her husband who commanded the Lancastrian left flank, took fright and fled the room.
Margaret continued toward Anne. “I am finished with words, daughter of Warwick. I told you at Angiers that you would end up in hell, and now I will be the instrument of your delivery.” She lunged at Anne who took refuge behind the wooden altar. “Mercy, Madame. I have no control over the fates. I tried to warn your son.”
Anne was trapped in the small room. She hastily moved the beds to form a barrier between them. Margaret seemed dazed, swinging the dagger as though in a trance. Anne’s life passed before her in an instant, Richard, Middleham. All would end here in this remote place with a crazed woman because of blind ambitions of those who became part of her world. She fainted as Margaret bore down on her.
Richard and Clarence crashed into the room as Margaret stood over Anne. Clarence struck her to the floor and stood ready to slay her. Richard grabbed his sword arm and reminded him to spare Margaret so she could be brought before the King. He turned from the scuffle to a figure trembling in the shadows of the small room. A voice from the darkness called out to him.
Richard dashed to Anne and scooped her up like a bundle of feathers, embracing her gently. His face was streaked with the sweat of battle. Blood coated his armor. But he held Anne close in spite of this, and kissed her full on her tear-drenched lips. “My Anne. I prayed you would be here. I will never let you be far from me again.”
“Oh Richard.” Anne was sobbing quietly. “I heard you were badly wounded. I didn’t know if you still lived.”
“The thought of your presence nearby gave me the strength and will to fight on, Anne.”
Anne felt the storm that had raged about her was dissipating and replaced by a gentle breeze that was Richard.
King Edward rode up at that moment with a detachment of knights and surveyed the scene. He had just achieved another great victory, the significance of which was reflected on his proud demeanor.
“Well, my brother,” addressing Richard, “I see that you and Clarence arrived in time and apparently saved Warwick’s daughter here from great bodily harm at the hands of this demon, Margaret of Anjou.”
Richard lowered Anne from his arms. “Yes! Thank you, Your Grace. I beg that you give her pardon and release Lady Anne to my care. She was more victim than enemy.”
Edward was appreciative in victory. Now that Anne’s father was dead, the Neville House posed a threat no longer. “You have fought valiantly and with great courage this day Richard. I can give you no greater reward, I am certain. However, as a widow to a Lancastrian enemy, she will be under attainder until all matters are settled.”
Clarence interrupted after subduing Margaret who cowered at his feet. “She can stay with me and her sister Isabel in London until we settle accounts with these Lancastrians.” “
“Until then, Richard added, I will see to her care and lodge her with a family of my acquaintance in Tewkesbury.” He was pleased at Clarence’s offer, but felt underneath that he had an ulterior motive. Now that her father was dead, Anne shared half of Warwick’s estate with her sister.
“Thank you my Lords.” Anne was recovering from her ordeal. “I am most grateful for your kindness and I am happy for your victory.”
Edward then gazed at the cowering Margaret. “Clarence, bind this treasonous wretch and proceed with me to the Abbey. Somerset has taken refuge there with his captains, but it will be no sanctuary for the traitors.”
Anne and Richard watched, hand-in-hand, as Edward and Clarence rode off to the Abbey with Margaret in tow, haggard, broken in spirit, a shadow of her former self. Anne and Richard were in a world of their own, unbelieving in their good fortune. Love and hope had sustained them during their long separation and now that same love gave them greater hope for a future together. Richard felt an inward gratification. The Lancastrian claim to the Kingdom was dealt a devastating blow in the time of a single day. He had forged a stronger bond with King Edward, the Kingdom was once again secure, and he had found his only desire, Anne. The road back to London was bright with promise.
II. CHAPTER 6
Stephen Oldenhall had one of the newest and most comfortable manors in Tewkesbury. It had a parlor with a dais and nine bedrooms, a chapel, and windows on all sides. Oldenhall dealt in all aspects of leather from shoes to saddles. He had a large shop in Tewkesbury, another in Bath, managed by a son, another in Cheltanham. No man in England dyed leather finer, softer, or turned out neater work. He even made shoes for royalty. It was to this home Richard brought Anne.
His wife, Joan Oldenhall, was waiting at the door. Notified by a squire in advance, she’d spent a busy hour checking the guest chamber, the new privy upstairs where the lead pipes led to a cesspit. There were meats and pastries for supper.
She watched, motherly and concerned, as the Duke of Gloucester helped a frail girl from his horse. So this was Anne of Warwick. Poor wight. She looked like she had paid a visit to the devil himself. Anne smiled and Joan saw her lovely face, the shadowed dimples, and the finely arched brows. She put her arm around her. “We’ll take good care of her, Your Grace. A bath. A hot meal. A good rest.”
Anne turned to Richard. “Please stay awhile.” Joan Oldenhall was comfort and smelled of sweet herbs and fresh bakery, but Richard was safety.
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He pressed her hand. “Anne, I must return to Edward. The traitors must be dislodged from the Abbey. He will need my help.” He saw her face go pale with disappointment and relented. “I’ll stay with you in the garden while these good people prepare for you.”
Joan thought of her own three daughters and laughed. “I’ll get ready the bathing tent. We’ve sponges, herbs, and perfumes. My youngest girl’s dresses should almost fit. I’ll find a seamstress to take in a few of them. The garden’s to the left, near the well.”
Among the spring flowers, shading their eyes from the light reflecting off the manor’s many windows, Anne sat on a bench with Richard. He stroked her hair gently. She was like a crushed blossom, he thought, denied not water but love. Yet he knew Anne was strong. He uttered a quick prayer and kissed her gently.
Anne took his hand, turned it, kissed the palm. “Richard, I’ll not hold you to a pledge given long ago. We were just children.”
“That pledge was my hope these past months.” Richard put her head against his shoulder. “Now that hope can become a reality with the blessing of the King.”
“I am the cause of so much grief and dying because of my father and his ambitions. Can the King forgive and pardon me? Or must I be sent to the Tower?”
Richard was silent a moment. “The King will not be unreasonable. He mourns Warwick though he will not admit it. You must know, my Love, that I too am sorry for the loss of your father. Both the King and I realize that he was not the person who served as my guardian at Middleham. It is sad to think that he taught me the very skills of battle that I used to help defeat him.”
Anne nodded, understandingly. “I will always remember him fondly as a loving father. But he used me for his ambitions. He forced me into a marriage with a person with whom there was no mutual love. We became estranged as father and daughter. It pained me to be with the Prince when my heart was with you, Richard.” She did not tell him of the horrible experiences at the hand of the Prince’s mother, Margaret. “When delirious during my illness, I had visions of you holding me above the flames that would consume me.”
Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen Page 12