stamping their feet, hugging themselves and huddling
around the camp fires, while their breaths, like smoke
hung in the freezing air. Breakfast was bolted
there being no time to make a meal of it,
and anyway, the men were just as eager
to march to Sandal as the Duke of York,
for Sandal Castle promised better quarters.
A trumpet sounded and the men rode forth
The Duke and his knights bearing their own arms
while their retainers bore the Rose of York.
Among the middle section of the army
there was an ordinary man-at-arms,
if somewhat short of stature, and though riding
a far from ordinary destrier.
He wore a dark blue jupon like the others,
but kept his visor closed – well, it was cold!
Behind that man-at-arms rode poor Sir Robert,
frowning disconsololately at his back,
and wondering, if the Duke of York found out
would it be worse than if he'd known his secret?
After all, tumbling a willing wench was nothing –
he'd probably just laugh at it – but no!
His reputation as a holy man would suffer.
This was the best – he prayed it would work out.
VII
The Lancastrians had marched to Pontefract.
Pontefract! That is a mighty castle!
The keep is multi-lobed with many tourelles
to command the prospect. Many towers
support the high, extensive walls, and one,
a great square tower, is higher than the keep,
enabling the defenders in a siege
to rain destruction within or without
the inner bailey. Outside the main walls
are two more baileys, guarding the main gate
and giving space to house a mighty army.
With Pontefract as base the queen commanded
all the land for many miles around.
She needed to! – her men fought on their stomachs,
an army swelled by now to 20,000.
Foraging parties went out night and day,
and sometimes paid, and sometimes commandeered,
but stripped the country bare. “Ha ha!” laughed Clifford.
“The Duke of York will find his cellars empty
and have scant cheer at Christmas!” Lord Roos frowned.
“It is a time of Peace, Love and Good Will.
'Tis meet to put our enmities aside.”
Latimer said, “Indeed, I hear a truce
is being negotiated by both sides.
We will not mock this Holy tide with blood.”
“Then I will fill my belly and rejoice
that Richard and his brood are going hungry,”
snarled Clifford, unreprentant then as ever.
VIII
The case in Sandal was not quiet as bad
as Clifford saw it in his wishful thinking.
For though the garrison were not enough
to challenge the Lancastrians in the area
and build up a sufficient store of food
for a protracted siege, they had enough
to feed their visitors for at least a week,
and what was more important, during Christmas.
The Duke of York was in a festive mood,
the more so since more nothern knights had joined him:
Sir Thomas Parre and Thomas Harrington,
Sir James of Pickering and many others.
The hall was decked with holly boughs and ivy,
and trestle tables crammed in every corner,
and in each bailey (there were three at Sandal)
was pitched a huge pavilion for the others –
Sir Robert joked, referring to the Bible:
“A miracle – like feeding the 5,000!”
Pages and servants hurried to and fro
bringing all kinds of food and wine and ale;
even the kitchen maids had to do service,
though Aspall, mindful to avoid temptation,
would close his eyes whenever one came near.
Rebecs and shawms played the old Christmas carols,
such as This is the Truth Come from Above,
What Child is This? and Good King Wenceslas,
The Latin hymn, Adeste Fidelis,
and jolly Yuletide songs like Deck the Halls.
Outside, in a pavilion, young Edmund
was feasting with the common men-at-arms.
He found their dialect was hard to follow,
and said he was from Kent as an excuse.
“What is a youth like thee duin' in the army?”
said a plump man, known by the name of Porky.
Poor Edmund blushed and knew not what to say.
“Leave 'im alone,” another said, “in battle,
thy belly fat will be more of a 'indrance
than this lad's tender years.” “Ah'm not so fat!
An' if ah am, ah'm tryin' ter get fatter!
It's not so often that ah gets to ate
such victuals as this. Ah'll stuff mesen
until ah bust – speakin' o' which, that maid
'as gorra bust ah'd love ter busk. Come 'ere!
Pour us more ale an' then give us a kiss!”
The maid, whose name was Meg, just poured the ale,
but Porky put his arm around her waist.
She slapped his face and snapped, “Gerroff! Fat pig!”
and his friends laughed. Edmund was laughing too,
and even Porky, rubbing his red cheek,
could see the joke, and said with a wry smile,
“Ee! that's the girl fer me – ah likes 'em fiesty,
not meek as lambs – 'ow dost thou like 'em, lad?”
Edmund had never thought of girls like that –
he was too young. Porky saw this and laughed,
“Ha ha! 'Ee's like a little girl hissen!”
“Leave 'im alone, will yer?” the other said,
“He'd stand a better chance wi' 'er than thee.
Thou art so ugly tha could scare off Satan!”
Porky guffawed, “It's them Lancastrians
ah want ter scare!”
It was a humbling lesson
for Edmund to sit with these common soldiers
and see himself through their eyes rather than
the eyes of those who saw him as the offspring
of the great magnate, Richard Duke of York,
jumped to his every whim and flattered him.
Nevertheless, he still kept to his purpose.
As for his youth, he knew it was a thing
that time would cure. His girlish face
would soon be gaunt and bearded, and perhaps
display a scar or two, hinting of war.
The main thing was to keep faith with his ideals:
chivalry, courtesy, prowess in battle –
yes, come what may, he'd fight beside his father!
IX
At the high table Aspall waxed poetic,
as he was wont to do on Rhenish wine:
“How strange that the Red Rose, symbol of Love
and Beauty, now should symbolise the opposite:
Blood and Death!” Then Meg brought round the flagon.
Ah! here she is, he thought – what rosy cheeks,
rosier lips, and underneath her gown
two other rosebuds. “Pour me some more wine,”
he said, holding his glass with trembling hand –
and yet, this sin I fight – this rose of passion –
is holier than the rose red with spilt blood!
“Now tell us what you think the White Rose means,”
said Harrington, nibbling a nightingale.
“White symbolises Peace and Holy Love –
for was it
not a white dove that descended
on Christ, Our Lord, after his baptism?”
“So we have Love and Beauty fighting Peace
and Holy Love – that is a war indeed! –
These nightingales are excellent, Aspall, try one!”
“We should be fighting for the Heavenly Kingdom
where men and women, free from mortal sin,
strive with each other to love each other best.”
“And not for York? Why, man, you are a traitor!”
“I render unto Ceasar what is Ceasar's,”
said Aspall, “and to God that which is God's.”
“So Richard Duke of York is a new Ceasar?
You are excused of treachery – pass that pie!”
Meg reached across the table for the pie
and Aspall had a view of hills and valley
more beautiful than the landscape near Roche Abbey.
That night he dreamed he was scouting a landscape
full of roses and those roses were hers,
and a bush too, and swelling hills and valley,
but just as he drank at a gushing fountain,
Caesar came and swept it all away.
Young Edmund also had a dream that night,
it was the nightmare that he'd had at Conisbrough,
but this time the small garden had extended,
it seemed for miles, and it was full of roses,
and every rose was dripping with red blood.
X
Christmas being over, thoughts returned to war,
and in the Great Hall of Pontefract castle
the queen held court. “My lords, give me advice.
We must move quickly. 20,000 mouths
will eat us out of house and home in no time.”
“York is at Sandal. Why not siege the castle?”
Lord Clifford urged, eager for his revenge.
“No,” said Lord Roos. “Sandal, though not as large
as Pontefract is every bit as strong
and our great army would be like a wave
that breaks against a cliff and is thrown back.
Better to lure them out.” “Ha ha, no man
would be so foolish as to match 5,000
against four times the number! No.
We'll have to starve them out.” “Then we must hurry,
before they send their forage parties out.”
Lord Greystoke said, “Then let's surround the castle.”
“But keep most of the army under cover,”
Latimer said, “then, if they venture out,
they'll ride into an ambush and we'll have them!”
And so it was agreed and the next day
the army rode to take up its positions.
Clifford led the left of light-armed foot,
and on the right, Rosse and the Earl of Wiltshire
with light-armed horse took cover in the woods.
Somerset led the centre, and deployed
his ranks of men in full view of the castle.
XI
Edmund looked anxiously from Sandal's walls.
“Keep dahn!” said Porky, pushing on his head,
or tha'll be target practice for Lancastrians!”
“Just look at all those men!” he said, aghast.
“Will they attack the castle?” “Let 'em try.
They've no artillery or mangonels,
and so we can hold aht till kingdom come –
ah wish our stomachs could!” “What do you mean?”
“Ah reckon they will try ter starve us aht –
not that ah care – ah've got plenty stored here!”
at this he patted his prodigious belly.
Meanwhile, the Duke was in the council chamber
with Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury,
Sir Thomas Parre, Sir James of Pickering,
and David Hall, the castle's constable.
A chill was in the air, the fire burned low,
a stark reminder of their low provisions.
“A sally!” cried the Duke. “We'll sally forth
and sweep them all before us. They've more men,
but not so many more – perhaps a thousand.”
That plan was typical of Richard's boldness,
and his belief that nothing he could do
could fail. “It is too great a risk,” said David.
“Better to wait until the Earl of March,
your son, arrives with mighty reinforcements.
We're safe within these walls – but sallying
would be more hazardous than... a game of hazard.”
“I must agree,” said Neville solemnly.
“The odds are even – like tossing a coin.”
Sir Richard smiled, his bright eyes glittering
as he decided to take up the challenge.
“Then give me a gold noble and I'll toss.
King's head, we sally forth, tails we stay here!”
Neville produced a coin and Richard tossed.
The coin clinked down and spun and then fell flat.
Sir Richard clapped his hand on it and said,
“I saw the king's head – thus we sally forth.”
“We want to see the coin!” the others cried.
“Ah! Too late now!” said York and swept it up.
“Here, Salisbury, the arbiter of Fate
shall go back in your purse – and so, to arms!”
“What! Sally forth! The man is barking mad!”
Sir Robert ranted when he heard the news.
“What! Sally forth! I like a hearty meal,
but ah'd much rather pull me belt in tight
than suffer them Lancastrians ter belt me!”
moaned Porky to his mates, including Edmund.
“Yes! Sally forth!” said Edmund to himself.
“This is my chance to prove myself at last!”
though inside he was trembling as he thought it.
XII
Sir Robert cursed himself – call himself tutor?
He should protect the lad and give advice,
keep him from harm, teach him the way of wisdom –
and now, because of some past pecadillo,
he'd led the boy into the way of harm.
Well, he must tell all – no, he couldn't face it,
better to sieze the boy and lock him up.
Yes, that's what he would do. He'd find him now
and clap him in the dungeon. There at least
the only danger was from rats and lice.
But where was Edmund? Probably with that soldier
who'd taken him in tow – what was his name?
Porky, they called him. Well, he'd find him out,
and soon! There'd be no sallying forth for Edmund!
Edmund, the whiles, was making other plans.
He armed himself, and then put on his jupon,
blazing with colour: Gules, Azure and Argent,
quartered with many different devices:
lions and fleur-de-lys, castles and crowns.
Then over it he put his plain blue jupon
with the White Rose – and once again he was
an ordinary man-at-arms. His plan
was to ride close behind the Duke, his father,
and then, at the right moment, strip his jupon,
revealing his true colours underneath.
But what was the right moment? – time would tell,
and fate. For now, the thing was to get going.
“Stay close ter me,” said Porky, “Ah'll protec' yer –
though who'll look arter me ah hardly know!
That's a fine 'oss – yer father must be rich.
Your 'arness, too – ah've scarcely seen the like.
The latest fashion – fluted, curved – Italian,
ah'll be bound – not like these kitchen pots
of mine – at least they're strong – though far
too 'eavy!”
“God's Wounds! I've missed him!” Aspall swore out loud,
then crossed himself – it was a venial sin.
“Well, I will find him somewhere in the army.
But how? They're all alike: harness of black,
a visored helmet and a White Rose jupon –
yet I must try!” He got up on his horse
and joined the flow of men towards the gate.
XIII
In a rich tent behind Lancastrian lines,
Queen Margeret held her final council meeting.
Her face was calm, she smiled upon her knights –
for was the battle not already won?
With odds of four to one they could not lose,
and then again, they had good strategy.
No chess Grand Master ever arranged his pieces
better than her forces were deployed.
Her knights, in turn, went up to pay her homage:
Somerset, Exeter, Wiltshire and Devon,
Dacre and Rosse, then Clifford in high dudgeon,
his cheeks burning with mad lust for revenge.
To each she gave a Red Rose from her hand,
Badge of the House of Lancaster. Each bowed
and doffed his plumes and took the rose
and pinned it to his colours and departed
to his assigned position in the army.
XIV
A trumpet sounds, and the portcullis rattles,
the drawbridge rumbles, and thuds to the ground,
huge bolts are drawn and the great gates creak open.
The Duke, ready to charge, his eyes afire,
exuding confidence, speaks to his men:
“Today will be just like it was in Normandy,
when I was Regent there. I did not skulk
behind safe walls, but sallied on the foe!
Harried and trampled them until they fled –
as they will do – and so, upon this charge,
cry “God for the White Rose, York and Saint George!”
Neville, the Earl of Salisbury and Pickering,
follow the Duke, each brilliant in his colours,
Neville in Gules and Pickering in Vert.
Behind them ride the men-at-arms in blue,
like a great stretch of sea with White Rose breakers.
Next follow the foot soldiers armed with halberds,
or great two-handed swords, or glaives or maces.
Then come archers and arquebusiers,
and finally a rearguard of light horse.
Before them lie the massed Lancastrians,
headed by Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset.
They stand their ground, not choosing to advance,
and so the Duke rides forward and dismounts
just out of arrow-shot. For in those days
of nearly-perfect harness, when a man
was armoured head to toe and even the joints,
under the arms, at elbows, groin and knees,
The White Rose and the Red Page 2
