The sunset was deepening in gold and he looked into it until his eyes stung. All around him, the last of his army were slinking away to the southern road, a great stream of slumped figures that reminded him of refugees in France, a decade before. He kept his head up, standing pale and straight as they went past. Some of them muttered curses at him as they went, while many more whispered an apology. He did not respond to any of them, turning back from the sun to the queen and her lords.
When the field before Sandal was almost empty, Derry Brewer strolled across to him.
‘There are some who want a word with you. Come on.’ He took York by the arm and tugged him over the field towards the queen.
York grimaced at his touch.
‘I am of noble blood, Brewer. Have a care.’
Derry chuckled, though it was not a pleasant sound. He pulled York to the very edge of the woods, where a dozen nobles and the queen herself turned to watch their approach. York raised his head a fraction further, refusing to be cowed by them. His eyes fell on a bound figure, kneeling and swaying on the ground. York smiled in relief at the sight of Salisbury alive, though the old man’s head was bloody and his eyes dull.
Derry took the duke right up to Salisbury, tapping him on the shoulder to signal he should kneel. For a moment, York stood unbending, but he could feel rough twine on his wrists and he knew he had no choice but to endure.
He knelt on the muddy ground, cold water seeping into his armour. As he settled himself, Margaret came to stand close to him, her head tilted as she watched him with unnatural intensity. Somerset and Henry Percy were at her side, looking almost as scratched and bedraggled as York felt himself.
‘Should I congratulate you, my lady?’ York said. ‘It seems I am your prisoner.’
‘I do not need you to tell me that,’ Margaret said. Her eyes glittered with malice for the man who had captured her husband and disinherited her son. ‘Where is the king, my lord? That is all I want to hear from you.’
‘Far away – and safe,’ York replied. He thought for a moment. ‘If your intention is to ransom us, perhaps King Henry can be the price.’
Margaret closed her eyes, one hand clenching to a fist.
‘No, my lord York. No. I have talked and talked, all this year. I will not make another deal now. It is over. If you will not tell me where my husband is kept, I have no more use for you.’ She turned to Somerset, standing in armour with his sword unsheathed. ‘Take Salisbury’s head, my lord. I will find a place for it.’
York stiffened in shock and fury.
‘How would his death serve your cause? Stand back from him, Somerset!’
He turned in desperation to see Salisbury was watching him, the sinews on his neck standing out like wires. As their eyes met, Salisbury shrugged. His face was swollen and bruised. The earl looked up as Somerset drew his sword and stood at his side.
‘God have mercy on my soul,’ Salisbury murmured. He closed his eyes and leaned his neck forward, shaking.
Somerset raised the sword as high as he could reach and then brought the blade down with huge force, cutting the earl’s head free so that it dropped into the mud. The body slumped and leaned sideways as York gaped in horror and grief. He looked up at Margaret and saw his own death in her eyes.
A shout sounded nearby and the nobles around the queen reached for swords, then let their hands fall away as they saw it was Lord Clifford riding back in. The baron smiled as he caught sight of Salisbury’s body and York bound and kneeling. He trotted his horse up to them and dismounted, walking the final few paces so that he could look down on York.
‘It gives me joy to see you so reduced,’ Clifford said. ‘I thank God I came back in time. I caught a young man over by the walls, a couple of lads with him. He said he was your son before I killed him.’ York stared as Clifford held up his right hand, showing him a punch dagger with bright red blood on it.
The spiteful pleasure in Clifford seemed to sour the moment for Margaret.
‘See to your men, baron,’ she said curtly to him.
Clifford looked wounded, but he obeyed, turning away.
Margaret shook her head, weary and sick.
‘You have caused so much pain, Richard,’ she said. ‘So many fathers and sons have died and all because you would not accept Henry on the throne.’
‘It was too good a chair for him,’ York said. ‘You think you have won a victory?’ His voice grew stronger with every word.
The death of Salisbury and the murder of poor Edmund had stunned him, for a time. Something about Clifford’s petty, vicious hatred restored his pride like strong wine, making his heart pound. York straightened his back as the Duke of Somerset came to his side. He could sense the bloody sword rising over him and he saw the nod Margaret gave.
‘All you have done is release our sons!’ York shouted. ‘God save my soul!’
The sword came across and York’s head rolled. Margaret let out a slow, shuddering breath.
‘There is an end of it,’ she whispered. ‘There are good men avenged.’ She raised her voice to the lords around her. ‘Take the heads and spike them on the walls of York.’
She watched in sick fascination as the grisly items were gathered up together, dripping blood down the arm of the man who held them. Margaret stepped very close, reaching out to touch the slack features of York. Her hand shook like she had palsy.
‘Make a paper crown for this one, he who wished to wear a real one. Let the people of York know the price of his ambition.’
The soldier nodded, bearing the heads away.
Earl Percy stepped up to Margaret’s shoulder, pale at what he had witnessed.
‘What now, my lady?’
‘Now?’ she said, turning to him. ‘Now to London, to take back my husband.’
Epilogue
Edward of March brooded. His armour was spattered with blood and clotted dirt and he was weary, though his aching arms felt well used. Darkness was coming on and he could hear the cries of the wounded across the shadowed field, silenced as they were found and their throats cut. His men tramped in files and ranks, armour and mail jingling. There were no shouts of victory, no laughter. The grim mood of the earl had tainted them all. They kept silent as they passed the spot where he rested on a fallen tree, staring out, his great sword across his knees.
His father and brother Edmund were dead, brought down by dogs and lesser men. The news had come on the string of riders between them just days before, as a Welsh army came close enough to attack. March had lost himself for a time, then. He recalled ordering his men into ranks and the way they looked at him with fear on their faces. They had faced four thousand soldiers, with the best archers in the world, but he had ordered them in, even so. The result was all around him, a field of corpses sinking into the mud. He had thrown their lives away in his rage. He had struck and struck until his sword-edge was blunt and yet still crushed and broke with every blow. When his madness had been spent, the battle was won, the last of them running from the weeping giant in iron, who swept them away like leaves.
He did not know how many of his own men lay among the dead. He did not care if he had lost almost all of them. Owen Tudor had been killed, his army of Welshmen slaughtered, his sons forced to run. They had chosen to stand against him and they had failed. That was all that mattered.
Edward heaved himself to his feet, feeling a dozen aches and bruises he had not noticed before. Blood seeped from his side-plates and he winced as he pressed the spot and felt his ribs shift. The night would be long and he turned his face up to the dark sky, longing to feel the light of the sun once again. He lived, he thought in wonder. He had spent the dark passions that had consumed him, emptying himself until he was hollow. He had taken the blood price for his father.
He breathed deeply, recalling the strange vision that had come the morning before the battle. He had watched the sun begin to rise, though there had no longer been any joy in it. As it creased the horizon, two more suns had appeared, one on eith
er side, gleaming eyes of gold that made strange and sickening shadows across the waiting ranks. His men had pointed and gasped, afraid. The darkness had still been coiling in him then. He had stared until he thought he would go blind, feeling the warmth on his bare face.
He did not know if that vision had been his father’s last blessing to him. Edward felt as if he had been reborn under the light of that strange trinity. He had been made anew. He was eighteen years old. He was the Duke of York. He was the heir to the throne.
Historical Note
Part One: 1454–1455
The ambush by some seven hundred Percy retainers and servants on the Neville wedding party took place a little earlier than I have it here, in August 1453 – around the same time King Henry VI fell into his senseless state. It was a key event among years of low-level fighting between the families as they struggled to control the north and widen their holdings.
That attack by Thomas Percy, Baron Egremont, was one of the most brutal actions in that private war, sparked by the marriage of Salisbury’s son to the niece of Ralph Cromwell, a union which placed estates claimed by the Percy family into Neville hands.
The ‘Battle of Heworth Moor’ failed in its main aim of slaughtering Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury. I have not included a dozen minor skirmishes, but that feud played a key part in deciding where the Nevilles and the Percys stood in the first battle of St Albans in 1455 – and its outcome.
For fear of introducing too many major characters, I have made little of Exeter’s role in the north, a strong and violent ally of the Percys, though he was married to York’s eldest daughter. This was truly a civil war, with families torn between the sides. One of York’s first acts as Protector was to have his son-in-law Exeter imprisoned in Pontefract Castle, the keys given to Salisbury. When King Henry recovered in 1455, Exeter was released from Pontefract. Somerset was also released from the Tower and was quickly back at the king’s side as his chief adviser.
There is no record of those present at the birth of Edward of Lancaster, only son to Margaret and King Henry. Until very recent times, however, it was common practice to have numerous witnesses to royal births. For example, Queen Victoria’s son Albert was born in the presence of the Archbishop of Canterbury, two dukes and seven other lords. For Edward of Lancaster (sometimes called Edward of Westminster, where he was born) there were indeed rumours that Somerset was the father, though it was likely to have been no more than a slander spread by Yorkist supporters. There is little doubt that Somerset and York hated each other with a bitter intensity.
When Henry VI woke from his stupor on Christmas Day 1454, he had been in a semi-conscious state for almost eighteen months. He had no recollection of anything that had taken place over that time, though he was not in a coma, more a dissociative, listless waking-dream. He did not remember having been shown his son, Edward, Prince of Wales. Though he had, in theory, been awake and present for the kiss of homage from a new Archbishop of Canterbury, he had no memory of that event either.
In reality, it was two more months into 1455 before King Henry was well enough to travel to London. There, he dismissed York and Salisbury from their posts and set about regaining his authority over the country with a massive Judicial Progress north from London. It was a unique period of energy for the king, completely different to his personality before the collapse. York and Salisbury travelled to Ludlow Castle.
York had ruled with sense and style for his period as Protector and Defender of the Realm. Though not above favouring his Neville allies, he had reduced the size of the king’s household, cutting huge numbers of servants, knights and even horses from the expenses. It is true he confirmed Edward of Lancaster as the royal heir, perhaps because the sympathies of the country were still with the damaged king. In the twenty-first century, it is perhaps a little difficult to comprehend the level of unthinking loyalty King Henry inspired simply by his bloodline and office. A king was anointed by God, with a divine right to rule over lesser houses. To challenge that was literally blasphemy and a path to tread very lightly indeed.
Note on titles: While it is true that ‘Your Majesty’ was not the common term for royalty in the reign of King Henry VI, and that ‘Your Highness’ or ‘Your Grace’ would have been more common, it was in use, as evidenced by York’s letter in May 1455, where he complained to the king about the rumours spread about his ‘faith, lygeaunce and dewtee’ (faith, allegiance and duty) by his enemies ‘under the whinge (wing) of your Magestee Royal’.
Note on the Earl of Warwick, later known as the ‘Kingmaker’: Nothing is known of his childhood, or the way he looked physically. The younger Richard Neville made an extraordinarily fortunate marriage to Anne Beauchamp, daughter of the Earl of Warwick. When the earl died, his son Henry became earl and then died at only twenty-three, leaving a three-year-old daughter who also died.
The rights to the title then passed to Anne – and to her husband, Richard Neville. At the age of barely twenty-one, he became Earl of Warwick, Newburgh and Aumarle, Baron of Elmley and Hanslape, Lord of Glamorgan and Morgannoc. His new estates were these: land in South Wales and Herefordshire including the castles of Cardiff, Neath, Caerphilly, Llantrussant, Seyntweonard, Ewyas Lacy, Castle-Dinas, Snodhill, Whitchurch and Maud’s Castle. Caerphilly alone was a fortress to resist ten thousand men. In Gloucestershire, another seven wealthy manors. In Worcestershire, three great manors, the castle of Elmley and twenty-four other manors. In Warwickshire, besides the incredible castle and town itself, nine more manors, including Tamworth. In Oxfordshire, five manors as well as lands in Kent, Hampshire, Sussex, Essex, Hertfordshire, Suffolk, Norfolk, Berkshire, Wiltshire, Somerset, Devon, Cornwall, Northampton, Stafford, Cambridge, Rutland and Nottingham – another forty-eight manors in all. In the distant north, just one possession: Barnard’s Castle on the Tees. So: twelve major castles, a hundred and forty-three manors, from the border of Scotland to Devon, making his union with Anne Beauchamp one of the most materially rewarding in English history. Perhaps it is not surprising that his father’s will left him only two chargers (large dishes), twelve smaller dishes, a ewer and basin of silver, a bed and four untrained horses.
The Battle of St Albans in 1455 was preceded by a number of letters sent to the king by Richard of York, at least two of which were received en route. Although York dared not name Queen Margaret, he pleaded with the king to resist the malign influence of ‘traitors about the king’ – men like the Duke of Somerset. York was convinced King Henry was surrounded by those with ill intent. Again and again, he protested his loyal allegiance, to no avail.
With the forces of Salisbury and Warwick, some three thousand soldiers camped in Key Field, east of St Albans, to await the king. King Henry’s forces arrived around nine or ten in the morning and crossed Halywell stream to head uphill to the open market. Heralds were exchanged and Henry refused all York’s demands. It is not known exactly when the fighting began, though the king’s party clearly had time to block the three roads in from the east.
There are many examples in history when two forces facing each other will interact and begin a bloody conflict, regardless of the desires of their leaders. Alternatively, Salisbury may have given the order. He, at least, had a very clear desire for conflict, with both Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, and Thomas, Baron Egremont, within reach at last. For Salisbury, the moment to repay the attack on his son’s wedding and settle old scores was at hand.
It was the twenty-six-year-old Earl of Warwick who broke through back gardens with a small force and ran uphill to the marketplace. Warwick’s archers shot along St Peter’s Street and both King Henry and the Duke of Buckingham were struck and wounded in the first moments. It is true that Buckingham was struck in the face, though he survived.
With Warwick’s breakthrough, the stalemate at the barricades was at an end. York and Salisbury made a quick entry into the town as soon as those defending the barricades left them to protect the king. In a very short time, the marketplace and surrounding
roads were crammed with up to five thousand fighting men, crushed and panicking. Abbot Whethamstede’s description of the scene, written after the battle, is especially vivid: ‘… one man with his brain struck out, another with his arm struck off, there a third with his throat cut, there a fourth with his chest pierced, and the whole place beyond filled with the corpses of the slain.’
York himself gave the order for the wounded king to be taken to the abbey. The battle might have ended then if the only key players had been Lancaster and York. The exact sequence of events at this point is unknown. I have gone with what I consider to be the most likely scenario, that once the king was taken to the abbey, the real reason for the battle was pushed to its conclusion: the deaths of Somerset and Earl Percy.
It is true that Somerset died under the sign of the Castle pub, fulfilling a prophecy from years before that he would ‘die under the castle’. For years, he had avoided Windsor Castle, to avoid fulfilling the prophecy. One account of the battle says that Somerset came out from the Castle inn and killed four men with an axe before he was brought down.
As a side note, the Earl of Wiltshire, Henry’s treasurer, decided to make his escape from the fray by casting off his armour, heading to the abbey and disguising himself as a monk. I could not resist giving that part to Derry Brewer.
The procession through London, where York walked hand in hand with Queen Margaret behind the king and gave Henry his crown at St Paul’s Cathedral is a combination of two real events. Historically, the first procession took place just a few days after the battle of St Albans in 1455 and involved Henry riding through London with York on his right, Salisbury on his left and Warwick ahead, carrying the king’s own sword. That ‘joyous’ occasion ended at St Paul’s Cathedral, where the king apparently insisted on being handed his crown by York. Assuming he understood what was going on, that humiliation must have been exquisitely painful for Henry. The second procession was later, when York walked hand in hand through London with Margaret as a public display of healed rifts. The sad truth is that the king was a mere puppet of York at this point. His most powerful lords had been killed at St Albans and four years would pass before the House of Lancaster was once again in a position to fight back.
Wars of the Roses: Trinity (War of the Roses Book 2) Page 38
