Somerset drank deeply from a tankard of Abbot Streynsham’s best malmsey, then reached for a slice of roast capon, for they’d been given dispensation to eat meat on this Friday battle eve. He forced himself to chew, to swallow; it was not easy, for he was too keyed up to derive any pleasure from the food, too tightly wound to taste what he ate.
Setting the tankard down, he looked about at his companions. They all bore the scars of that nightmarish race for the Severn crossing, but none had suffered more than Marguerite during those turbulent hours after they learned York was hard on their heels.
Her face was sunburned, for no veil had been able to withstand fifteen hours of exposure to wind and sun. She’d long since discarded her headdress, and dark hair feathered with grey curled untidily about her neck, defied the confines of an uncertain chignon. The eyes Somerset found so beautiful were puffed, bloodshot, swollen with fatigue and dust and, at the last, tears of frustration when the Tewkesbury ferry was denied them.
To have come so close, to be within sight of the ferry that promised safety for her son…. Somerset knew that was her true torment, not the physical aches of a body not used to such abuse. She’d borne up without complaint throughout the forced march, had even pressed for a faster pace, and when her women fainted, she slapped them back to consciousness and threatened to leave them to the mercies of York. Somerset had no doubt that she’d have seen every soldier of Lancaster drop in his tracks and not blinked an eye if, by so doing, she could have gotten Edward into Wales.
Wales. To Somerset, it meant reinforcements, fresh troops, gaining a military advantage that could prove decisive. To Edward of York, it posed so great a threat that he’d do damned near anything to keep them from crossing the Severn, even manage a murderous thirty-five-mile march. But to Marguerite, Somerset knew Wales meant salvation. He strongly suspected that she’d been so set upon joining Jasper Tudor because she could then delay sending her son against Edward of York. He suspected, too, that once in Wales, she’d have connived and maneuvered and scrupled at nothing to keep the battle glimmering ever on the horizon, never closer than “soon” and “when the time is ripe.”
Whatever her intentions once they’d reached Wales, they were irrelevant now, of course. They’d gambled and lost. But to have lost on the very banks of the Severn! That, he knew, was what Marguerite could not yet, even now, accept.
Had York not somehow seen through her Sodbury ruse, had he not managed to push his army beyond all human endurance, to make up ground that could not conceivably have been made up…If only. What if. Had not. Somerset could almost hear those words as they ricocheted about behind his Queen’s anguished brow. He knew her fear. But he knew, too, that now she was cornered, forced to fight, she would do so without quarter, with a savagery that would make the bloodletting of Sandal Castle pale into nothingness in comparison. There was nothing she would not do to save her son; he was counting on that.
He glanced at the others again. He didn’t much like Wenlock, the onetime friend of Warwick, wished he didn’t have to entrust the center to this man he thought little better than a harlot, whoring for the master who’d pay the brightest coin. Wenlock, who was not a young man, was grey with fatigue. Devon looked tired, too. Christ’s Blood, they all were, he as much as any of them! He lifted the tankard, drained it. For a moment, his eyes rested on Edward; the boy had not eaten, not for hours.
“You should eat, Highness,” he urged, more from a sense of duty than because he expected Edward to heed him, but Marguerite caught up the refrain.
“Somerset is right, bien-aimé. A few mouthfuls of the cold game pie…. You’ll feel much better.”
“I do feel fine just as I am,” Edward insisted sullenly. “I’m not hungry. Nor do I see why that is so unusual, why it need be commented upon.”
Somerset gave him a quick quizzical look, said nothing. Edward had been unusually quiet all day, more subdued than Somerset had ever seen him. Now as the evening wore on, he was showing signs of an increasingly nasty temper. Somerset felt a passing regret; a pity there was no way to assure Edward that it was very natural to be afraid on the eve of battle, that all men knew such fears, that there was not a man alive who could take the field without having his stomach cramp into knots, feel cold slippery sweat upon his forehead, in his armpits, his groin. He knew better, though, than to try. Edward would never admit it; he couldn’t. He could only suffer it. Well, if his plan was accepted, it would aid Edward, too, give him something to think about besides the hours, still so many, till dawn.
“It is rather warm in here, Madame. You might be revived if you had some air. May I?” Proferring his arm.
She looked at him, started to shake her head, and he said urgently, “I do think the air would do you much good, Madame.”
Her refusal hovered on her lips, died there. She nodded and he felt a surge of gratitude that she was so quick to comprehend. She leaned over, kissed her unresponsive son where a lock of hair fell forward across his temple, and then slipped her arm through Somerset’s.
The air was cooler beyond the tent, and the sky was clear, starred with remote pinpoint lights. At least there’d be no Barnet fogs to favor York, he thought with relief, looking down into the distance where the Yorkist campfires glimmered.
“Why did you want to see me alone, Somerset?”
“Because, Madame, I have a plan, a plan that I think will win the day for us.”
“What do you intend?” she said bitterly. “To send an assassin into the Yorkist camp tonight to cut York’s throat? I do assure you, nothing would give me greater joy!”
“No, Madame,” he said patiently, and she saw that he was very much in earnest.
“What, Somerset?” she whispered.
“I’ve passed several hours studying the battlefield, how it drops away suddenly in places, how thick it is with growth. It did give me a thought, and I sent scouts to see if I was right. I was. There is limited visibility upon this field, Madame. The terrain is such that York’s vanguard and center battles will not be within sight of each other.”
“Tell me your plan,” she said.
He did.
She became very quiet.
“I don’t know,” she said at last. “The risk would be great, Somerset, very great.”
“You did not hesitate to take risks at St Albans,” he chose to remind her, “and by so doing, you did defeat the Kingmaker. Yes, we would be taking a risk; I freely concede it. But what we could gain by so doing, Madame, what we could gain! I tell you, I’ve thought it out carefully. It can work. We’ll take York by surprise, that I’ll swear on my life. And before he can recover…” He made a swift motion with his hand, slashing, graphic.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, it could work. I don’t know, Somerset, I just don’t know…. If it were me, only me, I’d say yes, take the chance, seize it, let the risks be damned. But it isn’t just me, you see.” She reached up, lightly stroked his cheek, and withdrew her hand.
“You are a brave man, a loyal friend, and I cherish you, Edmund, I do. But I think we’d best discuss this with the others, with Wenlock, Devon, my Édouard. If they do approve….”
She sounded uncharacteristically indecisive; he sensed she was resisting her natural inclinations, which were to go with his plan, to take the bold measure that could reap the greatest gain. Lord deliver us from the crippling confines of motherhood, he thought grimly. But he had no intention of submitting his plan to the other men for judgment. Wenlock he didn’t trust, and Devon was too conservative, Edward too green. Only she had the imagination, the instinctive daring to go with his plan, to see the risk was well worth the taking.
“Madame, back me in this and Prince Edward may not have to take part in the battle at all. It could be over that quickly, before our center shall be fully engaged.” He felt a touch of shame for this last, but not much; at this point, there was nothing he would not have told her if he thought it might gain her consent.
She walked away from him, sta
red down at the Yorkist fires. And then she turned. “Very well, we’ll go with your plan, Somerset. It is in your hands.”
His teeth showed whitely in a jubilant smile, but before he could savor his triumph, she added stonily, “On one condition. I want you to keep Édouard from the fighting. I want him mounted, and guarded at all times, Somerset, and I don’t want him to engage in combat on the field.”
“I cannot make you a promise like that,” he said tiredly, and very gently. “You know I cannot. I’d give my life to keep him safe; we all would. But I cannot forbid him, Madame. No one can. He thinks he is of an age to command. His pride demands it. He knows that York was not yet nineteen when he did win Towton. Worse, he knows that Gloucester is himself just eighteen now. I cannot forbid him, Madame.
“The true command of the center will rest with Wenlock, not Prince Edward. And I think he will agree to remain mounted during the battle.” For a moment he had an image of Edward’s white set face. “In fact, I’m sure of it. But further than that, he will not go. And more than that, I cannot do.”
Marguerite nodded, and he saw that she’d not expected to prevail.
“No, I suppose you cannot,” she said tonelessly. She shrugged, wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Well, then, we’d best tell the others what we plan for the morrow, my lord.”
She let him take her hands in his; they were like ice, bloodless.
“You have it all, Somerset,” she whispered. “It is all in your hands…. The vanguard, the battle, the fate of Lancaster.” She drew a ragged breath. “The life of my son.”
32
Tewkesbury
May 1471
The dark was fading, the sky streaking with dull gold as Francis lifted the flap, entered Richard’s tent. Rob Percy was already inside, seated on a coffer and gnawing halfheartedly on a strip of dried beef. Richard’s back was to the tent flap. He was listening to the priest who was soon to invoke God’s blessing upon the Yorkist undertaking; listening, too, to a herald who wore the badge of John Howard, while in the background hovered a courier with the Boar of Gloucester emblazoned on the breast of his tabard. Francis joined Rob, who made room for him on the coffer, silently proferring a second strip of beef. Just the sight of it was enough to turn Francis’s stomach; he hastily shook his head.
Having at last dealt with the priest and Howard’s man, Richard dispatched his courier with a few low-voiced sentences meant for his brother’s ear. Turning, he smiled at sight of Francis, who smiled back, although far from reassured by his first glimpse of his friend’s face. He thought Richard looked exhausted, like one having no resources to draw upon other than those of the will.
“You didn’t sleep, did you?” he blurted out, before thinking better of it. He saw, though, that Richard didn’t seem to mind.
“No,” Richard conceded candidly. “I was awake most of the night ere Barnet, too.”
Ian de Clare, Richard’s squire since Barnet, was kneeling before him,
Ian de Clare, Richard’s squire since Barnet, was kneeling before him, fumbling again with the pointed tassets that hung down to protect his upper thighs. Richard thought Ian to be extraordinarily clumsy this morn, quite unlike the sure hands of Thomas Parr, and his arming seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time. It was only by studying Ian’s averted face that he was able to hold his temper in check. At last, Ian was through, made one final adjustment to Richard’s left pauldron, stood back.
Rob and Francis were looking on with admiration, and Richard grinned. He was very proud of the white polished armor, thought it a veritable work of art, perfect in every piece, as well it should be, for it had been custom-made for him by one of the Flemish masters. He’d never said so, but Rob and Francis suspected it was a gift from the King. They both remembered how concerned Richard had been that he’d not have it in time for the upcoming battle, and they hastened to pay tribute in the highest coin of their realm, banter so biting that Richard knew they thought the armor every bit as wondrous as he did. He laughed now as they assured him the whole of the Lancastrian army would be most grateful that he’d thus made it so easy to distinguish Gloucester from the other knights of York.
Francis had dropped his gauntlets on the ground by the coffer. As he leaned over to retrieve them, Ian was the quicker of the two, shrugging off his thanks with a strained smile. Francis looked at the squire, saw with sympathetic eyes. Ian was a stranger to him. He knew little of Ian, other than that, like all who served royalty, he came from a family that was landed, was of good birth. He knew, too, that Ian was close in age to them all. One more thing he did know; this was Ian’s first battle.
“This is ever the worst for me,” Francis said suddenly, as if addressing them all. “The waiting…. This is when my imagination begins to run amuck, and I become convinced I’m fated to take a sword-thrust in the gut. By the time the battle begins, I’m downright thankful for it, for what Lancaster can do to me is as nothing compared to what I do to myself!”
Ian was watching him intently. He had bright blue eyes, like Rob and the King; they stayed on Francis’s face as if they meant to commit it to memory.
“Is this truly the worst…the waiting?” he asked softly, and Francis nodded.
“Truly,” he said, just as softly. He was aware that both Rob and Richard were watching. He’d seen their surprise, seen them exchange a quick glance of quizzical communication. Now Rob said cheerfully,
“God’s Blood, but Lovell’s qualms pale into pure milky whiteness next to mine! He frets over a sword’s thrust in the gut…. Mere child’s play, that! Now for me, I never doubt that I’m to be gelded and then spit through as I lay there, like a hog held for butchering!”
“Stop bragging, Rob,” Richard scoffed. “To hear you, none of our fears are even a patch upon your sufferings, but I’d back my demons against yours any day. Though I will concede that you did, in fact, suffer more from seasickness when we crossed the Channel than any four men…and complained more of it, too!”
“Luckily for Your Grace, you couldn’t see yourself, then,” Rob drawled. “Luckily, too, I couldn’t bring myself to heed your pleas to throw you overboard and put an end to your misery!”
That struck Richard as funny. He began to laugh, and they were more than willing to follow his lead, to fill these last minutes with laughter.
Francis knew Rob happened to be a natural-born sailor. And he knew that Richard, too, was a fair hand on shipboard, even if not in Rob’s class. But Ian was laughing, laughing with amusement that was genuine and unforced.
Francis, believing that men were not meant to be subject to emotions in the way that women were, spent much of his life fighting feelings he deemed suspect. Now he found himself struggling against a treacherous tide of affection for Robert Percy, for Richard Plantagenet, even for Ian de Clare, whom he did not know. Sweet Jesus, Lamb of God, look to them, he was whispering, without words, as a new sound intruded upon the noises of the stirring camp, a distant trumpet fanfare.
Richard raised his head, listening. All amusement had fled his face; now there was only tension.
“It’s time,” he said, in what was very like his normal tone of voice. To those who did not know him as well as Francis and Rob.
Richard moved the Yorkist vanguard so swiftly to the attack that Marguerite had to retreat with extreme haste to the Lower Lode of the Severn River, where she was to be ferried across to join her daughter-in-law and the other ladies, who’d been sent to safety shortly before dawn. The sun was already too brilliant to take unshielded stares, and the morning air shimmered in a haze of brightness as the battle was joined. Edward watched astride his white destrier from a rise of ground midway between the vanguard and his center, watched with grim foreboding.
The Lancastrian artillery was firing upon the vanguard. Yorkist field guns sounded in their turn, shelling the Lancastrian lines. Edward knew their answering fire had taken the enemy by surprise; it was highly unusual to employ cannons in close support of infantry, but Richard felt
his men needed all the help they could get and Edward had agreed with him. He knew Richard was deeply pessimistic about the chances of making a successful first assault, now saw his brother’s misgivings borne out.
The vanguard was within arrow range, and the Lancastrian bowmen turned their weapons upon the Yorkists, with murderous effect. The vanguard faltered under the relentless fire, came on again, but they were taking terrible punishment. Men stumbled up the sides of muddy ditches, only to have the loosened earth crumble under them, sending them staggering into each other, back into the ditches, bruised and breathless. They tripped over tangled exposed roots, fell into hedges pierced with thorns, scrambled up slopes choked with underbrush and strewn with rocks…. And all the while, the sky rained shafted death down upon them.
Edward swore, softly and steadily, and when Richard gave the command to retreat, he swore again, only this time with relief. He waited long enough to see the vanguard pulling back, beyond the killing range of Lancastrian artillery and arrow fire, and then turned the white stallion in the direction of his own lines, at such a pace that his outdistanced men knew he’d given the destrier its head.
Edward was uneasy, his every instinct communicating wordless warning. He didn’t know why he should be so gripped by tension; it went far beyond the chagrin he might expect to feel after seeing his vanguard repulsed. He only knew that there was a hollow pulsing pressure against his rib cage, that sweat was gathering at his temples, stinging his eyes with salt. The instincts were purely physical, but he trusted them, puzzled over them enough to have delayed his return to the higher ground from which he could follow the progress of Richard’s second assault.
He’d dispatched messengers, one to Richard, the other to Will, and was watching as his stallion was brought up again, when it happened. From the wooded area to the left of his line. The danger he’d somehow sensed. A flank attack by the men of the Lancastrian vanguard.
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 47
