Cicely's Lord Lincoln

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  The raft was hauled across the Trent, and the vapour was damp on her face as she continued to look back. Jack was still not far away. If the raft returned to the Staythorpe side, she would be able to follow him back to the camp and make him keep her with him.

  Mary came to her side and put a comforting hand on her arm. ‘He will be safe, my lady.’

  ‘I pray so. How I pray so.’ Cicely bowed her head, biting her lip as she struggled to control the urge to cry.

  From the other bank they rode east towards the Fosse Way. The brilliance of the rising sun was already beginning to burn the mist away, and to the south, towards Nottingham, they could see the campfire smoke, and the shimmer and occasional flash of weapons where the Earl of Oxford’s vanguard had camped overnight.

  They reached the Fosse Way and soon learned from local people that the battle was expected to take place just to the south-west of a nearby village called East Stoke, the church tower of which could be seen behind some trees. Beyond it was Burham Hill, the only place in the area that offered advantage, and where Jack intended to take his position.

  Daniel and Rob began to cross the Fosse Way, meaning to strike further east for Friskney, but Cicely remained where she was and called them back. Mary halted with her, looking curiously at the expression of her mistress’s face.

  ‘My lady?’

  ‘I cannot leave, Mary. I will not leave.’

  ‘But Lord Lincoln wishes you to be safe.’

  ‘And I wish him to be safe. I cannot do this, Mary. I may have resisted the urge to follow him back to Staythorpe, but I will not ride any further away than this.’

  ‘What do you wish to do?’

  ‘We must find a hiding place, somewhere from where we can watch the battle. I must be able to see he is not harmed. Or worse. There must be somewhere in East Stoke.’

  Daniel was dismayed. ‘You cannot do that, Lady Welles. Every building will be searched by the earl’s men, and will probably be secretly searched by Oxford’s yeoman-prickers as well. They are bound to be sent in about now to be sure there is no ambush being prepared, or longbowman put in place. It may be that the king intends to take his host past us to the east, to come upon Lord Lincoln from this side. If you are caught up in it, I cannot speak for what may happen to you. Blood will be hot and excitement at a pitch, my lady. You are very beautiful, and men will be men.’

  ‘There will be somewhere safe,’ she declared, so certain that she might have been quoting from the Bible.

  He looked unhappily at Rob, who was equally unenthusiastic.

  ‘I will not go from here,’ Cicely said again, levelly. ‘You two can return to Friskney, and you as well, Mary, for I cannot expect you to assist me in this.’

  Rob shook his head. ‘We will not desert you, my lady. Our task is to guard you well, and that is what we will do.’

  Mary was indignant with Cicely. ‘You cannot believe I would leave you now, my lady!’

  ‘I give you the opportunity, Mary. All of you, because my reason for staying is purely selfish, as was this entire journey.’

  ‘We will not leave you,’ they all three replied.

  But as they rode slowly towards the little lane that led into East Stoke, a third of a mile in the direction of the looping Trent, the threading mist closed in again, obscuring the distant view of the royal army. With the closing of the mist, there was an exaggeration of sound, and thus they heard other hooves, muffled, of horses being led towards them from the direction of the village. The party from Friskney halted warily and drew quietly out of the lane into a field and the shelter of a hedgerow.

  The other horses came slowly on, and as they passed Cicely clearly saw that the men walking them wore the blue boar badge of John de Vere, 13th Earl of Oxford. Whoever they were, and whatever their purpose, it was plain they wished to leave East Stoke as anonymously as they had entered.

  When they had gone, Daniel looked at Cicely. ‘Oxford’s yeoman-prickers, my lady.’

  ‘So you were right.’

  He nodded. ‘Well, they will not have found anything yet, for Lord Lincoln will not have stationed anyone. Maybe Oxford has a fancy to pitch on Burham Hill as well, although somehow I think not.’

  All was very quiet again as they continued along the lane. East Stoke was a hamlet more than a village, and most of the inhabitants had wisely chosen to flee ahead of the battle. There were two Fosses, the main Fosse Way itself, the other a lesser route that passed across the breast of Burham Hill and was called the Upper Fosse. Both led north-east to and past a ruined Roman fort that had once guarded a long-gone wooden bridge over the Trent.

  Cicely and her small party were almost at the church when she saw the perfect place to conceal themselves to watch everything that took place on Burham Hill. There was a narrow track only yards long that led up the sharp slope from the lane, to a moss-covered stone barn that seemed on the point of collapsing into the wide pond with which it was now surrounded. The barn was disused because a land slip had made it too dangerous. A solitary old sycamore grew against the walls, and the shift of the land was where the pond had now formed. Walls leaned, part of the roof had collapsed, and much of the stone had been taken away to be used again, but it offered enough concealment for the fugitives’ presence to remain undetected. Daniel thought it would not be of much interest to Jack or the Earl of Oxford because although it gave a view over the expected battlefield, it gave no more than was to be seen on the hill itself. Certainly Oxford could see more from the other side as he approached from the direction of Nottingham.

  There had been a door at the arched entrance, but it was now attached by a single hinge, and pitched half hidden among weeds and shrubs. The four horses waded slowly across the pond, disturbing billows of mud and rotting vegetation from the bottom, and on reaching the land where the barn stood, the riders dismounted to lead them around the collapsed door and into the shadows beyond. Behind them the disturbance in the water was already subsiding.

  The horses were concealed towards the rear of the barn. A dividing wall was still partially in place and a pool of rainwater had collected where the foundations had started to sink. Then they all climbed up a rickety ladder to what had once been a hayloft. Daniel and Rob hauled the ladder up behind them. There was still some old straw, overgrown with grass and moss where part of the roof had given way, and a narrow slit window that faced directly on to Burham Hill, upon which the first outriders of Jack’s army had begun to appear.

  Concealed and silent, Cicely and her companions watched the arrival of the rebel army. Thousands of men from England, Germany, Ireland and Switzerland spread down the slope in front of the village, straddling the two Fosses and commanding the route to Newark. More men were drawn up on the crest of Burham Hill, where Jack’s standards were raised, as well as the colours of Francis Lovell, Robert Percy and the boy king, Edward VI. Numerous horses were brought down to the edge of the village to be tethered until needed. The English way of battle was to fight on foot, and horses were only used by leaders, commanders and other knights, or for charges.

  Suddenly voices sounded near the barn entrance, and there was splashing as men waded noisily through the pond. Those hiding in the loft kept very still, until, to Cicely’s alarm, someone addressed her.

  ‘Lady Lincoln?’

  The voice was familiar, and although Daniel and Rob gestured for her to stay silent, she got up and went to the edge of the loft, holding a rotting rafter for balance. The men were Jack’s, and they were led by Paul de Wortham, whose likeness to Jack was so astonishing that for a split second Cicely again thought he was Jack. The man who had spoken was none other than the scout who had taken her to Jack at Staythorpe.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ she asked de Wortham.

  He sheathed his sword and gestured towards the hidden horses. ‘Your mounts were recognized, my lady. The maid and your two men are up there with you?’ At least his voice was not like Jack’s, but had a heavy Lancashire accent.

 
‘I should not be here, sir,’ she said, ‘and my lord will be angry if you tell him, so I beg you to forget you have seen me.’

  ‘My lady, it is my duty to report—’

  ‘I am not of interest to my lord’s battle plans, sir, but I can tell you that the king’s yeoman-prickers have been here. They came when the mist was still heavy and my lord’s men had yet to appear on the hilltop. That is all I know. Certainly Lord Oxford must now be aware that the village is almost empty. Maybe the king—Henry, that is—knows as well, and I do not know if he can send a force around to come at you from the Newark direction as well, but you should tell my husband you heard this information from a woman in the village. No names need be given.’

  ‘I should still tell the earl of you, my lady,’ he insisted.

  ‘I love my lord, sir, and cannot leave when I know he is in danger. All I ask is that you allow me this small boon.’

  De Wortham hesitated, undecided, but she had appealed to his chivalry, and so he nodded. ‘Your presence will remain secret, my lady, but I beg that you defend me should I be blamed by Lord Lincoln.’

  ‘I will tell him that I called upon your honour and that you have been gallant. I trust you can rely upon the discretion of your men?’

  ‘I can, my lady.’

  ‘Why do you go so far out of your way to appear as my lord?’ Even at such a moment she was curious to know.

  ‘I was born with these looks, my lady, and I wear the earl’s colours because I am heart and soul his man. The horse was a gift from my father. I am merely being myself, my lady, Paul de Wortham, gentleman of High Wortham. ‘

  ‘But you make yourself so conspicuous. A good longbowman might well pluck you from your saddle.’

  ‘If I draw enemy attention away from the earl, then that cannot be a bad thing.’

  She had no answer to that. ‘At least be sure to leave as little trace of your being here in this barn as we were of ours.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘I wish you well, sir. May the day go with my lord.’

  He inclined his head. ‘God will be on our side, my lady.’

  They withdrew, splashing back across the pond to where they had left their mounts. Soon they had gone.

  Cicely breathed out with relief, and moved to the window to see if de Wortham went straight to Jack, but he did not. She gazed towards the standards, and was sure she could see Jack with Francis and Robert, and even the boy king, who wore a small suit of gilded armour. She had met them all the evening before, and a happy reunion it had been with Richard’s old friends. The boy king had been disturbing, for he looked so like her uncle the Duke of Clarence that she could not doubt he was as much her first cousin as Jack. The boy was poised, educated, knowledgeable on family matters and certainly knew who she was when Jack presented her. He even told her how like his uncle Richard she was because of her hair. Someone must have told him of this similarity, of course, for he had never met Richard. When she had left him, she felt no cousinly bond at all. Nothing. Nor had he glanced after her. She had wished him well. He said nothing.

  The small party in the barn loft settled for a long wait. They had water, and a little food for their journey back to Lincolnshire, but it was not much and they had to make it last, because now it would be far too dangerous to leave the barn. Jack’s men were on the lookout for anyone who might support Henry, and were likely to strike first and ask questions later.

  All the sounds Cicely had heard at Staythorpe she heard again throughout that day and long night. Campfires danced, sending their uncertain light through the barn’s slit window. There was singing and laughter, but the atmosphere was charged, as if a thunderstorm were in the offing. Which in a manner of speaking it was.

  The rebels aroused at first light to eat and hear mass, then Jack’s scurriers galloped to him to say the Earl of Oxford’s army was about to march. Cicely did not need to hear the message to know what it was, for the scurriers waved their arms towards Nottingham, and the only force that was within reach was Oxford’s. Drums rang out to battle stations, and the army began to deploy, six men deep for three-quarters of a mile, north-west to south-east, across the two Fosses, with East Stoke village behind them. It consisted mostly of men-at-arms, supported by archers and billmen, with horsemen in readiness at the rear, to bear down upon the enemy once the initial advance and conflict was well in hand. There was still no sign of Henry’s forces, only Oxford’s, which was smaller than the rebels.

  The boy king was prominently displayed on the hilltop, with royal standards and all the trappings, while Jack, Francis and Robert rode up and down the lines, exhorting their men to fight for the true king. They instilled heart, courage and the belief that God was on their side. Jack’s head was uncovered as he passed, his dark hair streaming loose, and as he rode close to the barn, Cicely could hear him quite clearly as he bolstered his men with the will to defeat the anointed King of England. Just as Henry had done before Bosworth.

  Oxford’s force of mostly Englishmen was beginning to arrive on level ground a quarter of a mile to the south, and he had still to properly deploy when Jack and companion commanders saw that attacking before he was ready was their best chance of swift victory. Just before nine, with Jack in the lead and fully helmed, the signal was given to advance in orderly but relentless manner, in the hope of throwing Oxford’s forces into complete confusion, which initially they were.

  Cicely hardly dared to watch as she watched Jack in the heart of the fighting, lunging and slashing, riding men down and stabbing whichever part of them he could reach. He was as a man possessed. She had never seen this side of him, just as she had never seen Richard in battle. She was not shocked, or repelled by his violence, rather was she proud that he was such a courageous and skilled son of York that he would hack his way to victory.

  The German mercenaries, under the command of their fearsome leader, Martin Schwartz, moved forward to the shrill thunderous racket of fifes and drums. It was the first time this frighteningly military sound had been heard in England, and it must have been carrying for miles, maybe even to Henry, wherever he lurked out of the thick of battle. Arquebuses were fired, arrows flew like driving hail from both crossbows and long bows, and there was shouting, screaming, the awful clang of metal upon metal, and the terrified whinnying of horses caught up in the fray. The ground was soon soaked with blood, with numerous bodies cluttering the path of their living comrades.

  Two and a half hours of slaughter passed, but so grindingly slowly that it seemed to Cicely she would hear it in her head until her last breath. It was so awful that at last she could not watch at all, until Mary touched her arm.

  ‘Lord Lincoln is returning to the hilltop, my lady.’

  ‘Is he. . . ?’

  ‘He is well, my lady. Wounded somewhere on his left shoulder, I think, for I see some blood. But he is still able to ride well and to command again. Look, you will see.’

  Cicely gazed at the hilltop again. There was fighting there as well, as a group of Oxford’s mounted men broke through to the standards. Her hands were pressed tightly to her mouth as she saw Jack and others fight back and drive the attack away. She saw how he tried to ease his left shoulder, where blood still found its way between the plates of his armour. He waved his physician and attendants away, and remained mounted, still overseeing the battle and issuing commands.

  Sir Robert Percy was in the midst of the fighting further down the slope, and Cicely watched in dismay as he was cut from his horse and fallen upon by Oxford’s men. He could not possibly survive such an onslaught. For a moment she was back at Sheriff Hutton, and he was speaking softly. ‘I have a message for you, my lady.’ The message had been from Richard, who was waiting for her at the hunting tower . . .

  Mary squeezed her arm gently. ‘It will have been quick for poor Sir Robert, my lady,’ she said comfortingly.

  Of Francis Lovell there seemed no sign, not even his riderless horse. He was not on the ridge either, where his tent and standards were
alongside Jack’s, and after the battle the rumour would spread that he drowned while trying to flee on horseback across the Trent having unfortunately chosen a reach where the opposite bank was too steep for his mount to clamber up. If this was so, his body would not be recovered.

  Gradually and inexorably the tide was turning in the rebels’ favour. Henry’s force had yet to arrive from Nottingham, and Oxford fought alone against great odds. Then Paul de Wortham appeared on his white horse, carrying a heraldic banner that displayed Jack’s arms and colours. The stir he caused showed that Oxford and his men clearly believed it was Jack himself they saw within reach. He was immediately surrounded and hauled from his horse, and Cicely saw one of Oxford’s men kill him by forcing a rondel dagger through his visor, using both hands and all his weight. He did it more than once, until his companions dragged him away. But Paul de Wortham was dead, and Cicely could tell by the manner of the men who had been in at the kill that they were frightened because, she guessed, Henry had indeed ordered Jack’s life to be saved.

  But the shout had gone up that Jack of Lincoln was dead, and the effect upon the rebel army was electrifying. From fighting courageously towards victory, they suddenly broke ranks and fled in all directions. It was a rout, and yet Jack himself was still on Burham Hill, clearly in view. Cicely saw him shouting orders to rally them again, but the panic was too great for them to even hear, let alone obey.

  Oxford’s men pursued the routed rebels, horsemen coming through from the rear to gallop after the fleeing men, killing without quarter. Jack raised his visor and watched for a long moment, his whole attitude one of dejection and utter disbelief. Paul de Wortham had not only thrown his own life away, but the battle itself and the lives of hundreds of his comrades-in-arms as well.