Hotspur’s hand flew to his side. Empty! At once he remembered walking past his sword on a table beside his bed as his squires and page flew around him in a frantic swirl. A cold dread flooded his chest. “What village is this beyond the camp?”
“Berwick,” Worcester said. “Why do you ask?”
Hotspur hauled back on his reins and stopped dead in the middle of the road.
Worcester waved their accompaniment on by. His wizened face was gray with concern. “What is it, Nephew? You look as though the sheet of death has just been drawn over your face. You’ve no cause for concern. There are extra weapons about. I’ll have my man fetch you one.”
But as Worcester raised his arm to call upon his squire, Hotspur shook his head. “I was once told by a wizard, when I was a roistering brat in Northumberland, that I would die in Berwick. All my life, I have avoided Berwick-upon-Tweed in the north. What a fool I was. How vain to believe I could trick fate.”
Worcester studied him a moment and then motioned to a squire. “Find him a worthy sword. He has a high purpose for it.”
As the squire rode off to locate a weapon, Worcester readjusted his position in his saddle and arched his back, stretching. “Prophecies are for fools who have no faith, Harry. If our fates were already written, what reason to even rise from bed in the morning? We’re here. And we’re damn well going to fight. God willing, we’ll win.”
At that moment, however, the only unwavering faith Hotspur had was that his uncle would not abandon him. Not like his father had.
They took to the road with dire haste. Hotspur’s men were hard pressed to move quickly—the previous two days’ march from Chester had left them with badly blistered feet and rapidly decaying loyalties. Given the inexperience of some of those who had recently joined the ranks, Hotspur knew he had to keep the pace controlled—fast enough to find good ground to stand on before Henry claimed it, yet measured enough to keep from losing anyone, for he needed every man.
The terrain was level. His choices were few. Finally, he chose to array them on the crest of a low ridge that crossed the road. There they would have an advantage, however small.
Iolo Goch:
That same day, between St. Clears and Laugharne far to the southwest, the Welsh army was already fighting its own battle with their backs to the Bay of Carmarthen. An army of Flemings, still bitter over the humiliation that my lord Owain had dealt them at Hyddgen, had their enemies in a very compromising position.
By the time Owain and his fierce fighters overwhelmed them and broke through, they were still over a hundred miles away from Shrewsbury. If only Owain had known, he would have been there to fight gloriously beside the valiant Harry Hotspur.
36
Shrewsbury, England — July, 1403
The solemn chanting of Latin syllables drummed from the lips of tonsured priests as they said Mass for the king’s ranks. Even Henry was down on one knee, his head bare. As one of the priests floated past with one hand tracing the sign of the cross in the air, the king dug through the dew-slicked grass with his fingernails and placed a pinch of brown earth on his tongue.
On the opposite side of the emerald field, soon to be trampled to a pulp, Hotspur leaned forward in his saddle.
“That’s it,” he said above his already sweat-drenched mustache. “Pray fast, Henry of Bolingbroke, and mean it well. The Almighty is about to deliver His judgment.”
He ripped off his helmet and nudged his horse’s flanks with the rowels of his silver spurs. Halfway between the front ranks of his Cheshire archers and his cavalry on Harlescott Ridge, he claimed a solitary spot.
The plainsong of priests droned on as he raised his voice above it: “We will retreat no more! Take up your arms against those who come against us. If we conquer, we will be promoted in our cause. If we fall, let God deliver us swiftly from our usurper. It is far better to die in battle for one’s country, than afterward by the unjust judgment of your foes.
“So stand, my men, stand with strong hearts!”
With a borrowed sword thrust heavenward, he galloped along to the rowdy cheers of his men. Then, he returned to his position and nodded to his uncle. The Earl of Worcester eased his horse through the watchful ranks and onto the low slope above a green field of peas. Once out in the open, his horse broke into a canter.
Moving his mount next to Hotspur’s, Douglas growled, “You were wise to no’ send me. I would chafe Bolingbroke’s pride so sore they would riddle me full of holes. There would be nothing left of me but bloody boots.”
Hotspur shooed a fly from his horse’s withers. “I am not so certain Thomas will not do the same.”
Worcester eyed the king with contempt. “Every year, you rob England and turn about and say you have not enough. You make no payments to those you owe. And you are no more the rightful heir to your grandfather’s throne than my stable groom.”
“England has chosen its king,” Henry said, indignant. The fatigue of a forced march had dampened his rage considerably. How much better for all this would be if Worcester and Hotspur would just lay down their arms and slink back home. “May I remind you the taxes you eschew as robbery are what run this realm and provide for even you, my good earl.” He extended his gauntleted hand palm up toward Worcester, imploring. “Trust in me, Thomas, as once you did. You were England’s Constable... and could be again. I am trying to keep this kingdom in one piece. Do not be the one to tear it apart.”
Worcester spat at Henry’s outstretched hand. “The devil I should trust you.” Then he jerked violently on his reins and sped back to his nephew’s side.
Henry turned to his left and nodded to his son. The cry went up as Prince Harry trotted toward his waiting column.
“Sound the trumpets!”
The royal archers advanced onto the field, their arrows nocked. As they halted to form their lines and take aim, Hotspur’s Cheshire archers already had them in their sights. Beneath gathering clouds, deadly rain descended.
Hotspur watched as a scattering of the king’s archers fell with their fingers still clutching their bows. Of those that survived, many turned and fled for their lives, leaping and stumbling over corpses, ignoring the outstretched hands of the wounded. But the way was not entirely clear for the king’s escaping archers, for before them stood a wall of cavalry horses a mile long and beyond that a maze of the king’s men-at-arms. Desperate to save themselves, they lashed out with their bow staves and broke through wherever they could. The horses, frightened by the mayhem, threw riders into the panicked jumble.
Douglas nudged his mount forward a step. “Now?”
Before Hotspur could even reply, his bowmen advanced further. Once more, their requiem sang out.
The wave of victory surged in Hotspur’s favor. His fingers fluttered over the binding on his borrowed sword, but he did not yet draw it from its scabbard. Perhaps his uncle had been right? It was foolish to put stake in a charlatan’s prophecies. Only God knew what the outcome of any given day would be—and thus far, it seemed He did indeed frown upon Henry of Bolingbroke’s folly.
Above the bloody field, a bank of dove-white clouds raced eastward. The sun broke through, its rays streaming down in golden fingers.
Prince Harry, vigilant and anxious, looked on with his visor still open, helplessly observing the chaos unfolding before him. He brought his hand up to shade his eyes from the sun’s brilliance. A moment later, the clouds rolled back across the sky and he lowered his hand. Just as he did so, an arrow glanced off his gauntlet and grazed his cheekbone. He pitched backward, ground and sky whirling around him.
“Mother of Christ!” Harry gripped the edge of his saddle and righted himself. Blood streamed down his chest plate. One of his knights rushed to his side and handed him a kerchief to sop up the blood. The reddening cloth pressed to his face, Harry bit back further blasphemous curses. He was wounded, but he would not go down. Ever.
Although he was burning to lead a charge, he remembered his father’s orders from early that
morning: to withhold from the fight until the moment he was absolutely needed.
‘When’ was purely a matter of conjecture. The moment would arrive as soon as he could stop the blood well enough to see.
On the other side of the field, Douglas grabbed at Hotspur’s reins. His eyes flashed wildly. “There was ne’er a finer time. A king’s head and the day is ours!”
Hotspur broke into a huge smile. “Ah, you tempt me too greatly. I will beat you to him.”
“I would no’ dare take the pleasure from you.” Douglas swept his arm wide.
The pennons on the lances of Hotspur’s knights flapped as they descended onto the plain. Hooves rumbled over soft earth. The battlefield glittered with the reflection of the July sun off polished armor.
Henry’s foot soldiers planted the ends of their spears in the ground and hugged their shafts tight, points aligned in a wall warning of death by impalement. But it was not enough. The spearmen crumpled under the onslaught. The royal standard was trampled underfoot like a rag.
Knight engaged knight. Sword striking flesh. Axe meeting bone.
Cries of “Esperaunce Percy!” saturated the air.
Henry’s force was fast losing ground. What remained of Hotspur’s army poured onto the field and engaged in what was quickly becoming a rout.
Then, Douglas saw the king in striking distance, the plume of his helmet fluttering arrogantly in the hot wind. The earl could not believe his fortune. The king’s back to him, he raised his axe and swung with a roar of triumph. His adversary turned at the warning bellow. The blade glanced off the king’s shoulder with a sharp click. The axe had been wielded with such force, that it flew from Douglas’s grasp. In a tangle of man and beast, the king’s horse reared, tossing him earthward.
Douglas kicked his feet free of his stirrups and dropped to the ground, laughter cascading from his throat. He unsheathed his sword and approached. The king lay there, unmoving, defeated. Only the slight rise and fall of his chest plate gave evidence that he yet breathed. But not for long.
Bending over, Douglas peered down into the frightened eyes that stared back at him from the visor slit. “What a momentous day this is, Henry. I promised you to my good friend, Sir Henry Percy, but I don’t think he would begrudge me this. You have but a moment to say your prayers and then —”
Douglas flipped the king’s visor up, only... it was not the king at all, but some imposter, wearing Bolingbroke’s surcoat. Douglas cursed and spat at the ground.
He killed him anyway.
Prince Harry threw down the blood-soaked rag and gave the command. He swung his wing wide behind Hotspur’s column, trapping them.
They crashed into the confused rebels. Harry wielded his sword until his arm ached. The blood on his face had dried to a crust, but every time he moved his facial muscles, he felt the hot sting of the arrow wound as fresh as a new cut.
A foot soldier rushed at him with a howl. Harry flicked his spear away. Before the man could raise his shield, Harry’s sword bit deep into his throat. He yanked his arm back, ready to strike another blow, but the man fell in a gurgling twitch.
“Here, Harry!”
The prince looked toward the sound of the familiar voice and saw his father, still seated on his horse, blood spattered, but very much alive and well. The king lifted his visor and smiled. For a breath, their eyes locked and Harry knew the day was not yet done.
They would win. They would!
Then his father flipped his visor back down and engaged the nearest rebel, striking blow after blow, his movements perhaps more sluggish than some, as the fight had taken its toll on his infirm body, but every strike precise and deliberate.
The rebel his father was fighting —
It was Hotspur!
The prince spurred his horse and the beast lurched forward with a snort. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. He yanked back hard on the reins, meaning to halt, but his horse threw his head back and reared, hooves circling in the air.
Hotspur thrust his shield up to protect himself, but hooves crashed down on his head, again and again, the final blow hard enough to unseat him. His body slammed onto the ground. He tried to roll away, but it was his own horse then that trampled him. Bones cracked beneath the creature’s weight. When the horse finally bolted away, Hotspur did not move. There was no mistaking the result.
“Hotspur is dead!” Henry cried, raising his sword high. “Hotspur is dead!”
A wave of grief came over Douglas. His heart, at first so steadfast, faltered. Their lines had collapsed. Hotspur had fallen. All around him, soldiers were fleeing. He searched and searched, but saw no sign of the Earl of Worcester anywhere.
With his sword dragging the ground, he did what he never thought he would do—he ran to save his life. It would be a bloody long way back to Scotland, but what other chance did he have?
He ran. Ran until his muscles burned and his chest refused to draw air. When he stopped to catch his breath, he didn’t look behind him. Then he forced himself onward, although he had no idea where he was going. He made it as far as the woods on a hill. He would hide there for awhile and then go on, perhaps finding others along the way.
It was long past sunset now. Had the battle truly lasted all day? In the darkness, he stumbled into a small ravine, slipping in a patch of mud. He tried to ram his sword into the ground to anchor himself, but his feet flew out from under him, yanking the sword from his grip. He fell, downward, downward, grasping at roots, stones, anything that would stop him. His foot struck a rock and he came to a jarring halt. Like a knifepoint perforating from within, bone pierced flesh. He was sure of it. Only, why didn’t he feel anything yet? Something was not right. Several breaths passed before he looked. His leg, broken halfway down the shin was twisted oddly behind him.
Then it began to wash over him—pain so complete he would have been thankful to have someone run his gut through with a blade to end his life right there. It appeared he would just have to do it himself. He groped for his knife—gone.
He slammed his fist against the rock. Finger bones cracked. “Aghhh! God’s balls! I’m here, I’m here, you stupid English swine.”
No one came. He yelled until his throat was raw and his words a croak of broken curses.
It must have been close to dawn before an unfriendly face appeared above him. “Who are you?”
“Archibald, Earl of Douglas,” he said to the young knight. “After you kill me, you can have my armor, but send my sword back to my son, will you? He’ll need it to finish what I did not.”
“Kill you?” The knight looked down at Douglas’s mangled leg and shook his head. “You’re far too valuable alive.”
Douglas groaned as another tide of pain swept over him. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”
Iolo Goch:
Ten thousand sons of England and Scotland gave up their lives that day outside Shrewsbury. Archibald, Earl of Douglas, was shown surprising mercy. Henry did not desire to flame his quarrels with Scotland and so he released him as soon as his ransom was met, saying that he greatly admired the man’s courage. His leg set in a splint, Douglas was sent home in a litter. Worcester, who had also been taken prisoner, did not meet so happy an end. Two days after the battle, he was executed.
Stricken with a moment of clemency, Henry allowed Hotspur’s body to be given to a kinsman of the Percys. But two days later, the king had Hotspur’s body exhumed and put on exhibition in the market place of Shrewsbury. There, it festered under the hot summer sun, until he could decide how best to make a fitting example of him. Finally, Hotspur’s corpse was beheaded and his body quartered; the parts were dispersed to the four corners of England.
Hotspur’s head was set upon a pike on London Bridge to look upon that city that he and my lord Owain might have conquered if all had gone as planned.
37
Warkworth Castle, England — August, 1403
King Henry strode across the great hall of Warkworth Castle, a host of knights clippi
ng at his heels. Their spurs chinked in a menacing percussion as they swallowed up the length of the room.
Head bowed, Northumberland bent his old, stiff knee to the king in utter submission. “My lord, I —”
“Could you not have done better in raising a son?” Henry said.
Northumberland braced a fist upon the floor to steady himself. “I tried to dissuade him, my lord. There is no way, I fear, to atone for his wrongs. Your mercy, I beg. Allow me to see my Harry and I will —”
“You haven’t heard?” Henry bent over, touching the earl on the shoulder.
“Heard?” The earl drew his head back, his ragged white brows drawn tight in question.
So, he didn’t know of the fate of his brother and son? There was no sense in keeping it from him a moment longer then. “Your son perished on the battlefield at Shrewsbury. Your brother was taken prisoner and lost his life on the block. They rose against me, Lord Henry. They brought against me vile, traitorous accusations. You knew of their plans. And yet you did nothing.”
Northumberland paled. His arm, then his knees, began to tremble. A whimper rose to a sob as grief overcame him. He pressed his forehead against Henry’s plated shins and wetted them with his tears.
Henry allowed him his sorrow. The ride northward had allotted him some time for reflection and an easing of his own anger. Northumberland may have known of their plans, but he had not joined with them. Even so, why had he not talked sense into them? Did he think they might win? Or did he fear from the first that they would lose?
Finally, Henry crouched down. His voice went low, almost soft. “What hand had you in this, Percy? Swear to me that you did not plot against me, too.”
Uneasy Lies the Crown Page 21
