by Nigel Green
‘Surprised us in the mist!’ he shouted. ‘Our archers would not have got many shots.’
I was about to question him, but my lord held out a metalled gauntlet, and I passed him the leather water flask. He grunted and glanced to the right to search for Oxford’s troops.
The pushing and shoving continued, but it was impossible to make out what was happening. I could see little, nor could I work out whether we were advancing or retreating. I tried to fix our position by pinpointing a tall tree on my right, but when I looked again later somehow the tree had got behind me. Even more confusing was the fact that while we were constantly moving there was no sign of the enemy. Men passed us on either side but, apart from the clanging ahead, there was little sign of a battle.
The sudden whirr of an arrow made me slam my visor down and my sense of disorientation instantly worsened, my vision being restricted to the little I could see through its narrow slits. I stumbled on something large beneath me and would have fallen had a halberdier not grabbed me. Flinging my visor up, I swallowed uneasily. The ground beneath us was covered in bodies. My lord signalled to me and I moved over to where he stood, talking anxiously with one of his captains. Without being asked, I handed him the water flask. The captain ignored me.
‘What’s Exeter doing?’ he demanded.
‘Holding his own, but only with the help of all our reserves,’ the Marquis Montague replied bitterly.
The captain looked startled.
‘He shouldn’t have needed them. We’ll want them here presently.’
My lord made no reply, but looked out for Oxford’s men. The captain followed his gaze.
‘Lancastrians – untrustworthy bastards,’ he muttered as he moved away.
My lord looked worried and, because I knew him, I could sense his thoughts. If the situation on the army’s left wing was unexpectedly disappointing, what was happening on the right wing was a total mystery. Oxford’s division appeared to have disappeared into thin air and none of the messengers, who Montague had sent, had returned.
There was a lull in the fighting and we stopped moving. I realised later that men in armour cannot fight indefinitely, and there are times when the battle almost stops while men regain their strength. It was now that my lord commanded me to take the last two mounted messengers to find Oxford.
‘Tell him to break through Hastings immediately!’ he ordered.
We rode behind the army to the hedge where Oxford’s men had been stationed and found it completely flattened. There was no sign of Oxford or his men, only a number of bodies on the ground.
I rode forward anxiously, hardening my heart to the sound of the feeble moans of wounded men. There were large numbers of weapons strewn randomly; I guessed that they had been thrown away in flight.
‘No further, master,’ the older messenger called out. ‘There may be enemy troops hiding.’
The mist had cleared completely now, but no matter how hard I looked I could not see Oxford’s men.
‘We’ll go on!’ I ordered.
The older man glanced at me scornfully.
‘You’ll never find them. They will be long gone.’
‘What do you mean?’
He gave me a pitying look.
‘Oxford’s attacked and the Yorkists have fled. Oxford has chased after them.’ He dismounted abruptly and started running his fingers through one of the dead soldier’s clothing.
‘Stop that!’ I ordered.
He looked at me defiantly and moved on to another body. His colleague was doing the same. I drew my sword, but he picked up a mace and his comrade a fallen sword. For a few seconds, we all just stood there stiffly eyeing each other.
‘It’s the right of soldiers to loot,’ the younger messenger said truculently. ‘Always has been and always will be.’
‘Course it is,’ agreed his friend. ‘You can’t stop us, master; Oxford’s men will be doing exactly the same thing.’
He hefted his mace.
‘But if you do want to stop us master, you just try.’ His companion came to stand next to him. He waved his hand back in the direction from which we had come. ‘Or you can just ride back and forget about us.’
The two of them watched me closely. I cursed them and rode away. The important thing was to return to my lord and tell him that, while Oxford had completely routed the Yorkist left wing, he and his men had totally disobeyed instructions. There would be no flank attack on the Yorkist centre.
It had all gone horribly wrong, I reflected, as I made my way back. Evidently the prospect of plunder and revenge had proved too much for the Lancastrian Oxford and his men. There was little chance of him reforming his troops – most would just sneak away with what they had stolen and, even if they did return, given that most of them were foot soldiers, it would probably take too long. Worse still, by giving Oxford the extra men, Marquis Montague had obviated our side’s numerical advantage and already our reserves were engaged in propping up Exeter’s flank.
I skirted the rear of our army anxiously until I found my lord and told him the news. He cursed Oxford as an impetuous fool, but then a messenger arrived from Exeter; his men were suffering badly, and he needed reinforcements urgently. My lord gestured to a number of his immediate companions and his halberdier bodyguard to return with the messenger, and looked longingly to his right, doubtless hoping that Oxford’s troops would return to save the day.
The noise from the front was louder now and I could actually make out the sun banners of the enemy. There was a sudden roar from ahead of us and we were jolted backwards. My lord frowned.
‘I believe that King Edward has thrown in his reserves.’
‘Hold hard!’ he yelled and snapped his visor down, but we were all pushed back again. In front of us the clash of weapons grew louder and the ground beneath us more muddy and treacherous. Another squire seized my arm.
‘Tell my lord that enemy horsemen threatened our right flank,’ he gasped. ‘They have been repelled by arrow fire, but they might attack again.’
I turned to my lord but his gaze was focused to our left flank. He summoned his captain again grimly.
‘Exeter’s force is crumbling,’ he said briefly. ‘Prepare to strengthen our left flank.’
The captain glanced at Exeter’s position.
‘Their line is buckling,’ he confirmed, ‘and already a few of his men are starting to slip away.’ He looked at my lord. ‘Gloucester will be upon us soon, my lord. We’ll be squeezed between him and King Edward’s reinforcements.’
I felt an icy chill. It was not so much what they said that panicked me, but the calm way in which it was said. Two experienced soldiers had evaluated the situation extremely quickly and had come to the same inevitable conclusion. In a short while we would be totally overwhelmed.
Others spotted the increasing desertions from Exeter’s division and there were cries of ‘treason’ and a general edging backwards. The Marquis stood tall so he could be seen by those around him and gestured to advance. Temporarily reassured, men moved forward. My lord beckoned to me.
‘Francis!’ he said urgently. ‘Find my brother. Tell him the day is lost. Tell him to flee quickly. I will hold the ground here as long as I can.’ He smiled at me briefly and then, snapping his visor down, turned back to the battle.
A squire may only leave his lord during battle at his express order. I pushed my way to the rear with eyes streaming. It was obvious that the Marquis Montague’s instruction was not only designed to save the life of his brother but mine too. It was typical of the man that when he could have sent anyone with the message, his first thought had been to preserve the life of his own squire. Equally characteristic of the man was his decision to mount a rearguard action. For while he stood firm, Gloucester’s victorious troops would not pursue Exeter’s fleeing men, but would attack him. He was, I realised then, the bravest and most generous man I had ever known.
Behind the lines, it was pandemonium. Men raced frantically in all directions, jostling
one another and striking out when another got in their way. I looked round wildly for the Earl of Warwick, but all I could see were Exeter’s men running away. A knight on his armoured horse spurred his way into them frantically, using the flat of his sword to make them turn and face the enemy, but he was quickly pulled off his mount and the mob raced on.
Already I was being overtaken by a number of Montague’s own archers. They dashed past me, flinging away bows and swords, their ragged breath and wild-eyed expressions evidence of their terror. Sensing this, my own fearfulness grew ever greater and I lumbered desperately after them.
Suddenly, I spotted the Earl of Warwick in the throng. He moved slowly accompanied by only two knights. I forced my way through the mass of fleeing solders to get to him. With him I would be safe.
‘My lord, your brother sent me. The battle is lost and he bids you to flee.’
The earl’s face was flushed and his breath came in quick gasps. He nodded at me and raised his voice to the knights.
‘Bring the horses here!’ he ordered.
They hurried away obediently.
I offered him my flask of wine and he snatched at it eagerly. Even as he gulped at the drink, the roar of battle grew ever louder and there was a sudden shout.
Gloucester must have launched his flank attack, I thought miserably. By now my lord would be under attack from two sides.
‘Where are the horses?’ the earl panted.
I looked round desperately, while the numbers of men hurrying past us was increasing, I could see no sign of Warwick’s knights returning.
‘They will be here presently, my lord.’
We waited anxiously as the noise behind us grew louder still, and more and more men slipped past us.
‘Where are they?’ demanded the earl furiously.
Despite all my fear, my heart went out to him. It was obvious by now that his knights had decided to save themselves and not their lord. The great Earl of Warwick, who had ruled the North as a king and who had nurtured thousands of his retainers, had been abandoned by them all. It was not right to leave my lord like that.
I gestured in the direction of the camp.
‘We will find horses there, my lord.’
We started to move slowly towards the wood. The earl’s panting was growing ever louder, and his face was turning increasingly red. He stumbled a couple of times, and his eyes met mine in mute entreaty. I offered him my shoulder to steady himself.
There was a great shout from behind us and I heard the cry ‘Montague’s down!’ An instant later, the trickle of men racing past us became a torrent. We were jostled and my lord was flung to the ground. I shielded him as best I could until the crowd had passed, but it took all my strength to get him up.
He swayed unsteadily, his breathing ragged.
‘The camp is only a little further,’ I said encouragingly.
He glanced at me dully and the weight on my shoulder became heavier as we staggered on.
We came to a clearing and, just as I was daring to think we would make it to the camp, my lord fell heavily. I laid my poleaxe on the ground and bent over him. He lay with his eyes closed, his rasping breath coming very slowly.
The sudden crack of a snapping branch behind me made me spin round. A few yards away, six or seven men were advancing stealthily towards us. For a moment, I imagined that they were the earl’s men come back to help him, but to my horror I saw them draw their swords and spread out in a crude semi-circle facing us.
They were Yorkists.
The rasping noise from behind me told me that the earl still lived, so I slowly bent down to pick up my poleaxe and then closed my visor. Stepping forward a pace, I swung at the nearest man and did not wait to watch him fall. I jabbed quickly at another, but I was too slow. The others must have rushed me, as there was now a terrible pain in my left leg and then something hit my head and everything went dark.
I must have drifted in and out of consciousness; at one point I believed that a group of men came and peered at us, but eventually my head began to clear, although I found it difficult to see properly. As my vision improved, so my concern for the earl increased and, ignoring the pain in my leg, I raised myself up on one elbow to attend to him. But then I retched uncontrollably. The Earl of Warwick’s face had been sliced open and his blue eyes gazed sightlessly at me. Looking down, I saw that much of his armour had been ripped off and even his gauntlets had been taken. I peered at his hands and vomited. The thieves had hacked off his swollen fingers to steal his jewelled rings – his hands now ended in bloody stumps. I wiped my mouth and thought back bitterly to what the two messengers had said about looting. What an easy target the earl must have seemed to his murderers. I cursed them and brooded darkly on the evil that could cause men to do such a thing.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of horses. I propped myself up to watch the knights dismount. Judging by their magnificent armour, I guessed that these were nobly born Yorkists. The approaching men must have noticed my movements, as two of them advanced on me with swords outstretched and stood threateningly over me.
‘The earl, Your Grace.’
There were murmurs of consternation from the knights when they saw what the thieves had done.
‘Anthony – care for him and Montague. Have them cleaned up. I want them displayed in St Paul’s so all men know they are dead.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
In response to some unseen gesture, the two guards removed their swords and the group clustered around me.
‘Get up!’ an immensely tall man commanded me.
‘I can’t.’
The giant gazed down at me.
‘Who are you?’
‘Lovell, squire to Lord Montague.’
A metalled foot booted me in the ribs.
‘You say, Your Grace.’
‘Leave him, Anthony,’ the tall man said.
He glanced down at me curiously, lying next to the dead earl. Then he narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
‘If you were Montague’s squire, why did you leave him?’
So I told His Grace – for this must have been King Edward himself – of how my lord had sent me to warn his brother to escape and how Warwick’s knights had run away. I explained how I had tried to help him. I gasped out the remainder of my sorry story quickly as the memory was so painful. The tall fair-haired Duke of Clarence, who stood next to King Edward, eyed me incredulously.
‘So you stayed with Warwick when the others deserted him?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
He shrugged contemptuously.
‘Then you were a fool to have done so.’
I looked up at the traitorous Clarence with loathing.
‘Doubtless you would think so, my lord.’
The pain as his foot hit my wounded leg was indescribable and sweat, mingled with tears, ran down my face as I waited for the next blow. But someone must have pulled him away for another blow didn’t come. The knights waited for the king to decide my fate.
‘Have him tended, Anthony,’ King Edward said.
He looked down at me coldly.
‘In future, Lovell, show your allegiance to me, not to my inferiors.’
A man-at-arms remained with me as the group departed. He systematically searched the body of the Earl of Warwick. A series of muttered curses indicated that he had been unable to find anything of value. I ignored him and lay perfectly still. I guessed that presently men would come and I would be treated. Until they arrived, I dwelled on the murdered earl and his dead brother Montague. I grieved for them; the two men whom I had respected most in the world were no more.
CHAPTER 3
I sighed with pleasure as sunlight suddenly flooded the abbey garden. Its warmth would not only enhance the colours of the flowers but also bring out their scent. It was peaceful here now as the brothers were no longer weeding the cellarer’s vegetable garden nor tending the physic plants. They had left a few moments ago, some to work in the neighbouring cherry orchard
, others to weed the abbey’s fish ponds.
I closed my eyes and sniffed the air to see which of the herbs I could identify. I had only got as far as thyme, meadowsweet and peppermint when a more pungent smell told me that my self-appointed guardian was once again checking that all was well with me.
Sure enough when I looked up I saw Esau’s great shaggy head inches from my face with concern in his eyes. I stroked him to reassure him and, with a contented sigh, the enormous hound sank down again. As I looked at him, I wondered for the hundredth time about his ancestry. There was something of the mastiff about him and his sheer size hinted at wolfhound, but then neither wolfhounds nor mastiffs are covered in tangled brown hair, and both breeds have tails, which Esau did not. It seemed that he had simply appeared at the abbey a couple of years before and the kindly monks had felt pity for the half-starved dog with a length of cord tied round his neck. They had taken him in and cared for him. Within weeks, the newly named Esau had become a fully-fledged member of the community. Ostensibly he served as a watch dog, but in reality his role was to be an outlet for the affection of these loveless men.
My own arrival at the abbey must have caused Esau considerable anxiety for by now he was used to the routine of abbey life and familiar with the sounds around him. He had grown used to the tolling bells and subsequent chanting that came from the abbey church, and he knew to expect to hear the soft pad of sandals on worn flagstones when the monks left their services. And, above all things, Esau was used to long periods of monastic silence.
I was not quiet, though, which worried Esau. Unlike the others, I did not move serenely in a contemplative manner, clicking my paternoster beads but rather thudded my crutch into the ground and heaved myself forward panting loudly. And there was my whistling; no one else in the abbey whistled. I whistled, when occasionally I had the breath, to tell myself that my leg did not hurt when it touched the ground, and I whistled to try and ignore the pain from the chaffing under my armpit. Esau did not know this though. My movements were strange and my noises unfamiliar. With his wooden cross on its chain bouncing against his chest, he bounded towards me to investigate.
