Warwick: The Man Behind The Wars of the Roses

by Tony Riches

  He smiled weakly. ‘Not the best start to our new campaign.’

  Tully looked serious. ‘We were ambushed by Sir Thomas Clifford’s archers, my lord.’

  ‘How many men have we lost?’

  ‘A few hundred dead. Many more wounded, like you.’

  Richard closed his eyes. He needed to recover his strength. His dreams were full of images of men with arrows sticking from their bodies. He tried to push away a horrific image of his father’s severed head on a pike at the gates of York. The eyes were wide open and looking at him, accusingly. He woke in a feverish sweat, wondering where he was.

  When Edward arrived with his main army Richard was well enough to ride out to meet him. Although still freezing cold, the sky was bright and clear. All traces of the battle were gone, except for the ruined bridge and the newly dug soil of mass graves.

  Edward looked fresh, despite his long ride. He frowned at the bandage Richard still wore on his leg in place of his protective greave. ‘You look like hell, Richard, how are you?’

  Richard was glad to see Edward again. ‘At least I have some good news. My uncle, Lord Fauconberg took his cavalry upstream. They crossed at Castleford and pursued Lord Clifford. He’s dead. Killed by an arrow in the throat.’

  ‘Now we must find the rest of them.’ Edward sounded like his father.

  ‘Scouts came back this morning. They are close by, Edward. At Towton.’

  Chapter 16 - Spring 1461

  They spent a cold and miserable night with little shelter from the flurries of snow that showed winter was refusing to give way to spring. Richard wished for the warm bed and roaring log fire he’d left behind in London. He missed the comfortable fur-lined cloak he liked to wear. His armour did little to keep out the cold, although he was grateful for the thick wool padding underneath. His breath turned to white clouds in the frosted air and tiny flakes of snow glistened in the thick dark mane of his horse.

  He shifted in his saddle to ease the throbbing pain of the slowly healing wound in his leg. This battle would decide the rest of his life and which of the two kings would rule. To win would mean a glorious return to his family in London, to King Edward’s triumphant coronation. To lose would mean a quick death, if he was fortunate, or a slow one if he was not. Worst of all, the whole country would suffer the misrule of their French Queen and her self-serving council.

  Richard knew the area they were in well. He was so close to home he could almost have enjoyed the comforts at Sheriff Hutton, instead of sleeping rough in a freezing cold field with his men. It still seemed strange to him that he now owned Sheriff Hutton and Middleham Castle. He felt a sudden wave of sadness as he thought of how his father had died for the cause.

  The sleepy village of Towton lay north of the battlefield, along the old London Road. His enemies now stood between him and the city of York, where King Henry cowered with his queen and their son Edward, the Lancastrian heir to the throne. Richard shivered as he remembered that York was also where his poor father’s head had been impaled on a pike at Mickelgate Bar, next to the heads of his brother and the Duke of York.

  The thought should have made him even more ready for the fight. It didn’t, as instead Richard found himself wondering if this was to be his last battle. He looked out at the Lancastrian army facing them now across the snow-covered dale. Three times as many banners flew there as were flying for Edward. There could hardly be a noble family in the land not represented on one side or the other.

  He breathed deeply of the cold northern air and reminded himself there was still much to do. He had yet to make good his promise to his father. He had no son and heir. There was also the need to find suitable husbands for his daughters. He looked across to where Edward was rallying his men and made a mental note to discuss Isabel with him. She was only ten, half his age, although that wouldn’t matter if he could persuade Edward to wait a few years. Not for the first time he wished Edward could marry his daughter Margaret. She had just turned thirteen and was every bit as pretty as her mother, with her father’s sense of adventure. Perfect for Edward in almost every way.

  He cursed under his breath and looked out again across the snow-blanketed fields. The young Lancastrian commander Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, had chosen their high ground well. His men were arranged in deep ranks on the north side of the valley, their flanks protected by waterlogged marshes. The steep, wooded banks of the river known as Cock Beck meandered between them, a natural barrier.

  Richard rode along the ranks of his waiting men, nodding to those he recognised and raising a gauntleted hand in thanks for the loyalty of those he didn’t. A few paces behind him followed his faithful squire Luke Tully, hardly recognisable in his new armour, and a soldier carrying his banner of the bear and ragged staff. He stopped in the centre and turned to address his men.

  ‘This day history will be made. You are to give no quarter. We have marched a long way to let them escape us and fight another day.’ He pointed to where Edward sat proudly under the royal banner. ‘You fight for your new king. The rightful heir to the throne, King Edward of England.’ He looked at their frozen faces. ‘God is on our side!’

  A rousing cheer went up from the men, turning heads all over the battlefield.

  ‘A Warwick!’ More men joined in to the call until it rang out across the valley.

  ‘A Warwick!’ They hammered noisily on their armour to show they were in good spirits despite the relentless cold wind that chilled them to the bone.

  Richard ordered the trumpet call to ready for action and his army formed up in ranks opposite their enemies as heavy flakes of snow began to fall. Rows of his best archers marched to the front, then battle-hardened men-at-arms with heavy bills and poleaxes. His mounted cavalry waited in the rear, the heat from the flanks of their warhorses rising as steam in the freezing air.

  Richard was proud of the men who followed him yet still had a nagging concern at the back of his mind. He wondered how many of them shared his secret fear that they would not see another day. The strength of their enemy bothered him. In the cut and thrust of close hand-to-hand fighting, numbers mattered more than skill with a sword.

  He turned to Tully, keeping his voice low. ‘We look outnumbered yet again, Tully. Is there no sign of Sir John De Mowbray?’

  Tully frowned. ‘Not yet, my lord.’

  ‘Have you seen whose banner is on their right wing?’

  ‘Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland!’

  ‘Yes, and somewhere out there is that bastard Trollope.’

  ’It seems Somerset is waiting for us to make the first move.’

  ‘Then let’s not disappoint him, Tully.’ He drew his sword and raised the shining blade high so Edward could see his men were ready.

  His father’s younger brother William, Lord Fauconberg, commanded the archers. A tough soldier, he was well respected by the men. William fought with King Henry V and helped bring the king’s body back to England when he died at the siege of Meaux. Now he was dressed in his old-fashioned, heavy armour and mounted on a fully armoured war horse, flanked by his squires and a man carrying his colourful banner. He reminded Richard of one of the knights in the illustrated books of chivalry he had read as a child.

  Lord Fauconberg acknowledged Richard’s sign and looked across to see Edward also draw his sword and hold it high in the air, the signal he’d been waiting for.

  ‘Archers! Step forward!’ A thousand men brought their powerful longbows up to position, pointing arrows up into the grey-blue sky. Richard noted that the icy wind was freshening and to their advantage.

  Lord Fauconberg shouted to the archers, his deep voice echoing across the field. ‘Nock!’ He made sure they were all ready. ‘Draw!’ A forest of powerful longbows were drawn as one. ‘Loose!’

  The sharp whoosh of a thousand arrows being unleashed was followed by a moment of silence as they flew in a high arc, carried by the wind to strike deep into the rows of men on the opposite slope. Sharpened bodkin arrow heads pierced
Lancastrian armour like daggers through paper. Anguished cries of pain from wounded and dying men drifted across the shallow valley to Richard and he knew they had passed the point of no return.

  The archers watched closely to judge the range of their first shot, then began to empty their quivers of arrows in a fluid motion, the best of them managing to loose a dozen arrows in a minute. Richard watched as the Lancastrian forces suffered heavy casualties before they had even moved. Great swathes of the enemy ranks collapsing in shouts of pain and panic as the men at the front lost their nerve against the relentless onslaught.

  The freezing wind blew harder now and returning Lancastrian arrows fell short, slowed by the wind against them and blown off course. Richard watched with grim satisfaction as the white expanse of virgin snow ahead of his men was soon bristling with arrows sticking harmlessly into the ground.

  Lord Fauconberg was ready and shouted again in his loud baritone voice.

  ‘Archers! Advance!’ The line of bowmen stepped forward into the snow, firing their six-foot longbows as they went. Richard watched as many casually bent to pull the Lancastrian arrows sticking from the ground and fired them back where they had come from.

  Their plan had worked. The Duke of Somerset showed his inexperience of command by ordering his army to advance down from their high position to the plateau of the open field. This was what Richard had been waiting for.

  ‘Trumpeters, sound the advance!’

  The shrill sound carried well and the archers moved aside as they heard the signal to let the men-at-arms pass. The heavily armoured men carried long bill hooks and poleaxes that could wound and maim without even coming in range of a sword. Used with both hands the savage poleaxes could slice even a helmeted skull in two with one blow. A hammer on one side could deliver a crushing blow and many had a sharp spike on the top which made them potent thrusting weapons.

  As the men-at-arms were marching to engage the enemy Richard saw a sudden flurry of movement to his side. The Lancastrians had been saving a deadly surprise for his men.

  ‘Cavalry! To the left flank!’ Richard shouted a warning as hundreds of mounted knights swept from their hiding place in the trees with a thunder of hooves on the frozen ground. Swinging heavy broadswords and deadly maces they cut into the men on the ground, hammering forward, killing as they went. Others carried long lances that speared through men before they even had a chance to fight.

  Richard saw Edward in the thick of the fighting, surrounded on all sides. He could hear Edward’s voice shouting for his men to stand and fight. Archers loosed their arrows into the enemy horses at close range, causing them to wildly rear in panic, throwing their riders to the ground and trampling over men with their iron-shod hooves. Even as those at the front fell, more appeared from behind and Richard felt a familiar sense of foreboding as he realised how badly they were outnumbered. His men were being steadily pushed back. Some had already turned and run off.

  He called to Tully and they charged into the fray, hacking at the heads of the men trying to pull them from their horses, ever wary of the ground that was now slippery with blood spilling into the melting snow and ice. Richard felt a sharp thump as a crossbow bolt glanced off his armour. He saw Tully’s horse go down, mortally wounded by a savage blow to its chest from a bill hook. Tully rolled as he fell and sprang to his feet, ready with his sword as two men attacked him at once.

  Richard raced to his rescue, slashing at one of them and deliberately riding over him as Tully speared the other in the neck with the point of his sword. The fighting was relentless and desperate, with more men pressing forward as the York army was driven back up the slope. A shrill trumpet blast sounded close by and for a second Richard thought it marked the retreat. He looked to the high southern ridge behind them as the Duke of Norfolk's men charged in to join them. Now the Lancastrians desperately tried to hold their ground. Although the duke’s men had been on a long march they were fresh to the battle and routed the tiring soldiers, who had been fighting for hours.

  The Lancastrian line broke as men began to run for their lives. Richard’s men started shouting his old battle cry as they realised the day was won.

  ‘A Warwick!’ The call became a roar across the battlefield. ‘A Warwick!’

  They ran in pursuit of the fleeing enemy. Some tried to surrender, throwing down their weapons. They were cut down without mercy. Richard looked across the snowy field and knew the tide had turned. Edward was still high on his horse, rallying his men, his royal standard flying proudly next to that of his father.

  Richard knew Edward’s father would have been proud to see his son. He made his way through the dead and dying men towards his new king. The ground was littered with abandoned weapons and armour cast away by the Lancastrians as they ran. In the distance he saw the battle was not yet over for some.

  Shouts rang out in the frozen air as commanders encouraged their men.

  ‘No quarter!’

  They chased the fleeing army towards the fast-flowing river, where many were swept away in the icy water. Archers fired at the running men, choosing their targets with deadly efficiency. One by one the last of the Lancastrians fell, bodies twisting with the impact of each blow. Richard looked around him. There was no sign of Tully and he felt a pang of sadness. He was going to miss Luke Tully, his loyal companion for so many years, one man he could always trust.

  Groups of soldiers were already busy stripping the dead of their armour, the reward for risking their lives for the new king. They showed little respect for those who had no further use for their armour or weapons. Richard recognised one of the half-naked corpses lying in a dark red circle of his own blood in the snow. Andrew Trollope stared up at him with sightless eyes. He had finally paid for his treachery at Ludlow field and his part in the murder of Richard’s father and the Duke of York, although he felt little satisfaction. Whoever removed his armour must have also recognised Trollope and had cut off his nose as a final punishment.

  Richard could see their new king enjoying his moment of victory in the distance, surrounded by cheering men as he gave a victory speech. Richard knew he should have been elated at their triumph against such odds, to see the Lancastrians well and truly defeated. Instead he felt cold and tired. He couldn’t remember when he last had a hot meal and the dull ache from his wounded leg troubled him.

  Before he left for York Richard called to visit the windswept tents where the wounded were being tended by nuns from the convent. It saddened him to see some of his men who were plainly never going to recover from their wounds. He did his best to thank them for their service and was about to leave when a familiar voice called out.

  ‘My lord, the battle is won, the war is not!’

  He turned to see Luke Tully, his head bandaged, his grin a sign that he would soon recover.

  Richard laughed with relief. ‘Tully, you bastard, I thought you were dead!’

  Richard rode at Edward’s side, followed by their battle weary army through the gates of York, stopping to reverently oversee the removal of the heads from the Micklegate Bar. They already knew that Henry and his Queen had fled the city with the young Edward, Prince of Wales. It seemed impossible that the Duke of Somerset could have escaped the carnage at Towton, yet despite a careful search his body had not been found. They also knew that Queen Margaret would already be planning her next move.

  Edward had to be crowned before the people would truly recognise him as king. Richard’s brother John was left to deal with the Scots as best he could while he returned to London to organise the coronation. He had a hero’s welcome, as rumours had somehow reached Anne that he was badly wounded. She was so relieved to see him safe and well she broke down in tears. He had little time to spend with his family, as the parliament was in disarray and many people needed to be won over to King Edward.

  In late June, Edward’s grand coronation procession made its way through the streets of London, to the adoration of cheering crowds. In full armour of burnished silver and gold,
with victories at Mortimers Cross and Towton behind him, Edward was everything King Henry had failed to be. Richard rode proudly behind the king with his personal guard in fine red tunics and the long flowing banners of Warwick and York flying high.

  At Westminster Abbey Thomas Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury, placed the crown of state on Edward’s head and made him King of England. Richard watched from the side with Anne, just as he had at the coronation of Queen Margaret. So much had happened in those intervening years yet so much was still the same. Even as he watched Edward being crowned, he realised Margaret was still Queen, still a real threat to them all.

  The wine flowed freely at the grand coronation banquet in the great hall and there was much merrymaking. The king’s champion, Sir Thomas Dymoke, rode noisily into the hall in full armour on his warhorse. Throwing down his gauntlet, as required by the old tradition, he challenged all who disputed Edward's right to the throne to do battle with him.

  Edward now rewarded those who had been loyal to him, knighting and giving new titles to his followers. His mother and two brothers had returned from exile and he made twelve year old George the Duke of Clarence, and nine year old Richard, Duke of Gloucester. Richard’s brother John was rewarded for his courage with the title of Lord Montague. His brother George became Lord Chancellor of England, a position formerly held by his father.

  Richard looked at the new king at the head of the table and recalled his own moment of self-doubt on the snowy battlefield at Towton. He still had much to do. The old King must be recaptured and held somewhere safe where he could do no harm. Queen Margaret could be allowed to return to Anjou with her son, if she would promise to never return. Most importantly of all, Edward must be found a wife, a Queen fit for such a king. He stroked his beard and wondered where he should start.