This seemed sound to Martin, and he was encouraged when the Queen nodded in approval. Somerset was still hot for charging east, like a mad bull, and falling on the Yorkists wherever they could be found, but his was a lone voice. Wenlock stared glumly at the map and continued to say nothing at all.
“To Gloucester, then,” the Queen said decisively, “it is essential we get across the Severn, and join with the Earl of Pembroke.”
Orders were immediately despatched, and the Lancastrian army divided as it marched out of Bristol. The vanguard hastened west, to occupy the town of Sodbury, while the remainder of the army force-marched north in a bid to reach Gloucester before the Yorkists got wind of their intentions.
At Prince Edward’s insistence, Martin rode with the royal household knights. Somewhere in the rear of the army, riding at a more decorous pace with the Queen and the rest of her ladies, were his sister and little niece. Since arriving at Bristol he had had no leisure to seek them out, and was unlikely to before the army crossed the Severn.
The Lancastrians were some distance north of Berkeley when a lone horseman appeared on the road ahead. Apparently unafraid of the hundreds of armed and mounted horsemen cantering in his direction, he steered his horse onto the roadside and dismounted. Then he knelt in the mud, swept off his cap and bowed his head.
“Who is this madman?” said a knight to Martin’s left, “does he want us to toss him a coin as we ride past?”
Martin had recognised his brother’s shock of red hair the moment James doffed his cap. Careless of discipline, he broke ranks and spurred towards him.
“James!” he shouted, raising his hand in greeting, “can it be you? I thought you were still in France!”
James lifted his head, and his pinched face lit up with a smile of pure delight. He stood up as Martin brought his destrier skidding to a halt just yards from him, and laughed as earth sprayed over his cloak.
“This was new just weeks ago!” he cried in mock outrage, holding up the hem of the cloak, “a gift from the Earl of Warwick. I trust you can pay for a new one, now you have risen so high in the world?”
Grinning, Martin slid dexterously from his saddle and folded James in a bear-like hug. He had seen little of his middle brother in recent years, and was astonished by how small and fragile he was: as the youngest child at Heydon Court, Martin was accustomed to being the runt of the litter.
“Gently,” James chided him in a muffled voice, “else you will crush me like an egg. God’s blood, when did you grow so big?”
Their reunion was interrupted by an angry shout. The brothers turned to see a trio of horsemen galloping towards them. These were prickers, lightly-armed soldiers whose duty it was to round up deserters and stragglers.
Their captain halted at a respectful distance. “The Prince of Wales sends his compliments,” he said gruffly, “and wishes you joy of each other, but desires that you rejoin the army without delay. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise we will have to be flogged back into line,” James said cheerfully, “or at least my brother will. I am an envoy, not a soldier.”
“An envoy from whom?” the captain enquired, frowning at him suspiciously.
“From the Earl of Warwick, once. Now? I’m not sure. From God, perhaps.”
“Or the Devil,” added Martin, with a sly wink at James as he clambered back aboard his horse.
“I don’t know where you have sprung from,” he said, looking down with sincere affection at his brother, “but I am glad to see you. Is our meeting here an accident, or did you mean to find the Queen’s army?”
“No accident,” replied James, “I have slogged up and down this wretched country looking for you, and wearied God with prayers that I should find you safe and well. I heard about Barnet. Were you there?”
Martin nodded, but was interrupted by the captain before he could speak again.
“To the ranks, gentlemen, if you please,” he barked impatiently. Not wishing to be embarrassed before his comrades, Martin complied, and signalled at James to follow as he rode back to the vanguard.
They had little time to speak further as the army hurried on towards Gloucester, raising great clouds of dust as the long lines of horse and foot marched at the double through sweltering heat. The drummers beat out a relentless pace, and the shouts and occasional blows of the marshals ensured there were few stragglers.
Martin was desperate to know what was happening to the west, where the Yorkist army was coming up fast from Cirencester and the Lancastrian vanguard had advanced to deceive them. He cast envious looks at the mounted scouts that tore back and forth along the line, carrying messages from the prince and his closest knights at the head of the column to the Queen at the rear.
He judged it be about two hours before noon when the army came within sight of the town and castle of Gloucester. A tired cheer rippled down the line, for it seemed that the Lancastrians had succeeded in outmanoeuvring the enemy.
The sense of euphoria vanished when the Queen sent riders forward to demand access to the town and the river crossing, and were refused.
“What’s happening?” Martin demanded, trying to jostle his way through the knights in front of him to get a clear view.
James appeared by his side, an incongruous figure among all the grim, steel-clad warriors. “The gates are closed against us,” he said, “Edward must have got a messenger to the governor of the town, Sir Richard Beauchamp, before we arrived. I know something of Beauchamp. He will do whatever appears the safest course.”
“In that case he should open his gates,” said Martin, “our army is here, and the Yorkists are not. We should threaten to storm the walls if he doesn’t let us in.”
James raised an eyebrow. “Storm the walls? There is no time for that. If Edward sent a message to the town, that means he must know that the main part of our army was coming here. The Queen’s ruse at Sodbury has failed.”
Martin saw the logic of that. A sense of impending doom settled over him. “Then where are the Yorkists?” he said, glancing east, “if the usurper wants to snare us, where is his army?”
“Not far,” James assured him, “you may depend on that.”
Despite the threats and insults hurled at him by the Queen’s knights, Beauchamp stubbornly refused to open his gates. Exasperated, but unable to risk waiting any longer, the Lancastrians were forced to leave Gloucester and push on north, towards the river crossing at Tewkesbury.
They reached the English side of the river late in the evening, too late to attempt a crossing. Utterly exhausted, the army made camp near the ivy-grown ruins of a castle, while the Queen and her entourage took shelter for the night in a religious house.
The army posted scouts and pickets to watch for any sign of the Yorkists approaching from the south. A palpable sense of fear and trepidation descended over the camp. If Edward attacked now, the Lancastrians were scarce in any condition after their brutal night-march to resist him.
Martin was as hungry and bone-weary as any of his comrades, but his heart was set on seeing his sister, perhaps for the last time. Accompanied by James, he made his way through the outskirts of the camp to the nunnery where the Queen’s ladies were lodged.
“I wish to see Mary Bolton,” he said to the pair of knights guarding the door, though they had already recognised him from the white hawk on his surcoat. One of them fetched a page, and the boy escorted them into a large, airy chamber with a vaulted roof supported by pillars in each corner.
The Queen’s maids were lodged here, and looked up from their meagre suppers with tired disinterest as the two men entered.
“One moment,” said the page, and vanished up a stone stair. Martin and James were left to wait in awkward silence.
Soon enough, soft footsteps sounded on the stair, and Mary appeared, leading Elizabeth by the hand.
Martin’s heart broke as his eyes took her in. She looked painfully tired, and thinner than ever, and there were thick strands of grey in her unbound hair. They had clea
rly interrupted her while she was making ready for bed.
Despite her patent exhaustion, she gave a cry and ran towards them, dragging the startled Elizabeth behind her like a puppy on a lead.
Tears followed, shed by all three siblings, and for the last time on earth they shared a moment of joy and companionship. Their talk was more an excited babble than conversation, full of laughter and interruptions and half-answered questions.
“We have not been all together since we fled from Heydon Court, over a year ago,” said Mary, gazing delightedly at her brothers, “how I wish we could be there again, and never leave.”
“That time will come,” Martin assured her, though James said nothing.
“God willing,” said Mary, crossing herself. Then she remembered her daughter, who had taken refuge behind her skirts.
“Don’t be shy, Lizzie,” she laughed, taking the little girl’s wrist and pulling her forward, “these are your uncles, and nothing to be afraid of. Don’t you remember them?” Mary’s blue eyes regarded them both with deep suspicion, though she suffered herself to be kissed on the cheek and lifted into the air by Martin.
“Light as any feather,” he said, holding her at arm’s length, “a typical Bolton woman. Our womenfolk never carry any spare flesh, even though some of them might be in need of it.”
He looked pointedly at Elizabeth. “Don’t,” she said, wagging a finger at him, “I will not suffer any lectures. I get enough of those from Sir John.”
“Sir John?” James said sharply, “Sir John Dacre, would that be? Is he still trying his luck?”
A faint blush of colour appeared in Elizabeth’s pale cheeks. “I will say no more,” she said firmly, retrieving her daughter, “save that he has proved himself a good friend to me, and I trust him.”
“Marriages have been based on less,” replied James, with a knowing look at his brother. Martin wondered what that implied, but had no desire to spoil the moment by raising awkward questions.
It was spoiled anyway, when the door flew open and a wild-eyed squire in the prince’s livery stumbled inside. Without sparing the Boltons a glance, he raced towards the stair and sprinted up them three at a time.
James cocked his head to listen as excited shouts sounded outside. “The Yorkists must have been sighted,” he said, “come, Martin.”
He was suddenly all business, but paused long enough to kiss his sister and tousle Mary’s hair. “Have a care,” he said, looking hard at them both, “and if all goes to pot, be assured that I will come and find you.”
With that, he turned on his heel and strode out. Martin went to follow, but Mary caught his wrist.
Their eyes met. Her mouth worked, as though she would say something, but the words failed to come. With a last, lingering glance at her and Elizabeth, he gently disengaged her hand and hurried out after his brother.
Chapter 25
TEWKESBURY, 4thApril 1471
The Yorkist host broke camp at Tredlington, three miles south of Tewkesbury, and advanced through the shimmering haze of early morning towards the bridge over Swilgate Brook.
King Edward rode in the middle of his troops, a huge and imperial figure in his gleaming, richly decorated armour, the golden crown of England set high on his helm. Above his head flew twin standards displaying the rising sun of York and the pards and fleur-de-lys of the Plantagenets.
After being briefly outwitted by the feint of the Lancastrian vanguard at Sodbury, Edward had wasted no time in forcing his army on to intercept the Queen’s army before it could cross the Severn at Tewkesbury.
His men suffered agonies of thirst as they stumbled through the merciless heat, and gained no relief from the few streams on en route, muddied and rendered undrinkable by the passage of horses and wagons. Edward pitied their suffering, but refused to slacken the pace until he knew the enemy’s whereabouts for certain.
His advance scouts informed him that the Lancastrians had stopped just short of their target, on the English side at the river, and that Jasper Tudor’s Welshmen were nowhere to be seen. Even without them, the Queen held the slight advantage in numbers, but Edward was in no mood to falter. As always when the blasts of war sounded on the horizon, his natural lethargy had fallen away from him.
When dawn broke he arranged his army in the customary three divisions: vanguard, centre and rearguard. His brother Gloucester had command of the van, a reward for the youthful duke’s loyalty and valiant service. Edward led the centre, and was careful to keep the shifty and untrustworthy Clarence at his side. Lord Hastings, having survived the destruction of his division at Barnet, had the rear.
While his men filed across the bridge, Edward spurred forward with his bodyguard to inspect the Lancastrian position outside Tewkesbury.
Among his knights was Sir Geoffrey Malvern, given this place of honour after his dramatic escape from imprisonment and torture at Crowspur Castle. Edward had listened avidly to Malvern’s tale, and willingly supplied him with horse and armour.
“If only every man under my command displayed your fortitude,” he said, “once this battle is done, we shall speak again about your claim to those forfeited estates in Staffordshire.”
A rise in the ground just north of the bridge concealed the enemy from view. His scouts advised him not to progress any further.
“The enemy are drawn up in line on a low ridge south of the town, Majesty,” one of them explained, “they have broken ground before them, a right maze of lanes and dykes and hedges. It will hinder our advance.”
Edward considered this. He might have known that the likes of Somerset, who had seen military service in Burgundy, and Lord Wenlock would be canny enough to choose a good position to array their army. Now the Yorkists would be obliged to struggle uphill, over difficult terrain, in the teeth of Lancastrian arrows and gunfire.
“How is their army divided?” he asked, though he could guess.
“The Duke of Somerset and his brother command their right flank,” the scout answered promptly, “while Devon holds the left, and Lord Wenlock and the Prince of Wales their centre.”
“The Prince of Wales is in his cradle in London,” said Edward, holding up a finger, “that boy you refer to is plain Edward of Lancaster, a traitor and a false pretender to my son’s title.”
“Of course,” said the scout, abashed, “your pardon, Majesty.”
Edward shrugged off the mistake and turned back to rejoin his centre. Once the last of his horse-drawn gun carriages had clattered over the bridge, he oversaw the army as it formed up again and wheeled left towards the Severn.
Sir Geoffrey approached him. “Majesty,” he said, pointing at a clump of wooded parkland visible to their left. “Those trees bring to mind the Lancastrian tactics at Towton.”
“So they do,” said Edward, shading his eyes to peer in that direction, “old Somerset placed some men in the woods beside the hill, and they burst out on us when the battle was joined. Had they attacked a little earlier, they might have rolled up our line.”
“Why not employ the same strategy? Your Majesty can spare a few spearmen. If they approach the woods from the south, they should go unnoticed by the enemy.”
Edward looked at Geoffrey with appreciation. “Agreed,” he said, “I can indeed spare a few men, and you can lead them.”
So it was ordered, and Sir Geoffrey led two hundred mounted spearmen to occupy the woods.
***
From his vantage point on the ridge, Martin watched the Yorkists advance in good order and deploy with calm efficiency on the plain below.
He felt strangely uncomfortable as he sat aboard his destrier, just a few feet from Prince Edward’s standard bearer. His horse and armour were expensive gifts from the generous prince, since he had lost all at Barnet.
The custom was for gentlemen to ride to battle and fight on foot, but the prince had ordered his personal guard to be mounted, so they could advance quickly to shore up any weak points in the line.
The rest of the Lancastrian cent
re was dismounted. Long lines of billmen, knights and men-at-arms were arrayed in front of Martin, three ranks deep. The archers were in a staggered line to their front, ready to shoot down at the Yorkists when they advanced within range.
After the frantic bustle and hurry of the Lancastrian deployment, a strange calm had settled over the army. Every man was in his place, and knew that the Yorkists were at a disadvantage. Edward of March had fewer men, and no way of avoiding the difficult ground in front of him by marching around his enemy’s position: the Lancastrian flanks were protected by the deep waters of Swilgate and Coln Brook.
All was ready, but Martin could not shake off a growing sense of unease. None of the Lancastrian captains filled him with confidence, and the Queen herself had retired to the rear.
Mary and Elizabeth were with her. His only comfort was that they were well out of danger, and could flee if the battle went ill. As a priest, James was another non-combatant, but had disappeared soon after the army broke camp.
The Yorkists deployed slowly, spreading out until their divisions stood adjacent to each other. He looked for their artillery, as all good soldiers should, and a familiar feeling of dread swelled up in the pit of his stomach when he saw the gun-carriages brought forward and unlimbered.
Edward was clearly no fool, and had ordered his guns to be arranged on the flanks of his army and in the gaps between his centre and left divisions. Martin was no expert, but he recognised the sleek, menacing shapes of serpentines and demi-culverins. He had seen similar guns at work at Empingham, and knew how capable they were of reducing the human frame to so much pulp.
The two armies were separated by some four hundred yards of open ground, well within range of each other. The Yorkists were the first to open up, and the drums of the opposing armies were swiftly drowned by the boom and crack of artillery, followed by the whine of gunshot streaking through the air.
Loyalty Page 19
