At the council called that night, however, it did not seem to Bedford that Henry was being reasonable about this battle. It would be better, of course, if they won it; but it would not be a major tragedy if they lost. Both Edward IV and Henry VI had lost battles without losing the crown. Richard III's loss was only fatal, Bedford explained patiently, because he, himself, was killed. Whatever the outcome, Henry should not involve himself personally. The king listened politely; he always listened politely to advice, and sometimes he even took it. In this case he shook his head.
"It will not happen often that I come to battle in my own person, but when I do I will win or die. It is foolish, perhaps, to discuss this matter before a battle in which the victory is so certainly ours. Nonetheless it should be said that when I am present the principle of running away so that one may fight another day is abrogated. The man who runs away from any field I am on will be my murderer as surely as if he struck the blow himself."
"No man of us will leave the field while you are on it, sire, and I for one will not leave it at all until your voice commands me to do so," Oxford said.
"So say we all," came the murmur around the table.
"Let us hope, then," Henry replied merrily, "that I do not lose my voice shouting commands, for this will be a barren place—and noisome, too—for a victory celebration. Will you accept a note in my hand, Oxford, if my voice fails?" He paused to let the laugh die, and then continued seriously, "Look you, they cannot win. Only two thousand are decently armed or trained. The others are barbarians, wild and ungovernable, ill-armed. They may be brave, but they will be useless."
"What arrangements shall I make for prisoners?" Edgecombe asked.
To the universal surprise, Henry turned pale and seemed to lose his confidence. He looked around the table at his council as if for help, but before anyone could respond his lips thinned into an ugly line. "None. There are to be no prisoners. No quarter is to be given except for Lincoln. Every effort is to be made to take him alive. I intend to find out from him who was part of this conspiracy."
There was a moment of shocked silence. In the past the council had struggled against Henry's leniency. They scarcely knew how to protest against this complete reversal of policy.
"Is this not a little hard, Your Grace?" Jasper asked.
"I am always 'Your Grace' when you are displeased with me, uncle, I know, but this is not wanton cruelty—I hope. We have now a remarkable opportunity to accomplish a multiplicity of purposes. Think first of the effect on the country if these rebels are slain to a man. Who will be tempted to rebel again? At the same time, we can arouse little hatred amongst our own people by this slaughter for these are not Englishmen with brothers or cousins among our own forces. They are foreign mercenaries and Irish barbarians, unconnected to our folk. Third, think of the effect on the Irish, who set out so bravely to plunder or conquer England, when their great army does not return or perhaps a man or two to tell a tale of English invincibility. When next I send a lord deputy to Ireland, they will come on bended knee and kiss his hand."
Smiles flashed round the table; heads were shaken in mute admiration. Henry never forgot anything, never permitted passion to sway him. Never had there been such a king.
"Now, the order of battle," Henry continued. "There is no need for much prearrangement for we know not what they will do. Oxford will take the first shock. Devon and Nottingham will hold the flanks. When the time is ripe, I will give order that Devon and Nottingham encircle for the kill. When the reserve is needed, it will come in with Bedford as leader. Understood? Very well, let us to our beds. Tomorrow we will have them."
"One thing more, Harry."
"Yes, uncle?"
"We think one or perhaps two other men should wear your colors and arms as like to yours as possible. Remember how Richard charged at Bosworth."
Henry considered for a moment and then shook his head negatively.
"Harry," Jasper said sharply, "it is better to be a live king than a dead hero."
"I am no hero—" Henry laughed "—as you all well know. If anyone of you around this table could wear my clothes, I would agree. In fact, I have seldom regretted my lack of girth and inches more, for such a device would give me much freedom of movement. Not one of you could be mistaken for me, even in the heat of battle. Every man is a head too tall or a yard too wide. Who else dare I trust with such a thing?"
They suggested this and argued that, but at last Henry's viewpoint prevailed. The meeting was ended, but Ned Poynings remained behind as the others rose to go. Henry looked at him, looked aside, and forced a smile.
"Are you checking on your investment in head and livelihood, Ned?"
Poynings laughed. "In a way I am, I suppose. I wish to ask a favor."
"Ask."
"I wish to be your standard-bearer."
"No!" Henry paled again. "William was cut down because he had no way to guard himself and would not loose the pennon. No. I cannot spare you, Ned. I cannot."
"I am no hero, either, sire, but I have a reason. I heard a most interesting tale this afternoon. One of the yeomen came most anxiously to me and asked where you were going all unguarded toward the enemy host. I, having but that instant left your chamber, told him to mend his eyesight and that you were within. He insisted, however, that a man of your looks, manner, and bearing had left the city."
"Were extra suits of my color ordered?"
"Ay, two. They are still here. I checked at once, but if the tailor knew the style and manner of the emblem, what should stop him from designing still another suit?"
"What indeed? Well, there is nothing to be done."
"We could find out from the tailor."
"Which tailor? Do you expect me to put twenty men and all their assistants on the rack to discover if one extra suit of colors was made? Do you think whoever ordered the work done came himself to do so? And what if the same man did not make all three, but three men one each, or no tailor we used but some private person did the work? There is not time enough in this one night. To ferret out such answers needs days or weeks, not hours. No, let it go."
"Then will you let me hold the pennon? If another Henry should appear and the standard-bearer grow confused—"
"No, Ned," Henry said softly. "If I have another fear or another worry, I will run mad. I could not bear it. I would see you lying dead like William. I will give the banner to John Cheney. After dressing me and undressing me, he is not like to take me for another. Besides, if they have another 'king' will they not have another dragon also?"
CHAPTER 21
Messengers rode in every half hour through the night to report on the movement of the false Warwick's army, but it lay quietly encamped and no one needed to wake the king until the time he had ordered. The force was still encamped when Henry rose at dawn, heard two Masses, and marched his men to Stoke, a small village about a mile from Newark. It was certain from this position that they would intercept Lincoln, Lovell, and their pawn unless they retreated.
The royal army was drawn up into its usual three battalions. Oxford commanded the main force, with Devon and Nottingham to support him, while the reserves held the men of doubtful loyalty mixed with some who were fanatically devoted to the king. It was the best arrangement that Henry could make to ensure against treachery.
Henry had placed in command the formidable Bedford, who would not hesitate an instant to order the loyal troops to kill any man who seemed about to falter. Jasper did not like it because he did not like to be separated from Henry, but he understood the necessity and made no protest.
The king, surrounded by the faithful group that had come from France with him, was slightly to the rear. The fact that there was no sufficiently rising ground had forced him to take a position a good deal closer to the actual battle lines than he had at Bosworth.
He had to be seen and to make his orders known, of course, but his station made Jasper even more acutely uncomfortable. To his mind, Henry was strangely excited. The king did not se
em to be fearful or bad tempered, but he was certainly under more tension than appeared in him at Bosworth. He seemed much concerned that the invaders would not fight, and all he spoke of to his captains before they separated was the need to engage.
In fact, Henry was very nearly out of control. The battle had become an obsession with him. He was convinced that if he won, the beloved son who gurgled at him so lovingly would cease to appear with a dead, bloated horror as a secondary image.
The battle, like Bosworth, had begun with the crash of Guildford's guns. Like Bosworth, too, there was no answering crash, but Henry took little joy in the swaths cut in his enemies' ranks or in their cries and waverings. For once he had a desire to fight hand-to-hand on his own. His months of fear and frustration had risen to a crescendo, which could only be satisfied by violence. He was also concerned that the enemy would break and run, being largely undisciplined barbarians, that he would be denied the bloodbath he craved personally and politically, and that the invaders would spread through the land spreading sedition with them.
Long before the proper effect had been achieved by the bombardment, Henry had sent a curt order to Guildford to raise the muzzles and concentrate his fire upon the reserves. That action was Oxford's sign to advance and, if he thought the time of firing short, he did not question it.
The king had ordered it; Oxford thought there must be some reason he could not see from his position. A glance right and left across his line. All was right. "Archers!" he bellowed, and the cloud of deadly wasps' rose humming. Shields went up along the line as the volley was returned. The pennant with its streaming star was shaken out and surged forward.
Henry edged closer. The household guard obediently followed. Those who knew the king were surprised, for he had not shown the slightest inclination to join the fighting at Bosworth. He had been courageous enough when the battle was brought to him, but his tendency was to direct, not to engage.
Now the signs were plain on him: flushed face, eager eyes, the hand that crept to the sword hilt and was pulled away. Henry knew that what he desired was foolish. If a chance arrow should strike him, the battle would be over regardless of strength, skill, or superiority in his forces. Still he moved closer. The exchange of arrows was nearly over and Oxford's men were fighting hand-to-hand up and down the line. John de Vere himself struck out mightily, bellowing encouragement and orders whenever he cleared a space and had time for them.
Personal bravery and encouragement notwithstanding, Oxford's men were no more than holding their own. The line wavered forward then back. The accursed German mercenaries were fighting not only with precision but with a determination Henry had not expected of men who were paid by the day like laborers. The Irish, too, although ill-armed and paying a heavy toll for it, showed a stubborn bravery. At the moment the virtue was lost upon Henry who cursed them aloud.
To the right and left, Devon and Nottingham were less engaged. Henry felt like cursing them, too, but he knew their tactics were correct and what he had ordered. The enemy showed no signs of panic or breaking. Their force was still far too large to be encircled and too great a pressure on the flanks might buckle Oxford's line.
A quick glance at the sun told of an hour's fighting. An hour, and they had not gained a foot. The streaming star still waved bravely, but it had stalled. Oxford could not advance, and he would not retreat. If Henry could have reached his hair, he would have tom it with the agony of his desire to throw himself forward and end the stalemate. He actually raised a hand to his helmet as if his head hurt him.
Cheney, bearing the red dragon standard, pressed closer to see his master's face. It had not changed except that the eyes were madder, more eager. The knowledge that his personal entrance into the battle would be more a danger than a help to his army had less and less power to hold Henry back. He wanted—more than he had wanted anything except to be king—to strike with his own hands, to kill those who threatened his child.
Then Oxford's banner dipped. Henry did not care that it might merely be the effect of the standard-bearer dodging a blow or that, even if he were wounded or killed, someone else would snatch up the banner. With a scream of joy he drew his sword.
"Forward!"
The household guard with their retinues, the yeomen of the guard, and a troop of Londoners, about five hundred men in all, followed. They crashed into the lines; Henry's sword swung and bit, and the scream of the wounded man tore loose the remaining strands that anchored the Tudor to sanity. He was not conscious of the men fighting to keep beside him, exposing their own bodies to shield his. He only knew that he could strike and strike, that his sword grew red, that screams followed his blows.
The duke of Bedford watched with bulging eyes. He had cried out with fear when he saw his nephew charge, and now he bit a bloody gash in his lip as he fought the impulse to follow him into the fray. He was an old soldier and he knew his duty.
What had driven Henry to such an act of madness, he could not guess, but it was certainly not tactical considerations. To bring in the reserve at this moment would be madder than what Henry had done. He fought back tears, not because he was ashamed to weep but because he had to watch the rather small figure in green and white and could not allow his vision to be misted.
"Harry, Harry," he muttered, "Harry, be careful! Watch what you are about. Guard yourself. Child of my heart! Oh God, protect him."
But Henry felt perfectly capable of protecting himself. His charge had done some good, the shock forcing back Lincoln's men and giving breathing space to Oxford's. It had not broken the enemy, however. They closed their ranks and held, but not as firmly as they had before.
Here and there a bulge of the Tudor's men pressed forward, and at the head of one such bulge, Henry fought with a ferocity foreign to his nature—blind, deaf, and desiring only to kill and kill and kill.
Lord de Broke, Poynings, Cheney, and, surprisingly, the earl of Surrey fought beside him desperately. Cheney, hampered by the standard, had enough to do to protect it and himself. Lord de Broke followed fanatically wherever Henry went. If the king wished to go forward, forward they would go, whether it was reasonable or not. Surrey, personally knowing little of the Tudor, was fired by admiration. He had not thought that the quiet, studious monarch, always surrounded by papers, always concerned with personal adornment, had this fire.
Surrey warded blow after blow from Henry's body with steadily deepening appreciation of his bravery, although he could not greatly commend his fighting skills. He had never doubted the Tudor's wisdom; now he would never doubt his courage again. If Henry did not fight, Surrey thought, it was because it was wiser not to fight, not because Henry was afraid. Edward Poynings alone had a glimmer of what drove the king. He would, if he could, have stopped him, but he was far too busy keeping Henry and himself alive to speak or try to maneuver.
Forward again, still forward. Shaking with terror, Jasper moved the reserves closer. If Henry did not stop, he would be encircled by the enemy. What was wrong with him? On the flanks, Devon and Nottingham had not seen the sudden charge. They knew the king was engaged because they could see his standard in the thick of the press, but neither would believe that the cautious Henry, who remembered everything, would have gone into battle without leaving orders for them.
Both knew it was time to begin the flanking movements, but each hesitated because their orders were to wait for Henry's command. All three strained their eyes, watching for a gesture from the king or for a messenger riding toward them. It was growing harder and harder to separate Henry from all the men, friend and enemy, around him. He was small to begin with, and his colors became more and more smirched with dirt and blood as he penetrated deeper into the enemy lines.
"Harry," Jasper groaned. The standard was there. Foot by foot it still moved forward, but as far as Jasper could see the king was gone. He remembered suddenly with an even greater thrill of terror that John Cheney was the kind that became drunk with fighting. He had charged, against the king's orders, at Bos
worth. What if Henry were no longer near the banner? What if Cheney had forgotten that his first duty was to stay by the king so that the men would know where to rally? What if Henry were alone on the field?
"Harry, come back!" he screamed suddenly.
Far off to the right—a lone figure in green and white, unhelmed to show golden hair whipped by the wind—was fleeing away, galloping off the battlefield.
"The Tudor flies!"
"The king flees!"
"Henry the bastard runs from us!"
The cries rose from every quarter of the field, and the royal army wavered, hesitating whether to strike again or take to their heels. In the few seconds of relative quiet, Jasper's agonized scream pierced the blood-stained mist in Henry's mind.
"Harry, come back!"
"I am here," he called, raising his bloody sword, but he was small and his voice was not loud.
"The king is here!" A voice like a trumpet rang out, as Surrey let loose the power of his lusty lungs. "Here in the midst of his enemies! To the king! To the king! Here! Here!"
"Devon! Nottingham! Forward!"
Henry wondered whether his voice would reach them, whether others would take up the cry. He could send no messenger. There was not a man around him that he dared part with because he had so few. A fine mess he had gotten himself into, he thought, but he had no time for self-blame. The pretender's forces had taken heart and the royal ones were shaken. It was most necessary to address himself to staying alive.
On the evening of June 17, the king's wife and mother sat silently together in the garden of Kenilworth Castle.
They did not sit together for comfort, for to each other they had no comfort to offer. They said nothing to each other, for neither had anything left to say.
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