by Stuart Hill
We reached the head of the column where our commander John Neville sat in conference with his officers. He looked just like a younger version of his brother, the Earl of Warwick. He had the same easy way of telling people what to do, and the same shifting eyes that constantly moved from face to face as though looking for signs of treachery.
I nodded in formal greeting when my name was announced and, though he should have bowed, he barely moved his head. He was mounted and his horse was restless, snorting and sidling as we rode up, so that could’ve been an excuse for his lack of respect, but somehow I think politeness didn’t come easily to the Earl of Warwick’s brother.
“My Lord Prince,” he said in a surprisingly quiet voice. “The knights you’ve brought with you are welcome.”
I heard Francis take a sharp breath at the insult. Neville seemed to be saying the knights were welcome, but that I wasn’t. I reached across and laid my hand on my friend’s sword arm.
“I’m pleased to be of service, my Lord Neville. De Castile had already told me that you only had a small command, and I see he wasn’t wrong. I hope our insignificant addition of knights and squires won’t be too much trouble for you.”
The shifting eyes stopped and focused on me. Obviously he was a proud man and understood an insult when it was given. For a moment I thought he was actually going to draw his sword, and I tightened my hold on Francis’s arm.
But then he seemed to force himself to relax, and he suddenly smiled. “How is your back, my Lord? I hope it doesn’t affect your abilities too much.”
“My abilities are the equal of men twice my age, my Lord Neville,” I answered quietly. “My back is not a problem.”
“Then you are a warrior indeed. We can only imagine how much greater you would have been if you hadn’t been a cri— if you hadn’t had problems with your spine.”
“Some men have straight spines and twisted minds,” Francis said.
“And some have tongues that are too big for their mouths,” said Neville. “Perhaps they should be cut down to size.”
“Well, I think the Lancastrians would be happy to know we’re sitting here in happy conversation instead of seeking them out for battle,” I said. “Perhaps we can talk again when the enemy is defeated.”
This time Neville did bow and, after shouting orders, the army rattled itself into readiness and then, with a lurch, rolled forward towards Hexham.
Obviously John Neville had decided our interview was over, and Francis, De Castile and I rode back to our own little unit of knights in silence. Neville was a surprising figure; he seemed to have all of the Earl of Warwick’s energy and command, but none of his cleverness or ability to see where powerful friends could be made. He’d insulted me within minutes of meeting me and, though I was young, I was a prince and would one day grow up to have the sort of power that could be useful to him. Could such a man be trusted with command of an army?
Well, one thing was for sure, we would very soon find out!
CHAPTER NINE
We clattered along the road for the rest of the day. We were part of an army now that, though small, was obviously much larger than the unit of one hundred knights and squires that had left the Earl of Warwick’s castle in Middleham, and as a result we moved much more slowly. There were many more wagons in the baggage train and even a few cannons and guns rattling along on their awkward wheels and pulled by horses. The guns were mainly small culverins, but there were one or two medium-sized serpentines too.
Slowly we rolled up the miles and at last the town of Hexham came into view. A great cry went up through the army because we knew the enemy were near. John Neville had been sending out scouts and they’d soon reported back that the Lancastrians were camped nearby, trying to block our route into Hexham itself.
Then at last, at a place with a fast-flowing river set between steep banks, with the appropriate name of Devil’s Water, we saw them! They stood in three sections spread across flat meadowlands that probably would have been marshy in winter, but which were now were obviously dry and firm. One branch of the river protected their rear and another their front. I gazed at them hungrily. So this was the enemy! These were the people who would happily kill my brother the King and me as well if they could! They sparkled and glittered like a great fire as their armour and weapons flashed and glinted in the sunlight. There seemed to be endless thousands of them to me, but De Castile dismissed them as a ‘piddling little force’.
“They’ve chosen a good position though,” he admitted.
We were sitting on high ground looking down on them, and Francis leaned forward eagerly in his saddle. “Yes, there are branches of the river protecting them front and rear, and they command good ground defending the only bridge over the water to Hexham.”
“Exactly, my Lord Lovell,” said De Castile. “The crossing’s known locally as Linnels Bridge, and if John Neville’s any sort of commander he’ll know he’s got to get the enemy out of there as soon as can be.”
I looked to where Neville sat at a distance in conference with his officers. “We’ll have to cross the river upstream somewhere and outflank them,” I said quietly. “That way we’ll gain access to the water meadow they’re defending and all we’ll need to do is push them back and take the bridge.”
“Ah, I see we have a tactician with us,” said De Castile kindly. “And you’re right, we’ll have to do exactly that. Cross the river in secret, and then take them by surprise in their flank or side. But now it’s up to our commander to decide where and when.”
Francis caught my eye and grinned in excitement. We’d hardly had time to discuss anything since setting out from Middleham. An army’s not the most private of places to have a conversation. We didn’t even share a tent so there’d been no chance to talk about anything at night. All we could do was snatch the occasional word when riding along.
Francis moved his horse closer now and, while De Castile rumbled on about strategies and troop movements, he leaned across. “Are you ready for all this?”
“For what?” I asked in turn. “You know we’re only here to witness the action. We’re not allowed to fight.”
He shrugged with a clank of plate armour. “Strange things happen on a battlefield, we could get mixed up in the fighting without meaning to.”
“And do you like that idea?” I asked.
Well, we’re trained for it if that’s what you mean,” Francis replied.
“It’s not, and it’s not what you meant either.”
“No,” he agreed. “Sergeant Langham can tell you exactly how to kill a man, but actually doing it is a very different matter.”
I nodded. We seemed to have been thinking about nothing else since we first learned we were going to battle. But no amount of discussion was ever going to prepare us for the reality.
“Well, one thing’s for sure, Francis,” I said with a smile. “If we do get ‘mixed up in all the fighting’ we’re soon going to find out if we’re ready for it… in fact probably in the next few hours.”
That night we crossed the river. It was a moonless night and black as coal, but Neville’s men were well trained and followed their orders without question. We went a mile upstream and the noise of the rushing waters masked the sounds of horses, rumbling cannons and chinking armour.
The infantry crossed in boats that Neville had requisitioned from the local river folk and the cavalry took off their armour and that of the horses and then swam them across. The cannons were floated over on the flat-bottomed boats that were used as ferries and cargo carriers, and the cavalry’s armour went with them.
One or two of the horses shied away from the cold water before being persuaded to plunge in, but everyone got across safely. Re-arming in the cold and dark with numb fingers was a struggle, but at last we were ready and whispered orders were passed along the line to set off for the Lancastrians’ position. We made our way almost blind through the pitch dark, but a local guide knew the way and led us safely to the water meadow where the ba
ttle would be fought. With the first light of dawn we were drawn up and ready.
Once again the day was bright and clear, and the army that stood before us was brilliant with flags and the coats-of-arms of the cavalry.
My feelings were definitely mixed that morning, because De Castile and our force of one hundred knights and squires had left Francis and me sitting on a high hill looking down on the action, while they got ready to fight. Even Gisborough had been called to take part and had ridden off with them, his face an odd mingling of panic and pride.
Even though I’d known we weren’t going to be allowed to fight I was still disappointed, but also I couldn’t help being a little relieved. At least now I wouldn’t have to kill anyone. Of course I’d never admit such a thing, not even to Francis, and for the next few minutes a struggle raged in my brain between the part of me that desperately wanted to fight, and the other part that was glad to be sitting out of it.
But then my attention was grabbed by movements down in the water meadow. I’d been told that the Duke of Somerset was in command of the enemy forces, and from my place on the piece of rising ground we’d occupied, I could see a gentleman riding up and down, shouting orders and pointing angrily at our position.
“My Lord of Somerset, I presume,” I said.
“Yes, definitely,” said one of the group of ten knights who’d been assigned as mine and Francis’s personal bodyguards. “We must have been a terrible shock to wake up to!”
“He probably thinks he’s having a nightmare, more like,” said Francis.
“Well, we’ve certainly taken them by surprise,” I said watching the officers scurrying about. “If Neville knows his job, he’ll hit them now before they’re ready.”
Just as I said this, a trumpet sounded on the cool morning air and our cannons roared, sending shots smashing into the Lancastrian ranks. The firing went on for a few minutes, throwing the enemy into chaos and confusion, then the combined force of our cavalry and infantry charged.
They hit the enemy’s right wing like a glittering spear thrown by a giant, and a great clatter and clamour rose up into the air as men and horses screamed, sword hit sword, and lance smashed through shield into bone and soft flesh.
For a moment the enemy line held, but then suddenly they began to draw back, like a bank of fog before a strong wind. And then with a despairing roar they broke and soldiers were scrambling away, running for their lives back to the river and the bridge.
My face ached and I realized I was clenching my teeth with tension and excitement. Another trumpet sounded and we watched as Neville sent more of our army into the gap left by the fleeing enemy.
I could clearly see De Castile and the detachment of knights and squires from Middleham as they rolled forward down the hill and towards the enemy position. They moved slowly at first as they made sure everyone was together and then they gathered momentum as they moved down towards the river. Faster and faster they went until their horses leapt forward to fly in full gallop.
The enemy turned to face the Middleham cavalry, digging the butts of their spears into the ground and holding them at an angle. My ears were filled with the sounds of charging hooves, and of screaming men.
Our horses hit their line. A great roar went up and our cavalry drove forward, pushing the enemy back. The air was filled with arrows, crossbow bolts and flying spears. I saw our flag-bearer slump in his saddle and begin to fall. He held the standard he was carrying high, and his voice rang clear over the distance.
“FOR YORK! FOR YORK!”
Then as I watched, someone I recognized took the flag. Gisborough! The roar of onset sounded again as Neville led the rest of our army into the fight, and at last the enemy line began to waver until without warning they broke and ran.
Francis and I watched as our army pursued them to the bridge and to the steep banks of the river where many fell into the water in their desperation to get away from our chasing swords. Some tried to swim and drowned, dragged down by their armour, and others were crushed under the weight of their comrades as more and more fell down the banks.
A few tried to make a stand and turned to face our forces, but our army rode them down. Even though we were watching from such a distance the sunlight was brilliant and both of us could see that the bridge was packed with wounded and dying soldiers, but our own soldiers burst through and rode on, driving the defeated enemy before them.
Again in desperation some of the Lancastrians turned to make a stand, but our horses drove through them. That was almost the last of the enemy’s resistance and we watched as our soldiers pushed them along like sheep.
In fact we were so intent on watching the battle that no one in our small group noticed a fleeing band of nine or ten Lancastrian cavalry heading our way.
They galloped along a deep fold in the hill that rose towards our position and hid them from view. Suddenly they burst upon us, knocking two of our guardian knights from their saddles and hacking at us with battle-notched swords. There was hardly time to think; I snapped down my visor, drew my sword and thrust straight armed at the enemy knight before me. A lucky strike, the point found a gap in his armour and blood spurted out. He fell in a clatter of armour and, as I swung around, I saw Francis smash his mace down onto the head of another Lancastrian. He dropped like a stone.
Now together with our remaining bodyguards we drove forward, killing as we went. It was over in seconds. Six of their knights lay dead and two of ours. Four of them escaped.
I lifted my visor and grinned at Francis. Despite all the efforts to keep us out of the fighting we’d been blooded after all.
CHAPTER TEN
By nightfall we were in an armed camp in the hills. In the distance we could hear our soldiers celebrating the Yorkist victory in the streets of Hexham, a sight that wasn’t considered fit for boys of our age. The actual fighting had been brief, and De Castile said it was little more than a big skirmish, but it would stay with Francis and me throughout our lives.
Our forces had taken possession of Hexham Castle and Neville had made the Great Hall his main centre of operations. Later that night a messenger came from the town and told us many of the Lancastrian leaders were brought to what Neville called justice.
It wasn’t really a trial. Neville just asked for their names and then sent them off to be executed. No one objected, not even the prisoners themselves. The messenger said they even looked like men who were already dead, with blank eyes and pale faces. In the end over thirty were killed.
Later, after the messengers had gone back to Hexham, Francis and I sat over a campfire and discussed what we’d heard.
“Well, at least that’s thirty fewer Lancastrian leaders to trouble us in the future,” my friend said as he lowered himself painfully to the ground. After a day and a night in the saddle both of us had aching muscles.
“Or thirty fewer new allies made loyal by a pardon,” I finally answered, after I too had carefully sat down and found a comfortable position for my back. “My brother has forgiven his enemies before now, and some have served faithfully ever since.”
Francis shrugged. “It’s a difficult one; how can you tell who will remain loyal in gratitude and who will secretly think you weak for not carrying out the obvious punishment? What would you have done?”
I didn’t answer for a long time as I considered the question, but then I said: “What can I say? They were the enemy of the House of York, and therefore the enemy of my brother. Perhaps I’d have done the same if I’d been in Neville’s place, and perhaps the Lancastrians would have done the same to us if they’d won. But I can’t help wondering if we’ve killed men who one day could have been useful friends and allies.”
“Well, it’s too late now,” Francis replied bluntly. “They’re just food for worms.”
I shuddered. How many others would die before this war finally ended?
The next day dawned grey and drizzly. The streets of Hexham were quiet at last. With his usual discipline, De Castile had ordered an
early start for our journey back to Middleham, and though a few of the men had sore heads, everyone who’d survived the battle and could ride was in the saddle at first light.
Our own casualties had been light, only five knights had been killed and eight squires, though a few more than that were wounded, including Gisborough, who had a deep sword cut in his arm. He and the other injured were placed in a wagon with two monks from the Hexham priory infirmary to look after them on the journey. Gisborough’s wounds weren’t as bad as we first thought, and already he was sitting up and demanding to be allowed to ride, so I was more than hopeful he’d soon make a full recovery.
John Neville didn’t bother to see us off, a further example of his bad manners, but I suppose I couldn’t expect too much from a man who was the brother of the Earl of Warwick. In fact we clattered away with hardly anyone to see us go. Nobody waved and nobody cheered, and when we rode by the battlefield the dead remained silent.
Our own dead already lay in a mass grave dug immediately after the fighting. In fact it was still being filled in as we went by, so we did get a few waves from the gravediggers as we made our way home.
I soon found that the time after combat is quiet and sad, or quiet and full of horror. The joy of battle I’d heard veteran soldiers talk of soon fades and leaves behind it an empty space that everyone fills in their own way.
We camped that night in exactly the same place as we had when riding to Hexham, but this time there was no real need to set guards and pickets, though De Castile insisted on them.
Neither Francis nor I had much to say to each other, we just felt deadly tired and that night he shared my tent, both of us glad to know there was someone else nearby.
