Sacrifice

by David Pilling

  “Damn them,” he hissed, and turned to one of his esquires.

  “Tell Norfolk to begin the cannonade,” he ordered, “and prepare to advance on our signal.”

  The squire put spurs to his horse and galloped away, around the squares of infantry in Richard’s division, towards Norfolk’s standard.

  “The enemy is not yet in range, sire,” ventured Salazar.

  Richard didn’t even deign to reply. He could gauge the distance just as well, but craved the sound of gunfire. Anything to drown out the chaos in his head.

  Soon he got his wish. Norfolk’s guns boomed out their song, and the air filled with the whistle and crack of artillery, as well as the stench of powder.

  Their shots fell hopelessly short, for the rebel vanguard was indeed well out of range. Still, the noise did much to soothe Richard’s soul.

  He thought the din of artillery might cause Richmond’s men to waver. Instead their discipline held. Though he had publicly dismissed the pretender’s mercenaries as cowardly Frenchmen and villainous Bretons, he knew them for professionals, and that they would earn their pay.

  Richard turned his head to the left. This was the moment for the Stanleys to prove their loyalty. Lord Stanley had drawn up his three thousand men south of Richard’s left flank, near the village of Dadlington. His brother’s force was visible further to the south-west, beside Stoke Golding.

  If they advanced now, Richard planned to send Norfolk forward, which meant Oxford’s vanguard would be attacked from three sides at once. Some hard fighting might follow, but the outnumbered rebels would be crushed in the end. Richard would have his victory at last.

  Time crawled past. The Stanleys did nothing. Richard cursed at the sight of their troops, arranged like so many chess pieces on the fringe of the battlefield.

  “A plague on them both,” he snarled “fetch Lord Strange. His kinsmen have chosen to betray me, therefore he dies.”

  Three of his retainers rode off to fetch Strange, who had been left behind under close guard at Sutton Cheney. Richard would have preferred not to kill the man, but the Stanleys had set him at defiance. They would learn the price of treason.

  Now the rebels advanced into the storm of gunfire. The sweating Yorkist gun-crews loaded and fired in haste, and far too many overshot. A few balls found their mark. Richard hissed with satisfaction every time he saw a rebel soldier fall, his limbs smashed to pulp or blown away. One ball passed clean through a man’s chest, showered his comrades with blood and entrails and killed three more behind him.

  The guns were doing damage, but not much. No more than two score men fell, and the gaps in the rebel line were swiftly plugged.

  Renewed excitement coursed through Richard’s veins as he flung up his right arm. Trumpets blasted in response to his signal, and seconds later the forward lines of Norfolk’s division moved forward.

  The archers went first, jogging in loose order to rain shafts down on Oxford’s men. Behind them advanced long lines of spears, with the glittering steel forms of Norfolk and his household retainers in the centre. These men would perform the butchery at close quarters, hacking and bludgeoning at the enemy with all the horrid tools of war: halberds, axes, broadswords, war-hammers, pole-axes, maces, sawn-off lances.

  Archery was the prelude to the real slaughter. Oxford sent forward his own bowmen to combat Norfolk’s, and for a short time they exchanged hails of steel-tipped missiles. Meanwhile the Yorkist guns continued to rumble and spit iron death into the rebel lines.

  There was a broad stretch of marshy ground to the south-east of Richard’s position. Oxford had cleverly aligned his advance so the marsh was immediately to his right, guarding his flank. Richard recognised the manoeuvre, and silently cursed his own indecision.

  “I should have fetched de Vere back to England,” he said, his sharp eyes picking out the stout figure of the earl, on foot at the head of his retainers, “rather than trusting to Blount to keep him secure.”

  Sir James Blount. Another traitor. He would be somewhere among the rebel lines, having offered his sword to Richmond. Yet another head destined to end upon a pike over the Tower.

  The archers on both sides were falling back now, their arrows spent. They had done some execution, and the ground between the two armies was littered with dead and dying bowmen.

  “God for King Richard! England and Saint George!”

  Norfolk’s massed lines of spearmen and men-at-arms were closing on the enemy, banners waving as they tramped forward. Their impassioned shouts made Richard’s heart swell.

  “Go to it, Howard,” he rasped, “whip these dogs off the field for me.”

  He expected Oxford’s division to close for the murderous hack-and-thrust of the melee. Instead the rebel trumpets rang out, and their vanguard stopped dead.

  “What are they about?” he exclaimed. For a few joyous seconds he thought Oxford meant to retire, but Salazar quickly disabused him of that notion.

  “Clever,” the Spaniard remarked, “my lord Oxford has learned something of military strategy on the Continent. See how his troops reform. Pikes on the flanks, I notice. They must be Swiss.”

  Richard watched, befuddled, as the first three ranks of the rebel vanguard formed into a single massive wedge, bristling with pole-arms on the flanks. The supporting wings under Talbot and Savage followed suit, until the rebel line resembled the teeth of a fence.

  Norfolk’s advance faltered in the face of this unexpected manoeuvre, and the war-shouts of his men briefly died away. They picked up again as the duke himself pressed on, sword raised, loyal retainers at his heels

  Encouraged by Norfolk’s brave example, the entire Yorkist division swarmed in to the attack, careless of what awaited them. At the same time the Lancastrians resumed their advance.

  Richard’s gauntleted hands closed into fists. He leaned forward in the saddle as the tides of flesh and metal flowed together.

  Contact!

  *

  Oxford carved through the Yorkist soldiers with the same ferocity he showed at Barnet, undimmed by age.

  “De Vere!” he roared, “a Tudor! A Tudor!”

  The earl had broken his pole-axe on the head of one of Norfolk’s knights, and switched to his broadsword. He wielded it with scarcely less skill, chopped through limbs and slashed throats, while his retainers – Frenchmen, every one, and deadly fighters – guarded him, wielding axes and maces to lethal effect.

  Oxford was intent on cutting a path through to Norfolk’s standard, o engage the duke in single combat. He could see the banner, a slash of white against red, wave tantalisingly above the mass of fighting men.

  After Richard himself, Oxford could wish for no better opponent than John Howard. The duke had usurped his position in East Anglia, benefiting from Oxford’s forfeited titles and estates and ejecting his wife from Castle Hedingham. He had also, many years gone, helped Richard to bully Oxford’s aged mother into giving up her lands.

  The private feud between the two noblemen would be settled here, on the field. At the same time, Oxford was not so besotted with revenge as to forget his command. He had spent the long years in prison brooding over his mistakes at Barnet, and would not repeat them here.

  Before the army marched from Atherstone, he instructed each of his captains to ensure their men strayed no further than ten feet from the standards.

  “Ten feet,” he barked, “and hold the line, even if the enemy look like breaking. Don’t run off after them, like a pack of God-cursed hounds after a hare. Understand?”

  Many of them didn’t, until Philibert de Chandée helpfully translated his words into French.

  De Chandée had also advised him on certain tactics, which the French and Swiss soldiers of the vanguard were well able to perform. The wedge or triangular pike formations had caught the Yorkists by surprise, and Oxford could sense their panic as the disciplined Lancastrian battle-line pushed forward, skewering and hacking down Norfolk’s men with grim, methodical efficiency.

  Th
e duke saw Oxford, and bravely stood his ground to meet him. Howard was an older man, nearly sixty, but still hale enough to fight at the head of his men.

  No words were exchanged. Their broadswords crunched together, and again, raising sparks as the two men hacked at each other with silent fury.

  Norfolk struck first. His blade swept through Oxford’s guard and hit his gorget, denting the steel. Unhurt but enraged, the earl responded with a savage double-handed cut to Norfolk’s head, slicing through the fastening of his visor.

  The visor fell away and exposed one side of Norfolk’s face. Oxford would have pressed his advantage, but a spear flew out of nowhere and struck Norfolk in the eye. He staggered backwards, screaming and tugging uselessly at the spear with his free hand.

  His scream died away, his grip on the spear slackened, and he slowly fell backwards with a clatter of steel. Oxford gazed in frustration at the body of his rival, slain by another man’s hand.

  Norfolk’s retainers saw their master fall and uttered a howl of dismay:

  “John Howard, slain! John Howard, slain!”

  Oxford took up the shout and marched towards the young knight that held aloft Norfolk’s standard. He battered aside a clumsy sword-thrust and and cut off the knight’s left hand.

  His victim collapsed with a shriek of pain and horror as hot red blood flowed from the stump. Norfolk’s banner toppled into the mud, still with a severed hand clutching the pole.

  “Done!” Oxford bellowed, standing on the fallen piece of canvas and raising his bloody sword in triumph, “John Howard, slain! John Howard, slain!”

  *

  Sir Geoffrey Malvern’s heart fluttered like a trapped bird as he watched the battle unfold.

  All was going to pot. Norfolk’s vanguard struggled to make any impression on the rebel line, Slowly, the Yorkists were pushed back, their flanks crumbling under the onslaught of pikemen.

  Geoffrey had never seen pikes used in battle before. The great length of these oversized spears, some sixteen to twenty feet long, allowed a triple wall of steel points to be presented to the enemy. Norfolk’s soldiers had never encountered anything like it before, and fell back in fear and confusion, ignoring the shouts of their captains.

  “A grand spectacle,” remarked Salazar, “see how they advance to the tap of the drum? One-two, one-two, as though they were on the parade ground. Ah, it is a privilege to watch.”

  Geoffrey found the Spaniard’s air of professional detachment impossible to emulate. The rebels were far too close for his liking, and getting closer. If Norfolk’s line collapsed, the central Yorkist division commanded by King Richard would be left exposed.

  He looked to the king. Richard’s face was drained of blood as he looked down at the slaughter, mouth firmly set, hands tightly gripping his reins.

  Withdraw, Geoffrey wanted to shout, yield the day to Richmond, and get out of this mess. There will be other days, other battles, though I’m damned if I will be involved in them.

  Geoffrey’s heart missed a beat as a cry swept through the ranks of Norfolk’s division.

  “John Howard, slain! John Howard, slain!”

  “Oh, Jesus,” he whimpered. Norfolk’s standard was down, and the duke himself had vanished in the melee. With their captain gone, the Yorkist line started to buckle in earnest. Some of the men in the rear ranks put down their weapons and fled, leaving their comrades to die.

  Richard blinked, and came back to life. He turned to look at his household knights, drawn up behind him in a single body, and crooked a finger at Geoffrey.

  “Sir Geoffrey,” he said, “ride to the Earl of Northumberland. Command him to advance around our right wing and engage Oxford in flank. Advise him that Norfolk’s division is hard-pressed, and urgently needs support. Ride fast.”

  Geoffrey could scarcely believe his good fortune. The Earl of Northumberland was in command of the third and last Yorkist division, four thousand men stationed a quarter of a mile to the north-east, on the road leading out of Sutton Cheney. Well clear of the fight, and danger.

  “At once, sire,” Geoffrey replied, and gratefully wheeled his horse.

  He had no desire for haste, but it was best to make a show, so he covered the ground between the King and Northumberland at a hard gallop.

  The earl was at the head of his knights, under the famous blue lion banner of the Percies. He responded to Geoffrey’s salute with a curt nod and a joyless smile.

  Henry Percy, Fourth Earl of Northumberland, was an uninspiring figure, a small man with a hooked nose, carefully trimmed ginger whiskers and a perpetually hunted expression. Geoffrey, himself a true-born coward, thought he resembled the type of creature that vanishes down holes when the hounds start to bay.

  “Well, Sir Geoffrey,” he said in his thick northern burr, “you have a message for me?”

  Geoffrey saluted. “My lord, the King orders you to advance at once, and march around our right wing to attack Oxford’s flank. The Duke of Norfolk is hard-pressed, and in urgent need of support.”

  Northumberland tilted back his head and stared at Geoffrey down the length of his curved nose. “Indeed? And what of them, pray?”

  He flung out an arm to indicate the Stanleys, whose troops were still massed to the south.

  “My presence here is the only thing holding those whoresons in check,” the earl went on, “if I was to quit my position, there would be nothing between the Stanleys and the rear of His Majesty’s division. Speaking for myself, I would rather expose my arse to the Devil than a Stanley.”

  Geoffrey hesitated. A cold worm of suspicion crawled up his spine. The men sent to fetch Lord Strange for execution had not yet returned from Sutton Cheney, and Northumberland’s men stood between the King and the village.

  The earl seemed to read his mind. He gestured at his knights, whose ranks parted to allow three squires through on foot. Each one led a horse.

  A thrill of horror ran through Geoffrey as he recognised the blood-spattered bodies of the men slung over the saddles.

  “So, now,” Northumberland said softly, “Lord Strange will live a wee bit longer. Alas, the same cannot be said for you.”

  Geoffrey’s well-honed instinct for survival took over. He heaved his horse to the left even as one of the earl’s knights rode forward to seize his bridle, tore out his sword and struck out wildly.

  A cry of pain knifed through his head. Geoffrey ignored it, bent low in the saddle and thrust in his spurs.

  His horse took off like an arrow and carried him at a breakneck gallop north-west, towards a distant line of trees. He hunched low over her mane, babbling in fright while the thunder of hoofs rose behind him.

  The earl’s knights were in pursuit, but their beasts were poor screws compared to Geoffrey’s Flemish courser. She soon left them behind, and their angry shouts faded.

  When Geoffrey reached the shelter of the trees, he risked a glance over his shoulder, and saw his pursuers had turned back. Relief washed over him. Northumberland evidently had more pressing concerns than the fate of a single knight.

  He allowed his courser to slow to a trot, and pushed further into the woods. The sounds of battle were comfortably distant. For the first time since he woke under canvas that morning, Geoffrey’s bowels ceased to rumble.

  God’s bones, that was a near thing! King Richard’s fears of treachery were well-founded. The Stanleys had betrayed him, and Northumberland. Norfolk, his only faithful ally, was almost certainly dead.

  Richard’s fat was well and truly in the fire. Thanks to the favour of God, and his own quick reactions, Geoffrey had managed to leap clear of the flames. It had always been thus. Northampton, Saint Albans, Towton, Edgecote and now Bosworth - one way or another, he had survived them all, and meant to go on surviving.

  Geoffrey allowed his horse to jog on through the widely-spaced trees. A scheme formed in his mind. He would ride west, back to the safety of Staffordshire and Malvern Hall, and wait out the aftershock of Richard’s inevitable defeat.


  The king would probably die on the field, being the sort of brave idiot who preferred death to flight. England would be left with an enigmatic Welshman on the throne.

  Geoffrey smiled to himself. Presumably Welshmen were as other men, and fond of gold. When the initial chaos and excitement had died down, he would send Henry Tudor – no, King Henry the Seventh – a casket of gold, and his compliments. That should be enough to make the new king forget old loyalties.

  Something rustled in the branches above his head. A shadow fell over him. Geoffrey’s sword dropped from nerveless fingers as a heavy weight landed on his back, and an arm locked around his throat.

  “Sir Geoffrey Malvern,” a soft female voice crooned in his ear, “I have you now.”

  *

  Salazar plucked at the King’s bridle.

  “Sire,” he said, “I humbly advise you to take steps to put your person in safety. There can be no victory in today’s battle, owing to the treason in your following.”

  Richard barely heard him. Anguish, like a flood of ice-cold water, flowed through the king’s soul.

  Defeat stared at him. Northumberland would not move, and Sir Geoffrey Malvern had vanished. The Stanleys were still poised to the south, doubtless waiting for the right moment to betray their king.

  To cap all, Norfolk was dead. Old Howard, Richard’s trusty right hand, was struck down, and his men were in retreat.

  Shouts of “Lancaster, Lancaster!” and “God for King Henry!” echoed across the field. Everywhere the Yorkist vanguard was pushed back. Rebel footmen clambered over the chains to attack the Yorkist guns, slaughtering and driving off the terrified crews.

  For Richard, the pain and the humiliation were too much to bear. He thought he sensed his brother Edward looking down on him: Edward, who had never lost a battle, and founded a new dynasty of kings.

  Richard would not yield to despair. The day was not lost. Not yet. He had three thousand men in his own division. If he ordered them forward now, they might be enough to turn the tide and repel Oxford.