Son of York

by Amy Licence

  ‘Clifford!’

  Edmund ran towards him, as he had placed himself before the chapel doors, perhaps to suggest he had the same idea about shelter.

  ‘Clifford, thanks be to God! We were ambushed along the road. Father, and Salisbury and Thomas…’

  Clifford was tall and broad, almost twice the weight of Edmund. The man strode towards the boy who hurried into his shadow, panting and heart pounding. His solid face was a pale mask, the eyes mere slits and the lips pressed firmly closed. Then Clifford raised his right arm. Edmund barely registered the blade. Its tip pierced his throat, sudden and brutal, taking away his breath. Warm blood poured down his chest and filled his mouth. Edmund saw it flow over Clifford’s hand and up his arm, before that same arm twisted the blade and severed his windpipe. He fell just a short distance from the open chapel door, the dark liquid pooling around him between the stones.

  TWENTY-THREE: Acts of Valour, February, 1461

  It was still dark when they woke him. The shadows seemed to fold about the corners of the tent, about his heavy form and receding dreams, as Edward pulled himself to his feet. The air was bitterly cold and he dressed swiftly, pulling on layers for warmth, raising his arms as his servants arrived to buckle him into his armour. The recent weeks had taken a toll on his face: the lines of his features were touched by suffering, his jawline and cheeks almost gaunt. And yet his hazel eyes still burned with an all-consuming fire, a passion that might be hunger or anger, but on this morning, was no less than determination and revenge.

  He stepped out into the cold air of the pre-dawn, into the camp where his men lay under the stars in makeshift tents, stretching out numb limbs and moving their lips in prayer or questions. Across the field, the army sprawled out its men, its horses and carts, with lines of smoke rising to the sky. He had chosen this place, close by Mortimer’s Cross, where the main roads met and the River Lugg snaked past, swollen with winter rain. These were cruel conditions: it was not the usual season for battle and Candlemas Day was better spent indoors, before the hearth, or in the chapel. But all the rules had been broken.

  He had good men on his side: here was William Herbert of Raglan, whose father had been a friend to York, and Reginald Grey of Wilton, and John Tuchet, the new Lord Audley, and Edward’s distant cousin Humphrey Stafford: between them they had some five or six thousand men, drawn from these Herefordshire plains and the purple Welsh hills. He had passed the Christmas season in Shrewsbury and was still merry, with wine on his lips, when they brought him the terrible news: his father’s head, dressed in a paper crown, set on top of one of the gates in York. And those of Edmund, Salisbury and his son Thomas, sitting pitifully alongside, staring over the city with unseeing eyes. It had not seemed real. Somehow those terrible days and nights had passed. He had been on the verge of returning to London, to comfort his mother, when news arrived that a Lancastrian army headed by Jasper Tudor was marching to meet that of the queen in the north. And thus he was waiting, in the pre-dawn, to hear word of their approach, his mouth dry with the desire to taste their blood. He had an almost insatiable hunger to see the life flow out of them. Like the wrath of heaven, he would strike his enemies as a lightning bolt and dispatch them straight to hell.

  Through the camp, a messenger drew close. There was something familiar about the man, who was short and stocky, with dark hair and a lumpish face, wrapped in furs against the chill. Herbert had intercepted him before he reached the royal tent.

  ‘My Lord, this man has ridden over from Croft Castle, with news.’

  Edward nodded. ‘Let him come forward.’

  The man dismounted, approached and knelt.

  Edward gestured to raise him up. ‘What is your business?’

  ‘God save you, my Lord, I am Alan Croft, the son of your father’s almoner at Ludlow.’

  And indeed, Edward could see traces of the child he had been; the cowed younger brother, traipsing after the taller Rick, open-mouthed at his brother’s cruelties. At once he thought of that terrible night outside Ludlow when Rick had stirred trouble among the troops, telling them of the king’s presence in the field.

  ‘Well, well, Alan Croft.’

  ‘I am at your service, my Lord. I have brought my retainers to fight on your side and news of a sighting of Tudor’s army, beyond the river Lugg.’

  Edward stared at the top of the man’s head. ‘Is this true? I have been betrayed by Crofts before.’

  ‘I am not that which my brother is, my Lord, I am your loyal vassal. He might be of my blood but I no longer consider him to be my kin.’

  ‘Your words commend you.’

  ‘I was but a child at Ludlow, in his thrall. He was stronger and older than me; what you suffered at his hands, I endured threefold.’

  Edward nodded. ‘And so you align yourself with my cause?’

  ‘Your father was always good to me, my Lord, and your brother was a kind and gentle boy. God rest their souls.’

  Edward’s throat felt thick with emotion.

  ‘My Lord, might I make an observation? If Tudor is planning to cross the Lugg, you might consider placing a line of archers along the Hereford road, either side of the cross itself, to pick them off as they struggle across the river.’

  ‘It is a sound suggestion. Herbert, select a portion of our archers and set them in a line, while I rouse the men into their flanks. Croft, you will fight with me, at my side, in the middle.’

  Croft bowed his head in honour.

  *

  They were in position as the sun began to climb through the sky. The road stretched wide and expectant from north to west, marking out their waiting divisions, the dense crowding of men, shoulder to shoulder. Before long it would be stained with blood, an eternal memorial for what was to take place there that day. Mounted on horseback, Edward made a rough assessment of their area and the route Tudor was likely to take. There was a line of trees, a field lying fallow, a piece of scrubland: they were likely to push their way through there.

  ‘My Lord!’

  The voice came from behind, along with the clatter of horse hooves. Nerves on edge, Edward spun round, his hand flying to his sword. But it was a familiar figure who rode up alongside him; a slight but wiry man, lithe in armour, his mirthful eyes serious for once and his untamed hair hidden beneath a cap.

  ‘Hastings?’

  ‘I came as soon as I could, with all the men I could muster. Herbert sent me forward.’ Drawing his horse alongside Edward’s he reached across and clapped him on the shoulder. Edward had never seen his face so resolute.

  ‘My deepest condolences, my Lord. I thought that since you had lost so fine a brother, the least I could do was to fight with you, as a brother-in-arms.’

  Edward breathed deeply, unable to find the words.

  Hastings scanned the scene. ‘So here I am. Where is Tudor?’

  ‘Just beyond the river: Jasper and his father, Owen.’

  ‘The old man too? Is he fit to fight, after all those years lying about and growing soft in the queen’s lap?’

  Edward nodded. Jasper’s father had entered a secret marriage to King Henry’s mother following the death of her husband, to the great scandal of parliament. Yet he had lived the last few years in retirement, only visiting court on occasion.

  ‘Let us hope the years have left him feeble and unready.’

  The comparison with the late York’s strength did not need to be stated.

  Edward looked at Hastings afresh. ‘You have my gratitude and thanks.’

  ‘It is a time to show where loyalties lie.’

  Murmurings behind them caused them to turn. Herbert was on the ground, moving among the men, issuing instructions. Then he paused, lifted his hand through the cold air and pointed in the direction of the sun. Shielding his gaze, Edward followed where he indicated. And something unusual, something spine-tingling and strange caught his eye, something that filled him with a sense of wonder at the world, of heaven and earth, which he could hardly begin to understand. The
re, on the horizon, the sun’s great white orb hung amid the misty clouds, opaque as if seen though water. There was nothing strange in this alone, but around it a sort of shattering of the light had occurred, like glass smashed in pieces, and there appeared two more spheres of glowing brightness, one on each side, making three suns in total, shining in the morning sky.

  At first it took Edward’s breath away.

  Hastings was more vocal. ‘By our Lady, what is that?’

  The question spread across the ground like fire, the men asking each other what it might mean and whether this was some sort of divine sign. A few began to look afraid. Some crossed themselves. Action was needed at once. This might destroy the men’s spirit, or it may be turned to their advantage.

  Edward stood up in his stirrups. ‘Do not fear! Behold the sign from God! Be of good comfort and dread not, for it is a good sign, a blessing. These three suns are nothing less than the Holy Trinity, symbols of the father, son and Holy Ghost, watching over us and giving us their comfort. So be of good cheer and stand firm, have good heart and in the name of Almighty God we shall defeat our enemies.’

  There was a moment of stillness, then the army broke out into cheering.

  ‘That,’ said Hastings, raising his eyebrows, ‘was inspired.’

  *

  The men scattered across the road, their faces and arms blooded, eyes wild in terror and pain.

  ‘That’s most of our right flank destroyed,’ observed Edward with grim determination. ‘I will advance and meet Tudor in the middle; Herbert, you wait with the left until you see which way Owen will move, and then engage him as soon as he is in place.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord, God speed you.’

  ‘And you. Come Hastings, and Croft, today we will fight in the name of my father, England’s uncrowned king, for the honour of my mother and the memory of my brother. Forward!’

  *

  Wielding his sword, Edward pushed forward on foot. The waves of Lancastrian men kept on coming, to right and left, but there was fire in his belly, a burning well of justice that needed to be quenched. He slashed his sword through the belly of one and pulled it out coated in blood, then advanced towards another, who turned and fled in fear at the sight of him, before the blade of a third clashed against his steel again. Running the man through, he kicked him to the side and quickly took stock. The sun was overhead now and he had ceased noticing the cold a long time back. He could make out the form of Hastings, who had proved himself to be a skilful swordsman, avoiding blows with lithe movements, but bringing down his weapon with surprising strength. A little beyond him, Alan Croft fought steadily and methodically, as he had promised, advancing the line bit by bit. Across the other side, Owen Tudor’s men were moving forward but he could not see Herbert anywhere. In a sudden rush, the left flank of the Lancastrians broke forward and Edward realised that they were planning to move around behind his position and cut them off.

  ‘To the south!’ he cried. ‘Men to defend the south!’

  And then there was another, a tall brute of a man, coming at him with the gleam of easy victory in his eyes, hoping to dispatch the son of York, the heir to England’s throne. But Edward was not going to concede his life that readily.

  *

  Herbert stood and watched as the Lancastrians poured across the field. The archers were in place along the line of the road, snaking unseen behind hedgerows. At his signal, they rose with bow strings drawn, to loosen a swathe of arrows into the sky. Herbert watched them fly and fall, dropping down upon the advancing Lancastrians out of the white clouds, where the three suns had so lately shone. Some fell at once, hit in the chest or the head. Others were felled by wounds to the limbs, littering the ground with groaning bodies, trampled into the winter mud by those following, who could not avoid them. Out of the knot of men, a wave of fighters picked themselves up and urged forward.

  ‘Ready?’ Herbert cried, raising his sword. ‘For the house of York!’

  The swell of men behind him echoed his cry and the ground began to rumble with their feet, before the clash of metal and wood, bone and flesh.

  *

  Edward watched the last men retreating, scattering back through the trees in the direction they had come.

  ‘The day is ours, Hastings, the day is ours.’

  His companion wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘Indeed it is, my Lord, ours for the taking, thanks be to God.’

  ‘You fought well, you fought bravely.’

  ‘It was nothing, my Lord, it was necessary.’

  Edward lifted his chin. ‘It was nothing less. Herbert comes this way!’

  The figure hastened towards them, armour stained and dented. They walked to meet him, across ground littered with objects and bodies: an arm twisted out to enclose a fallen helmet, blank eyes stared up to the sky.

  ‘The Tudors have fallen!’ cried Herbert from a distance. ‘Jasper has fled into the west and we have the old man in custody. Stafford and Tuchet hold the south and Grey has the north secure.’

  ‘Thanks be to God and to you all. I shall not forget this day, there will be rewards for all those who fought loyally at the cross, and the families of those who fell. Let us advance to Hereford and give thanks in the cathedral there. Bring the prisoners and let the surgeons tend to the sick. The rose of York may have been cut down by its enemies, but with the victories of this day, it will live to bloom again.’

  *

  John Litlington stared at the letter. His hand trembled more than usual as he read the lines written in brown ink, from a brother of the same order in the city of York. Litlington had been Abbot of Croyland for over thirty years, guiding the prayers of the monks in the chapel, the scratching of nibs and brushes in the scriptorium, the tending of the sick in the infirmary, the nurture of herbs in the garden. Now the still stone walls around him were at peace, but his mind was already running on their defences; the bolts they might pull, the keys to be turned in locks, the gates to be closed. Would it be enough?

  Brother Walter wrote that the queen’s army was on the march south, heading down Ermine Street to London, and hunger and lust, destruction and terror rode with them. Without wages, the men had been given licence to plunder and steal in order to feed themselves, so they were spreading out across the countryside like a plague of locusts, covering a distance of thirty miles or so, leaving little but misery in their wake. Litlington shivered. York to Peterborough was over a hundred miles and the armies would move slower than the messenger, so he estimated there were four or five days before the queen’s arrival. The people must be warned: some might take flight into the countryside but he knew others would arm themselves, in an attempt to defend their property. He must begin the prayers; how could the queen allow this? How could God?

  *

  Warwick faced the north road. There had been enough time to set up defences in advance; lines of cannon to decimate the enemy as they approached, barbed netting strewn across the road and wooden shelters erected for bowmen. He could see the men there now, in the shadows on the verge, shifting their positions expectantly, checking their bows. They were positioned on a ridge of high ground above St Albans, where the land swept up to the sky abruptly, affording a view of a mile or more. His brother John and the Duke of Norfolk were in place and King Henry was being guarded in a tent, in the fields outside the town.

  In the market square, where the old Duke of Somerset had met his end, the archers were positioned in upstairs windows, from where they might pick off the invaders in safety. No doubt young Beaufort would be there, intent on getting his revenge. But with the image of his father’s head set upon the gates of York, Warwick felt the duke was evenly matched in that quarter. Perhaps it would be today, or tomorrow; perhaps even longer, but soon the Lancastrians would appear, on their march to retake the capital. He had won a victory here six years before; he must do it again.

  *

  John Owens the butcher stood firm, his broad red hands gripping the handle of the axe. He reckoned he had about t
wo hundred townsmen behind him, men he knew by name and greeted in church, whose wives came to the weekly market, whose children helped gather the stray corn at harvest. They carried whatever they could, ranged around the market cross, while the houses lining the square were hidden behind hasty shutters. Dunstable was not a large town. They had not thought the armies would pass this far west, but the travellers had seen the mass of men on the move and confirmed this morning that they had taken this road.

  Stories had reached them, from those in flight. Lincoln, Peterborough and Royston had been decimated, as if barbarians or savages had sailed in from the east. Owens had not dreamed of being a hero or a martyr: he had been building his business for sixteen years and had twice been mayor of the town, a guildsman and soon to be a grandfather. Like all his neighbours, waiting on that sunless afternoon, he would rather be going about his business, or tending to his own fireside.

  A shout went up from the road ahead. The men steeled themselves and before long, they saw them. It seemed at first as if the horizon had come to life, teeming with unruly creatures, or swarmed over by a sea of insects. Owens gripped his axe. He knew how to handle a weapon but he could not say that for all his men. As the swell increased and headed towards them, hell bent on plundering the town, he stood firm.

  ‘We will show them that the men of Dunstable are not prepared to be beaten and robbed. We are loyal citizens of the king and we will defend our homes and families against this lawlessness.’

  The Lancastrian leaders rode into the square. Owens could not hear their words but the swift waving of hands indicated that orders had been given.

  ‘Stand firm my brothers,’ he shouted. ‘Stand firm.’

  But behind him, they were already slipping away. Quickly they were outnumbered, and as the hungry faces drew closer, in their tens of dozens, weapons were dropped to the cobbles with a clatter. Owens saw the blow coming and raised his axe to parry it. He was unable to stop the swordsman though, who had approached unseen from behind and cut him down with a single movement. The last thing he heard was the sound of men tearing down the shutters of the homes around him.