by Amy Licence
Around the table was a crowd, summoned in haste, watching in expectation. They were men who had proved their loyalty in recent weeks; at Mortimer’s Cross, or St Alban’s, or who had flocked to Edward’s side on hearing of his return to London. William, Lord Hastings, John, Duke of Norfolk, George Neville, William, Lord Fauconberg and others. Most of the council had been summoned, barring those who had openly backed the queen. They spoke in low tones, heads bowed to hear one another, eyes downcast unless they were seeking out the doorways and corridors, hoping to hear the approach of feet. Some still bore their wounds, bound about in cloth strips, inflicted by Lancastrian weapons, scarring over older marks received in the service of the Yorks.
Cecily’s ears appeared to be sharpest. The men were approaching along Thames Street, and had not even reached the house gates before she had turned her head to listen. Sensitive to her movements, Edward followed, his straight nose and chiselled jaw turned towards the doors, as the clatter of hooves on the courtyard cobbles could plainly be heard. He raised one hand and the hall fell silent.
They all knew what was coming. It was a mere formality, but an essential one. Edward rose from his seat and stood squarely, feet apart, the jewels on his clothes catching the light.
Then there was a great knocking upon the wooden doors, echoing all around the hall, up to the rafters. The servants had been under instructions to wait, but now, upon Edward’s signal, they drew back the bolts and let in the daylight. All turned to see who was standing there. The Earl of Warwick, backed by a guard that filled the courtyard outside, strode over the threshold, followed by Archbishop Bourchier.
Warwick took the centre of the room, circling with arms spread, seeking out each man for dramatic effect. ‘I call upon Edward, Earl of March.’
Edward stepped forward. ‘I am here.’
‘Edward, Earl of March, heir of the late Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, descendent of Edward III and heir to Henry VI by the terms of the Act of Accord, sworn in parliament this October last. It has been put to the council that Henry Plantagenet, known as Henry VI, has refuted his agreement to protect your life and those of your kin, but instead has taken arms against you, forcing you to defend yourself and resulting in loss of life and at grievous cost to this realm.’
The hall buzzed with voices.
‘And thus,’ Warwick continued, waiting until they had fallen quiet. ‘And thus, it is my duty to inform you that according to this same act, and by your descent from the senior line of Edward III, the right to rule this country passes to you, and to your heirs. The former king, known as Henry VI, has failed in his sworn duty to his people, who now implore you to accept the throne and rule England on his behalf.’
Warwick dropped to bended knee.
‘Will you do this country the great service of accepting the throne? Will you rule us all as Edward IV?’
There was a long pause. All eyes were turned upon Edward. He took a deep breath and looked about the hall, at the men assembled, at his mother and sisters, at the arms of his father over the fireplace, recalling the image of York seated before the flames, or Edmund waiting upon the stairs.
‘I accept. I am the true king of England, just as my father would have been, had his life been spared. I will do my best to rule justly, to defend this realm and the people in it against enemies from afar and those within.’
‘God save King Edward IV,’ cried Warwick.
The words echoed through the hall as the assembly fell to their knees in honour of England’s new king.
‘God save the king! Long live King Edward IV.’
TWENTY-FIVE: The Last Battle, March, 1461
By dawn, the Yorkshire hills were covered in snow. The driving sleet continued to fall in needles and, even though the sun had risen, its light was so faint it seemed to be shining from under water. Between the villages of Towton and Saxton, the wind was howling through the valley, where the white waters of the river encroached upon the banks and trees bowed before the wrath of the storm. The whole earth seemed to recoil against the onslaught of the heavens. It was a day for settling scores.
This was no routine Palm Sunday. Cecily and her daughters would be on their knees in prayer, in the flickering light of the chapel, miles away in London. Friar Jerome would lean forward with the silver chalice, engraved with the arms of the house of York and let each of them in turn take a sip of the communion wine. In their name, the Yorkist army had battled their way north, planting their feet along rutted roads, through the foul-smelling mud of tracks turned into streams and between the ridge and furrow of many an Englishman’s field.
Edward felt that familiar sensation of anticipation; the thrill that gripped him before any battle, the pumping of blood in his veins, the jumping in his chest which was almost enough to keep him warm in spite of this wind. They were less than a day’s ride from Wakefield, less than a heartbeat away from Sandal Castle, where the blood of his father and brother had stained the ground, and he felt it keenly. They were waiting across the other side of the plateau, in the shelter of the woods: Henry Beaufort, with his dark silhouette and vulpine smile, Sir Andrew Trollope who had gone over to the king at Ludlow and Edward’s own treacherous brother-in-law, the despised Earl of Exeter. Somewhere beyond them, the queen and King Henry waited with their son, awaiting the outcome. Two kings in one field. He gripped his sword. Only one of them could survive.
It had begun yesterday. The intention had been to march on York, to reclaim the city so important to his family, to ride with head held high beneath that gate that had been adorned with his family’s blood. And yet the bridge before them was broken. At Ferrybridge, while they carried stones and timber to rebuild the crossing, a shower of arrows had fallen out of the sky, felling men to the ground. Amid the confusion, Warwick had pulled an arrow out of his leg and looked up to see the attack being led by the grim-faced Lord Clifford. Word of the ambush spread and Edward, scouting out the terrain a few miles to the east, had leapt upon his horse and sped to the scene. Now, watching the Lancastrians assemble in the distance, he thought in satisfaction of the way Clifford had died, staggering forward with an arrow through his neck, slipping in his own blood before collapsing upon the earth.
‘That,’ Edward had whispered under his breath, ‘was for Edmund.’
Today, they had the better location. The wind was behind them and, as he raised his arm to the line of archers, nothing could shake his conviction of success.
The archers drew back their bows in unison. Edward brought his arm down, slicing through the freezing air. Like one creature, they responded, sending their deadly stream high up above the frozen fields and forward towards their enemies. Edward watched the arrows rise, turn and fall. Their downwards trajectory was, indeed, longer than he had anticipated: the wind took them like autumn leaves and sped them on, driving down into their targets. The distant line of men crumpled.
‘Another!’ He raised his arm again and let it fall. The second wave seemed to travel even further and they could see men staggering in their death-throes, clasping the wounds where blood poured from their bodies.
‘Brace yourselves, they will return fire.’
He could just make out the unity of the Lancastrian archers coming forward to the front line, stepping over their fallen friends. Then, squinting through the clouds, through the arrows of sleet, he could see the tiny driving lines rising and falling. There was no resounding wind, no thud as they embedded themselves in flesh. Edward waited. His men waited. Yet the arrows did not come.
‘There!’ shouted a man at the front. ‘They have fallen short.’
And Edward realised with a rush of joy that with the wind against them, the Lancastrians could never broach the distance with their arrows.
‘Again!’ he cried. ‘At the ready!’
*
Across the snowy void, a forest of fallen arrows, the two armies advanced. They met with a crash, with the swing of swords, metal on metal, and the impact of the war hammer upon a shoulder blad
e or skull. On both sides, men shattered. They were so close to each other, so close they could hear their breath, see the warmth escaping from other mouths. As close as lovers, or mother and child, bound together in this eternal moment, this rite of passage, this struggle for life. There was no avoiding the contact of eyes, pupil to pupil, or the touch of skin. Bodies jostled against each other, armour clanged, legs kicked out. When an axe cut through an enemy’s shoulder, or split his head from ear to ear, there was no escape from the spray of blood and brains, no release from the terrible howls of the dying, of the fear and anger, the despair and disbelief of those in their final moments. Others were already growing cold, trodden down into the mud, where their bodies were stumbled over, or used as a bridge through the worst of the wetness. And amid this desperate fight, Edward swung his sword, hardened against the cries of the dying, teeth ground together in determination. Taller than most, stronger than most, he cut a swathe forward through the fields of flesh and his men followed.
*
But now the Lancastrians were pouring down from the west. Horsemen were emerging from the woods on Castle Hill, sending the Yorkists’ left flank into chaos. Fauconberg needed help at once. Calling for a horse, Edward looked round to see Warwick and Hastings behind him; they would have to do the best they could in the middle. Riding around the edge of the action, in and out of the savage sleet, Edward was able to reach the spot where the flank had disintegrated. He leapt down and shouted at the top of his voice, his sword held high.
‘Men, gather round me. We face them together. Come back and fight.’
The Lancastrians were dismounting, forced to rely on their own two feet given the treacherous conditions of the terrain. Men in partial armour were sliding on ice and crashing down.
‘Seize the moment! Stand together!’ Edward cried, bringing his sword down upon the skull of one, then slicing away to the right, to fell a second with a blow to the back.
Around him, the fleeing men began to stop. Tired, frozen and wounded, they watched in awe the young giant of a man, who fought like Hercules, as if he did not even feel the wind.
Then there were three Lancastrian lords bearing down on him, intent upon cutting him down as they had his father. Edward recognised the arms of Sir Andrew Trollope, newly knighted for his bravery at St Albans, for his treachery at Ludlow, and for planning the ambush at Sandal Castle. The story went that he had led the attack on York in person. A fresh kind of fury descended upon Edward. He hurled himself at the man, trusting to his ferocity and determination, in spite of the soldiers at his side. But yet, he found that he was not fighting alone. Fauconberg’s men had rallied and were closing in on each side. Repelling Edward’s blade, Trollope caught him off balance and pushed him aside with a swift kick. He was just raising his axe to bring it down upon Edward’s skull but the younger man was swifter, drawing his dagger and thrusting it up between the traitor’s ribs. Trollope’s eyes registered the blow. His arms dropped. A wave of fresh red blood ebbed from his mouth. A second blow straight to the neck brought him down. There was no time to reflect; another Lancastrian blade was aimed at Edward’s side. He parried the clumsy blow and dispatched the man with his sword. As he fell forward, his helmet came loose with the force of the blow. A head of dark hair was pressed into the mud, face stained with blood and sweat. By the time Edward recognised Rick Croft, the man was already dead.
*
There was movement on the further side of the field. Over to the east, where the London road passed behind a ridge, Edward saw a sudden flood of men, silhouetted against the sky. They had been fighting almost three hours. The men were tired, their limbs frozen and they were in danger of reaching a stalemate; they might not be able to repel a fresh supply of the queen’s troops. He shaded his eyes. The sleet had given way to snow but it was no less difficult to see.
‘Fresh troops!’ Hastings appeared at his side, his visor up to reveal the small, intelligent eyes.
Edward swung round. ‘How goes it with you?’
Hastings nodded, dismissing concerns about himself. ‘The Duke of Norfolk has arrived. He is putting Beaufort’s flank to flight. They are shedding their armour in their desperation to retreat.’
‘Is it really so? Thanks be to God!’
‘He will pursue them through the valley. Some are trying to escape across the river.’
‘Come, let’s bring this flank round and cut them off in the west. I will have Beaufort’s blood and drive Henry Plantagenet out of England!’
A terrible sight met them on the banks of the river. The woods and the valley had hemmed in the retreating Lancastrians and the steep slopes were slippery with a mixture of entrails, brains and mud. Conditions were treacherous, as those escaping quickly found, losing their footing and climbing pitifully over the bodies of others who cried out for help as their bones splintered and shattered under desperate feet. The waters were full of men, some alive and some dead, piled up against each other as they lost control in the current. Heads, limbs, backs, feet, all bobbed like corks on the surface, but the volume of bodies was too great, as men in their dozens slid down the bank, unable to halt their descent. At the crossing place, the river was dammed with them, the living trampling the dead in an attempt to float, or to cross to the far shore, the weight of the others dragging them down until their screaming lips were filled with flowing water. Around them, the currents and eddies ran red with blood.
It turned even Edward’s stomach, watching them pooling together like pitiful insects.
‘They are also fleeing to the north,’ said Norfolk, appearing at Edward’s shoulder. ‘My men are still fresh. I will pursue them as far as York, if need be.’
‘Thank you for your timely arrival. Your loyalty will not be forgotten.’
Norfolk nodded. ‘My Lord.’
‘Pay close attention to Beaufort. See where he rides. He may lead us to Henry Plantagenet and his wife. If you find them, do them no harm, but bring them south.’
‘They shall be brought south, carried in chains through the streets for all to see.’
‘And I will found a chapel here to say masses for the souls of the dead. Clifford was killed yesterday and Trollope lies on the field. There will be more. I hope we shall find Exeter rotting in the mud.’
‘Amen to that.’
‘And then to London. Following this day, here at Towton, there is only one king of England. I have a coronation to plan.’
*
Cecily stood in the gallery and looked out across the lawn. Deer grazed in the distance, and the silver line of the Thames cut between the fields. She had seen the boat approaching and now it was drawing towards the landing steps.
The Palace of Placentia lay to the east of London, its quiet green park spreading away on all sides, rising up to a hill with a view over the little village of Greenwich. Not so long ago, these rooms had been refurbished by Queen Margaret, and her motif of the daisy, or marguerite, was carved into the woodwork and painted on the walls in yellow and white. Cecily felt the presence of the other woman, imagined her here during her husband’s illness, dancing in these rooms, or sitting quietly with her ladies, sewing or reading. Perhaps this chamber was the one in which she slept, or rocked her infant son. Now the former royal family had fled into exile in Scotland, miles away from their old home.
As she watched, the barge drew closer, servants at the quayside waiting to help those on board disembark. It must be them. The fluttering arose in her chest again. She couldn’t move as quickly as she used to; since the terrible news, her body had been slow to respond, as if the tragedy had suffused her bones. Yet nothing would stop her now from hastening outside as quickly as she could, to bring the meeting closer, if only by a few moments.
‘Margaret?’
Her daughter appeared in the doorway, her thumb in a book to hold her place.
‘They’re here. Your brothers have returned.’
‘George and Richard?’
‘They are safe. Look.’
; She pointed out the boat.
Mother and daughter exchanged a glance and, at once, they headed out of the room together, through the next chamber and down the corridor to the outer door. Their way lay through the queen’s gardens, planted with the red roses and rambling blooms Margaret had favoured, the gillyflowers and lilies that were the symbols of her heritage. Through the clouds of colour, the painted rails and herb patches, Cecily and her daughter hurried. They passed through the archway in the red brick wall and onto the river walk, a railed path leading down to the Thames. Already Cecily could see the two precious small forms, who had climbed safely out onto the land, their legs shaky from so long at sea. It seemed that they had also spotted the two figures approaching; the tall, stately mother, gaunt in her grief, and the young girl with the determined cast to her face, both dressed in deepest mourning.
The boys started to run. The distance between them was not so great. George reached his mother first and flung himself into her open arms. In the intervening months, he had grown taller and broader, his sandy hair longer and his eyes had something of the cast of Edward’s at that age.
