Loyalty (26 page)

   After being briefly outwitted by the feint of the Lancastrian vanguard at Sodbury, Edward had wasted no time in forcing his army on to intercept the Queen’s army before it could cross the Severn at Tewkesbury.

   His men suffered agonies of thirst as they stumbled through the merciless heat, and gained no relief from the few streams on en route, muddied and rendered undrinkable by the passage of horses and wagons. Edward pitied their suffering, but refused to slacken the pace until he knew the enemy’s whereabouts for certain. 

   His advance scouts informed him that the Lancastrians had stopped just short of their target, on the English side at the river, and that Jasper Tudor’s Welshmen were nowhere to be seen. Even without them, the Queen held the slight advantage in numbers, but Edward was in no mood to falter. As always when the blasts of war sounded on the horizon, his natural lethargy had fallen away from him.

   When dawn broke he arranged his army in the customary three divisions: vanguard, centre and rearguard. His brother Gloucester had command of the van, a reward for the youthful duke’s loyalty and valiant service. Edward led the centre, and was careful to keep the shifty and untrustworthy Clarence at his side. Lord Hastings, having survived the destruction of his division at Barnet, had the rear.   

   While his men filed across the bridge, Edward spurred forward with his bodyguard to inspect the Lancastrian position outside Tewkesbury.

   Among his knights was Sir Geoffrey Malvern, given this place of honour after his dramatic escape from imprisonment and torture at Crowspur Castle. Edward had listened avidly to Malvern’s tale, and willingly supplied him with horse and armour.

   “If only every man under my command displayed your fortitude,” he said, “once this battle is done, we shall speak again about your claim to those forfeited estates in Staffordshire.”

   A rise in the ground just north of the bridge concealed the enemy from view. His scouts advised him not to progress any further.

   “The enemy are drawn up in line on a low ridge south of the town, Majesty,” one of them explained, “they have broken ground before them, a right maze of lanes and dykes and hedges. It will hinder our advance.”

   Edward considered this. He might have known that the likes of Somerset, who had seen military service in Burgundy, and Lord Wenlock would be canny enough to choose a good position to array their army. Now the Yorkists would be obliged to struggle uphill, over difficult terrain, in the teeth of Lancastrian arrows and gunfire.

   “How is their army divided?” he asked, though he could guess.

   “The Duke of Somerset and his brother command their right flank,” the scout answered promptly, “while Devon holds the left, and Lord Wenlock and the Prince of Wales their centre.”

   “The Prince of Wales is in his cradle in London,” said Edward, holding up a finger, “that boy you refer to is plain Edward of Lancaster, a traitor and a false pretender to my son’s title.”

   “Of course,” said the scout, abashed, “your pardon, Majesty.”

   Edward shrugged off the mistake and turned back to rejoin his centre. Once the last of his horse-drawn gun carriages had clattered over the bridge, he oversaw the army as it formed up again and wheeled left towards the Severn.

   Sir Geoffrey approached him. “Majesty,” he said, pointing at a clump of wooded parkland visible to their left. “Those trees bring to mind the Lancastrian tactics at Towton.”

   “So they do,” said Edward, shading his eyes to peer in that direction, “old Somerset placed some men in the woods beside the hill, and they burst out on us when the battle was joined. Had they attacked a little earlier, they might have rolled up our line.”

   “Why not employ the same strategy? Your Majesty can spare a few spearmen. If they approach the woods from the south, they should go unnoticed by the enemy.”

   Edward looked at Geoffrey with appreciation. “Agreed,” he said, “I can indeed spare a few men, and you can lead them.”

   So it was ordered, and Sir Geoffrey led two hundred mounted spearmen to occupy the woods.

***

From his vantage point on the ridge, Martin watched the Yorkists advance in good order and deploy with calm efficiency on the plain below. 

   He felt strangely uncomfortable as he sat aboard his destrier, just a few feet from Prince Edward’s standard bearer. His horse and armour were expensive gifts from the generous prince, since he had lost all at Barnet.

   The custom was for gentlemen to ride to battle and fight on foot, but the prince had ordered his personal guard to be mounted, so they could advance quickly to shore up any weak points in the line.

   The rest of the Lancastrian centre was dismounted. Long lines of billmen, knights and men-at-arms were arrayed in front of Martin, three ranks deep. The archers were in a staggered line to their front, ready to shoot down at the Yorkists when they advanced within range.

   After the frantic bustle and hurry of the Lancastrian deployment, a strange calm had settled over the army. Every man was in his place, and knew that the Yorkists were at a disadvantage. Edward of March had fewer men, and no way of avoiding the difficult ground in front of him by marching around his enemy’s position: the Lancastrian flanks were protected by the deep waters of Swilgate and Coln Brook.      

   All was ready, but Martin could not shake off a growing sense of unease. None of the Lancastrian captains filled him with confidence, and the Queen herself had retired to the rear.

   Mary and Elizabeth were with her. His only comfort was that they were well out of danger, and could flee if the battle went ill. As a priest, James was another non-combatant, but had disappeared soon after the army broke camp.

   The Yorkists deployed slowly, spreading out until their divisions stood adjacent to each other. He looked for their artillery, as all good soldiers should, and a familiar feeling of dread swelled up in the pit of his stomach when he saw the gun-carriages brought forward and unlimbered.

   Edward was clearly no fool, and had ordered his guns to be arranged on the flanks of his army and in the gaps between his centre and left divisions. Martin was no expert, but he recognised the sleek, menacing shapes of serpentines and demi-culverins. He had seen similar guns at work at Empingham, and knew how capable they were of reducing the human frame to so much pulp.

   The two armies were separated by some four hundred yards of open ground, well within range of each other. The Yorkists were the first to open up, and the drums of the opposing armies were swiftly drowned by the boom and crack of artillery, followed by the whine of gunshot streaking through the air.

   Somerset ordered his cannon to respond. The Lancastrian guns were fewer in number, and their crews worked furiously to make up the deficiency.

   Soon the field was covered by drifting skeins of gunsmoke. Thanks to his helm, Martin avoided being deafened by the noise, but the foul reek of gunpowder assaulted his mouth and nostrils. Grimacing, he closed his visor and peered out through the narrow eye-slits.

   The Yorkist guns seemed to be better-served. They were concentrating their volleys on Somerset’s division, while the Lancastrian fire was more scattered.

   Martin had to grudgingly admit that the usurper’s gunners were remarkably accurate. He forced himself to watch as Somerset’s densely-packed formations were punished by a regular hail of red-hot shells and cannonballs. He saw men hurled into the air like rag dolls, or instantly crippled as a stone ripped through the ranks, whipping off legs and arms and punching through bodies with terrifying ease. With nowhere to hide, they had little choice but to stand and take it with grim fortitude.

   Meanwhile scores of Yorkist archers were sent forward. They swiftly picked their way in skirmish order through the chaotic network of hedges and dykes that littered the slope. The bowmen concentrated on whittling down Somerset’s division, loosing off arrows before ducking behind cover when the Lancastrian archers responded with interest.

   “Take heart,” Martin dimly heard the prince shouting to Lord Wenlock, “this cannot go on forever. The Yorkist guns must soon run out of ammunition. They will have to attack.”

   This was true. Martin’s hopes revived when he pictured the Yorkist footmen labouring up that hellish slope, sorely impeded by countless natural obstacles. Then it would be their turn to suffer as arrows and cannonballs rained down on their exposed heads. Those that managed to reach the top would find a bristling line of blades waiting for them. 

   Martin loosened his sword in its scabbard.
Including mine
, he thought,
vengeance for Barnet has not been long in coming. The dogs of York will hand it to us on a plate.

    A celestial flourish of trumpets made him look to his left. Somerset’s great standard was advancing to the front of his division. The duke himself, a proud figure in burnished blue steel, mounted on a pale grey destrier, rode before it. His household knights followed close behind in a glittering procession of chivalric splendour.

   “What is he doing?” Martin asked no-one in particular, “what in the name of hellfire is he doing?”

   Similar questions were being asked urgently by Prince Edward and his officers. Lord Wenlock galloped over to the duke, and they spent a few moments in hurried conference. He returned and spoke quietly to the prince.

   A ball ploughed into the ground just a few yards from Somerset, raising a great spray of mud and stones and causing his horse to buck. He skilfully brought the beast back under control, and raised his lance to signal the advance.

   Martin felt like screaming in rage at the idiocy of those he had to follow. This was madness. Somerset had allowed himself to be goaded by the Yorkist fire into quitting the ridge and launching a hare-brained assault. 

   Nobody, it seemed, was inclined to stop him. Martin looked to the prince, but the young man’s face was set in an inscrutable expression as he watched his battered right flank pour down the slope.

   Helpless to influence events, Martin could only pray that the Yorkists were caught unawares.

***

Geoffrey crouched at the edge of the tree-line, looking east towards the plain where the Yorkist army was deployed. Part of his view was obscured by a rising hillock that lay directly between the woods and the plain, but he could see the rear ranks of Gloucester’s division, and hear the sounds of battle.

   Not wishing to get too near, he had sent two men to ride onto the hillock and observe the fighting. The rest of his men were spread out either side of him among the trees, waiting for his order to attack.

   The thunder of cannon abruptly ceased, followed just moments later by trumpets and the deep-throated roar of hundreds of men committed to the charge.

   Even the noise was enough to bring Geoffrey out in a cold sweat. Thank God, he reflected, he had had the presence of mind to suggest to the King that the woods be occupied. He was quite proud of that idea. It had the neat dual advantage of taking him to a place of safety while sounding like clever strategy.

   Now the air was full of the din of close-quarter combat, the clatter of weapons and the screams and yells of murderous combat.  

   He gulped and closed his eyes. His fearful imagination conjured up images of slaughter, of hundreds of terrified men hacking and chopping at each other with hard-forged steel. The mangled bodies of the fallen lying sprawled in the mud, their life’s blood pumping back into the earth from which it sprang. 

   Geoffrey had witnessed battles before, at Northampton and Saint Albans. He knew the cruel reality that lay behind all the fine notions of chivalry and honour that his noble peers pretended to believe in. Chivalry and honour did not exist, and a battle was nothing greater than an excuse for men to surrender to their most savage impulses.

   If the battle went ill, King Edward would expect him to get involved. Geoffrey had not been given command of two hundred spears so they could sit idle in the woods.

   With any luck, the battle would be over before his men were needed. Geoffrey had every confidence in King Edward’s superior ability as a soldier, and most of the better Lancastrian captains were either dead or fled.

   The sound of fighting was growing ever more desperate. Geoffrey bit back a yelp as hundreds of soldiers suddenly appeared on the north-west edge of the hill. Their standards displayed the Beaufort arms, which were the royal Plantagenet arms inside a blue and white patterned border.

   Somerset’s men. Geoffrey watched in mounting horror as they swarmed over the crest of the hill and down the other side, straight into the exposed flank of Gloucester’s division.

   Geoffrey would not have credited Somerset, that youthful hothead, with having the imagination to attempt such a clever manoeuvre.

   “My lord, we must advance to Gloucester’s aid,” said the captain of the spearmen. He was a burly, experienced soldier, and clearly expected Geoffrey to order an immediate assault.

   “Don’t be a fool,” Geoffrey hissed, “can’t you see how many they are? We would be swallowed up.”

   The captain’s heavy brows knotted, but he said nothing.

   Geoffrey’s scouts on the hill, alarmed by the sudden appearance of thousands of Lancastrians, hurriedly wheeled their horses and galloped back to the trees.