Revenge (24 page)

Richard chewed his lip as he looked along the line at his captain, Andrew Trollope, remembering the waiting at Blore Heath for Lord Audley to give the order to attack, and the disaster that ensued.

But Trollope was a better soldier than Audley, and knew when to pick his moment. He waited until the Lancastrians in the centre were pushed back right to the edge of the woods. By then Richard’s nerves were screaming with tension like a bow-string stretched to its limit.

Trollope flung up his arm. His trumpeter gave the signal, and Richard slammed in his spurs, goading Gwen into a full-blooded gallop as the faster and lighter-armed lancers streaked past him.

Another trumpet sounded in the woods to the west, and hundreds of lancers wearing the livery of Clifford and Exeter burst from the trees. The jaws of the trap had closed on York.

“God for Lancaster!” Richard screamed as he ploughed into the rear ranks of the Yorkist footmen. “God for King Henry! A Bolton, a Bolton! The white hawk!”

All his pent-up rage and terror and frustration erupted inside him. He laid about wildly with his sword, hissing through his teeth every time he felt the heavy blade strike home. The Yorkist infantry were so tightly packed he could not help but hit something, and his battle-trained destrier kicked and bit at those men he missed.

Richard paused to draw in breath, flicking up his visor to see how the fight was progressing. The morale of the Yorkist infantry had collapsed, and they were fleeing in all directions. Their flight was futile, as the Lancastrian lancers gave chase and speared and slaughtered them without mercy. Richard burst out laughing at the sight. His sword was already sticky to the hilt with Yorkist blood, and his sword-arm spattered with the stuff to the elbow. It wasn’t enough. Nowhere near enough. Not one of the traitors could be allowed to live.

He looked for York’s banner, but it had vanished in the fray. The Duke himself was nowhere to be seen, though a stubborn core of his household retainers had dismounted and formed a ring of steel, stabbing and thrusting with swords and lances at any that came near. Elsewhere the battle had disintegrated into hundreds of individual combats and messy, indiscriminate brawls, many of them spilling into the woods.

The grass was carpeted with slain and wounded, most of them Yorkists, but all was not done. A few mounted Yorkist knights had turned about and were trying to fight their way back to the castle. Richard picked out a tall man with the crest of a soaring eagle mounted on his helm, and rode straight at him, bellowing a challenge.

The tall knight wheeled his destrier and struck at Richard’s head with his mace. It glanced off Richard’s breastplate, scraping some of the cloth from his surcoat. In return Richard’s sword slid between the knight’s helm and gorget and stabbed into his mouth.

The Yorkist gave a muffled cry and covered his bleeding face with his free hand. Richard hacked furiously at his armoured head and shoulders, until his victim reeled and toppled from the saddle onto the blood-speckled grass. Yelling in triumph, he turned away to look for another victim.

A storm of cheers broke out to the north, mingled with drums and trumpets. Richard twisted and saw the banners of Lord Neville of Raby advancing towards the battlefield. Thousands of fresh troops, enough to turn the tide in the favour of either Lancaster or York.

Lord Neville himself was at their head, and his true allegiance became clear when he led them into the exposed flank of York’s shattered army.

Now the Yorkists were doomed for certain. The Earl of Salisbury, his son Thomas and Edmund of Rutland rode out of the castle at the head of their retainers to try and rescue the situation. It was too late, and their men too few to make any impression. Richard was in the thick of the battle’s death-throes, calling upon God and the soul of his father to lend him strength.

It was only as darkness started to fall that the fighting petered out. Seeing no trace of organised Yorkist resistance anywhere, Richard dismounted and tied Gwen to a tree. Then he went hunting on foot for rich prisoners. He had lost count of the men he had killed, either in fair fight or as they fled or lay helpless on the ground. Nineteen, perhaps. In his battle-fury he had not thought to take any of them prisoner, which was foolish. War was a business, a means of making money, and there were many wealthy lords and knights in York’s army.

He was traipsing through a patch of woodland, turning over the mangled bodies of dead Yorkists in the hope of finding a rich survivor, when he heard shouts and the clash of weapons to his right. He went to investigate, stopping when he reached the verge of a little meadow beside the wood.

In the centre of the meadow was a clump of willow trees. A group of Yorkist men-at-arms had their backs to the trees and were fighting for their lives against overwhelming tides of Lancastrians. More soldiers came running from every direction, desperate to be in at the kill. Richard didn’t care to risk his life any further that day, so he stood and watched idly as the Yorkists were pulled down, one by one, and stabbed and beaten to death.

His blood turned icy cold as he recognised the sigil on the surcoat of one of the remaining Yorkists, a short, stocky man bleeding from a sword-wound to his knee. A pile of Lancastrians lay strewn at his feet, horribly maimed and cut up by his sword, but that didn’t prevent others from hurling themselves at him. The Duke of York was selling his life as dearly as possible.

Richard strode into the meadow, all thought of ransoms wiped from his mind. The man he wanted to kill above all others, the greatest traitor in England, was within his reach.

Only two of York’s retainers remained standing, both exhausted and bleeding from numerous wounds. One tried to stand in front of the Duke, and was ripped away and battered to oblivion by a pack of screeching archers in Clifford livery. The other sank to the grass, blood pouring from his visor and the joints of his harness. Richard stepped over his twitching body and advanced on the Duke.

York stood alone, gasping for air and leaning heavily against a tree, his wounded leg threatening to buckle under him. His sword was liberally slathered in blood and entrails, as was his harness, but he was allowed no respite.

Richard had to fight through the crowd of men struggling to get at York, and club them aside with the flat of his sword. He was determined to seal his place in history and lay his father’s ghost to rest by personally slaying the Duke.

The Lancastrians were all around York now, far too many for him to defend against. Blows rained down on his armour. A bareheaded soldier lunged at him, catching hold of his wrist and dragging down his sword-arm. York flailed at the man with his left hand, but others piled on top of him, and he was crushed to the ground at the bottom of a writhing scrimmage of bodies.

Richard lifted a man’s leg and thrust his sword into the gap. The blade punctured metal and flesh and ground against bone. He stabbed again, and again. Others joined in, many others, thrashing and hacking and jabbing at York’s defenceless body. They didn’t stop even when he ceased to move and rich dark blood pumped from his many wounds, forming a pool around him.

“For God’s sake, enough!”

Henry of Sedgley’s voice brought Richard back to his senses. Gulping for breath, he leaned on his filthy sword and gazed down in wonder at all that was left of Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York and would-be King of England.

“He is dead,” cried Henry, “do you hear me? The traitor is dead. It is over.”

The red mist slowly cleared from Richard’s eyes, and he found himself grinning at his brother-in-law through a mask of sweat. Some of the other Lancastrians started to laugh, others to cheer and sing, and the sound of their joy spread out from the meadow and was taken up by their comrades.

York was dead. The dragon was slain.

21.

The Tower, London, 5
th
February 1461

The Earl of Warwick climbed slowly up the steps to the royal apartments, stricken by a fear that he knew was absurd but could not shake off. He had been raised to consider royalty sacred. Some vestige of that ingrained veneration remained with him, even though the King of England had been his enemy for many years and was now his prisoner.

Recent events had changed Warwick, reducing him to a shadow of the confident, aggressive young soldier who had once been the driving spirit of the Yorkist cause. News of the catastrophe at Wakefield had all but broken him.

The Duke of York and Warwick’s father, brother and cousin were all dead, slaughtered on the battlefield or executed shortly afterwards. Their severed heads had been mockingly decorated with paper crowns and placed on spikes over the gates of York. Warwick could scarcely believe the news when he heard it. His dreams since had been plagued by visions of rotting heads, their greying flesh pecked at by ravens.

The appalling details still swam in his mind. His father, Salisbury, had been captured and taken to Pontefract for ransom, but a crowd of local peasants had ambushed him en route and hacked off his head. York’s son, Rutland, and his tutor Sir Robert Aspall were taken while trying to flee over Wakefield Bridge, and brought before Lord Clifford. Clifford, that brute beast who had sworn to kill every Yorkist he laid his hands on, failed to recognise the boy and demanded to know whose son he was. In his terror, Aspall had brayed out the truth. Clifford drew his sword and personally slew them both.

These horrors revolved in Warwick’s mind as he reached the top of the stair. The men guarding the doorway to the royal antechamber straightened up when they saw him approach.

“Open it,” he ordered, tapping his foot impatiently as one of the guards fumbled with the keys and unlocked the heavy, iron-bound door.

“Shall one of us accompany you, my lord?” the man enquired. Warwick ignored him and strode inside.

The antechamber was small and well-lit, with a lively fire burning inside an enormous hooded hearth that took up most of one wall. A couple of wooden benches were placed either side of the hearth. One of them was occupied by Henry VI, King of England. He was staring into the flames with his hands folded on his lap when Warwick came in.

Warwick stopped, uncertain of how to announce himself. Several seconds passed, but Henry failed to acknowledge his presence. At last Warwick resorted to feigning a cough. Henry glanced up, startled.

“My dear Richard,” he said, smiling agreeably when he saw who it was. “How pleasant it is to see you. Please, have a seat.”

He indicated the bench opposite. Warwick cautiously sat down. Henry had caught him unawares by calling him by his first name. He much preferred being referred to by his title, especially by his enemies.

He had to remind himself that Henry was an enemy. It was difficult to believe that this gentle, half-witted innocent could be a threat to anyone.

“Majesty,” he said, steeling himself. “I trust you are keeping well.”

“Tolerably well, thank you,” Henry answered, blinking like a confused owl. “The servants of my household take good care of me. I am alone with God, which is most important. Most important.”

“Yes,” Warwick gave another little cough. “Yes. Good. You may have need of God. I’m afraid I bring bad tidings.”

Henry cocked his head to one side, waiting. Warwick shook himself. He was the master here. There was no need to be so hesitant.

“Bad tidings,” he ploughed on, adopting a harsher tone. “Three days ago, Edward of March engaged and defeated the Earls of Pembroke and Wiltshire at a place near Hereford called Mortimer’s Cross. Your army was completely routed, though the earls managed to escape.”

He watched Henry closely to see how he took it. The late Duke of York had always reacted passionately to news of a defeat, smashing the furniture and calling down the wrath of God on his foes. Henry merely plucked a soiled handkerchief from his sleeve and blew his nose.

“Oh dear,” he said mildly, tossing the handkerchief into the fire. “That is a shame. Poor Jasper. He always hated being beaten at anything, even when we were children. This will hurt him very badly.”

“So will our men, if they catch him,” Warwick retorted. “Majesty, do you understand? Your army in Wales is destroyed, your supporters dead or scattered to the winds.”

“Please don’t shout, Richard,” Henry pleaded, holding up his hands. “You must not raise your voice at me. I am very fragile, you know.”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have spoken much with God these past few days. We have been debating the juxtaposition between my birth and my capacity. There is a great contrast between the two, wouldn’t you agree?”

Warwick was lost. “Majesty,” he began, hoping to swing the subject back to Edward of March’s victory and its consequences, but Henry babbled on.

“God told me that I am a vessel. A King is a vessel, you see, inside which he carries his realm and his subjects. But the mould was broken when He made me, and I was born cracked. I am ever so fragile, Richard. You must not touch me. No-one must ever touch me. I would break.”

Warwick hesitated. He recalled the stories of Henry’s grandfather, Charles VI, who had run hopelessly mad in his last days and insisted that his servants strap him to a table in case he shattered. Charles had thought he was made of glass. Would Henry end up the same way?

The thought of Owen Tudor reminded Warwick of his purpose. “Majesty,” he tried again, shuffling his bench back a little, “your half-brother’s father, Owen Tudor, was captured at the battle.”