The Rose of York (32 page)

“You have courage. It’ll be enough, Dickon.”

“What about me?” demanded George, his face flushed, his eyes glinting. “What do I command?”

Edward gave him a smile that never reached his eyes. “You, George, shall be at my side.” It was obvious what he meant. He didn’t trust him. Under his watchful eye, there would be no opportunity for George to defect to Warwick in mid-battle if things went badly for York.

George’s colour deepened at the implied insult. “I brought you four thousand troops. I should command the vanguard, not Dickon.”

“Then you might be killed, George.”

George opened his mouth to object, changed his mind and shut it again, rendered mute by what he saw in his brother’s eyes.

“We’ll wait till dark,” Edward resumed, “and crawl into position so close to Warwick that he can’t escape battle on the morrow.”

“How close?” demanded Hastings.

“Five hundred feet.”

“But—isn’t that dangerous?” demanded Richard. Such proximity was a daring, unorthodox move and went against everything he’d been taught. If they were discovered, they’d be butchered by Warwick’s superior numbers.

“A gamble, admittedly, but take heart, Dickon,” replied Edward, reaching for his gauntlets. “For all his talents, Warwick never expects the unexpected… Besides, we have no choice. In surprise lies our only chance of victory.”

The bells of the little church on the hill chimed for Vespers.

~*~

Under cover of darkness, following Edward’s urgent instructions to avoid making noise or showing light, the royal army climbed

up the St. Alban’s Road. At the top of the hill, they crept silently into position on the treeless, heathery plateau of Gladmore Heath. Not until they were close enough to hear the voices of Warwick’s men did they halt. No campfires were lit. The night was cold, the moon shrouded by dense clouds. The sudden boom of cannons shattered the darkness.

“Should we respond, Edward?” demanded Hastings.

Edward stared in the direction of Warwick’s troops and his eyes blazed open with joy. “My plan worked. Warwick thinks we’re further back than we are—his cannons are going over our heads! Hold your fire! Christ, what a surprise he’ll have in the morning!” He gave Richard a hearty slap on the back. “Now get some sleep, little brother.” He turned to Hastings. “Fog rolling in, Will, and it’s cold.” He rubbed his hands. “But we’ve fought in worse and won, haven’t we?”

Hastings drew an audible breath. “We have indeed.”

Richard had heard the stories. Howling ice-winds; driving, blinding snow; dead men so frozen to their horses they had to be buried on them; blood that had melted with the ice. Towton had been fought on Palm Sunday in ’61, in a fierce snowstorm. Ten years later, almost exactly to the day, this battle at Barnet would be fought in fog. He could hope it was an omen. Edward had always been lucky in battle—at Towton he’d been outnumbered, all odds against him, yet he’d won the day.

Not only did they face a superior force this time, but Edward had entrusted the command of the precious right wing of his army to Richard. He was only eighteen years old, without experience of warfare, not even powerfully built. He had little to offer his brother besides his life, and his will to succeed or to die in the attempt. That, and what he had forged at Middleham under the loving guidance of the two brothers he must fight come dawn. His misery closed in on him like a steel weight. He crunched his way across the hard earth to the right wing under his command.

~*~

Richard stretched out on his pallet in the mist. They were so close to the enemy he could hear all the sounds of their camp: the neighing of their horses, the tramping of their feet, the banging of their pewter mugs, even their oaths. As Edward had said, in this proximity lay safety and their only hope of victory. Warwick’s cannon fire was passing over their heads because he thought them further back than they were, and by attacking before first light, they would catch him unprepared.

But victory and safety came at the cost of comfort and warmth. As they were so close, they couldn’t pitch tent. There would be no time to dress in the morning, so they had to sleep in their battle gear. Richard’s suit of white armour, a gift from Edward in happier days, was wrought in Milan and represented the finest that could be bought. But steel was steel, and nothing could make it less than cold and clammy. He lay awake all night, listening to the booming cannons, thinking of those on the other side who had once shared his dreams. He wondered what John’s thoughts were, whether he slept or wept. He wondered whether they would meet in battle, and prayed they would not.

He thought of Warwick, who had been a father to him, whom he had hoped to have as a father-in-law. He thought of Anne, and drove her away by force of will, for she brought more pain than he could bear. Instead, he conjured up an image of Edouard of Lancaster and clenched his hand around his sword. If only Edouard were here and he could engage him in battle! But Edouard was safe at sea with his mother.

At four o’clock in the morning the camp stirred. It was April 14th, 1471. Easter Sunday.

Richard sat up with stiff joints and looked around him. An eerie fog blanketed the night. He peered into the floating whiteness. Men were rubbing their bleary eyes, or taking out from their bags the dried meat they had brought with them and munching grimly.

Richard prayed for strength and lined up his men for battle. He took a westerly position on Edward’s right wing. Edward’s order came through the mist:
No quarter for the commons!
Richard was stunned; he hadn’t realised the depth of Edward’s bitterness. The cry before had always been to slay the lords and spare the commons. But then, the common man had always loved Warwick.

The King’s trumpets sounded the battle cry. Richard advanced his banner.

~ * * * ~

“Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought
,
For friend and foe were shadows in the mist
,
And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew.
”

John and Warwick stood together in thick fog. Behind them ranks of fighting men stretched away into the mist, their plumes limp, their banners sodden in the heavy dampness. Warwick’s Dun Cow of the Nevilles was barely visible, the normally bright tones of his scarlet and silver Bear and Ragged Staff drained of colour. An unnatural stillness hung over the field. Cannons boomed, horses neighed, and there was the clink of metal, but no murmur of voices. No human sounds.

Warwick looked steadily into his brother’s face. Beneath his raised visor, John’s face was set and haggard, and his dark blue eyes held a curious expression, almost as though John didn’t see him. The unease that had kept him company all night mounted into a stark cold fear unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He forced a long steady breath. “Are you all right, John?” “Never better,” said John in an odd tone. “I don’t understand,” said Warwick anxiously. “You wish to lead your men on foot when normally you direct the battle mounted, from the rear.”

“Normally there is no fog.”

Warwick gave a terse nod. “Of course.”

“Men’s minds are uneasy, they fear treason,” John said in a voice that seemed to come from a long way off. “I recommend you follow my example and tether your horses at the rear.”

Warwick hesitated. A man in armour had little likelihood of escaping alive without a horse. Fighting on foot would put the lie to rumours of treason, show the Lancastrians the Neville commitment to their cause, and give their own men heart. They had little love for the cause for which they were risking their lives, and the Lancastrians returned their hatred. But the truth was, he didn’t want to die. What if traitors had sold him out? How would he flee without a horse? There had always been bad blood between the Beauforts and the Nevilles, yet here they were, aligned with one another. Even Exeter, who commanded the left wing of their army, had feuded with them for years, and Oxford, who commanded the right, distrusted them though he was married to their sister. Both had fought against them in earlier battles.

Aye, a twisting road had brought them to Barnet. Treason was what they all feared, what they whispered about John, his conduct at Pontefract, letting Edward slip past unmolested like that. John had always been a bit too fond of Dickon, a bit too loyal to Edward. Yet John had chosen to fight on foot, condemning himself to death if victory were not his.

Could he follow his brother’s example?

His own chances of survival were better. He’d be behind his brother’s line, in charge of the reserves, close to the trees in Wrotham Wood where the horses were tethered. Despite George’s desertion, he still outnumbered Edward by a generous margin: twelve thousand to nine. And he had artillery, while Edward had few guns. Comforting odds. So why was he not comforted? Maybe because Edward had something better. Unholy luck.

Already luck had played in Edward’s favour. Fog had helped the Yorkists. He couldn’t even be sure that the cannons, which had fired blindly through the night, had done their work and inflicted damage before they closed in for hand-to-hand combat. Moreover, he hadn’t been able to discover Edward’s battle position. That alone was cause for unease.

I recommend you follow my example and tether your horses at the rear
, John had said. He glanced uncertainly at the powerful bay destrier that his squire held for him.
Fortune
. He hadn’t realised until this moment how aptly he had named him. He searched John’s face but it was as though his brother were carved of stone. He seemed to have lost awareness of him, of all around him. He had been acting strangely all month, ever since Pontefract, Warwick thought, noting the pallor of his skin. John had the look of a man who stood beneath the shadow of the great black wings that open above the dying.

And that was the question, wasn’t it? Could he commit himself to fighting on foot if it meant he was signing his own death warrant? Warwick swallowed, found his voice. “I’ll tether Fortune in Wrotham Wood.”

He gazed at John, mindful of the others who had failed him: his son-in-law George, who had deserted at the first opportunity; his brother George, who had wasted no time grovelling before Edward to save his own skin. Only John was at his side now— John, who had opposed him… Only he had answered the call of kinship, would fight for him, though his heart lay in the enemy camp. Without warning he was stricken to the core, swept with a curious mingling of gratitude, brotherly love, regret, despair, fear, and a strange longing for he knew not what.

“Maybe I should have accepted Edward’s terms…” he said, breaking the silence he had never broken before; admitting to doubts his pride would have crushed before. His brother made no acknowledgement, and for a moment he thought John hadn’t heard.

Then John said, “In battle there are easy answers to everything.”

Warwick knew there was no more to be said, that he should bid his brother farewell, but he found himself unable to leave. He stood motionless in the milky grey dawn, thinking how strange it was that this battle should fall on Easter Sunday, the day his great treaty with King Louis creating him Prince of Holland and Zeeland was to have been ratified. King Louis, who had professed admiration and affection, called him “cousin” and “brother,” then mocked him by making peace with Burgundy.

Strange, too, that even now, even after all the disappointments of his life, the disillusionments, the perfidy of kings and betrayal of kin, hope still stirred in his heart. Hope of survival; hope that somehow all would be well in the end, would be put back as before. In a dry, cracked voice, he said, “Then this day will decide all.” It was a question.

John made no reply.

A wild panic seized him. He heard his brother’s voice like an echo from an empty tomb, “God be with thee, and keep thee,” and watched his tall, shining figure move ghostlike into the murky gloom. “And God keep thee, my fair brother of Montagu!” cried Warwick suddenly after him.

But his brother was already gone, swallowed up by the swirling fog.

~*~

From his command position in the centre, John stared into the fog ahead, unable to see anything through his narrow visor slit but solid white mist. How he hated fog! The small noises of the Yorkist army came to him vaguely, muffled by his armour, nearly drowned by the sound of his own laboured breathing in his ears. He was hot, his face flushed, already covered with tiny beads of perspiration, yet he was so cold he shivered inside his clammy armour.

Warwick’s trumpets blared. Gunfire crackled. A hail of arrows whistled overhead and quickly vanished. From beyond the wall of mist, Edward’s trumpets responded. John gave a start. They sounded surprisingly close. Out of the blankness, a great shout went up. The Yorkists were coming on the run.

They were indeed close! Less than five hundred feet away instead of the customary five hundred yards. He wondered dimly what other surprises the battle held. He made the sign of the Cross, and plunged forward at the head of his troops.