The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (47 page)

seen, even on the Yorkshire moors. His men were waiting, all eyes upon him. The chill of night had lingered; his breath frosted the air as he spoke. He looked to his battle captains, gave the signal to advance banner. His trumpets blared, the sound muffled, echoing eerily into the dawn dampness.
But as the vanguard moved into the fog, it soon became apparent that something was wrong. To their left came stifled sounds of combat as the Yorkist center came together with John Neville's line. But the hail of arrows their bowmen had loosed at random into the grey sea ahead went unanswered. They were advancing unchallenged, encountering no resistance.
The ground was beginning to slope away from them; footprints pressed into the earth now oozed mud.
With a jolt, Richard understood ... all too well. In the dark, the vanguard had outflanked Exeter. They were far to his left, descending into the wide marshy ravine which had anchored Exeter's position. If they could cross the ravine without detection, they'd come up on Exeter's flank, and he'd not be expecting an assault from that direction. But if they were discovered while still in the ravine, the muddy marsh would run red with blood, Yorkist blood.
Richard turned, saw that his men knew what had befallen them. There was no need to command silence.
Grimly, they pressed ahead, blindly, into the darkness.
THE Earl of Oxford had demanded command of the vanguard and Warwick had acquiesced. Now as
Oxford led his men against the Yorkist left wing, he learned at once what Richard was only belatedly discovering . . . that in the dark, the battle lines had gone awry. Just as the Yorkist van had outflanked
Exeter, the Lancastrian van overlapped the wing commanded by Will Hastings.
Oxford was luckier, however, than Richard; no treacherous ravine yawned between his men and the
Yorkists. With triumphant yells, they erupted from the fog to smash without warning into Hastings's flank.
The Yorkists were thrown into disarray, recoiling before this unexpected assault upon their rear. Their line wavered and then gave way before Oxford. As Hastings and his battle captains tried desperately to rally them, the Yorkist left wing broke, disintegrated into flight.
With Oxford's troops in gleeful pursuit, they fled the field, casting aside weapons and shields as they ran.
Hastings raged in vain. The frightened villagers of Barnet hastily barred their doors as panic-stricken soldiers suddenly stumbled into the cobbled narrow streets. Some sought shelter within the parish church;
others stole horses and galloped the ten miles toward London, there to awaken Londoners with shouts of a

Yorkist defeat. Oxford's men soon lost interest in the kill and triumphantly fell to looting and pillaging in
Barnet. The battle was less than an hour old and Edward's left wing was destroyed.
GEORGE had accepted with poor grace Edward's decision to entrust the van to Richard.
Uncharacteristically prudent, he had contented himself with a few pointed comments as to Richard's age and inexperience, but it had rankled. Not so much that he begrudged Dickon the honor, he assured himself, but because Ned had seen fit to deny him a command of his own. He knew damned well that
Ned wanted him close at hand for one reason only: Ned didn't trust him. Yes, he knew Ned's suspicions, knew Ned feared he might desert to Warwick if the battle turned against York. And he resented it bitterly, that he should be so little trusted after he'd brought fully four thousand troops over to York, betrayed his father- in-law for Ned's sake.
His resentment had been dispelled, however, within the first five minutes of battle, as he found himself strangling for breath, assailed by the cries of dying men, the stench of blood and gutted entrails. He'd not known it would be like this, and for the first time in his life, he was thankful to stay close to his brother, to follow Ned's lead. Now he'd not have changed places for his soul's sake with Dickon, alone somewhere out there in the mists. What security there was in this suddenly savage world was to be found with
Ned-Ned, who seemed to know no fear, towering above the other men, slashing a path with a sword that was bloody up to the hilt.
George watched his brother in uncomprehending awe. He could understand Dickon's cockiness; this was
Dickon's first battle, as it was his. But Ned had known! How in Christ's Name had he been so composed yesterday, with the understanding of what they'd be facing come dawn?
He stumbled over a prone figure, sprawled at an improbable angle on the turf; even more improbably, given the fact that he was virtually disemboweled, the man moaned. George stepped over him, plunged after Edward. The center seemed to be holding its own against John, but George knew the battle was not going well for York. The left wing had been routed; Hastings had taken to horse in a frantic attempt to rally his men, to check their flight before Oxford's onslaught. The fighting was reported fiercest between
Exeter's men and Richard's. Only ten minutes ago, a courier had materialized out of the fog with welcome word for Edward: "My lord of Gloucester bids me tell Your Grace that they do well. . . that you should hold your reserve."
George knew, though, that Richard was facing not only Exeter now, but Warwick as well. Shaken by the sudden appearance of the Yorkist

vanguard on his flank, Exeter had urgently demanded reinforcements and Warwick had dispatched fully half of his reserves to Exeter's aid. Richard's men were outnumbered, being forced to give ground, back toward the marshy hollow, and if the vanguard went the way of the left wing, Edward could not hope to hold alone.
George knew, too, that before long, Oxford would return to the field. He was too shrewd a soldier to expend his energies in pursuit of men already beaten. It occurred to George, with a chill of horror, that
York might lose, that the day might be won by Warwick, his father-in-law, who would never forgive him for Banbury.
A man was running out of the fog, straight toward him. He swung his sword up, then saw the
Blancsanglier badge of his brother. Just a boy, greensick with fear. George reached out, grabbed the boy as he came within range. His hand closed roughly on the other's shoulder. The youngster gasped and blood welled between the fingers of George's gauntlet. He shifted his hold, grasped the boy's forearm.
"Why aren't you with Gloucester?" he demanded, bringing his face close in an effort to be heard.
"Gloucester . . . he's down!"
George's grip slackened and the boy seized his chance, pulled free, and fled into the fog. George had already forgotten him; he was swinging around, toward his brother, some yards away. He shouted, but knew Edward couldn't hear. All around him, men were yelling for York or Neville as they came together.
Almost at his feet, a wounded man screamed, "Quarter, for Christ's sake!" The Yorkist soldier who stood astride him plunged his poleaxe downward. The fog swirled, closed again. George saw Edward's sword flash; a man died.
George stared, didn't move. This was madness. This was every nightmare he'd ever had. They'd all die here in this grey dark, this fog that smothered the field like a shroud.
He caught motion to his right, whirled. The man veered off. The fog hid horrors unspeakable, hid death and dying men. York was beaten. . . . He shuddered and stumbled after his brother.
nothing had prepared Richard for the Hell that was Barnet Heath.
Thomas Parr was dead. Richard had seen him fall, knew no man could survive the blow Thomas had taken. Too far away to help, he'd shouted a futile warning, watched in horror as his squire crumpled to the ground. That moment of frozen immobility had nearly cost him his own life. A staggering blow knocked him sideways, drove him to his knees. Instinct saved him, instinct and years of practice at the quintain with battle- axe and broadsword. Even as he went down, he reacted, without

thought, without conscious choice. As his knee hit the ground, he swung his sword upward, in a maneuver learned years ago at Middleham. Blood spurted over him; the man clutched his stomach, fell backward. Almost at once, Rob Percy was beside him, helping him to rise; the men of his household had not willingly left his side since the battle began, acutely aware that he was a dangerously tempting target for Lancaster-York's brother and the man who commanded the van.
Richard had no way of knowing how badly he'd been hurt. The battle-axe had cleaved through his vambrace. His arm was numb from elbow to wrist. There was no pain . . . not yet; but blood was filling his gauntlet. He mouthed a hasty prayer of thanks to Almighty God that he'd taken the blow on his left arm, and denied himself a last glance back at the twisted inert body of his squire.
The knights of his household were converging around him, so that he might confer with his battle captains.
He listened as they told him they could not hold without reinforcements.
"No," he said, dragging the words from a throat already raw from shouting commands. "I'll not deplete my brother's reserves. His is the greater need now that Hastings's line has broken. Send word to His
Grace that we still hold our own, that he need not commit his reserves."
They argued. Thomas Howard, John Howard's eldest son, gestured behind them, toward the ravine now hidden in the fog. Richard repeated his orders, and when they still protested, he raged at them, anger being the only emotion he dared allow himself.
FRANCIS stumbled, sank to his knees, as much from exhaustion as from the weight of his armor. A
familiar figure loomed over him, hand outstretched. He grasped the hand gratefully, let Rob help him to his feet.
"I feel as if I'm running through water," he confessed shakily. "Even the air is pushing me down."
"Stay a minute. Catch your breath."
"Can we hold out, d'you think, Rob?"
"If God and Gloucester do will it," Rob said grimly.
Francis was not the only one to have paused, to seek a brief respite. Richard was circled by knights of his household; he signaled for water, had it poured over his vambrace, into his gauntlet.
"He should have that arm treated, Rob."
Rob shook his head, blinking back the sweat that stung his eyes. "He'll not leave the field; he dare not.
He's the only one who can hold them. God, Francis, just look around you! All that's keeping them from breaking is that bloody rotten ravine at our backs and the fact that he's right here with them, offering up his life with theirs."

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Beside Francis, a water carrier was holding out a flask. He reached for it, rinsed his mouth, and spat.
"Do you think Dickon knows his other squire is dead, too?"
Rob's shoulder pauldrons moved, shifted as he shrugged. "I'd surely not suggest you tell him! Be you up to moving now?"
Francis couldn't help himself, had to say it. "If we're pushed into the hollow, Rob, we'll be butchered."
"Christ, Francis, you think Dickon doesn't know that? But when Oxford comes back to the field, the
King has got to have reserves left . . . else Oxford will go through York's line like a hot knife through butter. Then we'll all be butchered, not just the van, but every man jack for York."
Francis risked lifting his visor, sucked a few lungfuls of air. "It stinks like a charnel house. . . . Oh, Jesus!
Rob!"
Rob spun around, but it wasn't Richard who'd gone down; it was Thomas Howard. A freakish arrow shot, a lucky hit. He staggered, fell forward. The shaft broke as his body hit the ground. He jerked once, then lay still.
Rob and Francis started forward, but others were already there, forming a protective guard. Richard was giving orders, and as they watched, the wounded Howard was lifted, taken toward the rear.
Richard turned, saw Francis at his side. "Good God, Francis, close your visor!"
This was the first chance they'd had to exchange any words since the battle began nearly two hours ago.
Francis thought there should be something to be said, all too aware that the chance might not come again.
But if there was any such healing benediction, any inspired words that might somehow serve as a talisman for them both, they eluded him. All he could do was to blurt out the truth.
"Dickon, this is Hell."
Richard paused, looked back over his shoulder. "I know. But if we lose, Francis, if we lose . . ."
He moved away, began to shout commands, gesturing down the line where York was giving ground, and the knights of his household rallied, weary men surging forward with hoarse cries of "A York! A
Gloucester!"
Inside his gauntlets, Francis's hands were slippery with sweat. The leather clung to his palms; his fingers were cramped and stiff. He tightened his grip on his sword and followed Richard back into the battle.
IT had taken him more than an hour, but Oxford had finally regrouped his plundering troops. Some men had scattered as Oxford galloped into the market square, shouting and cursing; others were staggering, glassy-
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eyed, from looted alehouses to grin good-naturedly at their enraged leader. But Oxford and his captains finally corralled some eight hundred men wearing his badge of the Streaming Star and headed north, back toward the battlefield.
The field was still thick in fog and Oxford had no way of knowing that, in his absence, the battle lines had shifted, swung from north-south to east-west. Plunging back into the battle, they thought they bore down on Edward's rear. They collided, instead, with John Neville's flank.
Montagu's men were taken by surprise. In the swirling fog, the banner flown by these new arrivals was not easily seen, was obscured in mist. To the panic-stricken men, it seemed to glimmer like a streaming sun . . . the Sunne of York. A cry went up: Ambush! The flank guard of bowmen sent a rain of arrows down upon these Yorkist horsemen and foot soldiers who'd appeared without warning in their midst.
Horses screamed, went over backward. Oxford's men staggered back, bleeding, stunned. Oxford swore like one demented. That whoreson Montagu was betraying them. He'd gone over to York, just as they'd feared he'd do. The line rang with shouts of treachery. They flung themselves upon Montagu's wing and men now died by mistake.
YET another messenger had come from Richard. He stood panting before Edward.
"I am Matt Fletcher, Your Grace. My lord of Gloucester bids me tell you that the van still holds."
Someone was handing Edward a flask. He accepted it, drank in gulps, spilling water over his face, his armor; it washed away red.
"How does he, in truth?"
The youth hesitated. "The fighting is savage, Your Grace. But we're not giving ground. . . ."A vision of the steep slopes of the ravine made him add, "So far."
Edward nodded. "Tell Gloucester that Montagu's line is weakening. I know how much I do ask. But if he can hold on awhile longer ..."
"I shall, your Grace," Matt said tiredly, and Edward started to turn away, stopped, and glanced back at the boy.
"And tell him, too, to take care, for Christ's sake . . . and mine."
They both heard it at once, a rising volume of noise-curses of fearful men, cries of betrayal, screams of dying horses. There was sudden activity to their left, midst Montagu's ranks. Men reeled out of the fog;
the line was faltering.
John Howard was coming at a run, moving with surprising speed for a man of his girth and armored weight, gesturing wildly.
"Your Grace! Montagu's firing on Oxford!"