Rebellion (46 page)

And so the king had closed his eyes, hoping
for revelation.

It would not do to lose his temper here
among his councillors. And there was no point going to Bristol to punish all those who
had aided the queen. That would come later.

He knew what he should not do, but he didn't
know what to do.

He drew in a long breath through his
nostrils as though trying to detect the scent of blood. He was aware that everyone was
watching him. He could feel their gaze on his back.

He'd always had a belief in the instincts of
beasts – his hunting birds, his dogs – that primitive, deadly skill. He'd felt something
close to it in battle when his feet knew where to place themselves, his arm when and how
to strike. In battle, he believed, something else took over him, looking through his
eyes, propelling his limbs. Anger or fear was the enemy of this skill. What he felt in
battle was not anger but something he believed was close to communion with God; closer,
at any rate, than anything he experienced in church. What he felt now, however, was
darker than anger; a rage that was rooted in his soul. He struggled to think
clearly.

They were in an angle of land from which the
only way out was either to cross the Severn or to move north-east across the Cotswold
escarpment. Either way would delay them and give the queen time to meet Jasper's
forces.

His councillors were waiting for him to
speak. He turned back to them. ‘Show me the map again,' he said.

The map was spread out on
a makeshift table and held down at the corners by stones. It showed the route of the
river.

‘They will look for a place to cross,' Lord
Hastings said.

‘That could be anywhere,' said Clarence. He
had expressed more impatience than anyone at the delays and misdirections.

‘It could not be anywhere,' Hastings said.
‘It could be here –' he indicated towards Berkeley – ‘or here –' he pointed towards the
Cotswold Hills. ‘Either way, they'll be moving north.'

‘Unless they've turned back south.'

The king ignored his brother. ‘What do you
think?' he asked Hastings.

‘They've lost time already,' he replied, ‘on
the detour to Bristol. Our spies should find them soon.'

‘Yes, they've been good at that,' said
Clarence. But his younger brother Richard spoke up.

‘In either case,' he said, ‘if we travel
north we keep them between us and the river.'

‘Unless they cross it,' Clarence said.

‘There are not many crossing-places,' said
Hastings. ‘Our spies should see them easily if they try.'

‘Our spies have not seen them at
all
,' said Clarence. ‘Except when they walked right into them.'

‘What is your suggestion?' King Edward said
amenably.

‘I think we should divide the army – cover
all possible routes – but for God's sake waste no more time!'

King Edward turned to his stepson, Thomas
Grey. ‘What do you think, Tom?' he asked.

Thomas Grey was the youngest member of this
council.
Too young to go into battle
, his mother had said, but the king had
taken him nonetheless.
Taken him under his wing
, he'd said, and the queen had
said it would be less dangerous for him to be under the enemy's wing.

He spoke slowly, but the king knew he was
savouring the moment. ‘I think the duke is right,' he said, and both the king's
brothers looked at him. ‘I think we should go towards Cheltenham and
keep them between us and the river.'

Clarence started to speak but the king
raised his hand. ‘Hastings?' he said.

Hastings pulled his mouth down. ‘It's a
better road,' he said. ‘We should gain time.'

‘You're wasting time even discussing this,'
said Clarence.

‘The queen's army have lost time,' said
Hastings mildly. ‘They cannot be far away.'

‘And yet we can't see them,' said Clarence.
‘Perhaps they are travelling underground.'

‘If you have nothing helpful to say,
brother,' said the king, ‘say nothing.' And he met Clarence's scarlet glare
impassively.

‘We should act now,' said Richard
unexpectedly into the short silence that followed.

The king closed his eyes again. In his mind
the three courses proposed to him seemed like a crossroads or symbol of the Trinity. Or
like the nails of the cross itself between which he and his army hung suspended.

Show me what to do
, he prayed, but
there was nothing; no guiding light, no deep-seated primitive urge. Nothing.

He could do nothing.

It was a fourth option. And not the worst,
because he did not like to act in doubt or uncertainty. He could remain where he was and
wait for his scouts to bring him news.

He opened his eyes.

Young Thomas was watching him with his
mother's hooded gaze. George was glaring at the ground and Richard was looking at the
map, while Hastings sat on the bench with his eyes closed and his eyebrows raised as if
surprised by some internal vision. But as Edward straightened slowly they all looked at
him.

‘We will wait here,' he said, and saw their
expressions change. ‘It's dark – I don't want to chase across rough country in the dark
when we have no idea where to go. The scouts will return soon. Any
news is better than none.'

‘Suppose they don't bring news?' Clarence
said.

‘Then we will have rested at least,' said
the king. ‘We will set off at dawn.'

Early in the morning, soon after
three o'clock, the king had certain tidings that [his enemies] had taken their way
by Berkeley towards Gloucester. Whereupon he sent certain servants to Richard
Beauchamp, son and heir of Lord Beauchamp … commanding him to keep the town
and castle of Gloucester for the king … [The queen's army] came before
Gloucester about ten o'clock where their intent was utterly denied them by Richard
Beauchamp … of this demeaning they took right great displeasure and made great
menaces as if they would have assailed the town [but then] they took their way to
Tewkesbury where they came about four in the afternoon … by which time they
had travelled their host by night and day and were right weary, having travelled
thirty-six miles through foul country without any good refreshing … and the
greater part of their army were footmen and could not have laboured any further
…

The Arrivall

The drumming of feet and the heat and the
pain in the side and the smell and the thirst and the sweat chafing everywhere,
Lie
down
, a voice says to me clear as day,
lie down
, but if I do it I
won't get up, there's the pull of the earth to take me back into it, the drumming of
feet and the heat and the pain and the thirst …

Once in church they told me man is special,
marked out from the beasts, for he can stand and lift his eyes heavenward and see the
stars. But here I am, shoulders bent, feet drumming, eyes full of sweat – on my way like
any beast to death.

So they were
compelled by weariness to abide and pight them in a field at the town's end; the
town and the abbey at their backs, afore them foul lanes and deep dykes and many
hedges … a right evil place to approach as could well have been devised.

The Arrivall

There it was again, the smell of apples,
faint and far away. Don't know where it could have come from, not this place, not this
time of year; no food, nothing for two days and nights. The stink of men, yes –
horseshit and fear and sweat. But if I turned my head a certain way, lying down, there
it was, like a distant star.

I thought then how I would miss them if I
died this day – apples. The sweet crunch and juice of them running down your chin.

Then I thought of my girl's face, and how
she let me lift up her skirts.

I lay on ground that was baked to a rock,
the man next to me farting in his sleep. I could hear the priest moving among us to hear
our sins, but I was holding on to mine. I thought of how long it might take to die, on
the end of a spear or sword. And then I thought that there'd be two things I'd miss most
in all this world – the smell of apples and my sweet girl's fanny – and whether or not
to tell that to the priest.

I closed my eyes and tasted the two scents
of apples and my girl. And I hoped I'd make it through to see or smell or touch either
of them again. I hoped I'd make it through.

Upon the following morning the king
set all his host in good array, ordained three wards, displayed his banners, blew
the trumpets, committed his cause and quarrel to Almighty God, to our most blessed
lady His mother, the glorious martyr St George and all the saints and advanced upon
his enemies, approaching their field, which was pitched in a marvellous strong
ground, full difficult to be assailed … Nevertheless the king's vanguard sore
oppressed them with arrow-shot and they fired back both with arrows and guns
…

The Arrivall

From her position at the top of a hill Queen
Margaret could see it all: the encumbered movement of armies through ditches and
bushes.

It had not been part of anyone's plan to
stop here. In thirty-six hours her army had marched almost fifty miles through the
difficult terrain of the Severn Valley. If things had gone according to plan they would
have rested in Gloucester instead of being forced to march on until even their horses
were dropping.

They'd tried to cross the river, but the
bridge was too narrow and in poor repair. Some dispute had gone on for almost a hundred
years over who was responsible for its upkeep. So finally, defeated, they had pitched
camp in a field.

And it was a good field, she could see that.
It was surrounded by thick hedges, bordered by a wood and two brooks to the south and
east. Yet the king's army came on, slashing through hedges, clambering through the
ditch.

She'd been assured by her councillors that
the Yorkist army
would also have suffered. They'd travelled along the
old drove road, which was wide and clear, but there was nothing for them there, so high
up on the Cotswold Ridge, no food nor drink, just the sun beating down.

That was one source of comfort and another
was that her army was bigger. She had more than 7,000 men, though some had deserted, and
the Yorkists less than 5,000. So she was told.

But her son was on the field.

‘
Maman, n'aie pas peur
,' he'd said
in the old intimate way. ‘I'm in good hands here.'

She'd taken his hand and squeezed it, then
put up her other hand and touched his cheek and for once he did not shy away. There was
so much she wanted to say to him, but Lord Wenlock had stepped forward. ‘I'll take good
care of him, my lady,' he said. Then he said that he'd arranged for her to stay at a
manor a few miles away, which belonged to some relatives of his. When the battle was
over a messenger would be sent and she could easily return.

They did not want her on the battlefield.
Though it was her army and her cause that she'd fought for so long now that she could
hardly remember a time when she had not been fighting it.

But she'd had to defer to him, and to her
son, because by God's grace, at the end of that day he would be king. Or as good as.

And so she'd touched his cheek and kissed
him briefly on the lips.
God bless and keep you
, she'd said. She couldn't say
any more. She'd left with her daughter-in-law, Anne Neville, and the other ladies. Dr
Morton and Dr Ralph Mackerell were accompanying them. But she'd insisted on stopping at
this high place to watch the start of the battle.

Dr Morton didn't like the delay. He'd
arranged for two monks to guide them across the river at the bottom of the hill. ‘My
lady,' he said, ‘this is not what we agreed.'

But she could not stop scanning the field
for her son.

Surely she should have said something to him
before she'd left – about all the years they'd spent together, waiting for this day,
how he was all her world. But he'd turned away from her, impatient
for his first battle.

But he'd been smiling, she remembered that –
smiling and full of hope.

‘We can't ford the river without help,' Dr
Morton said.

‘I can't see him,' she replied. She could
not see anyone in the dense crowd of fighting men.

‘He's probably not on the field yet, my
lady,' said Dr Morton. ‘He was with Lord Wenlock – not the duke. It will take too long
to search him out now.'