The White Queen (25 page)

Queen Margaret and her hapless daughter-in-law, Anne Neville, commandeer a nearby
house called Payne’s Place, and wait for the battle that they believe will make them
queen and Princess of Wales. Anne Neville spends the night on her knees, praying for
the soul of her father, whose body is exposed, for every citizen to see, on the steps
before the altar at St. Paul’s in London. She prays for the grief of her mother who,
landing in England, learned before her feet had dried that her husband was defeated,
killed fleeing from a battle, and that she was a widow. The widowed duchess, Anne
of Warwick, refused to go a step farther with the Lancaster army and shut herself
up in Beaulieu Abbey, abandoning both her daughters to their opposed husbands: one
married to the Lancaster prince and the other to the York duke. Little Anne prays
for the fate of her sister Isabel, tied for life to the turncoat George, and now a
York countess once more, whose husband will fight on the other side of the battle
tomorrow. She prays as she always does that God will send the light of His reason
to her young husband Prince Edward of Lancaster, who grows more perverse and vicious
every day, and she prays for herself, that she may survive this battle and somehow
come
home again. She no longer knows quite what her home might be.

Edward’s army is commanded by the men he loves: the brothers he would gladly die beside,
if it is God’s will that they should die that day. His fears ride with him; he knows
what defeat is like now, and he will never forget it again. But he knows also that
there is no avoiding this battle: he has to chase it with the fastest forced march
that England has ever seen. He might well be afraid; but if he wants to be king he
will have to fight, and fight better than he has ever done before. His brother Richard,
Duke of Gloucester, orders the troop at the front of them all, leads with his fierce
bright loyal courage. Edward takes the battle in the center, and William Hastings,
who would lay down his life to block an ambush from reaching the king, defends at
the rear. For Anthony Woodville, Edward has a special need.

“Anthony, I want you and George to take a small company of spearmen, and hide in the
trees to our left,” Edward says quietly. “You’ll do two tasks there. One, you’ll watch
that Somerset sends no troops out from the castle ruins to surprise us on our left,
and you will watch the battle and make a charge when you think we need it.”

“You trust me this much?” Anthony asks, thinking of days when the two young men were
enemies and not brothers.

“I do,” Edward says. “But, Anthony—you know you
are a wise man, a philosopher, and death and life are alike to you?”

Anthony grimaces. “I have only a little learning, but I am very attached to my life,
Sire. I have not yet risen to detachment.”

“Me too,” Edward says fervently. “And I am much attached to my cock, brother. Make
sure your sister can put another prince in the cradle,” he says baldly. “Save my balls
for her, Anthony!”

Anthony laughs and throws a mock salute. “Will you signal in time of need?”

“You will see my need clearly enough. My signal will be when I look like I am losing,”
he says flatly. “Don’t leave it till then is all I ask.”

“I’ll do my best, Sire,” Anthony agrees equably, and turns to march his company of
two hundred spearmen into hiding.

Edward waits only till he can see they are in position, and invisible to the Lancaster
force behind the castle walls on the hill, and then he gives an order to his cannon.
“Fire!” At the same time Richard’s troop of archers let loose a rain of arrows. The
shot of the cannon hits the crumbling masonry of the old castle and blocks of stone
tumble down with the cannonballs on the heads of the men sheltering below. There is
a scream as one man gets an arrow agonizingly in his face, and then a dozen more yells
as the accurate arrows hail down on them. The castle proves to be more ruin than fortress.
There is no shelter behind
the walls, and the collapsing arches and falling stone are more of a danger than a
refuge. The men scatter out, some of them charging downhill before they are given
the command to advance, some of them turning towards Tewkesbury in retreat. Somerset
bellows for the army to group and charge down the hill to the king’s troop below them,
but already his men are on the run.

Yelling in rage, and helped by the fall of the ground, running faster and faster,
the Lancaster troops hurl themselves down and aim at the heart of the York forces,
where the tall king, his crown on his helmet, is ready for them. Edward is lit by
a bright merciless joy that he has come to know from a boyhood of battles. As soon
as the Lancaster men plow towards him through the first rank, he greets them with
his broadsword in one hand and an axe in the other. His long hours of training at
the joust, on foot in the arena, come into play, and his movements are as swift and
as natural as those of a baited lion: a thrust, a snarl, a turn, a stab. The men keep
coming at him and he never hesitates. He stabs to unguarded throats, up and under
the helmet. He slices cleverly at a man’s sword arm from the unprotected armpit upwards.
He kicks a man in the groin and, as the victim doubles up, he brings down the axe
on his head, shattering his skull.

As soon as the shock of the impact throws the York troops back, the flank commanded
by Richard comes
in at the side and starts to hack and stab, a merciless butchery with the young duke
at the very heart of the battle, small, vicious, a killer in the field, an apprentice
of terror. The determined push of Richard’s men breaks the onward charge of the Lancastrians
and they check. As always in the hand-to-hand fighting there is a lull as even the
strongest men catch their breath; but in this pause the Yorks push forward, headed
by the king with Richard at his side, and start to press the Lancastrians back up
the hill to their refuge.

There is a yell, a cold terrifying yell of determined men from the wood to the left
of the battle, where no one knew that soldiers were hiding. And two hundred, though
it looks like two thousand, spearmen, deadly armed but lightly footed, come running
rapidly towards the Lancastrians, the greatest knight in England, Anthony Woodville,
far ahead in the lead. Their spears are stretched out before them, hungry for a strike,
and the Lancastrian soldiers look up from their slugging battle and see them let fly,
like a man might see a storm of lightning bolts: death coming too fast to avoid.

They run, they can bear to do nothing else. The spears come at them like two hundred
blades on a single lethal weapon. They can hear the howl of them through the air before
the screams as they reach their targets. The soldiers thrash themselves to run back
up the hill, and Richard’s men follow them and cut them down without a moment’s mercy,
Anthony’s men closing on them fast, pulling out swords and knives. The Lancaster
soldiers run towards the river and wade across, or swim across or, weighed down by
their armor, drown in a frenzy of struggling in the reeds. They run towards the park,
and Hasting’s men close up and hack at them as if they were hares at the end of a
harvest when the reapers form a circle around the last stand of wheat and scythe down
the frightened beasts. They turn to run towards the town, and Edward’s own troop with
Edward at their head chases them like exhausted deer, and catches them for butchery.
The boy they call Prince Edward, Edward of Lancaster, Prince of Wales, is among them,
just outside the city walls, and they cut them all down in the charge, with flashing
swords and bloodied blades among screams for mercy, without pity.

“Spare me! Spare me! I am Edward of Lancaster, I am born to be king, my mother—” The
rest of it is lost in a gurgle of royal blood, as a foot soldier, a common man, puts
his knife into the young prince’s throat and so ends the hopes of Margaret of Anjou
and the life of her son and the Lancaster line, for the profit of a handsome belt
and engraved sword.

It is no sport for the king; it is a deathly ugly business, and Edward rests on his
sword, and cleans his dagger, and watches his men slit throats, cut guts, smash skulls,
and break legs until the Lancaster army is crying on the ground, or has run far away,
and the battle, this battle at least, is won.

But there is always an aftermath and it is always messy. Edward’s joy in the battle
does not extend to killing prisoners or torturing captives. He does not
even relish a judicial beheading, unlike most of the other warlords of his time. But
Lancaster lords have claimed sanctuary in the Abbey of Tewkesbury and cannot be allowed
to stay there or given safe conduct home. “Get them out,” Edward says curtly to Richard
his brother, the two united in a desire to finish it. He turns to the Grey boys, his
stepsons. “You go and find the living Lancaster lords from the battlefield and take
their weapons off them and put them under arrest.”

“They claim sanctuary,” Hastings points out. “They are in the abbey, hanging on to
the high altar. Your own wife survives only because sanctuary was honored. Your only
son was born safe in sanctuary.”

“A woman. A baby,” Edward says curtly. “Sanctuary is for the helpless. Duke Edmund
of Somerset is not helpless. He is a death-dealing traitor and Richard here will pull
him out of the abbey and on to the scaffold in Tewkesbury marketplace. Won’t you,
Richard?”

“Yes,” Richard says shortly. “I have a greater respect for victory than for any sanctuary,”
and he puts his hand on his sword hilt and goes to break down the door of the abbey,
though the abbot clings to his sword arm and begs him to fear the will of God and
show mercy. The army of York does not listen. It is beyond forgiveness. Richard’s
men drag out screaming supplicants, and Richard and Edward watch their men knife prisoners
who are begging to be ransomed in the churchyard, where they cling to gravestones,
begging the dead to save them, till the abbey steps are slippery with blood and the
sacred ground smells like a butcher’s shop, as if nothing were sacred. For nothing
is sacred in England anymore.

We are waiting for news in the Tower when the sound of cheering tells me that my husband
is coming home. I run down the stone stairs, my heels clacking, the girls behind me,
but when the gate opens and the horses rattle in, it is not my husband but my brother
Anthony at the head of the troop, smiling at me.

“Sister, give you joy, your husband is well and has won a great battle. Mother, give
me your blessing, I have need of it.”

He jumps from his horse and bows to me, and then turns to our mother and doffs his
cap and kneels to her as she puts her hand on his head. There is a moment of quietness
as she touches him. This is a real blessing, not the empty gesture that most families
make. Her heart goes out to him, her most talented child, and he bows his fair head
to her. Then he gets up and turns to me.

“I’ll tell you all about it later, but be sure he won a great victory. Margaret of
Anjou is in our keeping, our prisoner. Her son is dead: she has no heir. The hopes
of Lancaster are down in blood and mud. Edward would be with you, but he has marched
north where there are more uprisings for Neville and Lancaster. Your sons are with
him and are well and in good heart. Me, he sent
here to guard you and London. The men of Kent are up against us, and Thomas Neville
is supporting them. Half of them are good men, ill led, but the other half are nothing
but thieves looking for plunder. The smallest and most dangerous part are those who
think they can free King Henry and capture you, and they are sworn to do so. Neville
is on his way to London with a small fleet of ships. I’m to see the mayor and the
city fathers and organize the defense.”

“We are to be attacked here?”

He nods. “They are defeated, their heir is dead, but still they take the war onwards.
They will be choosing another heir for Lancaster: Henry Tudor. They will be swearing
for revenge. Edward has sent me to your defense. At the worst I am to organize your
retreat.”

“Are we in real danger?”

He nods. “I am sorry, sister. They have ships and the support of France, and Edward
has taken the whole army north.” He bows to me and he turns, and marches into the
Tower, bellowing to the constable that the mayor shall be admitted at once and that
he wants a report on the Tower’s preparedness for siege.

The men come in and confirm that Thomas Neville has ships in the sea off Kent, and
he has sworn he will support a march by the men of Kent by sailing up the Thames and
taking London. We have just won a dramatic battle, and killed a boy, the heir to the
claim, and should be safe; but we are still endangered. “Why would he do it?” I demand.
“It is over. Edward of Lancaster is dead, his cousin Warwick is dead, Margaret
of Anjou is captive, Henry is our prisoner held here in this very Tower? Why would
a Neville have ships off Gravesend and hope to take London?”