Red Rose, White Rose (55 page)

Cuthbert

F
or all Richard’s regal magnificence and his air of supreme confidence, his troops did not arrive at his fortress of Sandal Magna in good heart. I had responded to Cicely’s plea to join the Yorkist army which marched out of London in early December and from the start I had been far from convinced that it was fit to take on the highly experienced fighting men of the northern border. I did not see how soldiers who only weeks before had been dying cloth or making pies in the workshops of London would be any match for those northern warriors. Nor were many of their captains trained commanders. Richard had numbers behind him but few quality marching-men.

The Earl of Northumberland and Lord Clifford, two of the young Lancastrian heirs who had inherited after their fathers were killed at the Battle of St Albans, would have been busy recruiting along the wild lands between Scotland and England where men’s skills with sword and claymore were matched by their sharp wits and cunning.

Moreover as we entered the Lancastrian heartland near Worksop some of our harbingers were set upon and systematically cut down by their Lancastrian equivalent. When we came upon their butchered bodies we realized that some had been tortured before they were killed and had no doubt spilled information about our numbers and battle-readiness. It was bad enough to know myself that we were outnumbered, ill-prepared and poorly supplied and even worse to know that the enemy was now also aware of it.

I felt enormous relief when the great fortress of Sandal Magna loomed on the horizon, high on its hill above the town of Wakefield. This was York territory and the locals were as glad to see us as we were to see them, for since the death of Lord Egremont at Northampton they had been subject to much harassment by avenging raiders from the Percy strongholds of Spofforth and Healaugh thirty miles north. On Richard’s orders, once the men were fed and billeted, I set about getting our big guns placed and organizing details to dig defensive ditches around the ramparts. Sandal was a well-fortified castle but its footprint was small and ten thousand men had to be squeezed into every nook and cranny of its steep motte and baileys. Some troops were obliged to camp outside the walls, defended only by the big guns and the ditch defences, so the gates would need to open for them to come and go from the castle, for duties or for refuge should the need arise; I made sure that the operation of the gates, especially closing them and raising the drawbridge, were swift and decisive actions.

Then on Christmas Eve, as Bishop George Neville was celebrating mass in the castle chapel, an alarm bell rang from the watch on the roof of the great round tower keep. A parley party was arriving under a white flag. Richard and his retinue had hardly reached the great hall before the Lancastrian deputation strode in, having left their swords and helmets at the guardhouse. Ahead of the herald who bore a white flag with a red rose set prominently at its centre Henry Beaufort, the urbane young Duke of Somerset, marched up to the dais, accompanied by his contemporary and ally Lord Clifford.

By any standards it was an extraordinary confrontation. The difference in age between the chief antagonists was substantial – by my reckoning about twenty-five years. Both were in half armour and wore over their cuirasses crested jupons which were remarkably similar, scattered with English lions and French lilies, demonstrating vividly the close family relationship between the two rival parties for the throne. Here was a great-grandson of King Edward the Third face to face with a great-great-grandson of the same king, both of whom had a claim on that doughty monarch’s throne. It was York versus Lancaster, maturity versus youth, resolve versus guile. Good-looking though he was with his thick auburn hair and bright blue eyes, I did not feel inclined to trust Henry Beaufort an inch.

The younger man made a sharp, military bow. ‘My lord duke, we come in peace on the eve of Christ’s birth.’

I could not help noticing that while Somerset held Richard’s gaze with a steady look, Lord Clifford was scanning the hall, taking note of the occupants. When he reached Hal of Salisbury, he paused as if he had found what he was looking for. Then his eyes roved to Edmund, who stood as usual at Richard’s elbow and afterwards across to me. I frowned back at him. Not only had this young man’s father been killed by Hal at St Albans but he had also been involved in Cicely’s abduction to Aycliffe Tower. There was a lot of history between Clifford and Neville.

Richard did not return the other duke’s bow. ‘You have already disturbed our Christmas peace, Somerset. Say what you have come to say and take your leave.’

‘As you wish. Here is my proposal.’ The young duke turned and nodded at his herald who cleared his throat and raised a scroll to read from it.

‘His grace the Duke of Somerset has the honour to command the army of his grace the Prince of Wales. We are camped at your gates and have your castle under siege in his name. But in view of the season it is suggested by that most puissant prince that both sides refrain from hostilities until Epiphany so that all may celebrate the birth of our Lord in His holy peace.’

Richard’s face remained set in stone. He waited a considerable time before responding and then spoke in a voice that was clipped and clear. ‘The heir to the throne is the only puissant prince to bear the title Prince of Wales. I am heir to the throne by Act of Parliament and therefore titular Prince of Wales. I do not recognize the high command of your army, nor do I consider an eight-year-old boy old enough to make treaties or truces. However, I do rejoice in the birth of our Lord and will agree to a suspension of hostilities until Epiphany. Until then, let us all go with God.’

The parley party nodded their heads and turned on their heels but not before the Duke of Somerset had aimed a flourish of his hand and a mocking smile at Richard and Lord Clifford had treated me to a lifted brow and a hard stare, which I found impossible to interpret. Why Clifford glared at me as if he had a personal grudge was a mystery, since we had never met.

Richard kept his eyes on the Lancastrians until they left the hall, closely escorted by armed guards, then he turned to us. ‘Those young firebrands bear a grudge against all of us,’ he observed with a lop-sided smile. ‘But what they do not know is that their twelve-day truce will give our latest ally a chance to bring an extra two thousand men to Sandal. Lord Neville of Brancepeth has pledged his support to York.’

This was news indeed. I sucked my teeth in surprise but said nothing, remembering my conversation with that same Lord Neville at Middleham when ‘perhaps’ had been the word of the day. Hal however voiced reservations similar to my own. ‘Can we trust him, Richard? Do not forget he was crucially late at Ludford Bridge.’

‘Yet he held back when the Percys threatened your Tom’s wedding procession at Heworth Moor,’ the duke reminded us. ‘Rest assured, Hal, that he has sympathy for the York cause, even if you and he have clashed over property for years.’

Hal stroked his chin. ‘Well we can certainly use his men when the time comes. It is one thing to celebrate Christmas but we cannot stay behind these walls for long afterwards. We do not have enough supplies for ten thousand, let alone twelve.’

While that was true enough, I had another reason altogether to ponder the consequences of John Neville’s defection to York. I had been assuming that as a tenant knight of the Brancepeth Nevilles my blood-thirsty brother-in-law Sir Gerald Copley would be recruited to their banner and fight on the other side but now it seemed he might be on ours. In view of what John had told me at Middleham, I would rather have been on a battlefield face to face with someone who had sworn to kill me than have him at my back.

Christmas was hardly a celebration, although a lot of wine and ale was consumed as men sought to drown their apprehension about what was to come. Despite the arranged truce, the gates of the castle were kept firmly closed except for when the troops camped out on the ramparts were able to enter and leave for religious services and meals. However, strict rationing meant that the meals were not plentiful and many of these men took to foraging about the countryside to supplement their diet, a practice with which I sympathized but the foragers were very vulnerable to attack and, truce or no truce, there were several clashes with Lancastrian scouts which cost the lives of men we could ill afford to lose.

Immediately below the hill on which Sandal Magna Castle stood was an area called Wakefield Green. It was a wide stretch of common land used in summer by the people of the town for grazing their stock but during those tense winter days of truce it became a taunting ground for the Lancastrians. Detachments of troops would march to and fro under red rose banners or practice manoeuvres there, always ensuring that they were just out of arrow-shot.

One such incident drew Richard out onto the battlements and tipped him into a rare fit of rage. For half an hour around noon on Holy Innocents Day, December the twenty-eighth, about four hundred men paraded prominently in murrey and blue York livery, giving the impression that they were reinforcements bound for the castle, except that none were expected and they did not attempt to gain entry. Then all at once they ripped off their York colours, stamped them into the ground and raised the battle standard of Sir Anthony Trollope, the very Captain who had turned his coat at Ludlow and taken his men across to the Lancastrians. It was the kind of schoolboy jape that probably amused the youthful commander of the present Lancastrian army and was calculated to infuriate the Duke of York, which it unquestionably did.

‘I swear that cowardly devil’s disciple Trollope shall die!’ Richard stormed. ‘How dare he trample the York colours? As God is my witness I will personally sink a dagger into his black heart!’

The following day a message came through to Sandal Magna that Lord Neville had camped the previous night only twenty miles away with his two thousand men. ‘We cannot wait for Epiphany,’ Richard fretted. ‘We have not enough food for another two thousand and we cannot afford to lose those men. While the weather stays dry, I am going to tell Lord Neville to advance. We will do battle tomorrow.’

Hal, as always, advised prudence. ‘Suppose Somerset’s scouts intercept your messenger. He would get warning of our intentions. Neville is coming anyway. We should wait until we see him.’

‘We should wait until he is actually among us with weapons drawn,’ I warned. ‘Otherwise we are putting a lot of trust in his good faith,’

‘But my father is right.’ Edmund’s sudden interjection took us all by surprise. Aware of his youth and inexperience, he normally kept silent during strategical discussion. Now he added, ‘We cannot last another week until Epiphany and Lord Neville’s arrival will give us the advantage. Now is the time.’

Tom Neville spoke up for Edmund. ‘I agree. We should spring on them tomorrow. Waiting is not good for morale.’

Hal and I exchanged glances but, disappointingly, he did not put up any further objection. ‘But Lord Salisbury is right too, we should not risk sending a message today,’ I urged, echoing his earlier caution.

However, a mood of eager anticipation had suddenly pervaded the atmosphere, causing everyone else to clasp hands and confirm the plan, exchanging exclamations of elation and encouragement. I was not certain I had even been heard.

Wakefield Green, Yorkshire, 30th December 1460

Cuthbert

A
ll our fighting men were told to be armed and ready by dawn and so the castle had been a hive of activity late into the night, with knights and squires checking weapons and armour, artillerymen running supplies of gunpowder and shot out to the battery under cover of darkness and foot-soldiers sharpening their pikes and halberds. Due to the terrain and our intention to make the first charge, it would not be a battle where archers could cut down the enemy without inflicting casualties on our own men and so snipers were to be placed on the castle battlements to pick off unwary Lancastrian units who strayed too near the walls but otherwise the bowmen would be deployed as infantry and issued with body-armour and weapons suited to the vicious hand-to-hand fighting such a battle guaranteed.

I was among the advance cavalry lining up in the lower bailey, waiting for the gates to open when a cry came down from the watch high above on the keep roof. ‘Enemy movement on Wakefield Green! Troops advancing in numbers from the Lancastrian camp!’

Already mounted on his dappled grey stallion Richard gave a brisk nod to his bearer who raised the York ducal standard with its labelled royal arms quartered with those of his Mortimer mother and his Castilian grandmother. This was the signal for the gates to be opened, the portcullis raised and the drawbridge lowered, all in the smooth two-minute operation I had rehearsed with the mechanics. Herald trumpeters blew a fanfare as we cantered three abreast under the gatehouse arch and down the steep road that swept round the hill to the flat ground known as Sandal Field. There we took up our positions for the first charge, watching as the Lancastrian cavalry were scrambling to do the same on Wakefield Green, between us and the River Calder.

‘Our numbers look pretty even,’ shouted Edmund, who had been roughly counting heads. Our visors were still up and like any lad before his first battle the seventeen-year-old looked flushed and excited at the prospect of putting all his training into practice, though inside he would be terrified that he would not prove worthy.

I turned to look behind us where a hundred horsemen were lining up in their gleaming armour and colourful heraldry but I rose in my stirrups to peer over their heads, seeking the sight that I most wanted to find – the black bull’s head and white-on-red saltire cross that would signal the arrival of the Brancepeth Nevilles. It was not there and I knew we could not wait. If we were to achieve the advantage we sought we would have to charge before the Lancastrians were ready and it would not be long before they were. In fact I was impressed with their uncanny intuition about our intentions; as if they had known what our plans were.