The noise in the streets heightened the sense of panic and fear. Citizens were shoving their way down to the abbey; women crying, children screaming, livestock wandering aimlessly adding to the confusion. Columns of archers and men-at-arms tried to push through. Horsemen gathered, attempting to form themselves into some sort of company, only to be broken up by the press of bodies, lowing cattle and heavy-wheeled carts. Fires had started, the flames leaping up against the blue sky, plumes of thick black smoke stinging eyes and throats.
Sevigny realised that Roseblood was correct: short of a miracle, this battle was already lost. He glimpsed through the shifting smoke haze a posse of royal knights, their pale-faced King at the centre, hurrying back down St Peter’s Street to the Castle Inn, where Beaufort had set up his standard.
They entered St Peter’s cemetery. Roseblood ordered his company to stay whilst he and Sevigny entered the dark, cold church. A priest tried to stop them, whining how he should secure the doors. Roseblood pushed him aside, shouting at Wormwood to follow them to act as their messenger. Sevigny led the way up the steep, winding staircase, its corners festooned with dust-laced cobwebs, the walls green with mould and damp. They reached the top, pushed back the trapdoor and, with the breeze buffeting them, stepped on to the shale-covered floor of the tower roof. Its crenellations were high and linked by rusting bars. The three men staggered across to lean against the ancient stonework, catching their breath.
Sevigny peered round, gazing out across the town, and his heart skipped a beat. The beautifully clear May morning, free of any haze or mist, revealed an awesome sight. The duke had moved swiftly. Two great battle divisions were advancing on St Albans. To the north, the blue and murrey standards of York could be clearly seen. To the south, the coloured banners of Salisbury. More terrifying, in the centre and even faster-moving, a column of archers, foot and mounted knights under the white ragged staff of Warwick was lunging like a spear directly at the town. Sevigny stared down at the King’s forces, small, scurrying figures. A few of Beaufort’s captains had recognised the danger. Some troops were moving up St Peter’s Street to challenge York. Another force was moving fast downhill towards the river Ver and the precincts of the great abbey to check York’s left flank under Salisbury. News of Warwick’s imminent approach was also known. Many of the streets and alleyways to the east of the marketplace, were being hastily barricaded, archers and men-at-arms manning the defences.
‘York intends to encircle the town,’ Sevigny shouted against the stiff breeze. ‘He will force an entry to both north and south, but it is Warwick…’
His voice trailed off at Simon’s shouted curse. Behind Warwick’s screed of archers came LeCorbeil in their dark blood-red livery and gleaming sallets, all grouped together in a phalanx under the crow banner. Warwick’s division was advancing swiftly up Shropshire Lane, the central thoroughfare, outpacing the Yorkists to the north along Cock Lane, and Salisbury’s force, which had reached Sopwell Street, leading to Holywell and up into the marketplace. Sevigny suspected that the three enemy commanders were competing to see who would seize the royal standard.
He looked again, drawn by the shouts, cries and clatter of weapons. Warwick’s column was already trying to force the barricades. The archers manning these loosed volley after volley of arrows, swift showers of dark, deadly rain. Warwick’s advance stumbled, broke and retreated. Sevigny watched the small figures scurrying back. The royalist centre column was holding its own, but Beaufort’s captains had underestimated Warwick, and were too meagre to hold their defensive line between the Key and the Chequers, two ancient inns. Warwick’s troops were peeling off under the banner of Sir Robert Ogle, his chief henchman, infiltrating the alleyways either side of the Lancastrians. Meanwhile his archers had inched forward. Again the arrow storm. Warwick’s men replied with fire shafts against the barricades and the houses either side, whilst the dull thud and puffed smoke of cannons tainted the morning breeze.
The smoke shifted. Roseblood yelled, pointing down at the streets and alleyways either side of the royalist force battling Warwick. These runnels were now packed with soldiers wearing the white ragged staff, outflanking the barriers as well as racing towards the marketplace and the Castle Inn. Sevigny stared in horror. Roseblood screamed at Wormwood to warn Beaufort and the rest.
‘We will go ourselves!’ Sevigny shouted. ‘We are no use here. Warwick, the cunning bastard, has broken through the wood and plaster walls of the houses either side. They will be in the marketplace soon, and LeCorbeil with them.’
They hurried, slipping and slithering, down the tower steps and into the cemetery. Warwick’s surprise move was already deepening the confusion and chaos. Royalist troops were pouring out of the thoroughfares, terrified of being surrounded. They realised that York’s forces were encircling the town and were fleeing to the only place of safety, the countryside to the west.
‘We have to be careful,’ Sevigny warned. He grasped Simon’s arm. ‘You are right, this battle is lost.’
They collected their company and entered St Peter’s Street, riding as hard and fast as they could through the press of fleeing soldiery until they reached Beaufort’s position at the Castle. The royalist commanders were totally unprepared. Taken by surprise at Warwick’s unexpected manoeuvre, they had called in what meagre forces they could to fortify the tavern, but it was hopeless. The makeshift barricade across the stableyard gate was manned by a few archers and knight bannerets. Beaufort, Percy of Northumberland, Clifford, and Stafford of Buckingham were gathered in the courtyard; Sevigny and the Roseblood company were allowed in. One glance at Beaufort’s panic-stricken face chilled Sevigny’s heart.
‘We cannot summon forces!’ the duke declared. ‘Our troops are moving,’ he gestured wildly, ‘either north or south. Warwick’s men now control St Peter’s Street.’ He plucked at the delicately edged white collar of the cambric shirt beneath his dusty breastplate. ‘We never thought,’ he spoke as if to himself, ‘we never thought they would advance so swiftly.’ He turned away like a dream-walker to join Buckingham and the others.
The spacious tavern yard reflected the confusion and chaos of the royal forces. Horses whinnied and reared, panicked by the trailing plumes of smoke and the clamour of war cries beyond. Wounded men lay against the walls or on filthy straw beds in the stables and outhouses, gasping for water and screaming in pain at their wounds. More ominously, many of the able-bodied were beginning to desert. Archers, men-at-arms and even household knights slipped back into the tavern, hurrying along its stone-paved corridors to the great meadow at the rear, which stretched to thick copses of trees and the trackways leading to London: a welcome escape from what was fast becoming a bloody slaughter ground. Those who had horses led their mounts along the narrow paths between the tavern and its outbuildings, also intent on fleeing.
‘Master Simon.’ Sevigny and Roseblood turned. A dust-covered Reginald Bray, his face bruised and marked, beckoned them closer. ‘We must leave.’
‘But what about my lord?’ Simon pointed at Beaufort. Bray handed him a small scroll. Simon, ignoring the growing clamour, unfurled it.
Beaufort and the other lords were now grouped around a distraught Henry. The King had emerged from the tavern and two of his retainers had brought a throne-like chair for him to sit on. He slouched, a forlorn figure, swaddled like a child in a blue robe, the gold circlet around his head slightly askew.
‘My lord,’ Bray hissed, ‘insists that we flee, hide and wait for a better day. Simon, Master Sevigny, if we stay here we shall be slaughtered. York will try to annihilate Beaufort and all associated with him.’
‘Flee?’ Simon asked.
‘Read the scroll,’ Bray insisted.
The taverner did so, then closed his eyes, murmured a prayer and handed it to Sevigny. The message was terse. The Duke of Somerset thanked Simon Roseblood for his allegiance and loyalty, but begged him to take Master Bray and his company out of the battle should it go against them. He reminded Simon to be loyal to his kinswoman the Lady Margaret, and to render her the same service he had to her father and others of her name.
‘We must do as he says,’ Sevigny declared, even as the first crashing against the tavern gate and its barricade echoed across the courtyard. A shower of shafts, some of them fire arrows, forced them to retreat into the tavern porch. Beaufort and Buckingham were now screaming at the King to rise and move. Sevigny stared around. Within minutes the gate would be forced and the most hideous hand-to-hand fighting would break out. He knew York and Warwick. This was their day, and even if they faltered, LeCorbeil would certainly take up the struggle. There would be no chivalry; no surrender would be asked, no pardon offered, nothing but a fight to the death.
‘Go!’ he urged the Roseblood company. ‘Go! Gabriel, Raphael, take Prior Aelred and Wilfred. We will join you.’ Simon agreed, shouting to his sons to gather and wait at the far edge of the great meadow. Sevigny collected his mount and pushed Leonardo’s reins into Raphael’s hands. ‘Take him and the sumpter pony—’
He broke off. Beaufort, Clifford and Buckingham were still shouting at the King, begging him to shelter in the tavern, but Henry was in shock. He sat gabbling to himself, his face white as snow. More arrows fell. Buckingham screamed, staggering away, an arrow deep in his right arm. Simon ran forward; smoke billowed and parted. Sevigny glimpsed figures garbed in dark red on ladders above the rim of the tavern wall. He shouted a warning, but a volley was loosed and a barbed bolt skimmed the King’s face, a slicing cut. Henry crouched forward in pain, turning to Beaufort, who just stood staring speechlessly down at the crossbow bolt embedded in his own chest. Clifford staggered away, an arrow in his neck.
The red-garbed figures now swarmed like demons from Hell along the top of the tavern wall. A few archers and men-at-arms rushed to fend them off. Sevigny raced forward and grasped Simon’s arm. ‘It’s over!’ he shouted. ‘There is nothing to be done.’ Simon, his face white and tense, agreed and they left the tavern yard, hurrying along its passageways out into the garden. Raphael had assembled the company near the wicket gate leading to the great meadow. Sevigny noticed some empty saddles. Wormwood, mouth all bloodied, told him that they had lost men in the retreat.
‘Why so few?’ Sevigny whispered. ‘Such a small company?’
‘Why bring so many to the slaughter?’ Simon replied enigmatically, swinging himself up into the saddle. Sevigny did likewise and gazed across the bright greenness of the meadow. The royal army no longer existed. Men had doffed their livery and were fleeing for their lives.
‘What now, Master Simon?’ he asked.
The taverner just sat, head to one side, listening to the furious shouts of battle. ‘Let us go,’ he urged at last, and led them off through the gate into the meadow. They did not canter, but moved leisurely, a tightly formed company. Once they had reached the fringe of trees, Simon reined in and raised his hand. Around him milled two dozen or so of his company and the Franciscan envoys.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Sevigny asked.
Simon ordered Wormwood to unfurl the vintners’ standard so that it could be clearly seen by the enemy, who had broken through the tavern and were now massing on the far side of the meadow. Sevigny mused aloud, ‘I doubt whether York will follow in pursuit. The duke has got what he wants. He has captured the King and made sure that Beaufort and the others are dead. LeCorbeil are a different matter: they will pursue, yet you seemed eager to entice them on.’
‘Master Sevigny,’ Simon declared, ‘I am tired of LeCorbeil hunting me, threatening me and mine. I stood by the King and Beaufort. I have done my duty to my lord. Now I will do it for myself and my family. Rest assured, I have planned and I have plotted.’ He stared, shielding his eyes against the noonday sun. ‘You see them, Amadeus. The crows gather.’ Sevigny followed his direction. LeCorbeil had now brought up their horses, mustering under their banner. ‘They feasted well,’ Simon murmured, ‘and they are greedy to feast again, so let’s help them.’
The taverner turned his horse, and Sevigny, glancing back over his shoulder, followed him through the copse of trees on to the great broad trackway leading south to London. Refugees from both the town and the battle now milled here. These would have little to fear. Beaufort’s power was shattered and any pursuit by Yorkist forces might prove dangerous. Only LeCorbeil would sustain their feud to the death.
Amadeus and the rest rode for a while, a long line of horsemen galloping in a cloud of dust, forcing others to stand aside. Now and again they would pause, and Wormwood, who brought up the rear, assured them that LeCorbeil were in hot pursuit. Sevigny now realised that Roseblood was not as helpless as he pretended. The taverner intended a trap. They turned off the main trackway near the village of Isley and rode deep into the trees, Simon making sure that they were seen by others from the battle.
‘They will tell LeCorbeil,’ he confided to the clerk, ‘who will think we are in a panic.’
‘Until you spring the trap?’
‘More a place of slaughter.’ The taverner took off his sallet and wiped the sweaty dust from his face. ‘Trust me, clerk, LeCorbeil are not the only ones who know about deserted villages. Cottesloe was one, Thorpensoke is another. You have heard of it, and its church, St Michael-in-the-Forest?’ Sevigny shook his head. ‘Well, the great Archangel will defend us on the day of battle.’
Simon broke off, summoning Wormwood and whispering in his ear, sending him off at a fast, furious gallop further along the trackway. The rest of them followed at a more leisurely pace, an eerie experience, the trees either side becoming more dense, the branches of ancient oaks stretching out to form a thick green canopy over the sun-dappled path. Now and again they disturbed a deer, which would swerve in a flicker of shifting colour deeper into the wooded darkness. Strange forest sounds trailed across; there were bursts of sunlight, then they rode even deeper into the shadowy silence of the trees. Simon ordered his men to deliberately drop pieces of armour or weapons. On one occasion he loosed those horses without riders back along the path, heightening the impression that his small company were fleeing in panic. Scraps of armour were left to glint beside water pannikins, cooking pots, the occasional broken spear shaft, the head of an axe, scabbards and parcels of dried meat and bread.