Succession (16 page)

‘Now we must do what we can,’ he said, and pulled on his helmet. He ordered his trumpeter to sound the alarm, and then made a speech to his men. Together, he said, they would overcome Somerset. He referred to himself as Joab, and King Henry as King David, but he did not dwell on this, because he was not good with words, and because there was no need; his men were keen for the fray. And, besides, he had already spoken to some of them, instructing them about the real purpose of this battle. Then he took up his position and reined in his horse.

He could feel the tension in his horse, an alertness, a readiness or acceptance of this mission, which until the last few days the duke
had hoped to avert. His horse knew; he had always believed that a horse knew in advance whether a battle would be won or lost, and now he could sense a quiver of eagerness, not fear, in its flanks. He spoke to it reassuringly.

High above, in the blue air, a hawk wheeled then hovered. It was a good sign, he thought, because his own symbol was the falcon and the fetterlock. He pulled his visor down.

From this distance he could not see what kind of hawk it was, which was a pity, for he was always interested in birds. As a child he had been fascinated by their flight; by the way their wings lifted and spread. He had watched them, feeling his own shoulder blades arch in sympathy.

Once he had come across a dead bird, and had opened out its wings. He thought he had seen nothing so beautiful as the arrangement of feathers spreading out from the spine to the tip. He had gathered leaves together, arranging them in the same pattern, thinking to make wings for himself. But then his brothers had come upon him and mocked him. His older brothers, who were now dead.

With an effort he brought his mind back into focus; now was not the time to be distracted. He put on his helmet – there was nothing like a helmet for making you sweat – and pulled the visor down. In his mind’s eye he could still see an image of the bird, wheeling in the still air. It was a good sign, he thought, because he had always been fascinated by birds.

The alarm bell was rung and every man went to harness …

John Benet’s Chronicle

 

The battle started on the stroke of 10 o’clock, but because the ways were narrow few combatants could fight there …

Dijon Relation

 

The narrowness of the lanes meant that only a few men could engage in fighting at any time, and they presented an easy target for the king’s archers. Time after time his men were driven back by a hail of arrows so thick it was hardly possible to see.

It seemed to Duke Richard that his battle was lost before it had started, that he would never even get to fight; he would be executed as a traitor without striking a single blow.

It was Warwick, of course, who changed the course of things; Warwick who led his men through the gardens at the back of Holywell Street and instructed them to break down the doors of the houses and then their walls. And his men set to with their pickaxes and rams until a great section of the street collapsed in a pile of smoking rubble.

For it was Warwick’s great virtue as a fighter that he knew no limits.

Through the noise and confusion the trumpets sounded, and all of Warwick’s army burst through the barriers and poured into the marketplace, taking the king’s army entirely by surprise.

[The Earl of Warwick] took and gathered his men together and furiously broke into the town by the garden sides between the [inns] of the Key and the Checker in Holywell Street. His trumpet sounded and his men cried out with a great voice ‘A Warwick! A Warwick!’

Paston Letters

 

The fighting was furious …

John Benet’s Chronicle

 

I saw a man fall with his brains beaten out, another with a broken arm, a third with his throat cut and a fourth with a stab wound in his chest, while the whole street was strewn with corpses …

Whethamsted’s Register

 

Four of the king’s bodyguard were killed by arrows in his presence, and the king himself was wounded in the shoulder by an arrow … At last when they had fought for three hours the king’s party, seeing they had the worst of it, broke away on one wing and began to flee. The Duke of Somerset retreated into a house to save himself by hiding but he was seen by the Duke of York’s men who at once surrounded the house … York’s men at once began to fight Somerset and his men who were within the house and defended themselves valiantly. In the end, after the doors were broken down, Somerset saw he had no option but to come out …

Dijon Relation

 

He came out fighting, flinging the door open and instantly impaling the man who rushed through it on his sword. All that mattered to him was that his son should escape by the back way, while he kept his enemies occupied at the front.

He struck out blindly at first, but a grimness overtook him, and he fought with greater focus, feeling the cut and thrust, the sensation of death when someone dies so close to you that their blood spurts across you and might as well be your own.

It was as if he knew there was a reason his heir would need to
survive. He fought harder and with more concentration than he could usually summon.

And the second man fell, then the third.

He could feel the pumping of his arteries; all the force and will of life itself concentrated in the muscles of his arm. There is nothing like such force and concentration, and nothing like the suddenness with which it leaves.

The first blow of the axe.

It did not fell him, but it made him miss his mark, and a second blow hacked into his shoulder and a third split his face. Still he struck out blindly, until a fourth blow severed the tendons of his knee.

Then the fall, and the world upending itself around him. No sky, just faces contorted above him, then blood in the eyes so that he couldn’t see at all, and the violent quivering of his legs.

Blades piercing downwards like the beaks of so many birds.

Thus all who were on the side of the Duke of Somerset were killed, wounded, or at the very least, despoiled. The king, who was left on his own, fled into the house of a tanner to hide. And to this house came the Duke of York, the Earl of Salisbury and the Earl of Warwick, declaring themselves to be the king’s humble servants.

John Benet’s Chronicle

 

[The Yorkist lords] fell on their knees and besought him for grace and forgiveness of that they had done in the king’s presence, and besought him, of his highness, to take them as his true liegemen, saying that they never intended to hurt his own person …

Paston Letters

 

He had thought to deliver the death blow himself; he had envisaged it often enough, thrusting into Somerset’s stomach then winding out the intestines like the traitor he was. But in the end he had decided that it would not be a good thing for him to kill the duke
personally, considering what he hoped to achieve afterwards. Anyway, there was no time, for someone was shouting that they had found the king.

He was in a tanner’s house, propped up on a bench, having a wound between his neck and shoulder tended. His eyes were closed and he did not look up at first as the duke approached.

Behind him the door opened again, and Salisbury came in, followed by Warwick. Richard of York got on his knees, clumsily, for one of them was hurting. And he was sweating, and streaked with blood and dust.

One by one they spoke, saying that they had never intended any wrong to the king; that they wished only to serve him, as his true liegemen. No one was more grieved than they that matters should have come to this pass.

Warwick said also that if they had gone to Leicester as summoned, they would have been taken prisoner and suffered a shameful death as traitors, losing their livelihood and goods, and their heirs shamed for ever.

Silence.

The king opened his eyes and closed them again. The silence extended itself while they all remained kneeling on the dusty floor.

Richard of York’s thoughts were cramped; his mind over-stuffed with them. If the king did not accept their obeisance, they would have to take him as their prisoner to London. Also, he would have to tell the king about the Duke of Somerset, before the rumours started; before people could blacken his name further.

There was no precedent that he knew of for this situation.

The king cleared his throat.

‘You must cease your people,’ he said. York glanced up. ‘You must stop the fighting,’ he said, ‘and then no more harm will be done.’

Warwick, in particular, was profuse in his thanks. They all proffered their loyalty and their devoted service once again. But Duke Richard still had to tell the king that his favourite cousin and dearest friend was dead. He did not want to be seen to be responsible for any harm coming to the king; he certainly didn’t want the king to
fall into another attack of grief, or dementia, or whatever it was. He considered one way of breaking the news, then another, but when he finally raised his eyes, the king was already looking at him with a mixture of fear and revulsion on his face.

‘Where is my Lord of Somerset?’ he asked.

The Duke of York shifted uncomfortably on his wounded knee. ‘Your majesty –’ he started, but Warwick interrupted: ‘Alas, my lord the duke has fallen,’ he said smoothly. ‘He died nobly, I believe. None of us here were present.’

The king’s face turned very pale. He lifted his eyes as if to heaven, then they rolled back as though he might faint. The three lords got up at once.

‘Look to the king,’ Salisbury said, and York said that he should be taken to the abbey, for safekeeping, where the monks would tend him. Then, as if this brief interview had been more than he could bear, he left the cottage and went back on to the street; back into the clamour and stink of battle, to stop his men looting, and call them from the fray.

On 23rd the king and York and all returned to London. On 24th they made the solemn procession and now peace reigns. The king has forbidden anyone to speak about it upon pain of death. The Duke of York has the government and the people are very pleased at this.

Milanese State Papers: newsletter from Bruges, June 1455

 

We [Henry VI] declare that none of our cousins, the Duke of York and the Earls of Warwick and Salisbury, nor any of the persons who came with them in their fellowship to St Albans on 22nd May, be impeached, sued, vexed, grieved, hurt or molested for anything supposed or claimed to have been done against our person, crown or dignity.

In the great council chamber, in the time of parliament, in the presence of our sovereign lord, every lord spiritual and temporal freely swore: I promise unto your highness that I shall truly and faithfully keep the allegiance that I owe unto you and do all that may be to the welfare, honour and safeguard of your most noble person, and at no time consent to anything to the hurt and prejudice of your most noble person, dignity, crown or estate …

 

Rotuli Parliamentorum