Margaret of Anjou

  He pointed over to the source of the sounds and as his men marched forward once again, they saw the forest move ahead of them, a line of soldiers that seemed to stretch as far as they could see. The ranks with him were sighted at the same time and a great howl went up on both sides. York raised his shield and slammed his visor down, bringing his sword up for the first blow.

  The armies crashed together and there was no room for maneuvers or formations. One line buckled against the other and every death was a sweating, grunting murder, close enough to breathe the same air and be spattered by the other man’s blood when he went down. York struck and struck at anyone he could reach, using the height of his mount and his long sword to terrible effect. Yet in the moments between each blow, he could see a host of soldiers coming on the left and right. He was being flanked by a larger force. York gave a cry of grief for Salisbury, but he had no choice.

  “Fall back in good order! Keep your faces to them, but fall back on the castle.”

  He roared the order again and heard his captains repeat it at the top of their voices, already stepping back. It was a hard business and some of them were just London lads, rough-trained and overwhelmed by a savagery they had not known to expect.

  The enemy soldiers heard his order and pushed on. York set his jaw when he saw some of them wore blue and yellow. Percy men, come to take revenge for all the masters they had lost. He moved back in circles, wheeling his mount and trotting for a dozen paces before turning again and facing those who pressed in. He could not recall how far he had come from the castle, not with any certainty. Every step was hard, with ax-wielding, roaring men rushing against them, sweeping blades across as if they were scything barley. York’s soldiers fell and scrambled up as they retreated, trying to present a wall of shields, but still watching their feet to avoid the roots and briars. They could not help crowding into the center, looking for support in numbers, though it left the men on the flanks to be thinned out and cut down.

  York circled back once again and saw a brightening ahead. He prayed to God it was not a simple break in the foliage. He crossed himself and gave the order they wanted to hear.

  “Now. Run and re-form in the open!” His men were pelting away while he still shouted and he had to canter to stay abreast of them, his horse leaping bushes and coming out into the winter sun and wind. He had not been wrong. Sandal Castle lay ahead and there were thousands of men rushing to stand in ranks on the clear ground, panting with their hands on their knees and anger in their faces.

  The feeling of clean wind and space restored their confidence, making them want to meet the men who had terrified them in the gloomy forest. They raised their weapons and roared a great challenge as the trees vomited soldiers right across the length of the field.

  The first ones were met with a clashing line of shields and stabbing swords, but more and more came out, flanking even the massed ranks gathered before Sandal and pouring around them. York turned his horse on the spot, seeing Scottish warriors racing across the ground, holding their swords low until they leaped up, crashing down onto the shields and mail of his men. His heart shrank as he spotted archers trotting out on the flanks, protected by hundreds more who stood with swords and shields before them, so that they could not be reached.

  The arrows began to fly a moment later and the battle surged back and forth in front of the castle. All York’s forces were committed, with no reserve, nor any way to break the flood of soldiers still coming through the trees in greater and greater numbers. Hundreds of the attackers were killed, but there were always more to hack at his lines, roaring and shoving. Arrows flew like flocks of birds, dropping men, or forcing them to raise their shields so they were vulnerable to a gutting blow beneath.

  York was forced back and back with his men, until he sat his horse in the third rank, not fifty yards from the gatehouse of Sandal. He could not retreat over that small drawbridge. Just as it had slowed their leaving, the narrow entrance would be choked with bodies if they tried to gain the safety of the walls. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and filling his chest with air he had known all his life. When he opened his eyes, he saw Margaret.

  The queen rode a chestnut mare, with a dozen bearded Scots as her personal guard. They made a cluster at the very rear of the battlefield, barely out of the trees as she watched. York was no more than three hundred paces from her and he could see her smile. He thought he recognized Derry Brewer at her side and he shook his head.

  For an age, York searched the battlefield with his gaze, looking for the slightest hope. The fighting went on around him and every moment brought his men closer to a complete rout. It was finished and he worked his tongue around his mouth, drawing spit enough to speak. Carefully, he sheathed his blade and raised his right hand.

  “Peace! I surrender myself. In the name of York, put up your swords.” He had to repeat the words at the top of his voice before he was heard.

  His men stared up at him in shock, perhaps more in relief. They too could see the way the battle had been going. Those at the rear laid their blades on the ground and raised their hands to show they had done so. York could hear the same command echoed on the other side. The sounds of fighting faded slowly, to be replaced by the cries of the wounded and the dying, suddenly harsh and shocking in that greater silence.

  CHAPTER 33

  It was no small thing to disarm an army. Men who had borne swords and axes for years developed an affection for them. The owners were reluctant to give them up, just to be thrown onto a pile to rust or to be given to some unworthy sod. The wind pushed and flapped at them all, making them shiver and wrap their arms around themselves now that the heat of the fighting was over.

  Lord Clifford took a group of horsemen right around the fortress of Sandal, seeking out any armed men of York who might still be waiting in ambush. On the frozen field, panting soldiers on both sides checked themselves and their equipment, looking for wounds they had not felt before. Many of them cursed to find cuts or even arrow-holes, staring at them in wonder as they hacked strips from their tabards to bind them.

  All of York’s men were searched for blades. When they had no weapons, Somerset sent his soldiers back to take their mail shirts. They grumbled and cursed, of course, though they knew better than to refuse. Under the trees, the piles of equipment grew: helmets and shields, mail, armor and axes all thrown together. The dead were stripped of anything of value, with even their boots tugged off and piled. After a time, all the corpses were barefoot and the grim soldiers came back among them once more, carrying away the dead to be laid out on the hard ground, folding their arms across their chests.

  The work took hours and the sun was over the horizon by the time the first survivors were allowed to leave. In groups of a dozen at a time, those who could walk were pointed south and told to go. Some of them wore masks of frozen blood, or showed new pouting mouths where blades had cut their flesh. Others pressed their hands over seeping holes, or nursed stumps and rocked where they sat, pale and sick with the pain. The ones who would not walk were left to sit and die in the wind, staring at nothing.

  Derry Brewer made a point of speaking to a few of York’s captains as they turned to leave. Many of the battered, shivering men would walk all the way to their homes, stealing or starving until they were far from Sandal and all the memories of that loss. He did not doubt some of the survivors would be found dead on the road over the next month, while a few would be caught taking food and hanged. Derry merely mentioned that strong ones, unwounded ones, might choose to wait around Sheffield. He told them they might have a chance of joining the ranks of the queen’s army as they came south. They laughed at him, but it was a long way home and they had no food. Derry knew some of them would remember and wait. He didn’t like to see good men wasted, not with the armies of March and Warwick still unaccounted for.

  The sun was heading down into the western hills, staining the sky. York’s sword had been taken fr
om him, though he had been left his armor. His horse had been led away and his hands were firmly tied behind his back. Two soldiers took up position near him, growling at those who might have come close to spit or land a blow. They said nothing to him and he waited, left alone while his enemies cleared away the detritus of the battle.

  The sunset was deepening in gold and he looked into it until his eyes stung. All around him, the last of his army were slinking away to the southern road, a great stream of slumped figures that reminded him of refugees in France, a decade before. He kept his head up, standing pale and straight as they went past. Some of them muttered curses at him as they went, while many more whispered an apology. He did not respond to any of them, turning back from the sun to the queen and her lords.

  When the field before Sandal was almost empty, Derry Brewer strolled across to him.

  “There are some who want a word with you. Come on.” He took York by the arm and tugged him over the field toward the queen.

  York grimaced at his touch.

  “I am of noble blood, Brewer. Have a care.”

  Derry chuckled, though it was not a pleasant sound. He pulled York to the very edge of the woods, where a dozen nobles and the queen herself turned to watch their approach. York raised his head a fraction further, refusing to be cowed by them. His eyes fell on a bound figure, kneeling and swaying on the ground. York smiled in relief at the sight of Salisbury alive, though the old man’s head was bloody and his eyes dull.

  Derry took the duke right up to Salisbury, tapping him on the shoulder to signal he should kneel. For a moment, York stood unbending, but he could feel rough twine on his wrists and he knew he had no choice but to endure.

  He knelt on the muddy ground, cold water seeping into his armor. As he settled himself, Margaret came to stand close to him, her head tilted as she watched him with unnatural intensity. Somerset and Henry Percy were at her side, looking almost as scratched and bedraggled as York felt himself.

  “Should I congratulate you, my lady?” York said. “It seems I am your prisoner.”

  “I do not need you to tell me that,” Margaret said. Her eyes glittered with malice for the man who had captured her husband and disinherited her son. “Where is the king, my lord? That is all I want to hear from you.”

  “Far away—and safe,” York replied. He thought for a moment. “If your intention is to ransom us, perhaps King Henry can be the price.”

  Margaret closed her eyes, one hand clenching to a fist.

  “No, my lord York. No. I have talked and talked, all this year. I will not make another deal now. It is over. If you will not tell me where my husband is kept, I have no more use for you.” She turned to Somerset, standing in armor with his sword unsheathed. “Take Salisbury’s head, my lord. I will find a place for it.”

  York stiffened in shock and fury.

  “How would his death serve your cause? Stand back from him, Somerset!”

  He turned in desperation to see Salisbury was watching him, the sinews on his neck standing out like wires. As their eyes met, Salisbury shrugged. His face was swollen and bruised. The earl looked up as Somerset drew his sword and stood at his side.

  “God have mercy on my soul,” Salisbury murmured. He closed his eyes and leaned his neck forward, shaking.

  Somerset raised the sword as high as he could reach and then brought the blade down with huge force, cutting the earl’s head free so that it dropped into the mud. The body slumped and leaned sideways as York gaped in horror and grief. He looked up at Margaret and saw his own death in her eyes.

  A shout sounded nearby and the nobles around the queen reached for swords, then let their hands fall away as they saw it was Lord Clifford riding back in. The baron smiled as he caught sight of Salisbury’s body and York bound and kneeling. He trotted his horse up to them and dismounted, walking the final few paces so that he could look down on York.

  “It gives me joy to see you so reduced,” Clifford said. “I thank God I came back in time. I caught a young man over by the walls, a couple of lads with him. He said he was your son before I killed him.” York stared as Clifford held up his right hand, showing him a punch dagger with bright red blood on it.

  The spiteful pleasure in Clifford seemed to sour the moment for Margaret.

  “See to your men, baron,” she said curtly to him.

  Clifford looked wounded, but he obeyed, turning away.

  Margaret shook her head, weary and sick.

  “You have caused so much pain, Richard,” she said. “So many fathers and sons have died and all because you would not accept Henry on the throne.”

  “It was too good a chair for him,” York said. “You think you have won a victory?” His voice grew stronger with every word.

  The death of Salisbury and the murder of poor Edmund had stunned him, for a time. Something about Clifford’s petty, vicious hatred restored his pride like strong wine, making his heart pound. York straightened his back as the Duke of Somerset came to his side. He could sense the bloody sword rising over him and he saw the nod Margaret gave.

  “All you have done is release our sons!” York shouted. “God save my soul!”

  The sword came across and York’s head rolled. Margaret let out a slow, shuddering breath.

  “There is an end of it,” she whispered. “There are good men avenged.” She raised her voice to the lords around her. “Take the heads and spike them on the walls of York.”

  She watched in sick fascination as the grisly items were gathered up together, dripping blood down the arm of the man who held them. Margaret stepped very close, reaching out to touch the slack features of York. Her hand shook like she had palsy.

  “Make a paper crown for this one, he who wished to wear a real one. Let the people of York know the price of his ambition.”

  The soldier nodded, bearing the heads away.

  Earl Percy stepped up to Margaret’s shoulder, pale at what he had witnessed.

  “What now, my lady?”

  “Now?” she said, turning to him. “Now to London, to take back my husband.”

  EPILOGUE

  Edward of March brooded. His armor was spattered with blood and clotted dirt and he was weary, though his aching arms felt well used. Darkness was coming on and he could hear the cries of the wounded across the shadowed field, silenced as they were found and their throats cut. His men tramped in files and ranks, armor and mail jingling. There were no shouts of victory, no laughter. The grim mood of the earl had tainted them all. They kept silent as they passed the spot where he rested on a fallen tree, staring out, his great sword across his knees.

  His father and brother Edmund were dead, brought down by dogs and lesser men. The news had come on the string of riders between them just days before, as a Welsh army came close enough to attack. March had lost himself for a time, then. He recalled ordering his men into ranks and the way they looked at him with fear on their faces. They had faced four thousand soldiers, with the best archers in the world, but he had ordered them in, even so. The result was all around him, a field of corpses sinking into the mud. He had thrown their lives away in his rage. He had struck and struck until his sword-edge was blunt and yet still crushed and broke with every blow. When his madness had been spent, the battle was won, the last of them running from the weeping giant in iron, who swept them away like leaves.

  He did not know how many of his own men lay among the dead. He did not care if he had lost almost all of them. Owen Tudor had been killed, his army of Welshmen slaughtered, his sons forced to run. They had chosen to stand against him and they had failed. That was all that mattered.

  Edward heaved himself to his feet, feeling a dozen aches and bruises he had not noticed before. Blood seeped from his side-plates and he winced as he pressed the spot and felt his ribs shift. The night would be long and he turned his face up to the dark sky, longing to feel the light of the sun
once again. He lived, he thought in wonder. He had spent the dark passions that had consumed him, emptying himself until he was hollow. He had taken the blood price for his father.

  He breathed deeply, recalling the strange vision that had come the morning before the battle. He had watched the sun begin to rise, though there had no longer been any joy in it. As it creased the horizon, two more suns had appeared, one on either side, gleaming eyes of gold that made strange and sickening shadows across the waiting ranks. His men had pointed and gasped, afraid. The darkness had still been coiling in him then. He had stared until he thought he would go blind, feeling the warmth on his bare face.

  He did not know if that vision had been his father’s last blessing to him. Edward felt as if he had been reborn under the light of that strange trinity. He had been made anew. He was eighteen years old. He was the Duke of York. He was the heir to the throne.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  PART ONE: 1454–1455

  THE AMBUSH by some seven hundred Percy retainers and servants on the Neville wedding party took place a little earlier than I have it here, in August 1453—around the same time King Henry VI fell into his senseless state. It was a key event among years of low-level fighting between the families as they struggled to control the north and widen their holdings.

  That attack by Thomas Percy, Baron Egremont, was one of the most brutal actions in that private war, sparked by the marriage of Salisbury’s son to the niece of Ralph Cromwell, a union which placed estates claimed by the Percy family into Neville hands.

  The “Battle of Heworth Moor” failed in its main aim of slaughtering Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury. I have not included a dozen minor skirmishes, but that feud played a key part in deciding where the Nevilles and the Percys stood in the first battle of St. Albans in 1455—and its outcome.

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