were shielded by a gusset of chain mail,
a horse, though armoured, was too vulnerable;
better to save it for the final charge,
or the retreat. Weapons had also changed,
designed to do their worse on modern harness;
the great, two-handed sword, heavy to wield,
but with the force to cut through iron plate,
the war hammer, with strength to bash it in,
the halberd: axe, war-hammer, spear, in one.
The shields of old were clumsy. Now the buckler,
a small round shield attached to a man's arm,
was used instead, leaving both his hands free
to wield the fearsome instruments of death.
The arquebus was new and slow and clumsy,
and so innacurate that it's only use
was in a volley, but it showed the way
that things would go, for, at a 100 yards
a ball would penetrate the finest harness.
Fighting was hand to hand, vicious and bloody,
those wicked weapons severed arms and legs,
bashed in steel helmets and the heads beneath,
or pierced a breastplate right through to the heart.
XV
The battle was unusually vicious,
for York fought to preserve his dream of kingship,
threatened now, and hanging on a knife-edge,
while the Lancastrians fought for their survival,
for if they lost, they would be declared traitors
by the new king and not only beheaded,
but suffer disinheritance for their heirs.
But how can I, humble Bard of Burgh Conan,
describe it, when the Great Bard did it best.
(Read Henry VI, Part 3, or go to see it).
Then Leatham, though a poet now forgotten,
described the fight with admirable verve.
I know! – I'll quote a canto from his poem,
and then describe it in words of my own.
The sun arose o'er helm and shield
And all the pomp of war revealed;
Then fiercely rolled each wakeful eye,
And hearts beat high for victory.
Then loud and dread the clarion pealed,
On – on they rush – like steeds of fire,
A;; aremed with death and quenchless ire:
The fluttering plume – the brandished lance,
Awhile in liquid ether dance,
Then clash with foeman's deadliest hate,
As steeds with steeds contending meet.
The archer bends his yew-tree bow
and wings destruction on the foe
The matchlock – gun – and arquebus
hurl bolt and ball with thundering voice;
the pelting storm of iron hail
smites pitiless on rattling mail;
Halbert and sword, and battle axe,
Gory and hot in slaughter wax;
The din of arms, the frantic bound,
Of blood-stained hoof on icy ground,
The shriek of death – the victor's yell,
Mingling in one tumult swell.
XVI
It was not as young Edmund had imagined it.
He'd dreamed of knights arrayed in shining armour
and plumage colourful as Birds of Paradise,
dancing, almost, in delicate sword play.
Instead he found himself inside a cockpit
where vicious fighting cocks tore at each other.
He saw now why his father had insisted
that he stayed with the ladies back in Conisbrough –
he was too small! In fighting hand to hand,
size, strength and stamina count more than skill –
and he had none of those – just high ideals –
but ideals won't protect you from a swordstroke!
Porky was built for this – fought with his belly.
He'd stick it out and barge the foeman down,
a blow into his breastplate was well cushioned,
and if his swordplay lacked Italian elegance,
it certainly made up for it in force:
he lopped off arms just like a forester
lops branches off a tree, and sometimes heads.
Edmund could only follow in his wake,
and if, sometimes, he warded off a blow
at Porky's back, it was enough for him
to feel that he was playing a knightly part.
Not far behind, Sir Robert hacked and slashed
for very life – he was not used to this,
but sitting on his horse behind the lines
leading the prayers and giving final unction.
Nevertheless, he thought, I have deserved it.
I'll never kiss a kitchen maid again
(although that Meg who poured the drinks last night
was marvellously buxom). “Ow! That hurt!
Take that, you dog, and learn a just respect
for any man who wears a priestly stole!”
York ran to right and left, his great sword whirling
like the windmill you'll see on Conisbrough Common,
almost as though he thought to win the battle
with his one sword. If zeal and self-belief
could kill like bolts and balls he would be victor!
“They're falling back!” he cried. “Just one more push
and we will rout them and I shall be king!”
XVII
A trumpet sounds, although not one of York's.
He looks around and sees to his surprise
the foe on left and right – Clifford and Wilts
pour rank and rank from woods near to the castle.
York wheels around to face the coming blow –
and wheels again – to find himself surrounded!
Back in the ranks, Porky is wheeling too,
this way and that, but there's no front or back.
“We're caught,” he wails, “like a fish in a net
or a deer in a buckstall. Come 'ere, lad,
an' guard me back – my arse ain't fat enough!”
Ah wish that tha were bigger. Never mind –
better than nowt – just poke 'em in the face,
visor or not, an' that'll send 'em reeling!”
The tide is turning, wavering – and lost!
Queen Margaret's gardeners do their bloody work,
painting white roses red. Clifford, exultant,
revels in the slaughter, crimsoning
his sword and his sword arm, until it matches
the Red Rose at his breast, and the red lust
for vengeance poisoning the heart beneath.
Edmund looks on in horror. He's awake
but seeing his nightmare vision in the flesh:
a garden of white roses painted red.
Then suddenly, a strong hand siezes him –
he's taken! Will he be ransomed or slain?
No – it is his tutor, smeared with gore,
but recognisable by his priestly stole.
He drags him, heedless of his questioning,
out of the battle, heading for the town –
others have fled this way, but not so many
as you might think – a traitor's death awaits them –
hanged, drawn and quartered is a traitor's fate –
better to die in battle with one blow!
York tries to rally his beleagured troops,
mounts on his horse and rides among his men,
shouting his war cry: “Men of the White Rose!
To me! We'll beat them yet, but then his steed,
struck by an arrow, falls onto its knees,
and he's unhorsed. “To me!” he cries again.
They come, but not his loyal men in blue,
just red Lancastrians eager for his blood.
He makes a last st
and but his weary arm
can wield the great two-handed sword no longer.
His arm falls. He awaits the final stroke,
but rough hands sieze him, taking him alive –
it seems they have a darker fate in mind.
XVIII
Lord Clifford, cheated of his planned revenge,
now that the Duke is taken prisoner,
looks round for the Duke's kin and sees, afar,
crossing the bridge into the town of Sandal,
two men: a knight wearing a priestly stole
beside a man-at-arms – although he seems
more of a boy-at-arms. He thinks it odd,
and so decides to find out who they are.
He rides them down, dismounts and puts the question:
“What men are you? Show me. Raise up your visors!”
They do as they are told and Clifford sees
at once that it is Edmund and his tutor.
Without another word, he draws his sword
and raises it to strike the killing stroke...
My modest muse trembles before this scene!
I lack the words and the dramatic power
to do it justice. I'm not the Swan of Avon –
rather, the Crow of Conisbrough, and so
I'll turn to Shakespeare's, Henry VI, Part 3,
and use his words to give me inspiration:
RUTLAND
Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die:
I am too mean a subject for thy wrath;
Be thou revenged on men, and let me live.
CLIFFORD
In vain thou speak'st, poor boy: my father's blood
Hath stopped the passage where thy words should enter.
RUTLAND
Then let my father's blood open it again:
He is a man, and Clifford cope with him.
CLIFFORD
Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine
Were not revenge sufficient for me:
No, if I digged up thy forefathers' graves
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.
The sight of any of the House of York
Is as a fury to torment my soul,
And till I root out their accurs'd line
And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
Therefore -
He lifts his hand.
RUTLAND
O let me pray, before I take my death!
To thee I pray; sweet Clifford pity me.
CLIFFORD
Such pity as my rapier's point affords.
RUTLAND
I never did thee harm, why wilt thou slay me?
CLIFFORD
Thy Father hath.
RUTLAND
But 'twas ere I was born.
Thou hast one son: for his sake pity me,
Least in revenge thereof, sith God is just,
He be as miserably slain as I.
Ah, let me live in prison all my days,
And when I give occasion of offence,
Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.
CLIFFORD
No cause? thy Father slew my Father: therefore die.
He stabs him.
Now it's my turn! But I won't try to match
the Swan of Avon's eloquence. Instead,
I'll tell a plain tale taken from Hall's Chronicle:
Edmund, dismayed, had not a word to speak,
but kneeled upon his knees imploring mercy,
and holding up his hands with tearful face,
for all his power of speech was gone for fear. “
“Spare him”, Sir Robert pleaded, “You know well
who this boy is. He is a prince's son,
who may, perhaps, reward you well one day.”
But Clifford only sneered and said to Edmund:
“By God's blood, thy father slew mine, and I
will do the same to thee and all thy kin!”
and with that word he struck him in the heart.
Then, turning to the priest he said, “Now take
his body to his mother with my vow –
his brother shall be next in my revenge!”
That was no act of war, but bloody murder,
and ever afterwards he was accounted
a tyrant and no gentleman, and called
“John 'Butcher' Clifford” – and that was not all
the butchery that Clifford did that day.
XIX
Meanwhile, the Duke was taunted by his captors.
They sat him on an anthill like a throne
and on his head they placed a paper crown,
and bent their knees, speaking with mocking words:
“Hail King without dominion or subjects!
Hail King whose throne is nothing but an anthill!
Hail King whose crown is paper!” Clifford came
and stopped the sport and asked them, “What is this?”
The men-at-arms explained themselves at once:
“It's just bit of fun. His trial will follow.”
“There'll be no trial! He is a proven traitor!
Now, hold him to that anthill like a block
and I'll strike off his head with the same sword
that slew his son.” Richard looked up in horror –
he thought his son was safe in Conisbrough.
How Butcher Clifford revelled in that moment,
for this was more revenge than he had dreamed.
“Yea, this thy son's blood cleaving to my blade
shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood
congealed with this, do make me wipe off both.”
He showed the bloodly blade, then raised it high,
then with the force of all his pent up vengeance
struck off York's head. The soldiers cheered.
The deed was done. The head rolled on the ground,
and the poor crown fell off. Then Clifford said,
“Put his head on a pole. Put back the crown
and I will show the false king to the queen.”
He took it to her tent, and with a bow,
said with great pride, “Madam, your war is done,
and here's your trophy: the White Rose himself,
reddened by the Rose of Lancaster.”
EPILOGUE
But it was all for nothing; Richard's son,
his eldest son and heir, the Earl of March
defeated the Lancastrians in Wales,
and with Warwick, known as the Kingmaker,
entered the capital and siezed the throne
as King Edward IV, and the White Rose
did battle with the Red again at Towton
and won an overwhelming victory.
Clifford was killed in a skirmish Dittingdale
and later was attainted by the king,
which meant his hiers were disinherited.
Now the red rose was red with its own blood
and York, and his son, Edmund, were avenged.
Sir Robert, as a priest, was spared the scaffold,
but cast into the prison in York Castle.
He stayed there till the Earl of March released him,
and now he's back on duty once again,
serving as chaplain, tutoring young lads,
and in remembrance of that bloody battle,
and what it was that got him into it,
praying, “Lord, lead me not into temptation.”
Porky survived the battle with a ruse –
he took a Red Rose jupon from a dead man,
changed it for his, and joined the winning side –
and when they rampaged, looting, through the castle,
he took his favourite kitchen maid as loot.
She cried, “I know it's thee, Porky, thou traitor!
Just put me dahn, or ah will shout fer 'elp,
an' tha'll be killed!
” “'Ang on a mo'!” he pleaded.
“Ah never meant ter rape yer, cos ah like yer.
Ah want to marry yer!” “Yer do?” “It's true!”
At that she hugged him – though it was not easy,
his monster belly getting in the way.
They sneaked out of the castle in the night
and went to Conisbrough where they found a band
of other fugitives who'd fled the battle.
After the war they opened a small ale house
down by the Castle Mill near to the brook.
Porky got fatter drinking his own ale,
while boasting in the bar of his brave deeds,
and how he hacked through hundreds of Lancastrians
to make good his escape and get to Conisbrough.
HISTORICAL NOTE
My principle source for historical background is The Battle of Wakefield by Keith Dockray
and Richard Knowles (1992). I also drew upon Shakespeare's Henry VI, Part 3, and William Leatham's Sandal in the Olden Time (1839). I have used the words of both Shakespeare and Leatham at various places in my story.
Conisbrough Castle's involvement in the Wars of the Roses (1455-1485) was peripheral, but it was garrisoned as a precaution under the able leadership of its constable, Edward Fitzwilliam, who had recently played an important part in the Battle of Northampton 10th July, 1460). Richard of York (1411-1460 was the son of Richard of Conisbrough, later Earl of Cambridge(1375-1415) and both of them were born at Conisbrough Castle. I was much surprised to find, in the course of my research, that John Clifford (1375-1415) – the villain of the piece – was also born at Conisbrough Castle, and that he bore a coat of arms based on the De Warenne chequers. His godmother was Maud Clifford, the second wife of Richard of Conisbrough, so it appears there is a distant link of kinship between Clifford and Richard of York – in any case, both were what I have called in my story “sons of Conisbrough”, which makes it particularly poignant that a blood fued existed between them, and that Clifford prosecuted it with such vicious vengefulness. Clifford was killed in a skirmish at Dittingdale, near Ferrybridge, and the day after, the Lancastrians were decisively defeated at the Battle of Towton (29 March, 1461). Edward, Earl of March, first son of the Duke of York, was crowned King Edward IV On 4 November 1461. At Edward's first parliament, Clifford was attainted and his estates and barony forfeited to the king.
York's second son, Edmund, Earl of Rutland (1443-1460), was 17 at the time of the Battle of Wakefield (30th December, 1460), but I have followed Edward Hall's Chronicle (1548), along with Shakespeare, in making him only 12, as this adds to the pathos of the story.
The broad outline of the Battle of Wakefield is as I have described, though Queen Margaret was not present. Hall's Chronicle, Shakespeare and Leatham all describe her as being there, and as it adds a touch of colour to the story, I decided to go along with it.