no previous King of England had won such a crushing victory.
“You call the mass slaughter of my own subjects a victory?” snarled Edward, “have you any idea how many Englishmen died on that field, my lord? Fathers and sons, brothers and cousins, butchering each other like pigs. God knows I waded through enough blood that day to win my crown. It gives me little joy to remember.”
“Your pardon, Majesty,” Rivers stammered, almost dropping his eating knife, “I only meant to say that you have never been defeated. God has always smiled on you in battle.”
Edward glared at him. “So all my victories have been fortunate, is that what you mean?” he said, knowing he was being needlessly cruel but indulging himself anyway. It was far too easy to slip into such petty tyrannies.
Rivers stuttered out some reply, but Edward wasn’t listening. He could hear hoofs clattering on the cobbles outside, and the urgent sound of raised voices.
The door banged open, and two men-at-arms in royal livery entered, followed by a knight. His hair was soaked in sweat and plastered to his scalp, and his armour spattered with mud and dust from the road.
“Apologies, Majesty, my lords,” the knight gasped, buckling onto one knee, “but I have news that cannot wait. Not two hours ago, the Marquis of Montagu halted his army, and informed his soldiers that they were declaring for Henry VI.”
Gloucester shot to his feet. “How do you know this?” he demanded.
“I was part of Montagu’s vanguard, lord. As soon as I heard the proclamation, I deserted and rode here as fast as I could.”
“God grant all of Montagu’s men behave like you,” said Hastings. Edward drew comfort from the older man’s composure in the face of this dreadful news, and made an effort to compose himself.
“Where is Montagu now?” he asked, rising and wiping his lips.
The knight looked at him with doleful eyes. “He is marching here, Majesty, with all speed. Most of his men have stayed with him. They mean to scatter your army and capture you, thus ending the war at a stroke.”
Gloucester was first to react. “This is what comes of your mercy!” he shouted, pointing at Edward, “this is what comes of failing to rule with a firm hand. You should have hurled Montagu in the Tower when you took his earldom away, or hanged him.”
Edward was too stunned by the news to be offended. “Montagu has never complained,” he muttered, “he never once hinted that he sympathised with his brother.”
“Of course he sympathised!” Gloucester’s voice almost cracked in its shrill fury, “except in the case of our infernal brother Clarence, blood will always win out!”
“We must leave off this wrangling,” said Hastings, calm and decisive as ever, “how far is Montagu from Doncaster?”
“Fifteen miles or so, when I left him,” replied the messenger, “that was less than an hour ago.”
Edward and his lords stared at each other. Their army was hopelessly scattered, and could not possibly be scraped together in time to form a battle-line against Montagu’s forces.
“I have never run away in my life,” said the king, “but we face a stark choice. Flee, or be taken. Gentlemen, if we fall into Montagu’s hands most of you will be killed. I will be carried in chains south, to be paraded through the streets of every English town on the way to London.”
Gloucester drew his sword. “I will die before any traitor lays a hand on me,” he snarled, “and we have enough troops in the town to hold it until reinforcements can be sent for. Let us close the gates, man the walls, and dare Montagu to attack.”
“No,” Edward said firmly, “we have a Neville army to our front and rear, and there are no reinforcements to be had. I’ll not sacrifice the lives of our men in some futile last stand. Those who are minded to, follow me.”
He strode
“You call the mass slaughter of my own subjects a victory?” snarled Edward, “have you any idea how many Englishmen died on that field, my lord? Fathers and sons, brothers and cousins, butchering each other like pigs. God knows I waded through enough blood that day to win my crown. It gives me little joy to remember.”
“Your pardon, Majesty,” Rivers stammered, almost dropping his eating knife, “I only meant to say that you have never been defeated. God has always smiled on you in battle.”
Edward glared at him. “So all my victories have been fortunate, is that what you mean?” he said, knowing he was being needlessly cruel but indulging himself anyway. It was far too easy to slip into such petty tyrannies.
Rivers stuttered out some reply, but Edward wasn’t listening. He could hear hoofs clattering on the cobbles outside, and the urgent sound of raised voices.
The door banged open, and two men-at-arms in royal livery entered, followed by a knight. His hair was soaked in sweat and plastered to his scalp, and his armour spattered with mud and dust from the road.
“Apologies, Majesty, my lords,” the knight gasped, buckling onto one knee, “but I have news that cannot wait. Not two hours ago, the Marquis of Montagu halted his army, and informed his soldiers that they were declaring for Henry VI.”
Gloucester shot to his feet. “How do you know this?” he demanded.
“I was part of Montagu’s vanguard, lord. As soon as I heard the proclamation, I deserted and rode here as fast as I could.”
“God grant all of Montagu’s men behave like you,” said Hastings. Edward drew comfort from the older man’s composure in the face of this dreadful news, and made an effort to compose himself.
“Where is Montagu now?” he asked, rising and wiping his lips.
The knight looked at him with doleful eyes. “He is marching here, Majesty, with all speed. Most of his men have stayed with him. They mean to scatter your army and capture you, thus ending the war at a stroke.”
Gloucester was first to react. “This is what comes of your mercy!” he shouted, pointing at Edward, “this is what comes of failing to rule with a firm hand. You should have hurled Montagu in the Tower when you took his earldom away, or hanged him.”
Edward was too stunned by the news to be offended. “Montagu has never complained,” he muttered, “he never once hinted that he sympathised with his brother.”
“Of course he sympathised!” Gloucester’s voice almost cracked in its shrill fury, “except in the case of our infernal brother Clarence, blood will always win out!”
“We must leave off this wrangling,” said Hastings, calm and decisive as ever, “how far is Montagu from Doncaster?”
“Fifteen miles or so, when I left him,” replied the messenger, “that was less than an hour ago.”
Edward and his lords stared at each other. Their army was hopelessly scattered, and could not possibly be scraped together in time to form a battle-line against Montagu’s forces.
“I have never run away in my life,” said the king, “but we face a stark choice. Flee, or be taken. Gentlemen, if we fall into Montagu’s hands most of you will be killed. I will be carried in chains south, to be paraded through the streets of every English town on the way to London.”
Gloucester drew his sword. “I will die before any traitor lays a hand on me,” he snarled, “and we have enough troops in the town to hold it until reinforcements can be sent for. Let us close the gates, man the walls, and dare Montagu to attack.”
“No,” Edward said firmly, “we have a Neville army to our front and rear, and there are no reinforcements to be had. I’ll not sacrifice the lives of our men in some futile last stand. Those who are minded to, follow me.”
He strode
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