‘And what if it goes wrong?’ Sir Raymond asked desperately. He tried to control the panic seething in his stomach. ‘Only a few miles away lie Edward and his brothers, Richard of Gloucester and George of Clarence. They, too, have been fighting the length and breadth of this kingdom and are bent on total victory.’ Sir Raymond drew himself up. ‘If we lose tomorrow, then we lose for ever!’
The Queen, however, got to her feet, one hand resting on the shoulder of her sulky, spoilt son. The commanders also rose to leave. Sir Raymond looked around. We are dead men, he thought. We should commit ourselves to God and our bodies to our enemies. I am to die, my task unfulfilled.
‘Gentlemen,’ the Queen folded back the voluminous sleeves of her dark murrey dress, ‘our deliberations are finished. We should be moving before dawn.’ She swept out of the tent and her commanders followed.
Sir Raymond sighed. He stayed for a while staring at Beaufort’s crudely drawn map, then he heard a commotion outside, men shouting for the captain of the watch. Sir Raymond went out. In the flickering firelight he could see two horses, each with a corpse slung over it. A throng of men stood around. Officers arrived, beating them back with the flat of their swords. Sir Raymond pushed his way through: the corpses were unroped and laid next to each other on the ground.
‘What’s the matter here?’ Raymond demanded.
The officer lowered his torch. Sir Raymond’s heart skipped a beat. The throats of both soldiers had been neatly pierced on either side of their windpipes, the fronts of their jerkins were soaked in blood. Their faces were white-blue, eyes staring: a look of terror frozen on their dead faces.
‘In God’s name!’ a soldier muttered. ‘They are two of our scouts.’ He pointed into the darkness. ‘They went hunting for food, as well as information, in the woods near Sutton Courteny.’
‘I found them,’ another voice replied. ‘They were lying in the woods, faces down, about ten yards apart. Each had drawn his knife but I couldn’t find anything.’
‘What do you mean?’ The Hospitaller looked up at him.
‘Well, six of us went out,’ the soldier replied. ‘We all agreed to meet at a certain place and return to camp. These two went into the woods. I went to a deserted village but there was nothing there. When they failed to return, I went looking for them.’ He scratched his chin. ‘They were just lying there, no sign of any enemy.’
The officer tapped one of the corpses. ‘What weapon could cause such wounds? Just look, are they dagger holes?’
‘Or teeth marks?’ another added. ‘Like those of a large wolf.’
Sir Raymond stood up. He felt unsteady, his mouth dry with fear. He had seen such marks before in his haunting journey around Europe. While the officer made arrangements for the men’s bodies to be tossed into a pit, Sir Raymond, breathing deeply to control his fear, walked slowly back to his tent. He pulled aside the flap and went inside. He was pouring himself another cup of wine when he noticed two white roses lying on top of a chest. They had not been there when he left the tent. On each were sprinkled small drops of blood. Sir Raymond drank greedily but he couldn’t stop shaking. He knocked the roses to the soil and ground them into the earth under his boot.
‘The Devil is very close,’ he muttered. ‘And so is my death.’
Throwing the cup into a corner of the tent, he went out and searched for a friar to hear his confession and give him final absolution. Sir Raymond did not sleep that night but spent the early hours before dawn deep in prayer and preparing his affairs. He wrote letters to his superior, arranged with the friar who had shriven him to sing Masses for his soul and then distributed all his possessions amongst the poorest of the camp followers. He then shaved, washed, attended Mass and received the Sacrament before breaking his fast on some dry bread and wine.
Sir Raymond was armoured and ready for battle when the trumpets blew, the banners unfurled and the sergeants-at-arms began to marshal the men into their divisions. Sir Raymond collected his destrier and, with his war helm lashed to his saddle horn, made his way through the camp looking for the gold leopards rampant of the young Prince Edward.
Despite his foreboding, Sir Raymond felt a thrill at the coming battle. His horse neighed, shaking its head restlessly, ready to charge. Sir Raymond leant down and stroked it gently on the neck, whispering quietly to it. He felt his sword, making sure it slid easily in and out of its scabbard. One of Wenlock’s retainers grasped his reins and led him to the massed men at the front where Wenlock and the other commanders were grouped round the young prince. The sky was brightening, the cool dawn breeze already beginning to fall under the growing heat of the rising sun. The men chattered and laughed to hide their unease. Raymond looked to his left where the white- coated men of the Earl of Devon, foot soldiers and archers, were mustering. In the centre before them, knights were massing behind their wall of archers and men-at-arms; to the right he glimpsed the black crosses of Somerset’s Trinity banner.
Sir Raymond stood high in the stirrups. The river mist which had curled in just before dawn was beginning to dissipate. The Hospitaller could see how broken the land was, fields and meadows dotted with ditches and hedges.
Suddenly there was the crack of bombards, and huge stones began to fall amongst the archers, sending them whirling like bloody ninepins. Wenlock, surprised, rode forward. Sir Raymond stared in horror for, through the fading mist, coming much faster than they had expected, was Edward of York’s army. Bombardiers pushed their cannons, behind them lines of archers. The Hospitaller was astonished as the guns opened up again. The Yorkist archers came quickly past them, some standing, some kneeling; the order to ‘Loose!’ rang out and the air became black with whirring shafts which fell like deadly hail. Here and there, a knight, still unhelmed, took an arrow in the face or neck. Their own men-at-arms and archers tried to reply but confusion had already been caused. Sir Raymond hastily put on his helmet and drew his sword. He pushed his horse through the struggling mass alongside that of Wenlock.
‘For God’s sake, man!’ he screamed through the slits in his helm. ‘We are to advance!’
‘The Duke of Somerset,’ Wenlock murmured, ‘has taken a force. He will circle the enemy. We have only to stand our ground.’
‘We are to charge!’ another commander said.
Wenlock, however, his visor raised, looked like a man caught in a deadly fear, his face pasty-white. He fumbled at his reins and pulled his horse away. Sir Raymond again lifted himself up in his stirrups. He could already see that their left flank was beginning to disintegrate, the men either running towards the centre or back across the fields in the direction of Tewkesbury. Somerset’s right, however, still stood firm: Tresham, Somerset’s principal commander, turned his horse and galloped up towards them, helmet raised. He was screaming abuse at Wenlock, pointing his arm towards the enemy. Suddenly Tresham’s horse stumbled, its front legs caving in. Tresham was thrown from the saddle, his body bouncing on the ground like that of a child’s toy.
The Yorkist archers, now emboldened, were running forward, taking up a closer position; behind them, the massed ranks of Edward of York’s cavalry and men-at-arms, their banners flapping, blue, gold and red; the black lion of Hastings, the white lion of Howard. Wenlock still dithered. A roar came from the right, Sir Raymond stared in disbelief. Somerset’s lines were crumbling. Throwing down their arms, the men were running back up the hill behind them. A messenger came riding through, an archer covered in dust and sweat, eyes red-rimmed and staring, voice nothing more than a creak. He flung his arm towards the disintegrating ranks on their right.
‘The Duke of Somerset,’ he gasped, ‘is in retreat! He did not encircle the enemy but ran straight into Richard of Gloucester. Look, his banners can be seen!’
Wenlock’s commanders, lifting their helms, looked to their right. Somerset’s men were fleeing the field and, in the distance, they could see the huge war banners bearing Richard of Gloucester’s insignia, a white boar rampant. Sir Raymond grasped Wenlock’s arm.
‘Stand!’ he shouted. ‘Stand if not charge!’
As if in answer, Raymond heard a fanfare of trumpets from the front. He turned his head and knew the battle was lost. Edward of York had ordered a general advance and a wall of Yorkist steel, solid and impenetrable, was coming in an armed mass towards them. Wenlock turned and fled, the others, including Sir Raymond, followed suit. Behind them they heard the screams and yells, the shimmering clash of sword and armour as the Yorkists met what was left of the Lancastrian front line. At the top of the hill Wenlock reined in, took his helmet off, mopping his face with his hands. He stared around.
‘The Prince!’ he cried. ‘In God’s name, the Prince!’
‘He did not retreat,’ a voice called.
