De la Pole decided to continue south. His army now numbered some eight thousand men, and scouts were bringing in news by the hour. The Tudor army was close, marching towards Nottingham. King Henry had been joined by Lord Strange, but morale in the royal camp was low. De la Pole decided to press on and, on the morning of 15 June, the news arrived that the armies were so close, it would only be a matter of hours before they met in pitched battle.
That evening, the rebel army breasted a hill and saw beneath them, snaking through the fields, the broad glittering River Trent as it wound its way past the small village of East Stoke towards Newark. De la Pole, Schwartz and Lovell went out to inspect the lie of the land. When they arrived back, cursitors were sent out along the army of march. The place had been chosen. De la Pole had decided to fight, putting his army on a ridge with the Trent protecting his rear and right flank. Camp was pitched late at night.
Matthias, exhausted and wondering what the next day would bring, hobbled his horse and, taking his blankets, chose a spot and fell immediately asleep.
He was awoken before dawn by Fitzgerald kicking his boot. Mairead stood smiling down at him.
‘This is the day, Matthias.’ She pulled a face. ‘Break your fast, then it’s-’
‘Each man to his post,’ Fitzgerald finished.
Matthias got to his feet. He felt cold and aching. He rubbed his arms and stared round: a thick river mist now covered the camp. The sound of the horses neighing, the clatter of arms, the shouts of the marshals shattered the silence. Campfires were lit, the smell of oatmeal drifted through the air.
‘Do you want a priest?’ Mairead asked.
Matthias walked away. He stared down the hill where the mist swirled. He reflected on what Mairead had asked. He fought hard to curb the rage boiling within him. On this day he might die, and what had been his life? His childhood had been shattered, his youth and upbringing overshadowed by a secret which hung over him like a black cloud. Now it had returned and brought him here in the middle of a cold, damp field. What did it matter if de la Pole and Symonds won today?
‘Do you know, Mairead,’ Matthias said, coming back, ‘I believe in the Good Lord but I do wonder whether He believes in me.’
He saw the tears in her eyes. She put her arms round his neck and kissed him on each cheek.
‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘What is life anyway, Matthias, but the throw of dice? And, if we are to die, let’s do it on full bellies!’
Fitzgerald came over. Mairead stood back and the Irishman clasped Matthias’ hand.
‘We’ll be in the centre. Stay close to me, Matthias, whatever happens.’
They went to one of the fires where Mairead begged bowls of oatmeal. Fitzgerald wandered off and brought back some wine. After he had eaten Matthias felt better. Mairead kissed him goodbye.
‘I’ll be in the rear with the baggage train.’ She grinned, her fingers ran softly down his cheek, her lower lip quivered. ‘Perhaps, Matthias,’ she whispered, ‘the next time the wheel of life turns, we will meet again.’ And, with no more words, she ran off.
‘She’s a great lass.’ Fitzgerald linked his arm through Matthias’. ‘Today’s a dying day.’
He took Matthias over to one of the armourer’s carts. One of the marshals handed over a boiled leather breast-plate and a heavy steel sallet, which covered the top half of Matthias’ face.
‘Don’t wear any colours,’ Fitzgerald whispered. ‘If things go wrong. .’
The mist was lifting, the air was rent by the sound of trumpets and war horns. The army was on the move. Fitzgerald led Matthias over to where the standards were grouped on the brow of the hill: Lincoln’s, Lovell’s, the Kildares of Ireland, the royal arms of England. Edward of Warwick sat on a white palfrey. He was already accoutred for battle; wearing the silver armour the Archbishop of Dublin had bought him, now covered with a gorgeous blue, red and gold surcoat. Beside him sat Symonds, in the armour of a knight. The former priest had grown even fatter so he looked like a bloated toad. His resentment at being excluded from the military preparations was more than obvious. Lincoln, Schwartz and Lovell stood to one side, surrounded by officers and messengers. Behind them the Swiss and German mercenaries were taking up position: line after line, their tall pikes readied, their faces protected by sallets, many of which sported brilliant plumes of feathers.
As the sun strengthened, Matthias could see the rest of the army taking up position under the direction of marshals: these waved their white wands and moved up and down the ranks, accompanied by trumpeters and young boys beating on tambours. Fires were extinguished, carts rolled away. Matthias caught the excitement of thousands of men preparing for bloodshed — the neigh of horses, the clatter of arms, the shouts of the marshals and the persistent screaming of trumpets. Scouts and cursitors came riding up the hill, their horses covered in a white foam. They slipped from the saddle and hastened to tell their commanders what they had seen. The enemy was on the move and Matthias heard the distant sound of enemy trumpets.
He followed Fitzgerald to the brow of the hill. The mist had nearly lifted: behind the line of trees, which screened the road leading to Nottingham, Matthias glimpsed the first colours of the enemy.
Lincoln mounted his destrier, a great black war horse, and rode along the ranks.
‘Good news!’ he shouted. ‘The enemy is advancing in two battles. De Vere, Earl of Oxford, is leading the first but a gap has appeared between him and his master. Our army is divided into three battles.’ He flung his hand out. ‘On our right, my own. In the centre Schwartz and his Germans.’ He turned his horse and came back. ‘To the left our Irish allies.’
The Irish were massed, sitting at a half-crouch. Most of them were naked except for breech clouts and robes. Some wore sandals. All were armed with shield and broad cutting sword. Many of them had daggers pushed into a piece of cloth round their waists. Lincoln’s orders came faintly on the breeze.
‘Keep to your positions. Do not move until ordered! God will be with us!’
A roar of approval greeted his words like a low roll of thunder. Again the trumpets brayed and the battle line moved to the brow of the hill. Matthias stared down, his stomach pitched with excitement. Oxford was moving fast.
‘He did the same at Bosworth,’ Fitzgerald whispered. ‘I hope to God de la Pole knows what he’s doing!’
‘Is Tudor far behind?’ Matthias asked.
‘A good distance,’ Fitzgerald replied. ‘One of my men brought the news.’
Matthias could see Oxford’s banners in the centre, a golden burst of sun on a blue background. Three lines of men: archers, men-at-arms and mounted knights. Matthias knew nothing about strategy. All he could remember was that dreadful fight in Tewkesbury Abbey but even he sensed something was wrong. Oxford was moving too fast, too confidently. There was no pausing, no issuing of challenges, just these three lines marching steadily towards them. Their trumpets blew. Large standards were unfurled, great banners which flapped in the morning breeze, displaying the personal arms of Tudor and those of England. Another trumpet blast from the enemy. Two great pennants, one black, the other red, were also displayed. Oxford’s message was simple: the royal banners had been unfurled, the black and red ones proclaimed that no quarter would be shown, no prisoners taken, any man found bearing arms would be killed.
A group of Irish, unable to control their excitement, ignored the shouts of their officers and burst down the hill, a tight knot of men, screaming and cursing, charging straight for the enemy banners. Matthias watched the Irish leaping over the tussocks of grass, waving their swords. Twelve enemy archers stepped forward. They knelt. Matthias heard the order to loose faintly on the breeze, followed by a sound like a rushing wind. The arrows found their mark and the Irish fell as the shafts took them in face, throat or chest. In a twinkling of an eye, a group of men, full of life and fury, were turned into twitching, moaning bundles on the dew-fresh grass.
More trumpet calls, sharp and challenging. Oxford’s men came on at a faster pace. The trumpeters of the rebel army shrilled their defiance back. Oxford’s archers stopped and began to mass. Bows lifted, the sky suddenly became dark with falling shafts. Most of their fire was directed at Schwartz’s mercenaries, who lifted their shields. Some of the arrows found their marks: men came out of the ranks screaming, clutching at arrows in their necks or legs, blood spouting like water from a fountain. Matthias heard the drum of hooves. Lincoln was moving, his whole battle swinging down to take Oxford’s left flank and roll the entire column up. The orderly formation crashed into the enemy and the slope of the hill was turned into a heaving sea of fighting men. Oxford’s men fought bravely. As Lincoln’s force closed, the archers found their bows of little avail. Swords were drawn, the men hastily forming themselves into circles or squares. Oxford’s knights were also caught by the suddenness and fury of Lincoln’s charge. Banners waved and fell. In the rising clouds of dust Matthias glimpsed Lincoln’s banner as the Earl and his household knights aimed like a sword, searching for de Vere and the other royalist commanders. The grassy slope
