turned to a russet brown. Horses went down screaming and kicking. Men staggered, clutching the most dreadful wounds. Yet the dust made it impossible for Matthias to see clearly what was happening. He glanced around but Fitzgerald had disappeared. One of Schwartz’s officers ran up, gesticulating, pointing down the hill.
‘They are breaking!’ Schwartz cried. ‘De Vere’s men are beginning to flee!’
His words were cut off by a huge roar from his left. Matthias hurried over. The Irish, unable to control their excitement, had disobeyed their commanders and were now running downhill en masse to join in the battle. Schwartz cursed, shaking his fist, screaming at his own men to hold firm. Slowly Oxford’s columns were now being rolled up and pushed further down the hill, leaving behind them a carpet of dead and wounded men and horses.
Matthias stared down at where the fiercest fighting had taken place. If he half-closed his eyes, he could pretend that it was a sea of coloured flowers rather than men twisting and turning in mortal agony. Here and there a horse tried to raise itself up, a man staggered to his knees. A group of Oxford’s archers threw down their swords and tried to surrender but they were surrounded by a group of Irish, who slaughtered them to a man. The screams and yells were terrible.
Schwartz and his mercenaries remained impassive though Matthias sensed their concern. Both flanks of the rebel army had now disappeared and, despite messages from Lincoln or the pleas of his own officers, Schwartz refused to advance. Messengers on foot and horse kept galloping up the hill.
Then Matthias heard it in one of those rare moments of silence: the sound of trumpets, clear and vibrant. Schwartz beckoned him and his other officers over. The German’s thickset face was covered in a sheen of sweat. A nervous tic had appeared high in his cheek.
‘Those trumpets,’ he declared. ‘It’s Tudor’s army!’
Matthias looked round: the foot of the hill was now covered by a heavy cloud of dust, which completely cut off sight of the entire approach Oxford had made.
‘We can’t see anything,’ one of Schwartz’s officers declared.
‘I don’t have to,’ Schwartz retorted. ‘Every man to his position!’
Matthias slipped away to the back. He could glimpse the baggage train where the servants, women and camp followers now sheltered. Should he go down there? Find Mairead and flee? He heard a roar and hurried back to the brow of the hill.
The battle had now shifted dramatically. Lincoln’s men were pouring back up the hill. The Irish, too, had broken. Wide-eyed, many of them cut and bruised, they dropped their arms. The dust cloud shifted. Matthias’ heart went to his throat. Oxford’s men had reformed and, behind them, rank after serried rank, were men-at-arms wearing the insignia of England. To his left and right, horsemen and men-at-arms were moving fast to cut off and surround the rebel army. Schwartz, however, a hardened professional, rapped out an order. The mercenaries moved forward as one man, their pikes lowered, the ranks on the side and the back turning to form a huge square defended by long pikes and shields. Schwartz also tried to impose some order on those in retreat, beating them with the flat of his sword but they pushed and shoved by him. A mercenary officer yelled at Matthias, offering him protection within their ranks. Matthias shook his head. He could not see Fitzgerald. He was determined to reach the baggage train and snatch Mairead before the rout turned into a massacre. He ran as fast as he could, not caring about those around him. One of Lincoln’s men, bruised and cut about the face, had stopped to throw away his armour.
‘Symonds and the Prince are taken!’ he yelled. ‘De la Pole’s dead! Lovell’s fleeing for his life!’
Matthias ran on. So far the enemy had been held, the baggage train looked safe. He heard horsemen galloping behind him and stared round in horror. These were not Lincoln’s men but royal sergeants-at-arms, clubbing and hacking the fleeing rebels. Matthias turned but he felt a terrible blow on the back of his head and sank into black unconsciousness.
When he awoke, his head threatening to split with the pain, he was being dragged across the ground. A royal archer held each of his arms.
‘Water,’ he gasped.
He was flung to the ground. Someone kicked him in the ribs. He stared up. At first he could only see shapes above him. It was cold and dark.
‘Water,’ he gasped again. His throat and mouth were parched. ‘For Jesus’ sake, pity!’
One of the figures crouched down. ‘You poor bastard. You might as well drink before you hang. You are a rebel, aren’t you?’
‘I’m no rebel,’ Matthias gasped. ‘I had no choice.’
The archer pushed his face closer. ‘That’s what they are all saying.’
‘What’s happened?’ Matthias asked.
‘The rebels have been defeated. Now is the hour of judgment.’
The water was taken away. Matthias was hustled to his feet. He stared around unbelievingly. The battlefield was now bathed in moonlight. Dead carpeted the ground as far as he could see. The night was still shattered by screams and groans of dying men or the pathetic whinnies of wounded horses. Cowled figures moved amongst piles of bodies. Those rebels too wounded to be moved had their throats cut, a loud rasp followed by a terrible gurgling cough. The victorious soldiers were also looking for arms, stripping the dead of any clothing or valuables they could find.
Matthias was pushed to the brow of the hill. From every side he glimpsed the camp fires burning merrily. His blood ran cold. Makeshift gallows had been set up. These were now laden with hanged men, some still twitching. Worse still, stakes had been driven into the ground and bodies had been impaled on them. Whether this had been done when they had been alive, Matthias didn’t know and didn’t want to ask. The cadavers were twisted, contorted, dark shapes held up against the night sky. As he was dragged further down the hill and into the enemy camp, Matthias could see why the makeshift gallows had been built: the branches of every available tree seemed to hold hanged men.
Camp was still being set up, tents and pavilions erected, spluttering pitch torches lashed to poles driven into the ground. Men in half-armour, their faces and hands still stained with blood, slipped across Matthias’ path. Somewhere a woman was screaming, a child crying and Matthias’ heart sank as he thought of the baggage train and Mairead. He was dragged down the main thoroughfare of the camp. At the centre, a scene reminiscent of Tewkesbury greeted him. A large trestle table had been set up: behind this sat the royal commander and from the banner flying directly behind his chair, Matthias realised the man in the centre, thin-faced and silver-haired, was de Vere, Earl of Oxford. On either side of him sat one of his principal commanders. Prisoners were being pushed forward. A clerk would whisper in de Vere’s ear and the Earl would rattle out a few words. The prisoner was then either pushed towards the large execution cart or taken to the stockades which, one of Matthias’ guards whispered, lay on the other side of the Newark to Nottingham road. Matthias’ turn soon came and he was pushed forward into the pool of light around the table. De Vere glanced up.
‘Who are you?’
‘Matthias Fitzosbert.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘Symonds made me.’
‘Why?’
‘He thought I had Yorkist sympathies.’
‘What are you by profession?’
‘A scholar.’
‘Are you now?’
A scribe came and whispered into de Vere’s ear. The Earl’s face became hostile.
‘You were in Dublin? You were one of the imposter’s close councillors?’
‘As was I. The boyo’s innocent.’
Thomas Fitzgerald sauntered into the torchlight. Unlike the men around him, he wore no armour, just a simple jerkin open at the neck, his hose pushed into soft leather boots. He grinned at the surprise on Matthias’ face and made a mocking bow.
‘Thomas Fitzgerald at your service, known to his Grace the King and the Earl of Oxford as The Knave.’ His smile widened. ‘The joker in the pack: their principal spy in the imposter’s court.’ Fitzgerald turned to de Vere. ‘This man was my principal help and assistant. He’s no traitor.’
