Paul Doherty - The Rose Demon

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 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.