Julian Rathbone - Kings of Albion

'Brother-in-law, son of. And that's Salisbury with him." the third chipped in.

'You're talking through your arse-hole, old chap. Salisbury's even longer in the tooth than the Archbish.'

'God, Maurice, what a wanker you are. It's the Bishop of Salisbury not the Earl. And that swarthy character with him must be Coppini. Pope's legate. Wop. Eyetie.'

'Question is, what are they up to?'

'I reckon they'll try to get to the King and say it's not him they're after but the Queen and all her people, and if he'll come quietly there won't be a battle.'

'Well, it might work. The old fool can't stand fighting. Nasty men bashing each other with axes. Gives him a headache.'

'Old Staffers won't let them through, though, will he?'

'Not a chance. With this hill in our favour and the cannon, we can't lose. Staffers is spoiling for a battle. Get them out of the way and we can get down to London and sort out poor old Scalesy. He's been locked up in the Tower since Christmas.'

'I say. though, those chaps do seem to have an awful lot of chaps with them. Must be getting on for twice our lot.'

'Don't worry, Maurice. We've got the cannon, right?'

'Sure, you're right. No need to worry then. I'd better be getting back to the headman.'

And the one called Maurice trotted off with a great jangling and clanging of armour, leaving our man and Justin behind.

'Who's Morrers with, then? And why is he wearing that black stick thing on his helmet?'

'Lord Grey of Ruthin. Local chap. Joined the King because he reckoned he'd get help in a land dispute with his neighbour. Don't trust them an inch. If Warwick offers him a better deal he'll change sides.'

'Still. We do have the cannon.'

'Oh, yes. We have the cannon.'

It began to rain again.

It was all over by four o'clock. Peter and I had a good view of it and what we couldn't see we pieced together later.

First, the bishops rode back at about one o'clock, and since there was no reaction we supposed rightly that they had failed in their mission. Then Peter started hollering and shouting, 'Kick it, you stupid bastard, pass, pass the ball. Oh, he's lost it, the silly fucker…' and a lot more of the same and I could feel his hands tugging at mine so he wrenched my back into the trunk of the apple tree then gave my shins a jolt as he tried to mime kicking with his feet. I truly thought the battle had started, that the Yorkists had somehow got behind the King's lines and were rampaging along the river bank behind us, but, no, it was the footballers. I have to tell you, Mah-Lo, many Inglysshemen, and some of their women too, take these games very seriously indeed.

Then: 'Oh, no, the bastards, what are they doing?'

'You tell me.'

'The King's rearguard are seeing them off They've – I do not believe it – they've taken their ball from them… They're all going home! They can't believe it's all over… But it is, for now.'

And he went on shouting and swearing about it so I wasn't able to tell him what was happening in front.

First there was another blast of trumpet calls, then the Yorkists below began to move forward. The man called Justin and our popinjay trotted off through the rain, which was now coming down like rods or the lances of the advancing army. I could see them moving about the cannon, and even how they were blowing on the fuse, trying to get a spark going, and indeed there was a puff of smoke and a glimmer of a flame, but instead of a bang a sound like nothing so much as a loud fart. The ball almost rolled out of the muzzle, trundled a few yards down the slope before it stopped and sank into the mud a clear hundred yards in front of the Yorkists. They gave a great cheer and quickened their movement up the slope as fast as the mud and rain would let them. Which was not very fast.

Going uphill, through the mud, the horses could not make it, not with the weight of their own armour as well as their riders'. The knights dismounted, or slid off their high-pommelled saddles, and waded up the hill with their men. They were a strange sight, like giant mechanical dolls such as I've seen at Byzantium. On their helmets they had huge crests in the forms of animals' and monsters' heads, trees, eagles with spread wings, castles, ships, even, giving them two or three feet more in height over the rest. If they stumbled and fell it took four men to get them up again, yet few were hurt. A well-placed arrow might find the chain-mail in their crotches, or a joint in their armour, but otherwise their plate, rounded and pointed, never presenting a flat face, turned the missiles.

And, of course, when they finally got amongst the ranks of the enemy, if they ever did, they were ruthless executioners of everything that came their way, smashing all the common soldiers in their slighter armour, with huge blows from maces, axes, or broadswords four feet long, which inflicted terrible wounds, crushing skulls, slicing through shoulders into ribcages, causing blood to fountain up everywhere and severing arms thrown up in supplication.

Below me, the fight was even since the cannon were useless in the rain: the Yorkists had more men, but the King's side had that hill, which on account of the thick, greasy mud was even more of an advantage than ever.

It was a different story, however, on the eastern side of the field where the marsh and brook were. Here, the advance was held up by the waterlogged ground; here, too, the lords and knights had to get off their horses, which could carry them no longer, and wade with their men towards the rampart and the stakes. As they came they faced salvo after salvo of arrows from those wicked longbows and men began to fall. And right in the middle and at the front, with arrows bouncing off his shield, waving a huge sword and shouting at his men to follow him was an awesome figure of a man. Somehow I knew who he was, even at that distance. Something in the way he held himself, something about the way he flourished that sword made me certain I had seen him before: Eddie March? Maybe.

The cannons had failed but the longbows, the clinging mud and the rain were doing their work. It looked for a few minutes as if the Yorkists were not going to make it to the ramparts and certainly not over them, not for as long as the bowmen had arrows to shoot, but then it all went wrong for Stafford, Duke of Buckingham and the King.

The line between the bowmen dicing March and the cannon just below me was held by a thousand or more wearing that black stick badge. Lord Grey of Ruthin's men. Hardly any arrows had been fired from this sector and as the first Yorkists, led by a lord in full armour, tramping and clanking up the hill, reached the rampart. Lord Grey's men leant over it and helped him across!

Well, that was that. Grey's men turned themselves round, save those who continued to help the Yorkists, who were soon flooding through the gap and tanning out to the left and the right on our side of the fortifications. The King's men realised they were beaten and ran for it round the ridge and back to the Nene.

Now it was Peter's turn to tell me what was happening.

'Oh, the poor buggers,' he exclaimed. 'They can't get across the ford – the river's too full and fast and the bridge is too narrow. They're cutting them up like – like – so many bushels of rye in July. Ugh! Blood everywhere. The river's running with blood. It's a shambles. I can see the Duke. Stafford. Duke of Buckingham. He's trying to rally them, make them turn and fight. Oh, no. He's down. Oh, the poor sod. His standard's down too. There's about six men hacking at him. He doesn't stand a chance. Oh, that's it. They've got his head off, stuck it on a lance. Jesus, there goes the King. Ducking and weaving like a chased fox, heading for the bridge. There's men of his letting him through. He'll get away. Yes, he will. Oh, no, he won't. He's run up against an archer. Drawing his bow at him. Ooops, that's it, the Yorkists have got him, they're taking him back to his tent… Well, at least they haven't cut his head off. Yet.'