Blood on the Snow

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Fauconberg's archers came running back up the hill, the men-at-arms opened their ranks to let them through. The Lancastrians were on the move, no doubt goaded by the showers of arrows which had left many of them dead in the snow.

Fortunately, for the Yorkists, the field wasn't wide enough for the Lancastrians to deploy their full numbers. For the followers of Henry VI¹ were in a murderous mood.

"'Ere they come, Billy!"

Billy Monkton glanced at his best mate, not wanting to take his eyes off the mass of men scrambling up the snowy slope to his front, "Eyes to yer front, Bertram of Sutton, lest ye let some Lancastrian dog spill yer guts this day!"

Monkton had a sure grip on his billhook, leveling it at the oncoming mass of the enemy. The man closest to him was wielding an axe and was holding it up over his head, ready to bring it down on Monkton's head. He was bellowing his war cry as he came at Monkton. A thrust from Monkton's billhook into the man's belly made the man drop his axe and fall to the ground, writhing in agony.

The press of bodies coming up the hill would normally have been enough to press the Yorkist line back from sheer weight of numbers. But the ground was slick with snow and in spots was being churned to mud by the hundreds of men locked in close combat.

Monkton heard shouts to his rear, the men on horseback were being ordered to dismount and reinforce the line. Their numbers, and the churned up ground, brought the Lancastrians to a stop, their momentum exhausted, the two sides began to hack and thrust at each other, trying to gain advantage, but generally only making the footing more difficult as more bodies dropped, adding their blood to the morass.

"Sire!"

Edward turned, annoyed at first, though he had been proclaimed King earlier in the month, he said he would not call himself King until he had been properly anointed, still, if it improved morale, he'd grin and bear it.

"What news, Warwick?"

"Sire, horsemen are issuing from the Castle Hill Wood! Henry's men! We are flanked!"

"Hold here, My Lord, I will reinforce the flank!"

Edward led the men he had held as a reserve to the left, as he rode off he bellowed back at Warwick, "Send a man to find Norfolk, our cause is lost without him!"

"In the Name of the Lord, Rufus, are we to march forever into this thrice-cursed storm?"

Rufus shook his head, the lad's energy was flagging, as was that of many of the men. "We march until his Grace, the Duke of Norfolk, says we halt. Or until we join the battle, can ye not hear it in the distance?"

Thomas stopped talking and listened, what he heard was the heavy breathing of the men around him, the sloshing of their footsteps in the churned up mud, but there, there was something else, almost a low muttering.

"What is that other sound, Rufus? It's not close, but it isn't far either."

Rufus took a deep breath, he noticed that the men in the column in front of them were turning to their left, almost as if deploying into a fighting line. "It's the sound of battle lad, the sound thousands of men make while they're bleeding and dying for their King. And behold laddie, now you can see it!"

As they crested the rise to their front, Thomas saw it, thousands of men locked in battle, arms rising and falling as they hacked and bludgeoned each other. The snow was still falling, but as the wind continued to gust, the mob of men would become visible, then fade behind a wall of snow.

Thomas couldn't help but notice that the armies seemed to be smoking, a cloud of mist and fog seeming to billow up from the struggling masses. As he breathed, he realized that he was seeing the condensation from their breath on the air. He had never seen a battle before, and it was beautiful and ghastly all at once.

"Sire! His Grace the Duke of Norfolk has gained the field!"

Edward heard the welcome news as he stood in his stirrups and brought his war hammer down on the head of a mounted spearman who had lost his weapon and was struggling to draw his sword.

The King was tall and well-built, his surcoat was spattered with blood, some of it his own as an enemy spear had grazed his cheek. His attacker had fallen, skull crushed by Edward's own hand.

The horsemen to his front were looking nervously to their left, they sensed incipient panic in their ranks as Norfolk's force slammed in to the Lancastrian left flank. They had seemed to arise from the wood and billowing snow like avenging demons, Norfolk's men were bone-tired but had pitched in with renewed vigor when they beheld the enemy flank, exposed and naked.

With a roar, the Yorkists had driven their attack into the Lancastrians led by the Earl of Northumberland. A cry had gone up as one of Norfolk's men-at-arms yelled out that Northumberland had fallen, slain in the initial onslaught.

Northumberland's men seemed to think so too as they began to edge away from their attackers.

"They're breaking, Thomas, pitch into the bastards!"

Northumberland's men were rapidly falling into disarray. The word had spread like wildfire through the ranks that their lord was killed, hacked down by a Yorkist with a poleaxe. With the death of their leader, the fight had gone out of many of the men when word reached them that Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland was dead.

Norfolk's men came on, hacking, stabbing, and hammering their hated foe. Men who cried for "quarter" were cut down where they cried out, many on their knees, begging for mercy. The long cold night march had driven all thoughts of mercy from Norfolk's host. They were tired, miserable, and sought to punish those they felt were responsible.

Thomas was about to slam the point of his billhook into a man to his front, but as he advanced, the man threw down his arms and cried, "Quarter! Spare me, good man, I have a wife and children!"

The man dropped to his knees and raised his hands, as if in prayer.

Thomas hesitated, as he looked at the man kneeling in front of him the man just to his rear stepped forward and slammed the hammer face of his poleaxe down on the kneeling man's head. Though the man was still wearing a helmet, the hammer head slamming down was enough to fracture the man's skull and kill him. His helmet had cracked from the force of the blow.

The man who had killed the kneeling man bellowed in Thomas' ear, "You heard the orders you silly bastard, no quarter. Kill them all!"

Rufus was out of sight, all around the young soldier were the dead and the dying, the smell of blood and voided bowels was overwhelming. Thomas fell to his knees and began to sob, uncontrollably.

Rufus raised his billhook, the blade and handle slick with the blood of the men he had slain, and bellowed at the sky, "THE DAY IS OURS! SEE THE BASTARDS FLY!"

He looked about, the Lancastrians were indeed starting to run, throwing down weapons and even stripping off their armor to get away faster, anything which could be discarded was thrown down.

Rufus broke off from cheering when his sergeant appeared, "Keep pressing them, Rufus, kill them all, kill them for our King, kill them and end this f**king war."

Before continuing, Rufus looked back, Thomas was nowhere to be seen. He wondered if the lad yet lived. Time enough for that after the battle, for now, there were enemies to be killed.

"FOR THE KING!" he screamed and pressed forward, hacking down a man trying to discard his blood-stained surcoat. The man gasped as the blade entered his lower back. Rufus put his boot on the man, kicking him off the blade, then pressing forward and showing his point into another man's face who had turned to beg for mercy.

Rufus felt nothing.

The fleeing host came up short, before them was the valley of the Cock Beck, no longer a small winding stream, the rains and snows of the past few days had swollen the Beck into a raging torrent, in spots it was nearly a lake.

The men in front had stopped, those behind, fleeing their pursuers did not. The first of those reaching the Beck were pushed in. Many tried to wade the raging waters but were swept away. Far too many were pressed down into the bed of the river and died with their faces in the mud, those behind them trodding on their corpses.

The rout was total and the pursuit was relentless. The waters of the Cock Beck didn't care, it swallowed its victims and then took more as the defeated host pressed on.

As the sun began to set, the Lancastrian host died.²

¹ Henry VI, was the King of England at the time, supported by the Lancastrians. His opponent, Edward Duke of York, soon to be, and recognized by his followers already, as the "true" King of England, Edward IV. It's hard keeping track of these fellows without a scorecard. Chase the links for the full story. The quick (not too bad) Wikipedia version is here.

² Another good account of the Battle of Towton can be read here.