Night of Horrors

Screen Capture

Graham of Masongill grimaced as he tried to eat the thin soup before him. His mouth ached from the arrow he had taken earlier in the day. But his belly rumbled and he needed to build his strength back up.

The pursuit had ended not long after sunset, it seemed that the Yorkists were content to encamp on the field of their victory, among the bodies of the slain and those not quite dead. From where he sat he could occasionally glimpse their campfires. The snow had stopped and the night was growing ever colder.

He wondered what the morrow might bring.

"I have sinned, Father." Thomas muttered to the priest standing over him.

"You slew the enemies of your liege lord, young Thomas. There is no sin in that."

Thomas looked up at the man, "The Bible says - thou shalt not kill. I have killed this day, Father, and I reveled in it."

Thomas shuddered at the memory, at first he had been timid and terrified at the brutality around him. Then that wounded man had mocked him, something inside had snapped. He had cut that man down, then many another as they tried to flee the battlefield. Only the waters of the Beck had stopped his murderous spree.

"King David himself killed Goliath, on the field of battle. How is that so different from your actions this day, my son?"

Thomas shook his head, then bowed to the wisdom of the priest. "I ask forgiveness, Father."

"And you shall have it boy, when Edward sits upon the throne." With that, the priest walked away into the night.

Thomas heard Rufus clear his throat and then spit. "Priests," he said the word with contempt.

"How can you say that, Rufus? Have you no concern for your immortal soul?"

Rufus nodded in the direction the priest had gone, "I do, far more than that man. Did you know that he has lands greater than those of our Lord Norfolk?"

Thomas stood, he felt a confidence that he hadn't experienced before, "Rumors, Rufus. Rumors spread by those jealous of the Church's power."

"That may be boy, but that's a matter well above our station. For now ..."

Rufus stopped as the sergeant stepped into the light from the campfire, "You two, come with me. The killing ain't over yet."

Thirty to forty disarmed men huddled together, not far from the corpse-choked bank of the Cock Beck. From their livery, one could tell that they followed Henry, not Edward.

"Captives, Your Highness?"

"Fools who have surrendered, Warwick. Casting themselves upon my tender mercies. And stop referring to me that way, until the Archbishop himself places the crown upon my head, I am merely the Duke of York. Conduct yourself accordingly." Edward hadn't meant to bark at the man, but he desperately needed sleep. He wasn't himself.

"Certainly, Your Grace. What shall we do with these men?"

"Have them dig a pit, I'm sure you can figure out the rest on your own."

Edward spurred his horse and rode off with his retainers. He would find some place warm to spend the night, he would deal with the retreating Lancastrian army in the morning. What was left of them anyway.

Rufus and Thomas watched as the men dug a deep pit, Rufus wondered at its purpose. Thomas, now more bloody minded, thought he knew what it was for.

"Alright you lot, climb out, line up there, along the edge."

The prisoners looked at each other, some expected what was to come, a few still harbored illusions of survival.

"Your Grace, I am worth more to you alive, than dead, I demand ..."

Warwick's sword flashed in the firelight, the man's throat was opened and he reached up to try and stem the bleeding with his hands. He fell into the pit as he staggered, trying to stay alive.

The sergeant took that as a sign to begin, he bellowed, "Cut 'em down lads, leave no one standing!"

Hammers and axes rose and fell, many of the captives were dead long before the final blow was landed. Thomas' hammer landed time and again on the heads of the men who seemed to have little thought of fighting back. Arms were raised in a defensive posture, only to be shattered.

Rufus waded into the mob with his billhook, stabbing, thrusting, he was moaning low in his throat as he did so. The killing lust was upon him.

In a few short moments it was over. A steaming pile of dead bodies lay on the edge of the pit, some within it. Warwick had watched, a sick feeling in his stomach, the enemy would hear of this and they would remember. What had they done this day? But he swallowed his worries and barked out an order.

"Strip them of anything useful, then throw them in the pit. Cover them up when you're done. It's the devil's work we do this day lads, hide your crimes below the soil. Forget them if you can."

Warwick rode off.

The men all stood silently, looking at the bodies, looking at each other.

Then the sergeant said, "Get to it lads, these buggers ain't going to bury themselves."

The Battle of Towton was at an end.