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.

The Bridge of Bodies

The Bloody Meadow
Source¹

Sir Edric Acaster could barely lift his arms, yet he stood with his mates as another wave of Yorkists plunged down the slope.

"Jesus, Sir Edric, there are more than I can count, will they not let us run in peace?"

"Mind your tongue, Graham. Best not take His name in vain when it seems we stand on the brink of eternity!" Sir Edric managed to bring his shield up in time to parry a billhook being thrust at his face. His war hammer ended the threat when he swung it into the side of his attacker's head.

Blood and shattered bone splashed over Sir Edric as he took a step back, they were nearly up to their knees in the freezing water of the Beck already. Some men were crossing over the dead bodies of their comrades just behind him, but he and his squire, Graham of Masongill, were determined to stand and buy time for the remainder of Henry's army.

Sir Edric's blood ran cold as he saw a group of archers take up position just up the slope as the Yorkist footmen drew back to give the bowmen a clear shot at the men struggling along the banks of the surging river.

"Shield, Graham!"

He heard his squire gasp as an arrow hit him full in the face. It had been a glancing blow, not a killing wound, but painful enough as the arrow went through his mouth and out of his right cheek.

Tears were streaming from Graham's eyes as he fell to his knees, "Ah God ..."

"Your blasphemy does you no credit, Graham. Hold still!"

Covering them with his own shield, Sir Edric knelt and took the arrow in his fist, he snapped it in two, which caused Graham's eyes to stream even more. As he yanked the shaft from the mouth of his friend, he yelled at him, "Spit lad, or you'll drown in your own blood!"

On his knees, Graham tried to clear the blood from his mouth, he ran his tongue around, he'd lost a couple of teeth as well. Shaking his head, he saw his shield on the ground, surprisingly he still held his axe in his right hand.

"Up Graham, up! If we must die this day, let us die together!"

Rufus was moving to his right, thinking to go up the hill in that direction then perhaps come down on the retreating enemy from there. As he did so, he heard his name being called out. In no immediate danger, he turned.

"Thomas? Where have ye been laddie?"

Thomas looked a sight, blood and vomit stained his tabard, he was carrying an axe, rather than the billhook he had brought with him to the field, and his eyes were lifeless as if he had seen things which no man should have to see.

"Ah Rufus, we're missing the slaughter, come now, let us not hang back."

Thomas strode past Rufus, heading down towards the Beck where the struggle seemed to be winding down.

Rufus followed his friend, wondering what had gotten into the lad.

Thomas just wanted to kill and keep killing. A wounded Lancastrian had mocked the young foot soldier as he had knelt on the field and cried hot tears at the devastation all around him.

The man had been staggering in the direction of the retreat, his left arm dangling uselessly by his side, nearly severed by a sword blow.

"What's the matter, laddie? Never seen a battle before? Go home and back to your mother's teat, you don't belong on this field with the men!"

Thomas had looked at the man in shock. He was moving off, Thomas looked for his billhook, the shaft had been shattered. Seeing an axe he picked it up.

Getting to his feet, he had run after the man, "Turn and fight you bastard, I will show you who is a man!"

The man had turned and said, "Alright boy, I'll fight ..."

His eyes had grown very wide when he beheld the look on Thomas' face and seen the axe in its downwards arc towards his head. He tried, in vain, to parry the axe with the hammer he held in his right hand.

After the man had crumpled to the ground, head split like a melon, Thomas had wrenched the axe from the man's ruined head and continued down the hill. He would show these bastards who was a man.

He saw his friend Rufus, after a brief word, he continued down to the slaughter.

Sir Edric stumbled over a corpse as he and Graham tried to hold off the Yorkists. At least the blood lust of the enemy footmen had blocked the archers from loosing their shafts at them again. Both men had multiple arrows embedded in their shields.

Graham looked a sight, his mouth still oozed blood and the wound on his cheek still bled but the cold was causing that to slow down. A number of Yorkists had turned away from the sight of him, thinking him to be some walking corpse.

His right arm ached and he was beginning to have trouble raising it to strike a blow, he could still parry, but the water was nearly to his hips now. He slipped on a dead man under the water and nearly fell.

He had almost regained his feet when the point of a Yorkist billhook drove into his throat. He fell, his lifeless corpse adding yet another piece to the bloody bridge across the Cock Beck.

The Battle of Towton
John Quartley
Source

Graham saw the man he'd known since childhood fall. His war axe avenged Sir Edric, he swung it into the face of the man who had killed his mentor and friend.

Graham yanked on the axe, another Yorkist was pushing forward through the cluster of struggling men, he was puzzled, why was the axe not coming out. Amazingly, the man he had struck was holding the shaft of the axe with both hands, his mouth moving but no words issuing from his ruined face. But the hate that glittered in his eyes would stay with Graham for the rest of his life.

He barely brought his shield up in time to parry the sword the man to his front was trying to wield in the mob. But the blow was slow and ill-timed, moving forward, Graham drove the edge of his shield up and under the man's chin.

The man gasped as a torrent of blood flowed down from his throat and onto Graham's left hand. His grip on the shield was failing, so Graham let it go. Backing up, he felt not the bottom of the Beck, but the chest of a corpse.

He backed a few more steps, it seemed the Yorkists were content to let him go, their reluctance to cross the bridge of the dead was obvious. Graham didn't care, he was still alive.

He turned and fled into the gathering night, he was quickly lost in the gloom and the falling snow.

His battle was over.

¹ Do check out this source, the lady gives tours of English battlefields, is a reenactor herself, and has a number of great photos!

Blood on the Snow

Source

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.

Arrows on the Wind

PxHere

"Why are we standing out here in this bloody blizzard, Will?"

Will Bolton shook his head and immediately regretted it as melting snow from his helmet went down the back of his garment. He shivered, took his helmet off and pulled his hood back up over his head. It restricted his hearing, but it did keep the back of his neck dry.

He turned to look at young Jack Fulford, "The Duke is content to hold this ground and let the Yorkists come to us. Or would you rather be slogging up yon hill in this slop?"

Jack looked at the older man, "Guess I am just impatient, Will. But it is terribly cold out here and the wind is blowing straight into our ..."

Will turned in surprise as Jack make a gasping noise, the young fellow had the shaft of an arrow protruding from his throat. The boy's eyes turned to him in panic as he sank to his knees.

Before Will could do anything else, he too was falling to the ground, an arrow deeply embedded in his brain. He had not redonned his helmet.

Lord Fauconberg ordered his archers back up the hill. None of them knew what effect their single volley had had on the Lancastrians some distance away. Some of the younger men groused that they had been out of range so why were they wasting their arrows?

When the more experienced men pointed out that they had the wind at their backs, which would increase the range of their arrows, the younger men nodded in understanding. Their Lord knew his business!

The Lancastrian archers were ordered to begin loosing against the Yorkist line, only intermittently visible in the snow being driven into their faces by the wind. After a number of ineffective volleys, they ceased wasting their arrows.

"We're out of range, Milord, they have the wind."

"Advance and loose again!"

Fauconberg had his archers move forward again, he had seen, briefly, the Lancastrians moving forward. He had his men move up to where the ground prickled with wasted Lancastrian shafts.

"LOOSE!"

The Lancastrian line seemed to stagger in midstride, even in the blowing snow the Yorkists could see their enemy falling to the ground. Many of the Yorkists were pulling arrows from the turf and returning them to their owners.

The battle was scarcely thirty minutes old and the Yorkists had whittled down the Lancastrian army. They were still outnumbered, but they had bloodied the enemy.

As Fauconberg had his men come back up the hill once more, a man on horseback trotted up, "My Lord!"

"Ah, Sir William! What news of Norfolk and his men?"

"They approach Milord, perhaps four hours, give or take, and they shall be on the field."

"Very well."

Fauconberg turned his horse back to the battle as the leading ranks of the Lancastrians closed to within fighting distance. The bloody work of the front line was beginning.

John Mowbray, 3rd Duke of Norfolk had his men on the march again, their rest had been brief but it seemed to have given the men new life. He rode down the column.

"Step lively lads! William Neville, Earl of Kent, Baron of Fauconberg, awaits your coming! The Lancastrians outnumber the forces of your rightful King and are even now engaging! We must hasten or we shall miss the spoils!"

As the Duke rode past, Rufus Thorpe grumbled, "We'll also miss getting killed as well, unless I am mistaken."

"Ah, Rufus, ye yearn for the sting of battle, I know this."

Turning to look at his friend Thomas, Rufus said, "This is your first time, young Thomas, if ye survive I doubt ye'll be as eager the next time. But at least we had a bit of a nap and a crust of old bread, better than nothing I suppose."

"Less talk, more walk, my lads." The sergeant hissed as he strode past.

Rufus and Thomas fell silent, Rufus to contain his energy, Thomas to hide his nerves. In truth, this would be his first battle and he wondered how well he would do. Looking at Rufus' badly scarred face he couldn't imagine sustaining a wound like that and then going back for more. He felt a sudden urge to relieve himself, but the column would not be stopping again until they met the enemy face to face.

He hoped no one noticed when he wet himself.

Night March

PxHere

He stumbled into the man in front of him, it took a moment for him to realize where he was. On the road, in a cold rain, marching to some unknown destination. He trusted that the men above him knew where they were bound, he was content to follow the man in front of him. One foot after the other as his old sergeant used to say,

He looked about, it was nearly night, out on the far horizon, the skyline was lit up in red, but here the shadows were long and visibility was dropping to zero very quickly. It would be a dark night in the cold rain. He wondered when they would rest, if at all.

His stomach gurgled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since very early that morning. They had been up before the sun and on the march as the mist had begun to lift. A stale crust of bread had been their breakfast. The leaders were pressing them onwards. Something was in the air.

Normally a march this hurried meant one of two things, they were fleeing something, or they were chasing something. He'd been on both ends of that tale, hastily marching away from danger or hastily marching towards it, there never seemed to be a day where they were simply moving from one place to another.

"Clear a path! Make way there!"

The men in his unit all moved to the side of the road, at least the verge wasn't quite as muddy as the main path which had been rutted by the wagons and guns, then trampled by the infantry into a thick soup of mud.

The horsemen went past at the trot, heading to the front of the column. Officers no doubt, biding their time in some roadside inn then dashing up the road at the last minute. The plight of the infantry was to march about in the slop and the bad weather, then stand and fight for hours. Marching, fighting, and sometimes dying, that was the job of the infantry.

As they sorted themselves out and got back onto the road, he had to wonder, was it getting lighter out? He could see the ground nearby, which he couldn't have seen before. Then it struck him, it was starting to snow.

"Steady lads, keep to your ranks! We're guiding to the left just ahead and going uphill for a bit. Steady now, steady."

A collective groan went down the column, they'd been marching most of the night. The wind was picking up and the snow was getting heavier. Though the snow upon the ground helped him to see where he was going, it made his feet feel even worse than they normally did on the march.

The mud was starting to freeze, making walking difficult, a number of men had already fallen out with twisted ankles. They would rejoin the tail of the column once they'd massaged the blood back in to their extremities.

"Rufus," the man to his left hissed, "think we're marching into battle?"

"I do, otherwise we would have stopped already."

"Do they expect us to charge home on empty bellies and no sleep?"

"Course they do, Thomas. What did you expect?"

Thomas grumbled under his breath as their sergeant came near.

"Enough yapping lads, save yer strength for the coming day. The enemy's ahead, I can feel it in my bones."

"My Lord, the men are starting to straggle. If we keep up this pace, they'll not be fit for battle this day."

The Duke reined in his mount and turned to look back down the column. It was true, the ranks were thinner at the front. The strongest kept pace, but the weaker, less experienced men were starting to straggle. The column had probably doubled in length in the last few hours.

He shook his head and snorted, "Very well, have the men fall out to the side of the road. Two, at the most three hours, then we'll need to continue the march. I promised His Majesty that we would arrive on the field at dawn."

"Yes, Milord, but I gather the King would prefer you have a force fit for battle?"

"Indeed." Turning, he barked at his squire, "Set up a shelter under that tree, Percy. No need to pitch the tent, a tarpaulin over that low branch will be sufficient. A small fire would also be appreciated."

"Yes, Milord." Percy pulled the pack mules over, found what he needed then directed the other servants to start putting up the tarp.

Percy nudged the senior servant, "Henry, we need to find some wood dry enough to burn - if that's even bloody possible on such a night as this."

It was noticeably lighter on the hill. The commander realized this as visibility was better than it had been. He could actually see his men sitting their mounts roughly twenty paces to the rear, they had been nearly invisible a scant few moments ago.

He looked to the east, he had been expecting his ally's men to be approaching at this time. As they were not yet in sight, he had to wonder if the snow and rain had slowed them enough to keep them away from his chosen field of battle. He rather hoped not, his adversary outnumbered him, by quite a lot.

"Sir William."

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Send someone down the eastern track, I need to know if Norfolk's men will be here or not. If not, I fear we must withdraw."

"I shall go myself, Milord."

"Very well then, on your way."

As Sir William's mount picked its way down the hillside, it was becoming whiter with each passing minute, the snow seemed to be falling harder now. The wind was blowing stronger as well, out of the west. Right into the enemy's face he realized. He wondered if that might prove to be an advantage.

For now, he must wait.