How the battle of Tewkesbury was lost and won is too well known to
need description in detail here. Whether the Lancastrian army could
have held the field before the Yorkist veterans had they been
skilfully generalled will never now be known; but the fiery and
impetuous Duke of Somerset, whose ill-judged ardour had forced the
battle upon his followers, undoubtedly lost the day for them by his
intemperate and reckless disregard of the dictates of common
prudence. After opening the fight by a discharge of ordnance, he
was mad enough to leave his intrenched position on the Home Ground,
and carry his men into the open for a charge upon the opposing
army. Here they were not only confronted by Edward's compact army,
but were taken in the flank and rear by a company of spearmen who
had been told off to guard against a possible ambush in a little
wood; which, however, the hot-headed Somerset had never thought to
place.
Thrown into confusion, the Lancastrians were routed, and confusion
was rendered worse confounded by another impetuous act on the part
of the fiery young duke. As he and his flying soldiers fell back
upon the town of Tewkesbury, and reached the market place, they
found Lord Wenlock and his men sitting idle and motionless there,
as if there was no work for them to do.
The reason for this extraordinary apathy on the part of one of the
leaders will never now be known. It was the curse of the strife of
the Roses that treachery and a change of sides was always
suspected, and too often with good cause, between men who had been
friends and allies heretofore. The Duke of Somerset at once
concluded that Lord Wenlock had turned traitor to the cause, and
riding furiously up to him as he sat, he dashed out his brains with
his battle-axe, without so much as pausing to ask a single
question.
The followers of both leaders who saw the deed were struck with new
terror. With loud cries of "Treason, treason!" they threw down
their arms and fled they knew not whither, and the retreat became a
confused rout, in which the thought of each man was to save his own
life.
Such, in brief, was the deplorable story of the battle of
Tewkesbury. But we are concerned less with the main course of the
fortunes of the day than with the individual adventures of certain
persons concerned, who, if isolated acts of gallantry and devotion
could have saved the day, would have turned the fortunes of even
the fatal field of Tewkesbury.
The prince was stationed in the main body of the army, under the
care, as was supposed by his anxious mother, of the military Prior
of St. John's Longstruther. And by his side was his faithful
shadow, Paul, whose solemn purpose that day was to keep beside the
prince throughout the course of the battle, and shield him from
harm even at the cost of his own life. Some strange foreboding had
fallen upon Paul, and he scarce expected to see the light of
another day; but this presentiment of coming ill he bravely hid
from his companion, and the two rode into the ranks with smiling
faces, and looked across at the opposing lines of the enemy with a
steadfast and lofty courage. Then the prince turned to his
companion.
"Our first battle, good Paul; for though as a child I saw fighting,
I never took part in it before. I am glad that we ride side by side
this day. Let us show our loyal people, whatever be the fortunes of
the field, that Englishmen can strike hard blows, and that they
never turn their backs upon the foe. If we ride not to victory,
Paul, let us ride to death with a courage that shall not disgrace
the kingly blood that both of us can boast in some measure."
Then they looked to their weapons, and sat very silent, waiting
what would befall.
Perhaps those that take part in a fierce fight know less about the
details than any others. Paul was presently aware that he and the
men about him, the prince still at his side, were charging down the
little eminence upon which they had been posted, straight at the
serried ranks of the Yorkist army, which kept its position, and
awaited their coming with cool intrepidity. Paul had not time to
think or reason, or he would surely have wondered at the rashness
of quitting an advantageous position, and putting themselves to
such disadvantage before the foe. All he knew was that the duke's
company had moved first, and had charged upon the enemy, and that
their military monk had given the word to follow and support their
friends; which was done without a moment's hesitation, whether the
movement were, strategically speaking, right or wrong.
And then, all in a moment as it seemed, the prince and his comrade
found themselves in a fierce melee, in which for a while they could
scarce move hand or foot, jammed in by the press of men and steeds,
but surrounded by friends and comrades, who were eagerly pressing
forward toward the foe. Cries and shouts rent the air, mingled
sometimes with the shriek or groan which told that a well-directed
blow had gone home to its mark. The press became denser, and then
less dense; some riderless horses from the front rank came tearing
back through the crush, forcing their way in a sort of mad terror;
and Edward, snatching his battle-axe from its resting place across
his saddle bow, swung it over his head, and shouted to his
companion:
"Follow me, Paul! yonder lies the foe. I will strike a blow for my
father's liberty and crown this day, whether I live or die."
The way was open now, and Paul saw plainly that they were close to
the ranks of the foe. But there was no drawing back, even had he
wished it; his blood was up now, and not even fear for the possible
peril of the prince could withhold him from the charge. He knew not
whether the person of the prince was known, and whether young
Edward ran any especial danger in thus flinging himself upon the
enemy. But it was no longer his place to think--the moment for
action had arrived; and following Edward's example, he dashed into
the thick of the fray, the impetuosity and fury of his charge
bearing down all before him, and hewing down man and horse as he
clave a passage through the ranks for the prince, who closely
followed.
They were not alone. A gallant little company was following in
their track, and with cries of "An Edward, an Edward, a Prince of
Wales!" smote down the rival warriors with a fury which for the
moment nothing could withstand. There is surely something magnetic
in a war cry or in a patriotic song, for it inspires those who use
it with an ardour and a strength which for the moment seem
invincible.
To Paul and the prince it seemed as if the day were all but won.
Wherever they turned they dealt death and destruction. The wing of
the army upon which they charged was wavering and disorganized; the
infantry recoiled before the fierce charge of the horsemen, and the
opposing cavalry was mostly in another part of the field.
"Victory, victory!" shouted those about Paul and the prince; and to
the enthusiastic and excited lads it seemed as if the day was
already theirs. The name of the Prince of Wales was in all mouths.
It was shouted by each soldier as he fell upon his foe, and the
enemy appeared to recoil before it. Onward and ever onward pressed
the eager little band, until it was entirely separated from the
main body of the army; and so certain were all who took part in
that isolated skirmish that the fortunes of the day were with the
House of Lancaster, that the peril of their position struck none of
the prince's followers till, thinned by the blows of their
adversaries, and weary with the impetuosity of their own charge,
they paused and drew together; whilst the foe, glad of a moment's
breathing space, did not molest them.
There are pauses even on the battlefield when a few words can be
exchanged, and the prince, flushed with the foretaste (as it seemed
to him) of a glorious victory, turned to Paul with kindling eyes.
"War is a glorious game in all truth, Paul. I would not have been
elsewhere for all the world. But you bleed--you are wounded. Tell
me where. I knew not that you were hurt. You must ride back to the
town and be tended there."
"Nay, it is nought; I do not even feel it. I know not who struck
me, nor when. I will bind this scarf about my arm, and all will be
well. And think you not, my liege, that it were well to return to
the lines ourselves? I promised your royal mother and the Lady Anne
that you should not adventure yourself too much today within the
enemy's lines. But all such charge passed from my memory in the
heat of the fight."
"Ay, and my place was here, in the midst of my good soldiers. Oh,
it has been a glorious day! 'Lancaster will remember it ever. And
see, Paul--see how they fly on yonder height! See how the battle
rages and becomes a flight! It is the same everywhere. The Red Rose
triumphs. Proud York is forced to fly. Shall we join them, and lead
again to victory? They are chasing them to the very walls of the
town."
Paul looked in the direction indicated, and a change came over his
face. He had the wonderful long, keen sight which often comes to
those who have grown up in the open air, and have been used from
childhood to the exercise of hunting and hawking. The prince saw
only the flying rout, which he concluded to be the soldiers of
York; but Paul could distinguish more. He could see the colours,
and the badges they wore, and he recognized with a sinking heart
the terrible fact that it was the followers of the Red Rose who
were flying before the mailed warriors of Edward of York.
The change in his countenance did not escape young Edward's keen
eye, and he at once divined the cause, The bright flush faded from
his own face, and his gaze was turned in the same direction again.
Alas! it was but too plain now; for the rout was plainly in the
direction of the town, and it was easy to understand that had it
been the Yorkists who had fled they would have taken an opposite
direction, in order to reach their own lines.
For a moment prince and subject sat spellbound, watching that
terrible sight in deep silence. But then the peril of their own
position, and the deadly danger that menaced the prince if the
situation should be realized by their foes surrounding them here,
flashed across Paul like a vivid and terrible lightning gleam.
He turned and laid his hand upon the shoulder of the prince.
"My liege," he said, "we may not linger here. We must regain our
comrades, and see if we may rally them yet. All may not be lost,
but it were madness to remain here. Let me call our followers
together, and we will charge back through the foe to our own lines.
It is not safe to be here."
Edward made no reply. The face that had been flushed with victory
and bright with hope was now set in those stern lines which seem to
speak of a forlorn hope. He saw their peril as clearly as Paul; but
if the day were lost, what mattered it if his life were yet whole
in him? The face he silently turned upon his companion seemed to
have grown years older whilst he had been speaking.
And to make matters worse, the knowledge of the disaster to their
own side spread to the soldiers who had followed the prince, and
that instant demoralization which so often accompanies and
aggravates defeat seized upon the men. They flung away their
heavier arms, and with a shout of "Treason, treason!"--for they
were assured there had been foul play somewhere--fled each man by
himself, without a thought for aught save his own life.
Paul and the prince thus found themselves alone in the midst of a
hostile host--alone save for the presence of some half-dozen stout
troopers attached to the service of Paul, who since his advance in
worldly prosperity had been in a position to engage and retain the
services of some men-at-arms of his own. These faithful fellows,
who had learned to love their young master, sat doggedly in their
saddles, prepared to sell their lives dear, and to carry off if
possible their master and the prince living from the field. But
they, too, realized how desperate was the situation; and the
threatening and triumphant glances of their enemies, who now began
to close up round them, showed that others had realized that the
battle was already won by the Yorkist faction.
"King Edward, King Edward!" shouted the fierce soldiers as they
grasped their weapons anew. "Down with the Red Rose! Down with all
false princes! Down with the traitors who would disturb the peace
of the land! King Edward, King Edward!"
The prince looked at Paul, and Paul looked at the prince. The same
thought was in the minds of both.
"We will at least sell our lives dear," said young Edward in low
tones. "My trusty comrade, your loyalty to the Red Rose has been
but a sorry thing for you. I would I could have rewarded you with
such honours as a prince has to give; but--"
"It is honour enough for me, my liege, to die at your side--to die,
if it may be, in saving your life," said Paul. "Talk not so, I
beseech you. The happiness of my life has been in calling myself
your servant. It will be a happy death that is died at your side."
"Not servant--comrade, friend, brother," said Ed ward, holding out
his hand once again, with a look that Paul never forgot. "No more,
Paul. I must play the man; and such words go deep, and bring the
tears to mine eyes. Paul, there are strange chances in battle, and
it may be that you will live through it, and that I may be slain:
If such be so, tell my mother and my wife (for she is that to me,
as I am her husband in love) that I died as a prince of the House
of Plantagenet should do--sword in hand and face to the foe. Tell
my mother that such a death is better than an inglorious life of
exile, and bid her not weep for me. There is yet another world than
this in which we shall meet, where the strife of war is not heard
and the malice of foes pursues us not. Let her look forward to our
meeting there. It were a better prospect, in all truth, than an
earthly crown, which methinks sits heavy on the head of him that
wears it."
Paul said nothing, for he could not trust himself to speak, and
indeed the brief respite was at an end. With loud and threatening
cries the foe was closing round the devoted little band, and from
the other side of the field he could see that a knot of horsemen
were galloping in their direction, as though they had got some news
of the presence of the prince.
Wounded as he was, and spent from having borne the brunt of that
first gallant charge, Paul yet set his teeth and nerved himself for
a last desperate rally. If they could cut their way through the
ranks of the foes and gain the town, they might be safe at least
for the moment; and that was the object of himself and his
servants. Placing the reluctant prince in the midst, so as if
possible to save at least him from steel or lead, the gallant
little band with axes and pikes commenced hewing its way through
the living wall which surrounded it. And so gallantly did the good
steeds respond to the urging of their riders, and so fierce were
the blows that rained down upon the heads of the footmen who barred
their passage, that for a moment it seemed as if they would yet win
their way back, and gain the protection of such of their comrades
as had not shared in the general rout.
But alas! though the footmen gave way before them, the mounted
soldiers, who were speeding across the field, saw at once the line
they were taking, and galloped headlong to intercept them. Paul, in
the fury of his hot young blood, dashed forward alone, and fell
upon the foremost with so fierce a blow that his axe was wedged in
the head-piece of his opponent, so that he was unable to draw it
out. The man reeled in his saddle and fell, almost dragging Paul,
who still had hold of the axe, with him; and before he could
recover himself or draw his sword, he was set upon by half a score
mounted riders.
For one moment he was aware of merciless blows raining down upon
him, battering him to the earth; he felt suffocated, crushed, more
utterly helpless and powerless than he had ever done in his life
before. Quick thrills of pain were running through him, stars
danced before his eyes; and through all this confusion and
distress he was yet aware of some terrible danger menacing the
prince--danger from which he had sworn to save him at the risk of
his own life. He struggled fiercely and blindly with the foes who
seemed to be above and about him, knocking the wind from his body,
and holding his throat in an iron clasp. Consciousness was fast
deserting him. The dancing stars had disappeared, leaving the
blackest darkness behind them. He made one frantic effort to break
the chain which seemed to be grinding his very life out of him, and
then followed a space of blankness that must surely have been like
death itself.
It might have been minutes, hours, days, or even years before
Paul opened his eyes to the light of day once more, for all
consciousness he had of the flight of time; but when he did so it
was to meet the solicitous glance of a pair of friendly eyes, and
to feel himself supported by strong arms, whilst some potent spirit
was held to his lips, which, when he had drunk of it, seemed to
drive away the mists and give him back his senses again.
He looked round him, and found himself lying upon a bloody field,
dead and wounded strewn about him. He was upheld by the arm of one
of his own stout servants; and no one else save a few wounded men
or dead corpses was near. In a flash it all came back--the fight,
the supposed victory, the disastrous defeat; and he groaned aloud,
and struggled to regain his feet.
"The prince!" he cried, in tones sharpened by physical and mental
anguish, "the prince!--where is he?"
"He is a prisoner; but he is unhurt. A gallant knight took him. His
name, I learned from one of his men-at-arms, is Sir Richard Crofts;
and he called out to his men, after you were down, that he would
have no hurt done to the prince. He was to be taken prisoner and
brought to the king--so he called him; and he had given out by
proclamation that whoever brought to him the prince, alive or dead,
should have a hundred pounds a year; and that the life of the
prince should be spared. This I learned from the man-at-arms who
stayed behind with me a while, to bind up a wound you had given
him, and to help me to unlace your helmet, which was going nigh to
choke you as you lay.
"Fear not for the prince, good master. His life is safe; and
doubtless his noble aspect will win him favour with him they now
call king.
"Nay, why do you struggle with me? you can scarce stand yet.
Whither would you go? Let me catch some riderless steed and carry
you to the town. Methinks the leaders have taken sanctuary with the
queen in the church. You had better join them there."
"Ay, get me a horse," said Paul, with faint but vehement command;
and he leaned heavily upon his sword as his servant departed to do
his bidding.
Battered, sore wounded as he felt himself to be, instinct told him
that he could act now as it would be impossible to do later, when
his wounds began to stiffen and his muscles to refuse to obey his
will. No bones were broken. He could still keep his feet and use
his arms; and when the faithful servant brought up a horse and
helped his master to mount, Paul felt that giddy and weak and
suffering as he was, he could yet make shift to ride as far as it
would be needful to do. The royal pennon floating over a certain
tent not so very far away told him that his goal might yet be
reached before his strength deserted him. The fiery spirit of which
he again partook gave him temporary power. He scarce knew what he
wished to do, save that he must stand beside his prince when he was
brought to Edward's presence, and if harm befell him there, share
it with him, as he had shared his peril that fatal day.
"Save yourself, good Adam," he said to his servant when he was once
mounted; "I am going to follow the prince. But come not near the
enemy's lines yourself, lest mischief befall you."
And before the astonished servant could speak a word of
remonstrance, Paul had set spurs to his horse and had galloped off
in the direction of the enemy's camp.
Within the lines there was the confusion incident to a battle, and
no one heeded the battered rider, who, his helmet left behind and
his mail dinted and disfigured by the hard blows it had received,
had nothing about him to show to which army he belonged. Soldiers
were leaning on their swords and eagerly discussing the fortunes of
the day; and round and about Edward's royal tent a dense crowd had
gathered, out of curiosity, it was said--and Paul heard the
words--to see what manner of reception would be met at the
monarch's hands by the youthful Edward, called "Prince," who had
been brought into the lines by Sir Richard Crofts.
The proclamation respecting him was widely known throughout the
camp, and it was said on all hands that the life of the prince
would be safe; but whether he would share his father's captivity or
be banished the kingdom with his French mother were points no one
could answer.
And Paul rode silently and swiftly by, glad that no one heeded him
or challenged him to give an account of himself.
Dismounting at last as he reached the outskirts of the crowd, and
turning his horse loose to find its own master if it could, Paul
was about to push his way into the eager knot of spectators, when a
hand was laid upon his arm; and turning suddenly, he found himself
confronted by a delicate page boy, whose white face and dilated
eyes seemed to bespeak the extreme of emotion and distress. Before
he had time to speak or to ask a question, the page addressed him;
and as soon as the voice smote upon his ears Paul started and
turned even paler than he had been; for he had heard those musical
tones before, and in the fair page before him he recognized, to his
horror and dismay, the gentle Lady Anne--young Edward's
bride--here, alone and unprotected, in the heart of the foe's camp.
She saw that she was recognized, and laid her hand upon her lips in
token of silence. Paul choked back the words that were upon his
tongue, and looked at her in mute amaze.
"I could not keep away," she whispered, "when they told me all was
lost and he had not returned. It was the only way. No one has
heeded me in the tumult and strife. I heard all. I heard he was
prisoner--that he was to be brought before Edward of York. Paul, I
knew that you would be near him. I knew, if living, I should find
you. See, they heed us not. They care not whether we be friends or
foes. Take me through the crowd; take me to him. I am safe with
you. Let us all die together."
Paul, utterly bewildered and astonished by this extraordinary
meeting, could only obey in silence. It was all like some hideous,
oppressive dream. Little by little he and his companion made their
way through the throng until they reached the line of armed
sentries who kept their stations outside the royal tent. Here they
would have had to pause, had not Paul made a step forward and said
boldly:
"I am the servant squire of the prisoner, and I claim the right to
stand at his side and share his fate, whatever it may be. Let me
and this lad, I pray you, go to him. We desire nothing better than
to lay down our lives with him."
The sentries eyed the pair doubtfully. Their unarmed condition and
Paul's visibly battered state told that these were no dangerous
conspirators; and devotion to a lost cause always stirs the
generous feelings of brave men. It may, however, be doubted whether
the pair would have gained their wish had it not been for the fact
that at this moment Edward himself appeared, disarmed, but
otherwise treated with due honour and courtesy, attended by his
captor, who was leading him to the king's tent in obedience to a
summons just received.
The moment that she saw her betrothed husband, no power on earth
would have been strong enough to hold back the fair-faced page,
under whose boyish dress a faithful woman's heart was beating. The
disguised maiden sprang forward and sank at the feet of her
supposed master, seizing his hand and covering it with kisses as
she tenderly murmured his name.
Edward instantly recognized her--Paul saw that at once; but the
shock of the discovery steadied his nerves, as he realized the
peril in which she had placed herself, and he looked round for one
who might save her when he himself might be powerless to do so. It
was at that moment--as the crowd stood speechless, touched and
perplexed by the little scene, and reluctant to rough-handle so
fair a boy, and one whose devotion was so bravely displayed--that
Paul took occasion to step forward and present himself before
Edward.
A look of relief instantly crossed the prince's face.
"I might have known that you would have been here--ever nearest in
the hour of deadliest peril. Paul, whatever befalls me, take care
of him." Low as the words were spoken, the prince dared not use the
other pronoun. "Keep him safe. Take him to my mother; she will
protect him from the menaced peril."
"I will, my liege, I will," said Paul; and it was he who raised the
form of the trembling page, and together the three were pushed not
ungently into the royal presence--Sir Richard being a man of kindly
nature, and having been touched by the devotion evinced by these
two youths (as he supposed them) in braving the dangers of the camp
in order to be with their prince when he was called upon to answer
for his life before the offended monarch.
Edward was standing in his tent, surrounded by his nobles,
brothers, and his wife's kinsmen, as the young Plantagenet prince
was brought before him. Perhaps England hardly possessed a finer
man than its present king, who was taller by the head than almost
any of those who stood round him, his dress of mail adding to the
dignity of his mien, and his handsome but deeply-lined features,
now set in stern displeasure, showing at once the indications of an
unusual beauty and a proud and relentless nature.
The youthful Edward was brought a few paces forward by the
attendants; whilst Paul stood in the background, longing to be
beside his prince, but obliged to support the trembling form of
Anne, who had been his liege's last charge to him.
"Is this the stripling they falsely call the Prince of Wales?"
quoth Edward, stepping one pace nearer and regarding the noble lad
with haughty displeasure. "How dost thou dare to come thus
presumptuously to my realms with banners displayed against me?"
"To recover my father's kingdom and mine own inheritance," was the
bold but unhesitating answer of the kingly youth, who, fettered and
prisoner as he was, had all the fearless Plantagenet blood running
in his veins.
The eagle eye of Edward flashed ominously, and making one more step
toward his unarmed prisoner, he struck him in the face with his
iron gauntlet. In a moment a dozen swords flashed from their
scabbards. It seemed as if the bloodthirsty nobles awaited but this
signal for the ruthless attack upon the deposed monarch's son which
has left so dark a stain upon one page of history.
Paul, all unarmed as he was, would have sprung forward to die with
his prince, but was impeded by the senseless burden now lying a
dead weight in his arms. At the king's blow the page had uttered a
faint cry; and as the first of those murderous weapons were plunged
in the breast of her youthful lover, she fell to the earth like a
stone, or would have done, but that Paul flung his arm about her,
and she lay senseless on his breast.
For one awful moment the blackness returned upon him and swallowed
him up, and he knew not what terrible thing had happened; but when
a loud voice proclaimed the fact that the prince had ceased to
live, a wild fury fell upon Paul, and he started to his feet to
revenge that death by plunging his dagger into the breast of the
haughty monarch as he stood there, calm and smiling, in his
terrible wrath and power.
Had Paul attempted to carry out this wild act, a fateful murder
would have been enacted in the tent that day; but even as he
released himself from the clinging clasp of Anne's unconscious
arms, there came to him the memory of those last words spoken by
his beloved prince. The young bride must be his first care. She
must be carried to safe sanctuary; that done, he would stand forth
to revenge his lord's death. But the prince's charge must be
fulfilled.
Lifting the unconscious form in his arms, he walked unchallenged
from the tent. The deed now done sent a thrill of horror through
the camp, and men looked into each other's eyes, and were ashamed
that they had stood by to see it.
Not an attempt was made to oppose the passage of the faithful
attendant, who carried in his arms the page boy, who had stood by
his master to the last. Room was made for them to pass through the
crowd; and staggering blindly along, Paul reached a spot where, to
his astonishment and relief, his own servant was waiting for him
with a horse ready caparisoned.
"To the church, to the church," he whispered as Paul mounted
mechanically, holding his still unconscious burden in his arms.
And he made a mute sign of assent; for he knew that within the
walls of the church he should find the wretched Margaret, who would
have taken sanctuary there at first tidings of defeat.
Silently, and as in a dream, the horsemen passed along, and at last
drew rein at the door of the little church, where stood a priest
with the Host in his hand, ready, if need be, to stand betwixt the
helpless victims of the battle and their fierce pursuers.
He knew Paul's face, he recognized that of the inanimate form he
carried in his arms, and he made way for him to pass with a mute
sign of blessing.
Paul passed in. There beside the altar he saw the queen, bowed down
by the magnitude of her woe, for she had just heard the first
rumour of that terrible tragedy.
As he approached someone spoke to her, and she turned, rose, and
came swiftly forward.
"Paul," she said, "Paul--tell me--is it true?"
Paul looked at her with dim eyes.
"I have brought you his wife," he said. "It was his last charge.
Now I am going back. They have killed him; let them kill me, too."
He placed his helpless burden in the queen's arms, turned, and made
a few uncertain steps, and then fell down helplessly. He had
fulfilled his life's purpose in living for the prince; but it was
not given to him to die uselessly for him, too.