TOWTON FIELD.
With Margaret of Anjou heading a mighty army at York, and Edward
Plantagenet heading an army, not assuredly so numerous, but perhaps not
less mighty, at Pontefract, a conflict could not long be delayed. Nor,
indeed, had the partisans of either Rose any reason to shrink from an
encounter. For, while the Yorkist chiefs felt that nothing less than a
crowning triumph could save them from the vengeance of the dethroned
queen, the Lancastrian lords were not less fully aware that nothing but
a decisive victory could insure to them their possessions and restore
to Henry his throne.
Learning that Edward was at Pontefract, and anxious to prevent him
passing the Aire, Margaret's magnificent army moved from York.
Formidable, indeed, the Lancastrians must have looked as they left
the capital of the North, and marched southward; Somerset figuring as
commander-in-chief; while Northumberland, aided by Andrew Trollope,
the great soldier of the Red Rose ranks, led the van; and Clifford,
with the hands that had been dyed in Rutland's blood, reined in his
prancing steed at the head of the light cavalry. Crossing the Wharfe,
and marching through Tadcaster, the queen's captains posted their men
to the south of Towton, a little village some eight miles from York. In
front of their main body was a valley known as Towton Dale; their right
wing was protected by a cliff, and their left by a marsh, which has
since disappeared.
Somerset had hoped to keep the Aire between him and the Yorkist
foe; and the aspiring duke was somewhat dismayed to hear that Lord
Fitzwalter had seized Ferrybridge, and posted his company on the north
side of the river. The Lancastrian lords, however, were in no mood
to be daunted; and Clifford, who was quite as courageous as cruel,
readily undertook to dislodge the Yorkist warriors from the position
they occupied. Accordingly, at the head of his light cavalry, and
accompanied by Lord Neville, Clifford spurred across the country,
reached Ferrybridge by break of day, and, finding the guards asleep and
utterly unsuspicious of an attack, had little difficulty in fulfilling
his mission. Ere well awake half of the men were slaughtered, and the
survivors were glad to escape to the south side of the Aire. Hearing a
noise, and supposing that some quarrel had arisen among his soldiers,
Fitzwalter rose from his couch, seized a battle-axe, and hastened to
restore order. But before the Yorkist lord could even ascertain the
cause of the disturbance he was surrounded and slain, and, with him,
Warwick's illegitimate brother, known as "The Bastard of Salisbury,"
and described as "a valiant young gentleman, and of great audacity."
Early on Saturday news of Clifford's exploit reached Pontefract and
caused something like a panic in the Yorkist camp. Awed by the terrible
name of Clifford, and not unaware of the numerical superiority of their
foes, the soldiers lost heart and showed a disposition to waver. At
this crisis, however, it became known that Warwick had mounted his
horse, and every eye was turned toward the king-maker as he spurred
through the lines straight to King Edward.
"Sir," said the earl, dismounting, "may GOD have mercy upon their
souls, who, for love of you, have lost their lives. I see no hope of
succor but in Him, to whom I remit the vengeance."
Edward, perhaps, thought Warwick was manifesting more alarm than was
either necessary or prudent. "All who were afraid to fight might, at
their pleasure, depart," the king said, "but to those that would stay
he promised good reward; and," he added, "if any after staying should
turn or flee, then that he who killed such a dastard should have double
pay."
"Though your whole army should take to flight," said Warwick to Edward,
"I will remain to fight;" and, having thus expressed his resolution
to stand by the young king to the death, the earl, in a manner not to
be mistaken, intimated to the army of the White Rose that he, for one,
rather than retreat one inch, was prepared to die with his feet to
the foe. Drawing his sword, the patrician hero kissed the hilt, which
was in the form of a cross, and, killing his war-horse in view of the
soldiers, he exclaimed, "Let him flee that will flee, I will tarry with
him that will tarry with me."
The effect of this sacrifice was marvelous; the soldiers saw that their
chief and idol relied solely on their courage, that with them he would
fight on foot, and that with them he would share victory or defeat. A
feeling of enthusiasm pervaded the army, and not one man was craven
enough to desert the great warrior-statesman in that hour of peril.
The Duke of Norfolk, as heir of Thomas de Brotherton, held the office
of earl marshal, and was therefore entitled to lead the van of
England's army. It happened, however, that Norfolk had not yet made his
appearance among the Yorkist warriors, and, in his absence, Warwick's
uncle, Lord Falconbridge, took the post of distinction and danger. With
a view of cutting off Clifford's cavalry from the main body of the
Lancastrians, Falconbridge, at the head of the Yorkist van, passed the
Aire at Castleford, three miles above Ferrybridge, and, favored by the
windings of the river, led his men along the north bank ere Clifford
was aware of the enemy being in motion. On being informed of the fact,
however, the Lancastrian leader mustered his horsemen and made a dash
northward to reach the queen's camp. Fortune, however, was this time
against the savage lord. At Dintingdale, somewhat less than two miles
from Towton, the murderer of Rutland and the executioner of Salisbury
found that the avengers were upon him, and turned desperately to bay.
A sharp and sanguinary skirmish ensued. Clifford offered a brave
resistance to his fate, but, pierced in the throat with an arrow, he
fell, never more to rise. Lord Neville having shared Clifford's fate,
most of the light horsemen fell where they fought, and Ferrybridge was
retaken.
On receiving intelligence of the victory at Dintingdale and the
recovery of Ferrybridge, Edward hastened to pass the Aire, leading the
centre of the Yorkist army, while the right wing was headed by Warwick,
and the rear brought up by Sir John Denham, a veteran warrior who had
ever adhered to the Yorkist cause, and Sir John Wenlock, who had once
already changed sides to his profit, and was to do so again to his
loss. As the day was drawing to a close the Yorkists reached Saxton,
a village little more than a mile south from Towton, and, on their
coming in sight of the Lancastrian host, the northern and southern
armies expressed the intense hatred they felt for each other by a long
yell of defiance. At the same time Edward caused proclamation to be
made, in the hearing of both, that, on his side, no prisoners should be
taken and no quarter given; and Somerset immediately ordered a similar
proclamation to be made in the name of the Lancastrian chiefs.
All that cold March night the hostile armies prepared for the
combat, and on the morning of the 29th of March--it was that of Palm
Sunday--Yorkist and Lancastrian sprang to arms. As the warriors of
the Roses approached each other snow began to fall heavily, and,
from having the wind in their faces, the Lancastrians were much
inconvenienced by the flakes being blown in their eyes. Falconbridge,
prompt to avail himself of such a circumstance, caused the archers
in the Yorkist van to advance, send a flight of arrows among their
antagonists, and then draw back to await the result. Galled by this
discharge, the Lancastrians, who formed the van of the queen's army,
bent their bows in retaliation; but, blinded by snow, they shot at
random, and the shafts fell forty yards short of their adversaries.
Northumberland, the grandson of Hotspur, and Andrew Trollope, that
"terrible man-at-arms," did not relish this inauspicious opening of
the battle. Perceiving that at a distance they were fighting at
disadvantage, Trollope and the earl ordered the men to draw their
blades, to rush forward, and to close with the foe. An unexpected
obstacle, however, presented itself to the assailants; for the northern
men, finding their feet entangled in their own shafts that stuck in the
ground, came to a halt; and the Yorkists, galling their adversaries
with another shower of arrows, threw them into confusion, and drove
them precipitately back on the main body of the Lancastrians.
The White Rose was so far fortunate; but the Lancastrians, conscious
of superior numbers, and elate with their victories at Wakefield and
Bernard's Heath, were not to be daunted. Ere Northumberland fell back
on the queen's forces, the two armies were face to face, and on neither
side was there any wish to delay meeting hand to hand. Impatient to try
conclusions, and disdaining to balk his enemies of the close conflict
they desired, Falconbridge gave the word for his soldiers to lay aside
their bows, take to their swords, and advance to the encounter; and,
with shouts of anger and scorn, the men of the north and of the south
approached each other to decide their quarrel with foot opposed to
foot, and steel to steel.
The clarions having sounded a charge, the battle now began in earnest,
and with such fury as had never before been displayed by Englishmen
when opposed to each other. The leaders trusted less to their own
generalship than to the courage of their men; and the soldiers on both
sides, animated with the deadliest hatred of their foes, moved forward
in masses. Every man fought as if the quarrel had been his own; and
among the fiercest and foremost, where skulls were cleaved and blood
shed, appeared, on one side, Andrew Trollope, performing prodigies of
valor, and, on the other, the young king, fiery with martial ardor,
and freely hazarding his life to advance his fortunes. Mounted on
barbed steed, and arrayed in emblazoned surcoat, and his standard, on
which was a black bull, borne by Ralph Vestynden, Edward seemed the
very prince to kindle enthusiasm in the heart of a multitude; and woe
betided those who crossed his path, as, in this, his twentieth year, he
fought with the savage valor which afterward bore down all opposition
on the fields of Barnet and Tewkesbury. The king's courage and prowess
made him conspicuous in the fight, and his indomitable determination
contributed in no slight degree to maintain the resolution of the
Yorkists to conquer or to die for his sake.
But, notwithstanding Edward's achievements, and the confidence with
which the soldiers fought under Warwick's leadership, hours passed,
and thousands upon thousands fell, without the prospect of a Yorkist
victory. Still the northern war-cries rose upon the gale; still Andrew
Trollope hounded the northern men upon their foes; and still terrible
proved the sweep of those long lances with which, at Wakefield, Herons
and Tunstalls and Whartons had scattered the chivalry of York as the
wind scatters leaves. No easy victory could, by any warriors, be won
against such foes; and in spite of all the young king's courage, and
"The Stout Earl's" sagacity, it appeared too likely that Trollope,
with fortune as well as numbers on his side, would conquer, and that
the bloodiest day England had ever seen would close in a Lancastrian
triumph.
Meanwhile the aspect of the field was too terrible even to be described
without a shudder. All on the ridge between Towton and Saxton were
heaps of dead, and wounded, and dying; and the blood of the slain lay
caked with the snow that covered the ground, and afterward, dissolving
with it, ran down the furrows and ditches for miles together. Never,
indeed, in England, had such a scene of carnage been witnessed as
that upon which the villagers of Towton and Saxton looked out from
their lowly cottages, and of which the citizens of York heard flying
rumors, as, in common with Christendom, they celebrated the festival
commemorative of our Redeemer's entry into Jerusalem.
At length, when the battle had lasted well-nigh ten hours, and
thousands had fallen in the sanguinary conflict, fortune so far
favored the Red Rose that it seemed as if those long Border spears,
so seldom couched in vain, were destined to win back the crown of St.
Edward for Henry of Windsor. The Yorkists were, in fact, giving way;
and Warwick must have felt that his charger had been sacrificed in
vain, and that his head was not unlikely to occupy a place between
those of York and Salisbury over the gates of the northern capital,
when, through the snow which darkened the air and drifted over the
country, another army was seen advancing from the south; and into the
field, fresh and in no humor to avoid the combat, came the fighting
men of Norfolk, under the banner of the princely Mowbrays, to the
aid of Edward's wavering ranks. This new arrival of feudal warriors
speedily turned the scale in favor of York; and while Edward animated
his adherents, and Warwick urged the Yorkists to renewed exertion, the
Lancastrians, after an attempt to resist their fate, at first slowly
and frowning defiance on their foes, but gradually with more rapid
steps, commenced a retreat northward.
Among the thousands who, on that stormy Palm Sunday, took the field
with Red Roses on their gorgets, there was no better or braver knight
than Ralph, Lord Dacre. From his castle of Naworth, in Cumberland,
Dacre had brought his riders, arrayed under the ancestral banner--
"That swept the shores of Judah's sea,
And waved in gales of Galilee"--
and mounted to strike for King Henry; not, perhaps, without some
presentiment of filling a warrior's grave. But death by a mean hand
the lordly warrior would not contemplate; and with a spirit as high as
his progenitor, who fought at Acre with Richard _Coeur de Lion_, he
could hardly dream of falling by a weapon less renowned than Warwick's
axe, or Edward's lance, or the sword of William Hastings, who, in the
young king's track, slaughtering as he rode, was winning golden spurs
and broad baronies. No death so distinguished, however, awaited Lord
Dacre of the North. While in a large field, known as the North Acre,
and still in rustic tradition and rhyme associated with his name, the
haughty Borderer, probably making a last effort to rally the beaten and
retreating Lancastrians, was mortally wounded with an arrow shot by a
boy out of an auberry-tree, and prostrated among dead and dying on the
miry ground.
"All is lost," groaned Exeter and Somerset, in bitter mood, as together
they spurred over mounds of slain, and galloped toward York, to warn
the queen that her foes were conquerors. And well, indeed, might the
Lancastrian dukes express themselves in accents of despair, for never
before had an English army been in a more hapless plight than that
which they were now leaving to its fate. At first, the retreat of
the Lancastrians was conducted with some degree of order; but, ere
long, their ranks were broken by the pursuing foe, and every thing
was confusion as they fled in a mass toward Tadcaster. No leader of
mark remained to direct or control the ill-fated army in the hour
of disaster. John Heron, and Leo, Lord Welles, were slain. Andrew
Trollope, after having "done marvelous deeds of valor," lay cold on
the ground; Northumberland stooped his lofty crest as low as death;
Devon and Wiltshire were heading the flight, and in vain endeavoring
to place themselves beyond the vengeance of the victors. Resistance
was hopeless; quarter was neither asked nor given; the carnage was so
frightful that the road to York was literally red with the blood and
strewn with the bodies of the slain; and the pursuit was so hot and
eager that multitudes were drowned in attempting to cross the rivulet
of Cock, while the corpses formed a bridge over which the pursuers
passed. The brook ran purple with blood, and crimsoned, as it formed a
junction with, the waters of the Wharfe.
Evening closed, at length, over the field of Towton, but without
putting an end to the work of destruction. Till the noon of Monday
the pursuit was keenly urged, and a running fight, kept up beyond
the Tyne, caused much bloodshed.[7] The Chief Justice of England and
the Parson of Blokesworth escaped. But Devon and Wiltshire were less
fortunate. One was taken near York, the other seized near Cockermouth
by an esquire named Richard Salkeld; and both were executed by martial
law.
After his signal victory on Towton Field, Edward knighted Hastings,
Humphrey Stafford, and others, and then rode in triumph to York. Henry,
with Queen Margaret and the prince, having fled from the city, the
inhabitants received him with humble submission; and, having taken down
the heads of his kinsmen from the gates, and set up those of Devon and
Wiltshire instead, Edward remained at York, and kept the festival of
Easter with great splendor. After visiting Durham, and settling the
affairs of the north, the young king turned his face toward London.
From the day on which Edward rode out of Bishopgate until Easter, the
citizens had been in fearful suspense. At length a messenger reached
Baynard's Castle to inform the Duchess of York that the Lancastrians
had been routed; and, when the news spread, the metropolis was the
scene of joy and rejoicing. Men of all ranks breathed freely, and
thanked GOD for giving King Edward the victory; and minstrels, in
grateful strains, sang the praise of the royal warrior who had saved
the fair southern shires from the fierce and rude spearmen of the
north.