The White Rose and the Red Read online

  stamping their feet, hugging themselves and huddling

  around the camp fires, while their breaths, like smoke

  hung in the freezing air. Breakfast was bolted

  there being no time to make a meal of it,

  and anyway, the men were just as eager

  to march to Sandal as the Duke of York,

  for Sandal Castle promised better quarters.

  A trumpet sounded and the men rode forth

  The Duke and his knights bearing their own arms

  while their retainers bore the Rose of York.

  Among the middle section of the army

  there was an ordinary man-at-arms,

  if somewhat short of stature, and though riding

  a far from ordinary destrier.

  He wore a dark blue jupon like the others,

  but kept his visor closed – well, it was cold!

  Behind that man-at-arms rode poor Sir Robert,

  frowning disconsololately at his back,

  and wondering, if the Duke of York found out

  would it be worse than if he'd known his secret?

  After all, tumbling a willing wench was nothing –

  he'd probably just laugh at it – but no!

  His reputation as a holy man would suffer.

  This was the best – he prayed it would work out.

  VII

  The Lancastrians had marched to Pontefract.

  Pontefract! That is a mighty castle!

  The keep is multi-lobed with many tourelles

  to command the prospect. Many towers

  support the high, extensive walls, and one,

  a great square tower, is higher than the keep,

  enabling the defenders in a siege

  to rain destruction within or without

  the inner bailey. Outside the main walls

  are two more baileys, guarding the main gate

  and giving space to house a mighty army.

  With Pontefract as base the queen commanded

  all the land for many miles around.

  She needed to! – her men fought on their stomachs,

  an army swelled by now to 20,000.

  Foraging parties went out night and day,

  and sometimes paid, and sometimes commandeered,

  but stripped the country bare. “Ha ha!” laughed Clifford.

  “The Duke of York will find his cellars empty

  and have scant cheer at Christmas!” Lord Roos frowned.

  “It is a time of Peace, Love and Good Will.

  'Tis meet to put our enmities aside.”

  Latimer said, “Indeed, I hear a truce

  is being negotiated by both sides.

  We will not mock this Holy tide with blood.”

  “Then I will fill my belly and rejoice

  that Richard and his brood are going hungry,”

  snarled Clifford, unreprentant then as ever.

  VIII

  The case in Sandal was not quiet as bad

  as Clifford saw it in his wishful thinking.

  For though the garrison were not enough

  to challenge the Lancastrians in the area

  and build up a sufficient store of food

  for a protracted siege, they had enough

  to feed their visitors for at least a week,

  and what was more important, during Christmas.

  The Duke of York was in a festive mood,

  the more so since more nothern knights had joined him:

  Sir Thomas Parre and Thomas Harrington,

  Sir James of Pickering and many others.

  The hall was decked with holly boughs and ivy,

  and trestle tables crammed in every corner,

  and in each bailey (there were three at Sandal)

  was pitched a huge pavilion for the others –

  Sir Robert joked, referring to the Bible:

  “A miracle – like feeding the 5,000!”

  Pages and servants hurried to and fro

  bringing all kinds of food and wine and ale;

  even the kitchen maids had to do service,

  though Aspall, mindful to avoid temptation,

  would close his eyes whenever one came near.

  Rebecs and shawms played the old Christmas carols,

  such as This is the Truth Come from Above,

  What Child is This? and Good King Wenceslas,

  The Latin hymn, Adeste Fidelis,

  and jolly Yuletide songs like Deck the Halls.

  Outside, in a pavilion, young Edmund

  was feasting with the common men-at-arms.

  He found their dialect was hard to follow,

  and said he was from Kent as an excuse.

  “What is a youth like thee duin' in the army?”

  said a plump man, known by the name of Porky.

  Poor Edmund blushed and knew not what to say.

  “Leave 'im alone,” another said, “in battle,

  thy belly fat will be more of a 'indrance

  than this lad's tender years.” “Ah'm not so fat!

  An' if ah am, ah'm tryin' ter get fatter!

  It's not so often that ah gets to ate

  such victuals as this. Ah'll stuff mesen

  until ah bust – speakin' o' which, that maid

  'as gorra bust ah'd love ter busk. Come 'ere!

  Pour us more ale an' then give us a kiss!”

  The maid, whose name was Meg, just poured the ale,

  but Porky put his arm around her waist.

  She slapped his face and snapped, “Gerroff! Fat pig!”

  and his friends laughed. Edmund was laughing too,

  and even Porky, rubbing his red cheek,

  could see the joke, and said with a wry smile,

  “Ee! that's the girl fer me – ah likes 'em fiesty,

  not meek as lambs – 'ow dost thou like 'em, lad?”

  Edmund had never thought of girls like that –

  he was too young. Porky saw this and laughed,

  “Ha ha! 'Ee's like a little girl hissen!”

  “Leave 'im alone, will yer?” the other said,

  “He'd stand a better chance wi' 'er than thee.

  Thou art so ugly tha could scare off Satan!”

  Porky guffawed, “It's them Lancastrians

  ah want ter scare!”

  It was a humbling lesson

  for Edmund to sit with these common soldiers

  and see himself through their eyes rather than

  the eyes of those who saw him as the offspring

  of the great magnate, Richard Duke of York,

  jumped to his every whim and flattered him.

  Nevertheless, he still kept to his purpose.

  As for his youth, he knew it was a thing

  that time would cure. His girlish face

  would soon be gaunt and bearded, and perhaps

  display a scar or two, hinting of war.

  The main thing was to keep faith with his ideals:

  chivalry, courtesy, prowess in battle –

  yes, come what may, he'd fight beside his father!

  IX

  At the high table Aspall waxed poetic,

  as he was wont to do on Rhenish wine:

  “How strange that the Red Rose, symbol of Love

  and Beauty, now should symbolise the opposite:

  Blood and Death!” Then Meg brought round the flagon.

  Ah! here she is, he thought – what rosy cheeks,

  rosier lips, and underneath her gown

  two other rosebuds. “Pour me some more wine,”

  he said, holding his glass with trembling hand –

  and yet, this sin I fight – this rose of passion –

  is holier than the rose red with spilt blood!

  “Now tell us what you think the White Rose means,”

  said Harrington, nibbling a nightingale.

  “White symbolises Peace and Holy Love –

  for was it
not a white dove that descended

  on Christ, Our Lord, after his baptism?”

  “So we have Love and Beauty fighting Peace

  and Holy Love – that is a war indeed! –

  These nightingales are excellent, Aspall, try one!”

  “We should be fighting for the Heavenly Kingdom

  where men and women, free from mortal sin,

  strive with each other to love each other best.”

  “And not for York? Why, man, you are a traitor!”

  “I render unto Ceasar what is Ceasar's,”

  said Aspall, “and to God that which is God's.”

  “So Richard Duke of York is a new Ceasar?

  You are excused of treachery – pass that pie!”

  Meg reached across the table for the pie

  and Aspall had a view of hills and valley

  more beautiful than the landscape near Roche Abbey.

  That night he dreamed he was scouting a landscape

  full of roses and those roses were hers,

  and a bush too, and swelling hills and valley,

  but just as he drank at a gushing fountain,

  Caesar came and swept it all away.

  Young Edmund also had a dream that night,

  it was the nightmare that he'd had at Conisbrough,

  but this time the small garden had extended,

  it seemed for miles, and it was full of roses,

  and every rose was dripping with red blood.

  X

  Christmas being over, thoughts returned to war,

  and in the Great Hall of Pontefract castle

  the queen held court. “My lords, give me advice.

  We must move quickly. 20,000 mouths

  will eat us out of house and home in no time.”

  “York is at Sandal. Why not siege the castle?”

  Lord Clifford urged, eager for his revenge.

  “No,” said Lord Roos. “Sandal, though not as large

  as Pontefract is every bit as strong

  and our great army would be like a wave

  that breaks against a cliff and is thrown back.

  Better to lure them out.” “Ha ha, no man

  would be so foolish as to match 5,000

  against four times the number! No.

  We'll have to starve them out.” “Then we must hurry,

  before they send their forage parties out.”

  Lord Greystoke said, “Then let's surround the castle.”

  “But keep most of the army under cover,”

  Latimer said, “then, if they venture out,

  they'll ride into an ambush and we'll have them!”

  And so it was agreed and the next day

  the army rode to take up its positions.

  Clifford led the left of light-armed foot,

  and on the right, Rosse and the Earl of Wiltshire

  with light-armed horse took cover in the woods.

  Somerset led the centre, and deployed

  his ranks of men in full view of the castle.

  XI

  Edmund looked anxiously from Sandal's walls.

  “Keep dahn!” said Porky, pushing on his head,

  or tha'll be target practice for Lancastrians!”

  “Just look at all those men!” he said, aghast.

  “Will they attack the castle?” “Let 'em try.

  They've no artillery or mangonels,

  and so we can hold aht till kingdom come –

  ah wish our stomachs could!” “What do you mean?”

  “Ah reckon they will try ter starve us aht –

  not that ah care – ah've got plenty stored here!”

  at this he patted his prodigious belly.

  Meanwhile, the Duke was in the council chamber

  with Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury,

  Sir Thomas Parre, Sir James of Pickering,

  and David Hall, the castle's constable.

  A chill was in the air, the fire burned low,

  a stark reminder of their low provisions.

  “A sally!” cried the Duke. “We'll sally forth

  and sweep them all before us. They've more men,

  but not so many more – perhaps a thousand.”

  That plan was typical of Richard's boldness,

  and his belief that nothing he could do

  could fail. “It is too great a risk,” said David.

  “Better to wait until the Earl of March,

  your son, arrives with mighty reinforcements.

  We're safe within these walls – but sallying

  would be more hazardous than... a game of hazard.”

  “I must agree,” said Neville solemnly.

  “The odds are even – like tossing a coin.”

  Sir Richard smiled, his bright eyes glittering

  as he decided to take up the challenge.

  “Then give me a gold noble and I'll toss.

  King's head, we sally forth, tails we stay here!”

  Neville produced a coin and Richard tossed.

  The coin clinked down and spun and then fell flat.

  Sir Richard clapped his hand on it and said,

  “I saw the king's head – thus we sally forth.”

  “We want to see the coin!” the others cried.

  “Ah! Too late now!” said York and swept it up.

  “Here, Salisbury, the arbiter of Fate

  shall go back in your purse – and so, to arms!”

  “What! Sally forth! The man is barking mad!”

  Sir Robert ranted when he heard the news.

  “What! Sally forth! I like a hearty meal,

  but ah'd much rather pull me belt in tight

  than suffer them Lancastrians ter belt me!”

  moaned Porky to his mates, including Edmund.

  “Yes! Sally forth!” said Edmund to himself.

  “This is my chance to prove myself at last!”

  though inside he was trembling as he thought it.

  XII

  Sir Robert cursed himself – call himself tutor?

  He should protect the lad and give advice,

  keep him from harm, teach him the way of wisdom –

  and now, because of some past pecadillo,

  he'd led the boy into the way of harm.

  Well, he must tell all – no, he couldn't face it,

  better to sieze the boy and lock him up.

  Yes, that's what he would do. He'd find him now

  and clap him in the dungeon. There at least

  the only danger was from rats and lice.

  But where was Edmund? Probably with that soldier

  who'd taken him in tow – what was his name?

  Porky, they called him. Well, he'd find him out,

  and soon! There'd be no sallying forth for Edmund!

  Edmund, the whiles, was making other plans.

  He armed himself, and then put on his jupon,

  blazing with colour: Gules, Azure and Argent,

  quartered with many different devices:

  lions and fleur-de-lys, castles and crowns.

  Then over it he put his plain blue jupon

  with the White Rose – and once again he was

  an ordinary man-at-arms. His plan

  was to ride close behind the Duke, his father,

  and then, at the right moment, strip his jupon,

  revealing his true colours underneath.

  But what was the right moment? – time would tell,

  and fate. For now, the thing was to get going.

  “Stay close ter me,” said Porky, “Ah'll protec' yer –

  though who'll look arter me ah hardly know!

  That's a fine 'oss – yer father must be rich.

  Your 'arness, too – ah've scarcely seen the like.

  The latest fashion – fluted, curved – Italian,

  ah'll be bound – not like these kitchen pots

  of mine – at least they're strong – though far
too 'eavy!”

  “God's Wounds! I've missed him!” Aspall swore out loud,

  then crossed himself – it was a venial sin.

  “Well, I will find him somewhere in the army.

  But how? They're all alike: harness of black,

  a visored helmet and a White Rose jupon –

  yet I must try!” He got up on his horse

  and joined the flow of men towards the gate.

  XIII

  In a rich tent behind Lancastrian lines,

  Queen Margeret held her final council meeting.

  Her face was calm, she smiled upon her knights –

  for was the battle not already won?

  With odds of four to one they could not lose,

  and then again, they had good strategy.

  No chess Grand Master ever arranged his pieces

  better than her forces were deployed.

  Her knights, in turn, went up to pay her homage:

  Somerset, Exeter, Wiltshire and Devon,

  Dacre and Rosse, then Clifford in high dudgeon,

  his cheeks burning with mad lust for revenge.

  To each she gave a Red Rose from her hand,

  Badge of the House of Lancaster. Each bowed

  and doffed his plumes and took the rose

  and pinned it to his colours and departed

  to his assigned position in the army.

  XIV

  A trumpet sounds, and the portcullis rattles,

  the drawbridge rumbles, and thuds to the ground,

  huge bolts are drawn and the great gates creak open.

  The Duke, ready to charge, his eyes afire,

  exuding confidence, speaks to his men:

  “Today will be just like it was in Normandy,

  when I was Regent there. I did not skulk

  behind safe walls, but sallied on the foe!

  Harried and trampled them until they fled –

  as they will do – and so, upon this charge,

  cry “God for the White Rose, York and Saint George!”

  Neville, the Earl of Salisbury and Pickering,

  follow the Duke, each brilliant in his colours,

  Neville in Gules and Pickering in Vert.

  Behind them ride the men-at-arms in blue,

  like a great stretch of sea with White Rose breakers.

  Next follow the foot soldiers armed with halberds,

  or great two-handed swords, or glaives or maces.

  Then come archers and arquebusiers,

  and finally a rearguard of light horse.

  Before them lie the massed Lancastrians,

  headed by Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset.

  They stand their ground, not choosing to advance,

  and so the Duke rides forward and dismounts

  just out of arrow-shot. For in those days

  of nearly-perfect harness, when a man

  was armoured head to toe and even the joints,

  under the arms, at elbows, groin and knees,