We passed Newby Bridge, Castle Bolton, and Middleton. When we reached Jervaulx Abbey, we turned south in the general direction of the city of York. Over five days, we traveled more than two hundred miles, a great rate. As Lovell explained, the faster we moved, the fewer troops Henry could muster. It was Lovell’s desire to maintain a constant offense.
Every night we—Lovell, Lincoln, that Swiss soldier Schwartz, and I—met to review our progress.
One night Schwartz and Lincoln got into a furious argument.
It was explained to me that Schwartz had been told by Lincoln that as we passed through England many more English soldiers would join our army because I, Warwick, now the crowned king, was leading the way. These new troops, increasing our strength, would make the defeat of Henry that much easier. I had heard Lincoln say so myself many times.
Those new men, however, had not appeared.
Lincoln insisted that they would still come.
Schwartz called Lincoln a fool, and warned him that unless we gained in strength we could be defeated. Lincoln accused him of being cowardly, which made Schwartz storm away to be with his own German soldiers.
Lincoln and Lovell were left sitting in dismal silence. All of this alarmed me greatly. It was clear things were not going well. I tried to make sense of it.
“Is Schwartz right?” I asked Lincoln. “Do we need more men?”
“Of course not,” said Lincoln, and he, too, walked off.
Lovell and I remained alone. He must have seen the worry on my face.
“My lord,” he said, “when Henry defeated Richard, he had only five thousand soldiers.”
“How many did Richard have?”
“Six thousand.”
“How could he have lost?” I asked.
“Treachery.”
I said, “Lincoln told me we have eight thousand soldiers. How many does King Henry have?”
“We don’t know.”
“Truly?” I cried.
Lovell left me. Sitting there, alone, I was very frightened—nay, terrified. I tried to imagine what would happen to me if King Henry defeated us. I remembered what Brother Simonds had said: If Henry Tudor had you in his hands, you wouldn’t live another day. Not half a day! That clumsed head of yours would be chopped off before you could take another breath.
Though I sat near the fire, I felt icy cold. Will I live? I asked myself. I felt a sudden need to pray. Then I had a new realization. Brother Simonds had taught me many things, but he had not taught me how to save my soul.
THIRTY-FIVE
CONTINUING OUR MARCH south toward Henry, my army moved deeper into Yorkshire. On the night of June the tenth, we had news that greatly cheered our soldiers, and me. That night, at Bramham Moor, outside Tadcaster, Lovell led two thousand men on a night attack against supporters of Henry, led by someone named Lord Clifford. The result was an overwhelming victory for my side.
Then, just outside of Doncaster, Lincoln encountered some of Henry’s forward cavalry under the command of Edward Woodville, Lord Scales. For three days, they clashed in and about Sherwood Forest, the fighting forcing Lord Scales back to the city of Nottingham.
While successful, the fighting slowed our forces down. Our scouts were now telling us that King Henry and his army were advancing steadily. We also learned that during this period of time more and more soldiers were gathering to his side.
None joined us.
By June the fifteenth, we had reached a large open space southwest of the ancient village of Stoke. It was high and had a fine view of the lower country near the River Trent. Lincoln and Lovell surveyed the land and decided that it would be best if we took a stand on that ridge. It appeared we had little choice. I heard the talk and understood. Henry was fast approaching with his troops, as were his principal allies: the Earl of Oxford, plus the Lords Shrewsbury and Strange. He was bringing in other troops.
We gained none.
I was feeling more and more panicky. I dared not say it, or show it. I must play the king.
That evening we had a council with our commanders. Though I did not speak, I was there. Agreement was soon reached as to how our forces would be deployed along a three-quarter mile ridge—the high ground—extending from Burham Hill to Willow Rundle. It was further agreed that we would begin by attacking Henry’s troops at the hour of nine.
“How many soldiers,” I asked, “does King Henry have?”
No one spoke for a moment, until finally Lincoln said, “From what we have been able to learn, we think he has some fifteen thousand.”
“Fifteen thousand!” I cried, my stomach tumbling. “But—”
Lovell cut me off by saying, “The Lord’s will shall be done.”
That number, fifteen thousand, kept repeating itself in my head. Another number also echoed: the number of troops we had. Eight thousand.
How I wished I had never learned to understand numbers.
When the meeting was over and only Lovell, Lincoln, and I remained, Lincoln said to me, “You must ride among the soldiers. They need to know you are still with them.”
Though too numb to say anything, I followed them to where our horses were tethered. We mounted.
“Lincoln,” I found tongue to ask, “when the battle begins, where am I to be?”
“You will be behind the lines,” said Lovell, “with a small troop of cavalry. You must be seen to be in safety.”
I felt some relief.
But then Lincoln added, “If you are killed, or captured, it could cause panic among our troops.”
How I wished I could be somewhere else. But all I said was, “Am I to do anything?”
He grimaced. “Stay alive.”
The three of us moved among our soldiers. Some were grouped about small fires. Others lay asleep. Some played cards or rolled dice. When we passed by, they came to their feet and gave out cheers. “Warwick! Warwick!” they shouted.
Now and again I managed to say a few words to encourage them, but in truth, these words were merely in my mouth, not my heart.
I was posted behind our army, along with five English soldiers who were to protect me.
That night, as I lay upon the ground, I heard the neighing of horses, the stamping of hooves. The constant clink of harness. The constant whispering of prayers. Now and again I heard the sound of plucking bowstrings, the music of war. I stared up at the night sky, wondering where I would be the next time the stars looked down at me.
Who am I? I kept asking myself. You are Edward the Sixth, King of England. Invincible.
But I did not sleep well.
THIRTY-SIX
JUNE THE SIXTEENTH, 1487, dawned another fair day. The smell of sweat, horse dung, and burning wood filled the air. That air felt heavy, ready to burst, as if just before a thunderstorm. I heard the beating of drums along with the blaring of trumpets. The trumpets sounded like souls crying for mercy.
From the ridge where I had been placed, I could see the River Trent to the west, rolling hills to the east, and flat lands to the south. Our army was already deployed and appeared in a state of agitation, as if all the men were shivering with emotion. The sharp, spiky points of staff weapons, pole-axes, pikes, bills, and halberds fairly bristled, and seemed to vibrate.
The Swiss and German troops, under the command of Schwartz, were in front. They were our best soldiers.
Behind them were the Irish. They still had no armor or shields. Rather, they carried long daggers and javelins. Mingling among them were contingents of our English troops.
I saw Lovell’s standard and his soldiers to the right. Lincoln’s men were to the left. In the early eastern sun, the burnished armor flashed like fire flares.
Only when I looked to the south did I see King Henry’s army for the first time. The sight gave pain to my soul. His numbers seemed huge, much larger than ours. Horrific to behold and no more than a mile away.
Now trumpets continually blared from our side only to be answered from the army across the way, challenge and answ
er, answer and challenge. Like increasingly frantic hearts, drums beat faster and faster. Horses whinnied. Men shouted slurs and insults. “Warwick! Warwick” I heard. From afar came, “Henry! Henry!”
The battle was about to begin.
Near nine o’clock, I saw movement among our men. They had formed themselves into something vaguely wedge-shaped, a massive arrowhead, aimed right at the heart of Henry’s lines.
Now, in orderly fashion, they began to press forward, slowly at first, then trotting, finally running. The speedy march of their feet sounded like the rattling of many dice in a wooden bowl. I felt the very earth atremble.
Across the way King Henry’s army also began to move. Slowly and methodically, they tramped toward us so that I was minded of the steady rolling waves of the sea on that Minehead beach.
Now the air was filled with random shouts and cries that might just as well have been the bleating of cattle or sheep.
Now the two armies came to one another, hurtling forward with greater and greater speed, as if drawn together by some awful force.
Now Schwartz’s crossbow men stepped out of line and loosed their bolts, only to quickly retreat into the mass of our forces so as to rewind.
I saw some of Henry’s men fall. How quickly death came.
From where I stood, I saw Henry’s troops suddenly divide. Bowmen stepped forward, in numbers I could not begin to count. In terrible unison they lifted their bows and bent them back, the arrows aimed high. Next moment came a sound like the plucking of a mighty string—the harp of God.
Now came a great hissing sound as the air filled with thousands of steel-tipped arrows, so that the air seemed streaked with lines, a sky of lines, as each bowman loosed arrow after arrow, ten a minute. The arrows rose in a high arch only to plunge down among our troops.
Some shields raised. Even as they were raised, many men fell, pierced mortally by arrows.
Now the air was full of screams and cries of pain.
Simultaneously, our advancing forces struck King Henry’s lines, sounding a sickening thud. The force of this attack made their soldiers roll back. I winced even as I felt a surge of joy. But just as fast, Henry’s forces held, reformed, and pushed back, and once again began to advance toward us steadily, their standards snapping in the air like barking dogs.
Now the advancing armies became so intermingled it was impossible for me know who was who, or who was on which side. Rather, the mass of men had become a writhing, seething knot.
Swords flashed. Battle-axes rose and fell. Flags whipped in the air. Trumpets kept sounding along with the beating of drums. The soldiers hacked, thrust, and stabbed at one another. Horses reared, plunged, screamed, and fell. “King Henry! King Henry!” came the cries, only to be answered by, “Warwick! Warwick!”
Now I saw the ground fleam with blood.
Now Lincoln’s standard fell.
Now my army began to retreat. Faster and faster did they flee. All around me soldiers ran like rats before cats.
Now my army had been routed. Henry’s army pursued, chasing and hacking down my soldiers by the hundreds. Arms broken, severed. Guts tumbled. Heads rolled down to the bottoms of deep gullies, where they lay forever still.
Now—in an astonishingly short time—the battle was over, our soldiers in desperate flight.
We had been defeated.
THIRTY-SEVEN
HORRIFIED AND BEWILDERED, I was so shocked I could hardly breathe, think, or move.
I am not even sure when the five soldiers who had been posted to guard me had fled. It took me moments to realize I was alone on my trembling horse. He snorted. He shook his head. The bridle jangled. He flicked his tail.
Not knowing where to go, what to do, I remained where I was, truly petrified.
Before I could move, a man in armor appeared, walking slowly toward me, sword in hand, slightly raised. Was he going to kill me?
My own hand shaking, I raised my sword. It seemed very heavy.
The man lifted his helmet and showed his face. “I am Sir Robert Bellingham,” he announced. “In the name of King Henry, I arrest you, Lambert Simnel, for high treason.”
For my part I managed to stammer, “I . . . I am Edward, the Earl of Warwick. Why do you call me by that other name?”
“Brother Richard Simonds has—in return for the king’s mercy—told us all about you, including your real name. You are only Lambert Simnel.”
I let my sword drop to the ground.
I would learn, later, that the Earl of Lincoln was killed in the fighting. Martin Schwartz also died, as did four thousand of our troops. As for Viscount Lovell, he may have been killed, or escaped, no one knew for sure. He was gone, never to be found.
As for me, Sir Bellingham grasped the reins of my horse and led me silently away, moving carefully among the dead and the dying. The air filled with moans, screams, and cries. I saw dead soldiers stripped of what they had. I saw the wounded being killed. I saw the death of thousands.
“Where are we going?” I finally asked, wanting only to go somewhere, anywhere, but where I was.
“You are to be taken to King Henry.”
Into my head came Brother Simonds’s words: If Henry Tudor had you in his hands, that clumsed head of yours would be chopped off before you could take another breath.
Even so, I could make no resistance.
THIRTY-EIGHT
IT WOULD BE any number of days before I saw King Henry. At various times, I had my hands tied behind my back. I was blindfolded. I was locked in dark rooms. I was taken on horseback for many miles, but in which direction, or where, I didn’t know. I was treated roughly, though at other times with respect. I was kept in a cell, a cell not so different from the one to which Brother Simonds had first taken me. I was sure I was going to be executed but had no idea when that might happen. I tried to pray. The best I could do was press my hands together and murmur, “Please.”
Full of dread, I tried not to think of death. I tried to think of God. I found myself too dazed to have clear thoughts. The slightest sound startled me, made me think I was about to be taken, and that in turn made my heart pound so it grew sore.
After some long days, I believe it was an early evening, the door to the dark room in which I lay suddenly opened. A man whom I had never seen before appeared. His fine clothing told me he was a man of the court.
“Get up,” came the order. “You’re wanted.”
“By whom?”
“King Henry.”
My breath coming in quick, shallow gasps, I got up and tried to control my fright. I was led along many hallways, and while I caught glimpses of the outside, I had not the smallest idea as to where I was, other than in some great palace.
A door was opened. I was pushed inside a room. I heard the door shut behind me.
It was a large and mostly empty place, the only light coming from torches on the walls. Such light as there was seemed to quiver. The room had no furniture save for at the far end, where there was a throne-like chair. Seated in the chair was a man I had never seen before.
He was not a big man, but rather slight, with thin, reddish hair that hung down the back of his neck. His cheekbones were high, his face pale, and his lips thin, without emotion. His nose was somewhat large, while his small blue eyes, half lidded under thin eyebrows, fixed on me. I had the feeling that he was looking out from behind a mask.
His garments were simple, a deep purple robe with full sleeves. Small hands gripped the armrests as if he had a need to steady himself. On his head was a crown. I could see that it was real.
My heart filled with terror as I realized that this was King Henry.
“Come forward,” he said firmly.
I managed, if only barely, to walk toward him, then collapsed upon my knees, my hands lifted in a prayerful supplication. Afraid to look on him, I bowed my head.
Into the silence, I whispered, “Mercy, great lord.”
He did not speak. I kept my eyes cast down.
“What
is your name?” he finally asked.
“Lambert Simnel.”
“Who is your father?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mother?”
“No idea.”
“An orphan?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m not sure.”
“How did you come to claim to be Edward, Earl of Warwick?”
“A priest, Brother Richard Simonds, said that I was.”
“Who employed him to do so?”
“The Earl of Lincoln.”
“Where did the priest find you?”
“In Oxford. I was a scullion at Tackley’s Tavern.”
“Do you, in fact, have any claim to this crown?”
I finally looked up. “None, my lord. I only did as I was told.”
He lifted his hands, pressed them together, and rested his fingertips on his mouth, all the while looking steadily at me with intense blue eyes.
“You say, boy, that you have no claim to the English throne. You are right. You do not.”
For a long time he stared at me. I could only wonder what would happen.
He said, “If you repeat what I am about to say to anyone, your life will be over. Instantly. Pay heed.
“I took the crown from King Richard upon a battle field,” he said. “I hardly have a better claim to kingship than you do. You might say I was a player king. The difference is, I won. You lost.
“I could take your life, and no one would say I did anything wrong.”
He paused. I waited.
“You say you were a scullion. Is that right?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You are young and have been ill-used, so I intend to spare your life as long as you don’t ever repeat what I just told you. As for now, I’ll send you to my kitchen. There you may be a scullion. For me. Have you anything to say?”
What else could I do other than bow and say, “My lord, I’ll do as I am told.”
THIRTY-NINE
SO IT WAS. I returned to my kitchen work, this time in the palace of Westminster. My task is to slather mutton with new butter, dredge the chunks with salt and flour, spear them on a spit, and constantly turn that spit so as to roast the meat. While spinning the spit, I have to catch hot fat in the dripping pan, baste the mutton with those sizzling sauces, and know the moment it will melt—to be sure, not in my mouth but my master’s.