He showed the reply to Warwick.
‘There is only one course open to us,’ said Warwick. ‘We must fight.’
‘Then let us give our thoughts to the battle since the King has decided it must be. First we will show the King’s letter to every captain. He will fight the better for it since he will know what his fate will be if he is captured.’
The letter was duly shown and the whole army knew what fate would await them if they did not achieve victory. There was not a man among them who was not prepared to fight for he was not only fighting for a cause but for his own life.
York surveyed his army philosophically. It was five thousand strong, larger than that of the King, but the King had trained men among his. Victory would not come easily.
News came that the royalist army was making for the town of St. Albans so the Yorkists must get there with all speed.
Whoever was first would be able to choose the position and position was all important.
York had divided his army into three sections—one led by himself, one by Salisbury and the other by Warwick. Warwick was in the centre with Captain Robert Ogle and six hundred men.
About the town was a ditch and this was surmounted by a fence of stakes. The Lancastrians, having arrived first, had immediately taken up the best position behind these palisades and it was clear they had the advantage. Salisbury and York rushed into the attack but despite continued assaults they could not break through the fences.
The hopes of the Lancastrians were high. They were trained men of the King’s army and York’s followers were merely men with more desire to right what they considered wrongs than skill in military matters.
Seeing that his allies were in difficulties Warwick came forward to their defence but in doing so he perceived that there was one section of the palisades which was not defended. His task had been to wait and come to the aid of either York or Salisbury but he decided to ignore that. He saw an opportunity and he seized it.
He gave the order for his men to make for the undefended palisade while his archers protected them with a stream of arrows. Sir Robert Ogle led them over the ditch and the palisades and then on into the town while cries of ‘A Warwick! A Warwick!’ filled the air.
Within a short time Warwick’s standard, planted over the town, struck terror into the Lancastrians. York saw it and exulted.
He shouted to his men. They were going to join the brave Warwick.
Now Warwick could attack the Lancastrians from the rear and by this time York and Salisbury were attacking in front. Through Warwick’s prompt action the Lancastrians had lost their advantage and were sandwiched disastrously between the enemy forces.
In the streets of the city the fighting was fierce. Through Shropshire and Cock Lanes to St. Peter’s and Holwell Street the battle cries rang out.
‘Attack the lords,’ shouted Warwick. ‘Spare the commoners.’
Perhaps the warning was not necessary. It was the lords who could not elude their pursuers so encumbered were they by their armour. The foot soldiers and archers in their leather jerkins were far more mobile.
Warwick paused by the Castle Inn in St. Peter’s Street and stared at the figure there on the ground.
‘By God,’ he cried. ‘I believe it is.’
The battle was well-nigh done. A resounding victory for York. And there dead beneath the sign of the Castle Inn lay Somerset...
The matter is resolved, thought Warwick.
Henry was most distressed. He hated bloodshed. It was tragic that these matters could not be solved in a peaceful manner.
He knew that Somerset hated York. York had shown himself so clearly to be his enemy. York was determined to end Somerset’s rule and Somerset was determined to do the same for York. Henry was very fond of Somerset and so was Margaret. He quite liked York, too. Oh dear, why would they not resolve their differences in peace?
And here they were in St. Albans. It was most uncomfortable and his forces were all at their posts under Somerset and he was with them...leading them, he supposed. He had no heart for battles.
And upon the opposite side was York with Salisbury and Warwick. They should all be friends.
The fighting had started. York had not a chance of success, Somerset had told him.
‘I know, I know,’ said Henry, ‘but no more bloodshed than is necessary.’
‘It shall be so, my lord,’ said Somerset, the light of battle shining in his eyes.
Henry closed his. Buckingham was beside him. There was noise and shouting all about him. He hated to hear men and horses in distress. They were shouting for Warwick.
‘God help us,’ said Buckingham. ‘Warwick has broken into the town.’
An arrow struck Buckingham at that moment and he fell to the ground. The King turned to him in consternation and as he did so an arrow caught him in the neck. He fell from his horse and lay on the ground bleeding profusely.
He saw that Buckingham’s face was covered in blood.
‘My poor friend,’ he murmured; and then realized that his garments were soaked in his own blood.
Someone was standing over him.
‘My lord...’
‘York. Is it York?’
‘You are wounded, my lord.’ There was real consternation in his voice.
‘Forsooth and forsooth,’ said Henry.
York knelt down beside him.
‘We are your loyal servants,’ he said.
‘Then stop this slaughter of my subjects.’
‘It shall be done,’ said York. ‘The battle is over. Victory to the King’s loyal subjects. This affray was necessary. My lord, we crave your forgiveness for any inconvenience caused to you.’
‘War is senseless,’ said the King.
‘ ‘Tis so, my lord; we would have preferred to have settled in peaceful talk.’
‘I bear you no ill will,’ said the King. ‘But stop this fighting. Attend to the wounded. Let us have done with war.’
Henry was aware of others surrounding him and he allowed himself to be lifted into a litter. He was escorted to the Abbey by York, Salisbury and Warwick and there his wound was dressed. It was an ugly one but not likely to be fatal.
When he learned of Somerset’s death he was overcome by grief He was further grieved when he heard how many of his friends had died. Lord Clifford, Lord Northumberland, and Buckingham’s son. The Earl of Dorset, son and heir of Somerset, was so badly wounded that he had to be carried away in a cart.
‘Forsooth and forsooth,’ muttered the King.
It was necessary for him to ride with them to London, York told him, that the people might see that there was no rift between them.
What could Henry do?
The victory was York’s.
In great suspense Margaret waited at Greenwich for news of the Battle of St. Albans.
When she saw messengers approaching she hurried down to meet them demanding: ‘What news?’
She did not have to wait to be told. She could see it in their faces.
Somerset slain. The King wounded!
That frightened her. How? Where? How badly?
An arrow in his neck! Oh, the traitors. What she would do to them if ever they came into her hands!
But the King. How ill? This was enough to send him into a stupor again.
They were marching to London. The King with York, Salisbury and Warwick, that trio of traitors. He came as their prisoner, did he? No. They treated him as their King. They were most insistent. They had no quarrel with the King. Somerset was dead. Their mission was achieved.
How sad it was to lose friends. She thought of good Suffolk and poor Alice’s suffering. And now Edmund was slain too. And his son taken away, that beautiful young man nothing but a wreck now to be carried away in a cart. She could not have borne it but for the burning anger within her. It was only the thought that one day she would take such fearful revenge that they would wish they had never been born.