Chapter Text
22th of May 1455
St. Albans
"We are under attack. York has decided to defy the King's will."
Henry Beaufort's father announced loudly, as they stepped outside the King's tent unto the marketplace, mere seconds before a swall of men clothed in bright red liveries, was flooding the towns square of St. Albans, hundreds of soldiers, coming from all directions, streaming through the narrow streets of the city named after the Christian martyr, whose relics were held in the nearby cathedral.
"This damned traitor." he cussed seeing the standart of the Earl of Warwick.
Meanwhile, the townspeople were shutting their windows and doors, barricading themselves in their homes, praying to avoid being caught up in the battle was going to be fought on their marketplace. The streets had already been emptied of people, as soon as the King's army arrived, only few intrepid youths had dared to remain outside, now they ran to the comforts of their home, as if the devil was chasing behind them.
Death-bringing arrows rained down mercilessly from the sky, eliciting horrifying screams from those unfortunates, whose skin was pierced through by a metal arrow shaft, bright red blood sprinkled from their wounded flesh. Terrified at seeing his comrades' injuries, Henry cursed himself for wearing an open helmet that exposed his face to the deadly danger, the insidious attack of an archer, but no one had expected a battle to occur, for no one had expected the enemy to surmount the barricades. His father had been sure the city was impenetrable, but he had been wrong. Painfully wrong. He thought running to his father's tent and fetch a basinet helmet, that could cover his face completely, but he quickly gave up on this thought, as he saw an arrow penetrating through the same helmet, one of their men wore. There was no protection against this flying menace, just how the city gates had not protected them from Warwick forcefully entering the town.
It was already too late, anyway.
The attackers were coming nearer, ignoring Buckingham’s troops positioned on the left, instead charging determined towards the middle of the town square, where the Duke of Somerset and his men stood.
There were less then ten yards distance between them and the enemy, a distance that decreased by a yard with each second passing.
Without mercy, they brutally cut down the soldiers standing in the front row, who were suprised at the sudden onslaught. Most of them hadn't worn helmet or even armour. Just like their Lord, they had believed the city gates and baricades erected by Northumberland's men to be strong enough to keep off York and his Neville allies.
The Earl's men continued to advance, cutting deep in to their line. A group of well-armoured knights, Henry believed to recognise one of them as the treacherous Earl himself, singled out the standard bearer, who had raised his flag towards the sky, proudly displaying the Beaufort portcullis on a white and blue background.
Relentlessly, they swang their weapons at him, disarming him quickly and damaging his helmet, but the brave knight stood his ground, for he had to defend his Duke's honour. He was clinging to his Lord's Standart, as he fought for his life, trying to ward off his attackers, by stabbing them with the other end of his pole, but Henry realised that it was a futile fight. His helmet had fallen off and three against one, he did not stand a single chance, for they easily overpowered him, before a poleaxe forcefully crashed into his skull, killing him almost instantly, as red blood and green brain gushed out of his head.
With him the standart, he had tried to defend with his life, sank to the dirty and dusty ground. A comrade of his was bending over, wanting to pick it up, but a sword slashing through his throat swiftly ended this fruitless attempt to save the Duke's honour,
Their murderers take the time to step unto the standart of Somerset, drenching the cloth in the mud and blood of their victims. Henry felt disgusted and furious, as he saw them dishonouring his father's coat of arms, but what else had he expected from these traitors. Of course, the creatures, who attacked their crowned and anointed King, had no honour, behaving like primitive animals instead.
If demoralising their troops had been their objective, their vile action had the desired effect, for the slaying of the standard bearer was almost as devastating as if it had been his Grace, the Duke himself. The first rabbit-hearted began to run for their lives, deeming their cause a lost one, throwing away their weapons, hoping they would be spared, a foolish hope for the enemy made no difference between those that were armed or unarmed, killing everyone who stood in their way and wore a white and blue coat.
"Cowards." One of their captains bellowed angrily at these fugitives, grabbing one of them by the collar and turning around, trying to hold the disintegrating line but his efforts were cut short by an axe that hit his neck, almost seperating his unprotected head from his body.
Then everything went even faster.
"After me, my son.", his father commanded him nervously , appearing to be frightened, raising his sword, even though both of his hands were trembling. Together they were running away from the marketplace, the scene of the slaughter, taking shelter in a dark alley way. He could sense his father's anxiety or rather it was fear. He could see his father's face turning white. He could hear him trying to sound confident in face of this murderous attack.
The last time he had seen his father in such an anxious state, had been the siege of Caen, when a canon had exploded in the courtyard, in between where his mother and younger siblings stood, but even then Henry believed his father to have remained more composed.
Blood splashed on the ground, as the Duke stabbed into the back of one of Warwick's men, who stood in their way. Satisfaction overcame him, he even smiled, a smile that felt almost sinful as he saw the bodies of Warwick's men, but the enemy persisted in their attacks.
Meanwhile, more men started to flee, while others, no longer under the spell of suprise, fought back even more ferociously, fighting with all their strength, as they resisted courageously the onslaught. Even Buckingham's and Pembroke's men finally joined the fight. No longer were they fighting this battle alone. Henry began to feel hope again.
In this chaos, he suddenly lost sight of his father, no longer seeing the blue and white feathers mounted on his helmet, as men clothed in differently coloured coats run into every possible direction, while steelen weapons in different shapes, forms and lenghts loudly clashed against armour, flesh and bones.
Panicking, he came to a halt and looked around, searching for his father, leaning against a wall, a cold bricklayered wall, trying to catch his breath, trying to catch a break from this chaos. For a moment he closed his eyes.
After opening his eyes again, he witnessed horrified how men, standing only a few yards away from him, were slain, falling dead to the stone-plastered ground.
Some were screaming terrified as they felt the mortal blow, realising their fatal doom, some were calling out to God and his saints in heaven, praying for their divine intercession, some were begging for mercy, begging to be spared, promising to surrender their weapons, but no quarter was given by Warwick's heinous henchmen who were consumed with an unsatisfiable thirst for blood.
Where once stood living and breathing men, now lay their stiff and blood soaked corpses, several of whom were missing body parts, for few had worn enough armour to protect themselves. Next to them, he discovered fingers, hands and even arms separated from their bodies, easily hacked off by an axe.
The longer he stared to the ground, the more he realised that most of what he had thought to be corpses were actually still alive, but grievously injured, incapable to move, their wounded chests sinking and rising, speaking stertorously, asking for someone to release them from their pain, asking for a quick death to release them from their unbearable suffering, while others were simply howling out in pain until they finally sucumbed to their fatal wounds, then they lay as still and motionless as their comrades in death before them. All signs of life evaporating from their bodies.
Those who were heavily injured, but would survive this day, would be maimed for the rest of lives, bearing scars as a testimony of the battle, in which they had been wounded
What most of the dead, dying and miserably wounded had in common were injuries to their heads, hair and flesh streamed over with fresh blood, faces bearing terrified and painstricken expressions, only if they were not totally destroyed to the point of being unrecognisable, eyes pierced through with sharp daggers, ears and noses cut off by swords, broken skulls so brutally smashed with blunt force by axes or maces or pole arms, that it was almost impossible to believe that these unfortunates had been once humans, man he knew, men he should have had recognised, but couldn't.
Even a seperated head with his helmet still on, was rolling through the street. As the round human remain rolled closer, leaving a trail of blood behind, Henry recognised him as his father's steward, Sir John a well trusted and loyal retainer, father of four children, who now would be orphans.
Warwick's troops, cold-blooded killers they were, carelessly stepped over the lifeless shells that once belonged to living human beings, not differentiating to whom they had belonged, disrespecting the dead of both sides, not differentiating between dead and alive.
Unlike these monsters, the sight of these mutilated bodies, dead and alive and the mess of separated extremities in front of him, made Henry sick, sick to the core, a feeling of dizzyness was permeating his body. He gulped seeing this revolting display of human brutality, pitful scenery of human suffering, feeling his stomach turning, but he had no time for that. He tried to resist the urge to vomit, he could already taste bitter bile and the sour mash of what had been breakfast coming up his throat. He took a deep breath and sent a quick prayer to St. Erasmus, the patron saint against intestinal ailments, to prevent his stomach from betraying him in this crucial fight for survival. For he couldn't spill the content of his stomach in the midst of a battle over life and death.
He wanted to turn away, stop bearing witness to this hellish nightmare, ban the horrors of war from his eyesight and consciousness, forget about everything that had happened, but he could not, because this was reality that could not be avoided, could not be ignored for soon he was next, soon it was his turn to fight, soon he would be attacked and had to defend his own life
He had to concetrate on what lay before him. He had to be strong and prepared to defend himself against the imminent attack. Again he took a deep breath.
It took less then two minutes before Henry and his squires were surrounded by Warwick's soldiers, each of them glaring with burning bloodthirst in their eyes, fiercely brandishing their terrifying weapons ready to kill him and his companions. As they run closer and closer towards him, the threatening sound of their armour clanking becoming louder and louder, Henry Beaufort realised with horror that there was no escape, for they were hopelessly encircled, all paths of escape to safety cut off by the enemy, while the narrow street provided a natural trap, the only way out was to fight, but he was willing to fight, willing to fight against the King's enemies, willing to avenge the slaughter of his men.
Without thinking, almost intiutively he raised his sword, the sign of his knighthood, taking its hilt with both of his hands and positioning himself, as his old swordmaster once taught him, taking a step forward with his left leg and bending his knees. He couldn't wait to drill his sword into one of his enemies. He couldn't wait to start to fight and join the first battle of his life.
His squires beside him formed a line and drew their weapons, prepared to defend themselves and withstand the approaching murderous rampage.
The enemy did not wait, they charged determined into Henry direction, one of them, a badge marked him as their captain, pointed directly at him with his right index finger. Even though it was a threatening gesture, Henry felt proud to be chosen as the main target by his enemies, proud of being accorded such high importance.
Of course, Warwick's men, whose master hated his father more then anyone else in this world, were aiming at him, for he was the eldest son and heir of the Duke of Somerset, the King's closest advisor.
Only a few yards seperated him and his attackers. More and more of his men were cut down. No one was standing between him and the enemy anymore. Henry's heartbeat increased, his breath became faster, sweat run over his face, he felt dizzy, and his grip tightened on his sword, clenching it tight enough to hurt as the enemy came nearer and nearer.
Near enough, that he could smell the rotten stench coming their mouth, the animalistic, sweaty smell evaporating from their bodies, he could hear them roaring like wild beasts that could be found in the deapest depths of the darkest forests, he could see the bloodlust sparkling in their eyes, like a carnivorous predator eying his prey, showing his primitive instinct to kill.
Gritting their sharp teeth, drops of saliva dripping from their mouths, completely devoid of humanity, they reminded him of his father's hunting dogs, a gift from the King, savage creatures that could tear apart a whole dear, if they were not properly restrained.
Facing these monsters in human form, without fur and claws, but scratched armour plates and gruesome weapons Henry Beaufort, Marquess of Dorset vowed that he was not going be their helpless prey.
It was only a matter of seconds, before the inevitable fight for his life began.
And he was more then ready for it.
Now.