The Wars of the Roses

Chapter 5: Wakefield
Winter’s shadow had crept across the land when the Duke of York at last returned to England. The White Rose rode before him, bright against the pale sky, and men came forth from the towns and fields to join his cause, for they had heard of the capture of the king. Through silent streets and frost-laced lanes, York passed like a man come to claim what fate had long denied him. In the ancient halls of Westminster, where kings had been crowned and oaths sworn in ages past, he came before the high seat of England’s realm. And there, before lords and prelates and peers of the realm, he placed his hand upon the throne itself—a gesture bold as stormlight on still water.
A hush fell, deep and terrible, as though the stones themselves held breath.But the lords, wary of Margaret’s fury and the fury of the North, would not yet crown him. Instead, they wrought a bargain in trembling ink: Henry would wear the crown till death, and York, no longer outlaw nor mere claimant, would be named heir to the realm. So was the Accord made, though few believed it would endure.
For far away, beyond the mists and snows, the queen had not forgotten. With her son beside her, she had fled to the wild and cragged hills of Wales, where Jasper Tudor held his court and gave her shelter. There, beneath the banners of the Red Dragon, she summoned the scattered swords of the realm. The Accord, she said, was a treason to be answered with fire and steel.Word of the queen’s wrath spread like thunder rolling from the mountains. From the wind-lashed coast of Pembroke to the heathered heights of the Marches, horns were blown, and men summoned. Those who held to Lancaster, and those who held to vengeance. At her side stood Jasper Tudor, stalwart and sharp-eyed, uncle to the boy who now bore the hopes of the red rose. Beneath his banner rode men of Wales and Cornwall, grim-faced and loyal.
Yet it was not only loyalty that filled the ranks. There came also the sons of slaughtered fathers. Edmund, Duke of Somerset; Henry, Earl of Northumberland; and Lord Clifford of Skipton. All bound by grief and fury, their hearts hardened by the memory of St Albans. Not for glory did they ride, but for blood. It was a new breed of war that stirred in the land, one of vengeance, not honour. The old chivalry, just and courteous in the days of the Hundred Years' War, had faded like breath on glass. Now, the sword was drawn not for kings, but for retribution.
As the hosts of Lancaster gathered strength, the Duke of York took heed. The Accord was broken, he said, and the land betrayed. He summoned his banners and called his sons once more to war. With Salisbury beside him and the young Edmund, Earl of Rutland, at his side, he turned north toward the storm rising in Yorkshire.
The frost had not yet thawed from the furrows of the north when the Duke of York rode out from London. His banners, tattered from long campaigns, still bore the sigil of the white rose, and at their centre rode the Duke himself. Richard, grim of brow and tall in the saddle, and with him marched the Earl of Salisbury, ever watchful, and young Edmund, barely a man but eager to prove himself.
Through towns that lay hushed by winter they passed, gathering men from hearth and hall. Yet the road was heavy, and though the air was still, all sensed the tension coiling in the land.
“It is not only armies we contend with now,” Salisbury said, pulling his cloak tighter against the wind. “The blood of the slain has seeded hatred in this soil. Clifford will not grant quarter. Nor Somerset.”
York’s gaze did not move from the northern horizon. “Then we shall not ask for it.”
But even as they pressed northward, word reached them of a force advancing to meet the queen’s army. Lancastrian men hurrying to swell her strength before she could strike. If they were to be stopped, it must be soon.
At Worksop, the Yorkist vanguard struck with sudden fury. Spears were broken and banners trampled in the snow-churned mud. The clash was fierce but brief; the road to Yorkshire was not won but paid for in blood. That night, they camped beneath the shadow of Sandal Castle. Fires flickered low, casting long shadows upon the keep’s pale walls. In the war council, voices were hushed, for word had come that the queen’s army was near, and greater than their own.
“We are outnumbered, and weary,” said a knight of York, his voice edged with dread. “Let us hold here, and wait for reinforcements.” York’s fist struck the table.
“I did not ride north to cower behind stone walls. The queen defies the Accord. Somerset and Clifford bring only death. Shall we wait for them to starve us out?” Salisbury leaned forward.
“My lord, caution is not cowardice. There is wisdom in patience.”
But York’s eyes burned like coals. “If we falter now, the realm is lost. Let them come.”
And thus, though the wind whispered warning through the bare branches, the Duke of York made ready for open war.