With Broken Promises Come Broken Hearts

Blore Heath, Northern England.
1459.

"My lord and father." His deep voice was formal without the hint if panic drawing on his words. John Neville, returned from his venture, manoeuvred his horse forward, pulling it in beside Salisbury, the great figure ahead of his force strong with five thousand men. He was about to open his mouth when the blunder began. The charger came from the mist, in part controlled by Thomas Neville.

"Papa!" He was knocked to the floor before he could say another word. Wincing the handsome youth rose, complaining as he did. His brother's cold eyes silenced him.

"My lord, the scouts have returned with reports of Lancastrians ahead." John’s voice was calm, the opposite of his brother’s more shaken state.

"How many?" Salisbury spoke in a practiced tone letting no emotion show. He continued looking forward, he had barely acknowledged the presence of either son. No names were needed to know whom he addressed.

"Twice our own my lord." John replied. They shared glances now, eyes darting to Thomas.

"Are they set on battle?" John just nodded. "Then there is no choice." His move was deliberate, obvious. He turned his horse to his men, bellowing so men within the mile would hear his words. "Form your lines!" Men moved into place. Three clear sections in obvious order. Archers lined at their front.

"Today we will fight and tonight we will win!" He did not see his sons cringe, more for their good fortune. "Lord Audley it seems will not stand down his men and let us pass on our business. Some of you may die, but have faith it is for righteousness and with the blessing of God." He said nothing more to the thousands, turning to his sons, soon extended by Warwick’s awkward presence. "How many are there? Truly?"

"North of ten thousand sir." The Earl of Warwick, Salisbury's oldest son spoke with a clipped accent, his voice deeper than any of his brothers, his figure accompanied his somewhat mighty presence. Over confidence and arrogance his younger brothers had accredited it to.

"Jesu." Salisbury muttered in return. The word spread like wildfire, men fell to their knees, blessing the ground on which they believed they would be slaughtered. "You can run, but then you will all be slaughtered!" The men stopped their act, they straightened quickly. "Hold lines! Lord Warwick, keep form."

Salisbury spurred his horse, galloping down the bank signalling for his sons to follow. "Go on you knaves." Warwick flashed a smile before using a steeled hand to slap their mounts rears. Soon they were beside their father reining in. John's eyes cast themselves to Warwick upon his destrier upon the hills brink. Inwardly he cursed the brother two years his senior.

"Lord Audley, always a pleasure." Before that moment John was convinced he had never heard sarcasm in his father's precise tone.

A tone reciprocated by Audley with much amusement. "Salisbury, a pleasure indeed. I am so pleased York and yourself think it still worthwhile to bring your nurseries to these events." John tensed, hand reaching for the dagger at his belt. Temptation rose, how easy it would be to cut the bastards throat. Salisbury's disapproving glance stopped his hand, and Tom's albeit more reluctantly.

"My sons both be old enough to fight. I assure you sir. And do well at it, but do not force their hands. They are no more eager than I to fight."

"You come to talk of peace?"

"And you come alone to take an army, sir I think not. For all you are, a fool is not one of your shining attributes."

"You charm me with your words. If I was a bonnie lass you'd woo me." His voice was flat, cold and toneless. "You negotiate for York? He will surrender?"

"I cannot talk for York as you do well know, and surrender was not a word I used-"

"We are Neville's. We do not surrender." Thomas spoke in echo of the words Warwick would say. John cringed and Salisbury kicked his youngest son.

"Apologies for the lads sharp tongue my lord." Audley shrugged. "Can we talk of peace?"

"Surrender of lands and title's and a spell in the tower. Tis his graces only offer for the pardon of your lives alone."

"Our?" John spoke for the first time, hands tightening on the leather reins.

"Why yes my lord Neville. Your father said it plainly, you're old enough to fight and so old enough to die."

"Papa! Cannot be true." Thomas looked scared, backed back by Salisbury's glare and Audley's laugh.

"Hold your tongue boy!" The Earl's patience had dwindled completely. "Fine Audley you do win. Ready your men we shall meet for battle." He turned the horse and left, leaving John and Thomas to follow at will.

They turned, Audley took his chances, grabbing John's stirrup. "Neville, surrender yourself now and spare yourself the pain of battle." A single kick freed him from Lancastrain restraint. Never had his horse seen so much pressure to flee. Arrows began to rain from the sky. The order had come from both sides. They were dancing with death as Thomas and John cleared the hill, jumping from their horses for some form of cover from the lethal shower.

By the time they regrouped they noticed the change in mood. "If they want a war they shall damned well have one! Damn them!"

"But we are to get to Ludlow." Thomas's objection was more of a whine.

"Then go now, go on." Salisbury snapped as they had never seen him snap before.

"No! I will be slaughtered!"

"And that fate will befall us all if we dont fight boy. Enough of your smart words and do as you're told."

"We will fight?" John couldn't decide if his voice was hopeful or fearful. His heart pounded painfully whichever it was.

"Centre, fall back! Fall back!" Salisbury turned his horse unexpectedly, sending his centre defence fleeing backward, shepherded to a stop by Warwick. "Halt!" They all turned back to the front, victory flashing on Salisbury's features as Lancastrian infantry began their run. John watched in mesmerized fascination. What was his father doing? His eyes scanned, before he knew his own reactions the sword was unsheathed and held firmly in his hands. He froze, heart pounding as men ran toward him like Satan's incarnates. Insane with the smell of blood teasing them to kill. "Charge!" The order came as the Lancastrian men reached the hilltop only to be mowed down by a sea of cutting blades. One wave after another falling like flies until their retreat sent them fleeing toward Audley with talk of defeat already on their tongues.

Their shouts were heard by Yorkist ears. Retreat was the command of the common man, to be ignored in arrogance by noble fools. Lord Audley had his ill thought way, men regrouped, the Yorkists looked upon it with anticipation, curiosity. The question was pursed on the lips of every man educated in warfare. What was his plan? It took little time to notice his lack of strategy, his quick thought planning. Poor low cost training, it would cost him dear.

Salisbury knew it well as he prepared; dismounting to join union with the common man. The bodies they demanded bleed for their own victory, for their success and gain. The bodies they needed for power and for life. John joined his father, sending Thomas to their eldest brother. All Neville's knew that they must succeed, for York was dead with their failure.

"Formations men!" Their confidence had risen since the last round, the Lancastrian disaster proving superior Yorkist strength. Their soon past belief of certain death now forgotten. Little did they know that luck would fade though not desert them. Their cause would not be abandoned. Eyes focused and ears pricked, senses primed and muscles tensed as below the hoard began to make its move.

The approach first slow as anxious men walked with hopelessness to their demise. A thousand fell before the right flank of the Yorkist vanguard collapsed. Men fell with mighty screams, others ran at the sight of breaking bodies and Lancastrian gain. Who could blame them, the numbers were endless tsunamis upon the slight forces at Neville backs. A hasty decision on Warwick's part to flee left, with superior forces left Thomas unprotected with a diminishing army. John swerved right in defensive, forming a barrier to his brother's back among the chaos.

Audley rose above them all, the obvious figure taking the typical enemy stance. Upon his horse raised high above the masses, immune to the touch of men or scratch of blade. Cowardice hid itself firmly behind fine plate armour. "A plague upon him." John muttered the words to his brothers agreement. Hand in hand they approached as Audley's mount charged head toward them. Free of its rein for teeth to rip flesh as they pleased. It seemed a foolish plan of pent up folly. The mischief of two young boys not at battle but in the school room, risking their tutors displeasure not guaranteed death; certain butchery.

Still they faced it bravely as they cursed misfortune, Audley and Warwick their brother for his own abandonment to the thriving flank. His deflection toward larger numbers.

It was a sign of that yet to come. For those brave enough to venture into witchcraft, for women and sorcerers or the free beings of the hethan regions. For pagans and devils. Then it was a tale preaching unheard of devastation. John did not think much of future or that yet to come as Audley's blade swung south granting Thomas it's first blow. The boy fell to the floor motionless and merging with thickening mud. For shock he hoped not death, for Thomas was so young and undeserving - despite his stupidity and overwhelming innocence - and God they said was so merciful, so surely He would grant mercy and His power, His blessing, not His vengeance and spare Thomas the fate he least deserved. Accept the sin of sacrifice, but the commitment of self and save the child to capture another soul.

John Neville did not look to see the second blow aimed just above his head. He did not have time to prey for forgiveness or his soul, nor to think of his wife, sweet Isobel or the children he would leave behind. His vision ceased to sudden blackness before his legs buckled beneath him. He could still hear the sounds of battle fading in his ears as he lost the feeling of the cold mud upon his skin. No chance he had to feel the movement of his body as his frame was tossed upon a saddle besides his brothers and led away in capable Lancastrian hands.

As he slipped further into his pooling darkness he swore he heard Audley's final cry of pain, the sounds of feet retreating back through the swarms of dying men and finally, more distant the shouts of despair before all went silent.

"Johnny!" That voice, oh how it did sound familiar. He tried to reach out but he could not. That voice slipped away with everything else.