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 The Redoubtable Knight | Towton.
29th March 1461.
No battle was ever bloodier, the animosity of the contestants so great that although they were Englishmen and neighbours, their fathers had killed their sons, and sons had killed their fathers. For many hours they had fought hand to hand with such obstinacy and rancor, void of all pity and compassion, no quarter was given or expected. The 30,000 dead bore the awful testimony to the savagery employed by the combatants. On muddied and churned snow stained red with their blood, they stood chest to chest and exchanged killing blows. The generated heat and sweat of battle hung above the struggling men like a cloud. Those who fell were trampled beneath with each eager foot of space gained or lost. The end of the battle was not the end of the slaughter; the defeated enemy ran for their lives , pursued and bludgeoned for mile after mile. To the west, to the north, the victors rode and chased, their blood still high as they sought their prey. No barn or wood was left unscoured. On open ground the snow betrayed the desperate man and boy in flight. From field to field the thunder of hooves, their rider’s shout of, “Here’s one!” or “Over here!” A single cry of pain spelt his end. A mother’s son, a father’s pride, and a wife would wait in vain for her hero’s return. In a northern cottage or a castle, no Easter would be so empty.
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