The Battle of Christchurch

[The Mad Skylord]

After weeks of initial maneuvering, the hosts of York and Lancaster finally met again, on the fields and by the streams of Christchurch. The many pennants of Lancaster and his ever faithful vassals were assembled on the field above the mighty host of foreign mercenaries and loyal English vassals.

Under the banners of St George and the Red Rose of Edmund Crouchback:

• 275 Militia Footmen
• 1,010 Militia Archers
• 440 Yeomen Foot
• 445 Yeomen Archers
• 500 Men-at-Arms
• 986 Horsemen
• 2,000 Halberdiers
• 1,500 Crossbowmen
• 4 cannons

Dramatis Personae:

• Edward of Westminster, King of England, Jerusalem, France, Ireland, and Naples
• Henry de Clifford, 11th Baron Clifford, Lord of Skipton, Lord of Appleby
• Edmund Beaufort, 4th Duke of Somerset, 2nd Marquess of Dorset, 6th Earl of Somerset, and 20th Earl of Warwick
• George de Vere, brother to Aubrey de Vere, 13th Earl of Oxford

[Barry Goldwater]

Was gonna post this in the Lancastrian invasion thread, but for reference and since this is already here...

Battle of the River Stour

After twenty years, the Red Rose of Lancaster and the White Rose of York would finally come to blows again. Their meeting place: the banks of the River Stour, on the western boundaries of the town of Christchurch where the Lancastrians (and before them, the Yorkist reserve) had encamped. To the north, the combined might of Holland, Tudor and De Vere is also marching on down to join the fray, though the battle will surely be underway by the time they arrive.

Map

Yorkist forces

Main Commander: Edward V of England - +4 charisma, +2 wealth, +1 survival, -1 battles, +1 detection rolls, +5% movement speed Unattached characters: - Thomas Holland: +3 battles, +1 assassin, +3 survival, +1 duels, -1 rout rolls, -1 charisma - John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln: +3 battles , +2 Survival Bourchier Contingent Sir Thomas Bourchier +1 Battles +2 Survival 190 Yeoman Archers 70 Yeoman Footmen 875 Militia Footmen 875 Militia Archers 50 Hobelars Total: 2060 men Arthur Plantagenet's Contingent Viscount Arthur Plantagenet +3 Battles +2 Survival +5% movement speed 175 Yeoman Archers 175 Yeoman Footmen Total: 350 men. Kyriell Contingent Edmund Kyriell, Duke of Somerset (+3 Personal Combat, +2 Battles, +2 Survival, +1 Wealth, -1 Charisma) 238 yeoman foot 238 yeoman archers 50 mounted archers 50 M@A Total: 576 men Courtenay Contingent Hugh de Courtenay, 15th Earl of Devon, 10th Baron Okehampton, 9th Baron Plympton ( +3 Wealth, +2(3) Battles, +1 Survival, -3 Charisma) 150 Men at Arms 195 Mounted Archers 245 Yeoman Archers 215 Yeoman Foot Total : 805 men Clarence Contingent George Plantagenet, 1st Duke of Clarence +3 Battles, +2 Survival, +3 Personal Combat, -1 Charisma and +1 to rout roll 50 Men-at-Arms 100 Yeomen Archers 200 Yeomen Footmen Total: 350 men Montagu's Contingent John Neville, Marquess of Montagu +3 Survival, +1 Personal Combat, +0 Battle, -2 Charisma, -5% movement speed, +1 detection roll - 100 Men-at-Arms - 200 Yeomen Archers - 300 Yeomen Footmen Mowbray Contingent John Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk +3 Battles +1 Survival +2 Duel +2 Charisma +1 detection rolls +1 to rout rolls against this character 200 Men-at-Arms 200 Mounted Archers 200 Hobelars 400 Yeomen Footmen 400 Yeomen Archers Total: 1,400 men Monmouth's battalion Roger Kyriell, Earl of Monmouth (+5 Charisma, +2 Battles, +1 Logistician, +1 Wealth, -1 Personal Combat) 100 yeoman foot 40 M@A Total: 140 men Grey's battalion John Grey, Earl of Tankerville (+3 Battles, +2 Wealth, +1 Scout, +1 Logistician, +1 Survival, -2 Charisma) 100 yeoman foot 80 yeoman archers 40 M@A Total: 220 men Herbert's batallion Sir Owen: +1 Battles 100 Men-at-Arms 300 Yeoman Archers Total: 400 men St Leger's contingent Thomas de St Leger is among those in the king's direct affinity, bringing his five followers along with him Trait Totals: Battle +1 Rout penalty +1 Duels +4 Assassin +2 Charisma +1 Survival +2 (due to skilled physician) Post battle condition rolls +1 (due to champion of arms) 5 M@A Gloucester's contingent Richard, Duke of Gloucester (+5 Battles, +2 Personal Combat, +2 Survival) 143 M@A 162 mounted archers 808 yeoman foot 523 yeoman archers 2 cannon Hastings' contingent William Hastings+3 Battles +2 Personal Combat +1 Survival -5% Movement Speed -2 Charisma +1 Detection Rolls Edward Hastings +3 Charisma +2 battles +1 Personal combat +1 route rolls Troops 146 Militia Footman 30 Hobelars 84 Yoeman Archers 30 Men At Arms Durham's contingent Bishop John Sherwood +4 Battles +2 Survival +1 Rout rolls 2 Cannon 188 Yeoman Archers 227 Yeoman Footmen Salisbury's contingent 600 Yeoman archers 560 Yeoman footmen 200 Men-at-arms --------------------- 1360 men. Thomas Grey, Earl of Salisbury: +1 Battles, +2 Survival Kent's contingent 600 Yeomen footmen 400 Yeomen archers Laurence Grey, Earl of Kent: +1 Survival

Lancastrian forces

See above, thanks for compiling them Sky

Holland/Tudor/De Vere forces

Holland's Contingent Henry Holland, Duke of Exeter etc: +4 battles, -1 charisma, +2 survival, +2 wealth, -1 rout rolls John Holland, Marquess of Dorset: +3 battles, +4 charisma, +2 survival, -1 duels. 820 Yeomen Archers 430 Yeomen Footmen 100 Men-At-Arms 50 Hobelars 50 Mounted Archers Total Men: 1450 Tudor's Contingent: 150 Men-at-arms. 300 Yeomen Archers. 300 Yeomen Footmen. 100 Mounted Archers. ------------------------- 850 men. Tudor: +1 Survival, -1 Battles Oxford's Contingent: Aubrey de Vere, Earl of Oxford (+4 Survival, +2 Personal Combat, +1 Battles, -4 Charisma) 200 yeoman foot 200 yeoman archers 100 M@A Total: 500 men

[Dirty Chai]

Edward of Westminster
- Battles +2
- Personal Combat +3
- Post Battle Rolls +1
- Survival +1
- Charisma +1
- Movement -5%
- Detection +1

[Barry Goldwater]

The (actual) Battle of the Stour

The first battle of the renewed War of the Roses began with the combined Yorkist host deploying west of the River Stour, and the Lancastrians holding its eastern banks from their headquarters in Christchurch. The Yorkists formed into three large 'battles': a little over 3,000 men on the left under the King's uncle of Gloucester, some 3400 men and all four of their cannons in the center under the young Edward V himself, and a smaller right wing of 2700-ish men under his older half-brother the Marquess of Winchester, all with eyes on storming across the river while the Bourchier and Hastings men (over 2300 in total) waited in reserve. Facing them, the Lancastrians were also arrayed into three battles of their own: a right and left wing comprised of over 2000 men (evenly dividing all of the Lancastrian Switzers, elite crossbowmen and cannon between themselves) under Edmund Beaufort, titular Duke of Somerset and Henry Clifford, titular Baron Clifford respectively, and a fairly weak center of just short of 1700 men under the Red King himself, while some 500 men-at-arms remained in reserve under the command of Richard de Montferrand and all of the Lancastrian light horse (nearly a thousand men in total) was gathered into a separate contingent under Beaufort's nephew Charles Somerset.

The Yorkists began the battle by trying to cross. Up north, the Duke of Gloucester detached small components of his force to ford the river at multiple shallow points as he moved up to a far northern bridge, which would be his main crossing point; in the center, the White King's mounted men dismounted and advanced across the central bridge with the main body of infantry, covered by his archers and cannons; and down south, Salisbury's wing tried to cross the southernmost bridge. They were opposed respectively by Beaufort's, Lancaster's and Clifford's battles, which all did more or less the same thing: their missile components loosed at the Yorkists while they crossed, the cannons on the flanks in particular trying to disrupt their formations, while the infantry held its ground a ways away from the Lancastrian end of the bridge, so as to allow some Yorkists to make it across before counter-charging them before the missile troops switched to targeting the rear of the Yorkist formations.

Unfortunately for Lancaster, this turned out to be an especially bad idea in the center, where Lancaster lacked any elite troops and was faced with a nearly 1900-man difference in numbers. Even with Mercer's archers accounted for, there was still a significant missile gap between their archer corps and York's and coupled with the utter lack of the elite continental crossbowmen & cannons here, the result was that the combat here opened with a lopsided exchange of arrows and (from York's side only) cannon-fire. When the two kings' infantry hosts clashed, the Lancastrians might still have had a chance to hold the Yorkists back - if they had actually fought on the bridge instead of ceding it to the Yorkists, allowing a number of Yorkist infantrymen to cross in good order before attempting a counter-charge. But all storms start with a single raindrop, and so the Yorkists who had crossed first were soon joined by the rest of the Yorkist foot and dismounted men-at-arms, overwhelming the Lancastrian response. The result was that the Lancastrian infantry here, who were outnumbered nearly 3:1 by their Yorkist counterparts, wound up getting swept aside in short order by the tsunami of Yorkist soldiers. The rush of half of the Lancastrian reserve, 250 men in all, to the aid of the King's disintegrating contingent wasn't nearly enough to salvage the situation.

Matters on the flanks were quite different. Here, the preponderance of elite Swiss soldiers, continental crossbowmen and cannons allowed the Lancastrian strategy to work much better than it did in the center, and hold the Yorkist wings at bay. The north was the site of a fierce battle that pitted superior Yorkist numbers under Gloucester (there were about a thousand more of them than the Lancastrians) against Beaufort's superior troops, and for a time Beaufort was able to hold them back capably at the bridge. Only when Gloucester took advantage of his superior numbers to detach small units from the larger Yorkist left and have them ford the river at un- or lightly-guarded shallow points, from where they were able to attack the Lancastrian left's flanks, did he achieve a breakthrough, which the deployment of the other half of the meager Lancastrian reserve was also unable to stop (though they did manage to regroup and hold off the Yorkists further from the bridge). Down south, where Salisbury had to face Clifford's own batch of crack Swiss troops and cannons with fewer numbers than his half-brother or said half-brother's uncle, the Lancastrians were able to keep the Yorkists pinned down for the entire battle...or at least, until the Yorkist center overwhelmed its Lancastrian counterpart, at which point King Edward (of York) was free to aid his older brother and roll up the Lancastrian left.

Lancaster's cavalry, which was supposed to cross the river once the Yorkist foot had been committed but found no opportunity to do so due to all of the river crossings being contested or overrun, raced northward in an attempt to counter the Duke of Gloucester's advance once it became apparent that his cavalry was involved there, but by then it was too late. With Beaufort's men dislodged from the northern bridge and the other two flanks quite doomed, Lancaster had lost the battle, quite clearly. Making things worse, it was at this point that Exeter, Richmond and Oxford emerged to the north and - noting that the day had gone in York's favor - stormed on down to crush the already-collapsing Lancastrian army, first falling upon Beaufort's division (which, until that point, had been retreating in good order a ways from the bridge and was still vigorously fighting Gloucester's with support from the Lancastrian light horse under his nephew). The commitment of Lancaster's entire reserve in a failed bid to shore up the failing center and right meant there was nothing left to keep the affair from ending in a red rout, as all semblance of order disintegrated among the remaining Lancastrians and everyone who could tried to flee east of Christchurch; of the flanks, only the right was able to extract itself in a semi-orderly fashion. Plenty more Lancastrians died in said rout, either at Yorkist blades or by drowning in the River Avon.

The toll on Lancaster's command staff was quite heavy; Montferrand and Talbot were killed (likely while trying to rescue the center and when Holland's forces descended on the Lancastrian right respectively), Beaufort and Mercer were captured when the Holland/Tudor/De Vere host arrived to finish ruining the day for Lancaster, and the King himself took a crippling injury while George de Vere and Charles Somerset were both also wounded - only Clifford, who ironically had come up with the Lancastrian battle plan in the first place, got away more or less scot-free. The toll on York's side was less heavy, with most commanders only being wounded or nearly captured while the King himself (and some others) got through the battle with nary a scratch, though there was one very notable fatality: the Viscount Bourchier, Edward V's oldest paternal brother, had been killed, as had the old Duke of Exeter in what was probably Lancaster's last, desperate parting blow.

Outcome: Yorkist victory

Yorkist charas & losses

King Edward V: 19, free George, Duke of Clarence: 5, wounded --> 15, serious wound; -3 to duel for 2 days Richard, Duke of Gloucester: 7, wounded --> 18, minor wound; -1 to duel for 2 days John Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk: 14, free Edmund Kyriell, Duke of Somerset: 7, wounded --> 13, serious wound; -3 to duel for 2 days Thomas Grey, Marquess of Winchester: 6, wounded --> 8, major wound, bedridden for 2 days John Neville, Marquess Montagu: 15, free John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln: 16, free Roger Kyriell, Earl of Monmouth: 11, captured --> won battle, second roll: 14, freed John Grey, Earl of Tankerville: 13, free Hugh de Courtenay, Earl of Devon: 4, wounded --> 20, minor wound; -1 to survival for 2 days Laurence Grey, Earl of Kent: 6, wounded --> 12, major wound; -3 to survival for 2 days William Hastings, Earl of Northampton: 14, free John Sherwood, Bishop of Durham: 9, captured --> won battle, second roll: 12, freed Arthur Plantagenet, Viscount Bourchier: 2, killed in action Sir Thomas Bourchier: 16, free Sir Owen of Raglan: 6, wounded --> 10, major wound, coma for 2 days Sir Thomas Holland: 3, wounded --> 5, permanent wound --> 16, old war wound Sir Thomas de St Leger: 5, captured --> won battle, second roll: 16, freed Sir Edward Hastings: 20, free Sir Richard Hastings: 7, wounded --> 19, minor wound: -1 to duel for 2 days Left: 115 M@A 80 mounted archers 46 hobelars 315 yeoman foot 220 yeoman archers Center: 25 M@A 260 yeoman foot 122 yeoman archers 15 mounted archers Right: 265 M@A 60 mounted archers 438 yeoman archers 325 yeoman foot Reserve: Uncommitted, no losses Total: 2,286 men

Lancastrian charas & losses

Edward of Lancaster: 3, wounded --> 4, permanent wound --> 7, crippled arm Edmund Beaufort, titular Duke of Somerset: 9, captured Henry Clifford, titular Baron Clifford: 16, free Sir Charles Somerset: 7, wounded --> 13, serious wound, -3 to duels for 2 days Sir George de Vere: 5, wounded --> 3, permanent wound --> 18, old war wound Sir George Talbot: 1, killed in action Sir Edward Mercer: 8, captured Sir Richard de Montferrand: 2, killed in action Left: 125 crossbowmen 230 Switzers 64 militia archers 1 cannon captured, 1 cannon successfully destroyed Center: 305 yeoman foot 326 yeoman archers 126 militia foot 225 militia archers Right: 356 crossbowmen 494 Switzers 137 militia archers Both cannons captured Reserve: 370 M@A Cavalry division: 278 light horsemen Total: 3,036 men, all cannons lost

Holland/Tudor/De Vere charas & losses

Henry Holland, Duke of Exeter: 1, killed in action Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond: 17, free Aubrey de Vere, Earl of Oxford: 6, wounded --> 8, major wound, coma for 2 days Left: 36 yeoman foot 20 yeoman archers 8 M@A Center: 45 yeoman archers 50 yeoman foot 9 M@A 4 hobelars 5 mounted archers Right: 11 M@A 30 yeoman foot 25 yeoman archers 8 mounted archers Total: 253 men

[Jokern]

Charles Somerset looked on the battle from behind the lines, feeling a chill travel down his spine. This was not how it was supposed to go, not at all. They had worked for decades spilling all of their blood, sweat and tears for this moment. Where was the glory? Where was the victory? Instead of a triumphant march on London, the forces of the red rose were melting away before his eyes. The center, the king's position, had already been swept away, no way he would challenge them with just a thousand light horsemen. Charles' gaze instead turned north to where his uncle was still holding out. Completely ignoring his orders of crossing the river, the Bastard of Beaufort turned his contingent to the left flank and rode like the wind.

Had he acted earlier, perhaps things would have turned out differently. Had he reinforced the center, perhaps it would have held. It did not matter anymore, for as his cavalry crashed into Gloucester's and Norfolk's men, another force descended upon them. Charles briefly saw the banners of Exeter, Richmond and Oxford attack from the rear before he had to evade a billhook from some Norfolk sergeant, crushing the man's skull with his ax. May you traitors burn in the lowest circle of Hell, Charles cursed the three late lords in his fury. The retreat turned into chaos, Lancaster men dropping their weapons and running for the hills. Charles tried desperately to rally them to no avail.

Suddenly he was pulled from his horse by a billhook from behind, landing hard on his back. While his armor protected him well enough, he lost his air and could not move for a moment. A soldier with the white rose on his chest came down with a war hammer on his breastplate, the spike digging deep into the steel while the blunt trauma crushed several ribs. Charles screamed in agony, gritting his teeth and swiping his sword at the soldier's legs. It missed, but the Yorkist was distracted long enough for one of Somerset's men to cut him down from behind. A few more of his loyal horsemen arrived and helped their commander to his feet. Charles took a few deep breaths to gather his thoughts. It was clear the battle was over, with men shouting that the king had been killed and the Duke of Somerset had been captured. This was no place to be, that was for certain.

"We... cough... we're leaving, men. Cough... Cough... the battle is lost..."

Charles Somerset and his little retinue took what horses they had and rode hard. The farther away from the Yorkists they were, the better. One thing was for certain to the Bastard of Beaufort - there would be no more battles, only a massacre. He would not be part of that, Charles promised to himself.

-----------------------

The Duke of Norfolk was gleaming. It was a fine feeling to be back on a proper battlefield, crushing Lancastrian skulls. By God had he missed it. He and Gloucester had been placed on the right flank, trying to cross a bridge held by the ex-Duke of Somerset. It was a tough battle, the experience of Lancaster's elite Swiss men proving their worth. The bridge held for quite a while, long enough for messengers to arrive from the center to report that the Lancastrian center had fallen. This seemed to do the trick as their own men started to push even harder and began wading in shallow places through the river. Norfolk laughed as he launched into the fray with his bodyguard, killing mercenaries and conscripted farmhands.

Lancaster's cavalry had raised the stakes for a moment, but then new forces arrived that assaulted the Lancastrians from the rear. Exeter, Richmond and Oxford had come - all former Lancastrians. Norfolk snorted at the sight. Had the battle gone any different, John Mowbray was not so sure those banners would be bearing their white roses. Now King Edward of York had been victorious, and this would surely be the end of the House of Lancaster. John cheered and pushed his men forward, hacking down Beaufort soldiers in the back as they tried to flee.

As the violence died down a little, the duke slowed down and let the common soldiers do the rest. He dismounted and rested for a bit, removing cramp helmet to get some fresh air. What a glorious day it was. The red rose would whittle and die on this field, the white rose would grow even stronger. Protected by its thorns, the white lion would grow even stronger one day. Norfolk smirked at the thought.

Suddenly he noticed some of his men arriving, pushing a tied man before them. The prisoner was kicked from behind so he fell face first into the dirt before Mowbray. While the coat of arms was dirty and bloody, the white-and-blue border belonged only to one man...

"Edmund Beaufort, I presume? It has been a while since I last saw your ilk in England."

[Dirty Chai]

"Sanctuary!" The horrific, pained voices yell. "Sanctuary!"

Three figures in plate nearly break down the doors of the priory church, dragging another along with them into the cobbled place of worship. A large crowd of Augustinians turned and watched on with ghastly horror. The body on the ground dragged with it a trail of blood, sloshed against the cobbles. They stopped him in between the pews, and tore an ornate rug - against the complaints of the friars - away from the altar and put the incapacitated man on top of it.

He breathed loudly and with difficulty, as if choking on something or as if his lungs were collapsing. The friars knew who he was. It was plastered across his mangled armor. The last of a race, would die here? Many of them began to disperse, knowing what likely followed this arrival.

"Sanctuary!" one of the knights continues to yell as they flee, in desperation.

Another is looking over the shocked sight of his chosen king - whose right arm was laid out so that one could quite clearly see how a bone had emerged from the elbow - and began to grimace.

"Give me your sword," he asked the third one suddenly, having lost his own.

"Why?" the young Dumnonian asked, just as fearful.

"Just give it," the older, scared man came closer, his arms already reaching for the boy's sheathed sword.

"No!"

A scuffle started right over the body of Edward of Westminster, the broken claimant watching from the floor with wide, horrified eyes. The first man came striding over, wield his own sword and clashing it against the madman's armor. The boy tore free and drew his sword and soon the middle one - the survivalist - was fleeing the church, cursing all of them.

Lancaster's eyes returned to the sight of his right arm and again his breathing escalated. It had been a poleaxe, directly at him. He'd been dragged from the horse, and nearly killed by the trampling of billmen, if not saved by these men. He was defeated. And he wasn't going into exile this time. He laid back his head, letting it stare into the rafters above, wide eyed, like a blind man or an infant, as his lifeblood slowly spread out like an aura around him, muddying the rug beneath him.

The sound of his last two followers conversing with hushed whispers was drowned out and the last of the kingly race drifted off into delusion and memory. His breathing relaxed as he imagined his mother - sweet, deer mother, who they took from him - caressing his hair as he sat in her lap, a boy again. Then there was his father, a sorrowful, confused man. The two men paused and looked over as their prince's voice made a horrifying sound once again. He was just like him now, helpless, defenseless, doomed, and filled with horror..

.. Where was Somerset? Dear Somerset, he imagined himself saying. Who were these two? A boy and an old man? He'd never seen them before. Englishmen. Oh god, where was Somerset? De Vere? Clifford? Somebody, anybody... But there was no one. He would die alone then. The last of Lancaster let out a cry, but wasn't sure if anyone heard it. Were there tears? Yes, he was crying. He had not even a priest or a confessor here. But.. it was church..

A painful groaning finally tore the two followers to him as he tried to look behind him by arching his back.. This was a church, where are the clerics? The boy runs, seemingly have been told to by the older man, while the latter kneels down beside the king, hesitating initially, not knowing what to do for him. After a moment, he throws a large blanket from one of the pews over him and leaves as well.

A cold, shudder crosses over Edward of Westminster, who would die alone, helpless.

[Gandalfus]

Beaufort was charged to hold his ground, and so he did, royal arms planted in the soil next to him, horse dramatically slain in a show of boldness that delighted the troops. The Duke of Somerset didn't move from that very spot for much of the day, until the final few hours - when he descended to join the battle himself, the ostentatious plate and heraldry he wore marking him out as the foremost of Lancaster's peers. It was going badly. York was driving them back, inch by inch, little by little. Fatigue had set in, many not even able to hold their weapons upright. And then came more, and more, and more across the bridges. They were being pushed away by the unstoppable tide of York's men, lunging at them with vicious poleaxes and billhooks, advancing across the Stour. Somerset gave the command for the retreat, and now they gave ground willingly, nonetheless holding their formation. But it was futile. Another two thousand came from the north, with Exeter and Tudor's banners, and then more from the south, closing upon them. Word was borne by a bloodied herald that the centre was lost. Clifford had fled, as had the King, with such news causing the fickle mercenaries and West Country farmers to simply down tools and flee in a blind panic in every direction. Soon, an orderly retreat had turned into a rout, with Edmund now without a horse to escape, deserted by his own men. He cursed them in every language he knew, even in the rough tongue of the Germans, but they left him in the dirt. Not injured or wounded, like his King was, but certainly, the Duke was alone, being among the prisoners captured by those who wore the badge of the Duke of Norfolk.

---

Exeter looked bemused as he surveyed the field from atop his horse. He looked towards Tudor, and then at Oxford: this was not what had been expected. Ostensibly, a winning position for Lancaster had turned into a bloodbath, for like at Wallingford they had been attacked across a ford, and so all that was required was to hold the crossings. One of his outriders, a man with better eyes than he, said that York's banners were visible across the river, the Sunne in Splendour and White Rose dominating both banks as men surged across the bridges. Belatedly, Holland gave the order to advance, the same standards he'd used at Towton fluttering above the heads of the sizeable force gathered. John Holland was sent to bring the news to the King: Exeter had arrived, held up by inclement weather. But he'd fight for York.

And so, with no particular joy, Holland too crossed the river into the fray, the Lancastrian army by now almost in full flight. Norfolk and Gloucester's men cheered as the men of Exeter, Oxford and Tudor joined them, cutting down the fleeing Lancastrians in droves. Henry Holland indulged in the slaughter, determined to make up for the lost opportunity of being able to stick a blade into York's back, riding ahead to crush the fleeing peasants under hoof, mace in hand. But Exeter strayed too far, suddenly finding himself lost amidst the Lancastrian vagrants who now fled for their lives. One of Somerset's men leapt upon him, pulling the aged Duke from horseback with a poleaxe. Like an oversized tortoise, he couldn't move, encased in his shell of steel, as the vengeful Lancastrian stood over him.

"Pax, peace."

He croaked, but cornered animals are furiously spiteful. A dagger was slid between the eye slits, and Henry Holland, the survivor of the Wars of the Roses, was left in the dirt, blood congealing inside his helmet, only to be found some hours later by his grieving sons.

---

Simply put, York had won. Edward's men had destroyed Lancaster, utterly, the remaining men now in flight. The King had the unpleasant experience of killing his first man; some frightened sheepherder that moaned as the blade bit into his flesh. Edward killed again, and again, not by virtue of being a great warrior but simply by being upon the winning side, for his forces had utterly overwhelmed the Lancastrian lines. Adrenaline had overtaken him, and with his retinue he cut a bloody swathe through them, so much so that Sir Saint Leger was taken captive, only to be won back moments later when the Lancastrian lines completely shattered. Their King was nowhere to be found, but his men were pursued by angered Yorkists all the way to the Avon, where many of them either fell or drowned. The river ran red.

Now they converged upon a humble priory. Word had been brought from the furthest reaching of the King's men - Gloucester's soldiers - that Edward of Westminster had taken sanctuary in a priory, seeking the protection of God. The other Edward dismounted and removed his helmet, approaching the steps where the Augustine monks stood warily, protectively, though they knew they could do little if the word was given.

[Dirty Chai]

The friars hesitatingly parted from the broken doors of the church once the young king arrived. There was no figures inside, but still the clerics were trying in vain to protect something. If Lancaster was in there, he'd been deserted down to the last man. From the doorway, a dark, obscured shape of reds and browns and bits of silvered metal lay across the floor, near the altar, between the pews.

[Xion]

As the cannons of both sides let out their first roars of the day, Montferrand made the sign of the cross and muttered a prayer before watching the battle unfurl. The Red Rose seemed to be faring well at two of the crossings, but the central one seemed to be doing rather poorly from what Montferrand and any of his command could tell from their position. Later in the battle, as the situation in the center appeared to become even worse, with one soldier claiming he saw the standard of their king fall, Montferrand ordered his section of the reserve forward in a effort to relieve the center. Two hundred and fifty men at arms charging into the fray seemed to only stabilize the situation for a few minutes before the tide of Yorkist infantry and dismounted knights overwhelmed them. Montferrand, after slaying yet another Yorkist footman would be struck in the back by a blow from a polearm, and then in the head by a Yorkist knight, the Gascon knight falling from the saddle and dying shortly after.
---

"...Are they not defending the crossing?" Devon remarks as he watched the light horse sent across to probe the unusual situation across the battlefield and begin to form ranks on the other side, the white rose of York banners of the men still flying aloft. A loud roar followed by a crashing sound and several Yorkists and their mounts falling confirms the presence of Lancastrian cannon. A rider in Salisbury's colors rides up to the Earl to inform him Salisbury had ordered the attack to begin. "Very well, advance! For the White Rose!" Devon then turned to the two captains of his retinue. "You remember the orders I gave you, sirs?" The two knights nod. "Excellent." Devon and his affinity then join the advancing Yorkist host, his soldiers carrying one banner with the quartered arms of de Courtenay and de Redvers, a second with just the arms of de Courtenay, a banner of the white rose, and the last one being de Courtenay's livery banner.

Upon crossing the bridge while under cannon and Lancastrian skirmisher fire, with Devon almost being hit by a cannonball that instead missed it's mark and plunged into the river to the side of the bridge, Devon shouted for his men to form ranks, archers in front and the foot behind. "Ready your bows...nock...draw...mark...loose!" Devon shouts, followed by several hundred arrows flying towards the Lancastrian Switzer phalanx and crossbowmen. Devon and his affinity would lead one of the charges against the Swiss phalanx, and while they seemed to make some ground, they would be repulsed by the Swiss and other Lancastrian soldiers, with Devon being injured by one of the Swiss, but the wound would turn out to not be serious and the Earl would remained involved in the fighting until the Yorkist center broke through and struck at the flank of the Lancastrians, breaking the cohesion of the Swiss pike to the point the Yorkists were finally able to make notable progress and break through their lines. Devon, after having his wound bandaged up, called for his horse. "All of you, mount up...someone find my mounted archers as well, tell them to pursue the Lancastrians!" Devon shouts to his affinity before riding off on his horse, followed by his men at arms and eventually his mounted archers would join the pursuit, although Devon and his horsemen would be too late, with the late arrivals of Holland, Tudor, and Oxford or the cavalry of the other Lancastrian flanks already riding down any of the Lancastrians they could catch or tried to carry out a fighting retreat.
---
While the King and Gloucester were meeting with Norfolk about his prisoner, Devon and his men would ride by, chasing a small group of Lancastrians who had hidden in a nearby thicket.

[Trot]

William Hastings surveyed the battle field from atop his warhorse. His leg still gave him trouble from the battle at Warblington and he himself was with the reserve. It seemed it would not be needed today though. Holland's arrived late, but they seemed to be joining the Yorkist cause. So Hastings sat content to let the battle play out in front of him. The Yokists had had an unopposed river crossing and their numbers were able to overwhelm the Lancaster forces.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Edward Hastings sallied across the lightly defended river crossing leading a small detachment of horse. His orders had been clear find a place to ford the River and come down on the Lancaster flank. The battle had been hard fought to this point. The infantry and crossbowman doing a number on Yorkists struggling to cross. Hastings heart hammered as he and his men lined up preparing to come down on the Lancaster flank they were being joined by other companies the Duke of Gloucester had send on similar assignments. The sound to charge was raised and the Yorkist forces came down on the Lancaster line the confusion allowing the Infantry to break through and begin to establish a beach head.


Post battle

William Hastings rides out to find the King and the other peers as the battle had come to a conclusion the last Lancaster men running for their lives.

[Gandalfus]

Beaufort tasted dirt. Apparently the Duke of Norfolk didn't know how to treat prisoners of much higher blood than himself. No surprise. Mowbrays always were dense bastards.

"My lord of Norfolk."

Edmund raised his head, the shadow of Mowbray and his men obscuring the now setting sun. Though he was covered in muck and blood, the Duke did his best to remain dignified. He was past the point of fear. What was there to be scared of? Life had little meaning now, for his line would always be sullied with the fall of Lancaster. There would be no vengeance for Henry now, nor ever.

"Yes, I remember thy father. He betrayed Saint Henry, like all the rest."

All of them, traitors to a man, deposing their rightful lord and placing York's son in his place. Not even two decades had dampebed his fury at that insult. But there was no emotion in his voice save tired resignation.

"What becomes of me, then? And what of my cousin, Lancaster?"

Likely the block for them both. A sad end to Bolingbroke's line, though Edmund was comforted that his own son would carry on Gaunt's blood, safe in Normandy.

[Barry Goldwater]

Richard, Duke of Gloucester looked on as the Lancastrian right wing fell back from its positions at and around the battlefield's northernmost bridge, relentlessly needled by the small detachments of foot and horse that he had been quietly slipping across unguarded and lightly-guarded fords on his march north. Those detachments had piled up sufficiently to dislodge Beaufort's men, it had seemed, and now the White Boar was free to cross the bridge without harassment and pursue the Yale of Beaufort as it withdrew. Though Beaufort's lackeys had fought on for some time longer, they were finally put to flight by the welcome surprise that was the arrival of Holland, Tudor and De Vere, all of whom piled on to crush the Lancastrians on this wing and drive them into a complete rout. Finally, capping off this lovely day, it was reported that some of Norfolk's men had surrounded the titular Somerset and forced him to surrender.

Some time later, Richard Ratcliffe rode to him as he was being treated for a minor injury - late in the fighting, he had dislocated his good shoulder. Upon being informed by Ratcliffe that a man thought to be Edward of Lancaster was found being dragged into a priory by a few Lancastrian stragglers, and without hesitation York's youngest son immediately saddled up and raced there with all haste. At said priory, he found that his royal nephew had beaten him to the doors, which the Augustinian friars had opened.

---

"Lay on! They're crumbling before us!" Edmund Kyriell, Earl of Cambridge and newly made Duke of Somerset, roared at his troops as they stormed into the Lancastrian ranks, having crossed the bridge with surprisingly little actual opposition. His brother Monmouth trailed behind silently, watching his soldiers do the fighting rather than partaking in it himself. Somerset roared and laughed merrily as the King's division tore through the paltry Lancastrian center arrayed against them, the young Lion of Mortimer easily tearing through Edmund Crouchback's Red Rose. As the fighting on the bridge's Lancastrian end grew more desperate, a pair of footmen with red roses pinned to their clothes had managed to get close enough to Monmouth to lay their hands on him, but were promptly struck down by his big brother (at the cost of a hard hammer-blow to the chest, enough to break some of his ribs) and one of his men.

Not long after, the standard of the Lancastrian 'king' fell, followed by the complete collapse of the enemy division. A few scores of dismounted knights under a flag neither Kyriell could recognize surged forward in an attempt to hold back the tide, but was in turn overwhelmed by the Yorkist advance. And then, it was over - Lancaster's dogs fell back in disarray, a duke and two earls had joined the fight late up north, and Somerset got to watch the young man he raised step into his father's shoes as a war leader - and pass his first baptism by fire (well, steel and arrows mostly) with flying colors.

---

John Grey, Earl of Tankerville ground his teeth as his men, like the rest of the Yorkist right wing, were hemmed in against the bridge they had just crossed by elite pikemen fighting under the red dragon standard of Clifford. Arrows and cannonballs were falling all around him while his men tried to keep the Switzers at bay, and though he himself was still unharmed so far, he didn't know how much longer that would be the case - certainly, it couldn't last much longer if they didn't break out of this trap.

And then a vast Yorkist division, marching above all under the Lion of Mortimer and the Sun of York, descended on their adversaries' flank, after which Clifford's division had little choice but to withdraw. Tankerville breathed a sigh of relief, then barked orders at his men to continue the pursuit.

---

", this is bad. Somerset?! Somerset, are you still there?!" George de Vere shouted, madly looking left and right for Charles Somerset, unaware that the man had already gotten peeled off his saddle by a Yorkist's billhook. They had thrown themselves and their body of light horse into the north to support Somerset's uncle, whose own division had been falling back, but the White Boar seemed implacable. And the rest of the battle - Christ in Heaven! Now he knew how Father and John must have felt so long ago at Wallingford, though he supposed at least he didn't have to suffer the extra agony of betrayal like they did. The day seemed lost, and now they were just trying to salvage what they could.

Not long afterwards, De Vere spotted a third host under three new banners marching in from the north, and felt tremendous relief at the sight of his family's blue boar on one of those banners. That relief turned to horror when his brother's men, together with Holland's and Tudor's, started smiting Lancastrians down. "WHAT IN THE EVER-LIVING , AUBREY!" The normally cool knight bellowed, livid at his brother's apparent betrayal. "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! YOU ING , I HOPE YOU - " And then some Yorkist billman stabbed him through the side, forcing George to divert his stream of profanities. He was, in time, able to drag himself out of the bloody mire this battle had turned into and flee with the rest of the Lancastrian cavalry (not even stopping to drink from his wineskin as he fled), but little did he know, this wound would trouble him to the end of his days...

For his part, Aubrey de Vere had met Exeter's glance with one that pessimistically said I told you this might happen, then followed him into the fight against Beaufort's already embattled division and...his own brother? The two blue boars wrestled briefly in the air before George's men retreated, not that Aubrey would be conscious to see it. For, in the first few moments of the clash, just as he had started to tear into his brother's lackeys with the same lack of enthusiasm he grappled most things in life with, some Lancastrian had gotten lucky with a hammer and struck the Earl of Oxford in the face, toppling him from his saddle and sending him into a coma.

[Jokern]

Norfolk shrugged at Beaufort's question.

"Where you are headed I am quite certain of, but how you get there is another question. If His Majesty is in a good mood, the ax awaits you. Otherwise I suspect the rope would suit you and your filth well. It pleases me to see that your former allies have come to their senses and supported the rightful king. Only death awaits you traitors and exiles, though."

[Gandalfus]

Edmund groaned. Conversing with Norfolk was like trying to speak sense to an ox, only the latter had more brains, and was capable of thinking without asking 'his majesty' for guidance.

"Yes, death. I suppose that is the punishment for traitors. A shame your father's head never got put onto a block, then."

Beaufort said, drily. Mowbray the Elder had betrayed two Kings in his lifetime.

"Come, I would speak with my cousin York. Talking to dullards of lesser blood irritates me greatly."

He expected a smack, at least.

---

The King looked to Gloucester, silently, taking a few steps towards the priory. Edward did not know exactly what to expect - he'd imagined the pretender as some vile monster, more demon than man.

"Uncle. Shall we enter?"

Asked the King, some apprehension in his voice. The monks had apparently relieved the last Lancastrian of the protection of sanctuary.

[Barry Goldwater]

The King looked to Gloucester, silently, taking a few steps towards the priory. Edward did not know exactly what to expect - he'd imagined the pretender as some vile monster, more demon than man.

"Uncle. Shall we enter?"

Said the King. The monks had apparently relieved the last Lancastrian of the protection of sanctuary.

In that moment Richard of Gloucester felt a mixture of triumph, fury and anticipation, and his stoic expression had given way to a rare grin of triumph. It seemed to hurt his face to smile so broadly, as if his muscles weren't used to such an expression, but apparently that was what he thought was called for in this hour of victory. Finally - finally, after nearly thirty years, they could fully avenge Father and Edmund, and end the House of Lancaster forever. If the monks were retreating to relieve Lancaster of sanctuary, all the better; assuming Lancaster still lived, he would happily do what he should have done ages ago, if only the pernicious French had kept their end of the peace terms, and end his life.

"Let's, Your Majesty." He said, his voice sounding as coldly vicious and yet as eager as a glacier beginning to fracture - and bury a town that had, for whatever reason, angered it.

Then they were interrupted by the arrival of Mowbray and his prisoner, one of the last Beauforts it seemed. Richard turned to face them, annoyed at this interruption of York's final revenge, and the grin on his face dissolved to make way for a cross expression.

[Gandalfus]

Norfolk's anger rose up and for once he gave in to his urges. He grabbed Beaufort's hair and, with a mailed fist, crushed the man's nose with a solid hit. When he spoke he growled.

"I would kill you myself for your insolent words if I would not enjoy the sight of the king handing out your well-earned fate. Come men, let's present our prisoner to the king."

Beaufort in tow, they marched to the priory where the king and the Duke of Gloucester had gathered.

"Your Majesty. I have a prisoner who would like to meet with you."

In that moment Richard of Gloucester felt a mixture of triumph, fury and anticipation, and his stoic expression had given way to a rare grin of triumph. It seemed to hurt his face to smile so broadly, as if his muscles weren't used to such an expression, but apparently that was what he thought was called for in this hour of victory. Finally - finally, after nearly thirty years, they could fully avenge Father and Edmund, and end the House of Lancaster forever. If the monks were retreating to relieve Lancaster of sanctuary, all the better; assuming Lancaster still lived, he would happily do what he should have done ages ago, if only the pernicious French had kept their end of the peace terms, and end his life.

"Let's, Your Majesty." He said, his voice sounding as coldly vicious and yet as eager as a glacier beginning to fracture - and bury a town that had, for whatever reason, angered it.

Then they were interrupted by the arrival of Mowbray and his prisoner, one of the last Beauforts it seemed. Richard turned to face them, annoyed at this interruption of York's final revenge, and the grin on his face dissolved to make way for a cross expression.

Beaufort groaned, blood freely streaming from his face. That is what loyalty buys you. Ironically, this was the only wound he'd sustained in the entire battle. A broken nose, thanks to Norfolk's mailed fist. Somerset staggered forwards, gaze clouded by pain.

"Urgh... Cousins of mine."

Edmund hadn't fought at Towton, or Carlisle for that matter. This was the first, and likely the last, time he'd take up arms against the brood of Plantagenet.

"Tell your dog Norfolk to treat his prisoners better. He has lain hands upon a man with a prouder bloodline than his own mongrel breed."

Beaufort was terrified, but didn't show it. The Duke of Somerset wiped away the blood that came from his nose, gazing down at it, as if looking for some visible proof that royal blood held some special quality.

Why are they outside a priory?

Somerset paled a little, and then frowned. Oh, God.

[Barry Goldwater]

Beaufort groaned, blood freely streaming from his face. That is what loyalty buys you. Ironically, this was the only wound he'd sustained in the entire battle. A broken nose, thanks to Norfolk's mailed fist. Somerset staggered forwards, gaze clouded by pain.

"Urgh... Cousins of mine."

Edmund hadn't fought at Towton, or Carlisle for that matter. This was the first, and likely the last, time he'd take up arms against the brood of Plantagenet.

"Tell your dog Norfolk to treat his prisoners better. He has lain hands upon a man with a prouder bloodline than his own mongrel breed."

Beaufort was terrified, but didn't show it. The Duke of Somerset wiped away the blood that came from his nose, gazing down at it, as if looking for some visible proof that royal blood held some special quality.

Why are they outside a priory?

Somerset paled a little, and then frowned. Oh, God.

"Beaufort." Gloucester coldly acknowledged Mowbray's prisoner with a small nod. How wonderful that the titular Duke of Somerset should fall into York's hands this day - if he and Lancaster himself were to die, that would further prune the already nearly desolate family tree that sprang from Gaunt's loins, and make that much more progress in entrenching the power and legitimacy of his own dynasty. There was little point to Beaufort's complaining about whatever treatment Norfolk might have dealt out to him, Richard thought darkly, when he was sure to be relieved of his head entirely soon.

But, that thought also reminded him that Beaufort wasn't the biggest catch of the day. If the Lancastrian pretender, the last of Henry V's line, was inside this priory, well he was rather more important than the son of the cousin of Henry V. Turning back to the priory door with a grim expression, Richard took a step forward, then another, marching into the small church with one hand on his already blood-soaked sword to confront the heir of Lancaster where he lay...

[Jokern]

Norfolk's anger rose up and for once he gave in to his urges. He grabbed Beaufort's hair and, with a mailed fist, crushed the man's nose with a solid hit. When he spoke he growled.

"I would kill you myself for your insolent words if I would not enjoy the sight of the king handing out your well-earned fate. Come men, let's present our prisoner to the king."

Beaufort in tow, they marched to the priory where the king and the Duke of Gloucester had gathered.

"Your Majesty. I have a prisoner who would like to meet with you."

[Pontifex Maximus]

Durham's hands were black from handling shot and powder. He once again chose to command his cannon crews in person, supervising their efficiency and ensuring that the bombardment of the enemy remained effective. By the time the battle was over, the cannons were extremely hot to the touch, and smoking. Yet they had accomplished their goal.

-----

Sir Thomas Bourchier observed the development of the battle from his position in command of the reserves. It was a humiliating post, being assigned simply to react to things instead of taking part in the battle directly. He strained to see what was happening above the smoke, dust, and clouds of arrows rising and falling in the basin. He was shocked to see Yorkist troops marching across the bridge in good order. Was this some ploy, some new stratagem from the continent, or pure incompetence? It soon proved to be the latter as the rebel center collapsed in disarray. This was enough of a signal for Bourchier, who gave the order to advance. They would whet their blades on the fleeing rebel forces.

[Oznerol]

Salisbury had led nothing but the right flank. The honored right wing. The position of greatest honor. Not only that, but he also had taken command over several peers of note, like Lord Tankarville and Devon. Thomas had the royal banners by his right and he could very well glance from afar the tiny but shimmering figure of his half-brother. The banners of York were impressing: an array of white roses, lions and red crosses. Grey had his own, party murrey and white, an unicorn argent, with golden hooves, chained and crowned. But it wasn't the only, he also unfolded his heraldic banner, displaying the full quarterings that were his by birth and marriage. Also present was a smaller devotional banner, embroidered with the Virgin Mary, enthroned and carrying the Child, gold on white. Everything had been arranged: the soldiers were prepared for crossing the river, the men-at-arms dismounted, leaving their horses behind, and the archers braced for the incoming battle. The crossing could very well end in a God forsaken bloodbath, that he knew, but Salisbury noneless was determined to force the pass. Stunningly, when the orders were given and the clarions sung, Grey found the bridge undefended. Fearing some sort of mischevous stratagem, Salisbury sent swift light cavalrymen to secure the bridge, but they noneless found that Lancaster had indeed abandoned the crossing.

Thanking the Virgin and all her heavenly cohorts of saintly men and women, Thomas ordered the men to move forward and secure the crossing, his troops quickly gaining foot across the river and forming ranks without any major interference. Still not willing to believe it, Grey had cross the river himself to realize that Lancaster had indeed given up the crossing, the only major advantage he likely had. The cautious and meticulous Thomas ordered the attack to begin on the enemy lines, but he still kept a small reserve, fearing a manouver that could wreck his lines. It didn't come. It was soon obvious Lancaster simply expected Salisbury to crash against his steely wall of pikes, flesh and blood, and so he did. Arrows, cannonballs were savagely exchanged. The enemy was powerfully perched, with the Swiss, or so Grey though, enduring quite well the incoming Yorkist forces. The mercenaries were hard to crack. Quite. Supported by artillery and sufficient yeomen they refused to yield the field, despite Grey's manouvers around their position, all of them quite fruitless. Thomas just watched, frustrated, how his men couldn't break Lancaster, despite everything, cursing silently with the pits of hell whoever those banners fluttering on this wing belonged to. Howling horses and men, the sounds of cannons firing their deadly volleys, arrows hissing, bones cracking and blood being spilled: the song of battle was horrible to witness and listen to, a song played with the bones of men. Grey grinded his teeth in frustation over the lack of progress, he tried forcing a crack into the Lancastrian lines himself, by charging against it with his own affinity, but it only managed to make him lose good men; blood, dirt, mud and covering the white ragged staffs, unicorns or muffled bears, unrecognizable among the dead and wounded littering the ground. When things apparently were completely stalled, the banners of York appeared on the right: the king himself had come to relief the flank of his brother, and the Lancastrians had but to yield the ground. However, and ironically, Thomas could only glance the banners for a second, a moment later an errand cannoball had obliterated the chest of his white horse, killing it immediately and sending Grey flying, bleeding profusely. Mayhaps, only saved by the good craft of his Milanese armor. Blood and mud distorted his heraldical surcoat. The vanity of men was as good as wind when a single stone could kill not only a man, but a dozen, and not only a knight, but a marquess too. The noble Winchester had to be carried away at the moment of victory, badly wounded and bedridden, muttering nonsensical words, isolated in a sea of suffering and yelled prayers.