Before the War

The Earl of Northumberland places one foot up on the bench under the trees and, with difficulty, begins to adjust the straps on his plate armour. It’s going to be a big day, he says. He’s wheezing slightly with the effort and beginning to perspire.

Henry Percy, the second earl. His father was a rebel who gambled everything and lost it all, but this Henry is more dependable. Since securing the return of his family’s titles, he’s fought in various wars under the King’s colours but his main job has always been to defend England’s northern border against the Scots. He's here with his troops to escort the King to a congress in Leicester.

More knights are starting to arrive in the marketplace. There are bands of archers too, counting arrows and stringing bows. A group of infantrymen have propped their spears against the railings while they queue for the sandwich bar. According to Northumberland, every major anniversary of the battle is observed, and with this year falling on a Saturday, they expect a lot more participants than usual. It explains why the centre of town is so busy.

The King's army is probably around two thousand strong, with the commanders located in the marketplace and divisions of infantry positioned on the town’s boundary ditch to the east.

A white van draws up in front of the Italian restaurant. Two men at arms climb out and begin to unload battle standards, banners and articles of war, arranging them in front of the clock tower.

One of the flags is the royal standard, which should be carried into battle by Lord Wiltshire, the King's standard bearer but instead it stays here propped against the wall. Wiltshire, reportedly the most handsome knight in England, will later be found disguised in a monk's habit trying to run away from the hostilities.

Burgundian mercenaries congregating at the entrance to Starbucks are becoming something of a nuisance. They bellow slogans when a minibus arrives with the Earls of Dorset and Devon and their entourage.

The nineteen-year-old Dorset is the son of Lord Somerset (see below) and at the outset of his military career. The older Lord Devon, a seasoned campaigner, is his uncle. They will both be wounded in the fighting later.

The royal commander, the Lord Somerset, stands next to a line of parked motorcycles, smoking a cigarette as his troops assemble. There is a certain ease in his manner, an ill-judged confidence, as if he doesn’t know he will be dead by dinner time, lying on the cobbles with his throat cut.

Edmund Beaufort, the Duke of Somerset, is cousin to the King and one of the most powerful nobles in England. He is a prominent opponent of the Duke of York, the other major figure at court.

His grace, the King arrives, attendants rushing forward to help him from the back seat of a cab. He is not dressed for war, but for a council meeting, gazing up at the buildings as he is hurried through the supermarket car park.

Henry VI has recently revived after a long period in a near catatonic state. His occasional interludes of this type have plunged England into great uncertainty as rival lords manoeuvre for position and power. Henry remains a weak and distracted king and will later be found hiding in a nearby coaching inn.

A herald passes on horseback, the hoofs of his palfrey striking against the paving slabs. He rides out towards the east, between the columns of vehicles and through the traffic signals, bearing letters from the King’s ministers with their talk of treason.

Political tensions have been building. With Somerset in a commanding position at court and York all but exiled, the opportunities for negotiation are running out. The exchange of letters during the morning becomes increasingly fractured.

At the roadblocks on Victoria Street, the King’s infantry are dumping birch logs onto the pedestrian crossing and roping them together into heavy bundles. Behind them, a line of Lancastrian bowmen are moving into position. Further down the road, beyond the barriers, the northern retinues, their halberds and pike blades reflecting the sun.

The King's army is smaller than the ranks converging on the town but under the direction of the Duke of Buckingham, his men have had the opportunity to choose their ground and have begun to establish defences.

There are more retainers here, and officials organising the ranks of combatants, and delivery riders bumping across the cycle lanes, a gang of young delinquents striding through the blocked traffic.

Despite the presence of so many soldiers, the expectation among the King's men is still that there will be a settlement of some kind. They take their time preparing, confident they hold the advantage.

The gathering forces of the House of York, on the other side of the railway line, on the other side of memory, are braced, anticipating any moment now the signal to engage. Those doubts which have been multiplying, all through the winter, all through the spring, all down the long corridor of years, are poised, ready to combine, just outside the field of view.

Many of the Yorkist troops are experienced operators, having fought on the borders with Wales and Scotland. They had been marching to London on the Great North Road but have diverted to engage the King's army at St Albans.

A sudden disturbance in the passages to the side of the street, a roar uncorked from a bottle. Armoured shoes crash onto the kerbstones and figures begin flooding into the road and onto the square. Swords flash in the tight confines between salons and gift shops. Then the hordes begin to spill out of the alleyways, chainmailed bodies crowding, stumbling, crashing onto the road surface. A cloud covers the sun, then a rain of arrows and their iron tips hitting the tarmac.

The Duke of York's ally, the young Earl of Warwick, makes a surprise attack at an unprotected section of the line, leading his men through gardens and alleyways to reach the high street where they catch the Lancastrians by surprise.

In the marketplace, soldiers and tourists press together, their histories collapsed, eager for enactment and the clarity of war, but all the swords are wooden swords and the crowns are cardboard crowns.

Although small in scale, the battle is a decisive win. Having escorted the King back to London, the Duke of York is declared Lord Protector of England, while the Lancastrian lords retreat to their castles to consider their next move.