At first I and my retinue were too busy fighting off Edward’s knights to notice anything except what was in the immediate range of our visors but when the Yorkists strategically backed off to re-group I took the opportunity to survey the battleground. Owen’s men had not moved in to surround the Yorkist advance as we had intended and looking to the right I saw with a shock the depletion of his ranks. The Yorkists meanwhile seemed as many as ever; I could not see that our guns had damaged them. But looking to my left I felt my stomach lurch with shock. No one was firing our guns and Wiltshire and his fifteen hundred mercenaries, who should have been fighting in a wing formation, were nowhere to be seen; they had simply disappeared, as if the ground had swallowed them up. A clue to their line of escape came to my attention; a significant pack of the Yorkist right wing heading in hot pursuit, past the main core of the fighting and towards our camp, where no doubt Wiltshire had been first to get to his horse and make his getaway at the gallop. A string of violent oaths echoed within the confines of my helmet as I had a sickening realization that this was a replay of St Albans; the same man, the same disappearing act. Only this one was to have a more devastating effect.

The enemy, on witnessing the departure of our left wing, redoubled the force of their attack. It was obvious that our position was rapidly becoming hopeless. I saw my father still fighting valiantly, keeping his footing but being forced back towards the steep riverbank. In a fortuitous gap in the almost constant blast of enemy cannon fire I yelled at Maredudd, who was close by me, viciously hacking away at the enemy.

‘Get to the herald, squire! Tell him to sound the retreat. This battle is over for us.’

I hoped the formal signal might achieve an organized retreat but no sooner had my herald’s trumpet sounded and the men put up their shields and began to back off, than Edward of York waived all control of his force, which immediately became a horde of snarling, vengeful demons, intent on cutting down as many Lancastrians as each of them could individually manage. What should have been acknowledged as a military surrender became not a retreat but a rout of the bloodiest kind. There was no time to think, let alone regroup and defend; suddenly it was every man for himself, in a terrifying race for survival.