Tales from the Genetic Memory My Very First Battle of Tewkesbury

Some of you may be familiar with the Battle Of Tewkesbury Re-encactment which takes place every year close by the battle site. It's now the largest festival of its kind in Europe, if not the world, and involves 2-3000 re-enactors strutting their stuff in all their plated finery.They travel to this small town in Gloucestershire from quite literally all over the world.

If you want to see how it looks today here's the site. I recommend a visit both to the site and to the festival.


http://www.tewkesburymedievalfestival.org/index.html

However, the early Tewkesburys were a very different affair from what they are now; more town festival, less battle re-enactment and I suspect that health and safety officers would have had instant coronaries  had they had any idea what was going on! 

So for this tale from the Genetic Memory, here's my view of the second Battle from  back in the dawn of time in 1985, where shopkeepers, accountants and retail assistants were for a single day mighty heroes of ....The Wars of the Roses.......


The Jellyfish man and the Beer Tent

I was fairly new to the society, having done the practice season (practices were once a month back then) a Wingfield Castle Show and some school fêtes. I'd managed to get some gear together – A coat of plates made from scrap metal, a surcoat, mail gauntlets and a converted firewatcher's hat (like the ARP Helmets form dad's Army) plus bit of soft costume (pixie boots were in fashion then and easy to get for example). I wasn't quite a wild-eyed nutter in dodgy kit but I was getting there. The kit was certainly dodgy enough!

Having no idea what to expect, I made my way to the beer tent. I should explain that as one of the two re-enactment groups invited to the event  back then (the other other being the Plantagenets) and the events status as a town festival, beer was laid on. Woohoo! Anyway, when I got to the bar no-one was there.

A bit nonplussed, I was looking forward to my pint after all, I was about to leave, when a hand appeared over the counter. I say 'A hand', but it had a quality which made it resemble a jellyfish more than the bony extremity a hand was supposed so be, and it somehow dragged up the most bleary, unfocused face I had seen in my life up to that point. 

Please remember I was fairly new to the LR and had absolutely no idea what was in store for me. The face wobbled in a way that reminded me of a sunflower in a gentle breeze and then it spoke. It said 'watcsh yer want then'., and when I said 'a pint please' it somehow poured me a pint, poured another for itself, and then sank back into the depths of the bar, presumably only to appear again when summoned by some arcane ritual known only to followers of Great Cthulhu himself or maybe the next guy wanting a beer, though I have my doubts.

This was my first experience of the event and a really tiny hint at what was to come; but once I'd got my pint, the first of many that evening, I found hundreds of people (well about 200) around a large bonfire close- ish to the Abbey (and yes the event was far smaller than it is now) plus us (the Lion Rampant) our friends the Brotherhood of the Axe (whe weren't invited but turned up anyway because they knew us) and the Plantagenets.

I feel a need to tell you a bit about The Brotherhood Of the Axe at this point. The Brotherhood was a lovely bunch of guys who did some shows with us, introduced us to moonshine (well me anyway, but I don't remember much of that for some reason) and had a penchant for very Viking black leather and armour made with the aforesaid black leather overlaid with highly polished steel discs.

Their dress sense lead some (not us) to give them the unkind epithet of 'The Brotherhood of the Milk-bottle Tops' but since you had to be able to lift a 150 kilo anvil to join their group  and they were all in the region of 6 feet tall I really don't know anyone who dared call them that to their face! I should also mention that the third re-enactment group present, the Plantagenets now organise much of the weekend, at least  as I understand it. Thanks guys!

We got to rub shoulders with our 'friends' and 'foes' of the morrow. Some were showing of their new gear, which varied between  'Liquid' (don't ask) Len Clatworthy's incredibly nice, even by modern standards, full gothic plate armour and a mail coif made out of blue wool by a guy who we instantly dubbed 'the Tewkesbury Air Force' (and many Dambuster's marches were sung in his honour. Amen).

As for weapons, there was a similar variation; from swords and polearms made out of balsa wood to some very nice looking but incredibly heavy two handers and poleaxes made out of mild steel. Later, I ended up making a bunch of swords for those guys (who were or became the 'Back Bear' medieval society) which bought me my barbute and a good set of leg armour which lasted throughout my career in re-enactment. I still have the helmet on my mantlepiece, but Gurnsy (of the Fate worse than Death Story) ended up with the legs and I thought they got trashed after years of good service. I've recently found out that they are still giving good service in the Lion Rampant though the thigh plates have been replaced. The thigh plates did in fact get trashed, because Gurnsy didn't get live to live too often when he trod on dead people's balls. Serve him right too! That's my theory and I am sticking to it.

Back round the fire others of course were just getting drunk and partying hard. As far as I remember it we did a pretty good job of that as well with 25 odd of us ending up in one small tent! I was having the time of my life and much later poured myself into my own tent and slept the sleep of the very drunk, waking up refreshed and ready the following day. I wouldn't manage that today!

The Eve of Battle

Early-ish that morning we were given the script for the battle, which was basically that the Lancastrians would charge 3 times, the west wing (us) would lose our banner on the second charge and get it back on the third when Devonshire, our leader, would die. After that the Lancastrians would be pushed back to the end of the field and be slaughtered or taken prisoner and poor Somerset would be beheaded in front of the abbey.

It was the smallest of small footnotes which said 'townsfolk taking part will be taught a safe method of fighting on the day.' Oh bollox, was my first thought and health and safety guys of the future had their first corunary courtesy of a fortuitous wormhole in time and space which opened up because of a random circumstance which had nothing to do with Douglas Adams or the Hitch-hiker's Guide to the Galaxy or indeed battle fleets from G'Gugvuntt and Vl'hurg. In the event the townsfolk  were so careful that you weren't going to get hit let alone injured, and the most serious injury of the day was self inflicted – but I'll get to that in a bit.

I was of course wearing my Beaufort Portcullis Surcoat and was carrying a shield with the same design on it so I was a Lancastrian straight away, but the society was split, some of us being Yorkists and others Lancastrian, pretty much by whatever surcoats we were wearing.

So while the townsfolk went off to learn their 'safe' method of fighting which was 'fours' in order for sword swingers and clacking the ends of your polearms together for the balsa wood polearm guys, we walked up and down a bit to get a feel for the ground and that was pretty much it until we got geared and ready for the big occasion which was looming....

The Mighty MOSH!

Well, as we lined up on our sides the thing I noticed something I'd not seen before. There  were an awful lot of archers on the other side. I thought (having been the lovely blonde Vanessa's main target for the practice season and my previous shows such as they were) that I was ready for this, but believe me I wasn't!

There were 1-2 archers for each fighter as as we walked slowly across the field the arrows started falling out of the sky, easy enough at that stage because they were basically spent, but these bows (I was told after) pulled at about 50 lbs. The arrows had paper flights and 'points' made out of copydex which broke up if they hit anything solid, so pretty soon they were coming lazily straight at you then buzzing past with a noise like an angry hornet.That was, all except for the shafts of one archer (who shall remain nameless except she was blonde and her name began with V) who started hitting my shield solidly pretty much straight away - damn her!

I soon discovered that these arrows were very  very nasty indeed. At the time I had very basic gear – my firewatchers hat, mail gauntlets, baby blue coat of plates and my very first set of (crap) greaves, so all I could do was watch these damned things coming towards me (that was the worst part I think, seeing them coming) and put my head down at the last moment and hope my nether regions weren't going to be the target because my shield was too small cover my eyes and those very tender parts! There were a lot of arrows too and boy they hurt more than being beaten over the head with a frozen chicken while being stood on a barrel of radishes! 

Well I think so; I have never actually been hit with a frozen chicken while being stood on a barrel of radishes. Look it hurt a LOT, ok?

All in all it was a relief (not least to the guys being hit over the head with frozen chickens) when our leaders felt we'd got close enough and the order to charge was given by our Lord Devonshire in his mighty armour of proof plastic (though it did look pretty good as I recall). As we charged across the last stretch of the field the archers retreated behind the thin line of melee fighters and we really tried quite hard to get to them. I wonder why.

Still, after my first pass, all I got to fight was a shopkeeper and his son with their balsa swords, who spent most of the fight  saying 'dammit why won't you fall over!' and I really did have a hard time not falling over laughing because there were exchanges like this going on all up and down the line – if the original battle of Tewkesbury had been like this no-one would have died and we'd have gone on to lose every war we fought in thereafter. Yes we were truly THAT bad.

Still we had to retreat for the second charge (and the second arrow storm) and by this time my legs were starting to look like a leopard skin with nasty round bruises developing all down the unarmoured bits. The guy next to me took an arrow in just the WRONG place and down he went like he'd been poleaxed. Fortunately we weren't that close to the audience at that point so after suitable time for recuperation and much shedding of tears he was able to crawl over and go see the St John's Ambulance guys. .

As for me I finally got to fight someone in REAL armour, It was only when I saw the look of abject terror in his face that I realised the full plate I thought I was up against was much more fragile (in fact it was well made papier mache). DAMN!

It was around then that Martin from the Brotherhood managed to knock himself out with his own sword, all because he refused to spoil his good looks and image by wearing a kettle hat. What happened was that someone else in the Brotherhood blocked Matin’s enthusiastic head shot equally enthusiastically. Matins sword bounced, landed right in the centre of his own forehead whereupon he looked really quite surprised and fell over. 'Serve him right' I thought uncharitably, but clearly many women felt otherwise because they were round him faster than the Roadrunner on speed, so much so that the poor St. Johns Ambulance Guys had to wait to get him out. That was (by far) the most serious injury of the day, but later on Martin was showing off his scar and drinking every bit as hard, if not harder than the rest of us – I imagine he still has the scar now but I bet the story of how he got it is far more heroic than the one I just told you!

Well, the retreat sounded and it was then we realised we'd not managed to pass the banner over so as I recall Lord Devonshire took it off our banner bearer and quickly ran it over to the other side. No-one noticed, honest!

Then it was the final, despairing charge the retrieve our lost banner. Fortunately arrows were running low by then. Unfortunately most of the ones coming at us were recycled and many had broken 'points'. Fortunately we just ran at their lines so it was a quick transit. Unfortunately the banner was in the hands of Sir Robert Percy (variously Mark or Animal in other stories). Fortunately we'd seen this and prepared a small commando team of Rampanters to get the banner off him. Unfortunately the townsfolk got there first.

There was a boiling mass of people around poor Animal.Well it was more tepid than boiling and he wasn't that poor, but they were at least trying. As we expected he wasn't going to give the banner up without a fight and preferably a big pile of bodies. I say preferably. That's such a wishy washy word. Let me tell you he was going to have his big pile of bodies no matter what and damned be the script! 

Since the poor townsfolk had only learnt their safe method of fighting that morning, clearly banner retrieval wasn't going to happen and we couldn't get anywhere near the damned thing. It was at that moment that something happened which caused me to lose all interest in the banner and nearly in the rest of the battle and it went something like this:-

A Leviathan's Demise

The indomitable Lord Devonshire charged into the maelstrom of battle, a colossus on the field of war, a titan of combat. Intent only on retrieving the banner the Yorkists had won at such great cost in the last charge, he was willing to spend his life, if necessary, in this endeavour. Only one person prevented him from reaching the whirlpool of death surrounding the standard. Only one girl, clad in mail though she was, who would surely prove to be no obstacle to such a juggernaut.

'Hello Dear!'  declaimed the Doughty Devonshire.

'Umm... hello' said our very own Jacqui Maunsell for it was she (from the Henry's Bar Picture).

'Can you fight?' quoth our mighty leader.

'Well yes!' she replied.

'Oh.' was the answer. 'I can't!'.

And thus the mighty attempt on the standard was defeated.

I was stood next to them and this was the exchange as it happened word for word. I laughed so much I cried. For some time was unable to stand straight, and when I recovered, there, standing in front of me, with a wicked grin on her face, was Jacqui. While she pounded me into a small wet pulp, I saw the continuing melée around the standard. No less a personage than the mighty Warwick was there (looking really quite good for a guy who was supposed to have died At the Battle of Barnet a few days before) standing shoulder to shoulder with Rob Percy (Animal). 
'Give them the F*%CK*NG FLAG!' yelled the mighty Kingmaker inb his best knightly tones. 

'Never!' Was the reply 'Death First!'. 

Clearly it was going to be a long third charge......

Well we got our banner and Animal got his pile of bodies, and Devonshire got his heroic death, even if it wasn't quite as he’d planned it. By that time the rest of the Lancastrian Army was in full retreat and so were we. We later heard that the 'Tewkesbury Air Force' had got his new coif soaked from falling oin the stream and had to be cut out of it before it strangled him, which didn’t stop him appearing in its twin next year. But still, having only slightly overrun time-wise (nothing to do with the mighty stand of Rob Percy by the banner of course) Somerset was beheaded in front of the abbey.

According to some accounts the grim dignity with which he faced his doom was marred slightly when he stuck his tongue out at his headsmen but I'll remind you that it's the victors who write the history books.  When his head was duly stuck on a pike all sorts of ick came down it, including, according to some, a large amount of baked beans. What can I say?

As for me, my end was humiliating and final, being tickled to death with no historians to record the atrocity. Perhaps in retrospect that was a good thing..........

There was another great party that night, and then we were off, for the Battle lasted only one day in those far-off times....

The Battle of Tewkesbury has certainly had its ups and downs. The following year with the fort  remains my favourite of all time, and one day I’ll get around to putting that and the other Tewkesbury Tales down on paper, but here’s where it all began for me, in a small town festival with guys  in their home-made kit. The sheer fun of those early days kept me going there  through what were some dark times (in Tewkesbury Festival Terms at least), but while it was a very different (much smaller and less impressive) thing compared to what it is today, the spirit  of the event  made it massively special and I'm so very, very glad I was there.