Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses)
Conn Iggulden
* * *
WARS OF THE ROSES
Book Three: Bloodline
Contents
Map and Family Trees
List of Characters
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part Two
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Historical Note
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
Also by Conn Iggulden
THE WARS OF THE ROSES SERIES
Stormbird
Trinity
THE EMPEROR SERIES
The Gates of Rome
The Death of Kings
The Field of Swords
The Gods of War
The Blood of Gods
THE CONQUEROR SERIES
Wolf of the Plains
Lords of the Bow
Bones of the Hills
Empire of Silver
Conqueror
QUICK READS
Blackwater
Quantum of Tweed
BY CONN IGGULDEN AND HAL IGGULDEN
The Dangerous Book for Boys
The Pocket Dangerous Book for Boys: Things to Do
The Pocket Dangerous Book for Boys: Things to Know
The Dangerous Book for Boys Yearbook
BY CONN IGGULDEN AND DAVID IGGULDEN
The Dangerous Book of Heroes
BY CONN IGGULDEN AND
ILLUSTRATED BY LIZZY DUNCAN
Tollins: Explosive Tales for Children
Tollins 2: Dynamite Tales
To my father, for his patience and humour.
Map and Family Trees
England at the time of the Wars of the Roses
Family Trees
Royal Lines of England
House of Lancaster
House of York
House of Neville
House of Percy
House of Tudor
List of Characters
– Queen Margaret/Margaret of Anjou: Wife of Henry VI, daughter of René of Anjou
– Derry Brewer: Spymaster of Henry VI and Queen Margaret
– George, Duke of Clarence: Brother of Edward IV and Richard, Duke of Gloucester
– John Clifford, Baron Clifford: Supporter of Henry VI, killer of Richard of York’s son Edmund
– Andrew Douglas: Scottish laird and ally of Henry VI
– Edward IV: King of England, son of Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York
– William Neville, Lord Fauconberg: Uncle of Earl of Warwick
– Richard of Gloucester: Son of Richard of York, brother of Edward IV and George, Duke of Clarence
– Sir John Grey: Supporter of Henry VI, first husband of Elizabeth Woodville
– Mary of Guelders: Widow of James II of Scotland
– Henry VI: King of England, son of Henry V
– Sir Thomas Kyriell: Bodyguard of captured Henry VI
– Albert Lalonde: Chancellor to King Louis
– King Louis XI: King of France, cousin of Queen Margaret
– John Neville, Baron Montagu: Brother of Earl of Warwick
– Anne Neville: Daughter of Earl of Warwick
– George Neville: Archbishop of York, brother of Earl of Warwick
– Isabel Neville: Daughter of Earl of Warwick
– John de Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk: Supporter of Edward IV
– Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland: Head of Percy family, supporter of Henry VI
– Henry Percy: Disinherited heir to Earl of Northumberland
– Hugh Poucher: Chief steward of Richard of York, factor of Edward IV
– Richard Woodville, Baron Rivers: Father of Elizabeth Woodville
– Edmund, Earl of Rutland: Son of Richard, Duke of York; killed at battle of Sandal Castle
– Alice Montacute, Countess of Salisbury: Wife of Earl of Salisbury, mother of Earl of Warwick
– Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury: Grandson of John of Gaunt, father of Earl of Warwick; killed at battle of Sandal Castle
– Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset: Supporter of Queen Margaret; inherited title after his father’s death at the first battle of St Alban’s
– Owen Tudor: Second husband of Catherine de Valois (widow of Henry V); killed after battle of Mortimer’s Cross
– Anne Beauchamp, Countess of Warwick: Wife of Earl of Warwick
– Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick: Head of the Neville family after the death of the Earl of Salisbury, later known as the Kingmaker
– Edward of Westminster: Prince of Wales, son of Henry VI and Queen Margaret
– Abbot Whethamstede: Abbot of St Alban’s
– Anthony Woodville: Brother of Elizabeth Woodville
– Elizabeth Woodville/Grey: Wife of Edward IV
– John Woodville: Brother of Elizabeth Woodville
– Cecily Neville, Duchess of York: Wife of Richard, Duke of York, granddaughter of John of Gaunt, mother of Edward IV
– Cecily of York: Daughter of Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville
– Elizabeth of York: Daughter of Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville
– Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York: Great-grandson of Edward III; killed at battle of Sandal Castle
Prologue
The wind snatched at them, alive and full of malice. It filled their chests in sudden gusts and made their mouths ache with cold. The two men shuddered under the assault, yet continued to climb, on iron rungs that stung their hands. Though they did not look down, they could sense the watching crowd below.
Both men had been raised far to the south, in the same village of the county of Middlesex. They were a long, long way from home, but with their master, they’d been given a task by Queen Margaret herself. That was what mattered. They’d ridden further north from Sandal Castle, leaving behind the bloody ground and the pale, stripped bodies lying on it. They’d taken cloth sacks to the city of York, with the gales rising around them.
Sir Stephen Reddes watched from below, one hand raised against ice flecks on the wind. The choice of Micklegate Bar was no accident. English kings had always used that tower to enter York from the south. It did not matter that hail stung his men or that darkness was thick as dust in the air. They had their charge, their orders – and all three were loyal.
Godwin Halywell and Ted Kerch reached a narrow wooden ledge above the crowd. They edged out on to it, leaning back when they feared a wild gust might snatch them off. The crowd thickened beneath them, gleaming just a little with white hail resting on dark hair. Shuffling figures still came out of houses and inns, some of them demanding answers from the local men on the walls. There were no replies called back. The guards had not been told.
Short iron spikes ha
d been set a dozen feet above the ground, too high for friends of executed men to reach. There were six in all, driven deep in good Roman mortar to lean out over the city. Four of them bore rotted heads, gaping at the night.
‘What do we do with these?’ Halywell called. He gestured helplessly to Kerch over the row of heads between them. There’d been no orders about the remains of criminals. Halywell swore under his breath. His temper was shortening and the hail seemed to blow even harder, a lash against his skin.
He let anger smother his revulsion, reaching out to the first head and taking hold. Its mouth was full of white beads of ice, shifting. Though he knew it was idiocy, a fear of being bitten meant he could not bring himself to put his hand between the jaws. Instead, he hooked his fingers under and just heaved the thing off its spike into the darkness. The lurching effort almost sent Godwin Halywell after it. He grasped the stones with white fingers, panting. Voices cried out below and the crowd surged back and forth, shocked at the idea that heavy, dangerous things might come flying down amongst them from the gatehouse tower.
Halywell looked along the wall to Kerch and they exchanged a glance of grim resignation, just two men getting on with unpleasant work while others watched and judged them from relative safety. It took time to remove and throw down the remaining heads. One of them all but shattered on the stones below, with a noise like pottery breaking.
Halywell supposed they did not have to clear all the spikes. They carried only three heads in the two sacks they bore, but somehow it did not seem right to set their charges alongside common criminals. He had a sudden thought of Christ sharing the hill of skulls with thieves, but he shook his head, concentrating on the job at hand.
While the wind howled, Halywell brought his sack up to his right shoulder, fumbling in its depths to wrap his fingers around locks of hair. Blood had stuck the heads to the cloth, so he had to wrestle the sack half inside out, almost tumbling off the wall again with his efforts. Gasping in fear and weariness, Halywell held it steady enough to snatch out the head of Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury.
The hair wound around his fingers was iron-grey and the eyes had not rolled up, so that the slack face seemed to peer at him in the torchlight. Halywell muttered a prayer he had almost forgotten, wanting to cross himself, or at least to close the eyes. He had thought he was inured to horrors, but having a dead man watch him was something new.
It was no small task to spike a head. Halywell had received no instructions, as if every man of sense would have known immediately how it should be done. As it happened, he’d spent a summer of his childhood slaughtering pigs and sheep with a dozen other lads, earning the odd silver farthing or a bit of glistening liver to take home. He had a vague idea of there being a space at the base of a skull, but he couldn’t seem to find it in the dark. He was almost sobbing as he worked the head back and forth, his hands slipping and his teeth chattering. All the time, the crowd were watching, murmuring names of men.
The iron rod sank in suddenly, piercing the brain and running up against the inside of the skull. Halywell sighed in relief. Below his feet, many in the crowd crossed themselves, like a flutter of wings.
He pulled out the second head on good, dark hair, much thicker than the grey locks of the first. Richard, Duke of York, had been clean-shaven at the moment of his death, though Halywell had heard bristles would keep growing for a time, after. Sure enough, he could feel an unpleasant roughness on the jaw. He tried not to look at the face and jammed the head down on to its own iron point with his eyes pressed shut.
With hands smeared in seeping muck, Halywell made the sign of the cross. Along the line, Kerch had spiked the third head alongside York. That had been an evil thing, everyone said. The rumour was that York’s son Edmund had been fleeing the battlefield. Baron Clifford had caught him and cut the boy down, just to spite his father.
All the heads were fresh, with their jaws sagging open. Halywell had heard of undertakers who sewed the lower jaw to the cheek or stuck it shut with a mouthful of tar. He didn’t think it mattered. Dead was dead.
He saw Kerch was turning back to the iron rungs set in the stone, their work done. Halywell was about to do the same when he heard Sir Stephen calling up to him. He could barely make out words over the wind, but the memory sprang alive and he swore aloud.
A paper crown nestled at the bottom of his sack, stiff and dark with dried blood. Halywell unfolded it, looking askance at the head of York. He had a handful of thin split-pegs in a pouch at his waist, cut from dry reeds. Muttering about foolishness, he bent to the head and fixed the thing on to the dark hair, lock by lock. He thought it might remain for a while, in the shelter of the tower, or be blown across the city by the time he was down on solid ground. He didn’t much care. Dead was dead, that was what mattered. All the hosts of heaven wouldn’t care if you’d worn gold or paper, not then. Whatever the insult was meant to be, Halywell couldn’t see it.
With care, he swung on to the ladder and climbed down the first couple of steps. As his eyes came level with the row of spiked heads, he paused, looking across them. York had been a good man, a brave man, so he’d heard. Salisbury too. Between them, they’d challenged for the throne and they’d lost it all. Halywell thought about telling his grandchildren he was the one who’d spiked York’s head on the walls of the city.
For an instant, he had a sense of presence, of a breath on his neck. The wind seemed to fall away in a lull and he was staring across three humiliated men in silence.
‘God be with you all,’ he whispered. ‘May He forgive your sins, if you had no time to ask at the end. Let Him welcome you lads. And bless you all. Amen.’
Halywell descended then, away from the moment of terrifying stillness, back into the heaving crowd and all the noise of men and cold of winter.
1461
The smylere with the knyf under the cloke.
Geoffrey Chaucer, ‘The Knight’s Tale’
1
‘You make too much of it, Brewer!’ Somerset snapped, raising his face into the wind as he rode. ‘ “The Lord went before them in a pillar of cloud”, yes? “Columna nubis”, if you knew your Exodus. Black threads in the air, Brewer! It puts the fear of Almighty God into those who might yet stand against us. And there is nothing wrong with that.’ The young duke turned to look over his shoulder at the greasy trails still rising behind them. ‘The men must be fed: that’s the long and the short of it. What are a few peasant villages now, after all we have accomplished? I’d scorch the sky black if it meant the lads ate well. Eh? Anyway, in this cold, you’d think they’d welcome a good fire.’
‘Yet the news will run ahead of us, my lord,’ Derry Brewer said, ignoring the rough humour. He was striving for politeness, though his stomach felt as if it touched his backbone and hunger gnawed at him. At moments like this, he missed Somerset’s father, for the old man’s subtlety and understanding. The son was quick and clever enough. But there was no depth to him. At twenty-five, Henry Beaufort had some of the military confidence men liked to follow. He would have made an excellent captain. Unfortunately, he was in sole command of the queen’s army. With that in mind, Derry tried again to make his point.
‘My lord, it’s bad enough that messengers run south with news of York’s death, while we stop for supplies in every town. Our skirmishers loot and murder and the men spend the full day catching up to them – while local lads race to warn the next village in our path. It is harder and harder to find food, my lord, when those who prefer to keep their goods have hidden them all away. And I’m sure you know why the men set fires. If they cover up crimes in each village we pass, we’ll have the whole country in arms before we even see London. I do not believe that is your intention, my lord.’
‘I’m sure you could persuade a man to sell you his own children. I do not doubt it, Brewer,’ Somerset replied. ‘You always seem to have a fine argument ready. Yet you have been too long a queen’s man.’ So confident was Somerset in his own rank and strength that he thought not
hing of adding a certain insulting emphasis to the words. ‘Yes, that is the trouble, I think. There are times for your long plans, of a certainty, for your … French whispers, Brewer. Perhaps when we reach London. I don’t doubt you would have us wait patiently at all the local markets, bargaining or begging for bowls of stew or a fine capon or two. And you would see us starve.’ His voice rose in volume to carry to the marching ranks around. ‘Today is for these men, do you follow? See our lads march a stripe down the country – miles wide of archers and men-at-arms, fresh from victory. With their weapons held ready! You can see by looking at them, they have had a fine battle. See their pride!’
The crescendo in his voice demanded a response and the men around him cheered his words. Somerset looked smug as he faced Derry Brewer once again.