Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) Page 6

  His horse, Retribution, had lost a bit of hide. An arrow had torn a stretch of his haunch and still hung from a strip of skin, snagged and dripping bright blood. With a wince, Derry worked it free, patting the torn skin back into place and soothing the animal with his voice. At least there were no flies in winter to settle on wounds.

  More ranks of archers and swordsmen marched past him, joining the throng heading downhill to the squares of men below. He could hear the crash of arms and high-called orders at the foot of the hill, where he’d once stared down at Richard of York’s much smaller army. Derry could hear Warwick’s drummers rattling death at the queen’s men, at that moment and six years before, the memories mingling as the wind tried to freeze his eyes open.

  The drummers could not hold back the attack. As Derry watched, he could see a great bite appear in the leftmost square as it was charged and rolled up. A nimble army might have turned to face the queen’s forces – perhaps some had. Yet half Warwick’s men were standing in trenches and ditches facing north, unable to deploy quickly to a new direction.

  Duke Somerset, Earl Percy of Northumberland, even Lord Clifford and the other barons took their men in at a reckless pace, recognizing an opportunity. Warwick’s squares would turn; his archers would scramble back to slow the queen’s army down while they did so. The outcome of the battle hung on how much damage and destruction could be done to that rear square before Warwick’s forces re-formed to face their tormentors.

  Derry rested his cheek against the whiskery soft muzzle of Retribution and stared across miles of farmland, pleased to be out of the fray. It might have been a moment of calm and beauty if two armies hadn’t been clashing on the open fields. At such a distance, Derry could barely see the banners. It was certainly too far off to mark individual men, or anything more than the main sweeps and charges, like herds moving across the earth.

  He had stood in a few lines of that kind, when he’d been young. Derry jerked his head, feeling a shiver run the length of his back as if his skin wanted to leap off him. He knew there was awful slaughter going on below, the final gasping instants when it comes down to two men rushing at each other with a club or a blade, with the will to stand until one of them dropped. And then again, and then again, until a man could hardly raise his sword as yet another young fellow steps up, all fresh and smiling, beckoning him in.

  Warwick sat with his hands numb on the reins, his fingers half frozen as they gripped the leather. His breath was visible, but with a thick wool coat under his armour, he was warm enough, a heat fed by both anger and embarrassment. He could hear his captains yelling orders to turn and face the enemy, but over them all, clearly visible, the streets of St Albans had become rushing streams of soldiers, pouring out on to the plain and biting into Montagu’s ranks like a devouring acid. Warwick shook his head, so furious with himself and with them that he could hardly summon his wits to command. Yet he did so. His horse and personal guard became the centre of galloping messengers, racing in to hear his orders, then charging away with cries for others to get out of their way. His captains knew their trade, but the Kent and London soldiers were raw, not used to quick manoeuvres on the field. It was one reason why Warwick had depended so heavily on a fortified position against the queen’s more experienced army. He knew his men had courage, but they had to be told when to stand or to retreat, when to flank and bolster a line, when to attack. The grand movements were the concern of the most senior officers, while big-handed labourers and fighting men decided the details with sharp iron.

  Warwick sent all his archers back in two trotting groups along the flanks. He clenched one fist as they began to send looping volleys soaring against the men still streaming down the hill. Not one in a score would strike at that range, but the queen’s forces would come with more caution under that whirring, hissing barrage.

  Warwick sent a boy to give his compliments to Norfolk. Through no fault of its own, the duke’s vanguard was as far as it could possibly be from the fighting. Norfolk had not moved at all since he had returned to his men. Warwick had no idea if his colleague had frozen in shock or was simply waiting to see the best use of his forces. The runner went with no orders, simply the expectation of some word from the duke to bring back.

  With that done, Warwick shook off the last of the lethargy that had made his thoughts slow. His own square of three thousand men had turned as best it could, climbing out of trenches and ramparts. It broke his heart to see it, but half the obstacles he had set for the enemy had become irritations to his own men forced to walk over them. Caltrops strewn across the ground sank in partway, making them invisible in the mud. Horses had to go wide around any field of those, for fear of ruining the animal for the price of a couple of iron nails bound together and tossed down. It was slow work and Warwick continued to command and harangue his officers. His brother John was deep in the thick of the fighting, his banners seeming to hold back a tide that threatened to spill right around him.

  Warwick thought then of King Henry. He could still see the tree where the king sat, unshackled. The man was close enough to stroll to his wife’s forces if he’d had the wit or the will. Warwick raised a gauntlet to his bare forehead, pressing hard enough over his closed eyes to leave a print of scales. His hand-gunners were assembling in awkward ranks. His archers had slowed the enemy. His men-at-arms were ready to march.

  Warwick sent one simple order to Norfolk, calling him in. He did not know if he could save his brother John, or even the left wing, but he could still turn the battle and prevent a rout. He muttered the words to himself in growing desperation.

  6

  King Henry came to his feet as a flood of marching men raced past him. His knees were aching, but he wished to confess to Abbot Whethamstede. The old man heard his sins every morning, a ceremony of great pomp and splendour, with a silent heart to it as Henry whispered his failings and his guilts. He knew he had lost good men through his weakness and poor health, men like William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk; men like Richard, Duke of York, and Earl Salisbury. Henry felt every death like another coin on the scales of his shoulders, twisting his bones, bearing him down. He had liked Richard of York, very much. He had enjoyed their conversations. That good man had not known the danger of standing against the king. Heaven cried out against blasphemy, and Henry knew York had been broken for his pride – yet the sin was also the king’s, as one who had not forced York to understand. Perhaps if Henry had made that truth ring in York’s ears, the man would live yet.

  The king had heard the talk in the camp, heard the fate of York and Salisbury and York’s son Edmund. He had witnessed the pain and hatred caused by those deaths, the ragged need for vengeance that took them all into darker lands, beginning to spiral together faster and faster like leaves in a gale. Under that weight of guilt, Henry was little more than one bright spot in the void, weak and flickering.

  Around his oak, thousands of the queen’s men were trotting, jingling, riding, spilling out of the town with faces still flushed from descending the hill. Two knights remained by the king, a tiny island of stillness left behind as Neville lines retreated. The most senior, Sir Thomas Kyriell, was a great bear of a man, a grey-haired veteran of two dozen years at war. His moustaches and beard were oiled and about as heavy as his appalled expression.

  Henry wondered if he should call to one of the passing men-at-arms, to say he would like to be taken up to the abbot. He took great breaths of the cold air, knowing that it sharpened his thoughts to do so. As he watched the men, many of them turned their heads to the lone figure, standing with one hand on the trunk of an ancient tree, smiling at them while they marched to the killing. One or two gestured back aggressively, somehow irritated by the peace and good humour they saw in him, so out of place on that field. They drew thumbs across their throats, raised fists, touched their teeth or jerked two fingers at the small group of three men. The movements reminded Henry of his music master at Windsor, who would cut the air with his hands for silence before every tun
e. It was a happier memory and he began at first to hum and then to sing a simple folk song, almost to the rhythm of the marching ranks.

  Sir Kyriell cleared his throat, going a deeper shade of red.

  ‘Your Grace, though that is a fine, strong tune, perhaps it is not suited for today. It is too sweet for soldiers’ ears, I think. Certes too sweet for mine.’

  The knight was sweating as the king laughed and continued to sing. The chorus was close and no song should be denied its chorus – old Kyriell would see that when he heard it.

  ‘And when the green is seen again, and the larks give song to spring …’

  One of the passing men in armour turned his head at the sound of a cheerful voice in such a place. The fighting was not far ahead, with screams and rushing arrows and the clamour of metal on metal mingling with men’s growling voices. They knew that music well, all of them. The high tenor calling out a song of spring was enough to make the knight rein in and raise his helmet.

  Sir Edwin de Lise felt his heart thump beneath his breastplate as he stared beneath the stark oak branches. The great tree looked dead, but it spread in twisting boughs for fifty feet in all directions, waiting for the green to return. At the foot of a massive trunk, two knights stood to flank one man, with their swords drawn and resting on the ground before them. They resembled stone effigies, still and dignified.

  Sir Edwin had seen King Henry once before, at Kenilworth, though at a distance. With care, he dismounted and pulled the reins over his horse’s head to lead the animal. As he ducked under the outermost branches, the knight removed his helmet completely, revealing a young face, flushed with awe. Sir Edwin was blond and wore a straggling moustache and beard, gone untrimmed for an age on the march and the campaign. He tucked the helmet under his arm and approached the three men, seeing tension in the pair who flanked their unarmoured charge. Sir Edwin noted the dirt that marred clothes of great quality.

  ‘King Henry … ?’ he murmured in wonder. ‘Your Majesty?’

  Henry broke off his singing at the words. He looked up, his eyes as blank as a child’s.

  ‘Yes? Have you come to take me to confession?’

  ‘Your Grace, if you will permit it, I will take you to your wife, Queen Margaret – and to your son.’

  If the knight had expected a rush of gratitude, he was disappointed. Henry tilted his head, frowning.

  ‘And Abbot Whethamstede? For my confession.’

  ‘Of course, Your Grace, whatever is your will,’ Sir Edwin replied. He looked up, sensing a subtle shift in the way the older knight stood.

  Sir Kyriell shook his head slowly.

  ‘I cannot let you take him.’

  Sir Edwin was twenty-two years old and certain of his strength and right.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, sir. Look around you,’ he said. ‘I am Sir Edwin de Lise of Bristol. What is your name?’

  ‘Sir Thomas Kyriell. My companion is Sir William Bonville.’

  ‘You are men of honour?’

  The question drew a spark of anger from Sir Kyriell’s eyes, but he smiled even so.

  ‘I have been called so, lad, yes.’

  ‘I see. Yet you hold the rightful king of England as a prisoner. Give His Grace into my care and I will see him returned to his family and his loyal lords. Or I must kill you.’

  Sir Kyriell sighed, feeling his age in the face of the younger man’s simple faith.

  ‘I gave my word I would not give him up. I cannot do as you ask.’

  He knew the blow was coming before it began. A more experienced warrior than the young man might have called for support from the ranks, perhaps even a few archers to grant him overwhelming force. Yet in his youth and power, Sir Edwin de Lise had not imagined a future where he could possibly fail.

  As Sir Edwin began to draw his sword, Kyriell stepped in quickly and jammed a narrow blade into his throat, then stepped back with sorrow written deep in the lines of his face. The young knight’s sword clicked back into its scabbard. The two stared at each other, Sir Edwin’s eyes widening in shock as he felt his warm blood spilling and his breath spattering droplets from his throat.

  ‘I am truly sorry, Sir Edwin de Lise of Bristol,’ Kyriell said softly. ‘Go to God now. I will pray for your soul.’

  The action had not gone unnoticed. As Sir Edwin fell with a crash, voices shouted in anger and warning. Those walking by were ready to fight, their pulses racing, their faces flushed. They were like wild dogs scenting blood in the air, and yet they did not rush the grey-haired figure in silver armour glaring at them all. More than a few of those men chose to look away from him, leaving the task to another. Yet there were enough. Men with billhooks stepped out and approached the tree, rushing the armoured knight who had killed one of theirs. Above them all, it began to rain, sheeting down across the field and making them all cold and sodden in an instant.

  Sir Thomas Kyriell did not raise his sword again. In grief and shame, he only turned his head a fraction to present his neck, so that the first swinging blow struck him dead. His companion struggled and roared until he was battered from his feet and his throat gorget hammered in with an axe-handle, so that Sir William Bonville choked to death in his armour.

  Resting one shoulder against the oak, King Henry shivered slightly, though it was the cold and the rain that raised his skin like a Christmas goose. He watched the deaths of his captors with no more horror or interest than he would have shown at the plucking of such a bird for the table. When the violence came to an end and those present turned to him, the king asked quietly once again to be taken to the abbot for confession. More senior men came then to bear him away, awed by their fortune. They had come to rescue the king and he had fallen into their hands in the first moments of the fighting. If there had ever been a sign that God was on the side of Lancaster, it was surely then.

  John Neville, Lord Montagu, staggered, breathing so hard he could feel his lungs curling like kidneys on a spit. There was blood running in veins on his armour, sliding and changing paths in the oil. He looked at the lines of red in confusion, slowly recalling a great blow that had rung his bell for him. Sparks of white shone at the edges of his vision, fading as the noise of fighting returned. One of his personal guard was staring at him, pointing to his eye.

  ‘Can you see, my lord?’ the man was asking, his voice oddly muffled.

  John nodded irritably. Of course he could see! He shook himself again and saw that his shield had fallen to the ground. The rain was turning everything to mud, but the fighting went on. Montagu blinked, the dimness fading away, to be replaced by cries and clashes. He understood he’d taken some sort of blow to his helmet. He could see it by his feet, with a great dent in its crest and dome. Montagu looked up as a boy skidded to a stop at his feet. He’d come through marching lines like a rabbit through gorse, holding a spare helmet up to his lord and master.

  The boy bowed his head as he presented the polished helm, panting visibly.

  ‘Thank you,’ Montagu managed.

  He jammed it down over his head, feeling blood unstick from his cheek and fresh pain sharpen him further. He drew his sword and looked at the blade, standing perfectly still while all around him the forces of the queen pushed on and on.

  ‘My lord, please, come with me now. We must fall back for a time.’

  The knight had taken him by the elbow and was tugging at him. Montagu shook him off, feeling weak but angry once again. He swallowed vomit, almost choking on it as it rose without warning into his throat, burning the inside of his nose. Head wounds were strange things. He’d known one man who had lost his sense of smell after such a blow, and another who lost all kindness, even to his own family.

  As a young knight of good form, John Neville had known for years that rage could let a man perform wondrous feats. He thought nothing of standing to face armed ranks. He had done so before in St Albans, when the lords Somerset and Percy had fallen. Their sons were lesser men – and they would not make him afraid. Though the sudden appearance
of the queen’s battle ranks had surprised him, the month of waiting and building his brother’s defences had worn heavily. It had been almost a relief to hear the church bells, for all the shock of an attack coming from the south. John Neville gripped the leather wrap of his hilt, feeling he had the strength. This was still his chance to take a sword and smash it into the face of an enemy, perhaps the very man who had butchered his father. Dazed and in pain, he remembered roaring orders and sending messengers back for support. He could taste blood and felt it gumming his lips. They’d broken through his first ragged lines by then, rushing and howling.

  Thousands of men had pounded down the hill towards his position, a flood of queen’s soldiers carrying axes, swords and bows. His hatred had given way to a sense of dread as the massed ranks had torn his standing flank apart. He recalled a dying knight dragging him down and the roar and heave he had made to fling that man away. Another had come running in, depending on speed and the weight of armour to break through the shields held to stop him. John Neville’s knights were sent tumbling, though they hammered his attacker into the ground. Two more lads with heavy billhooks had come at a sprint and the rain had begun to fall.

  Montagu remembered that moment as clearly as any other, when the sky had suddenly filled with pale drops as far as he could see, so that the hill of St Albans blurred. In the wet and the mud, men slipped and went down, with limbs wrenched the wrong way, their screeching more pitiful than a death cry.

  John Neville shook his head again, realizing he had been standing still for too long, like a bloodied statue. He could feel his scalp throbbing, but his spinning thoughts were slowing, growing clearer. He was John Neville. He was Lord Montagu. He could move. At his back, horns sounded and he knew Warwick was turning the army, bringing the main centre square out of its embankments and trenches. Norfolk would be riding along the open flanks, treading carefully across the trapped and spiked ground, to reach what had been the camp and the baggage and the safest spot on the field.