Wars of the Roses: Trinity (War of the Roses Book 2)

by Conn Iggulden

  Salisbury smiled easily at that thought, settling himself on a stool and accepting the cloth around his shoulders as his servant brushed warm oil on to his face and stropped the razor. On the borders of Scotland, a place he always pictured frozen or battered by stinging rain, Salisbury knew his old colleague Earl Percy would be spitting mad with rage. The thought brought further balm to an already perfect summer’s morning.

  His manservant raised the blade and Salisbury held up his hand.

  ‘Let’s make it interesting, shall we, Rankin? A stripe on your back for every nick, a half-noble if you manage the task without one. How does that appeal to your black gambler’s heart?’

  ‘Very well indeed, my lord,’ Rankin replied.

  It was an old game between the two men. Though it was true the servant had been flogged half a dozen times over the years, he’d won enough to give a good dowry to his three daughters, a fact he was sure the earl knew very well. Rankin’s hand was steady as he shaved away the bristles from Salisbury’s throat. Around master and servant, Neville men-at-arms nudged each other and grinned, making their own quiet bets amongst themselves as they packed up their camp and made ready to march north.

  Alice, Countess Salisbury, emerged from the tent without her shoes on, grasping the turf with bare feet and breathing deeply of the morning air. She saw her husband was being shaved and decided against calling out. She knew Rankin treasured the coins he won far more than his usual salary. For a long moment, Alice stood and watched her husband with visible affection, pleased that he remained so strong and hale despite his years. His fifty-fifth birthday was coming in just a few months, she reminded herself, already thinking of what gift she might have made for him.

  Running footsteps made some of the men turn from the scene, though Rankin continued to smooth and scrape, concentrating on his task and its reward. Salisbury looked up slowly and carefully to see one of the young boys who’d accompanied the wedding party. He had a vague memory of the lad from the night before, sucking deeply on a wineskin before being violently sick, to the amusement of the men.

  ‘My lord!’ the boy called as he ran in and skidded to a stop. His eyes were wide at the sight of a man being shaved in a field.

  ‘What is it?’ Salisbury said calmly, stretching his chin out to give Rankin a clear line for his razor.

  ‘Men coming, my lord. Soldiers and bowmen, all running along here.’

  Salisbury jerked and then swore as the razor bit his cheek. He stood up abruptly, grabbing the cloth from his neck to wipe the oil and the smear of blood from his face.

  ‘Mount up!’ Salisbury roared at the startled men around him.

  They darted away, sprinting for their horses and weapons.

  ‘My horse, here! Rankin, you clumsy sod, you’ve cut me. Horse! Alice! God’s bones, will you put your shoes on!’

  The drowsy tableau broke apart as men ran in all directions, stumbling and shouting for the captains who commanded them. By the time Salisbury had mounted, there were ranks of horsemen between their master and whoever approached. Those with the sharpest eyes called out ‘Archers!’ over and over, so that shields were thrown up to the horsemen and the Neville bowmen ran forward, stringing their own weapons as they went.

  ‘My lord, your armour!’ Rankin said. The man had grabbed an armful of metal, one arm through a circular gorget, hanging half-open on its hinge. He ran beside the stirrup as the earl trotted his horse forward. The stewards who would have dressed their lord were nowhere to be seen. Rankin handed up a long sword and almost vanished under the hooves as he stumbled.

  ‘No time, Rankin. That gorget though, I’ll take that. And fetch me a shield, would you? There’s one hanging there, on that tree, can you see it?’ He reached out as Rankin tossed the collar up to him, snatching it out of the air and snapping it shut around his throat. Ahead, a hundred and fifty foot soldiers and sixty archers waited patiently for him to join them. Salisbury looked behind him to see that his wife and son had been found horses. The new bride was there as well, her hands twisting whitely before her. An expression of worry came over the earl’s face at the sight of that vulnerable little group. He turned back and his son looked up at the sound of hooves.

  ‘What is it, sir? Who’s coming?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Salisbury said. ‘I’ll just have to leave a couple alive to ask them, won’t I? Your task is to get your mother and Maud to safety. This is not your concern, John, not today.’ He did not say aloud that if the young couple were killed, there was a chance those valuable dowry manors could revert to Lord Cromwell or even fall into Percy hands once again, exactly the sort of dispute that kept the judges of the King’s Bench busy for months or years. It was not the sort of thing to say in front of a new bride, though Salisbury was pleased to see Maud leap into a saddle, as nimble as any farm girl of good stock. Her long skirts rode high up her legs and, in the presence of his wife, Salisbury looked away. His son blushed and dismounted to tug the layers down.

  ‘Let it be, John. I’ve seen a girl’s legs before. Alice? Heed your son in this. I’ll want you safe. Stay well clear of any fighting, unless the day is lost. Then you’ll run south, back to Tattershall.’

  ‘Sheriff Hutton is closer – and ours,’ his wife said, wasting no words with her husband twitching to be away.

  ‘We don’t know what lies ahead, Alice, just behind. Follow John. The south is clear and Cromwell will surely keep you safe until one of the family comes for vengeance. That’s if I fall. These are my best men, Alice. I’d risk my last coin on them.’

  ‘You want us to ride now?’ his wife said.

  He loved her then, for the serious look and the complete lack of any fear in her. Salisbury could see Maud watching the older woman and learning just a little about being a Neville that day.

  ‘Not until you hear I have fallen, or the day is lost. You’ll be safer here, with my men in reach, than riding out.’ He stopped, realizing that an enemy could well have circled around in the night, ready to catch anyone escaping to the south.

  ‘Carter! Come here, would you?’ he called to a heavyset horseman passing them.

  The man jerked in the saddle, craning around to see who spoke his name, then turning his horse in place with great skill.

  ‘Good man, Carter,’ the earl said as he came close. ‘I need some fellows to scout to the south, to check the line of retreat. Take four and report back here to the Countess.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ the man replied, raising his visor and whistling sharply to catch the attention of a group of riders belting past.

  ‘Good enough,’ Salisbury said. He smiled at his wife and son. ‘I’m needed now. God’s blessing be on you all. Ladies, John. Good luck.’

  Salisbury dropped his visor and dug in his heels, missing the spurred boots that would have had his horse leaping forward regardless of who or what lay in front. Yet he had a sword in his right hand, a shield in his left and good iron around his throat. It would have to do.

  He cantered up to the ranks of mounted Neville men, then through them as they pulled aside to let him come to the front. Salisbury could see a large number of soldiers riding and marching without haste towards his position. He squinted into the distance, wishing he had the sharp eyes of the young lad who’d spotted them first. Whoever they were, they wore no colours, carried no banners ahead of them. He swallowed dryly at the numbers, more than three times the size of his own force.

  ‘My wife said I’d not need so many of you, not for a wedding walk,’ he said to the man next to him, making him grin. ‘If any of us live through this, be so kind as to tell her she was wrong, would you? She’d be grateful for the knowledge, I’m sure.’

  Those around him chuckled and Salisbury was pleased at their confidence. Every man there had fought against hordes of savage Scots up on the borders when he’d last been Warden for the king. They knew their trade and they were well armoured in steel ring mail or plate, backed by sixty good archers who could take a bird in flight if th
ere was a flagon of beer for the shot.

  ‘Skirmishers! Seek ’em out!’ Salisbury roared, sending his archers loping into the long grasses ahead. He could see the approaching force bleeding its front edge as they did the same, dark trails of bowmen trotting away from the main force to wreak havoc and destruction. They would meet each other in the sun-dried meadows between, slotting arrows down the throats of those they faced. Numbers would tell there and he strained his eyes to see how many came against him. His charger snorted, chafing at the bit and the delay, so that he reached down and patted its neck.

  ‘Easy there, boy. Let the archers clear the way.’

  Both sides had drawn to a halt by then, while loping bowmen darted through the trees and long grasses between them, raising dust and butterflies in their wake. It was a golden morning and, though he was outnumbered, Salisbury gripped his sword, hearing the leather saddle creak as he leaned forward. He had a dozen enemies, more, but only one who might have risked such a force and had the funds and men to send it against him.

  ‘Percy,’ Salisbury muttered to himself. He only hoped the old man was there in person, so that he could see him cut down. It was too late to curse himself for not expecting the attack. Salisbury had brought a larger force to his son’s wedding than anyone had thought necessary, but still, there was a veritable army riding against them. He told himself he should have guessed the Percy lord would not sit quiet in Alnwick while he lost manors. Salisbury knew every detail of the Cromwell dowry estates. It was one reason he had been so happy to receive them, to spite the bitter old man who ruled the north.

  He shook his head, clearing away regrets and doubt. His men were well trained and fanatically loyal. They would serve.

  Thomas, Lord Egremont, watched the neat files of archers trotting away. Over the long summer, the grasses had been baked almost to white, yet grown so tall that a man only had to drop to one knee to vanish. He’d had the very devil of a time even finding the Neville party in lands he did not know well. Trunning had sent scouts ranging out in all directions the night before, casting his net wider and wider until one of them came bolting back in, red in the face and yelling his news. The Percy swordmaster had the men up and ready to march while Thomas had still been yawning and staring around him.

  He and Trunning had said little to each other since the lines had been drawn in the yard at Alnwick. Thomas had told himself he didn’t need the sour little strip of gristle, but the truth was, Trunning knew how to campaign. Old soldiers and townsmen looked to Trunning for orders, because he was always there to give them. It was no great skill, as far as Thomas could see. All it required was an eye for small things and a blistering temper. Thomas wondered if he imagined the man’s disdain whenever their eyes locked. It didn’t matter, even so. They had found the Neville wedding party and though there were far more soldiers than either of them had expected, they still had the numbers to slaughter them all.

  Thomas drew up at the centre of a line of horsemen, forming the right wing to five hundred axe and sword men, already bright with sweat from the hard march through the pre-dawn. As the archers went in ahead, it was a chance for those men to catch their breath. At least the day’s heat was still no more than a threat. It would be a misery later on, with the weight of armour and weapons and the sapping exhaustion of using them. Lord Egremont grinned at the thought, an expression that faded slightly as he saw Trunning bring his mount up close and insert the animal into the waiting line. The man was never still, and Thomas could hear his hoarse voice yelling threats at some unfortunate who had wandered out of position.

  Ahead of them, six score archers disappeared into the brush, each man on his own as they advanced and sought out targets. Thomas had no idea if the Nevilles had brought archers with them. If they had not, his hundred and twenty would begin the butchery with shafts, cutting them to pieces without the loss of a single one of his small army.

  Thomas jerked his head up as he heard someone scream, a distant figure lurching out from where he had been hiding himself. More yells sounded and across the mile of open ground, Thomas could see scurrying men who stopped and seemed to twitch and then moved on, sending arrows ahead of them. He shuddered, imagining the panting archers trying to look in all directions, waiting always for the sudden agony as they were seen and spitted through with a shaft. It was ugly work and it was clear by then that the Nevilles had their own lads out with bows to meet them.

  Thomas took a breath, looking stonily ahead rather than at Trunning for his approval.

  ‘Close up on them! With me, in good order!’ he shouted along the line.

  The men-at-arms took a firmer grip on their swords and axes and the horsemen clicked tongues in their cheeks, urging their mounts into a slow walk forward. The archers would be reaching the Neville lines, in range to bring them crashing down.

  Ahead of him, Thomas saw two burly men stand up suddenly, appearing out of the gorse and bushes. He saw them bend longbows and jerked his shield up, rocked back an instant later as a shaft struck it with a loud crack. The other disappeared past him, causing someone to cry out in pain or shock behind. Trunning was bellowing an order, but the line was already moving. Archers had to be charged and the line of horsemen surged ahead of those on foot, shields held high and visors down, swords ready to strike. Thomas felt excitement swell as he used his spurs to send his huge black horse into a plunging canter.

  The two archers tried to dodge, throwing themselves to the ground as the first horsemen closed the distance. Thomas saw them in a cloud of dust, scrabbling desperately to fend off hooves and a sword-blow as a knight galloped over them. Then they were behind, left for the axemen to cut as they raced up.

  He was riding hard by then, the line of armoured knights growing ragged as they encountered the natural obstacles of the land. Thomas felt his mount bunch and guided it over a thornbush, clipping it with its hooves so that the thing quivered in his wake. He adjusted his shield and leaned back, slowing the pace so that he would not get too far ahead. The Nevilles were there, just eight hundred yards or so away, looking small and weak against the pounding line of horses.

  ‘Lord Egremont! Slow down, you stupid …’

  Thomas looked around in fury as Trunning’s horse cut across him. The man had the impertinence to take hold of his reins and yank on them.

  ‘Take your hands off!’ Thomas snarled at him. He looked around then and saw that he had left his main force far behind.

  Trunning removed his grip, raising his visor and mastering his anger with some difficulty.

  ‘My lord, you’ll have them all blown, trying to keep you in sight. Half a mile is too far to run in mail. Where are your wits! Did those archers break your courage? Whisht, man, there aren’t so many now.’

  Thomas felt an almost overpowering desire to cut Trunning from his saddle. If he’d thought his father’s man could have been surprised he might have risked it, but Trunning was a veteran, always ready to leap away or attack. Even the swordmaster’s horse seemed to skitter in small steps from side to side, the old bag of bones as used to the clash of arms as its master. Thomas knew by then that Trunning was right to have halted him, but the words still stung and he could hardly see for rage.

  ‘See to the men, Trunning. Shout and order them as you please, but I’ll have your head on a pike if you dare touch my reins again.’

  To his disgust, Trunning merely grinned and pointed at the Neville force.

  ‘The enemy lies over there, Lord Egremont, if you are uncertain. Not here.’

  ‘I sometimes wonder, you pompous little whoreson,’ Thomas snapped. At least he’d scored a point with his father’s man. Trunning’s face darkened and he opened his mouth to reply, then ducked suddenly from some instinct as arrows flew around them, sent from both sides. Thomas swore, seeing two archers in jerkins of silver and red fall with arrows through their chests. He raised a hand in thanks to the pair of his men who had brought them down. They touched their forelocks to him, loping on.

 
; ‘Close up!’ Trunning roared. ‘Close on Egremont! Here!’

  The lines reformed around Thomas as he sat his saddle and fumed. He could hear the rasping breath of the men-at-arms as they reached him. They were panting hard in the thick morning warmth and it galled to know Trunning had been right, as always.

  ‘Stand here and rest,’ Thomas called to them, seeing relief flood their faces. ‘Take water and wait. We are three times their number, can you see?’

  When they had settled, he walked them all forward, his mount stepping gingerly over the bodies of dead archers as they came across them, each one lying alone with arrows standing like bristles in his flesh. Thomas could still hear the clatter of bows across the shrinking strip between the two forces, but he thought there were more bodies in Neville colours than his own grey men.

  All the time he had been racing about in the meadows with the horsemen and Trunning, the Nevilles had stood still, waiting for him. As his men settled down to a slow walk, he saw their line suddenly leap forward, coming in a rush. Thomas blinked. The Nevilles were so badly outnumbered, it was suicide to come out to where he could surround and destroy them. He had assumed Salisbury would dig in and defend his camp for as long as he could, perhaps while the man sent riders to summon aid. For them to attack made no sense at all.

  ‘Archers! Sight on the front ranks!’ he heard Trunning yell. It made Thomas’s spirits soar to see a dozen hidden men lurch up from the long grass, abandoning the savage game with the Neville bowmen to respond to Trunning’s order. As soon as they left cover, Neville archers leaped up in turn and arrows flew once more: short, chopping blows that snatched them from their feet. The toll was appalling on both sides, but Thomas could see six or eight of his bowmen survived to take aim at the Neville line. It was too late for them to run, and they shot volley after volley until they were engulfed.