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

by Conn Iggulden

  Somerset helped York’s herald climb over the mass of wood and thorn, ignoring all protests as the man’s clothes snagged and tore. Even as he was sent on his way, Derry could see the herald taking in every detail of the archers. The man did not look pleased at what he saw.

  A stone came from somewhere outside, looping through the air and making an archer swear in Welsh as he had to flinch away or be struck. Derry’s mouth tightened in anger.

  ‘My lord Tudor!’ he called loudly. ‘Do your men know King Henry has given orders to stand here and make no attack?’ It was not strictly true, but his shout was for the benefit of those who might let anger or sudden pain rule their thinking. The archer who had dodged the stone glared down at him from his position on top of the barrier, but Earl Jasper Tudor nodded, speaking in Welsh and pointing at the man until he dipped his head and turned to stare out once again. Another great piece of flint crashed down against the wood and Derry hissed a curse to himself. Somerset was busy with his own herald, but the problem was that armed men under threat of injury were not reliable at all. He heard one of the Welshmen call out a mocking insult to someone on the other side, lost to view. The man’s companions all hooted with laughter, while Derry’s spirits sank. The barrier was dry wood for the most part. He saw there were buckets of water ready in case it was fired, but there were different kinds of spark.

  Somerset’s herald finished nodding through his instructions, helped by the Welshmen to climb the barricade, on the heels of York’s man. The herald was pale as he went, not enjoying the prospect of passing through jeering soldiers on the other side of the barrier.

  Somerset walked over to where Derry was peering through gaps in the thorns, looking grim.

  ‘If York has sense, he’ll pull his men clear before someone gets a shaft down his throat or calls the wrong insult,’ Somerset said.

  ‘Those are Salisbury’s men, my lord. And they look as if they are spoiling for a fight. My lord, if you hear Earl Percy is intending to come down here, you might want to dissuade him. There are scores to settle between Percy and Neville and I don’t want them settled today, if you take my meaning.’

  As Derry spoke, another flight of stones came over, knocking one of the archers back so that he fell screeching into the thorns, slipping down between two great oak tables. Those close to him shouted in anger and Derry saw one of them bending his bow with his teeth bared, blood running down his face. Jasper Tudor was bellowing an order, but the archer loosed his shaft and then howled in triumph. Half a dozen more took it as a signal to attack, and Tudor’s orders were lost in a roar from both sides.

  Derry heard a scream of pain sound above the noise and then almost lost his footing as the entire barricade lurched, rocking back and forth. He could feel axes chopping into wood and he drew his seax knife from the sheath on his hip.

  ‘Christ!’ he muttered. ‘My lord Somerset, we need more men here!’

  In answer to his prayers, a troop of soldiers were already running towards the blocked road, swords bared and ready. Somerset ordered them into ranks and Derry stepped back to observe the defences. The barrier was a brutal obstacle, whether those beyond it were just a small group of angry men or the first ranks of a full assault by Salisbury’s forces. It would hold for a time, with Tudor’s archers shooting in volleys, yelling a count to each other as they picked targets at close range. To Derry’s astonishment, one of them was declaiming in verse, call and answer, with all the Welsh archers joining in.

  Somerset saw Derry almost dancing from foot to foot in indecision.

  ‘I have it here, Brewer,’ he said. ‘Go!’

  Derry ran, cutting around the timbered home of some wealthy merchant and along to the second and third barriers. They were even tighter than the first, smaller alleys blocked to the height of two men and swarming with soldiers who clambered up the beams of the houses on either side to get a look at the enemy.

  ‘Hold this position!’ Derry shouted as he reached them, careless of his own right to give orders. ‘They don’t get past!’ The barricades were solid enough, he realized, sprinting back up the hill to the marketplace, where the king and the bulk of the royal column were still crammed in. At every step, Derry passed men jumping up from their meals and resting places, streaming down against his course towards the sounds of fighting. It was chaos, with no obvious figure in charge of any of it. Derry cursed York and Salisbury under his breath as he pounded up the hill until his breath felt like flame in his lungs.

  York clenched his fists tight behind his back as he faced Somerset’s herald. The man had sunk to both knees in the presence of a duke and Earl Salisbury, but the fact that he was in Somerset’s livery rather than the king’s meant York knew what he would say before the herald opened his mouth. York’s expression darkened further as the nervous man stammered through the message he had been given. Words that had been spoken by King Henry while surrounded by his loyal lords sounded much harder in York’s own tent.

  ‘… you must then, d-depart from this place to await the king’s judgement and …’ The herald cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his scalp under York’s cold gaze, ‘… and pray for his mercy.’ He shut his mouth and dipped his head, praying on his own behalf that he would not be beaten or killed for carrying such a message. Back towards the town, some ruckus was beginning, with shouting voices raised in anger. It all seemed far away at that moment and the herald swallowed uncomfortably.

  ‘Damned and oathsworn?’ York repeated in wonder, shaking his head. ‘King Henry offers me nothing but damnation?’

  ‘I was told only to repeat the king’s words, my lord. I … I have no permission to add more.’

  The shouting had become a roar and York looked up from the hapless subject of his fury.

  ‘Salisbury? Send someone out to see … no, I’ll go myself.’

  He strode past the herald without bothering to dismiss him. Salisbury followed on York’s heels and the man was left in the empty command tent to wipe sweat from his brow.

  York swore as he looked across the field and saw the barricade across New Lane rocking back and forth, cries and shouts sounding across the field. He could see archers scrabbling around on the makeshift construction, taking shots as they fought to keep their footing.

  ‘Have your men brought back out of range,’ York snapped. ‘Then summon the captains.’

  Salisbury inclined his head without a word, careful to show no sign of his own satisfaction. The chance for peace had come and gone in a few rash words from the king. Salisbury could have blessed Henry at that moment.

  The sun was still rising as thirty-two men gathered around York. Each was a veteran, well armed and sufficiently experienced to have risen to command for their noble patrons. He saw their grim determination and chose his words to suit.

  ‘I have received King Henry’s herald,’ York began, making his voice ring out with a sizeable fraction of the anger and betrayal he felt.

  Hundreds of soldiers began to trot closer to that small group of captains as they realized their fate was being decided. The barricades were left behind for the Welsh archers to jeer at the retreating soldiers. A dozen bodies lay at the foot of the thorns and piled wood, already cooling.

  ‘Although it was my aim to settle this dispute without recourse to arms,’ York went on sternly, ‘I have been denied. King Henry has evil men around him who think nothing of trampling the names of York and Salisbury under their heels. Aye, and Warwick too.’ His fury swamped him so that his voice rose to a bellow. ‘Do not mistake me! My quarrel is not with the king! I am no traitor, though there are some poor fools who call me so – and who would make traitors of every man here. I do not believe my plea for justice reached the king at all, but was instead caught and held by liars and knaves. If the king had heard my suit, he would have granted me a meeting under truce.’

  He paused to glare round at the assembled men, seeing that his words were reaching a vast audience. His chest swelled, while Salisbury stood in silence,
watching his friend’s anger take them on, wherever it would lead.

  ‘Instead, I have been scorned! Cast out from the king’s grace by lesser men. All those who stand in Key Field will be hunted and hanged as traitors unless we settle this today. That is the choice I have been given. Must I choose to slink away? Must I leave my king in the clutches of whispering traitors, there to wait for a judgement that will mean the end of York?’

  It was too much for the men beyond their captains. They cried out in his support, a growl of unformed words. Many of them were Yorkshire born, loyal to his house above all other claims on them. Even among Warwick’s red-coated followers, there were fists held high and voices yelling to bring down the king’s counsellors.

  ‘They have already shed the blood of good men who desired nothing more than peace!’ York roared at them, pointing back at the barricades and the littered corpses. ‘They will have my answer now. They will have an answer that tears down their banks of thorns and frees the king from their grasp.’

  More and more cheered him, breathing faster as they listened, standing tall on the churned earth.

  ‘King Henry’s safety is your charge and mine,’ York warned them all. ‘He will not suffer one scratch, on the soul and honour of every one of you. I am no traitor! And I see none here.’

  The noise had grown with every passing moment so that York had to shout at the top of his lungs just to be heard.

  ‘Captains! Return to your men. We will make a breach into the town and rescue King Henry from those who hold him. Go, gentlemen, in your fury. York holds the left, Salisbury the centre, Warwick the right. Form ranks for me now. Take this town for me. Save the king. God save the king!’

  As his final words were echoed in a great hoarse bellow, the captains ran to their positions, followed by hundreds of their men, so that the crowd seemed to explode out from where York was standing. It took only moments for three battle groups of a thousand to grab their weapons and armour and race to stand facing the town.

  Salisbury, Warwick and York’s son Edward were waiting quietly together as York turned to them, his face flushed from shouting. Salisbury shook his head in awe.

  ‘Good God, Richard. I saw your great-grandfather in you then. The blood runs true, I think.’

  ‘Remember that I wanted peace, first,’ York said, his gaze falling to his son. He kept his eyes on Edward, wanting him to understand. ‘I will free King Henry from those who hold him hostage, nothing more. That is my order. They may call me a traitor. I will not be one.’

  Edward swallowed and nodded, his pride showing clearly.

  ‘Stay at my side, lad,’ York said, gentling his tone. He raised his head to give the formal command. ‘Earl Salisbury, if you would do me the honour, your position is the centre ground. Earl Warwick, yours is the right wing. There are three ways into the town, gentlemen. All guarded and blocked. I’ll wager I will climb the hill before you.’

  They smiled, as he wished them to, just as his own expression became serious.

  ‘Protect the king, gentlemen. Above all else and with your own lives, if you must. Our quarrel is with Somerset and Buckingham and Percy, not Henry of Lancaster. Give me your word.’

  All three swore an oath on their honour and York nodded, satisfied.

  ‘This morning is already old,’ he said. ‘Let’s use the light.’

  14

  Jasper Tudor had split his Welsh archers between the three barricades, sending thirty and an experienced captain to each one. He’d known they would be valuable men to bring to the king’s Progress, but not that they would be absolutely vital to his defence. The houses that backed on to Key Field had one or two high windows set into the walls that were perfect for the task, so that his Welshmen kept a rain of arrows snapping down on the attacking forces. Tudor felt satisfaction, mingled with awe, as the barricades rocked and shuddered. This was no raid or skirmish, he could tell that much. Three armies had formed out on the rough earth, then come in with a roar and clatter.

  The barrier groaned, heaved back and forth. Tudor heard something snap in its midst, a different crack to the thumps of bows sounding on all sides. The Yorkist soldiers were using long pikes to snag the ropes and heave backwards. Other men protected the teams with shields, and they would have had the barrier in pieces in no time at all, if not for his lads. At a range of just a dozen feet, his archers sent shafts right through the straining warriors, laughing and calling out the count of those they’d snatched from life. One of his captains chanted lines from Y Gododdin, the martial poem, raising the spirits of those who knew the language, and irritating the rest.

  Tudor saw the Percy son, Lord Egremont, come racing down the hill with a few score of axemen at his heels. Egremont took in the situation at a glance and grinned to Tudor, a mark of appreciation for his efforts, as he arranged his own men to repulse any sudden breakthrough. Without the archers, the barricade would have fallen before he’d arrived, but they were still taking a terrible toll, emptying quivers until their shoulders trembled with the repeated strain.

  Tudor stood back as pieces of mud-brick fell around him. A few of his lads had gone inside the house overlooking the lane and kicked out a hole in the wall of the upper floor. One of them leaned out with his arm gripped by a mate inside, seeking the best vantage spot. Tudor was looking up at him when a shaft came from the field and slotted through the archer’s jack vest, tearing him away from the grip of his friend so that he fell, striking the ground head first. Tudor heard Egremont swear in shock at the sight, but they’d known there were archers with York. Those men had been brought up and now the work to defend the lane became much harder, a game of quick glances and quicker shots. Tudor’s bowmen dared not aim for longer than a heartbeat, not with other archers watching for their heads to appear. Their accuracy suffered as a result, and York’s pike teams dragged weak sections of the barricades back and away, cheering every small reduction in the mass of thorns, rope and wood that blocked their path. On the street side, Tudor saw Egremont’s men bringing up more tables and dragging uprooted thorn trees from a great pile to adorn them. The barrier deepened and grew, about as fast as it was ripped out.

  Jasper Tudor turned as Egremont approached him. Tudor was an earl faced with a mere baron, so Egremont bowed deeply, to the Welshman’s private delight. Egremont was both taller and broader than he was, with the massive chest and shoulders of a swordsman trained from his earliest years. On the other hand, Jasper Tudor was half-brother to the king. He smiled in greeting.

  ‘I’ve sent a runner up to my father,’ Egremont said. ‘We can hold them here, I think. We’ll need more men – and to set them to maintaining the barriers.’ He frowned as he spoke, and Jasper Tudor understood immediately. Men like Egremont were trained for manoeuvres in the field of battle, not to defend tables and thorns in a side alley. If the York soldiers broke through, the fighting would be vicious, but until then, it was a grinding, bloody stalemate.

  ‘Have you word of any plan beyond holding the roads?’ Tudor asked.

  Egremont glowered to himself, shaking his head.

  ‘Nothing yet. God knows, we can’t have the king stopped in one town for ever. I think I saw messengers riding out to the south, though if it’s reinforcements they’re after, we’ll be here a week, waiting for them.’

  ‘And there could be more coming to bolster York’s numbers,’ Tudor said, rubbing his face with his hand.

  ‘My father says all you Welsh are cunning, like the Scots,’ Egremont said with a half-smile. ‘Can you use those wits to find a way for us to beat them? I have a powerful desire to see Salisbury’s head on a pike-pole today, along with his sons’. His family will be hard-broken after this treachery. At least there’s that, to keep me warm.’

  ‘Your father does not like my countrymen, I’ve noticed,’ Tudor said warily.

  ‘No, he calls you trolls,’ Egremont replied lightly, ‘though he likes your bows well enough. I’ve yet to make my own judgement.’

  ‘On the
bows or the men?’

  ‘On the men. I would give a good-sized manor house for more of your archers here. That much I know. They may steal the spoons, but by God, they can make a shot.’

  Earl Tudor stared closely at the young baron, his eyebrows high in surprise. After a moment, he realized the man was needling him for his own amusement and he chuckled.

  ‘They were telling me they can’t get to the spoons. Every time they go into a house, one of your English virgins pulls them into a closet. I think you’ll use those spoons to feed a few Welsh bastards next year.’

  ‘Yes, he calls you that, as well,’ Egremont said. He clapped Tudor on the shoulder and both men chuckled, the tension easing. Thomas held out his hand and Jasper Tudor took it briefly, each of them gripping hard enough to crush.

  As they shook hands, three hundred men-at-arms came trotting down the hill, wearing Percy blue-and-yellow surcoats and carrying banners. Egremont looked up, pleased to see his father’s men.

  ‘We can hold here – all day or all week, if we must. Though it galls me to be unable to strike back, we can take a toll of them from our barriers. Either way, at least the king is safe. For all their God-cursed arrogance, York and the Nevilles have chosen the wrong town to attack – and the wrong way to do it.’

  For a full hour, Warwick watched coldly as a shield wall and pikemen assaulted a barrier as tall as he was on his horse. He had hidden his anger all morning. Both his father and York had their own reasons for being there, but between them they had hamstrung the captains they commanded. York had wanted to meet under truce with the king and Warwick’s father had wanted only to get in range of the Percy lords. As a result, they’d wasted every chance to use the larger army they’d brought to St Albans. If Warwick had been able to make the sun rise again, he knew he would have met the king on the road, on open land. King Henry would have been forced to surrender, or they’d have slaughtered his column, overwhelming it with sheer numbers of fighting men and archers. Instead, his father and York had managed to place themselves in a position where three thousand men had to funnel through narrow alleys into the town. The massive advantage of numbers was next to useless, and Warwick could only thank God his archers were there to hamper the shots of Welshmen from the other side. It would have been a slaughter without his redcoats – and yet the barricades remained, with each side picking at them.