Warwick clenched his jaw in frustration. He’d rejected the idea of setting fires as soon as he’d seen the wooden beamed houses on either side. The entire town would become a furnace and then a tomb for the king. York had made it clear enough he would not countenance such an action, which left their soldiers to heave and struggle and die, with no way through.
Digging in his spurs, Warwick rode his mount further out along the line of rear walls. He could see the tower of St Peter’s Church above the town and he sensed he was observed. A sudden tightening of his eyes was the only sign of his interest, invisible to anyone watching. St Albans was an ancient town, sprawling on past the main streets in all directions. Some of the houses had gardens at the rear and he’d seen a short length of wooden fence alongside one great white home. It looked like open air beyond it, as if the gap ran along the full side of the house.
The king’s men had blocked the roads, so of course his father and York had assaulted those barriers. The more Warwick stared, the more he wondered if they had ignored other ways in. He had fought in London when Jack Cade’s Kentish men had attacked the city. Perhaps it was that mad rush of side roads and doubling back in darkness that had him looking for another route around the obstacles in his path.
One of his bondsmen knights was in the process of trotting his horse past with a dozen axemen in mail running in his wake. Warwick hailed him.
‘Gaverick! Sir Howard!’ Warwick called, feeling a shiver of excitement.
As the knight raised his visor and looked round, Warwick gestured him closer. The group halted, relaxing instantly at the slightest opportunity to rest.
‘I need … three hundred fresh men. A hundred of my redcoat archers and the rest with axes and shields. Fast men, Sir Howard – men who can run and cause havoc if we break through. Have no horns blown. There are sharp eyes at every window in town, ready to run with news to the king’s supporters. Gather the men to me and then be ready to follow.’
For just an instant, the knight’s gaze flickered over to where York and Salisbury were watching the assault on the barricades. Warwick shook his head before Sir Howard could ask his question.
‘No. I will not trouble York with this, not until I know where it leads.’ Warwick was twenty-six years old and had inherited the service of men like Sir Howard just six years before. He spoke with all the confidence he could muster, depending on the man’s loyalty to his colours and rank.
‘Very well, my lord,’ Sir Howard said stiffly, bowing from the waist. ‘You lads, remain here with Lord Warwick. Don’t cause trouble.’
He said the last while pointing at a surly-looking brute who had already settled down on the dark earth and was rummaging in his pouches for something to eat. The man glared back, tearing off some dried meat with his back teeth. Warwick saw Sir Howard open his mouth to comment and then decide against it, turning his mount and galloping over to the main force.
Warwick watched him go, his eyes narrowing in thought. He turned as the rest of the men sat down where they stood, encouraged by the example of the first. Warwick hesitated, then felt anger at himself as much as them.
‘Get up. Go on, up, all of you. I want you ready to march and fight.’
None of the men replied, though some leaped to their feet. Others rose more slowly, showing only irritation. Warwick returned their stares until he saw that just the first man remained sitting, looking up with a half-smile on his face.
‘What is your name,’ Warwick asked, ‘to refuse an order on the field of war?’
The man stood sharply at that, revealing great height and breadth, with a face half-hidden in black whiskers.
‘Fowler, my lord. I didn’t catch the order, my lord. I’ll follow, you don’t need to worry about me, my lord.’
The man spoke with studied insolence, though those around him showed only discomfort. Warwick realized the man was not well liked, perhaps one of those who brought a level of anger to every path they crossed. Yet he needed angry men for what he had in mind.
‘You were slow to stand, Fowler. You’ll go first, with me, into the town. Hang back and be hanged, or fight well and rise.’ Warwick shrugged deliberately, as if it mattered not at all. ‘Make your choice now and I’ll watch to see.’
For what seemed an age, Fowler held his gaze, revealing some barely banked resentment deep in his dark eyes.
‘I’ll fight well, my lord. The chance to put good steel in the guts of the king’s fancy nobles? I wouldn’t miss a chance of that, not for two o’ Christmas this year. If you’ll lead, that is, my lord.’
‘Watch me,’ Warwick replied, irritated with the man. He was saved from the exchange by Sir Howard’s return, bringing hundreds of men to surround the young earl on his warhorse.
‘With eyes on us, I will not point out the path,’ Warwick called to them as they settled, waiting for orders. ‘My aim is to break through the gardens of the houses and make our way up the hill to the king’s position. Anyone with hammers come to the front. Knock down anything in our way. I can’t see us climbing fences like boys after stolen apples.’ He paused as the assembled men chuckled. ‘If there is a way through, we don’t stop. If they’ve made other barriers beyond, we’ll turn aside and fall on the defenders at the first line. Those are my orders. The cry is “Warwick”, but not until we break through. Is that clear?’
Three hundred voices muttered, ‘Yes, my lord,’ as Warwick dismounted.
He saw Fowler’s eyebrows rise, but the path he hoped to take would only be possible on foot. He would not give up his armour, however, no matter how much speed it stole from him. Once more, Warwick remembered the dark alleys of the Cade rebellion and repressed a shudder. He drew his sword and took down his shield, gripping the straps.
‘Follow me. Hammers and axes to the front.’
It was not possible to sprint in a full suit of plate armour. Warwick walked as fast as he could, stalking along while three hundred men trotted in his wake. At first, it seemed their intention was to reinforce the shield wall at the barricades, but then he cut right, along the back walls of houses. The noise they made was no pleasant jingling, but the tramp and ring of armed men, ready to slaughter anything in their path.
Warwick reached the house he had spotted before, halting his followers with a raised hand. The man Fowler had been true to his word, staying so close to Warwick’s shoulder that the young earl wondered if he was a threat. Fowler stood ready, one of his eyebrows fixed high.
‘Take hold of my boot and lift me up, Fowler,’ Warwick ordered him. ‘I need to see.’
The big man gave a grunt and laid his axe by the fence, grabbing hold and shoving the earl so hard he nearly went straight over the top and into the garden.
Warwick breathed in relief as he gripped the fence-beam. Beyond, a tiny alley barely the width of a man’s shoulders stretched the length of the house. He could see a gate blocking any further view of the street, but it looked promising.
‘Down, Fowler,’ Warwick said.
The man seemed willing to hold him there all day, but then he let go and Warwick landed with a clatter of metal. He looked up in anger, galled at such close quarters to realize his head only came up to the lowest point of the man’s beard. Fowler seemed to realize his greater stature at the same moment, so that a smile spread across his face.
‘My thanks,’ Warwick said, earning a shrug as he turned to the rest of them. ‘This fence has to come down. After that, we’ll head up through the town. If we can reach the main street, our task is to roar “Warwick” and put the fear of God into the king’s men. Most of them are down here to defend the Key Field, but the king will be protected. I’ll know more when we reach the top of the hill. I hope you have the lungs and heart for the run.’
‘If you have, my lord,’ Fowler muttered.
‘Shut up, Fowler,’ Warwick snapped at him.
The big man seemed to loom over him for the moment that followed, but one of the axemen shoved Fowler from the side in rough warning.
<
br /> ‘Aye, shut up, you big sod,’ another man said. ‘Or would you have us back there, tugging at those barricades? I’d rather be here.’
Warwick saw the speaker was one of his red-coated archers and he smiled to himself, seeing the broadcloth was clean and brushed, a garment worn with pride.
Fowler snorted and lowered his head mulishly, though he could see the mood was against him. Warwick didn’t wait beyond that.
‘Get the fence down,’ he shouted. ‘Axes and hammers.’
There wasn’t space enough for more than a few men to stand and bring heavy iron against the wood. The fence was an old construction, its main beams made of strong oak. Even so, it was reduced to kindling in moments, and the first rush of men included Warwick and Fowler, still clinging to his shadow.
The weight of mail and weapons alone might have been enough to smash the rickety gate at the other end of the tiny alley. Those in the front rank brought hammers against it and the thing exploded into pieces on the road. On their left, they could hear the tumult by the closest barricade, the roaring and screaming of furious, struggling men. Ahead lay a narrow path between rows of houses, stretching up the hill.
‘Keep moving there! No one stops!’ Warwick shouted over his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of two soldiers in Percy colours coming to a shocked halt. Both men were knocked down in vicious cuts by axemen before they could cry out, then stabbed and trampled by those behind.
The sun was almost directly overhead and the day was growing warm as Warwick’s three hundred raced each other up the hill. None of them knew the town well, but the king would surely take the highest point for himself. As long as they moved up, they’d find him.
Somewhere lower down, Warwick could hear alarm horns sounding, as well as a different note as men yelled news of their breakthrough on both sides. He grinned at the thought of his father and York hearing he was already in the town. Those at the barricades would have to leave their posts to block his progress. The York advantage in numbers would tell then.
To his dismay, Warwick found himself panting wildly, his heart hammering and sweat making his eyes sting with salt. He’d kept his visor up, but running a hill in armour was a brutal exercise and he wondered if he’d reach the top only to burst his heart in the effort.
Women shrieked in fear and warning from high windows as he passed them, yet his three hundred went up the town like a dagger-strike, hardly seeing another armed man. Across their path, Warwick could see a main street running along the crest, with nothing higher. He could hardly believe his luck had held for so long, though he almost fell from exhaustion as he stopped just before the junction, leaning over to brace himself against a wall and wrestling his helmet from his head so that he could breathe. Sir Howard watched for a moment, then singled out the man at Warwick’s side.
‘Fowler!’ he said. ‘Stick your head out and tell me what you see.’
Fowler wrinkled his lip, but he didn’t have to look at the men glaring at him to know he couldn’t argue. He sidled up to the corner and glanced around it, then paused to stare.
‘Well?’ Warwick called behind him.
‘No one within a hundred yards,’ Fowler said, turning back. His eyes were wide and he shook his head in awed disbelief. ‘I saw the king beyond.’
‘His banners?’ Sir Howard demanded, even as he copied the man’s furtive action and leaned around the corner to look.
‘No, the king himself, sure as I’m standing here. Surrounded by hundreds of men and some sort of tent the size of a house, all stretched.’
Warwick was recovering his breath as Sir Howard returned to him for orders. All the men there and down the street were waiting on his word, whatever it would be. Warwick removed a gauntlet to rub sweat from his face. He had no right to the luck he’d been given, but he’d take it just the same. They’d broken right through and it was too late to wish he’d brought a thousand men instead of just three hundred.
‘Will you wait, my lord?’ Sir Howard said, clearly thinking the same. ‘I can send a runner back for more.’
‘No. That back garden can be blocked just as easily as the others,’ Warwick said. ‘We were seen and ten men could hold that path until kingdom come. No, Sir Howard, we’ll make a noise up here. We’ll attack. Those at the barricades will come rushing up the hill to protect the king. They won’t have any choice. And then those barriers will be pulled down and we’ll have them caught on two sides.’
The prospect of taking arms against the king’s own household and nobles was a sobering thought for most of them. Archers and axemen exchanged uneasy glances and many crossed themselves, fearful of divine judgement on their actions. Yet no one stepped back and Fowler was beaming like he’d been made Mayor for the day.
‘Archers across this road,’ Warwick said, his voice feeling tight in his throat. ‘As wide a rank as you can make. I won’t have you shooting at my back, so you’ll get one chance to knock the fight out of them and then we’ll go in. You’re to hold this spot in case we’re faced with too many and have to return here.’
‘My lord, might I have a word?’ Sir Howard said, clearing his throat.
Warwick frowned, but he let the man lead him away from the closest ears.
‘What is it?’ Warwick demanded. ‘I won’t lose this chance in argument, Sir Howard. Quickly, man.’
‘If you have your archers shoot down the street, the king could be killed, my lord. Have you considered that? An arrow does not know royal blood from common.’
Warwick stared. On the death of his wife’s father and brother, he had inherited a dozen castles and more than a hundred manors, stretching from Scotland to Devon. With that extraordinary wealth had come more than a thousand soldiers in his service, bequeathed to him as the new Earl of Warwick. Sir Howard was his feudal bondsman and Warwick knew he could order his total obedience. He could see the man shaking slightly as he stood there, fully aware that he risked his oath and honour even by questioning the command. Sir Howard Gaverick was not a fool, but Warwick knew time was too short, the advantage dropped into their laps too fragile to debate the point. A church bell began to toll a warning nearby, breaking the moment of silence.
‘You may withdraw, Sir Howard, if you do not feel you can stand with me. I have been given this chance and I will take all responsibility for however it turns out. I absolve you from any guilt in this matter. It is on my head. If you choose to leave, I will not harm you or yours after the battle is won. You have my word, but choose to stand or go, quickly.’
Warwick left the older man there, his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide. When the young earl looked back, it was to see Sir Howard marching alone back down the hill through the ranks of waiting men.
‘Archers!’ Warwick called out. ‘This must be settled today. You all heard my lord York. If we fail here, we’ll be hunted down as traitors. Rank or wealth is no protection, not here in this town. It is my order that you send your shafts along this street. Now! Cry out my name and let them know we are here.’
Three hundred voices roared, ‘Warwick!’ at the top of their lungs, smothering the noise of a hundred archers filing out in ranks with quivers low-hung on their hips.
A heartbeat passed and then St Peter’s Street filled with rushing shafts. Another heartbeat brought the reply: screams and shouts and panic in the marketplace where the king stood.
15
Every man in the royal tent froze, the instant they heard ‘Warwick’ roared out. The harsh sound was close enough to terrify and strangle all conversation. The king had only just come back inside and he turned sharply towards the noise. Buckingham drew a breath to shout an order, but it went unheard as arrows came ripping through the group, punching holes in the cloth and sending the king’s steward to his knees with an arrow through his chest.
Derry Brewer threw himself flat. Buckingham saw something flash and raised his hand, too slow by far to protect himself. An arrow struck the pauldron of an armoured knight and deflected, thumping into Buckingha
m’s face. He made a low, keening sound, raising a hand to the shaft and finding it wedged in bone, having pierced him just above his teeth. Blood poured into his mouth, so that he had to spit and spit again. Unable to speak, Buckingham lurched towards King Henry, knowing that he lived only because the arrow had lost most of its force on the first impact.
The young king stood perfectly still, his face as pale as it had ever been. Through watering eyes, Buckingham saw Henry too had been struck. A shaft had passed right through the metal joint of his neck and shoulder. The arrow still remained, showing a bloody tip on the other side. Buckingham began to pant in shock, his face swelling as he spat another black gobbet of blood on to the ground, and managed to stagger over to stand between the king and the arrows tearing through the tent as whining blurs. Buckingham raised his head, barely able to see as he waited.
Earl Percy had his blue and yellow shield raised in the direction of the attack as he too lunged to protect King Henry. The earl pursed his lips at the sight of Buckingham’s blood pouring out on to the ground, then cried out as Henry suddenly staggered and fell. Derry Brewer scrambled over to him, keeping low the whole way, covering the king’s body with his own.
‘Doctors!’ Percy bellowed. The king’s surgeon, Scruton, ran in then, braving the shafts that still punched holes in the thick canvas. More shields were raised above the king, forming a shell around him.
‘Let me see,’ Scruton growled at Derry Brewer, who nodded and moved to one side. Protected by the shields, the king’s spymaster crouched, panting, his eyes wild as Scruton examined the wound.
Wars of the Roses: Trinity (War of the Roses Book 2) Page 17