Somerset was alone.
‘Neville!’ Somerset called, taking a step out into the light. He seemed to have no care for the armed men on all sides. ‘Traitor, Neville!’ he roared.
One of Salisbury’s knights rushed in and Somerset spun to meet him, chopping the axe into the man’s neck with appalling force before he could land a blow.
‘Come to me then, Neville!’ Somerset yelled, his voice hoarse. ‘Come, traitor!’
There was something terrible about the bloody duke as he stood there and beckoned them all in. The mob of soldiers stood in superstitious awe, simply staring. Salisbury braced himself to be attacked as Somerset came further out into the street. Another burly yeoman took two quick steps and crashed a sword against Somerset’s side, hammering a great dent into the armoured plate and making the man gasp. The return blow sank Somerset’s axe upwards into the man’s ribs, cutting his mail so that a dozen rings spilled to the cobbles with a sound like dropped coins. The yeoman soldier collapsed on to his face and Somerset raised his axe again with a huge effort. As he brought it down into the man’s back, he clipped the pub’s swinging sign. Salisbury saw Somerset look up as he wrestled the axe blade free of bone.
The pub’s name was ‘The Castle’ and a crude picture of a fortress tower had been painted grey on black. All the blood drained from Somerset’s face as he saw it and he closed his eyes for an instant, strength and rage vanishing to leave him empty.
Salisbury made a sharp gesture and two knights ran in, smashing their swords against the knee joints of Somerset’s armour. He cried out as he dropped, a long sound that was cut off as a third man brought an axe down on to his neck, chopping through metal and flesh beneath.
For an instant, no one moved and half the men there expected Somerset to rise again. They had seen a king’s duke killed and the shock of that rippled through them. More than a few crossed themselves, looking to Salisbury for his reaction.
‘That one for York,’ Salisbury said. ‘Turn now for Percy. Then we are done.’
Leaving the body behind, Salisbury and his son John walked on along St Peter’s Street to join Warwick. Salisbury’s men followed in silence, each one looking down at the bloody corpse of the king’s counsellor as they passed.
The dwindling forces with Warwick had harried the enemy every step from the marketplace, struggling against Earl Percy’s most determined soldiers as they bore their noble master away. There was no quarter or respite given on either side, but Warwick’s numbers were fewer and only the narrowness of the street prevented them being flanked and overwhelmed. By the time his father caught up with him, Warwick had Earl Percy and Baron Egremont backed hard against another inn, the Cross Keys. A side road lay just beyond and Warwick’s men fought to reach Percy before the fight could widen and offer him a chance of escape.
Warwick looked back in fear at the sound of marching feet, then breathed in relief as he saw the eagles, crosses and red diamonds on the shields of his father’s knights. He caught sight of his brother John and the younger Neville nodded to him, a moment of private satisfaction in the chaos of the day. They faced the men who had attacked John’s wedding and Warwick dipped his head, acknowledging his brother’s right.
Salisbury had brought two or three hundred of his best men along the street, leaving the rest of the fighting factions to secure the town on their own. Horns sounded somewhere further away, but Salisbury ignored them, shouting fresh orders as they joined Warwick’s redcoats and pressed through them to reach the enemy.
Facing this new rush of soldiers, Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, was exhausted. He had been forced to retreat along the main road, attacked again and again. His helmet had been knocked from his head and his white hair swung in rat’s tails, wet with perspiration. Grey in the face, he looked as if he could barely lift the sword he held in both hands. He and his son Thomas stood in the second rank of Percy men, resplendent in blue and yellow. The head of the Percy house would have fallen long before if it had not been for a small and wiry man in mail who carried a dagger like a needle point. Trunning allowed no man to close on his master without darting in and stabbing through an eye-slot or a joint with appalling accuracy. He was responsible for half a dozen bodies on the street already, and Warwick would have given his back teeth for just one of the archers he had left behind in his rush to the marketplace.
As the Percy forces retreated once more, the side road opened on their left flank. Warwick heard Earl Percy call to his soldiers that they faced those who had killed the king. He blanched at hearing that. The old man’s words gave new strength to those around him, so that they pushed back and won a few yards for themselves. Fresh blood ran from armoured knights and spattered on to the cold street.
Warwick could only watch as his father’s men shoved pikes past shields, jabbing and piercing until the blades came back red, then plunging in again. He could see Earl Percy arguing with Egremont, the older man pushing his son away and pointing down the open road. Egremont was red in the face, unwilling to leave as his father embraced him and shoved him roughly away.
Salisbury came up, panting hard as he reached his son’s shoulder.
‘King Henry is only wounded, though he may die yet,’ he said. ‘You’ve done well. It was your breaking through the town that brought this ending here today. No other man.’
‘Where is York?’ Warwick asked, never taking his eyes off Percy and Egremont. The two men seemed almost unaware of the battle around them as Percy pointed once again down the open street. Some of the earl’s guards bowed their heads as they were given orders to accompany the Percy son. The boldest of them took Thomas, Lord Egremont, by the arms and walked him backwards, though he fought their grip and called to his father. The old man turned his back on his son, once again facing the Neville lines. Warwick cursed softly under his breath. He might have imagined it, but Earl Percy seemed to catch his eye and raise his head as he did so, wearing an expression of bitter pride.
‘York has gone to the abbey, no doubt to weep or pray over the king,’ Salisbury said. ‘It doesn’t matter. Our business is here.’ He took a massive breath, filling his lungs to blast his orders. ‘Bring them down! Cry “Salisbury”! Cry “Warwick!” Cry “Neville”! And kill them all.’
The fighting intensified, aided by the loss of the Percy soldiers who had gone with Egremont. Warwick saw the small man with the needle dagger dart between two struggling knights, finding a space as if he knew exactly how they would turn. The Percy swordmaster slid between fighting men like a shadow, feinting left and passing a second rank as a soldier swung the wrong way. In just a heartbeat, he was through and facing them. Trunning lunged at Salisbury, but both Warwick and John Neville had seen the threat. They met his strike with outstretched swords and Trunning was pierced through. Even then, he grinned through bloody teeth at them, reaching out to jam his narrow dagger into John Neville’s shoulder joint. John cried out in agony as the man worked the blade, laughing as a stream of blood slid out across the polished metal. Warwick withdrew his sword with a jerk and cut into Trunning’s neck, letting him fall.
Salisbury howled in triumph as he saw Earl Percy tumble down in a crash of armour. One of the old man’s guards stood over his fallen form, using sword and shield with great skill to hold back the Neville soldiers. The nameless knight moved well, his strength seemingly unending. Yet he could not take a step away from his master. Wherever he turned and killed, another would strike until an axeman smashed his knee with a huge swing, so that he too fell to be broken underfoot.
The Percy forces were cut away from the old man, so that Warwick and Salisbury reached him. Earl Percy still lived, though his lips were tinged in blue. With a groan, the old man pushed himself up to a sitting position, braced on his locked elbows.
‘John! Here!’ Salisbury commanded.
His son’s arm had gone limp, the muscle cut through in his shoulder. He had pulled out Trunning’s dagger with his left hand. He was white with pain, but his eyes were fierc
e as he stood before his enemy.
‘My dying does not make you less of a traitor,’ Earl Percy said, wheezing audibly. The words and the old man’s gaze were aimed at Salisbury.
John Neville only shook his head. With the dagger still wet with his own blood, he reached out and speared the flesh under the old man’s chin. Earl Percy stiffened, giving out a growling, hissing cry of agony. His head was forced up with the blade as it pushed through his mouth. Watery blood spurted as John pulled it out and slashed it across the throat. The three Nevilles watched the earl fall on to his side, his eyes dulling as his mouth still worked to speak with no sound.
‘Where is Egremont?’ Salisbury said to his sons.
Warwick pointed down the open road where they could see a group of knights moving swiftly away. Horns were blowing again in the distance, and Salisbury’s mouth and jaw tightened at the sound. He had given his word to York and in the aftermath of violence he could feel exhaustion creeping over him. Salisbury turned to his son John and rested his hand on the younger man’s shoulder.
‘This is our victory, John. Egremont can’t run so far that we can’t catch up with him. It’s done. Today is done.’
‘Let me take a hundred, on his heels,’ John Neville replied.
For an instant, he thought his father might allow it, but the earl’s head was dipping in weariness, not lack of will.
‘No. Obey me. You’ll have your chance again.’
The earl filled his lungs, his gaze still on the body of his oldest enemy.
‘Enough!’ Salisbury shouted. On his left, some men still fought on both sides and he could hear York’s horns blowing a third time in the distance. His hour was up and he had his vengeance. ‘Blow horns who has them. Enough, I said. Put your swords away. No man need die now, after this. If you would live, put up your swords.’
Panting, bloody men heard him and gave in to the desperate hope that it could all stop, that they might survive the day. For as far as Salisbury’s voice carried, soldiers stood apart from the fray, and then further, as Neville captains repeated his orders and more horns sounded across the town, until the blare and shouts for peace could be heard in every street and every home.
Richard of York walked across wide flagstones to the massive outer doors of the abbey. He could hear the tumult still going on behind him, the crash and shouting of thousands of men struggling to kill each other, yet crammed so tight in the roads they hardly had room to swing a sword. He looked back as a great roar sounded, but he could not guess the cause. Salisbury’s words troubled him, casting the previous months in a different light. York’s aim had always been to strip the whisperers away from King Henry’s side before his house was destroyed by them. He saw that Salisbury’s intention had been to break Percy, before all other considerations. It seemed their path had been the same, with both men carried to St Albans. York shook his head, trying to twitch away worry and indecision. He was tired and hungry, but King Henry lay within the abbey that stood so tall before him. He did not know even if the king lived.
The men he had summoned to bear King Henry away to safety had remained by the abbey doors, preferring that quiet spot to any thought of heading back into danger. Edward of March stood awkwardly with them, his rank and youth too much of a barrier for him to overcome. The men stood to attention as York trudged towards them, bruised and battered soldiers who had already fought that day, yet still looked shamefaced at having been found away from the struggle. York barely noticed them, his mind on what he would find within the massive stone walls. The abbot was nowhere to be seen, but his abbey was holy ground nonetheless – sanctuary. York shuddered beneath his armour as his men pushed the great doors open and he passed across the threshold. His son took a step towards him then, his expression hopeful. York shook his head. He did not know what he would find in the abbey, nor what he would do.
‘No, Edward. Stay here.’ York crossed the entrance and waited while the doors were pulled shut behind him. He looked up.
A great blaze of colour met his eyes on all sides, pressing for his attention in every painted column and wall. A huge image of Christ on the cross summoned his gaze, resplendent in reds and blues and golds so bright they could have been created just days before. Other scenes from the Bible combined to create a vast panoply of vivid hues, stretching away. It was overwhelming and York became aware that he stood in grimy armour, looking down the long nave ahead to the stone rood screen. An altar was before it, where the king lay like a broken doll. There were only two men with Henry, distant figures who turned white faces towards the man coming in like a wolf into the sheep pen.
York paused just beyond the threshold, leaning his shield against a stone column that soared to a ceiling impossibly high above his head. With aching hands, he unstrapped his sword and scabbard, placing the weapon by the shield and straightening. The head of the house of Lancaster lay helpless before him, a cousin descended from the same battle king of England and given the throne by the distance of one son. York raised his head, refusing to be intimidated by scenes of the damned falling into a fiery hell. His armour creaked and his steps sounded loud as he made his way down the length of the church, following the long line of the Latin cross.
He walked a hundred paces to reach the king of England. Henry was alive, his back to the altar as he sat on the cold stone floor with one leg raised and bent. York could see the king watching him approach, the younger man’s face so white and drained that his flesh looked like fine linen. Henry’s mail collar and shoulder pauldrons had been removed, so that bandages could be seen, tight around his neck and under one armpit. The surgeon, Scruton, stood away as York came close, bowing his head and clasping his hands in prayer.
On the short side of the altar, the Duke of Buckingham rested, close enough to Henry to reach out to him. The duke was breathing in short, hard gasps, in such terrible pain that he could do nothing but endure. York saw the man turn to watch his approach and he felt a shiver run through him at the seeping ruin of his mouth. Buckingham’s scorched red eyes still ran with tears and York did not know if the cause was his wound, or the lost battle.
York halted, staring down on the men before him. Though he had left his sword behind, he still carried a dagger on his right hip, not quite forgotten. He knew if he made the decision to strike, none of those three could have stopped him.
He looked up for a moment, his attention drawn by some flutter of movement. He saw small birds flying across the vast open space above, the closest representation of the vault of heaven on earth. He crossed himself, reminded once again of the sacred ground on which he stood. He could feel the presence of God in that cold eternity around him, a subtle pressure that made him bow his head once more.
York went down on one knee before the king.
‘Your Majesty, I grieve to see you hurt,’ he said. ‘I ask your forgiveness for all I have done, your pardon.’
Henry struggled to sit straighter, pushing himself upright with his bare hands pressed white against the stone. His eyes seemed to wander in and out of focus, turning his head a fraction back and forth to peer at the man who had brought so much destruction.
‘And if I do not grant what you ask?’ he whispered.
York closed his eyes for a moment. When they opened again, his expression was stern and hard.
‘Then I must demand it. Your free pardon for all that has happened today. For me, and every man with me. I have been called traitor, Your Grace. I will not be called that again.’
Henry slumped, his back-plate scratching the stone as he slipped back to where he had lain before. He knew his life hung by the thread of one man’s patience and his will faded, a rock swallowed by a rising sea.
‘As you say then, Richard. I will not hold you guilty for anything you have done. You are right, of course. As you say.’
The king’s eyes fluttered closed and York sensed the surgeon make a half-step to come forward. He held up his hand, staying the man. York reached out and laid his gauntlet against
the king’s cheek.
Henry’s eyes snapped open once more at the touch of cold metal.
‘Who is it?’ he said. ‘Richard still? What do you want of me?’
‘You are my king,’ York said softly. ‘I ask only to stand at your side. You need good counsel, cousin. You need me.’
‘As you say,’ Henry replied, his voice little more than a breath as the terrible weariness in him stole away his will.
York nodded, satisfied. He rose to his feet, still unable to drag his gaze from the king.
Buckingham tried to speak then, his words a mush that caused fresh blood to run from his mouth.
‘The king is a good man. Too good, Richard. I will call you traitor, if he will not.’
York could barely make out the man’s speech. He could have ignored the wounded duke, but he shook his head.
‘Your words are wind and slush, Buckingham. You will be arrested. I suspect the bond you will pay for your release will cover my costs.’
Buckingham flushed around his wound and swollen flesh, struggling to speak clearly.
‘What crime can you name for me, one who has served his king?’
‘You stood against his loyal lords, Buckingham. You stood against York and against Salisbury, as we tried to save the king from poisonous counsellors. You will not speak clearly again, I think. A split tongue is apt enough, but speak too harshly to me and it will not be the end of your suffering today.’
Buckingham tried to curse him, but fresh blood spattered from his torn palate and the words were unintelligible.
‘The king lives, and will live,’ York said loudly. ‘I am loyal to the house of Lancaster.’
He favoured the spluttering Duke of Buckingham with a brittle smile, then turned on his heel to walk back down the nave, calling for his men.
Standing against a pillar of the transept, Derry Brewer stared in grief. He had entered the abbey through a lesser door, slipping into a room where monks’ robes hung on pegs and deciding on the instant to fling one over his own clothes. After his experience with the Franciscans, a Benedictine robe held no mysteries.
Wars of the Roses: Trinity (War of the Roses Book 2) Page 19