Sacrifice

by David Pilling

  THE WHITE HAWK

  (III): SACRIFICE

  Copyright 2015 David Pilling

  More Books by David Pilling

  Novels

  Soldier of Fortune (I): The Wolf Cub

  The White Hawk (I): Revenge

  The White Hawk (II): Loyalty

  Caesar’s Sword (I): The Red Death

  Caesar’s Sword (II): Siege of Rome

  Caesar’s Sword (III): Flame of the West

  Leader of Battles (I): Ambrosius

  Leader of Battles (II): Artorius

  Leader of Battles (III): Gwenhwyfar

  Robin Hood(I)

  Robin Hood (II): The Wrath of God

  Robin Hood (III): The Hooded Man

  Robin Hood (IV): The King’s Pardon

  Folville’s Law (I): Invasion

  The Half-Hanged Man

  Nowhere Was There Peace

  Co-Written with Martin Bolton

  The Best Weapon

  Follow David at:

  www.pillingswritingcorner.blogspot.co.uk

  www.davidpillingauthor.com/

  http://www.boltonandpilling.com/

  Or contact him direct at:

  Davidpilling56@hotmail.com

  Chapter 1

  Hainburg, Lower Austria, September 1482

  The Black Army of Hungary marched on the castle of Hainburg, a strong fortress perched on a hilltop and surrounded by the waters of the Danube.

  The Hungarians brought artillery with them. Bombards and cannon, and a monstrous piece of ordnance called the Varga-mortar, so large it had to be drawn by a team of eighty horses.

  “Let the garrison at Hainburg see my little toy,” growled Matthias, King of Hungary, “and they will foul their drawers in terror. The castle will be ours within days.”

  He led his ten thousand mercenaries on to the castle. There they found the Imperial troops of Matthias’ enemy, Emperor Frederick of Austria, dug in behind a formidable series of ditches and improvised barricades.

  Matthias’ officers clamoured to attack the Austrians. The king, who was no fool, took one look at the enemy fortifications and snarled them into silence.

  “The whoreson Frederick wants us to break our teeth on his defences,” he said, “I’ll not give him the satisfaction.”

  None dared to contradict the formidable, heavy-browed monarch, and he despatched orders for his army to make camp on the plains south and west of the castle. His infantry were set to work, digging trenches and erecting palisades around the camp.

  Meanwhile the guns were unlimbered and trained on the Austrian lines. Soon the skies over Hainburg echoed to the deafening thunder of gunfire. Both sides were well-equipped with artillery, and for several hours they pounded each other’s outposts until the air was rank with the stench of gunpowder.

  Surrounded by his nobles, Matthias watched impatiently as his giant mortar was pieced together by a sweating team of engineers. They worked at a feverish pace, but it was dusk before the enormous weapon was finally constructed and ready to fire.

  A team of sixteen crewmen were busily loading the first round of ammunition, a shell the size of a millstone, into the hoist, when Matthias was distracted by a peal of trumpets. He looked to the south, and cursed when he saw hundreds of his cavalry pouring out of the encampment.

  The light horsemen were first, Serbian Hussars, Wallachians and Moldavians, mounted on fast ponies and armed with sabres, bows and lances. Behind them thundered the heavy horse, mercenary knights from Germany and Bohemia, steel devils on costly destriers. Each knight was supported by four or five lighter-armed retainers, forming a unit called a lance.

  This great mass of horse poured through the hastily-dug redoubts thrown up to defend the Hungarian camp, and onto the plain beyond. There, with impressive cohesion and discipline, they swiftly formed up into squadrons.

  The Austrian batteries lay a mile to the west, partially obscured by gathering darkness and drifting smoke. Gouts of orange flame stabbed through the murk, accompanied by the crash of discharge and the whine of shot passing overhead or through the ranks of the cavalry. Here and there a horseman fell, his beast shot away from under him.

  A knight rode forward to the head of the line, raised his flanged mace and stood high in his stirrups. This was Prior Bartholomew Beriszló, a Hungarian churchman, wearing priestly vestments draped over his plate and mail. Eager to harvest the souls of the enemy, it was Beriszló who had countermanded the orders of the king and ordered the cavalry to advance.

  “For God and Hungary!” he bellowed, his voice muffled inside the steel casement of his helm, “charge!”

  His destrier surged into a gallop, towards the distant line of guns, almost lost in the haze. Behind him the long, staggered lines of light horse uttered a great shout and rode in his wake, their sabres and lance points catching the last dying rays of the sun.

  The great phalanxes of heavy cavalry rumbled in their wake, churning up the soft earth, banners proudly unfurled, lances dipping into rest as their horses picked up speed.

  Among the Bohemian knights rode a giant. He was a head taller than any of his comrades and mounted on an ugly, raw-boned Flemish stallion, one of the few horses big and strong enough to carry him. Like his knightly comrades, he was encased in steel from head to toe, and wore his family arms proudly emblazoned on his surcoat. They displayed a white hawk with spreading wings against a blue field.

  Their owner, Martin Bolton, could see little through the narrow bar of his visor. The poor light further muddied his vision, but he caught glimpses of Austrian artillerymen, lit up by the flashes of their guns. They were scurrying to reload and loose off one last salvo before the Hungarian cavalry swept over their flimsy defences.

  A deafening whine resounded inside his helm, and a great plume of earth erupted just yards in front of him. A horse and rider were blown to pieces. Bits of flesh and bone pattered against his armour. Teeth gritted, he hunched low in the saddle and raked in his spurs.

  His horse responded, and he felt the bunch and surge of the stallion’s muscles under him. Martin picked out the crew of a serpentine, scrambling to prime their weapon, and dropped his lance into rest.

  The world exploded in a multiple crash and flare of orange flame, and the earth was ripped up and torn away beneath the hoofs of his destrier. Martin felt the horse stumble, and dropped his lance to grasp the reins with both hands and bring his mount back under control. Shell splinters whipped past him, horrible dying shrieks mingled with the furious deep-throated roar of Hungarian knights as they closed on the battery.

  “Saint George!” shouted Laszló, one of Martin’s Polish retainers. The man galloped past, sabre raised aloft, his pockmarked face creased in a demonic grin as he urged his pony towards the guns.

  Martin had taught him to shout the English saint’s name in battle. It was fated to be the last thing Laszló said on earth. A cannonball ripped away his left arm and most of the flesh over his ribs, exposing the bone, and he screamed in unspeakable agony, blood sheeting down his legs. His terrified pony recoiled onto her haunches and threw him to the ground.

  Blood sprayed over Martin’s helm, totally obscuring the sight of his friend’s death. He wrenched open his visor, only to find himself lost in an inferno of smoke and flame.

  At least his stallion had righted himself. The guns were somewhere nearby, and had no time for another volley. Spitting out the bile that had risen in his throat, Martin drew his sabre and wheeled his horse towards the sound of death.

  The black muzzle of the serpentine rose before him, still smoking from its discharge. Two of the artillerymen crouched beside the breech, babbling scared as horsemen swarmed around them, blades and lance-points flashing as they dealt death to the hapless crews.

  Wild-eyed horses w
ith empty saddles galloped to and fro, their riders shot away. That final salvo had done fearful execution among the cavalry, and the survivors were bent on extracting a bloody revenge. They slashed the Austrians to bits, hacking and spearing them at will, pounding them into the dirt.

  Their rage lit a fire in Martin’s breast. “Saint George!” he roared, lifting his sabre, and unleashed a cut at one of the cowering artillerymen. The curved blade chopped into the man’s collar-bone, severing an artery and slicing through muscle and sinew with lethal ease.

  The Austrian fell away, squealing, and Martin yanked his blade free and looked for another victim. A Wallachian lancer thundered past, hurling his lance with expert skill at the exposed back of another crewman. It pierced the luckless man’s spine and erupted from his belly, spilling his guts over the trampled earth.

  “Captain!” A familiar voice caught Martin’s ear. He twisted in the saddle, and raised his bloody sabre in greeting at the sight of Henrik, another of his retainers, cantering towards him.

  Henrik was a German of minor noble blood, from the high forests of Bavaria. “God’s death, what a mess,” he roared, “we must fight our way out. Look!”

  He pointed his sabre west. Martin looked, and saw a troop of Austrian lancers galloping up to the battery. They were armed cap-a-pie, sheathed in gleaming plate, and rode under the black eagle banner of their Emperor.

  The Austrian guns were overrun, most of their crews slaughtered, and there was no reason for the mercenaries to stay. If they didn’t withdraw now, there was a danger of a full-scale engagement breaking out. That would be a messy, bloody affair, with no guarantee of victory on either side.

  “I saw Laszló die,” Martin shouted above the noise of battle, “where are the others?”

  Henrik shrugged. “I don’t know. That last barrage rolled right over us. When the smoke cleared, I was the only one left.”

  He winked at Martin. “More pay for the survivors, eh?”

  Martin was used to the careless self-interest of mercenaries, but this was too much. He grimaced in disgust and turned again to watch the Austrians.

  There was no sign of Beriszló, the cleric who had ordered the charge, and no overall leadership among the mercenaries. Some turned their horses and fled back to the safety of their own lines, but others were eager for more bloodshed. Rallying around the standards of their captains, they re-formed and charged the lancers.

  Martin hesitated, but only for a second. Behind him lay safety, before him danger and death.

  He exchanged glances with Henrik. Both were hard, embittered men, long since abandoned by God. They rated life cheaply, none more so than their own.

  “Saint George!” cried Martin, wheeling his destrier and galloping towards the fray. Henrik echoed the name of England’s saint and raced after him.

  Chapter 2

  Hammes Castle, France, April 1483

  The news of King Edward’s death reached Hammes midway through the month, over a week after the king breathed his last.

  It was brought to John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, in the tower room that had been his prison for the past nine years. It was comfortably furnished – he had made a friend of his gaoler, Sir James Blount – and he had little cause to complain of ill-treatment.

  He had little to smile about either. Oxford was one of the few Lancastrian nobles left alive after the disasters of Barnet and Tewkesbury. Those defeats had shattered the Lancastrian cause once and for all, and left the House of York supreme in England.

  Henry VI was dead, clubbed to death in his cell in the Tower, and his son slaughtered on the battlefield. Henry’s queen, the indomitable Margaret of Anjou, had been paraded through the streets of London and then packed off to spend her days in miserable exile. She was dead now, and lay still and quiet in Angers Cathedral, all her earthly battles done.

  Oxford fully expected to die at Hammes, stifled or stabbed one dark night on King Edward’s orders. Every day, for nine years, he had waited for the end.

  At times he yearned for it. The world held no joy for him, no shaft of light. His cause was lost, as were all his lands and titles, and he would never see England or his wife again. She, poor woman, was forced to earn her bread by working as a seamstress. So far had she fallen: so far had they all fallen, those who stayed true to the Lancastrian cause.

  Some years previously, in the depths of one such black mood, he had broken free of his guards, climbed the walls and jumped into the moat. His attempt to drown himself failed. The guards quickly fished him out and left Oxford with two broken legs to match his broken spirit. It took months for his legs to heal, and even now he walked with a limp.

  All changed on a warm April morning, when the door swung open and Blount entered to bring him the joyous, impossible news.

  Blount was a grave, solid man in middle age, soured by years of guarding important prisoners, and not at home with levity. His craggy face glowered with disapproval as Oxford capered awkwardly around the room and laughed until the tears flowed down his bearded cheeks.

  “Dead!” the earl shouted, punching the air, “dead from a chill, after a fishing trip! A fishing trip!”

  He clasped his hands and gazed out of the room’s single arrow-slit window, at the dank marshland beyond the castle.

  “I am dreaming,” he said wistfully, “this must be a dream. Edward cannot be dead. Such a big, vigorous swine. He was barely forty!”

  Blount sniffed, and noisily cleared his throat. He was a martyr to colds, thanks to the freezing sea-air and mists that swept in from the Channel, and went about with a permanently red nose.

  “For shame, John,” he said gruffly, “you are speaking of the late King of England, God rest him.”

  Oxford turned to face him. “Not my king,” he spat, “my king died in the Tower, ten years gone.”

  Blount sniffed again, and gestured at his escort to leave. They, a couple of sergeants in royal livery, shot dark looks at Oxford as they trooped out and closed the door behind them.

  “I advise you to conceal your joy,” said Blount when they had gone, “His Majesty King Edward the Fourth was much-loved, and his death has come as a great shock. They say he grew corpulent in his latter days, and cared little for his health.”

  “You mean the fat pig debauched himself,” retorted Oxford, “and stuffed and swilled and whored until his body broke down. Oh, joyous day! And his son is but twelve years old.”

  Blount frowned again. Oxford ignored him and sat down on a window seat, his mind aflame with possibilities.

  King Edward could have reasonably expected to live at least another ten years. Time enough for his heir, another Edward, to grow to manhood and be ripe for kingship when his father died. There were none left to challenge the Yorkists, save a few dissidents in Brittany, and Edward V could have looked forward to a long and peaceful reign.

  This vision of Hell – for so it was to Oxford – had been overturned by Edward’s premature death. From a chill, of all things! The giant warrior Edward of March, victor of five bloody battles, had succumbed to a measly cold.

  Oxford stared at his palms. They were callused from constant exercise with weapons in the tilt-yard. He had kept up his strength and skill at arms over the long years of imprisonment, in the faint hope of renewing the fight against the hated House of York.

  “What will happen now?” he asked. “When will Edward’s brat be crowned?”

  Blount coughed, and looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know. The young king was at Ludlow when his father died. For all I know he is still there. His mother’s family will wish the coronation to go ahead with all speed.”

  Oxford threw his greying head back and brayed with laughter. “You can wager your last halfpenny on that,” he cried gleefully, “the little turd is their only security. If the Woodvilles lose control of Edward and his brother, they lose everything. Damned upstarts. Edward of March, long may he rot, was a fool to marry his Woodville whore.”

  “Please, John,” said Blount, looking p
ained, “moderate your language, at least in my hearing. You talk of the king in waiting.”

  Oxford gave him a shrewd look. He had long since taken Blount’s measure, and knew himself to be his gaoler’s mental superior.

  Slowly, over the years, as well as cultivating Blount’s friendship, he had extracted concessions from him: allowing greater freedom of movement in the castle, regular exercise in the tiltyard, even the occasional meal with Blount and his family, followed by a private game of chess. Oxford always won the chess, though he was careful to allow Blount to make a fight of it.

  “I have suffered defeat after defeat, James,” he said, “I lived to see my father and brother executed, my mother humiliated, my king murdered, his son butchered on the field, and all my friends slain. My wife lives in poverty and has to rely on the charity of others to survive. I will never see her again. If I do not show the proper respect towards those who destroyed me, then I beg forgiveness.”

  Oxford smiled inwardly as Blount went red in the face with embarrassment. He could play the man like a lute. Therein lay his best – his only – chance of freedom.

  Later, after Blount had departed and left him to enjoy his breakfast in peace, Oxford mulled over the extraordinary news of King Edward’s death.

  Please God, he prayed silently, let there be turmoil. Let Prince Edward’s coronation be delayed. Let the Woodvilles quarrel with each other, and with the Duke of Gloucester. Let there be civil war, and let the Yorkist dogs tear other to pieces.

  Duke Richard of Gloucester. Over his porridge and bacon, Oxford contemplated this man, the last of old York’s sons.

  Which way would Gloucester spring? The news of Edward’s death would have shocked everyone, including his brother. However, great magnates did not have the luxury of mourning for long. Gloucester was now the most powerful man in England. His actions would determine the fate of the realm.

  Of all the Yorkist lords, Gloucester was the one Oxford despised the most. He had hated King Edward, regarded him as a usurper and a regicide, but there was a personal edge to his feelings for Gloucester.