Margaret of Anjou (7 page)

God knew, Balion would have led any herd in the wild. The massive destrier needed no urging and the danger was only in losing control when it began to buck and smash. Thomas saw movement behind him and roared “Strike back!” as he parried a blow with his shield. He heard a shriek cut short as Balion hammered a rear foot against some unseen assailant. Thomas found himself laughing in his helmet, exulting in the damage he could do with just a word.

“And
steady
!” he called to the excited stallion, though Balion still pranced and skittered, snorting and wanting to rear once more. As the huge beast settled, Thomas took a heavy impact on his backplate. He rose in his stirrups to give him height as he swung with all his might in reply. Thomas shouted in triumph as his heavy sword cut a great gash in a knight’s side, sending blood spraying over lips of torn metal. It was not a mortal wound, but the Neville man fell sideways, losing his grip on the saddle. One leg flailed and kicked upside down, while the other was held by a twisted stirrup. Lord Egremont watched in delight as a man who had faced him in battle was dragged from the field by his bolting mount.

Something crashed against his helmet then. Thomas grunted in pain, cutting back automatically as his vision blurred. He could hear the tumult all along the line and, with a touch of guilt, he hoped Trunning was out there, keeping a cool head. There was no chance to oversee the fighting, not from the thick of it. Those around him pressed with savage vigor, denting and scarring his armor, aiming to break the metal joints or stab and slash at Balion so that the animal’s fall would bring him down.

For a time, it felt as if they could not touch him. His armor was good, thicker and harder than the wrought-iron pieces worn by poorer knights. God knew, it hurt to be struck, but Thomas was encased, protected, while others fell to his swinging sword. Salisbury seemed to have vanished in the press, but Thomas saw him again and dug razor spurs into the gashes on Balion’s flanks, making fresh blood flow. The stallion leaped forward, crashing over two axemen who had come creeping through the ranks of horse. They hardly had time to raise their weapons before they were kicked down and trampled. Thomas had eyes only for his uncle then, his expression wild inside the visor. His head still rang from a blow and he could taste blood in his mouth, but his father would hear if Thomas took the head of the Neville clan himself. The Percy family might not be able to trumpet a victory of hedge knights, but his father would know he had sent the right son.

“Salisbury!” Thomas shouted, seeing the older man twist in his saddle to see who called his name. The Neville wore no chestplate or armor beyond an iron gorget. His shield was unmarked still, as no one had reached him through his guards. Perhaps because their master was so ill equipped, those men clustered close around him, losing half a dozen from the fray to protect the earl they served. It was all to the good. Thomas could see the numbers were beginning to tell. Trunning’s terrible hoarse voice could be heard somewhere on his right, ordering men against the flanks. It would not be too long, Thomas realized, before he was master of the field, the victor for his house.

“Percy!” Salisbury spat back in his direction. Thomas almost yanked on his reins in shock, a momentary hesitation that had Richard Neville showing his teeth. “Of course, a Percy son! Who else would ride without colors and attack a wedding? Which of you honorless whelps is it? Henry? Thomas? Raise your visor, man, that I may put my sword through that ugly Percy beak.”

With a wild shout, Thomas dug in his spurs once more and Balion lunged in. He could hear the Neville lord laughing as his way was blocked. For the first time, Thomas found himself matched by men as skilled as he was. No, he realized, overmatched by their sword arms. He could not force his way through and, all the time, the old bastard hooted, for all the world an echo of his father’s derision that made his sight turn red and his ears rush with blood until it felt like sea-waves breaking. Thomas blinked against blood running from some gash high on his head. The helmet was well padded, but a blow from a heavy mace had dented in a sharp edge that ground against his skull like he was being trepanned. His breath labored hot against the breathing holes and still he swung and snapped at Balion to strike, though the beast was flinging froth from its bit and losing strength from blood sheeting down its ribs.

In among the feet of the struggling knights, gray axemen had reached the fighting. The wounds they caused were horrific, striking at the legs of horses to send men tumbling with their screaming animals. On the ground, armored knights were dazed and vulnerable until they could stand once more. The fight had become a savage mêlée, neither side giving way. Percy soldiers still swarmed in greater numbers, but Thomas saw too many of them cut down by Salisbury’s men. The Neville’s personal guard were both burly and quick, oath-sworn to protect their master and armored as well as Thomas himself. When those men came against ax-wielding smiths and butchers, they went through them in quick, chopping blows.

The fighting coalesced around the raging center—those who were bred and trained for such work, who had built their wind and muscle to fight all day. Armor was vital to withstand the crushing blows that came from all sides as men fought and tore sinews, wrenching limbs and joints to hammer the enemy in a frenzy. Those who had no such protection fell like wheat to the scythe, the white grasses rolled flat by dying men. All the time, the sun continued to rise above them, bringing heat that had knights gasping like birds, their mouths open in their helmets, so that their teeth clashed and broke against the iron when they were struck.

After less than an hour, the fighting lost its manic, jerking pace. Stamina alone began to decide who would live or die as each pair or three met and fought and staggered on. Most of the Percy townsmen had been killed by then, or bore such savage wounds that they could only limp and wander back, holding arms and stomachs that were bloody ruin. The Neville guards had been reduced to no more than eighty men, surrounded by twice as many in good armor.

Thomas could barely raise his head as he sat Balion some way back, taking stock of the progress and scowling at the seemingly inexhaustible energy of Trunning. He could see the swordmaster riding up and down the Percy line, exhorting fading men to greater efforts. Thomas tried to clench his right hand in a gauntlet that dripped blood from some unseen wound. The first sharp agony of his gouged scalp had faded to a dull throbbing. Even Balion’s great armored head was dipping toward the long grasses and, as far as Thomas could tell, Salisbury still lived. Thomas clenched his jaw in frustration. He hadn’t seen the man’s son, the groom, at any stage of the fighting. The dead lay all around that field, but those who had fallen were all retainers of the houses, with not a single name between them.

Thomas tried to summon the energy to go in again, needing only to imagine his father’s scorn to prick his spirits from their drowsy stupor. He could see Trunning gesturing at him out of the corner of his eye and it was the implication that he hung back from fear that truly gave him the will to attack once more. Calling him in, like a reluctant schoolboy! Thomas only wished some Neville would cut Trunning’s foul head from his shoulders.
There
was a name he would like to leave on the field, even if it was the only one.

As he trotted back to the fighting, Thomas felt Balion stumble, recovering too slowly so that the horse almost went down. He made a quick decision, seeing how few of the Nevilles were still on horseback. Raising his visor, he whistled to a pair of wounded men watching the killing struggle, checking first that they wore no colors. They took his reins and helped him to dismount, his legs feeling oddly weak as they touched the ground and let him know how they had been battered. Thomas swayed slightly, but beyond bruises and a little blood, he was still strong, still fast enough, he was certain. He patted Balion’s neck, pleased that the valiant destrier would not be killed for its exhaustion.

“Find him water, if you can. I’ll expect him to be brushed and his scratches covered in goose fat by the time I come for him.”

The men were pleased enough to leave the bloody meadow. They touched their foreheads, dipping low for Lord Egremont as they led his warhorse away.

Thomas turned, raising his head into the breeze. God, it was a relief to feel the air move on his face after so long confined. He stalked forward, passing a spray of yellow blossoms standing out among the white grasses. His armor creaked and grated, the oil rubbed away from the joints. He swung his sword as he went, loosening the pauldron plates across his shoulders and chest as well as the blackening muscles beneath them.

“Egremont!” Thomas called as he closed on the fighting, letting his men know who and where he was. He swore and dropped his visor down a moment later, shocked to see Salisbury moving backward through his men, beginning to disengage. They were moving away with their master and Thomas suddenly wished he’d kept Balion. Those still horsed were harrying the Neville line, but there was no doubt they were retreating.

“No!” Thomas bawled at them. “Stand and face us!” He could see the drooping black shape of Balion growing smaller behind him and he began to jog forward, not knowing what else he could do.

A Neville knight stood with his arms waving over his head, perhaps hoping to call his own people back. With savage strength, Thomas hacked at the man’s neck as he passed, sending him broken to the grass. He ran on, puffing so hard he had to raise his visor once more. Trunning rode up then, the swordmaster’s face only slightly redder than usual as he chewed his drooping mustache and peered down at Thomas Percy.

“Trunning!” Thomas gasped in relief. “Give me your horse. We have to catch them, ride them down. Balion is done, exhausted. Quick, man, dismount.”

“That would be a battle order, my lord Egremont. Not the policy and purposes of your father’s house, but a simple matter of which of us gets to ride—and which of us walks. I’m afraid I choose to ride, my lord.”

“You disloyal . . .” Thomas gasped at him. He reached for the man’s reins, but Trunning’s old nag danced away from his grasp. “I’ll watch you swing for disobeying me.”

“Do you think so, my lord? It’s my feeling your father will be more concerned with how many of his men you’ve lost today, without a single Neville head to bring him in exchange. Or did you find one, Baron Egremont? Did you find a good Neville head to tie to your saddle by the hair? I didn’t see one.”

Thomas stayed silent, refusing to answer the man’s barbs with another word. Neither he nor his father could have known Salisbury would bring so many of his best swordsmen with him. Thomas blew air from his puffed cheeks. They had fought well, his mother’s people. All the Nevilles had needed to do was survive his attack, and they had managed that. Thomas knew he and his men must have butchered over a hundred of Salisbury’s best, but as he watched, the armored core of them moved further and further away, pulling back in good order. A few dozen archers might have stung them then, if he’d kept a reserve. Thomas could only watch glumly as his uncle escaped the trap he’d laid. He swore, panting. He wanted to remove his helmet, but the blood would have stuck it to his hair and scalp in a sodden mass and the thought stayed his hand. Trunning was still there, watching him and munching at his mustache as if it was a feast for a starving man.

“You can tell your father you fought well, my lord. I won’t give you the lie on that. You nearly reached the old devil himself. I saw.”

Thomas looked up in surprise, half wondering if this was some subtle taunt. He saw no mockery in Trunning’s expression and shrugged.

“Not enough though, was it?”

“Not today,” Trunning replied. “Men trip and fall on their face, that’s the way of things. It doesn’t matter. Who stands at the end, that’s what matters.”

Thomas felt his brow crease as he stood there, amazed that Trunning didn’t seem to hold the lack of a victory against him. He shook his head, making the little man smile.

“I’ll fetch your horse, my lord,” Trunning said. “I told you when you bought him that he was too big, but he has heart, that one. Blown or not, he’ll carry you home.”

The breeze strengthened as Trunning trotted away. Thomas felt a dozen sharp pains spread in him as his flesh understood it would not fight again and could begin to ache and heal. He had not won, but he had tested himself. To his surprise, he was not ashamed. He raised his hand to anyone who could see, cutting an arc in the air that pointed back the way he had come, a morning and an age before.

T
homas could see Alnwick Castle growing steadily ahead of him, the vast yellow fortress dominating the landscape. The sight did not cheer him. After three days on the road, he was both sore and dirty, reeking with old sweat and dried blood. His helmet had come away at last with oil and hot water, but he had a hot, stitched line the length of a finger across his crown and he had only stared when he saw the dent that had caused it. Thomas could feel his spirits sink lower with every step of Balion under him. He had a thousand childhood memories of those pale gold walls, but first and foremost, Alnwick meant the old man. It meant meeting his father.

Heading away from the battlefield, the mood among his men had been almost joyous at first. It was true Salisbury had escaped them, but that was the Percy son’s concern. For the rest, by God, they were survivors, giddy with it. They had come through the terror of the crush, each man there with a dozen stories of personal combat or a crippling gash barely escaped. The first night on the road had been raucous, with great bearded soldiers laughing and miming a cut they’d relished or ducked. One of them had a reed whistle, with holes he’d carved himself. The fellow could coax a lively tune from it and some of the men leaped and danced as if they were drunk. Thomas had considered ordering silence as the sun set. For all they knew, the Nevilles were out hunting them. It had seemed madness to shout their position to the night sky.

Perhaps Trunning had guessed his thoughts from his dark expression. The little man had strutted over, leading Thomas away to have a quiet word.

“They’ll settle, my lord,” Trunning had said softly, staring out over the setting sun. His hoarse voice had been almost a purr then, making Thomas’s skin crawl. “I have scouts out to watch for anyone a-creeping up on us. We won’t be surprised, I promise you. The lads are just . . . happy to be alive, my lord, with all fingers counted. Let ’em sing a bit, if you would. The shine in the blood dulls again, soon enough. They’ll wake a little grimmer, a little surly maybe, but they’ll be right as rain in the morning.”

Thomas had only been able to stare. There had been a gentleness in Trunning’s red and mottled face then. To say Thomas had found such an observation surprising hardly did the word justice. If the sun had appeared once more above the horizon, he might have had an equal sense of wrongness in the world. Yet there it was, a glimmer of affection for the red-faced soldiers bawling out some maudlin tune, men who would snap the spine of the first one to suggest there was anything in them but Alnwick stone, blood, bone, and their oaths. Thomas had nodded sharply to Trunning and his father’s swordmaster had walked away. Not once had Trunning looked directly at him. The entire speech had been delivered to the air, as if they stood side by side at the same pissing trough.

Those who had been wounded stayed away from the firelight. As they’d left the battlefield, Trunning had “found” a few carts in the first village along their path, though nowhere near enough for the sixty or so men who needed them. The Percy swordmaster had made them all line up for inspection, checking each wound with rough hands and saying “Cart” or “Walker” before moving on to the next. One or two were dying as they stood there, their wounds draining them white and small. Trunning had paused before each of those, his eyes dark as he shook his head. They knew, just as he did. He still let them on the carts, to die in peace.

That first evening could easily have become a feast, if there had been something to eat beyond dried strips of meat in their pouches. As the moon rose, Trunning had decided it was time to call a halt to the chatter, appearing from darkness and snapping at laughing men to get their heads down and save some strength for the morrow. Thomas had wondered then if daylight would bring Neville trackers heaving into view. In the darkness, all his worst fears seemed possible. There was a chance Salisbury would arm for war as soon as he reached a stronghold. Only time would reveal how many soldiers the earl had within reach. The simple truth was that Thomas had thrown a spear at a savage old boar and damn well missed with it.

No Neville soldiers had appeared on their backtrail the next morning, or the one after that. Trunning set guards and checked every watch, seeming to need no more than short naps himself before he was up and away again, marching around the boundary of their little camps. They had been seven hundred, just a week before. Including the wounded, two hundred and forty men remained to walk or ride back into Alnwick.

It was an odd feeling to approach the fortress on the third day, without drummer boys or banners held proudly ahead of them. The townspeople heard them passing, of course, coming out of their homes. Women gathered up skirts to run out to the main road, squinting into the setting sun to see if their men had returned. Thomas set his mouth tight, clenching his jaw as he rode past them. He could not close his ears to the calls back and forth as wives asked desperately about their husbands, and children began to wail for lost fathers. The sight of the men in the carts caused a great keening to go up from the townspeople. By then the wounded were a pitiful collection, hot with fevers, some dead for two days and swollen with wind and rot.

Staring neither left nor right, Thomas rode Balion in, shuddering slightly as he passed the archers’ steps above his head. There were builders working there that evening, perched precariously as they slathered mortar and eased new stones into place.

Thomas saw Trunning’s skinny horse edging ahead of him and added a slight pressure at his heels, so that Balion pushed on in a trot. He didn’t look back as Trunning grunted something under his breath. He was a Percy son and he was Egremont. He would be damned if he’d let anyone else come home to Alnwick before him. No doubt his father was watching from the high windows. Thomas held his chin up, feeling the swollen stripe throb on his scalp as he left the sound of weeping crowds behind and entered the main keep.

Servants rushed to take the reins of his warhorse, transforming the silent yard with their clatter and noise. The returning men were somber in their replies, shaking their heads again and again in response to questions. Thomas felt his heart thump as he looked up at the tower and saw the old crow wrapped in his furs, staring down.

“See to the men, Trunning,” Thomas called. “I’ll take the news to my father.”

—

S
ALISBURY
RODE
with his hands gripping the reins so tightly it spread a dull ache up his arms to add to his bruises. To be forced to run from a Percy enemy was a humiliation that burned so bright it was hard to think at all. A week before, Baron Cromwell had gathered the townsfolk at Tattershall to wave and cheer as his niece Maud left with a new husband and two hundred soldiers. Six days later, they came limping back, fewer than half of those who had left, with too many wounds bound in rough cloth. It was Salisbury’s duty to explain what had happened and to assure the man his niece was unhurt. As Salisbury imagined Cromwell’s reaction, he growled softly, shaking his head like a series of twitches, each one a bitter child of the shame spilling through him.

He could feel the eyes of his wife and son on his back as he led the battered soldiers south toward Tattershall Castle. Local boys raced ahead of him, carrying the news of his return. There was nothing he could do about that and he only glowered, his head low and his breathing harsh. Salisbury knew he brooded when events turned against him. His father had been a man to shrug off the worst setback and go on, waking fresh and able to laugh at his own dark moods. Richard, Earl of Salisbury, had been cut from more sullen cloth. He had known great joys in his life, but even at his moments of triumph there were always deeper threads shifting beneath, twisting his muscles and thoughts in the blackness.

The town lay to the north of the brick castle, standing like a red spear on a hill that had been cut square to hold it. Salisbury looked past the shocked faces of merchants and townsfolk, all coming out to stand and whisper, shaking their heads and crossing themselves. There was work to be done, work he told himself he did not welcome but was vital nonetheless. He had not been able to collect the Neville dead, in the field. To save himself and his remaining men, Salisbury had ordered a withdrawal. Some of the wounded had cried out in disbelief when they saw him go. They’d held up their arms, as if seeing them would bring him back, as if they had only to beckon for Salisbury to return. It all burned in him, an acid that swelled and choked his chest until he thought it must spill from his mouth and burn holes in the bloody gambeson he wore.

Rage. He had not felt the pleasure of the real thing for years, the clean, hot burn that strengthened the arm and built a man’s confidence to a dangerous level. As he rode, he struggled for the calm he would need to plan and prepare, but could not find it. Rage filled him like water into a jug. He would gather his men. He would gather an army—and he would see the Percy strongholds in ashes. Salisbury made his oaths as Tattershall grew before him.

He was not surprised to see riders come out of the main gate before he reached the hill, cantering down the steep slope that separated the castle grounds from the town. Cromwell had trusted his niece’s safety to the head of the Nevilles. The man would be expecting the worst possible news.

Salisbury raised his hand, halting his followers as the first three horsemen drew up and faced him. Ralph Cromwell was not a well man, his face swollen around his collar and too darkly red, though Salisbury knew the surgeons bled him regularly. At sixty, the man’s hair was bone-white and wispy as a babe’s, whipping back and forth over his bald crown in the breeze. The man had ridden out without banners, still wearing a tunic spotted with juices from whatever he had been eating before.

“My lord Salisbury,” Cromwell called, though his gaze slid over Richard Neville and searched the others. When the old man’s wet eyes stopped on his niece, Salisbury saw him sag in the saddle, relief in every line of him. He knew then that Cromwell had not been part of the plot. Though the baron was childless, it was well known he doted on his sister’s daughter as if she were his own. Salisbury had been almost certain the man would never have placed her in danger. Yet “almost” had brought him close to striking Cromwell dead. Not many had known Richard Neville had been present at Tattershall. For Salisbury, it was an effort to unclamp his hand from his sword hilt, so hard had he been holding it.

Cromwell’s gaze snapped back, perhaps sensing some of the threat in the dark expressions of the battered group. Salisbury inclined his head in sour greeting.

“Maud lives, Lord Cromwell. As do my wife and son. As do I. The Percy brigands failed, though they brought three for every one of mine.”

He watched as Cromwell understood, stiffening slightly while his hair waved in the wind like a white flag.

“Percy?”

Salisbury watched the man’s mouth tighten.

“It was the dowry manors, then. My lord, I knew their spite, but nothing of their intentions. I swear it on the honor of my house and name.”

“I hold you innocent, my lord. If I did not, I would not have returned to Tattershall.”

The baron lost some of the tension in his face. Richard Neville was not a man to cross, not with the ear of the Protector. Cromwell wiped his forehead, where it had begun to glisten.

“For now though,” Salisbury went on, “I must ask that my men are tended in your care, while I send word.”

“Send word, my lord?” Cromwell asked. His oyster-eyes were always wet, it seemed, red-rimmed and shining as they darted back and forth among those watching him.

“To Richard of York, Baron. The king’s Protector. To my son, Earl Warwick.” Despite his struggle for calm, Salisbury heard his own voice growing loud and harsh. “To every man-at-arms in Neville service in England, to every house bound to us, by blood or marriage. I will call them all, Baron. I will cut out the Percy family, root and branch, to be thrown on the fire!”

It would have been courtesy to allow Cromwell to lead them back to his castle, but Salisbury was his superior in rank and, in that moment, beyond such niceties. He dug in his heels and his horse jerked into a trot past the astonished baron, followed on the instant by eighty scarred and scowling men. His son John went with him, staying at his father’s side. Only Maud and Salisbury’s wife, Alice, hung back, the older woman putting her hand out to prevent Maud trotting dutifully after her husband.

“Baron Cromwell,” she called, “Richard would want me to thank you for allowing us to lodge at Tattershall once more.” She could not apologize for her husband’s rudeness, so sought words to smooth the older man’s ruffled feathers. “You may be sure that your name will be spoken in London as a man we trust and honor.”

Cromwell dipped his head, still bristling as he glared at the rear of the men riding into his home.

“I’m sure Maud would appreciate your counsel, Baron,” Alice went on. “I’ll leave her with you, in your care, where she was always well kept—”

“Enough, Alice,” Cromwell said in grim amusement. “Your husband charges into my keep without waiting on my permission, but who could blame him after what he has seen? If I were younger, I would be blowing the horns myself after what he has endured. It is forgotten, though you have my thanks for your grace.”