Kingmaker: Winter Pilgrims (65 page)

He swings the ledger back over his shoulder and unplugs the bill from the sloppy earth.

He stands.

He will at least die on his feet.

And then from behind him comes the sound of trumpets, faint, distant, thin. He turns. Along the road is a mass of men coming through the snow, grey and indistinguishable at this distance. There is a lull, infinitesimal, a let-up in the constant clash of steel as men turn to face the new arrivals.

‘It’s the White Lion!’ a man shouts. ‘It’s the Duke of bloody Norfolk! Blessed be God!’

It is the men that boy had been waiting for, his father among them. There is a surging cheer along the ranks of King Edward’s men as the news spreads, and Fauconberg’s men are heartened and they rejoin the line with renewed vigour. Men in blue and white run past him, hurrying to wade back into the fight, hurrying to hold the line.

‘On! On! A Fauconberg! A Norfolk!’

The new contingent in red livery is fast. They join King Edward’s line at its eastern end, up by the marshes, and they crash into the northerners’ line, and for the first time that day, the northerners are forced to take a step back. They step back over the bodies of the men they’ve killed and over those who’ve died to buy them their advance. Their left flank, previously grounded on the boggy marshland beyond the road, is now overwhelmed by Norfolk’s men, fresh to the fight, and soon the battle lines are canted around, so that they run from north to south, and it is the northerners’ turn to call on their reserves to shore up their wavering wing.

Thomas is breathing more easily, and he gathers himself. He feels redeemed. Released. He must return to find Riven. But now he cannot get to the front for the press of these new men; he can no longer see Riven’s flag above their helmeted heads and the forest of their bills and spears, and the fighting is slowly moving away. He follows it, stumbling in its wake where between the corpses the ground is an ankle-deep soup of blood and snow, and every man is coated in it, so that liveries are not easily distinguishable.

The line is slowly advancing.

Those who fight for Henry of Lancaster are being beaten back by those who fight for Edward of York. Thomas follows, through tumuli of bodies creaking where wounded struggle to escape.

And then through the swirling snow he glimpses Riven’s flag again, he is sure of it. It is farther back, and he pushes forward. He tries to get between the broad backs of Norfolk’s men, but their number is too great, and the resistance of the northerners too fierce.

They fight on, and the quality of light in the sky changes, and it is now nearer the eve than the morning; for the first time in the day it seems the King’s men might have the numbers, and the balance of battle is weighing in their favour.

And now there is a great cry. A roar that surges around Thomas.

‘A Warwick! A Warwick!’

Men are fighting with desperate intensity, knowing that to yield an inch now will be to yield the whole day. For a few brief moments Thomas is forced to the front again and is hacking and chopping at men in bloodied livery. They are exhausted, and Thomas is aware – also for the first time – he is attacking them and they are defending. The balance has swung.

One turns, and runs. The next likewise, and the man Thomas is trying to kill is struck down by a fat-bladed bill and goes down and behind him there is no one, only the backs of men, fleeing the fight.

Just like that the northerners have broken, and their line is disintegrating along its entire length.

It is as sudden as that.

The battle is won.

And now the trumpets sound behind King Edward’s lines again. They are blowing a shrill call, and boys hurry forward with strings of horses from the park and the King’s spears and lances are suddenly there, mounted men coming up from the rear, and they are joined by the prickers who’ve reclaimed their mounts, and every man with access to a horse is forcing his way through the press to get at the fleeing northerners, and to cut them down.

Thomas stands numb and watches the northerners throw aside that which might slow them – their weapons, their armour, everything – as they begin a pell-mell rush northwards, pushing one another aside, stamping on their fellows to get away. But it is no good. King Edward’s horsemen are everywhere, riding them down, running men through with spears, breaking skulls with hammers, slashing at them with swords.

And so now the killing really begins. What was a contest becomes a slaughter, butchery, closer to commerce than to sport or battle. Archers are there with mauls and daggers, hacking at the backs of the fleeing men. Those with arrows loose them at men as they run, knocking them over, hobbling them so they can be killed and robbed at leisure.

Some northerners don’t run, but try to sell their lives dearly, and they huddle together in groups and turn their weapons outwards, but they do not last long. Surrounded, they go down in a hail of blows and they are set upon as soon as they’ve bowed their heads; knives jammed into eye-slits, visors ripped open and the contents gouged out, swords stabbed into groins and armour stripped off. Even the dead are mutilated.

Some try to flee back across the field towards the woods, but Warwick’s lances cut them off and herd them towards the valley beyond where the rest of the King’s men crowd forward to kill them.

Where is King Edward to demand mercy for the commons?

There is no sign of him. He has ridden northwards after the fleeing men.

Where is Riven?

Thomas is running now, tripping on dying men, stumbling clumsily through the corpses heaped like islands in a sea of blood. Here and there some of the King’s men have already broken off to loot the dead and Thomas starts searching the bodies himself, seeking that livery badge, but everywhere they are the Duke of Somerset’s men with their portcullis, or the Duke of Exeter’s, entangled with those of Warwick, or Fauconberg, or the King’s men with their white rose. The points of bloodied weapons make it a dangerous exercise.

‘You don’t look too clever,’ a voice says.

It is Perers, alive, looking well even, carrying his bow unnocked and a single arrow in his belt. He is studying Thomas as if trying to work out why he lives when he should be dead.

‘So, did you find that bloke with the flag?’ he asks.

Thomas shakes his head.

Perers sniffs.

‘He’ll be down there then,’ he says. ‘If he’s still alive.’

He gestures across the field to where King Edward’s men are gathered on the lip of the plateau to the west. There are thousands of them and the noise of fighting persists, a constant grinding.

‘Take a look, if you like?’ Perers offers.

Thomas nods and Perers shows him how he’s been using the bodies as stepping stones.

‘Don’t tread on them in armour,’ he says. ‘Too slippery. Just tread on them in jacks. And for fuck’s sake mind out for those caltrops. You stand on one of them, you’ll know about it all right.’

The caltrops are scattered where the northerners’ right flank had started and Thomas follows Perers across the field, stepping from body to body, wary of the spiked iron balls that lie under the snow.

At the lip of the plateau the King’s men are ranged in a crowd, three or four deep. Beyond them Thomas can hear bellowing and screaming and there is the dense rattle of hammers and blades beating on well-fixed armour. When he reaches the fringe, men turn to look at him, and he sees they are furtive and guilty, as if they have been caught out at something.

He pushes his way through.

In the valley below are the northerners: Somerset’s men, the Queen’s men, Henry of Lancaster’s men, thousands of men in colours Thomas does not know, and ranged along the crest of the valley around him are the King Edward’s men, and Warwick’s men, and Norfolk’s men, and they are beating down on the heads of those below, killing those they can reach, and driving those they cannot down the slope into a swift-running river that has burst its banks and laps the trunks of alders on the far side.

It is a trap as tight as a barrel.

There must be many thousands down there. Not one will live through the next hours unless King Edward returns to grant mercy for the commons.

The press of Warwick’s men is impassable. They all want their moment at the front, they all want vengeance, and they push forward to get their chance to kill a man. They are wide-eyed, as at bear baiting, and Thomas knows he will never forget the sight or sound of this moment.

He turns and pushes his way back through the throng.

John Perers follows.

‘Bit bloody strong that, ain’t it?’

If Riven is in the valley he will die, of that Thomas is sure. Someone will kill him or he will be drowned. But what if he is not?

He leads Perers northwards. They pick their way through the corpses that clot the field. Looters are bent-backed everywhere, using hatchets to remove rings from men’s fingers, stuffing their bags with weapons, purses, the silver livery badges that men wear, jewelled collars. Cruelty is everywhere. Mercy has fled.

Below to the left the ground gives way sharply, down to the river. It is too steep for men to climb up, and from their vantage point Thomas and Perers can look back and see the horror of the thing. While those higher up the slope are trying to escape the blades of King Edward’s men, those at the bottom are being forced chest-deep into the icy waters of the beck. They have cast off their armour where they can and are clinging to their companions. Some trust themselves to the flood and perhaps one or two make it. Most do not. Their linen-wadded jacks are blood- and water-soaked, heavier than armour, and they disappear under the waters with a final despairing wave to life.

Thomas cannot see Riven among their number, but that does not mean he is not there.

Still he walks on, something guides him, and farther downstream some of the northerners have managed to get across the river. Men are struggling to cross a ford, waist deep, shoulder deep, slipping on the treacherous stones under the surface. All order has broken down, and they are fighting one another to get across, turning their weapons on their friends, forcing one another down into the waters, and in the gloom it takes Thomas a moment to understand what he is looking at.

It is not a ford, but a dam of bodies.

So many of them have been drowned or killed and thrown into the waters that they are now piled the one on the other. They have risen above the river’s waters in a pile and now men are fighting to get across it, cutting and slashing at one other, trampling on the fallen, forcing them into the water the better to keep themselves dry.

Even Perers is aghast.

‘Dear Christ,’ he breathes. ‘Dear Christ.’

There is something about this concentration of cruelty that makes Thomas sure this is where Riven will be.

And that is when he sees him.

Not Riven. The giant.

He is forcing his way on to the dam, knocking down those before him with that pollaxe and then treading on them, battering them down into the waters. Building up the bridge for himself. Thomas remembers the giant’s fear of the water. Behind him is another man. For a moment Thomas cannot be sure. In the gathering gloom it might be anyone, but then, after a moment, he is certain of it.

Riven.

He has removed his harness, and now wears only bloodstained linen and hose, and he is using a short-bladed sword to stab any who impede him.

They are getting away.

Thomas has to stop them, but between them stand a thousand desperate northerners, too tightly packed to move their arms, let alone let him pass.

He turns to Perers.

‘Your bow,’ he says. ‘Let me have your bow.’

Perers shakes his head.

‘Worth more than my own wife, it is,’ he says.

‘Give it to me, now!’

It has come to this, this last moment. If Thomas does not do this now, he will never see Riven again.

Thomas stares at Perers. Perers hands the bow over. He is very reluctant.

‘A string! Quick! A string.’

Perers unwinds the string from his wrist.

‘You’ll be careful with it?’

‘For Christ’s sake! The arrows!’

But Perers only has one.

The giant is on the far bank now. He is stretching back to help Riven.

Thomas notches the arrow. He holds the bow down. Looks at Riven. Looks at the giant. He draws the bow, feeling that top-heaviness. It is an ugly bow, he thinks, unloved, rough. Perhaps that is perfect for this last thing he has to do? He raises it, holds the string to his cheek, his arms fluttering with the effort, and just as Riven scrambles past the giant up the far bank, he looses.

He misses.

But the giant pauses. He takes two staggering steps to his right, arches his back and drops the pollaxe.

‘God in heaven!’ Perers murmurs. ‘That was some shot.’

The giant tries to scrabble at something caught between his shoulder blades. He can’t reach it. He falls to his knees, then on to all fours. Riven turns back – perhaps the giant has shouted something?

‘Get an arrow!’ Thomas yells at Perers.

His eyes are fixed on Riven, who hesitates by the fallen giant, and for a moment Thomas thinks he might help him. But then Riven snatches up the pollaxe, turns and runs. The giant collapses in the snow.

‘Find an arrow!’ Thomas screams. He looks about too, but keeps one eye on Riven who is moving northwards along the far bank, scrabbling through the bare-branched undergrowth, slipping in the snow, leaving a trail of bloody footprints.

He is getting away. He is escaping.

Thomas casts aside his helmet and runs along the valley top, shadowing Riven. The ground is too steep to descend.

Perers follows.

‘My bow,’ he says.

Thomas ignores him. There is a great pile of corpses blocking his way, and there are caltrops scattered on the ground. He scrambles over them, still watching the shrinking figure of Riven, still looking for another arrow. He finds one, but the head is bent and curled back on itself. It will never fly true. He throws it aside. Runs on.

It is dusk now.

He will soon lose Riven in the dark.

He begins a prayer. ‘
Pater Noster, qui es in caelis
. . .’ Then he gives it up. Prayers are for later.