Margaret of Anjou (17 page)

—

W
ARWICK 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 ax 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.

“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 colors 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 armor 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 judgment 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 honor 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.

“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 their 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.

E
very 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 toward 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 armored knight and deflected, thumping into Buckingham’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 toward 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 onto 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 onto 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.

Buckingham watched with a sense of sick horror. His mouth felt as if it was being boiled and every movement brought a scraping of bone. He could feel his face swelling all around the wound, his lips already fat, filling with blood from the inside. It was all he could do not to panic and wrench at the thing stuck in him. With a savage twist, he removed a loosened front tooth and began to work the arrow free in grim silence, ignoring the blood that made a slick down the front of his jerkin until a wave of dizziness hit him. Slowly, Buckingham went down on one knee and then rolled onto his back.

While Scruton worked on the king, Master Hatclyf appeared at the duke’s side without a word, opening his leather bag for tools. Hatclyf tugged the duke’s hands away, clipped the arrow shaft with small shears and placed one hand on the man’s forehead to hold him still while he cut the arrow clear with a razor and iron pincers. The doctor completed the task with a quick jerk that took out another loose tooth and split the roof of Buckingham’s mouth all the way to the back of his throat. Buckingham began to choke, drowning. He lurched up and vomited on the ground. There was too much blood to spit, and Hatclyf could only press a wad of cloth against the duke’s torn lips as Buckingham passed out.

Only one man in the tent had been killed outright, a stroke of marvelous fortune against the odds. All the rest looked up in fear as they heard running feet coming toward them. Outside the awning, there were many more wounded or lying still. Knights limped to protect the king with shafts still in their armor, or lay slumped, breathing their last. The arrows had stopped, replaced by the call of “Warwick” coming again and growing louder.

“To me, Percys! Protect your king!” Earl Percy roared at the top of his voice.

Bannermen and knights were pouring in from all directions, beginning a surge up from the forces on the hill. The stalemate at the barricades had shattered the moment Henry had been struck, with no man knowing yet if it was a mortal wound or not.

“My lord Percy, someone must send orders to hold the lower town!” Derry Brewer shouted suddenly. “With the king hurt, all our men will come here. York and Salisbury will follow them. Please, my lord! Give the order.”

Earl Percy ignored him, as if Derry had not spoken. With a snarled curse, Derry raced away, searching for Somerset. As he went, the tattered awning came down in a crash as some vital pole was kicked out or broken. Great swathes of canvas covered the king and his surgeon as the man worked to snip the shaft and ease it out without tearing the delicate veins so close to the king’s throat. There was royal blood all over the surgeon’s hands, his grip slipping as he tried to grasp the cut shaft. Henry’s hands kept reaching up to the wound and Scruton collared one of the king’s chamberlains, ordering him to hold them clear. The man stood in blank shock at the sight of his fallen master and Scruton had to shake him from his stupor before he dared to take hold and let the surgeon work. Around them, knights were cutting or heaving the heavy canvas sheets away, revealing the king to the open air.

Warwick’s soldiers raced down St. Peter’s Street with swords and shields held high, howling in savage glee at the chaos they had caused. The king’s own guards came out against them, forming a shield line to take the first impact. More and more men were flooding back into that spot and the two forces crashed together.

Derry Brewer found himself struggling against a torrent of men as he ran downhill, yelling for them to hold position. God knew, the king’s life was in peril, but if they all abandoned the barricades, the day would be lost. As he moved further away from the marketplace, Derry could see a host of soldiers pushing and running to get up. At the bottom of the town, there was a great growling roar as York and Salisbury found the barriers unmanned. The king’s forces were retreating before them, leaving the barricades to fall.

Derry Brewer came to a shocked halt in the street, his shoulders thumped by men still trying to get past until he pressed himself against a building and was left alone. No one thought clearly when the monarch was in danger. Loyal soldiers were almost mindless with rage, determined to repel whoever dared threaten the king’s person. Derry swallowed, his mouth dry. He’d known he would be little use on the march north. A king’s spymaster worked in secret, uncovering traitors or cutting throats in the dark. In the bright morning, on open streets, he was just another body, without even a set of armor to keep him safe.

Derry stared down the hill, seeing the line of York’s men already breaking through, shoving thorns and tabletops aside in a frenzy. Some of those rushing away from the barriers were looking back by then, aware of the threat. They chose to keep going to the top of the hill, perhaps hoping to rally there for a fight back through the town. Derry shook his head, sickened. York had a greater army by far, twice the fighting men of those around King Henry. There could only be one outcome, especially now the king had been wounded. God had surely blinked when that single archer sent his shaft, for it to have done so much damage.

Derry forced air into his lungs, feeling his heart pound and his hands shake. He could get out, he was almost certain. He’d considered an escape route when they’d first entered the town, as was his common practice. The abbey loomed over St. Albans and Derry knew he could run to it. It would not be hard to find a monk’s robe to throw over himself, either hiding among the brothers in their quarters, or taking a path out west of the town, before York and Salisbury reached the marketplace. If he did that, Derry knew he would live, to take the news to the queen. He told himself that someone had to get out. Someone had to survive the disaster still unfolding, and it might as well be him. He saw a side street across the path of the main road down the hill. He could cross against the tide of men and simply vanish. He’d done it before. York would not leave him alive, that much was sure as sunset. Derry could see the ranks of fresh Yorkist soldiers forcing their way up the hill toward where he stood. The road had cleared between the two armies, with all the marketplace crammed full of the king’s men. York and Salisbury were coming with blood in their eyes, and Derry stood alone between them.

“Just run,” he muttered to himself. “
Run
, you daft bastard.” King Henry could be dead already. Derry could hear the clash of arms in the marketplace, with the tramp of marching feet on stone coming closer until the whole town seemed to shake with it. The Nevilles and the Percys were unleashed to slaughter each other in broad daylight and Derry knew he had no choice at all. He was a king’s man. It came down to that and nothing else. With dragging steps, he found himself heading back the way he had come.

—

Y
ORK HAD
BEEN ABLE
to watch the thin stream of red-coated soldiers race up the hill toward St. Peter’s Street. He couldn’t see the marketplace from Key Field, though he thought he had heard the name of Warwick cried out before it was borne away on the wind. The sun was at noon overhead when his men at the barricade began to shout in triumph, heaving great pieces away, faster and faster as the king’s troops abandoned them. York didn’t understand the reason for the sudden lack of defense, but he took full advantage, throwing everyone he had at the remaining obstacle and ripping it out of position in great blocks. His men scrambled over the scattered mess of broken wood and thorns, pushing on with no resistance to stop them.

The forces of York were faster off the mark than those of Salisbury, so that he reached the streets of the town first, reining in to stare at the mass of running men heading uphill away from him. Once more, York could hear “Warwick” roared up by the marketplace and he only had to point in that direction as his captains ordered the ranks on, giving chase. God had blessed the moment and York was determined not to waste the chance. He saw his son bring his horse through the gap and called the boy to his side.

On his right, Salisbury’s men came battering through, causing the men of York to whistle and jeer at them for being late to the fight. York could not see Salisbury then, but the earl would find his own way to the king. He trotted his mount uphill toward the fighting, rolling his right shoulder and taking a firm grip on his shield as he dropped his visor and peered out at the world through a narrow slit. His banner knights rode on either side of him and his men cried “York!” as they climbed, ready to spend all the frustration of the barriers on those wretches who had abandoned them.

As they drew closer to St. Peter’s Street, York could see only chaos. There was fighting on one edge of the marketplace, he could hear it. Ahead of his position, the king’s soldiers seemed willing just to fall back and back, with no one to command them. He brought his horse to the front rank of his soldiers, walking in line with them. More than once, he saw individual king’s men stop and watch with baleful glares, then turn their backs and hurry further away. Inspiration struck him when one group of three took a position right in his path, carrying axes like they meant to use them.

“By God, get out of my way and guard the king!” York roared at them. He almost smiled in surprise when they too turned and jogged off toward the tumult ahead. York shook his head at the confusion all around. His captains had the men in order, sending them out into side roads so that, in time, they would have the triangular marketplace completely surrounded. As they went, they came across Salisbury’s men doing the same thing, bawling the name of their patrons before they could attack each other in error.

On the edge of the market proper, York found his way blocked at last by determined ranks. Worried for his son, he thanked God there didn’t seem to be archers among them, one of many strokes of luck in that day of wonders. He eyed the shield wall warily, but his men strode on without hesitation, breaking into a run with each of his captains controlling the mob as best they could. York heard them yell to make a path for him, and he and Edward walked their mounts slowly on, ignoring the struggling, dying men on both sides as they broke the shield wall and opened a narrow track in the press. York saw arrows looping over the crowd then. He dismounted quickly, rather than make himself too obvious a target. Edward of March and his banner knights dropped to the ground at his side, leaving their horses to be swallowed in the crush of struggling men. York’s son was staring around him in amazement, holding his sword out before him.

It was as if they walked in a dream. Time and again, soldiers tried to reach York’s small group of men only to be snatched away by others wearing his colors, brought down by swearing groups and sheer numbers. In open space on the cobbled road, they walked untouched until, to his astonishment, he reached hillocks of torn canvas and the king himself, laid out on the ground.