Margaret of Anjou (16 page)

Somerset’s herald finished nodding through his instructions, helped by the Welshmen to climb the barricade, on the heels of York’s man. The herald was pale as he went, not enjoying the prospect of passing through jeering soldiers on the other side of the barrier.

Somerset walked over to where Derry was peering through gaps in the thorns, looking grim.

“If York has sense, he’ll pull his men clear before someone gets a shaft down his throat or calls the wrong insult,” Somerset said.

“Those are Salisbury’s men, my lord. And they look as if they are spoiling for a fight. My lord, if you hear Earl Percy is intending to come down here, you might want to dissuade him. There are scores to settle between Percy and Neville and I don’t want them settled today, if you take my meaning.”

As Derry spoke, another flight of stones came over, knocking one of the archers back so that he fell screeching into the thorns, slipping down between two great oak tables. Those close to him shouted in anger and Derry saw one of them bending his bow with his teeth bared, blood running down his face. Jasper Tudor was bellowing an order, but the archer loosed his shaft and then howled in triumph. Half a dozen more took it as a signal to attack, and Tudor’s orders were lost in a roar from both sides.

Derry heard a scream of pain sound above the noise and then almost lost his footing as the entire barricade lurched, rocking back and forth. He could feel axes chopping into wood and he drew his seax knife from the sheath on his hip.

“Christ!” he muttered. “My lord Somerset, we need more men here!”

In answer to his prayers, a troop of soldiers were already running toward the blocked road, swords bared and ready. Somerset ordered them into ranks and Derry stepped back to observe the defenses. The barrier was a brutal obstacle, whether those beyond it were just a small group of angry men or the first ranks of a full assault by Salisbury’s forces. It would hold for a time, with Tudor’s archers shooting in volleys, yelling a count to each other as they picked targets at close range. To Derry’s astonishment, one of them was declaiming in verse, call and answer, with all the Welsh archers joining in.

Somerset saw Derry almost dancing from foot to foot in indecision.

“I have it here, Brewer,” he said. “Go!”

Derry ran, cutting around the timbered home of some wealthy merchant and along to the second and third barriers. They were even tighter than the first, smaller alleys blocked to the height of two men and swarming with soldiers who clambered up the beams of the houses on either side to get a look at the enemy.

“Hold this position!” Derry shouted as he reached them, careless of his own right to give orders. “They don’t get past!” The barricades were solid enough, he realized, sprinting back up the hill to the marketplace, where the king and the bulk of the royal column were still crammed in. At every step, Derry passed men jumping up from their meals and resting places, streaming down against his course toward the sounds of fighting. It was chaos, with no obvious figure in charge of any of it. Derry cursed York and Salisbury under his breath as he pounded up the hill until his breath felt like flame in his lungs.

—

Y
ORK CLENCHED HIS FISTS
tight behind his back as he faced Somerset’s herald. The man had sunk to both knees in the presence of a duke and Earl Salisbury, but the fact that he was in Somerset’s livery rather than the king’s meant York knew what he would say before the herald opened his mouth. York’s expression darkened further as the nervous man stammered through the message he had been given. Words that had been spoken by King Henry while surrounded by his loyal lords sounded much harder in York’s own tent.

“. . . you must then, d-depart from this place to await the king’s judgment and . . .” The herald cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his scalp under York’s cold gaze, “. . . and pray for his mercy.” He shut his mouth and dipped his head, praying on his own behalf that he would not be beaten or killed for carrying such a message. Back toward the town, some ruckus was beginning, with shouting voices raised in anger. It all seemed far away at that moment and the herald swallowed uncomfortably.

“Damned and oathsworn?” York repeated in wonder, shaking his head. “King Henry offers me nothing but
damnation
?”

“I was told only to repeat the king’s words, my lord. I . . . I have no permission to add more.”

The shouting had become a roar and York looked up from the hapless subject of his fury.

“Salisbury? Send someone out to see . . . no, I’ll go myself.”

He strode past the herald without bothering to dismiss him. Salisbury followed on York’s heels and the man was left in the empty command tent to wipe sweat from his brow.

York swore as he looked across the field and saw the barricade across New Lane rocking back and forth, cries and shouts sounding across the field. He could see archers scrabbling around on the makeshift construction, taking shots as they fought to keep their footing.

“Have your men brought back out of range,” York snapped. “Then summon the captains.”

Salisbury inclined his head without a word, careful to show no sign of his own satisfaction. The chance for peace had come and gone in a few rash words from the king. Salisbury could have blessed Henry at that moment.

The sun was still rising as thirty-two men gathered around York. Each was a veteran, well armed and sufficiently experienced to have risen to command for their noble patrons. He saw their grim determination and chose his words to suit.

“I have received King Henry’s herald,” York began, making his voice ring out with a sizable fraction of the anger and betrayal he felt.

Hundreds of soldiers began to trot closer to that small group of captains as they realized their fate was being decided. The barricades were left behind for the Welsh archers to jeer at the retreating soldiers. A dozen bodies lay at the foot of the thorns and piled wood, already cooling.

“Although it was my aim to settle this dispute without recourse to arms,” York went on sternly, “I have been denied. King Henry has evil men around him who think nothing of trampling the names of York and Salisbury under their heels. Aye, and Warwick too.” His fury swamped him so that his voice rose to a bellow. “Do not mistake me! My quarrel is not with the king! I am no traitor, though there are some poor fools who call me so—and who would make traitors of every man here. I do not believe my plea for justice reached the king at all, but was instead caught and held by liars and knaves. If the king had heard my suit, he would have granted me a meeting under truce.”

He paused to glare round at the assembled men, seeing that his words were reaching a vast audience. His chest swelled, while Salisbury stood in silence, watching his friend’s anger take them on, wherever it would lead.

“Instead, I have been scorned! Cast out from the king’s grace by lesser men. All those who stand in Key Field will be hunted and hanged as traitors unless we settle this today. That is the choice I have been given. Must I choose to slink away? Must I leave my king in the clutches of whispering traitors, there to wait for a judgment that will mean the end of York?”

It was too much for the men beyond their captains. They cried out in his support, a growl of unformed words. Many of them were Yorkshire born, loyal to his house above all other claims on them. Even among Warwick’s red-coated followers, there were fists held high and voices yelling to bring down the king’s counselors.

“They have already shed the blood of good men who desired nothing more than peace!” York roared at them, pointing back at the barricades and the littered corpses. “They will have my answer now. They will have an answer that tears down their banks of thorns and frees the king from their grasp.”

More and more cheered him, breathing faster as they listened, standing tall on the churned earth.

“King Henry’s safety is your charge and mine,” York warned them all. “He will not suffer one scratch, on the soul and honor of every one of you. I am no traitor! And I see none
here
.”

The noise had grown with every passing moment so that York had to shout at the top of his lungs just to be heard.

“Captains! Return to your men. We will make a breach into the town and rescue King Henry from those who hold him. Go, gentlemen, in your fury. York holds the left, Salisbury the center, Warwick the right. Form ranks for me now. Take this town for me. Save the king.
God
save the king!”

As his final words were echoed in a great hoarse bellow, the captains ran to their positions, followed by hundreds of their men, so that the crowd seemed to explode out from where York was standing. It took only moments for three battle groups of a thousand to grab their weapons and armor and race to stand facing the town.

Salisbury, Warwick, and York’s son Edward were waiting quietly together as York turned to them, his face flushed from shouting. Salisbury shook his head in awe.

“Good God, Richard. I saw your great-grandfather in you then. The blood runs true, I think.”

“Remember that I wanted peace, first,” York said, his gaze falling to his son. He kept his eyes on Edward, wanting him to understand. “I will free King Henry from those who hold him hostage, nothing more. That is my order. They may call me a traitor. I will not
be
one.”

Edward swallowed and nodded, his pride showing clearly.

“Stay at my side, lad,” York said, gentling his tone. He raised his head to give the formal command. “Earl Salisbury, if you would do me the honor, your position is the center ground. Earl Warwick, yours is the right wing. There are three ways into the town, gentlemen. All guarded and blocked. I’ll wager I will climb the hill before you.”

They smiled, as he wished them to, just as his own expression became serious.

“Protect the king, gentlemen. Above all else and with your own lives, if you must. Our quarrel is with Somerset and Buckingham and Percy, not Henry of Lancaster. Give me your word.”

All three swore an oath on their honor and York nodded, satisfied.

“This morning is already old,” he said. “Let’s use the light.”

J
asper Tudor had split his Welsh archers among the three barricades, sending thirty and an experienced captain to each one. He’d known they would be valuable men to bring to the king’s Progress, but not that they would be absolutely vital to his defense. The houses that backed onto Key Field had one or two high windows set into the walls that were perfect for the task, so that his Welshmen kept a rain of arrows snapping down on the attacking forces. Tudor felt satisfaction, mingled with awe, as the barricades rocked and shuddered. This was no raid or skirmish, he could tell that much. Three armies had formed out on the rough earth, then come in with a roar and clatter.

The barrier groaned, heaved back and forth. Tudor heard something snap in its midst, a different crack to the thumps of bows sounding on all sides. The Yorkist soldiers were using long pikes to snag the ropes and heave backward. Other men protected the teams with shields, and they would have had the barrier in pieces in no time at all if not for his lads. At a range of just a dozen feet, his archers sent shafts right through the straining warriors, laughing and calling out the count of those they’d snatched from life. One of his captains chanted lines from
Y Gododdin
, the martial poem, raising the spirits of those who knew the language, and irritating the rest.

Tudor saw the Percy son, Lord Egremont, come racing down the hill with a few score of axemen at his heels. Egremont took in the situation at a glance and grinned to Tudor, a mark of appreciation for his efforts, as he arranged his own men to repulse any sudden breakthrough. Without the archers, the barricade would have fallen before he’d arrived, but they were still taking a terrible toll, emptying quivers until their shoulders trembled with the repeated strain.

Tudor stood back as pieces of mud-brick fell around him. A few of his lads had gone inside the house overlooking the lane and kicked out a hole in the wall of the upper floor. One of them leaned out with his arm gripped by a mate inside, seeking the best vantage spot. Tudor was looking up at him when a shaft came from the field and slotted through the archer’s jack vest, tearing him away from the grip of his friend so that he fell, striking the ground headfirst. Tudor heard Egremont swear in shock at the sight, but they’d known there were archers with York. Those men had been brought up and now the work to defend the lane became much harder, a game of quick glances and quicker shots. Tudor’s bowmen dared not aim for longer than a heartbeat, not with other archers watching for their heads to appear. Their accuracy suffered as a result, and York’s pike teams dragged weak sections of the barricades back and away, cheering every small reduction in the mass of thorns, rope, and wood that blocked their path. On the street side, Tudor saw Egremont’s men bringing up more tables and dragging uprooted thorn trees from a great pile to adorn them. The barrier deepened and grew, about as fast as it was ripped out.

Jasper Tudor turned as Egremont approached him. Tudor was an earl faced with a mere baron, so Egremont bowed deeply, to the Welshman’s private delight. Egremont was both taller and broader than he was, with the massive chest and shoulders of a swordsman trained from his earliest years. On the other hand, Jasper Tudor was half brother to the king. He smiled in greeting.

“I’ve sent a runner up to my father,” Egremont said. “We can hold them here, I think. We’ll need more men—and to set them to maintaining the barriers.” He frowned as he spoke, and Jasper Tudor understood immediately. Men like Egremont were trained for maneuvers in the field of battle, not to defend tables and thorns in a side alley. If the York soldiers broke through, the fighting would be vicious, but until then, it was a grinding, bloody stalemate.

“Have you word of any plan beyond holding the roads?” Tudor asked.

Egremont glowered to himself, shaking his head.

“Nothing yet. God knows, we can’t have the king stopped in one town forever. I think I saw messengers riding out to the south, though if it’s reinforcements they’re after, we’ll be here a week, waiting for them.”

“And there could be more coming to bolster York’s numbers,” Tudor said, rubbing his face with his hand.

“My father says all you Welsh are cunning, like the Scots,” Egremont said with a half smile. “Can you use those wits to find a way for us to beat them? I have a powerful desire to see Salisbury’s head on a pike-pole today, along with his sons. His family will be hard-broken after this treachery. At least there’s that, to keep me warm.”

“Your father does not like my countrymen, I’ve noticed,” Tudor said warily.

“No, he calls you trolls,” Egremont replied lightly, “though he likes your bows well enough. I’ve yet to make my own judgment.”

“On the bows or the men?”

“On the men. I would give a good-sized manor house for more of your archers here. That much I know. They may steal the spoons, but by God, they can make a shot.”

Earl Tudor stared closely at the young baron, his eyebrows high in surprise. After a moment, he realized the man was needling him for his own amusement and he chuckled.

“They were telling me they can’t get to the spoons. Every time they go into a house, one of your English virgins pulls them into a closet. I think you’ll use those spoons to feed a few Welsh bastards next year.”

“Yes, he calls you that, as well,” Egremont said. He clapped Tudor on the shoulder and both men chuckled, the tension easing. Thomas held out his hand and Jasper Tudor took it briefly, each of them gripping hard enough to crush.

As they shook hands, three hundred men-at-arms came trotting down the hill, wearing Percy blue-and-yellow surcoats and carrying banners. Egremont looked up, pleased to see his father’s men.

“We can hold here—all day or all week, if we must. Though it galls me to be unable to strike back, we can take a toll of them from our barriers. Either way, at least the king is safe. For all their God-cursed arrogance, York and the Nevilles have chosen the wrong town to attack—and the wrong way to do it.”

—

F
OR A
FULL HOUR
, Warwick watched coldly as a shield wall and pikemen assaulted a barrier as tall as he was on his horse. He had hidden his anger all morning. Both his father and York had their own reasons for being there, but between them they had hamstrung the captains they commanded. York had wanted to meet under truce with the king, and Warwick’s father had wanted only to get in range of the Percy lords. As a result, they’d wasted every chance to use the larger army they’d brought to St. Albans. If Warwick had been able to make the sun rise again, he knew he would have met the king on the road, on open land. King Henry would have been forced to surrender, or they’d have slaughtered his column, overwhelming it with sheer numbers of fighting men and archers. Instead, his father and York had managed to place themselves in a position where three thousand men had to funnel through narrow alleys into the town. The massive advantage of numbers was next to useless, and Warwick could only thank God his archers were there to hamper the shots of Welshmen from the other side. It would have been a slaughter without his redcoats—and yet the barricades remained, with each side picking at them.

—

W
ARWICK CLENCHED HIS JAW
in frustration. He’d rejected the idea of setting fires as soon as he’d seen the wooden beamed houses on either side. The entire town would become a furnace and then a tomb for the king. York had made it clear enough he would not countenance such an action, which left their soldiers to heave and struggle and die, with no way through.

Digging in his spurs, Warwick rode his mount further out along the line of rear walls. He could see the tower of St. Peter’s Church above the town and he sensed he was observed. A sudden tightening of his eyes was the only sign of his interest, invisible to anyone watching. St. Albans was an ancient town, sprawling on past the main streets in all directions. Some of the houses had gardens at the rear and he’d seen a short length of wooden fence alongside one great white home. It looked like open air beyond it, as if the gap ran along the full side of the house.

The king’s men had blocked the roads, so of course his father and York had assaulted those barriers. The more Warwick stared, the more he wondered if they had ignored other ways in. He had fought in London when Jack Cade’s Kentish men had attacked the city. Perhaps it was that mad rush of side roads and doubling back in darkness that had him looking for another route around the obstacles in his path.

One of his bondsmen knights was in the process of trotting his horse past with a dozen axemen in mail running in his wake. Warwick hailed him.

“Gaverick! Sir Howard!” Warwick called, feeling a shiver of excitement.

As the knight raised his visor and looked round, Warwick gestured him closer. The group halted, relaxing instantly at the slightest opportunity to rest.

“I need . . . three hundred fresh men. A hundred of my redcoat archers and the rest with axes and shields. Fast men, Sir Howard—men who can run and cause havoc if we break through. Have no horns blown. There are sharp eyes at every window in town, ready to run with news to the king’s supporters. Gather the men to me and then be ready to follow.”

For just an instant, the knight’s gaze flickered over to where York and Salisbury were watching the assault on the barricades. Warwick shook his head before Sir Howard could ask his question.

“No. I will not trouble York with this, not until I know where it leads.” Warwick was twenty-six years old and had inherited the service of men like Sir Howard just six years before. He spoke with all the confidence he could muster, depending on the man’s loyalty to his colors and rank.

“Very well, my lord,” Sir Howard said stiffly, bowing from the waist. “You lads, remain here with Lord Warwick. Don’t cause trouble.”

He said the last while pointing at a surly-looking brute who had already settled down on the dark earth and was rummaging in his pouches for something to eat. The man glared back, tearing off some dried meat with his back teeth. Warwick saw Sir Howard open his mouth to comment and then decide against it, turning his mount and galloping over to the main force.

Warwick watched him go, his eyes narrowing in thought. He turned as the rest of the men sat down where they stood, encouraged by the example of the first. Warwick hesitated, then felt anger at himself as much as them.

“Get up. Go on, up, all of you. I want you ready to march and fight.”

None of the men replied, though some leaped to their feet. Others rose more slowly, showing only irritation. Warwick returned their stares until he saw that just the first man remained sitting, looking up with a wry smile on his face.

“What is your name,” Warwick asked, “to refuse an order on the field of war?”

The man stood sharply at that, revealing great height and breadth, with a face half hidden in black whiskers.

“Fowler, my lord. I didn’t catch the order, my lord. I’ll follow, you don’t need to worry about me, my lord.”

The man spoke with studied insolence, though those around him showed only discomfort. Warwick realized the man was not well liked, perhaps one of those who brought a level of anger to every path they crossed. Yet he needed angry men for what he had in mind.

“You were slow to stand, Fowler. You’ll go first, with me, into the town. Hang back and be hanged, or fight well and rise.” Warwick shrugged deliberately, as if it mattered not at all. “Make your choice now and I’ll watch to see.”

For what seemed an age, Fowler held his gaze, revealing some barely banked resentment deep in his dark eyes.

“I’ll fight well, my lord. The chance to put good steel in the guts of the king’s fancy nobles? I wouldn’t miss a chance of that, not for two o’ Christmas this year. If you’ll lead, that is, my lord.”

“Watch me,” Warwick replied, irritated with the man. He was saved from the exchange by Sir Howard’s return, bringing hundreds of men to surround the young earl on his warhorse.

“With eyes on us, I will not point out the path,” Warwick called to them as they settled, waiting for orders. “My aim is to break through the gardens of the houses and make our way up the hill to the king’s position. Anyone with hammers come to the front. Knock down anything in our way. I can’t see us climbing fences like boys after stolen apples.” He paused as the assembled men chuckled. “If there is a way through, we don’t stop. If they’ve made other barriers beyond, we’ll turn aside and fall on the defenders at the first line. Those are my orders. The cry is ‘Warwick,’ but not until we break through. Is that clear?”

Three hundred voices muttered, “Yes, my lord,” as Warwick dismounted.

He saw Fowler’s eyebrows rise, but the path he hoped to take would only be possible on foot. He would not give up his armor, however, no matter how much speed it stole from him. Once more, Warwick remembered the dark alleys of the Cade rebellion and repressed a shudder. He drew his sword and took down his shield, gripping the straps.

“Follow me. Hammers and axes to the front.”

It was not possible to sprint in a full suit of plate armor. Warwick walked as fast as he could, stalking along while three hundred men trotted in his wake. At first, it seemed their intention was to reinforce the shield wall at the barricades, but then he cut right, along the back walls of houses. The noise they made was no pleasant jingling, but the tramp and ring of armed men, ready to slaughter anything in their path.