“Where is the king?” Salisbury demanded.
York turned to him, raising his visor to reply.
“I had him taken to the abbey. He was sorely wounded, but I have him now, alive.” Realization of their victory surged in him, filling his chest. “I will have the horns blown and call a truce. There is nothing to fight for now.”
“No!” Salisbury snapped. “You will not. There is work for me to finish before I’m done. On our friendship, make a promise to me. You’ll not blow your horns, Richard. Percy and Egremont live. My ending lies ahead.”
York narrowed his eyes at the aggression in both father and son.
“The battle is over,” York said firmly. “Didn’t you hear me say we have the king?” As the head of the Neville family gave no reply, York pointed at his chest. “You gave an oath to follow me, Salisbury.”
He saw a spasm of strain pass across the older man’s face. His son John began to speak, but York glanced coldly at him.
“Close your mouth, boy.”
Furious, Sir John Neville looked away.
“My oath holds,” Salisbury said stiffly, irritated at his son’s humiliation as well as the reminder of his honor. “Give me but an hour. That is all. If I cannot bring the dogs to heel by then, I’ll blow the horns myself. My word on it.”
“An hour, then. I will tell my heralds,” York said, choosing not to press the matter further.
Salisbury turned to watch the course of the fighting going on around the marketplace and York stood still to watch him, seeing further and more clearly than he had before. The fate of the house of York, even the fate of the king, had never been Salisbury’s concern. York considered those of his men who waited on his command all around.
“Force a path to the abbey,” he told them. “God grant Henry lives yet, that I may speak to my king.”
CHAPTER 16
As York left the marketplace, Salisbury took command, bellowing orders to attack the Percy soldiers. Both Earl Percy and Lord Egremont had been forced further down St. Peter’s Street in a running action, away from the failed stand at the marketplace. Salisbury could see the banner of Somerset close by the same group, before the man holding it was killed and it vanished underfoot. Soldiers in red coats pressed them cruelly and some steady part of Salisbury’s mind noted the usefulness of the colors they wore, when all other banners had been broken or trampled.
With a weary breath, he clapped his son John on the shoulder.
“Stay close to me,” he said.
In formation, the Neville soldiers pushed after them. Salisbury could feel his years in every step, but the weakness of his flesh was held at bay by the chance to settle his feud once and for all. York and the king had been taken from the center. The battle then was between Neville and Percy, with the Neville forces two or three times the number of his enemies.
Salisbury and his son marched down St. Peter’s Street after them, in time to see Somerset and his guards smash their way into a pub. A hundred yards further on, Warwick was pressing against the Percy faction, giving them no space to breathe or plan. Yet Somerset had trapped himself and Salisbury saw a chance to put York in his debt. He halted in his rush, gathering men around the broken door of the inn and sending more round to the back of the building so there could be no escape. There was darkness and silence inside and no one was in a hurry to rush on to the swords and axes of those waiting for them.
“A pouch of gold to a knight, a knighthood to a common man,” Salisbury announced to the ranks of soldiers around him. “Whoever brings down Somerset will choose his own reward.”
It was enough to sway the undecided and they rushed the door, four of them pressing through. Salisbury waited as grunting sounds followed, with the clash of metal on armor. More of his men went in and the thumps and cries of pain grew louder, as Salisbury bit his lip in irritation. He wanted to move on, to see the Percy men cut down.
“Quickly, then! More of you!” he snapped.
As he spoke, a figure came out of the door and a hush fell in the street. Somerset’s armor was red with blood, running freely from the oiled surfaces so that he dripped as he stood there on the threshold. He was breathing hard, but when he saw Salisbury, he raised a heavy ax in both hands, his eyes lighting up. There was no sign of those who had gone in against him, nor any of his own guards.
Somerset was alone.
“Neville!” Somerset called, taking a step out into the light. He seemed to have no care for the armed men on all sides. “Traitor, Neville!” he roared.
One of Salisbury’s knights rushed in and Somerset spun to meet him, chopping the ax into the man’s neck with appalling force before he could land a blow.
“Come to me then, Neville!” Somerset yelled, his voice hoarse. “Come, traitor!”
There was something terrible about the bloody duke as he stood there and beckoned them all in. The mob of soldiers stood in superstitious awe, simply staring. Salisbury braced himself to be attacked as Somerset came further out into the street. Another burly yeoman took two quick steps and crashed a sword against Somerset’s side, hammering a great dent into the armored plate and making the man gasp. The return blow sank Somerset’s ax upward into the man’s ribs, cutting his mail so that a dozen rings spilled to the cobbles with a sound like dropped coins. The yeoman soldier collapsed onto his face and Somerset raised his ax again with a huge effort. As he brought it down into the man’s back, he clipped the pub’s swinging sign. Salisbury saw Somerset look up as he wrestled the ax blade free of bone.
The pub’s name was The Castle and a crude picture of a fortress tower had been painted gray on black. All the blood drained from Somerset’s face as he saw it and he closed his eyes for an instant, strength and rage vanishing to leave him empty.
Salisbury made a sharp gesture and two knights ran in, smashing their swords against the knee joints of Somerset’s armor. He cried out as he dropped, a long sound that was cut off as a third man brought an ax down onto his neck, chopping through metal and flesh beneath.
For an instant, no one moved and half the men there expected Somerset to rise again. They had seen a king’s duke killed and the shock of that rippled through them. More than a few crossed themselves, looking to Salisbury for his reaction.
“That one for York,” Salisbury said. “Turn now for Percy. Then we are done.”
Leaving the body behind, Salisbury and his son John walked on along St. Peter’s Street to join Warwick. Salisbury’s men followed in silence, each one looking down at the bloody corpse of the king’s counselor as they passed.
The dwindling forces with Warwick had harried the enemy every step from the marketplace, struggling against Earl Percy’s most determined soldiers as they bore their noble master away. There was no quarter or respite given on either side, but Warwick’s numbers were fewer and only the narrowness of the street prevented them being flanked and overwhelmed. By the time his father caught up with him, Warwick had Earl Percy and Baron Egremont backed hard against another inn, the Cross Keys. A side road lay just beyond and Warwick’s men fought to reach Percy before the fight could widen and offer him a chance of escape.
Warwick looked back in fear at the sound of marching feet, then breathed in relief as he saw the eagles, crosses, and red diamonds on the shields of his father’s knights. He caught sight of his brother John and the younger Neville nodded to him, a moment of private satisfaction in the chaos of the day. They faced the men who had attacked John’s wedding and Warwick dipped his head, acknowledging his brother’s right.
Salisbury had brought two or three hundred of his best men along the street, leaving the rest of the fighting factions to secure the town on their own. Horns sounded somewhere further away, but Salisbury ignored them, shouting fresh orders as they joined Warwick’s redcoats and pressed through them to reach the enemy.
Facing this new rush of soldiers, Henry Percy, Earl of Nor
thumberland, was exhausted. He had been forced to retreat along the main road, attacked again and again. His helmet had been knocked from his head and his white hair swung in rat’s tails, wet with perspiration. Gray in the face, he looked as if he could barely lift the sword he held in both hands. He and his son Thomas stood in the second rank of Percy men, resplendent in blue and yellow. The head of the Percy house would have fallen long before if it had not been for a small and wiry man in mail who carried a dagger like a needle point. Trunning allowed no man to close on his master without darting in and stabbing through an eye-slot or a joint with appalling accuracy. He was responsible for half a dozen bodies on the street already, and Warwick would have given his back teeth for just one of the archers he had left behind in his rush to the marketplace.
As the Percy forces retreated once more, the side road opened on their left flank. Warwick heard Earl Percy call to his soldiers that they faced those who had killed the king. He blanched at hearing that. The old man’s words gave new strength to those around him, so that they pushed back and won a few yards for themselves. Fresh blood ran from armored knights and spattered onto the cold street.
Warwick could only watch as his father’s men shoved pikes past shields, jabbing and piercing until the blades came back red, then plunging in again. He could see Earl Percy arguing with Egremont, the older man pushing his son away and pointing down the open road. Egremont was red in the face, unwilling to leave as his father embraced him and shoved him roughly away.
Salisbury came up, panting hard as he reached his son’s shoulder.
“King Henry is only wounded, though he may die yet,” he said. “You’ve done well. It was your breaking through the town that brought this ending here today. No other man.”
“Where is York?” Warwick asked, never taking his eyes off Percy and Egremont. The two men seemed almost unaware of the battle around them as Percy pointed once again down the open street. Some of the earl’s guards bowed their heads as they were given orders to accompany the Percy son. The boldest of them took Thomas, Lord Egremont, by the arms and walked him backward, though he fought their grip and called to his father. The old man turned his back on his son, once again facing the Neville lines. Warwick cursed softly under his breath. He might have imagined it, but Earl Percy seemed to catch his eye and raise his head as he did so, wearing an expression of bitter pride.
“York has gone to the abbey, no doubt to weep or pray over the king,” Salisbury said. “It doesn’t matter. Our business is here.” He took a massive breath, filling his lungs to blast his orders. “Bring them down! Cry ‘Salisbury!’ Cry ‘Warwick!’ Cry ‘Neville!’ And kill them all.”
The fighting intensified, aided by the loss of the Percy soldiers who had gone with Egremont. Warwick saw the small man with the needle dagger dart between two struggling knights, finding a space as if he knew exactly how they would turn. The Percy swordmaster slid between fighting men like a shadow, feinting left and passing a second rank as a soldier swung the wrong way. In just a heartbeat, he was through and facing them. Trunning lunged at Salisbury, but both Warwick and John Neville had seen the threat. They met his strike with outstretched swords and Trunning was pierced through. Even then, he grinned through bloody teeth at them, reaching out to jam his narrow dagger into John Neville’s shoulder joint. John cried out in agony as the man worked the blade, laughing as a stream of blood slid out across the polished metal. Warwick withdrew his sword with a jerk and cut into Trunning’s neck, letting him fall.
Salisbury howled in triumph as he saw Earl Percy tumble down in a crash of armor. One of the old man’s guards stood over his fallen form, using sword and shield with great skill to hold back the Neville soldiers. The nameless knight moved well, his strength seemingly unending. Yet he could not take a step away from his master. Wherever he turned and killed, another would strike until an axeman smashed his knee with a huge swing, so that he too fell to be broken underfoot.
The Percy forces were cut away from the old man, so that Warwick and Salisbury reached him. Earl Percy still lived, though his lips were tinged in blue. With a groan, the old man pushed himself up to a sitting position, braced on his locked elbows.
“John! Here!” Salisbury commanded.
His son’s arm had gone limp, the muscle cut through in his shoulder. He had pulled out Trunning’s dagger with his left hand. He was white with pain, but his eyes were fierce as he stood before his enemy.
“My dying does not make you less of a traitor,” Earl Percy said, wheezing audibly. The words and the old man’s gaze were aimed at Salisbury.
John Neville only shook his head. With the dagger still wet with his own blood, he reached out and speared the flesh under the old man’s chin. Earl Percy stiffened, giving out a growling, hissing cry of agony. His head was forced up with the blade as it pushed through his mouth. Watery blood spurted as John pulled it out and slashed it across the throat. The three Nevilles watched the earl fall onto his side, his eyes dulling as his mouth still worked to speak with no sound.
“Where is Egremont?” Salisbury said to his sons.
Warwick pointed down the open road where they could see a group of knights moving swiftly away. Horns were blowing again in the distance, and Salisbury’s mouth and jaw tightened at the sound. He had given his word to York and in the aftermath of violence he could feel exhaustion creeping over him. Salisbury turned to his son John and rested his hand on the younger man’s shoulder.
“This is our victory, John. Egremont can’t run so far that we can’t catch up with him. It’s done. Today is done.”
“Let me take a hundred, on his heels,” John Neville replied.
For an instant, he thought his father might allow it, but the earl’s head was dipping in weariness, not lack of will.
“No. Obey me. You’ll have your chance again.”
The earl filled his lungs, his gaze still on the body of his oldest enemy.
“Enough!” Salisbury shouted. On his left, some men still fought on both sides and he could hear York’s horns blowing a third time in the distance. His hour was up and he had his vengeance. “Blow horns who has them. Enough, I said. Put your swords away. No man need die now, after this. If you would live, put up your swords.”
Panting, bloody men heard him and gave in to the desperate hope that it could all stop, that they might survive the day. For as far as Salisbury’s voice carried, soldiers stood apart from the fray, and then further, as Neville captains repeated his orders and more horns sounded across the town, until the blare and shouts for peace could be heard in every street and every home.
—
RICHARD OF YORK WALKED ACROSS wide flagstones to the massive outer doors of the abbey. He could hear the tumult still going on behind him, the crash and shouting of thousands of men struggling to kill each other, yet crammed so tight in the roads they hardly had room to swing a sword. He looked back as a great roar sounded, but he could not guess the cause. Salisbury’s words troubled him, casting the previous months in a different light. York’s aim had always been to strip the whisperers away from King Henry’s side before his house was destroyed by them. He saw that Salisbury’s intention had been to break Percy, before all other considerations. It seemed their path had been the same, with both men carried to St. Albans. York shook his head, trying to twitch away worry and indecision. He was tired and hungry, but King Henry lay within the abbey that stood so tall before him. He did not know even if the king lived.
The men he had summoned to bear King Henry away to safety had remained by the abbey doors, preferring that quiet spot to any thought of heading back into danger. Edward of March stood awkwardly with them, his rank and youth too much of a barrier for him to overcome. The men stood to attention as York trudged toward them, bruised and battered soldiers who had already fought that day, yet still looked shamefaced at having been found away from the struggle. York barely noticed them, his mind on what h
e would find within the massive stone walls. The abbot was nowhere to be seen, but his abbey was holy ground nonetheless—sanctuary. York shuddered beneath his armor as his men pushed the great doors open and he passed across the threshold. His son took a step toward him then, his expression hopeful. York shook his head. He did not know what he would find in the abbey, nor what he would do.
“No, Edward. Stay here.” York crossed the entrance and waited while the doors were pulled shut behind him. He looked up.
A great blaze of color met his eyes on all sides, pressing for his attention in every painted column and wall. A huge image of Christ on the cross summoned his gaze, resplendent in reds and blues and golds so bright they could have been created just days before. Other scenes from the Bible combined to create a vast panoply of vivid hues, stretching away. It was overwhelming and York became aware that he stood in grimy armor, looking down the long nave ahead to the stone rood screen. An altar was before it, where the king lay like a broken doll. There were only two men with Henry, distant figures who turned white faces toward the man coming in like a wolf into the sheep pen.
York paused just beyond the threshold, leaning his shield against a stone column that soared to a ceiling impossibly high above his head. With aching hands, he unstrapped his sword and scabbard, placing the weapon by the shield and straightening. The head of the house of Lancaster lay helpless before him, a cousin descended from the same battle king of England and given the throne by the distance of one son. York raised his head, refusing to be intimidated by scenes of the damned falling into a fiery hell. His armor creaked and his steps sounded loud as he made his way down the length of the church, following the long line of the Latin cross.
He walked a hundred paces to reach the King of England. Henry was alive, his back to the altar as he sat on the cold stone floor with one leg raised and bent. York could see the king watching him approach, the younger man’s face so white and drained that his flesh looked like fine linen. Henry’s mail collar and shoulder pauldrons had been removed, so that bandages could be seen, tight around his neck and under one armpit. The surgeon, Scruton, stood away as York came close, bowing his head and clasping his hands in prayer.