Sixty men rode to the earl’s position in the vanguard, their faces drawn and serious. The news had already spread and Salisbury saw some of the common soldiers reaching down to touch the ground. He frowned at the superstitions of those who would tell soil to be ready for their blood.
“Have the carts brought up to our right flank,” he ordered, speaking with deliberate confidence. “We have seen the trap in time.” As he spoke, he recalled his son’s wedding party and the Percy army that had sought to destroy him then. On that day, he had won by withdrawal, by making them fail against him. Some of the tension left him. He did not need to crush the army he faced. He had only to survive the clash and go around them. His carts could be abandoned and he knew he could maintain a fighting retreat to Ludlow, no more than two days to the south. If he sent his scouts ahead, York might even march reinforcements out to meet him. There would be a way through, if he could just find the right moment to disengage and push on.
The carts came rumbling up from the rear, forty-two heavy wagons loaded down with arms and armor, food and horseshoes, everything he had thought he might need. Their best use then was as a blockade to protect his flank, but Salisbury knew that he could not dig in. He had to reach Ludlow. He had to go on. Yet he saw his men brighten as the solid barrier of carts took shape and he nodded briskly to himself. He had run the Scots ragged on the northern marches for years. Salisbury had fought in dozens of actions in his life, enough to know numbers were not the only key to victory. Discipline and tactics mattered just as much. Perhaps it was time to see what sort of men stood for the king.
“Archers to the fore!” he bellowed across his men. “Slow advance into range. We will show these farmers how a real army fights.”
The men cheered dutifully, though as they lurched into step once again, he still saw some of them dipping down across the ranks, touching the dry grasses and crossing themselves with muttered prayers. The teams of carthorses were whipped on with them, guarding their right flank with wood, wheels, and iron. His archers strung their bows and readied quivers on their hips, running their hands through the white goose feathers and swinging their free arms to loosen the muscles. Salisbury untied his shield from where it lay across the haunches of his mount, tugging it onto his armored forearm and taking some satisfaction from the weight. He did not have to win, he reminded himself. He had to get past. After that, the bastards could have his carts and chase him all the way to Ludlow, for all he cared. The brook grew as he approached it, until he was forced to call a halt once more, swearing softly. The river had eaten away at the ground for God knew how long, so that there was a four-foot drop from the banks to the rushing waters, then another steep bank to climb. It would have been a difficult obstacle if they’d been alone on the heath. Salisbury looked up then, seeing a cloud of arrows launch like sparrows from behind the trees and hill ahead.
—
AUDLEY WAS SATISFIED. The force he faced was barely a third the size of his own. Better still, he had chosen the best spot for miles to defend. Even to reach his position, Salisbury would have to cross the brook, climb a steep hill, and do it all while shafts rained down on his forces. Audley watched as arrows rose on both sides, seeming to float at first and then accelerate as they dove and struck. Most fell short and the few that reached his position on the crest of the hill vanished into gorse bushes without a single cry of pain sounding from his men. The corners of Audley’s mouth raised in grim appreciation. There was one last card to play and he had found the right place to lay it down.
“Cannon teams. Fire on the enemy!” Audley shouted over his shoulder. He turned back immediately to watch, flinching despite himself as cracking roars sounded on his left and right. He could see twin black blurs flicker toward Salisbury’s forces, vanishing into the ranks of armored men beyond the brook. One appeared to have no effect at all while the other must have skipped and bounced, throwing men down so that its flight could be seen in the sudden collapse of bodies. Audley whistled to himself, wishing only that he had a dozen of the heavy weapons instead of two.
“Again! Fire again!” he roared. “Aim for the center!” The teams rushed around like ants on a carcass and he was glaring at them as minutes passed and they were still not ready.
Salisbury had not been idle when he saw how exposed he was to their range. The entire middle section of Salisbury’s forces was pulling back, leaving dead men behind in ones and twos to show where roundshot or arrows had struck.
Audley showed his teeth as the cannons fired once again, crashing across the still air. That second shot was less lucky, with one ball disappearing into the ground and the other killing a single man as he turned to run. Salisbury’s forces jerked into greater speed even so, beginning to panic. Audley turned sharply as the Queen’s Gallants roared wildly, driven to instant frenzy by the sight of their enemies running before them.
“Hold steady there!” Audley bawled at them. “Captains! Hold them back!” To his fury, the captains could do nothing. Some of his men were already running over the edge of the crest, racing down the other side toward the brook. Audley cursed, his voice growing hoarse as he bellowed for the rest to stay in their position.
Thousands of men poured past him, their faces wild with battle-lust and excitement.
“God damn it!” Audley said. “Bring my horse, quickly!” He was buffeted by the mob his men had become, throwing away all the advantages of the land in their desire to kill a fleeing enemy. Audley was just about alight with rage at the stupidity and fecklessness of the Gallants, but there was no help for it. He had nine thousand to the enemy’s three and he could not let them shriek themselves into a rabble against well-trained soldiers. As he mounted, he saw the first of them plunging into the river, leaping down from the banks and crashing through the running water in great surges of spray.
Ahead of them, on the rising ground above the brook, Salisbury’s forces came to a halt and re-formed in good order. Audley felt his heart pound with fear as they began a steady march down toward his men, still struggling through the water and over the banks.
In a single, mad rush, his Gallants had given away all their advantages but one. They still outnumbered the enemy, but Salisbury’s soldiers were marching downhill against tiring men.
Audley kicked his mount down the slope, reaching the brook and crashing into it at a dangerous speed. He shouted for the Gallants to stand and hold as he went, but the river was wider and deeper than they had known and men struggled in it, exhausting themselves as the numbers piled up. Hundreds stood shivering, calling to those ahead to move on while they waited to clamber up in turn.
Ahead, Salisbury’s first rank struck, a wall of sword and axemen holding shields before them. On the wings, Audley could see their horsemen in formation, waiting to counter his own mounted knights and sergeants. They had come down to the brook in slow procession, the more experienced men immune to the urge to chase. Audley could not let his cavalry remain on the far side, though he cursed his luck and the poor discipline of the young fools he led. He dragged a horn from where it bounced by his knee and blew a double note to charge. It served to bring some calm to the foot soldiers as well, who turned and saw Baron Audley was present to command them.
Salisbury’s forces pushed forward step by step, commanding the hill above that side of the brook and killing anyone who made it across to stand against them. For a time, the slaughter was appalling and a shiver of fear rippled through Gallants who could see only death ahead. Thousands were still dry, unable even to reach the river in the press of shouting, angry men. Audley had forced his mount through them and gathered a dozen captains, with four or five hundred men finding the wits to stand and hold while the rest came out of the river. Salisbury saw the danger, and his horns could be heard blowing across the heath as his men pressed the Gallants cruelly and his archers shot from the wings until the river began to run red with tumbling bodies.
The men around Audley were
cut down by a solid line of mailed soldiers, killing with terrible efficiency. He heard the thunder of hooves as Salisbury’s cavalry engaged his own, hammering together hard enough to shake the ground as the two armies struggled on. One group of riders cut straight through his hedge knights and swung in against the flank of the Gallants, sweeping them away until they reached Audley himself. He barely had time to raise his shield and sword before an ax crashed against his chest, hammering a great dent in the plate and making him blow blood. He felt his strength falter as he swung his sword down from behind in a great strike that cut his opponent at the joint of his neck and shoulder, sending the knight reeling. Two more came crashing in and Audley saw a mace raised. He could not bring his sword back in time and the heavy iron club stove in his helmet, breaking his skull and toppling him to the ground.
The Queen’s Gallants were pressed on all sides, with arrows still punching into them. Those yet to cross the river lost their desire to take another step against such a terrifying enemy and instead began to move back. Two thousand of the Gallants still fought on around Audley’s body, some of them calling to those behind in desperation as they watched them stream away. They knew by then that they would be slaughtered if they ran back to the river so they fought on, falling by arrow or better-armed men cutting them down. In their fury, they cut holes in Salisbury’s lines, but it was never enough and the holes closed with shields again and again until the last of them were butchered and sent tumbling.
The cold brook waters drained the blood from all the bodies in it, piled so high in places that a man might almost have walked across on broken corpses. Salisbury’s men never crossed the brook, contenting themselves with the slaughter of all those who stood on their side and ignoring the rest.
When the fighting ceased, Salisbury came right down to the water’s edge. The sun was beginning to set and he looked across the river to the rising hill and wondered idly if the cannons were still on the ridge. There was no sign of any of the Gallants there. They had all fled.
He cracked stiffness from his neck, though he had not struck a single blow during the fighting. Perhaps a thousand of his men had been killed, a loss he could not afford, no matter what victory they had won for him. Three times as many, or more, lay dead around the brook and in it. His men were already gathering great armfuls of the silver swan badges, laughing at the loot and yelling to their mates to come and collect more.
He called his captains away from their search, fixing them with a stern expression as he decided to ignore the men’s bulging pouches.
“Get my carts across this damned river before dark. We’ll scout the Gallants’ camp, but we must press on.” He knew they expected some word of congratulation, but he had lost a third of his army, men he and York needed desperately. He felt no joy of it.
“My lord, will you give us time to see to the wounded?” one of his captains asked. Salisbury glared at him, angry at the decisions he was being forced to make.
“I see no Percys here, no Somersets. There is another army in the field and I must reach Ludlow. If they can walk, they must follow us at a slower pace. Leave a good knife with those who will not last the night. We have lost half a day here, gentlemen. We cannot lose more. Be ready to march.”
His captains nodded, losing their grins and taking up the responsibilities of their rank once more. One by one they turned away, looking over the slaughterhouse they had made of the heath and the river that would run red for days afterward.
—
MARGARET ROSE to her feet from where she had crouched perfectly still for so long. It was hours since she had settled into that spot, a hill to the east of the heath that gave her a good view of Audley’s forces and then the army of Salisbury as it crossed the land. She was white with horror at what she had witnessed, a vision of cruelty and violence that continued to flash pictures into her mind in the twilight, making her want to brush them away like flies landing on her skin. In her imagination that morning, she had expected neat formations facing each other, not the chaos and screaming madness of men crushed and drowning in a river, hacked down and shot from close range by laughing, jeering enemies. She shook her head, trying in vain to clear it of the memories. Those men had sworn an oath to her and worn her swan. They had come to that place in trust and martial spirit, ready to fight for the king and queen against foul traitors. As she dragged her eyes away, she could still see the dark stain in the waters as the brook leached their life’s blood. Margaret shuddered, feeling small and cold herself with the twilight closing in. She did not know what happened after a battle, whether Salisbury would stop to bury the bodies, or whether he would press on to Ludlow. There were still dozens of his horsemen milling around on the hillsides and she was struck by a sudden fear that one of them might see her and give chase.
Her throat dried and she fluttered her hands at the thought. Two men waited for her at the bottom of the hill. She had not let them climb the slope to watch with her, knowing that to be spotted by anyone was to invite disaster. They had seemed strong and fearsome warriors that morning, but as she climbed down, they looked as frail as any of the other men who had died that day.
Margaret mounted without a word, not trusting herself to speak. Behind, she heard some horn blowing once again and she shrank in the saddle, the growing shadows making it feel as if she was already being run down by huntsmen. Leaving the heath behind, they rode a mile and she looked back more than once.
In the first village they passed, Margaret saw the forge light of a smith, still working at his trade, though the hour was late. Her mind was on the threat of pursuit and the delight Salisbury would take in her capture. She almost rode on and then reined in sharply at the sound of hoof nails being hammered into place.
“Fetch out the smith,” she said, relieved to hear her croaking voice was firmer than she had expected.
The man who came out at her order was wiping his hands on an oily cloth. He took in the fine cloak of the beauty staring down at him and chose to bow deeply.
“Do you need a shoe, mistress?” he called. He reached out to pat the neck of her horse and froze as one of her guards drew a sword, a sound the man knew very well.
“I need them all taken off—and reversed on the hooves,” Margaret said.
Her mother had complained of poachers doing the same thing when she was a little girl in Saumur. Anyone riding after them would find a set of tracks heading the wrong way and take another path. It was a simple enough trick, though the smith stared in surprise, glancing off at the road behind them. Margaret could see him guessing they had come from the battle fought that day, confusion and a little fear written clearly on his soot-dark face.
“Pay the man for the work, a half noble,” Margaret said.
The smith’s eyes widened and he snatched the gold coin out of the air as it was flicked to him, patting it away carefully. Margaret dismounted and the smith kept his silence, lifting each hoof and yanking out the nails with quick neatness, dropping the bent ones into a pouch to be straightened and replacing them with a dozen more, hammered in hard. He did not dawdle, made nervous by the glances thrown down the road behind the small group. In just a short time, all three of the horses had been shod in reverse and they mounted again. Margaret hesitated, unable to resist a word before she left the man behind forever.
“You have served the royal house well, Master Smith,” she said. “In the king’s name, I ask that no one else hears what you did tonight.”
The smith was very aware of the armed men watching him. He backed away, nodding and holding his hands up until he was safely in the smithy, warmed by the forge.
Margaret dug in her heels. Night had come while she waited, but the moon was up and it was a good road and a clear sky. She kicked hard for Kenilworth, safety, and home.
CHAPTER 22
Salisbury’s men limped into Ludlow, footsore and weary beyond belief. The earl they followed had forced them on fo
r fifty miles, driven by the terrible fear that he would find York’s castle under attack. They’d arrived barely able to stand, never mind fight, but there was no sign of a besieging army. Salisbury passed on his thanks to his captains, allowing them to make camp alongside the four thousand already there.
York’s soldiers watched as Salisbury’s starving men clustered around cooking pots, or simply lay down on the open grass to sleep. The newcomers had no carts with them after the forced march. As the moon appeared low in the sky, hundreds of York’s sergeants walked over to the huddled groups of weary men, passing out spare blankets and sharing water, ale, and meat, whatever they had, in exchange for news of the battle.
The arrival of Salisbury’s army brought a heightening of tension across the great camp around Ludlow. New lines of wooden spikes were hammered into place and many of the men blessed the river that ran round the west and south of the castle, forcing any enemy to come from the east.
Salisbury’s carts arrived the following day, allowing his men to set up tents and give back some of what they had been lent. The walking wounded from the heath came in a day after that, staggering along and collapsing with relief at the sight of acres of tents around the York stronghold. Fully eight hundred men were missing from the rolls called, while many others were little more than a drain on the healers and their supplies.
On the evening of the third day, York’s scouts rode in with the news they’d all known would come. The King’s Gallants had been sighted twelve miles off. Every man of the six thousand at Ludlow ate a good meal, repaired any broken kit, and sharpened his weapons. Those who had horses tended to them, while the host of archers took up position on the flanks of the castle. Salisbury’s carts were made into a barricade once more, blocking the southern approach from Ludford, across the bridge.
As night fell, York’s army settled down into disturbed sleep, jarred from it by single cries and bad dreams before they pressed their eyes shut once again and tried to lose the dark hours. Ludlow was the stronghold, but the river protected their backs as much as the stone walls behind them. Every soldier knew that, at the last, they would be allowed to run inside the walls for protection—but if it came to that, the battle would be lost and the castle would surely fall. They were the shield and the sword, not Ludlow’s battlements. The guard shift changed at midnight and, by then, a light frost made the camp sparkle. The guards stamped and blew on their hands, watching for the dawn.