“Close up!” Trunning roared. “Close on Egremont! Here!”
The lines re-formed around Thomas as he sat his saddle and fumed. He could hear the rasping breath of the men-at-arms as they reached him. They were panting hard in the thick morning warmth and it galled to know Trunning had been right, as always.
“Stand here and rest,” Thomas called to them, seeing relief flood their faces. “Take water and wait. We are three times their number, can you see?”
When they had settled, he walked them all forward, his mount stepping gingerly over the bodies of dead archers as they came across them, each one lying alone with arrows standing like bristles in his flesh. Thomas could still hear the clatter of bows across the shrinking strip between the two forces, but he thought there were more bodies in Neville colors than his own gray men.
All the time he had been racing about in the meadows with the horsemen and Trunning, the Nevilles had stood still, waiting for him. As his men settled down to a slow walk, he saw their line suddenly leap forward, coming in a rush. Thomas blinked. The Nevilles were so badly outnumbered, it was suicide to come out to where he could surround and destroy them. He had assumed Salisbury would dig in and defend his camp for as long as he could, perhaps while the man sent riders to summon aid. For them to attack made no sense at all.
“Archers! Sight on the front ranks!” he heard Trunning yell. It made Thomas’s spirits soar to see a dozen hidden men lurch up from the long grass, abandoning the savage game with the Neville bowmen to respond to Trunning’s order. As soon as they left cover, Neville archers leaped up in turn and arrows flew once more: short, chopping blows that snatched them from their feet. The toll was appalling on both sides, but Thomas could see six or eight of his bowmen survived to take aim at the Neville line. It was too late for them to run, and they shot volley after volley until they were engulfed.
With a great roar, Salisbury’s knights rode over those who stung them, horses and men crashing down together, falling behind. Not two hundred yards separated the forces then and Thomas felt his mouth dry and his bladder swell. They moved well, those Neville horsemen. Thomas swallowed nervously, understanding at last that he faced Salisbury’s own guard. A quick glance to the left and right reassured him. He had the width of the line. He had the numbers. Thomas Percy, Baron Egremont, raised his arm for one glorious moment and then Trunning gave the order to charge before he could, the treacherous little bastard.
CHAPTER 4
Richard of York was in a fine, expansive mood. The day was hot, with an odor of plaster and stone dust in the dry air. The Painted Chamber in the Palace of Westminster was centuries old, with a dark red ceiling that was cracked right along its length and almost always damp. For once, it had dried, and the smell was quite pleasant.
York sat back as a piece of parchment as long as his arm was passed around the long table. Each of the seated men paused reverently as he received it, reading again the words that would make Edward of Westminster both the Prince of Wales and the heir to the English throne. More than one of the gathered lords sneaked glances from under lowered brows at York, trying to discern his deeper game. Edmund Beaufort, Earl of Somerset, made them all wait as he read the formal declaration from the beginning once again, searching for something he had missed.
The silence grew strained as they all waited for Somerset to take up the quill and sign his name. Nearby, the Westminster bell was struck for noon, the notes booming through the corridors. York cleared his throat, making Somerset look up sharply.
“You were present as this was written, my lord,” York said. “Are you unhappy as to its purpose? Its effect?”
Somerset pushed his tongue between his top lip and his teeth, his mouth twisting. There was no subtle clause he could see, no clever wording to deny King Henry’s son his rights of blood and inheritance. Yet he could not escape the suspicion that he had missed something. York surely gained nothing by allowing the line of Lancaster to go on for another generation. If there was ever a time to declare for the throne, Somerset was certain it was that very moment. King Henry was still senseless, witless, drowned in fog. York had ruled in the king’s name for more than a year with neither disasters nor invasion from France, beyond the usual raids on shipping and the coastal towns. Somerset was only too aware that York’s popularity was growing. Yet there it was, on papers Parliament had witnessed and passed on for the Lords and of course York himself to sign, seal, and make law. The men in that room would confirm a baby boy as the future King of England. Somerset shook his head irritably as two more barons cleared their throats, wanting to move on to lunch and the afternoon.
“This has been four months in the making,” Somerset said without looking up. “You’ll wait a moment more while I read it through again.”
York sighed audibly, settling back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling high above. He could see the mud nest of a swallow in the rafters, some valiant or perhaps foolish little bird who had chosen that room to raise its young. York thought he could see a flicker of movement at the entrance hole and fixed his gaze on it, content to wait.
“The boy Edward will be invested in Windsor,” Somerset said aloud. “There is no mention here of regents while he grows.”
York smiled.
“His father is still king, Edmund. Appointing a regent would be an error twice over. I have agreed to protect and defend the kingdom for the duration of King Henry’s illness. Would you have me appoint a third man, or a fourth? Perhaps you would have us all ruling England by the time you are done.”
Chuckles echoed his words around the table, while Somerset glowered.
“King Henry will wake from whatever presses him down,” he replied. “Where will you be then, my lord York?”
“I pray for it,” York said, his eyes showing only amusement. “I have services said every day that I may lay down the terrible burden of my authority. My father’s line may come from King Edward, but the sons of John of Gaunt stand before mine. I have not desired the throne, Edmund. All I have done is to keep England safe and whole, that small thing, while her king dreams. I am not the father to this child, only his Protector.”
There was a subtle emphasis in his final words and though Somerset knew York sought to goad him, he bristled even so, his right fist clenching on the table. He had heard the rumors drifting through the Lords and the Commons. Such whispers were beneath contempt, sprung from the wicked desire to ruin Queen Margaret and deny her son his rightful place. With a muttered curse, Somerset snatched up a quill and signed his name with a flourish, allowing the scribes in attendance to take the scroll from him and sand the ink before passing it at last to York.
Perhaps to infuriate the older man, York let his own gaze pass slowly over the words in turn. It was not a moment to rush and he scratched his neck as he read, sensing the amusement in the other men and the simmering anger in the duke across from him. In truth, York had considered delaying the passage of the discussions in Parliament even further. If King Henry passed from the world before it was signed and sealed, York was at that moment the royal heir. He had been made so by statute four years before, when it had seemed the queen was barren, or the king unable to perform his duties.
The thought was a pinch in his mind, even then, that only his own signature lay between himself and the Crown. Yet Salisbury had persuaded him. The head of the Neville family knew better than anyone how to manage power and secure it for those of his own blood. It was most gratifying to see all that Neville intellect and cunning employed to his advantage, York mused as he read. When he had married Cecily Neville, the house of York had gained the strength of a clan and bloodline so wide and varied that they would surely come to rule, regardless of the married names or the particular coat of arms. He was only grateful that they had decided upon York as their champion. A man standing with Nevilles could rise far, it seemed. Standing against them, poor devils like Somerset could not rise at all.
<
br /> York nodded at last, satisfied. He took up his own quill and dipped it, adding his name to the end of the list and continuing on in decorative swirls, showing his pleasure.
It was too early to declare for the throne, Salisbury had convinced him of that. Too many of the king’s noblemen would take up arms without a second thought, the moment a usurper made himself known. Step by step, the path lay ahead of him, if he chose to walk it. The life of a newborn was a delicate thing. York had lost five of his own to distempers and chills.
He smiled at the scribe setting lead weights on the corners of the scroll. As Protector, the Great Seal of the throne of England was his to use, the final stage. Four common men had stood by for the entire discussion, heads bowed and waiting for the part they had to play. When York nodded to them, they approached the table, laying out the two halves of the silver Seal and collecting a bowl of wax from where it had been warmed to liquid over a tiny brazier. All the men there watched as the Royal Seal clicked together and the image of King Henry on his throne was covered over in blue wax. One of the men, the Chaff-wax, used a small knife to trim the disk as it formed and began to cool, while another laid lengths of ribbon on the document itself. It was the work of skilled craftsmen and those present watched with interest as the warm disk was upturned and pressed onto the parchment, staining the page with oil. The halves were lifted away and a thin four-inch medal of wax remained, pressed down onto the ribbons until it could not be removed without ripping the paper or breaking the seal itself.
It was done. The bearers of the Seal busied themselves clearing away the tools of their trade, placing the silver halves back into silk bags and then a locked box of the same polished metal. After bowing to the Protector, they trooped out in silence, their part finished.
York rose, clapping his hands together. “There is a child made Prince of Wales, heir to the throne. My lords, I am proud of England today, as proud as a father of his own son.”
He looked to Somerset, his eyes bright. Even then, Somerset might have ignored it if one of the others hadn’t laughed aloud. Stung, the earl dropped his hand to his sword’s hilt, facing York across the table.
“Explain your meaning, Richard. If you have the courage to accuse a man of dishonor and treason, do so clearly, without French games.”
York smiled more widely, shaking his head.
“You mistake me, Edmund. Let your choler bleed away! This is a day of joy, with King Henry’s line secured.”
“No,” Somerset replied, his voice deepening and growing hoarse. He was forty-eight years old, but he had not grown weak or stooped as his hair grayed. He rose slowly from his chair with his shoulders squared, his anger pushing him on. “I believe I will have satisfaction, Richard. If you would speak false rumors, you must also defend them. God and my right arm shall surely decide the outcome. Now apologize and beg my forgiveness, or I will see you tomorrow dawn, in the yard outside.”
If not for the table between them, he might have drawn and struck at York then and there. Others in the room touched their own hilts nervously, ready to act. York kept his own hands away from his sword, knowing he was in reach of a sudden lunge and that Somerset was damnably quick. Carefully, he too came to his feet.
“You threaten the Protector and Defender of the Realm,” York replied. His voice had grown soft in warning, though he still smiled, unable to hide his delight at this course of events. “Take your hand off your sword.”
“I have said I will have satisfaction,” Somerset grated in reply, his face flushing.
York chuckled, though the tension in the room made it sound false.
“You are mistaken, but your threat is a crime I cannot forgive. Guards!” He raised his voice at the end, startling those around him. Two heavyset men entered on the instant, drawing blades as soon as they saw the rigid scene before them. York addressed the parliamentary soldiers without looking away from Somerset for an instant.
“Arrest Lord Somerset. He has threatened the person of the Protector. I’m sure investigation will reveal some deeper plot against the throne and those who serve it.”
Somerset moved at last, drawing his sword in one smooth motion and lunging over the width of the table with it. His reach was extraordinary and York threw himself back, crashing into the wall behind him so that dry plaster rained down in spirals from the ceiling. In wonder, he raised a hand to his face and looked at the fingers, half expecting to see blood. Yet the guards had lurched for Somerset even as he moved, grappling him and spoiling his blow. As he struggled, they took his sword and jerked his arm behind his back, making him growl in pain.
“You fool, Edmund,” York said, his own anger swelling. “You will be taken from here along the Thames to the Tower. I do not think I shall see you again, while charges are prepared. I will send news of your arrest to the queen, in Windsor. I do not doubt she will be distraught to lose one so very well loved.”
Somerset was dragged away, still roaring and struggling. York wiped sweat from his forehead. He waved a hand at the parchment on the table.
“Have that taken to Windsor, to be read and given to King Henry. God knows, he will not hear the words, but it must be done, even so.”
York gathered himself then, raising his head and striding out into the warm air of Westminster Palace. The other lords traipsed out behind him without a word.
—
BARON EGREMONT RODE HARD at the Neville center. He knew only too well that he was utterly committed to destroying the wedding party. Even with the Percy arms scrubbed out or covered, his archers had drawn first blood and gone on to kill half a dozen of the Neville knights and men-at-arms. No quiet withdrawal would be allowed after that, no second chance. He could see Earl Salisbury’s fury written on his face as Egremont cantered in. The Neville earl was surrounded by his best warriors, swinging his sword left and right as he pointed with it and yelled to alter the formation. Thomas guided his horse straight at the older man, his shield and sword feeling light in his hands. He had trained for this. He had brought seven hundred against less than a third as many. He would have them down before the sun reached noon.
All along the line, Percy and Neville horsemen crashed against each other and through, whipping past in thumping blows that left one or both reeling and dazed. It was a frightening moment for the Percy knights, as they struck and were carried on by their own speed, shoved away from those who rode with them. Horses slowed against the solid mass of Neville men and suddenly Percy warriors were at a standstill, hacking and blocking, their mounts kicking out at anyone milling around their legs.
Thomas slashed wildly at the first Neville knight he faced. The man dodged so sharply that his sword glanced across a plate, scoring a spiral shaving of bright metal. Thomas yelped as his left leg was struck with a clang, instantly numb as he slid past the man he was trying to kill. He heard the knight’s growled curse, but neither of them could turn back. Two more faced Thomas and, beyond them, he could see Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury.
“Balion, strike afore!” Thomas roared, feeling his huge horse bunch under him as it responded. It had taken him almost a year to train the animal not to rear to its full height, as it might have done against another stallion. Instead, Balion rose and lunged almost in the same moment, barely leaving the ground before its front hooves punched out against the horses ahead.
God knew, Balion would have led any herd in the wild. The massive destrier needed no urging and the danger was only in losing control when it began to buck and smash. Thomas saw movement behind him and roared “Strike back!” as he parried a blow with his shield. He heard a shriek cut short as Balion hammered a rear foot against some unseen assailant. Thomas found himself laughing in his helmet, exulting in the damage he could do with just a word.
“And steady!” he called to the excited stallion, though Balion still pranced and skittered, snorting and wanting to rear once more. As the huge beast settled,
Thomas took a heavy impact on his backplate. He rose in his stirrups to give him height as he swung with all his might in reply. Thomas shouted in triumph as his heavy sword cut a great gash in a knight’s side, sending blood spraying over lips of torn metal. It was not a mortal wound, but the Neville man fell sideways, losing his grip on the saddle. One leg flailed and kicked upside down, while the other was held by a twisted stirrup. Lord Egremont watched in delight as a man who had faced him in battle was dragged from the field by his bolting mount.
Something crashed against his helmet then. Thomas grunted in pain, cutting back automatically as his vision blurred. He could hear the tumult all along the line and, with a touch of guilt, he hoped Trunning was out there, keeping a cool head. There was no chance to oversee the fighting, not from the thick of it. Those around him pressed with savage vigor, denting and scarring his armor, aiming to break the metal joints or stab and slash at Balion so that the animal’s fall would bring him down.
For a time, it felt as if they could not touch him. His armor was good, thicker and harder than the wrought-iron pieces worn by poorer knights. God knew, it hurt to be struck, but Thomas was encased, protected, while others fell to his swinging sword. Salisbury seemed to have vanished in the press, but Thomas saw him again and dug razor spurs into the gashes on Balion’s flanks, making fresh blood flow. The stallion leaped forward, crashing over two axemen who had come creeping through the ranks of horse. They hardly had time to raise their weapons before they were kicked down and trampled. Thomas had eyes only for his uncle then, his expression wild inside the visor. His head still rang from a blow and he could taste blood in his mouth, but his father would hear if Thomas took the head of the Neville clan himself. The Percy family might not be able to trumpet a victory of hedge knights, but his father would know he had sent the right son.