Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) (15 page)

‘Shields! ’Ware archers!’ Warwick bellowed.

He could see spots of light all over the ground
thereabouts, each one the embers of a cooking fire for thirty or forty men.

‘Douse those
fires
!’ Warwick yelled. ‘Water there!’

He was answered by shouts of confusion and surprise, while over the river a single order rang out. Warwick took in a frozen breath, hearing arrows whine into the air, loud even over the rushing of the torrent. Out of instinct, Warwick raised a hand over his face, then forced it back by his side. Without armour, it would not save him, and he did not want his men to see him cower. All around, he could hear shafts strike, thumping into wood and metal and flesh, tearing tents and ripping choked screams from sleeping soldiers. More and more punched the ground on his side of the river, white feathers visible.

There was almost no light, the moon but a crescent. Warwick caught glimpses of men in shirts or jackets grabbing shields, sacks, anything. Some even swept up planks of birch, carrying them in front of their faces, though arrows thumped through and pierced their hands. Warwick was sweating, expecting an arrow in his flesh at any instant. When his steward took his arm, he swore in shock, accepting a shield held out to protect him with embarrassed thanks.

The cooking fires were smothered, dropping darkness on to the camp. The torches on the river had vanished as the carpenters threw them into the water. Warwick knew he was panicking. He had been caught by surprise and horrible confusion. Yet the enemy archers could not move past the opposite bank, some two hundred feet away. The answer struggled slowly through his addled mind.

‘Fall back three hundred yards – fall
back
! Move!’ he roared.

The shout was taken up by others, over the sounds of screeching pain and dying men. He had the sense of arrows arcing in towards him, but he had his own shield up by then and he did not dare to stop moving. The light on the river was gone, making the water a stretch of impenetrable darkness. Beyond it, there was not a single lamp, just the sounds of moving men, taunting and jeering at a camp in disarray.

Warwick turned away, feeling a surge of terror at showing his back to archers, with shafts still whirring in all around them. Some of his men had draped shields or planks on their backs, but the only true protection was in getting out of range. There was no sense of decorum in that dark flight. Warwick felt himself buffeted by men who did not know him. He fell, but staggered up and pushed his way past others, struggling against the fear of sudden death that was upon him.

He saw Edward coming towards him, lit by flaming torches. Even in the darkness, the banners gleamed silver, catching the moonlight. The presence of the king was like cold water thrown across the faces of the fleeing men. They lost their wild look and wide eyes, suddenly ashamed and stumbling to a halt.

‘Someone report!’ Edward shouted at them. He had found his army running away into the darkness and he was consumed with rage. Not one of them would meet his stare. ‘Well? Warwick? Where are you?’

‘Here, Your Grace. It was my order to take the men out of range of archers. They sit across the river and they cannot drive us further away.’

‘Yet I would cross that river,’ Edward snapped. ‘And how can I do that if there is no fucking bridge?’

Warwick swallowed his irritation at being lectured in such a way by the young man. His uncle Fauconberg spoke before he could.

‘There is another crossing place, Your Grace, some three miles west of here.’

‘Castleford?’ Edward replied. ‘I know it. I hunted all these lands as a boy and … more recently.’

He had an image in his mind of a woman then, in a house not too far from that spot. Elizabeth, her name had been. He wondered if she thought of him at all, then smiled to himself. Well, of course she did.

‘Very well. Lord Fauconberg,’ he said, putting aside more pleasant thoughts. ‘Take three thousand fit lads and
run
to that ford. Be sure some of them are archers as well. Understand? Some small part of the night remains – you should be back on the other bank before dawn or thereabouts. Let’s see if we can surprise our brave attackers.’ Edward waved Fauconberg away and turned to the man’s nephew. ‘Warwick, get the damned bridge finished. Have shields held over the carpenters, as you should have done before, whatever you need to do – but make me a crossing.’

Warwick bowed his head stiffly.

‘Yes, Your Grace,’ he said.

Turning on his heel, Warwick was pleased the darkness hid his seething anger. He had helped to make Edward a king, an eighteen-year-old giant, who it seemed would order him about like a bootboy. At the same time, Warwick reminded himself that it did not matter if the young man was brash or thoughtless. What mattered was that King Henry and Queen Margaret were brought down – the queen far more than her pitiful husband. There were heads
on the Micklegate Bar in York, and Warwick knew he would swallow any humiliation or unfairness to see them removed.

The dawn’s dim light revealed everything Lord Clifford had hoped to see. Careful not to stray into bow range, he rode as close as he dared, as soon as he could make out the opposite bank. He shook his head then, in disbelief and delight. Four of his captains rode with him and they thumped each other on the backs and laughed in awe at the carnage and destruction they had created.

‘You see, gentlemen, what good planning and foresight will bring!’ Clifford declared. ‘For the price of one bridge, for a morning of hard effort, we have torn the heart out of a traitor’s army.’

What had been hidden from view the night before was the sheer numbers of men killed in their beds. They had lain close-packed on the ground, wrapped in blankets like cocoons against the chill of the night. As the fires had died, they’d shuffled closer and closer, risking scorched hair and cloth to keep from freezing. Into that packed mass had come some three thousand shafts – two hundred men with a dozen or eighteen arrows each, shooting blind until even their long-accustomed shoulders burned. There had been no answer to the rain of death they had laid down across the waters. Under the pale sky, Clifford was only sorry it had not been more.

Hundreds of corpses were still being collected and laid out in rows, even as Clifford rode up to observe. Most of the bodies remained where they had been struck, sprawled around the bridgehead, dark in a field of white shafts. Boys ran to collect the arrows, at least where they had
struck into marshy ground and could be salvaged. They hurried around with armfuls of them, barbs snagging on their woollen jerkins, so that they hung like bee stings.

Beyond those scurrying boys and the dead, a dark line of horsemen rode up in silence, wider and wider, with Edward at the centre of them. Clifford’s smile grew sickly as the banners of York were raised on either side of the man who claimed the throne of England, who dared to call himself a king. There was no mistaking the son of York. The horse he sat was a huge stallion, uncut and aggressive enough to snap at any other horse near him. The rider made no acknowledgement of Clifford or his captains. Edward simply held his reins loose in one gauntlet and waited, staring. Above them, the sky was full and pearl-white, the wind dropping to nothing as the cold only deepened.

Lord Clifford’s four captains rode up to his side, each wearing his crest of a red wyvern on white surcoats over their armour. Despite that proud symbol, somehow Clifford sensed they made a pitiful group compared with the false king and his knights on the other bank. He could make out the banners of York as well as those of Warwick. There was no sign of Fauconberg or the colours of the Duke of Norfolk. Clifford felt his much smaller force was under similar scrutiny. He sat as tall as he could in his saddle.

The oldest of his captains cleared his throat thoughtfully, leaning over to spit on the muddy ground. Corben was a wry, dark man, with deep lines cut into his cheeks and right around a mouth that some might have called sour. He was a veteran of twenty years’ service to the Clifford family and had known the baron’s father.

‘My lord, we might try a last handful of shafts dipped in oil and set afire. Now that the sun has risen. It will slow the work once again.’

Lord Clifford looked at him in pity, recalling why he had never considered putting the man forward to be knighted.

‘We do not
want
them delayed further, Captain Corben. I’m certain His Majesty King Henry has not assembled an army of so great a size just to wait for spring. No, I have achieved my purpose – and much more! I believe I have struck the very first blow in this “war of two kings” – as it may come to be known, in time.’

Clifford smiled to himself, still imagining the praise due to him. Staring off along the river into his own future, the baron was one of the first among his men to see what was coming. Captain Corben looked in confusion at his master as Clifford went wax-pale.

‘My lord?’ Corben asked, before looking back over his own shoulder and swearing.

In the dawn’s light, the fields along the river seemed to have come alive with running soldiers and cantering horses.

‘Archers!’ Clifford called immediately. ‘Archers to the front there!’

‘They have no shafts, my lord,’ Corben retorted instantly, even as Clifford caught himself and was drawing breath to countermand the order. The baron shot a furious glance at his captain as he shouted across the ranks of men.

‘Disregard that order! Withdraw north – all ranks in good order.
Withdraaaw!
’

The captains and serjeants echoed the final command, grabbing milling archers and shoving them roughly round, away from those rushing up behind. It seemed to take an age under the constant pressure of the approaching enemy. Clifford’s voice cracked and rose as he yelled across them all once again.

‘Captains, can you not get the men moving faster? Withdraw to the main army!’

As if to make his point, the outlying archers racing along the river bank had stopped at the most extreme range to bend their bows. Arrows leaped up from them, falling short but clearly visible to those who had turned their backs and were jogging away. Though there were no wounds, it caused panic in those retreating ranks, so that the men pushed and shoved, forgetting their discipline.
Clifford’s archers were fastest, without armour or mail to slow them. They began to slip through the other ranks, pulling away from those following. With Clifford, not more than a dozen of the men were ahorse and they had been up all night. It was a miserable group that trotted and jingled away from the river and broken bridge. Behind them, an eerie hooting went up from three thousand throats on the chase, howling in mimicry of owls or wolves as they closed the gap.

Lord Clifford forced down his rising fear, summoning Corben to his side.

‘Send a rider to summon our support, someone quick. You should have had scouts out to give me more warning, Corben.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Corben said, accepting the rebuke with no change of expression beyond his usual hawkish glare. ‘I have already sent young Anson, my lord. He’s small and his mount is the fastest we have.’

For a moment, Clifford considered taking Corben with him. The man had served his family for twenty years. Then again, it had been with no particular distinction.

Clifford looked past his captain once again, shaking his head in fear at the closeness of the enemy. ‘It may be that I …’ His mouth worked, seeking the right words. ‘I can go further and faster than these men on foot, Corben. It may be …’

‘I understand, my lord. My oath was to you – and to your father. I do not hold such things lightly. If you ride north after Anson, we may be able to hold them for a time here.’

‘You understand,’ Clifford said, nodding firmly. ‘Good. I am … valuable … to the king.’ Sensing that the words
were not quite enough when leaving a man to his death, he chewed the inside of his lower lip for a few more precious instants.

Corben shifted in his saddle, his horse prancing to the side.

‘My lord, they are almost upon us. I must see to the men.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. I merely wanted to say … I could not have asked more from a servant, Corben.’

‘Well,
no
, my lord!’ Corben snapped.

Clifford stared in confusion as the grim-faced captain wheeled his horse and cantered away, the hooves kicking up thick wet sods. The baron waited long enough to see the first arrows come soaring in earnest, dropping the rear ranks of his retreating force as if claws had been laid into their flesh. They could not protect themselves as they withdrew, and he realized very few would survive. Clifford looked past his own lines to the horsemen cantering easily up on both flanks. He swallowed, suddenly feeling his stomach and bladder clench as fear made his heart race. The howling ranks were men who had seen their friends and captains killed the night before, torn from life in a darkness of whirring shafts. There would be no mercy from them and every man retreating knew it.

Clifford looked up as something cold touched his face. Snow was falling, softly, the first drifting flakes followed by more and more, so that whiteness seemed to come down with them, drawing in the world until he could hardly see the dark riders over the river, or the ranks racing towards him on this side. He wiped his eye and dug in his spurs, forcing his startled horse to gallop away.

Edward of York glowered at what he could see happening, just a quarter-mile across the river. His warhorse sensed his surging emotions. The animal snorted, throwing up its head to make the armoured scales at its chest rattle and clash. Horses along the line responded, calling and blowing until Edward reached down and patted dust from the animal’s neck, settling its nerves.

He leaned forward in the saddle, the better to glare across the water to where Warwick’s carpenters were finishing their work. A last load of wood had been wheeled out on to the rickety line of planking, wide enough only for one horse or two men at a time. The entire front rank of Edward’s army waited to funnel through that pinch point. Senior men set about it as a tactical problem, preparing pike teams to rush across first and establish a safe spot on the other side, then knights on horseback to pursue the fleeing enemy. It would be difficult and dangerous work, and all the while, snow fell from the white sky, vanishing into the River Aire with a sound like a breath.

Everyone with the king could feel the rising excitement, the strain building in the air. Fauconberg was blowing hunting horns on the opposite bank, his men hooting like gangs of ruffians as they chased down an enemy left with no arrows to keep them at bay. There was a righteous slaughter in the offing – and those with Edward wanted to be a part of it, every last man of them.

Warwick’s attention was on his men hammering and thumping pegs into holes to hold the planks, then iron crucifixion nails to secure them to the bridge piles. The river was already running fast and deep – if they rushed the labour and the bridge broke, it would mean the lives of whoever fell in. Yet they could all see Clifford’s red wyvern
retreating, with its curved tail like a snake. Edward had certainly seen it. The big man quivered at recognizing the very lord who had murdered his brother at the field of Sandal Castle. He wanted Clifford and he was almost at the point of risking his horse in the flood to get across.

Warwick jerked from his reverie as Edward spoke. At first his voice was just for those around him, but the young man paused and then repeated his words at the top of his voice, carrying to them all.

‘You know the custom of the battlefield is to kill all common men and spare those nobles who surrender or ask to be ransomed.’ He shook his head, an expression of great bitterness twisting his mouth. ‘My father was not given such a chance. His great friend Earl Salisbury was not. My brother Edmund was not. So, I have this to say to you. This is my order: kill the nobles. Obey me in this.’ He took a slow breath, making his armour creak. ‘Allow no ransoms. Accept no surrender. I desire to keep my people alive. But not the poisoned houses which stand against me. Not Northumberland, not Somerset, nor Clifford, though he is mine or he is fate’s victim. Unless he breaks his neck, I will put him in the grave this very day.’ Edward paused again, pleased that not a man spoke or even seemed to breathe as the air thickened with snow. ‘There will be blood shed this morning, a torrent like unto the river you will cross. It must be so, to wash old wounds clean, before they kill us all. We have been hot with fever, but it will be cut and drained here, in this snow.’

Ahead, on the river, Warwick’s men raised hands to signal the completion of their work, hurrying onward to stand alertly on the other side. Neither Clifford’s forces nor those of Lord Fauconberg were still in sight, though
in part it was because the world had come in close around them, the swirling snow stealing away the long view. Edward looked across the river, watching flakes hiss into the waters. There was no one left to threaten his men and he lost patience.

‘To the devil with standing still,’ he snapped. ‘If you would honour me, follow me now!’

He put on his helmet and dug in his heels, so that his horse lunged. The great destrier clattered across the makeshift bridge, setting all the new pins and pegs to rattling under the combined weight. His bannermen and knights went hard after him, trying to keep Edward in sight as he dimmed in the white air.

The rest came across in urgent file, without gaps, moving nose to tail or pressing against the next man in line, while those ahead streamed away immediately, creating more room. Thousands crossed and formed squares while the snow settled on the ground, turning the fields white.

Lord Clifford knew he had lost the main road when the sound of his horse’s hooves changed from a bright clop to a dull thumping on ploughed and frozen earth. He dared not stop and try to find it again. The entire world had been reduced to barely a hundred yards in any direction.

He rode at great speed alongside a valley, looking across it and seeing nothing more than the sweep of land dropping away, all the rest hidden in the curtain of thick falling flakes, spinning and floating but incessant, filling the air to choking. His one comfort was that the messenger boy Anson would be far ahead, perhaps even already at the royal camp. If Anson was as fast as Corben had claimed, perhaps he had already delivered his news and there would
be an armed force racing back along the road, ready to spring on those who pursued him. The biter bit! He chuckled at the thought of it.

Clifford felt himself shivering as he rode, wiping cold-tears from his eyes and looking back over his shoulder every few moments for some sign of pursuit. Captain Corben and the four hundred he had brought to cut the bridge were long behind, of course, doing their duty in holding back their pursuers. With a clench of his jaw, Clifford accepted they would be run down and killed.

That would not be well received in the king’s camp. He shook his head at the unfairness of it. If he had only left the river while it had still been dark! There had been no snow then and he would have stayed ahead of any pursuit, making it safely back to the main lines with a grand story to tell. He cursed his luck. All Somerset and Percy would hear now would be that Clifford had lost four hundred men, with two hundred precious archers amongst them. It was dispiriting – and all for the sake of seeing the destruction they had wrought in the night.

His horse stumbled violently in a great lurch. Clifford cursed the animal, wrenching at the reins and settling himself once again, panting from fear of falling on such hard ground. He reined in for a moment, listening to shouts and sounds of fighting far behind. It was near impossible to judge distance in the snowfall, but there was at least no one in line of sight. If his horse went down, he knew he would be as helpless and vulnerable as the meanest foot soldier. He squeezed his knees and the horse snorted uncertainly, jerking into a trot. Clifford’s face and hands were bare and quickly going numb. He dipped his chin and blinked against the flakes, just enduring.

The main camp was just a dozen miles north of Ferrybridge, though it seemed a world away at that moment. Surely Somerset would have scouts out? It could not be long before Clifford was warm once again, describing the vital part he had played in bloodying the army with Edward of York, delaying them from joining battle. Clifford had heard there was an Earldom of Kent with no man to claim it. One of his captains had gone drinking with Derry Brewer and the spymaster had let such a delicious titbit slip while deep in his cups. It was not beyond reason to imagine the title finding its way to the lord who had held Ferrybridge against the entire army of York. Clifford’s minor losses of men would surely be forgotten in the face of such momentous news.

Derry Brewer reined in on his horse, Retribution, watching closely as a stripling youth struggled with two impassive sentries, completely failing to dislodge the grip that those men had on him.

‘Let me go, you fools!’ Anson screeched, growing utterly frantic, like a fox caught in a snare. ‘I have vital news of Lord Clifford!’

His face had grown red and Derry saw he was little more than a blond boy, fourteen or fifteen at the very most and not even well grown.

Derry dismounted with a grunt, passing his reins to one of the guards and standing over the lad with the other. He saw a grey horse resting nearby, its reins loose as it cropped the snow for grass underneath. The boy was still flushed and one side of his face was swelling from whatever blow he had received for his cheek.