Buckingham watched with a sense of sick horror. His mouth felt as if it was being boiled and every movement brought a scraping of bone. He could feel his face swelling all around the wound, his lips already fat, filling with blood from the inside. It was all he could do not to panic and wrench at the thing stuck in him. With a savage twist, he removed a loosened front tooth and began to work the arrow free in grim silence, ignoring the blood that made a slick down the front of his jerkin until a wave of dizziness hit him. Slowly, Buckingham went down on one knee and then rolled on to his back.
While Scruton worked on the king, doctor Hatclyf appeared at the duke’s side without a word, opening his leather bag for tools. Hatclyf tugged the duke’s hands away, clipped the arrow shaft with small shears and placed one hand on the man’s forehead to hold him still while he cut the arrow clear with a razor and iron pincers. The doctor completed the task with a quick jerk that took out another loose tooth and split the roof of Buckingham’s mouth all the way to the back of his throat. Buckingham began to choke, drowning. He lurched up and vomited on the ground. There was too much blood to spit, and Hatclyf could only press a wad of cloth against the duke’s torn lips as Buckingham passed out.
Only one man in the tent had been killed outright, a stroke of marvellous fortune against the odds. All the rest looked up in fear as they heard running feet coming towards them. Outside the awning, there were many more wounded or lying still. Knights limped to protect the king with shafts still in their armour, or lay slumped, breathing their last. The arrows had stopped, replaced by the call of ‘Warwick’ coming again and growing louder.
‘To me, Percys! Protect your king!’ Earl Percy roared at the top of his voice.
Bannermen and knights were pouring in from all directions, beginning a surge up from the forces on the hill. The stalemate at the barricades had shattered the moment Henry had been struck, with no man knowing yet if it was a mortal wound or not.
‘My lord Percy, someone must send orders to hold the lower town!’ Derry Brewer shouted suddenly. ‘With the king hurt, all our men will come here. York and Salisbury will follow them. Please, my lord! Give the order.’
Earl Percy ignored him, as if Derry had not spoken. With a snarled curse, Derry raced away, searching for Somerset. As he went, the tattered awning came down in a crash as some vital pole was kicked out or broken. Great swathes of canvas covered the king and his surgeon as the man worked to snip the shaft and ease it out without tearing the delicate veins so close to the king’s throat. There was royal blood all over the surgeon’s hands, his grip slipping as he tried to grasp the cut shaft. Henry’s hands kept reaching up to the wound and Scruton collared one of the king’s chamberlains, ordering him to hold them clear. The man stood in blank shock at the sight of his fallen master and Scruton had to shake him from his stupor before he dared to take hold and let the surgeon work. Around them, knights were cutting or heaving the heavy canvas sheets away, revealing the king to the open air.
Warwick’s soldiers raced down St Peter’s Street with swords and shields held high, howling in savage glee at the chaos they had caused. The king’s own guards came out against them, forming a shield line to take the first impact. More and more men were flooding back into that spot and the two forces crashed together.
Derry Brewer found himself struggling against a torrent of men as he ran downhill, yelling for them to hold position. God knew, the king’s life was in peril, but if they all abandoned the barricades, the day would be lost. As he moved further away from the marketplace, Derry could see a host of soldiers pushing and running to get up. At the bottom of the town, there was a great growling roar as York and Salisbury found the barriers unmanned. The king’s forces were retreating before them, leaving the barricades to fall.
Derry Brewer came to a shocked halt in the street, his shoulders thumped by men still trying to get past until he pressed himself against a building and was left alone. No one thought clearly when the monarch was in danger. Loyal soldiers were almost mindless with rage, determined to repel whoever dared threaten the king’s person. Derry swallowed, his mouth dry. He’d known he would be little use on the march north. A king’s spymaster worked in secret, uncovering traitors or cutting throats in the dark. In the bright morning, on open streets, he was just another body, without even a set of armour to keep him safe.
Derry stared down the hill, seeing the line of York’s men already breaking through, shoving thorns and tabletops aside in a frenzy. Some of those rushing away from the barriers were looking back by then, aware of the threat. They chose to keep going to the top of the hill, perhaps hoping to rally there for a fight back through the town. Derry shook his head, sickened. York had a greater army by far, twice the fighting men of those around King Henry. There could only be one outcome, especially now the king had been wounded. God had surely blinked when that single archer sent his shaft, for it to have done so much damage.
Derry forced air into his lungs, feeling his heart pound and his hands shake. He could get out, he was almost certain. He’d considered an escape route when they’d first entered the town, as was his common practice. The abbey loomed over St Albans and Derry knew he could run to it. It would not be hard to find a monk’s robe to throw over himself, either hiding among the brothers in their quarters, or taking a path out west of the town, before York and Salisbury reached the marketplace. If he did that, Derry knew he would live, to take the news to the queen. He told himself that someone had to get out. Someone had to survive the disaster still unfolding, and it might as well be him. He saw a side street across the path of the main road down the hill. He could cross against the tide of men and simply vanish. He’d done it before. York would not leave him alive, that much was sure as sunset. Derry could see the ranks of fresh Yorkist soldiers forcing their way up the hill towards where he stood. The road had cleared between the two armies, with all the marketplace crammed full of the king’s men. York and Salisbury were coming with blood in their eyes, and Derry stood alone between them.
‘Just run,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Run, you daft bastard.’ King Henry could be dead already. Derry could hear the clash of arms in the marketplace, with the tramp of marching feet on stone coming closer until the whole town seemed to shake with it. The Nevilles and the Percys were unleashed to slaughter each other in broad daylight and Derry knew he had no choice at all. He was a king’s man. It came down to that and nothing else. With dragging steps, he found himself heading back the way he had come.
York had been able to watch the thin stream of red-coated soldiers race up the hill towards St Peter’s Street. He couldn’t see the marketplace from Key Field, though he thought he had heard the name of Warwick cried out before it was borne away on the wind. The sun was at noon overhead when his men at the barricade began to shout in triumph, heaving great pieces away, faster and faster as the king’s troops abandoned them. York didn’t understand the reason for the sudden lack of defence, but he took full advantage, throwing everyone he had at the remaining obstacle and ripping it out of position in great blocks. His men scrambled over the scattered mess of broken wood and thorns, pushing on with no resistance to stop them.
The forces of York were faster off the mark than those of Salisbury, so that he reached the streets of the town first, reining in to stare at the mass of running men heading uphill away from him. Once more, York could hear ‘Warwick’ roared up by the marketplace and he only had to point in that direction as his captains ordered the ranks on, giving chase. God had blessed the moment and York was determined not to waste the chance. He saw his son bring his horse through the gap and called the boy to his side.
On his right, Salisbury’s men came battering through, causing the men of York to whistle and jeer at them for being late to the fight. York could not see Salisbury then, but the earl would find his own way to the king. He trotted his mount uphill towards the fighting, rolling his right shoulder and taking a firm grip on his shield as he dropped his visor and peered out at the
world through a narrow slit. His banner knights rode on either side of him and his men cried, ‘York!’ as they climbed, ready to spend all the frustration of the barriers on those wretches who had abandoned them.
As they drew closer to St Peter’s Street, York could see only chaos. There was fighting on one edge of the marketplace, he could hear it. Ahead of his position, the king’s soldiers seemed willing just to fall back and back, with no one to command them. He brought his horse to the front rank of his soldiers, walking in line with them. More than once, he saw individual king’s men stop and watch with baleful glares, then turn their backs and hurry further away. Inspiration struck him when one group of three took a position right in his path, carrying axes like they meant to use them.
‘By God, get out of my way and guard the king!’ York roared at them. He half-smiled in surprise when they too turned and jogged off towards the tumult ahead. York shook his head at the confusion all around. His captains had the men in order, sending them out into side roads so that, in time, they would have the triangular marketplace completely surrounded. As they went, they came across Salisbury’s men doing the same thing, bawling the name of their patrons before they could attack each other in error.
On the edge of the market proper, York found his way blocked at last by determined ranks. Worried for his son, he thanked God there didn’t seem to be archers among them, one of many strokes of luck in that day of wonders. He eyed the shield wall warily, but his men strode on without hesitation, breaking into a run with each of his captains controlling the mob as best they could. York heard them yell to make a path for him, and he and Edward walked their mounts slowly on, ignoring the struggling, dying men on both sides as they broke the shield wall and opened a narrow track in the press. York saw arrows looping over the crowd then. He dismounted quickly, rather than make himself too obvious a target. Edward of March and his banner knights dropped to the ground at his side, leaving their horses to be swallowed in the crush of struggling men. York’s son was staring around him in amazement, holding his sword out before him.
It was as if they walked in a dream. Time and again, soldiers tried to reach York’s small group of men only to be snatched away by others wearing his colours, brought down by swearing groups and sheer numbers. In open space on the cobbled road, they walked untouched until, to his astonishment, he reached hillocks of torn canvas and the king himself, laid out on the ground.
York looked around him, understanding at last the confusion and utter panic in the king’s followers. He caught a glimpse of Salisbury on his right, still on horseback, making hard work of the fighting against Percy forces. He too was inching his way to the same spot as best he could.
More arrows whirred overhead and York saw one of them crack and shatter into splinters on the stone ground, not far from where the king was being tended. He looked back at Edward in time to see him flinch and duck. York could only admire the courage of the physician coolly wrapping bandages around the king’s throat while Henry pawed weakly at him.
Henry looked up as York’s shadow fell across his face. His eyes widened and he shook his head, recoiling from the surgeon’s touch. Scruton swore softly, seeing the bandages redden again, unaware of the duke or anything else as he fought to save the king’s life. Henry’s head sagged, his eyes showing white as he lost consciousness. For a long moment York could only stare, standing with his sword drawn and held uselessly. All around them, York sensed the fighting intensify between the soldiers in Percy colours and Salisbury’s men, with some of Warwick’s redcoats caught up in the fray. York made a decision, turning to his banner knights. Whatever he had expected or hoped for that day, it was not this.
‘Take the king to the abbey, to sanctuary. Guard him well on the hallowed ground, in peril of your lives and good names. Edward? You’ll go with them.’
It was York himself who reached out to touch the surgeon Scruton on the shoulder, interrupting the man at his work.
‘Stand back from the king, sir. You may accompany him to the abbey, but he must be moved from this place.’
Scruton looked up for the first time and froze in fear at the sight of York in full armour, standing before him. The surgeon had known the day was going badly for the king’s forces, but seeing the man responsible for it all standing with a drawn sword at his side reduced him to stammering shock.
‘He must not, cannot be … my lord, he cannot be moved.’
‘No. He must be. Stand aside and let my men take him to safety. I will not be denied, sir. I will not see my king trampled by men running berserk in these streets.’
Scruton stood, wiping bloody hands on his apron as he gathered tools and strips of linen back into his bag. One of York’s knights gripped Henry under the arms and another took his feet, bearing him back from the centre of the chaos and shouting all around them. The king groaned, near senseless and too weak to respond. York called two more of his captains and a dozen burly soldiers to accompany the king’s progress, giving orders to kill anyone who stood in their way, regardless of colours or loyalties. His orders would prevail over all others, he made sure of it. Most importantly, his son would be kept safe. The king’s surgeon found his nerve and fell in behind as the small group took Henry from the fight, heading towards the abbey. York watched his son go until the men were lost behind the still-heaving mass of soldiers.
Salisbury had either dismounted or had his horse killed under him. The earl had fought his way to the same spot of bloody cobbles and torn canvas and was panting hard, flushed and sweating. Sir John Neville stood to guard his father’s back, gazing out at anyone who might try to take Salisbury unawares.
‘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 honour. ‘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.’
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 colours they wore, when all other banners had b
een 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 centre. 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 armour. 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 armour 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 axe 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.
Wars of the Roses: Trinity (War of the Roses Book 2) Page 18
