Sons of the Blood: New World Rising Series book 1

by Robyn Young

  In the ringing silence between each bombardment, a steady rain of arrows flew, the feathered barbs springing from English longbows to stab down into the oncoming lines. Still, Tudor’s vanguard came, marching as a wedge across the boggy plain of Redemore, keeping a wide area of marshland at their flank, the red, white and gold standard of John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, glowing in the morning sun, shining full in the faces of his men. The explosions from the cannons struck fear in the heart and where their shot hit targets they were devastating: shattering plate armour, tearing through limbs, cracking open chests in bursts of blood and bone. But the arrows remained the more accurate and deadly, twelve shot from each archer for every cannon blast.

  Positioned in front of the royal vanguard, the archers were commanded by the battle-bitten John Howard, Duke of Norfolk, who had survived the French guns at Castillon and the ice-blown hell of Towton. The twelve hundred archers – mostly farmers and labourers called into service by their king – had used their bows since they were children, taught by fathers and grandfathers who had fought the French at Agincourt, their calloused fingers able to pull back the string until the bows curved impossibly taut, before letting their arrows fly free with a twang and a hiss. The knights struggled on against the storm of barbs, but those of Oxford’s men not clad in full plate were plucked off easily, hurled back as the barbs punched through leather brigandines and tow-stuffed gambesons to embed themselves in vulnerable flesh. When Oxford’s vanguard paused to release several volleys in answer, Norfolk’s archers were forced to hunker down for cover, allowing Oxford to continue his advance.

  Richard watched them come from astride his bay stallion. The horse, a destrier, bred for battle, was armoured in plate and covered with a trapper adorned with the royal arms of England, the lions and fleur-de-lis blazing gold from the folds of scarlet and blue silk. The front of the saddle was iron, curved like a shield to protect him. Richard’s war blade was at his hip beside a rondel dagger, thin enough to exploit any gap in armour and deliver death with its long steel spike. A war hammer hung from his saddle, there were jewelled spurs on his sabatons and a crown of gold encircled his helm, telling all men present who was king upon this field. The visor of his helm was raised, allowing him to view the field unrestricted.

  Clustered around the king, horses champing, were the Knights of the Body. Among them were Richard Ratcliffe, his mouth stained red with wine and William Catesby, his cool gaze fixed on Oxford’s incoming troops. There, too, was Lord Francis Lovell, his wolf badge pinned to the silk tunic he wore over his plate. Over them all was raised the king’s standard, the white boar teased by a strengthening wind, which carried dust from the nearby cornfields.

  After the disorganised dawn scramble at the enemy’s unexpected advance, the royal troops had ordered swiftly and ridden out to meet Tudor’s army. Their massive line – over ten thousand strong – now stretched for several miles. Norfolk had the vanguard, with the artillery, some spearmen and the archers. The king commanded the main battle and Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, held the rear with the large northern levies. Together, they formed a thick wall that bristled with pikes and halberds. Helms and breastplates smouldered in the light of the rising sun. Pennons fluttered from lance shafts and banners rippled, emblazoned with golden stags and silver moons, blue stars and white swans. Helms were crested with horns and feathers.

  Richard kept his eyes on Oxford’s banner as the earl’s archers sent another rain of arrows hurtling into the ranks of Norfolk’s men. Screams echoed in between the boom of the cannons. Behind Oxford’s forces, which Richard’s scouts had put at less than five thousand, he could see a distant knot of men hanging back beyond the marshes of Redemore plain. His scouts had also told him they believed Henry Tudor was somewhere in that knot, surrounded by just a few hundred cavalry and infantry. But, so far, his banner had not yet been seen. This dragon, it seemed, was timid. Richard’s gauntlets tightened around the reins of his destrier as his eyes flicked in the direction of the camp of Lord Stanley and his brother, William. There was still no sign of the Stanleys, despite his urgent commands for them to array. He felt a tightness in his chest, born both of fury and concern.

  Oxford’s men marched on and, now, a trumpet blared from Norfolk’s troops. All at once, the vanguard set off, led by the duke himself, the heavy cavalry shaking the earth with their thunderous charge. The guns fell silent and arrows ceased to darken the dawn sky as the infantry, thousands strong, ran in their wake, pole-arms brandished before them. Oxford and Norfolk, two veteran warriors – enemies of old who had faced one another on other fields for the red rose and the white – smashed together in a storm of iron. The first brutal clash reverberated across the plain. Knights were thrown from saddles. Foot soldiers were speared by lance and battered by sword and axe swings. Men and horses screamed. However strong the armour, however heartfelt the prayers for protection, flesh remained vulnerable; there for the tearing.

  Richard watched closely, following the shifting of these two tides of men, now merged together on Redemore’s plain. Blades arced and thrust above them, banners surged. Horses were pulled down, flailing and twisting. Infantry pushed in hard at one another, hacking at the enemy with the curved axe blades of their halberds, or else jabbing at them with the iron spikes that tipped the shafts of the long weapons. The king knew the fierceness of that place; the hard press of men, the smell of blood and metal, the anguished howls, the vicious snarls, the fear of falling beneath trampling hooves and eager blades that sought the gaps in eye slits and cuisses. He had fought Oxford on the field at Barnet. He knew well the Lancastrian’s savagery.

  Suddenly, a hole appeared in the Duke of Norfolk’s forces. Oxford’s men pushed into it, cries of triumph tearing across the plain. Richard sat forward in his saddle, his breath quickening. He saw men in Norfolk’s colours begin to scatter from the edges of the vanguard, fleeing in fear.

  ‘God-damned cowards!’ hissed Richard Ratcliffe.

  Francis Lovell had risen in his stirrups, his visor snapped back to watch. Other men were murmuring uneasily.

  Richard cursed. Where was Lord Stanley? He turned on Catesby. ‘Bring me Lord Strange! I’ll strike the cur’s head from his shoulders if his father doesn’t show himself!’

  Wheeling his horse around, Catesby spurred his destrier hard away, back towards their camp where Lord Strange was being held hostage by his men.

  ‘My lord king! Tudor’s banner!’

  Francis Lovell was pointing to the knot of men across the plain, not yet moving to engage. Now, as Oxford’s soldiers bit deep into Norfolk’s troops, Richard saw a new standard raised above the company. Even at this distance he could make out the red dragon emblazoned upon it.

  Richard’s heart thumped in his chest. He had fought at Barnet and at Tewkesbury when the fire of Lancaster had been quenched by the fury of York. The only light left of that whole hated house was this pale ember now before him. Richard was a son of the mighty Duke of York, heir to the Plantagenet dynasty, a Knight of the Garter who had served his brother as Constable of England and Protector of the Realm, before lifting the crown from the mire into which the Woodvilles had helped sink it. How dare this pretender, this bastard who – in all his twenty-eight summers – had never commanded an army, come to try to claim it from him. The hour was upon him.

  He would slay this dragon.

  Alone, Jack walked the halls of his father’s former home. Outside, the sun had risen, but the mansion’s interior remained cast in grey gloom, the shutters keeping back the light. Long passageways stretched away filled with shadows. The cracks of open doors showed empty rooms beyond. A smell of damp pervaded the air, dark patches of mildew staining the walls. There was a powdery film of dust over everything and cobwebs floated in unexpected gusts of air.

  Jack moved quietly, ears pricked for any noise that wasn’t the soft pad of his footsteps or his own whispering breaths. He and Valentine had split up to cover as much ground as possible, the gunner searching t
he kitchen and outbuildings. Jack grasped his sword in his gloved hands as he went, room by room, the red ruby embedded in the silver pommel smouldering like a coal.

  In several of the larger rooms he found furniture hidden under sheets of cloth. A table with feet clawed like a lion’s, a writing desk that made him think of Amaury, a painting of a city of white palaces topped with jewelled domes, the colours so vivid they seemed to glow from the canvas, an armoire with a few tomes scattered on its shelves, including a Book of Hours he recalled his father reading on campaign. He scanned its pages, before wedging it through his belt. There was little truly left of Thomas Vaughan and Jack guessed the mansion would have been picked over by the king’s agents. Still, it was enough to summon memories, and in chambers of dust and silence he imagined his father’s laugh, his eyes creasing at the corners. Imagined his voice, strong and steady. The weight of his hand on his shoulder.

  It was desire to find the prince and the map that had brought him back to London, and revenge that had led him here. Now, sadness flowed through him, seeping through cracks in the brittle surface of his anger. For the first time since learning of his father’s death in the cruel words of Francis Shawe, he felt a true sense of his loss. Until this point his sorrow had been wrapped in secrets and uncertainty, resentment and blame. Some of that had been peeled away by Amaury’s words. Now, the rest of the layers unfurled in Jack to expose a raw kernel of grief.

  He recalled Amaury telling him that his father wouldn’t have sent him away with the map if he didn’t trust him implicitly. He had a sense, now, of just how great that responsibility had been. Amaury said the map had the power to shape the world. And what had he done? He had locked it carelessly in a box while he gambled, drank, fought and whored his way through his time in Seville, sulking and as selfish as a child. He had behaved like a commoner when he should have behaved like a knight. He had failed his father’s last test of him. Shame flushed his cheeks.

  The stairs creaked under his feet as Jack climbed to search the rooms on the upper floor. There was no sign of anyone here and no obvious places to hide a boy. He was starting to wonder if he’d even imagined recognising the Welsh soldier outside. Had those men just been looking to plunder the place? At one point, in the passage between chambers, he thought he heard a door closing somewhere and stood there for a time in the hush, listening intently. Guessing Valentine had entered the main house, he continued on to a room at the end, where light bled from around the cracks in the door. Pushing it open carefully, he was startled by a frantic flapping of wings. A magpie flew up through the hole in the roof he had seen from the riverbank, the hole through which the morning sunlight was now streaming.

  A small section of the roof had collapsed inwards at some point, perhaps the fault of a rotten beam. A few timbers scattered the floor, along with crumbled mortar, dust and shattered tiles. The floorboards around the opening were crusted with bird droppings. There was nothing else here and Jack was turning to go, thinking to head down and see if Valentine had had more luck, when he heard soft singing coming from somewhere. He cocked his head to listen.

  ‘There were three ravens in a tree, they were black as black could be. One bird turned and asked his mate, where shall we our breakfast take? Down in the long grass in yonder field, there lies a knight slain ’neath his shield . . .’

  Jack knew that song. He turned with a grin, guessing the prince must be in one of the adjacent rooms or in a hidden chamber between. There was a figure standing in the doorway. Jack saw dark hair under a black velvet hat, a strong jaw and hard mouth. A face like his own.

  Richard snapped down his visor and took his lance from his squire, his fingers, protected by the steel shell of his gauntlet, curling around the long shaft of ash that was tipped with an iron spike. Kicking hard at his destrier, he spurred the stallion on across the plain. As the trumpets sounded the charge, the knights and squires of the royal host rode with him, urging their armoured steeds across the sun-washed sea of grass. Curving around the flank of the battle still raging between the earl and the duke, Oxford’s forces roaring as they pressed in hard, Richard and his troops rode straight for the small knot of men surrounding the banner of Henry Tudor. The white boar rode with them, streaming above them, the tusked beast hunched and snarling.

  Richard’s armour shone like silver fire, the gold crown gleaming atop his helm. The hooves of his destrier kicked up great clods of earth as it plunged through the soft mud of the fields. The stallion had been trained from a colt to charge at men, to kick and bite, be savage in battle, deaf to guns and blind to arrows. Fearless, it swept him towards his foe. Richard levelled his lance for the final charge. Tudor’s small force of cavalry had arrayed themselves and were riding to meet him and his men. The impact of the two lines of horsemen crashing into one another was staggering. Men were flung back or pitched forward, lances splintered. Horses reared, hooves striking the air.

  Richard drove his lance into the body of a knight whose tunic was quartered in the yellow and black of Sir James Blount, the captain of Hammes who had allowed the Earl of Oxford to escape his custody. He felt the brutal concussion in his arm as the lance shattered on the man’s breastplate, hurling him back. Letting go of the broken shaft, Richard pulled his war hammer free and swung it into the head of another man. The spiked hammer punctured the man’s helm, blood flooding from the base as the king twisted it free. The air was rent with the strident song of battle – the percussive din of steel weapons striking iron plate, the squeal of horses and the cries of men. Richard saw Francis Lovell cuff away an axe strike with his broadsword before chopping the great blade down into the thigh of his opponent.

  Blood flew as men and beasts were undone, spraying red across armour, sliming the shafts and blades of weapons. Men snarled and spat as they fought to poke and gouge the life out of one another, wild-eyed and battle-drunk. Others were shoved or dragged from saddles, slipping down beneath the stamp and thrust of the mêlée into the swamp of mud, blood and horse dung. Men, caked in mud and weighed down by armour, tried to crawl their way through the crush. Many were trampled underfoot by horses, the weight of the armoured destriers driving them into the earth. Richard and his knights, cracking skulls and ribs with swings of hammer, flail and sword, fought their way through the lines of horsemen, turning them into ragged clumps for the infantry, now storming in behind, to finish off with pike and halberd.

  With a roar, Richard lifted his blood-slick hammer and spurred his men towards the cluster of infantry, gathered in tight around Tudor’s banner. Behind him on the plain, Oxford was ploughing a bloody furrow through Norfolk’s troops, but all Richard’s attention was on the foe before him, channelled into a thin slice of colour by the slits of his helm. He rode towards them at a furious gallop, the white boar coming for the red dragon. He caught snatches of devices on tunics – the black raven of the treacherous Welshman, Rhys ap Thomas, the golden martlets of Jasper Tudor and the silver lions of John Cheyne.

  Men tightened ranks, crowding in to face the king’s forces, pikes thrust before them in a thicket of barbs. Richard and his knights plunged into their lines, breaking them apart. The padded gambesons of Welsh soldiers were no match for the vicious sweep of a broadsword or the chest-cracking impacts of flanged maces. Limbs were hacked from torsos, heads cleaved from necks. Richard, hacking his way through their ranks, felt blades scuff and batter his armour. He was pushed and jostled in his saddle, his leg crushed against someone else’s horse. Francis Lovell had reached Henry Tudor’s standard. The knight executed a lethal cut of wrath at the bearer, cutting the man off at the legs. The man screamed as he went down, the standard falling.

  A ripple of fear shuddered through Tudor’s ranks. The dragon was down! The king’s men pressed the advantage, battle cries torn raw from throats as they scented victory. Then came a distant bellow of horns. Richard twisted in his saddle. Coming from the south, charging in across the plain, were three thousand men, clad in the red livery of William Stanley. At last,
they had joined him. He barred his teeth inside his helm, feeling new vigour in his limbs.

  ‘For York! For York!’

  Richard was still shouting fiercely when Stanley’s forces crashed headlong into his own.

  Elation turned to horror.

  They clashed in the sun-streamed chamber, swords cracking in the hush. Jack felt the concussion rip through his arm, his muscles weakened after his ordeal in France. Beneath his gloves the palm of his scarred hand stung. The shock on Harry Vaughan’s face when he had seen him standing there – a dead man returned to life – had vanished. Now, there was only hate.

  Harry turned his blade suddenly, forcing Jack’s sword down. When he had him off balance he kicked out. Jack twisted away, causing Harry to pitch forward as his foot struck air. With no room to swing his sword, Jack lunged, elbowing his brother in the face. Harry spun away with a roar of pain, before recovering his stance. They circled one another, both breathing hard, blinking as they passed through the shafts of sunlight coming through the hole in the roof. Their boots crunched on crumbled mortar. Harry’s eyes were streaming and blood had started to drip from his nose. Jack realised he could hear the sound of fighting somewhere else in the house: shouts and the clash of weapons. Valentine.

  ‘The map.’ Jack’s voice cracked as he spoke, but he kept his rage in check, refusing to allow it to take him over. ‘I want it back. The boy too.’

  ‘Go to hell,’ Harry spat. He levelled his sword at Jack. ‘Pity won’t stay my hand again.’

  ‘Pity?’ Jack’s bark of laughter was harsh in the empty chamber. ‘It wasn’t pity that stayed your hand. It was fear. You didn’t want the stain upon your soul, so you let the fire do it for you.’ He circled closer, watching for any break in Harry’s defence. ‘You’ve not yet killed a man, have you?’