Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  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, th
e 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.

  ‘What’s your name, lad?’ Derry called to him.

  ‘Nathaniel Anson, sir. If you’ll have these … men unhand me, I am a messenger and herald for my lord John Clifford.’

  ‘What’s that? Clifford? He’s down at Ferrybridge on some make-work. You’ll find him there.’

  ‘No. I’ve come from there, sir! I have news to report to Lord Somerset.’

  ‘Somerset is a busy man, son,’ Derry replied, his interest prickling. ‘Tell me what you have been instructed to say. I will pass it on to the right ears.’

  The boy Anson sagged in the hands holding him upright. He was bursting to tell and it was clear he would not be allowed to go beyond the sentries without giving at least some part of his information.

  ‘The vanguard of York’s army has reached the River Aire, sir. Some of his men have crossed further down and are threatening the small force with my master. Do you comprehend my urgency now, sir?’

  ‘I do,’ Derry said. ‘Though we don’t let wild young men ride to the heart of an armed camp just because they shout to let them pass, do we, son? We follows the rules, or such young men might find themselves with an arrow through the chest, say, or one in that swollen eye. Is that understood?’

  The young man mumbled agreement, his face flaming.

  Derry jerked his head to the closer of the two sentries.

  ‘Get on then, Walton. Take the boy’s horse and pass the news of York to Somerset and the captains, Lord Percy if you see him. They are to make ready to defend camp, or march out, that’s not my concern.’

  The sentry jumped up on to Anson’s grey, causing the animal’s head to jerk up and a gasp of outrage to issue from the lad. Derry took his own grip on the boy’s jerkin in case he tried to run for it.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, when the sentry had vanished into the falling mists of snow. He saw Anson was shivering violently, his sweat turning to ice after the exertion of his wild ride. Derry found himself impressed by the lad’s determination, though it did not sway him from his chief interest.

  ‘You say Lord Clifford is threatened?’ he demanded. ‘Tell me about that.’

  ‘When I left, I saw two, even three thousand men coming along our bank. They must have found a fording point …’

  ‘Aye, there is one at Castleford, not three miles west,’ Derry replied. ‘How many fine fellows did Lord Clifford have with him?’

  ‘A few hundred, sir. Not one for a dozen of the enemy! They had the soldiers running like … in great number. Now, please, let me go. If you can spare another horse, though that fine mount was my own, a gift. I would return to my master’s side, to fall with him if I must.’

  ‘Oh, good lord,’ Derry said. ‘You sound an educated boy. Are you perhaps his bastard? No? Not his catamite? I cannot say I like the man, but I have never heard that he found his interest in …’

  He was surprised by the slap, from such a source. Anson had reached high and delivered it with as much force as he could muster. Derry turned back in surprise, a smile spreading across his features.

  ‘How dare you, sir,’ Anson began.

  Derry laughed at him. He raised a fist and saw the boy repress a flinch, steeling himself in contempt for whatever beating would come. Derry opened his hand on the jerkin and let Anson fall and scramble back.

  ‘Son, if I am to save your master from his own stupidity, I must gather a great number of hard and violent men �
�� and ride out. Go back now, along the road, before you freeze to death in this snow. Go! You have passed word. I am Master Brewer, steward to King Henry. I will not fail you.’

  He added the last in a flourish. The boy struggled up and ran away into the whiteness.

  Derry waited for a time, until he was certain the boy had gone. When the world had grown quiet, he turned to the sentry, still standing and watching him, ready for orders.

  ‘Well?’ Derry said.

  The man shrugged and said nothing. The lack of response was not enough for Derry and he leaned in closer to the taller man.

  ‘How is your wife? It was … Ethel, wasn’t it? Fine hand with a shirt. Fine woman, built strong.’

  The man flushed and looked away.

  ‘Her name’s not Ethel, no. But you don’t need to threaten me, Master Brewer. I ain’t seen nothing. I ain’t heard nothing either.’

  ‘That’s the way. You might find a purse in it for you as well, son. I don’t like to threaten good men, though some need to be told. Would you like to ask me about Lord Clifford?’

  ‘No, Master Brewer. I ’ave no interest at all.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, son. God giveth and God taketh away. Just be sure you’re present when he giveth – and somewhere else when he taketh it all back.’

  The spymaster chuckled and rubbed his face, still feeling the sting of the boy’s blow. Winter cold made fighting into an agony, weakening men so that wounds hurt worse and legs grew stiff and numb. Not for nothing were wars fought in spring and summer, anything rather than the bleeding snow.

  Derry put his misgivings aside. He’d made his decision. It was to do absolutely nothing. Some miles to the south, Lord Clifford would be plunging on in growing desperation, seeking the royal camp in a world where everything had vanished into whiteness. Derry laughed out loud at the thought. He just could not think of a man who deserved it more.

  17

  Clifford reined in once again, to listen. It was extraordinary how the falling snow soaked up sound. All he could hear was his own breath in his helmet, until he took it off to turn his head back and forth, straining for any sound at all. Snow brought an exaggerated stillness, with even the small noises of his horse and armour magnified. He might as well have been riding a featureless plain, some vast and empty valley with no other sign of man. He knew there were armies surging forward to clash and die, but he could not perceive a single sign of them. The sick sense stole over him that he could well have been turned around. The road was long behind and his own hoof-prints filled as he went. There were perhaps three inches of snow lying on the ground, or three times as much, he did not know or care. He had a vision of riding in lost circles until he stumbled into his enemies, or more likely froze to death. It was infuriating and yet all he could do was go on, searching for some sign of the royal camp. A dozen miles had never seemed so far as it had that morning. The very air was smothered in the silence.