Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  Under a paling sky, they formed in the squares once more, with Fauconberg riding over to check that his nephew and his king had survived. Norfolk had offered up his life for his failures, but Edward had waved it off. The man was visibly exhausted and ill, with blood crusting along his lips and a cough that seemed to overpower him in pain. It was true his late arrival had almost cost them the battle, but at the end, Norfolk had come when they needed him. He had redeemed himself, and both Edward and Warwick understood the power of it.

  As the sun cleared the horizon, men emptied bladders, shivered and stamped. They were just about hungry enough to eat the dead by then, sharp-set and aching with it after the day before. King Henry’s camp lay just two miles north, at Tadcaster. It gave Edward some satisfaction to tell his captains that they would eat there. He imagined the camp followers waiting for their people to return and he laughed. They would see banners of York on the road instead, held high and proud.

  He had taken not one prisoner, not one lord held for ransom. He would not play the games those men knew, not then nor ever again. As well as Lord Clifford, Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, had been killed on the field, along with a number of lesser lords and hundreds if not thousands of knights and wealthy followers. It meant there were rich pickings amongst the dead. Edward’s captains had no difficulty finding volunteers to remain at the field, collecting anything valuable. It was vital work and food would be sent back to them. They would count the fallen. Great pits would take the corpses of unknown soldiers, though the labour would be hard on frozen ground. The captains would have servants make lists of names as best they could, from ring crests and surcoats and letters kept close to the skin. Others would roam the battlefield with hatchets, seeking out those who had been knocked unconscious or had hidden themselves in the hope of creeping away. A group of bearers would carry their own wounded to nearby manor houses to be tended, or more likely to bleed and die. It would be the work of many days, though Edward would not see any of it. He had other tasks ahead and he turned north with the blood-stained survivors, facing into a wind that had veered to blow even colder. King Henry and Queen Margaret would discover that the world had changed around them in the night.

  Warwick had been found an unclaimed gelding. It was skittish and forced him to turn it in a tight circle every few steps before he could make it move on. He understood the animal’s wide eyes. Though the wind cleaned the air of the smell of bowels and blood, there was still a sense of death around them, like a man sensing the slow movement of insects beneath a floor. The snow hid some of it, but wherever he allowed his eyes to rest, they would slowly make out some shape that would become a horror.

  He reined the horse in, dipping his head as he approached Edward and Norfolk, Fauconberg and his brother John. Warwick was the last of them to gather there, four men with Neville blood and a Plantagenet. They were all battered, though even as Warwick looked them over, he could see Edward was recovering, his face set and determined.

  The moment of silence stretched all around them. Some of the men had vomited weakly as they’d gathered back into ranks. They had not been mocked for it as they hawked and spat yellow streams. There was no food in them to lose, at least. They were grim with all they had done, all they had seen. They cheered the king, of course, when their captains called for it. The sound and the action brought a little life back to pale cheeks and glazed eyes.

  Leaving a thousand or so behind to tend and tally, the ragged army of King Edward marched north.

  Margaret watched the sun rise from behind the glass of a high room in the guildhouse of York, her back warmed by a fine fire. She could see her breath mist on the glass and wiped at it, her hand looking pale and thin. Beyond those panes, the south gate of the city could be seen. She could not rest, not with an army fighting for her. Every moment passing was a strain as her imagination supplied endless horrors.

  At such a time, she would have liked to ask Derry Brewer for his opinion. She knew her spymaster had ridden out on his old nag to the camp. Yet he had been absent the entire day, while she sat and waited, winding one hand into another until the knuckles were pink and sore. She had shivered at the snow falling, making the world beautiful but deadly, so that she stayed close to the fire.

  Her son had spent the morning clattering about with toy soldiers and a ball, unaware of the stakes of that day. Margaret had finally lost her temper and slapped the seven-year-old, leaving a pink mark on his cheek. He had looked up at her in fury, and her response had been to gather him into an embrace while he squirmed and complained. When she’d released him, he’d scrambled away out of the room and silence had returned. Her husband nodded by the fire, not asleep, or reading, but simply staring peaceably into the flames as they twisted and flickered before him.

  Margaret took a sudden breath when she heard hooves clattering in the street. There was snow on the outer panes and it did not shift when she rubbed a palm across the inner surface. She could see very little outside, just a few horsemen dismounting below. She turned to the door as loud voices sounded and her servants replied.

  The door crashed open and Somerset stood there, his chest heaving as he brought cold and snow and fear into that warm room.

  ‘My lady, I am sorry,’ he said. ‘The battle is lost.’

  Margaret went to him with a low wail, taking his hands and shuddering at the exhaustion she saw. As he moved, she saw it was with a limp, one of his legs barely bending. Droplets of melting snow flickered across her skin, making her shiver.

  ‘How is it possible?’ she whispered.

  Somerset’s eyes seemed bruised, darkened all around and still showing the red lines of a helmet pressed against his flesh.

  ‘Where will the men rally?’ she demanded. ‘Here, by this city? Is that why you have returned to this place?’

  Somerset’s shoulders slumped as he forced himself to speak.

  ‘There are … many dead, Margaret.’ It hurt him to break her, but he had the sense of time against him and he snapped the words. ‘All dead. The army was broken, slaughtered. It is the end and they will be coming here with the sun. By noon, I expect to see King Edward walk his horse through the Micklegate Bar of York.’

  ‘King Edward? How can you say such a thing to me?’ Margaret cried out in grief.

  Somerset shook his head.

  ‘It is the merest truth now. I watched him on the field, my lady. I give him that honour, though it scorch me.’

  Margaret’s face hardened. Men were too given to grand gestures. It was true it sometimes led to dreams of heroes and round tables. It also meant that when they found a wolf to follow, they could have their heads turned like a young girl. She reached out and touched her hand to Somerset’s cheek, shivering again at the deep coldness in the young man.

  ‘Have you come to kill me, then?’

  Life returned to his eyes, though the duke swayed. His hand came up and gripped her wrist.

  ‘What? No, my lady. I have come to bear you away from this place, with your husband and son. I would spare you whatever ending York has in mind. On my honour, you must think of a safe place now, if there still is one.’

  Margaret thought swiftly, trying to concentrate as fear and anger screeched within. The day before, a vast army had stood for her, an army that dwarfed the forces at Agincourt or at Hastings, or any other time the English had fought. Yet they had failed and fallen, and she was lost …

  ‘Margaret? My lady?’ Somerset said, worried at how long she had stared into nothing.

  ‘Yes. It will be Scotland,’ she said. ‘If there is nothing left in England, I must ride for the border there. Mary of Guelders holds the throne for her son and she will keep me safe, I think. I think she will.’

  Somerset turned to shout orders down the stairs to his men waiting below. He stopped at the touch of her hand on his arm.

  ‘Where is Derry Brewer?’ Margaret asked. ‘Have you seen or heard of him? I need him to come with me.’

  The young duke shook his h
ead, showing a flash of irritation.

  ‘I do not know, my lady,’ he said in rebuke. ‘Lord Percy and Baron Clifford were killed. If your Derry Brewer lives, I’m sure he will find us in time. Now, you should have your servants pack whatever you will need.’ He bit his lips, his eyes suddenly bright with a sheen of grief. ‘My lady, you should not expect to return. Take gold and … clothes, whatever you cannot bear to leave. I have spare horses here. We can carry it all.’

  Margaret looked sternly at him.

  ‘Very well. Now pull yourself together, my lord Somerset. I need you sharp and I doubt you’ve slept at all.’

  He smiled ruefully, blinking.

  ‘Just dust, my lady. I must apologize.’

  ‘I should think so. Now fetch your men up here to help gather the things I shall need for the journey. I want you to remain at my side, my lord. To help me with my husband and to tell me everything that happened.’ She paused for an instant, raising her head against the urge to despair. ‘I cannot believe it. How is it possible?’

  Somerset looked away, calling down the stairs to his men. When he returned, she was still waiting for an answer. He could only shrug.

  ‘Snow, my lady. Snow and luck were enough. I do not know if God or the devil was on their side, but … surely one of them. They had King Edward fighting at the centre, leading men who fought like fiends to impress him. Even so, they should not have won, could not have won against the numbers we brought. God or the devil, or both. I don’t know.’

  20

  With long banners flying on either side, Edward entered the Lancaster camp. The king’s mood forbade conversation, though it was not a cold thing, just the numbed awareness of so many events having happened quickly.

  There was no armed resistance as they rode to the centre. What few guards remained had run as soon as they saw the banners of York coming up the road. Drawn by the smell of cooking, Edward dismounted to accept a bowl of mutton stew, a glorious steaming warmth that smothered the hunger cramps.

  The eighteen-year-old king sipped broth with Warwick and Montagu, Norfolk and Fauconberg, all staring across the camp. The only sound then had been Norfolk coughing into a cloth, a wet hack that went on and on until he grimaced at blood and spat more on to the ground.

  After a time, Edward’s captains brought him some tally blocks marked in fine lines, but he waved them away. He had no interest in the work of clerks, nor yet the business of ruling. He had no doubt his father’s man Poucher would track him down eventually, but there were far more important things to do first.

  Lancaster servants scurried to bring food and water, appalled and in shock, but already sensing a new world forming out of the bloody fields behind. They still needed to eat and to be paid to labour when their masters had been killed. Some of them wept as they worked, understanding that the head of their house would not return. Haunches of cured ham were discovered in a storehouse and hacked apart with blades that had cut living flesh not too long before.

  As exhausted men settled down to eat and rest, Edward mounted once again, wincing at the bruises that ran from his right arm and shoulder right down to both legs. His armour had soaked up dozens of blows but spread them, so that he would be mottled blue for weeks. The iron plates showed neat holes where some weapon had cut through. Edward counted four billhook triangles. They were all on his chest, which suited his pride. Each was rimmed with blood, though the wounds beneath had caked and set into the layers of leather and thick, stitched linen. He groaned as he stretched to mount, turning it into an angry shout as every joint protested. He left his helmet in the hands of a servant and closed his eyes as sweat dried and the breeze touched him. He did not need the spiked gold band set into the iron to show he was king. The truth of it was in the battle he had won. No fluttering banner or house colours mattered half as much as that.

  It was a little before noon when his six hundred horsemen were sighted from the walls of the city of York. Edward had wondered whether he would find the gates closed against him, just as Margaret and Henry had been barred from entering London. He had already decided to gather cannon and reduce the city to rubble if they refused him entrance. His glower eased as he saw Micklegate Bar open ahead of him. There were no guards visible, nor anyone else on the road into the city. He squeezed his reins, slowing the destrier to a walk, suddenly dreading what he would see there.

  Warwick glanced curiously at the king, then dug in his heels, calling knights and captains to match his pace. They went in fast, hooves clattering as they swept under the stone tower, with the guardhouse and walls looming on both sides.

  Edward followed, walking his horse, with his gauntlets clenched into fists. He reined in, coming to a halt, looking out over the muddy streets spreading away from that point, the jumble of packed houses and the spires of churches. Cooking fires had stained that same air for ten thousand years, longer. It was an old town, with old stones.

  When he was ready, Edward turned his mount to face the Micklegate Bar and looked up. His eyes narrowed and his chest shuddered with something close to sobs as he stared at the heads of his father and his brother Edmund. The third head had twisted on its spike so that it leaned awkwardly. Edward glanced round as Warwick dismounted and strode towards the iron ladders set on both sides of the gate tower.

  Jumping down, Edward was but a pace or two behind the earl as they began to climb together. The snowstorm had spent its strength the day before, so that there was no more than a breeze at that height. The king of England shuffled out on to a ledge and reached to his brother Edmund’s head, quailing in horror at the black tar stuck to the skin. He could hardly recognize the features he had known and he was grateful for that.

  The heads had rotted in the months since Sandal Castle. They were lightly held by the iron and, almost without looking, Edward removed and dropped the first down to Fauconberg to hold and wrap. A Christian burial would follow; the agony of his brother’s humiliation had been repaid in the best of coin. Edward saw that Warwick had lifted his father’s head and, with a slow exhalation through pursed lips, he did the same, muttering prayers as he held the tarred jaw and felt the hair touch the back of his hand with a shiver.

  Fauconberg and Montagu stood below with outstretched arms. They received the heads with solemnity, passing them to be wrapped in clean cloth. Above, Edward Plantagenet and Richard Neville rested for a moment, their backs against the cold stone.

  ‘You played your part, Richard,’ Edward said. ‘You and your Nevilles. I can make your uncle the new Earl of Kent, a fine title with sweet land and great wealth. He played his part and more. Did you see how many had been struck down by arrows, when we passed them by? Thousands, Richard. He may have won it for us.’ The king’s expression grew stern and thoughtful then as he contemplated the older earl. ‘You, though, Warwick? You have as many castles and towns as I have, or a few more. What can I offer you, who did so much to make me king?’

  ‘I want for nothing,’ Warwick said, his voice low and hoarse. ‘And you held the left wing, when another man would have seen it crushed. You inspired the men, so that even now, I can see you in my mind’s eye. I will not forget it. Without you, I would not have my father’s head to bury in consecrated ground. That is no small thing, not to me.’

  ‘You must take something from my hand, Warwick. I will not be denied in this, nor will I let you retire to your estates. I need you at my side as we restore peace to the realm.’

  ‘Then call me King’s Counsellor, or King’s Companion. For such an honour, I will remain for ever at your side. Like the last King Edward, you’ll rule fifty years.’ Warwick forced himself to smile, though his eyes shone. ‘You’ll win back France, perhaps.’

  He saw Edward’s brows rise in interest at the thought and he laughed.

  ‘Will you find some reward for Norfolk?’ Warwick asked suddenly.

  The man himself was not a hundred yards off, visible as he waited for the younger men to climb back down to the world. He seemed reduced by the col
d. As Warwick watched, Norfolk doubled over to cough and heave for breath.

  Edward’s mood dampened and he shrugged.

  ‘I know he made the ending, with God’s aid. Perhaps in time I will find it in me to praise him. Yet I have not slept one night since I was cursing Norfolk to hell for the gap he left in my army. Your brother John fought well, I think. I am of a mind to honour the Nevilles, Richard. Your father’s place in the Order of the Garter is still vacant.’

  Warwick considered what his father might have said to such an offer. He rubbed a ball of sticky tar between two fingers.

  ‘Earl Percy was among the dead, Your Highness. If you wish to honour my father’s family and mine …’

  Northumberland was a vast earldom, millions of wild acres and a title of real power. Yet Edward needed no more unrest from that bastion of the north. Warwick saw him chew the inside of his cheek.

  ‘My brother will always be loyal, Edward.’

  The king dipped his head, his expression lightening now that the decision was made.

  ‘Very well. I’ll give him a writ under my seal and see how quickly he brings order back to the north. I am content to have a Neville in Northumberland. After all, Richard, I will need loyal fellows around me now. Those with wits and courage, both! I find I have a kingdom to rule.’

  Both men climbed down, becoming reverent once again as they observed the heads being wrapped in cloth and leather, belted and tied to the saddles. It was Norfolk who approached Edward, dropping to one knee on the stones as he waited with his head bowed.

  ‘Rise, my lord,’ Edward said softly.

  ‘My lads have been asked in the tavern, Your Highness. The people of the city are all afraid that you will bring some punishment upon them for sheltering King Henry and Queen Margaret.’

  ‘And so I might, still,’ Edward replied, though his heart was not truly in the words. Faced with an army the size of the one that had camped at Tadcaster, the city of York had been hostage. He decided on the spot to hold them innocent and seek no penalty, either in gold or bloody executions. His father had said that a man was revealed by how he conducted himself when he held power. It mattered to the young king.