Revenge (31 page)

***

Honour be damned
, he thought.
As the only sane man on the field, I have a duty to stay alive.

Richard was dully aware of men to his left shouting, and a wild flurry of trumpets, but it was all so much meaningless noise. His entire world was covered in a fine red mist, and the congealed stench of blood and excrement and death filled his mouth and nostrils, half-choking him. All he could do was lift his weary arms, ignore the tension screaming in his weary shoulders, and continue to hack and parry and stab at the enemy. The snow underfoot was caked in blood and filth, and the ground heaped with layers of still and twitching bodies.

He had no idea how long the battle had lasted. An hour, maybe two or three. It didn’t matter. There was no change in the dishwater-grey skies, the snow still fell, and the Yorkists still clung grimly to their ridge.

Richard had lost count of the men he had killed and maimed. He was bleeding from numerous minor wounds, and his helm and breastplate were badly dented. One of his ribs was cracked, causing extraordinary pain to sear through his side every time he swung his poleaxe.
  

A man cannoned into him, almost knocking him down. Richard cursed him, and looked into the grimy, terror-struck features of a soldier wearing the blue lion of the Earl of Northumberland on his tattered coat.

“Flee! Flee!” jabbered the man in a thick northern accent, trying to get past. Richard grabbed hold of his shoulders.

“What do you mean?” he croaked, his throat dry as dust. “What has happened to Northumberland?”

“My lord is dead, and Dacre of Gilsland, and many others! Norfolk has arrived, and broke our line all to pieces. Let me go, you fool!”

The northerner tore free of Richard’s grip and fled, back down into Towton Dale. For a moment Richard was alone in the eye of the storm, with bodies strewn around him and the sounds of battle strangely dim and distant. A fell mist had settled over all, obscuring his view and his hearing, though he was already half-deaf from one of the many blows to his helm.

More Lancastrians were breaking ranks and running, either in his direction or back down into the valley. He recognised many as Northumberland’s men, while others wore the livery of Exeter and Trollope.

He wiped the film of sweat and dirt from his face and tried to think. The Duke of Norfolk must have arrived and crushed the Lancastrian left flank. Norfolk would have brought thousands of men with him, all of them fresh. Their weight of numbers would surely prove decisive.

Richard had no time to ponder on the consequences of defeat. There was a mighty yell from the direction of the ridge, and the awful chant echoed across the field – “God for King Edward! Saint George for King Edward!”

Shapes appeared through the mist, grim and bloody figures wielding swords and pole-arms, torn and blood-stained banners waving overhead. Richard glimpsed one gigantic young knight wearing a gold circlet on his helm, blonde hair spilling down his armoured shoulders as he roared his men on.

It was the usurper himself. Edward IV was like some terrifying giant out of legend, brutal and unstoppable, slathered in the blood of Lancastrians.

Panic seized Richard. He dropped his poleaxe and hobbled down the slope, picking his way over the bodies of friends and enemies, cursing the near-crippling pain of his torn sinew and cracked rib.

The Yorkists were at his heels. He lacked the strength to run, to escape, and could not expect to enjoy the incredible good fortune that had saved his life at Blore Heath.

Men were running ahead of him. Great holes appeared in what was left of the Lancastrian line as word of Norfolk’s assault spread and morale collapsed. Somerset had vanished, along with his standard. Dead, perhaps, trampled and unrecognisable under one of the piles of corpses, or being hurried away from the field by his retainers. The great horses of the Lancastrian nobles were held in the rear by their esquires, ready to carry their masters to safety if the worst befell. No such means of escape was available to the vast mass of common infantry, summoned or conscripted to come here and fight for King Henry, a man few of them had even seen.

Bitter thoughts ran through Richard’s mind as he slipped and staggered down the valley. Screams echoed behind him, and the clatter of blades. Stubborn bands of Lancastrians had resolved to fight on to the death. They preferred to die like men, with their faces to the enemy, rather than be pulled down and slaughtered in the rout.

Richard kept no track of where he was going, and could see little through the mist and fluttering snow. He lurched down a steep slope, fell headlong over a dead archer, and crawled on hands and knees, whimpering at the agony in his side. Other men blundered past him, slipping on the heavy snow and slush. The mace and dagger hanging from his belt were weighing him down, so he cast them away. Even in the grip of terror he refused to relinquish his father’s sword.

Then he realised where he was. At the foot of the slope was the River Cock, a narrow but deep stream. By now the weather would have swollen it into an icy torrent. He heard voices raised in panic and rage, and saw an appalling crush of bodies packed into the narrow gulley by the river. Men feverishly unbuckled their harness before hurling themselves into the freezing, fast-rushing water.

The fleeing Lancastrians had given way to terror. All comradeship was forgotten as they clawed and shoved each other, willing to risk drowning or suffocation rather than wait to be butchered like pigs, but Richard remembered his own near-drowning in the stream at Blore Heath, and didn’t care to risk it again.

He saw a pile of bodies nearby, two archers and a man-at-arms, their dead eyes staring glassily at the snow-riddled skies. All three looked as though they wouldn’t object to company. Richard crawled sideways, like a crab, and burrowed under the still-warm body of one of the archers. The rank stench of piss and perforated guts wafted over him, but he had smelled many worse things that day.

There he lay, crushed and half-suffocated, but alive, and listened to the sound of an army dying.

***

From the safety of his vantage point Geoffrey had observed the impact of Norfolk’s reinforcements on the battle. He watched Northumberland’s banner fall, and the banners of many other Lancastrian lords, and saw the lethal effect this had on the morale of their men. The Lancastrian army started to disintegrate, slowly at first, and then the cracks spread rapidly all along the line. Thousands of men, who had fought like tigers for so long, were suddenly reduced to cowards.

Perhaps weariness played a part, or the sudden hopelessness of their position. Geoffrey’s theory was that every man had a breaking-point, and the appearance of Norfolk’s men on their left flank had caused too many of the Lancastrians to reach theirs.

Now the greatest danger was past. The Yorkists had won the day. Geoffrey felt his courage returning. It was worth venturing onto the field, he decide, carefully of course, to see if he could take a few rich prisoners. As at Northampton, it would pay to acquire some evidence that he had been involved in the fighting. A bit of blood on a man’s breastplate did wonders for his reputation.

He rode down the hill below Saxton and up to the plateau, past companies of cheering Yorkist soldiers. Some were already downing tools and sitting in the bloody snow for a well-earned rest. He passed the less fortunate, broken and crippled men being clumsily tended by their comrades or simply left to bleed to death, whimpering for God and their mothers. As Geoffrey rode, the awful smell of battle hit him, obliging him to halt and puke up his breakfast, much to the amusement of a band of archers.

There was still some desultory fighting going on, so Geoffrey turned west and rode in a wide loop around the base of the plateau. Bodies, weapons, fallen banners and bits of gear and harness were scattered about, broken arrows and spent shot, all the wreckage of mass slaughter.

He rode past the fringe of Castle Hill Wood, exchanging grave salutes with a few Yorkist knights and inwardly shuddering at the layers of gore that covered their persons. One of them lay propped against a rock, both his legs axed away below the knee, being given a last drink of ale by one of his comrades. Even as he died, the sound of singing drifted across the battlefield, mingled with the shrieks of the dying and the clatter of victorious war-drums.

Beyond Castle Hill Wood was some open ground that sloped steeply down to the edge of the River Cock.  A straggling line of trees obscured part of the river to the south. There was still some fighting going on down there. Geoffrey hesitated, wary of getting too close, but saw that the majority of the fighters wore Yorkist livery.

Deciding that it was probably safe enough, he pricked in his spurs and cantered down to get a better view of the fight. At a nearby patch of thorny bushes, he dismounted and cautiously led his horse behind them. From here he could watch without being seen.

There were just two Lancastrians left standing, fighting back-to-back with swords and daggers. Four of their comrades lay around them, gashed to death by Yorkist blades. From his hiding spot, Geoffrey counted thirteen Yorkists, Warwick’s men, wielding spears and glaives and axes.

But the sight of the livery of one of the Lancastrians made his heart turn over. The man wore a leaping stag against a green field: the sigil of a man Geoffrey had known virtually all of his life, Henry of Sedgley. The man had his back to the thorn bush, but was recognisable by his massive stature and flowing, red-gold hair. Even his style of fighting marked him out. Geoffrey had sparred with him and Richard Bolton many a time, as boys in the exercise-yards of Malvern Hall and Heydon Court.

Hate coursed through Geoffrey, almost but not quite overcoming his fear. He knew Henry of Sedgley had conspired with the Boltons to murder his father, though he was hazy on the details. Exactly what part Henry had in it was unimportant. He was here, vulnerable and outnumbered and ripe for Geoffrey’s long-delayed vengeance.

Most importantly, Henry still had his back turned. Geoffrey’s hand crept to his sword, but he let it drop. He had spied a far more suitable weapon just a couple of feet away. A long spear with an iron head shaped like a leaf, resting in the slack hands of a dead Yorkist.

Geoffrey crept around the edge of the bush and picked up the spear, keeping one eye on the fight. Henry’s last companion, a tall man with a black beard, was pulled down and disarmed, roaring for Saint George to aid him even as the Yorkist blades bit into him.

Shuddering with anticipation, Geoffrey gripped the spear in both hands and charged. Henry’s helm and gorget were gone, and the tip of the leaf-shaped blade pierced the back of his neck. He made a choking noise and buckled to his knees.

The Yorkist soldiers retreated a little, surprised by Geoffrey’s appearance. He twisted his spear in further, relishing his easy victory and the rich red blood flowing down Henry’s breastplate.

It was important to gloat a little, to let Henry see who had killed him before he died. Geoffrey let the spear drop and seized Henry’s hair, yanking his head back until their eyes met.

“Geoffrey.” Henry’s voice escaped like a hiss of steam, his dying eyes widening in shock. “What…? Why…?”

“For the death of my father,” Geoffrey said, allowing a little saliva to drop from his lips and slide down Henry’s cheek, “and when I find our mutual friend, Richard Bolton, I will serve him the same way.”

Henry’s blue lips worked as he made a final effort to speak. “You coward,” he hissed. “You coward.”

The light went out of his eyes and his body started to shudder violently. Geoffrey released him in disgust. He watched, feeling his gorge rise again, as his boyhood friend jerked and bled his life out on the snow.

He felt a drop of rain on his face, and looked up to see dark clouds shredding across the leaden sky. The careless God that both sides had called on through the bloody and merciless day, to the benefit of very few, was preparing to cast a veil over the field of Towton.

END

BOOK TWO

1.

Forest
of Pendle, Lancashire, August 1468

From his vantage point, high in the branches of an oak tree, Richard Bolton shaded his eyes and looked to the south-east. He could see a troop of horsemen approaching from that direction. Sixteen of them, riding at a steady canter over open ground.

   Sixteen against thirty. The odds were in Richard’s favour. So was the element of surprise.

   He glanced down at his crossbow, which he had left leaning against the trunk at the foot of the tree. It was a crude weapon, fit only for peasants.