Trinity (23 page)

The big man gave a grunt and laid his axe by the fence, grabbing hold and shoving the earl so hard he nearly went straight over the top and into the garden.

Warwick breathed in relief as he gripped the fence-beam. Beyond, a tiny alley barely the width of a man’s shoulders stretched the length of the house. He could see a gate blocking any further view of the street, but it looked promising.

‘Down, Fowler,’ Warwick said.

The man seemed willing to hold him there all day, but then he let go and Warwick landed with a clatter of metal. He looked up in anger, galled at such close quarters to realize his head only came up to the lowest point of the man’s beard. Fowler seemed to realize his greater stature at the same moment, so that a smile spread across his face.

‘My thanks,’ Warwick said, earning a shrug as he turned to the rest of them. ‘This fence has to come down. After that, we’ll head up through the town. If we can reach the main street, our task is to roar “Warwick” and put the fear of God into the king’s men. Most of them are down here to defend the Key Field, but the king will be protected. I’ll know more when we reach the top of the hill. I hope you have the lungs and heart for the run.’

‘If you have, my lord,’ Fowler muttered.

‘Shut up, Fowler,’ Warwick snapped at him.

The big man seemed to loom over him for the moment that followed, but one of the axemen shoved Fowler from the side in rough warning.

‘Aye, shut up, you big sod,’ another man said. ‘Or would you have us back there, tugging at those barricades? I’d rather be here.’

Warwick saw the speaker was one of his red-coated archers and he smiled to himself, seeing the broadcloth was clean and brushed, a garment worn with pride.

Fowler snorted and lowered his head mulishly, though he could see the mood was against him. Warwick didn’t wait beyond that.

‘Get the fence down,’ he shouted. ‘Axes and hammers.’

There wasn’t space enough for more than a few men to stand and bring heavy iron against the wood. The fence was an old construction, its main beams made of strong oak. Even so, it was reduced to kindling in moments, and the first rush of men included Warwick and Fowler, still clinging to his shadow.

The weight of mail and weapons alone might have been enough to smash the rickety gate at the other end of the tiny alley. Those in the front rank brought hammers against it and the thing exploded into pieces on the road. On their left, they could hear the tumult by the closest barricade, the roaring and screaming of furious, struggling men. Ahead lay a narrow path between rows of houses, stretching up the hill.

‘Keep moving there! No one stops!’ Warwick shouted over his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of two soldiers in Percy colours coming to a shocked halt. Both men were knocked down in vicious cuts by axemen before they could cry out, then stabbed and trampled by those behind.

The sun was almost directly overhead and the day was growing warm as Warwick’s three hundred raced each other up the hill. None of them knew the town well, but the king would surely take the highest point for himself. As long as they moved up, they’d find him.

Somewhere lower down, Warwick could hear alarm horns sounding, as well as a different note as men yelled news of their breakthrough on both sides. He grinned at the thought of his father and York hearing he was already in the town. Those at the barricades would have to leave their posts to block his progress. The York advantage in numbers would tell then.

To his dismay, Warwick found himself panting wildly, his heart hammering and sweat making his eyes sting with salt. He’d kept his visor up, but running a hill in armour was a brutal exercise and he wondered if he’d reach the top only to burst his heart in the effort.

Women shrieked in fear and warning from high windows as he passed them, yet his three hundred went up the town like a dagger-strike, hardly seeing another armed man. Across their path, Warwick could see a main street running along the crest, with nothing higher. He could hardly believe his luck had held for so long, though he almost fell from exhaustion as he stopped just before the junction, leaning over to brace himself against a wall and wrestling his helmet from his head so that he could breathe. Sir Howard watched for a moment, then singled out the man at Warwick’s side.

‘Fowler!’ he said. ‘Stick your head out and tell me what you see.’

Fowler wrinkled his lip, but he didn’t have to look at the men glaring at him to know he couldn’t argue. He sidled up to the corner and glanced around it, then paused to stare.

‘Well?’ Warwick called behind him.

‘No one within a hundred yards,’ Fowler said, turning back. His eyes were wide and he shook his head in awed disbelief. ‘I saw the king beyond.’

‘His banners?’ Sir Howard demanded, even as he copied the man’s furtive action and leaned around the corner to look.

‘No, the king himself, sure as I’m standing here. Surrounded by hundreds of men and some sort of tent the size of a house, all stretched.’

Warwick was recovering his breath as Sir Howard returned to him for orders. All the men there and down the street were waiting on his word, whatever it would be. Warwick removed a gauntlet to rub sweat from his face. He had no right to the luck he’d been given, but he’d take it just the same. They’d broken right through and it was too late to wish he’d brought a thousand men instead of just three hundred.

‘Will you wait, my lord?’ Sir Howard said, clearly thinking the same. ‘I can send a runner back for more.’

‘No. That back garden can be blocked just as easily as the others,’ Warwick said. ‘We were seen and ten men could hold that path until kingdom come. No, Sir Howard, we’ll make a noise up here. We’ll attack. Those at the barricades will come rushing up the hill to protect the king. They won’t have any choice. And then those barriers will be pulled down and we’ll have them caught on two sides.’

The prospect of taking arms against the king’s own household and nobles was a sobering thought for most of them. Archers and axemen exchanged uneasy glances and many crossed themselves, fearful of divine judgement on their actions. Yet no one stepped back and Fowler was beaming like he’d been made Mayor for the day.

‘Archers across this road,’ Warwick said, his voice feeling tight in his throat. ‘As wide a rank as you can make. I won’t have you shooting at my back, so you’ll get one chance to knock the fight out of them and then we’ll go in. You’re to hold this spot in case we’re faced with too many and have to return here.’

‘My lord, might I have a word?’ Sir Howard said, clearing his throat.

Warwick frowned, but he let the man lead him away from the closest ears.

‘What is it?’ Warwick demanded. ‘I won’t lose this chance in argument, Sir Howard. Quickly, man.’

‘If you have your archers shoot down the street, the
king
could be killed, my lord. Have you considered that? An arrow does not know royal blood from common.’

Warwick stared. On the death of his wife’s father and brother, he had inherited a dozen castles and more than a hundred manors, stretching from Scotland to Devon. With that extraordinary wealth had come more than a thousand soldiers in his service, bequeathed to him as the new Earl of Warwick. Sir Howard was his feudal bondsman and Warwick knew he could order his total obedience. He could see the man shaking slightly as he stood there, fully aware that he risked his oath and honour even by questioning the command. Sir Howard Gaverick was not a fool, but Warwick knew time was too short, the advantage dropped into their laps too fragile to debate the point. A church bell began to toll a warning nearby, breaking the moment of silence.

‘You may withdraw, Sir Howard, if you do not feel you can stand with me. I have been given this chance and I will take all responsibility for however it turns out. I absolve you from any guilt in this matter. It is on my head. If you choose to leave, I will not harm you or yours after the battle is won. You have my word, but choose to stand or go, quickly.’

Warwick left the older man there, his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide. When the young earl looked back, it was to see Sir Howard marching alone back down the hill through the ranks of waiting men.

‘Archers!’ Warwick called out. ‘This must be settled today. You all heard my lord York. If we fail here, we’ll be hunted down as traitors. Rank or wealth is no protection, not here in this town. It is my order that you send your shafts along this street. Now! Cry out my name and let them know we are here.’

Three hundred voices roared, ‘Warwick!’ at the top of their lungs, smothering the noise of a hundred archers filing out in ranks with quivers low-hung on their hips.

A heartbeat passed and then St Peter’s Street filled with rushing shafts. Another heartbeat brought the reply: screams and shouts and panic in the marketplace where the king stood.

15

Every man in the royal tent froze, the instant they heard ‘Warwick’ roared out. The harsh sound was close enough to terrify and strangle all conversation. The king had only just come back inside and he turned sharply towards the noise. Buckingham drew a breath to shout an order, but it went unheard as arrows came ripping through the group, punching holes in the cloth and sending the king’s steward to his knees with an arrow through his chest.

Derry Brewer threw himself flat. Buckingham saw something flash and raised his hand, too slow by far to protect himself. An arrow struck the pauldron of an armoured knight and deflected, thumping into Buckingham’s face. He made a low, keening sound, raising a hand to the shaft and finding it wedged in bone, having pierced him just above his teeth. Blood poured into his mouth, so that he had to spit and spit again. Unable to speak, Buckingham lurched towards King Henry, knowing that he lived only because the arrow had lost most of its force on the first impact.

The young king stood perfectly still, his face as pale as it had ever been. Through watering eyes, Buckingham saw Henry too had been struck. A shaft had passed right through the metal joint of his neck and shoulder. The arrow still remained, showing a bloody tip on the other side. Buckingham began to pant in shock, his face swelling as he spat another black gobbet of blood on to the ground, and managed to stagger over to stand between the king and the arrows tearing through the tent as whining blurs. Buckingham raised his head, barely able to see as he waited.

Earl Percy had his blue and yellow shield raised in the direction of the attack as he too lunged to protect King Henry. The earl pursed his lips at the sight of Buckingham’s blood pouring out on to the ground, then cried out as Henry suddenly staggered and fell. Derry Brewer scrambled over to him, keeping low the whole way, covering the king’s body with his own.

‘Doctors!’ Percy bellowed. The king’s surgeon, Scruton, ran in then, braving the shafts that still punched holes in the thick canvas. More shields were raised above the king, forming a shell around him.

‘Let me see,’ Scruton growled at Derry Brewer, who nodded and moved to one side. Protected by the shields, the king’s spymaster crouched, panting, his eyes wild as Scruton examined the wound.

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.