Trinity (39 page)

Margaret sensed the baron’s irritation and spoke more sharply than she intended.

‘Ten miles?’ She looked at Egremont and saw he was as dismayed as she was. ‘How many men are coming, Lord Grey? Do you know that much?’

‘Eight to twelve thousand, Your Highness. Some of them in mail and armour, most without. My lads reported a mob, led by half-decent soldiers.’

‘Then your orders have not changed, my lord. Defend the king. Hold the ground. Is that clear enough for you?’

Grey clenched the muscles in his jaw, nodding stiffly. Once more he glanced at the seated figure behind them, the king’s armour gleaming in the shadows.

‘Yes, my lady. Quite clear. Thank you,’ he said, turning on his heel and vanishing into the sunlight.

‘Nasty old sod,’ Egremont muttered under his breath. He was still thinking how such numbers could be withstood, his eyes vague as he chewed the inside of his lower lip.

‘Well, Thomas?’ Margaret demanded. ‘What must be done? Shall I have my servants fetch Buckingham?’

‘They are much closer than I thought they would be, my lady,’ he said. ‘They must have force-marched up the Great North Road with hardly any time lost in the city. They will surely be weary and that is to the good. Yet the numbers …’ his voice trailed away and he shook his head once more. ‘This army is almost upon us. There will not be time now for my brother to bring his men, or Exeter, or Somerset, or any of the others. Unless they arrive in the next hour, we have only those with us at this moment – and my lady, they are not enough.’ He wanted to call Grey back to hear how many of the approaching army were on horseback, his hand clutching at empty air as he thought quickly. ‘You should leave now, Your Highness. Take your son and your husband and ride for Kenilworth.’

‘When my husband is unwell, Thomas, he cannot ride.’

The strain showed in Egremont’s reply, his rush of anger startling her.

‘Then save yourself and your son, my lady. Save something! Take one of the supply carts and lay king Henry in it! Do you understand? They outnumber us on open ground. We can plant stakes and yes, we might hold them for a time, but it will be hard and bloody, with no man knowing the outcome until it is over. Would you have Prince Edward witness such a thing? I am your man, Your Highness – and I have my own scores to settle with the Nevilles. Leave me to fight for you and for the king.’

Margaret had paled as he spoke, unused to such a tone. Her eyes were wide at the fear and tension she saw in him.

‘Very well, Thomas. Find my son and have him brought back to me. We’ll need three horses saddled. I will see to my husband.’

Released as if from a trap, Lord Egremont raced away. Margaret crossed quickly to where Henry seemed to watch her. Slowly, she lowered herself at his side, looking deeply into his eyes. On impulse, she took his arm, feeling the cold metal slip under her fingers.

‘Did you hear? Can you stand, Henry? It is not safe now. We must go.’

‘As you say,’ he whispered, barely more than a breath crossing his lips. He did not move.

‘
Henry!
’ she snapped, shaking him. ‘Get up, now, to ride. Come on.’

‘Leave me here,’ he murmured, pulling away from her. Some life came back into his eyes and she wondered again how much he truly understood.

‘I will not,’ she said. Her head jerked up in shock as she heard horns blowing in the distance. Panic surged in her, making her tremble. How could they be so close? Lord Grey had said ten miles! She left her husband and went out into the sun, staring at a distant column of men approaching the royal camp. Either Grey had somehow been wrong, or the men of Kent had run the last few miles. Margaret shook her head in confusion and rising terror, looking back into the gloom of the tent. She trembled as she stood there, caught between needs that tore her in two.

The sound of hooves and harness announced a servant arriving with horses outside the tent. Margaret could have wept with relief as her son, Edward, ran inside, his eyes bright.

‘Bucky says there’s an army coming!’ the little boy hooted, bouncing from step to step. ‘He says they’re right bastards!’ He mangled the last word deliberately, mimicking the slurred speech of a man who had suffered a cleft palate at St Albans and could no longer speak clearly.

‘Edward!’ Margaret snapped immediately. ‘Lord Buckingham should not have taught you such a term and he is too good a man to be mocked.’ She spoke almost without conscious thought, distracted by the problem of getting her husband away to safety. Closing her eyes for a moment, Margaret felt herself trembling. Outside, the noise of marching men grew louder and louder, jingling and stamping. Voices called across the field, warning the king’s forces to be ready. She ran back to her husband and kissed him hard on the cheek.

‘Please, Henry. Get up now. There are soldiers coming and there will be fighting. Please come with me.’

His eyes closed, though she thought he could still hear her. There was no time left. She chose between her husband and her son, her heart breaking.

‘No, then,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I must see Edward safe. God keep you, Henry.’

Warwick’s horse had suffered under the weight of an armoured man. He had flogged and spurred it raw to reach Northampton and he knew he would have to dismount to fight. The animal was more used to pulling a cart of malted barley for the London brewers. The crash of arms and smell of blood would surely see it bolt.

At his side, Edward of March rode an even more unfortunate animal. Rather than see his horse collapse, March had been forced to remove his armour. Each piece had been taken up with pride by the men around him, sharing the weight of iron between them while the young earl rode on in brown wool. His face was so flushed that no one had dared say a word about it.

A shout went up from the front ranks as they sighted the king’s army. They had marched hard and far to reach that place, but the reward was there to be seen. King Henry’s lion banners fluttered in an open field, on the grounds of an abbey. The royal army looked small in comparison to the great column that had come north, but Warwick could see the king’s soldiers wore mail and his heart sank at the sight of hundreds of horsemen and archers. His Kentish men had no pikes to stand against cavalry, and numbers would take them only so far against well-trained soldiers. He felt fresh sweat break out on his skin and, for once, he wished his father were present. He had decisions to make that would mean victory or complete destruction. The sun was not yet at noon and he could not shake the sense of dread that rose in him.

‘Will you take Baron Grey at his word?’ Edward of March said, easing his horse closer.

As the most senior lord, the command of the army was Warwick’s. He had not forgotten Edward’s sudden disobedience at London Bridge, but there was no one else.

‘That is the damned thorn, Edward,’ he replied uneasily. ‘How can I trust him?’

Lord Grey’s scouts had been tracking them all morning and part of the previous day. One of them had come in with his hands held high and open to show he intended no treachery. He’d brought an extraordinary offer and Warwick was still uncertain if it wasn’t some trick to lure him in against the strongest wing of the king’s men.

‘What’s to lose?’ March replied with a shrug. ‘He wanted a red banner raised, so have it raised. He’ll either follow through on his word, or we’ll cut him down with the rest.’

Warwick held back from allowing his irritation to show. Edward was very young and had not yet seen all the villainy of men.

‘If he is true to his word, we’ll attack his force on the flank. You see them there? But if his man was lying and it is some sort of trap, Buckingham will have all his best fighters in that place, ready to tear us apart.’

To his exasperation, Edward of March chuckled.

‘Let them! I’ll lead the charge, when I have my armour on. One way or another, we’ll go through them.’

Warwick called a halt and dismounted, guiding his exhausted horse off to the side as the column widened out. He’d set his captains to lend some discipline to the Kentish recruits. They could be heard bawling orders at the top of their voices, aware that the two earls were watching. Piece by piece, the marching line took up a new structure in long ranks and squares, facing the king’s army less than half a mile away across the open land. Warwick could hear warning horns sound in that camp, with servants and horsemen running everywhere. Eight hundred yards separated them, enough to make out the broad banners of Buckingham in the centre. An abbey stood in the near distance and Warwick could see the dark figures of monks watching them manoeuvre.

Behind the king’s forces, a river ran fast with summer rain. Warwick had no idea if there was a bridge there, but it meant Buckingham’s men would not find it easy to retreat. The king’s flags were still flying on his pavilion and if his presence was not enough, the river would force them to stand and fight to the last man. Warwick found himself wondering if the queen was close by. His memories of her were more tender than anything he felt for the king who had attainted his family. He shook his head, remembering his father’s certainty that the queen was the snake wrapped around Henry, more than any of his lords.

‘Slow march to a quarter mile!’ Warwick ordered when they were ready. It had taken an agonizingly long time for them to form up, but they were fit and eager to engage the king’s men. They stepped forward, brothers and sons of Kent together in the lines. Sixteen hundred mailed soldiers made the first two ranks, an iron hammer with an oak shaft of Kent rebels behind. Warwick could feel the desire to charge rising in them. He headed it off with sharp commands, keeping them in line and walking at a slow pace. He needed to be close, to observe the enemy positions.

The thought snagged in his mind, making him blink. He was marching towards the king of England and the man was somehow his enemy. Just a year before, he would have laughed if anyone had imagined such a scene. Yet the Bills of Attainder had been passed and there was no Warwick any longer. His men were careful to use the title when they spoke to him, but he had lost it all, along with Salisbury and York. Edward of March strode along at his side, gripping his sword and clearly imagining red-handed slaughter.

They halted once more, with the abbey much closer on their right flank. Beyond the river, Warwick could see the city of Northampton itself, its walls and churches dimly visible. He strained his eyes in every direction, seeing a forest of stakes around the royal forces as well as archers on the wings. In the terrible silence, Edward of March sat on the grass, allowing Jameson to pull on the last pieces of his armour. Sir Robert Dalton had not been seen since London. March only recalled him being yanked away into the mob, suddenly gone without even a cry. The young earl felt the man’s absence at his side, making him uneasy.

Warwick saw smoke rising from braziers among the king’s soldiers and swore softly to himself. The men with him had seen the effects of great guns on a crowd, the memories still fresh and terrible. To face such weapons without flinching took a kind of madness, combined with the belief of all young men that it would always be the one next to them who fell. It made no sense at all, but he could see the Kentish lads scorned the forces ahead. No fear at all! Warwick looked closer at the men of Kent and saw they were ready to rush forward at a single word, many of them staring at him, waiting for him to open his mouth. They wanted to run in and begin the killing. He had a sudden understanding of why the French had failed so many times to break such armies. He could see it in Edward’s foul curses and jerky movements, in the way the Kent men gripped axe shafts, twisting their hands around the wood like they were strangling children. They
wanted
to fight. They wanted it to begin. He would indulge them.

‘Forward!’ Warwick called.

His captains all knew the first manoeuvre against the king’s men. With the armies so close, it would not do to have his orders shouted across the field, alerting Buckingham to his intentions. Instead, Warwick marched straight down the centre, closing the distance at a good pace.

Arrows rose in a cloud from both flanks and Warwick felt the sick terror of them. Only his front ranks had shields and the king’s archers lofted shafts over their heads, wounding or killing dozens with each whirring volley. Almost worse were the cracks of thunder as cannon spat flame. Blurs hammered through his men, and arrows sank into the earth before his feet. More and more flew, buzzing and thumping into flesh and iron. There were cries of shock and agony falling behind, but he didn’t look back. At two hundred yards, every instinct screamed to charge and kill. His front ranks lurched into a slow run, breathing hard.

‘Red banner!’ Warwick called, waiting until his herald raised the scarlet cloth on a pike-pole, holding it high for ten steps before tossing it down. It would mean nothing to Buckingham, but that was the signal Lord Grey had requested. Warwick would learn whether the man had made a fool of him in just moments.

At a hundred yards, Warwick called fresh orders to swing left. The arrows were chopping men down at short range by then, snapping through mail and hammering shields. Warwick found himself relieved he was not on horseback to be an obvious target for them. His front two ranks showed their experience as they swung over, holding formation. The Kentish lads followed in their wake, angling sharply across the field to aim themselves at Buckingham’s flank. They left behind a tail of dead and screaming wounded.

The king’s bowmen were protected by a field of stakes that might have stopped cavalry, but not men on foot who simply stepped around them. The archers were not prepared for the best part of ten thousand men to come howling at them in a sudden rush, hacking into their midst as they shot and tried to duck out of the way. The approach under arrow fire had been terrifying, the toll of injured or dead into hundreds or even thousands. Those men were swallowed up in a tide of red rage, torn apart by sword and axemen, too far gone in anger to have any caution at all.

Whoever commanded the cavalry on that outer flank chose to pull back rather than let his men stand to meet the charge. While the archers were cut to pieces, the officer’s intention would be to circle and strike against Warwick’s own flank, pinning them between the king’s main force and armoured horses. Without mounted knights of his own, Warwick could not block them. His men had to ignore the moving horses, crashing shields instead against the standing ranks, pressing in towards the centre.