Stormbird

  John Neville blinked rain and blood out of his eyes. His guards seemed to have gone; he stood alone. He turned to see the enemy and in that moment he was borne down, knocked on to his back in the mud with an axe half buried in his armoured chest and a man’s heavy foot pressing down on his head.

  ‘Pax! I am Montagu!’ he shouted over the pain, spitting mud and foulness. ‘John Neville. Pax.’

  He was not sure if he had said the call for mercy and ransom aloud or just in the echoing vault of his head. His eyes rolled up and he did not feel his body lifted with the axe, crashing back into the soft mud as the blade came free from the metal.

  7

  Standing in his stirrups, Warwick watched in horror as his brother’s position was engulfed. The furthest wing was overrun, but Warwick could see John standing alone. It could not have been more than a few heartbeats, yet it seemed an age, with the battle swirling around that one, still spot.

  All his brother’s guards had run or been slaughtered, the Montagu banners thrown down and trampled. Warwick found himself breathing shallowly, unable to look away as he gripped his reins and waited to see his young brother killed. The moment grew quiet, with all the clamour of his messengers and captains going unanswered. Warwick sucked in a sudden breath of freezing air, almost sobbing as he saw a line of roaring axemen thump John from his feet. Over a distance of six hundred yards, they were separated by thousands of soldiers, with trenches, carts and cannon. He could see nothing else.

  Warwick squeezed his eyes closed. He opened them bloodshot, his lips pressed to nothing. The rain fell harder, sculpting his cloak in sopping folds and making his horse snort, flinging drops into the air.

  He turned to his captains and saw his uncle Fauconberg had ridden up, a look of honest anger on his ruddy face. Warwick began to give a stream of orders, seeing the picture of the battlefield in his mind’s eye and issuing commands to individual units that would hold the ground. Half the queen’s forces were still coming down the hill. If he could shore up John’s broken ranks, he might yet steady the lines. Margaret’s northern savages would be like sheep running at a line of slaughtermen. It would not matter then how many she had been able to bring to the field. He would grind them up rank by rank – and he had the weapons to do it.

  ‘Uncle, this for you. Bring up the cannon,’ he called to Fauconberg. ‘Have my crossbowmen and hand-gunners stand in support. Choose a line and set them ready. You understand? Braziers and supplies. Organ guns, bombards, culverins. When I give the order, I do not want the rate of fire to slow until we have pushed them back in rags.’

  ‘We’ll stop them here, Richard,’ his uncle said. ‘I swear it.’

  Warwick stared coldly back until the man had turned his horse with a flourish and raced off, gathering a wake of serjeants and men-at-arms to carry out the orders.

  The fighting continued on Warwick’s left shoulder as John’s reeling soldiers were forced back over their own dead. It was not edifying. Those men knew they were the worst of the York army – the old men and the boys and the one-eyed and the criminals. It was true they were not cowards, but no commander would risk his defence on whether or not such men would hold. They did not have much pride – and pride mattered.

  Warwick looked up at the sound of longbows clattering, breathing in relief when he saw his red-coated archers still visible in long ranks. He knew they would be swearing and cursing the rain, hating the damp that warped their bows and stretched the linen cords. Those men had pride to spare. They’d stand for ever, in righteous fury against the men who were causing them to stand. He nodded to himself, taking heart from the constant rattle of shafts.

  The assault was slowing, bogging down, giving his captains the time they needed to form a line of cannon. Whether iron or bronze, the big weapons were brutally heavy. Some had been mounted on wheeled gun carriages, while others had to be dragged on a keeled wooden sled like a boat, with groaning oxen under yoke. The weapons used a huge number of fighting men, sometimes as many as twenty to move, load and fire just one – men who would otherwise have been standing in line with the rest. Yet those guns were his joy – his pride.

  Warwick wiped sweat and rain from his brow. For all his outward confidence, he was still staring at disaster. He could not allow himself to think of John falling. So soon after the loss of their father, it was too much to take in.

  Seeing his cannon dragged across the field was enough to make a man weep, Warwick thought. They had been snug in structures of turf and brick, propped and aimed and surrounded by sheltered awnings for their precious stores of powder and shot. All that had been dug up and torn down. The tubes of black and bronze were shining in the rain, half covered by canvas that was as likely to snag under a wheel and be yanked clear as it was to protect the touch-hole in the breech. Still, a dozen of the largest bombard cannon made a terrifying sight when they were lined up together, heaved into place, with smaller culverins in between. The braziers were brought up by groups of four, carrying beams like oars, with the iron cage full of coals gripped between them. Warwick could hear the fires hissing and crackling as the rain increased. Some were spilled in their hurry, to rush a great wave of steam across the wet ground.

  Behind the cannon teams came hundreds of his hand-gunners, trotting along with strained faces and their weapons wrapped in cloth, resting on their shoulders. Some of them had already loaded the long guns, pouring in black grains and lighting the slow fuse that coiled like a snake ready to be lowered in. The weapons were much cheaper than crossbows and the men needed only a day to learn their use. Warwick shook his head in dismay as the rain increased, the clouds thickening overhead as they poured across the sky. The new guns would be a wonder to behold, if they could be made to fire at all.

  Rank by ragged rank, Warwick’s army turned towards the sounds of iron. The red-coated archers bought them time on the wings, while Montagu’s left wing fell back without their commander, stopping to gasp and swear and bleed once they were through the line of cannon.

  The hand-gun ranks came out then to meet the enemy, standing with their heads bowed in the rain. The ground was slippery and men skidded and cursed as they brought their weapons to their shoulders and squinted down the iron barrels.

  ‘Fire,’ Warwick whispered.

  His serjeants bellowed the order and puffs of smoke spread along the line as men touched fuses to damp powder. The ranks of the queen’s soldiers did not flinch as they came forward in good order. They saw no threat in those facing them.

  The rippling crack was more hiss than thunder. Rushing, stinging smoke shocked some of the queen’s men to a halt. Gaps appeared as soldiers fell back, struck and dying. Before the rest of them could react, Warwick’s gunners were turning their backs and running past the line of heavy guns to reload. A great roar of confusion and anger went up amongst the queen’s forces – and the line of cannon replied. At no range at all, even a weakened shot tore through their ranks in a great welter of bone and limbs. With the enemy right upon them, Warwick’s gun teams touched a hot wire or a taper to the powder in the touch-hole and then just ran, as the world shook.

  Warwick felt his heart beating madly as gold flashed in the smoke and dirt amidst the queen’s soldiers, hidden instantly by grey clouds. Men threw themselves down in panic, hiding their ears against the thump of sound that pressed against their skin and deafened them. Some who had been close to the guns and yet escaped rushed forward in a sort of madness, shrieking with weapons high and their eyes wild with death.

  After the cannon had fired, the line was overwhelmed. One last single shot cracked out, behind the queen’s ranks, perhaps on a longer fuse or damp powder. That ball smashed through running men. All the rest had fallen silent. Warwick clenched his fists as his hand-gunners were butchered, their weapons no more use than sticks. Some thirty of them tried to rally the retreat, and Warwick watched in despair as they stood in a line and brought their weapons up to aim. His spirits sank as they peered along the barrels, pulling the curved
fuses into place and seeing only a damp puff of smoke or nothing at all.

  The rain had ruined the moment and the queen’s forces knew one thing – archers or crossbowmen had to be rushed. It was an old balance between the power of a spear or an arrow or a bolt – and the ancestral knowledge that if you could just get close, a chopping billhook was the best answer.

  The queen’s ranks gave a howl and the sound was terrible to all the hand-gunners still struggling with damp powder, scraping it out with their bare fingers and fumbling for a dry quantity in a purse or horn. Those who came at them carried axes and seax knives that would not fail in the rain. A few more guns cracked to send soldiers tumbling, but the rest of the hand-gunners were slashed and stabbed aside, run down.

  Montagu’s entire battle of men had been rolled up, the broken rags of it running back to interfere with the stronger centre. Those were Warwick’s best-armoured knights, his Kentish veterans and captains.

  Warwick was surrounded by bannermen and a dozen guards whose sole task was to protect him. He looked round as angry voices sounded over on his right, then he called on his men to let the Duke of Norfolk through.

  Norfolk brought his own close group of riders, all in his colours. Their master wore no helmet once again. He stared at Warwick from under heavy brows, his head a block on a wide neck.

  With a gesture, Warwick called the man closer. As a man in his forties, Norfolk was still in his prime, though oddly pale. Warwick wished again that he could trust the duke as he needed to. There had been betrayals before, between the houses of York and Lancaster. With all the stars lining up for Queen Margaret, Warwick could not afford another misjudgement.

  ‘My lord Norfolk,’ Warwick called as he approached, acknowledging his own lesser rank by speaking first. ‘Despite this poor start, I believe we can hold them.’

  To his irritation, Norfolk did not reply immediately, appearing to make his own assessment as his gaze swept over the broken rear, the abandoned cannon and the massed ranks still coming down out of the town. Norfolk shook his head, looking up into the rain so that it sheeted down his bare crown and face.

  ‘I’d agree with you if the rain hadn’t ruined all the guns. My lord, has the king been recaptured?’

  It was Warwick’s turn to look back over his shoulder to where the oak tree stood, far back in the ranks of queen’s soldiers.

  ‘The devil’s own luck put Henry right in their path,’ he said. ‘I thought him safe at the rear, where no man could reach him.’

  Norfolk shrugged, coughing into his hand.

  ‘They have all they wanted, then. This battle is over. The best we can do now is to withdraw. We have lost only a few souls – fewer than six hundred, of a certainty.’

  ‘My brother John among them,’ Warwick said.

  His own estimate of the dead was much higher, but Norfolk was trying to salve the news of the disaster. Warwick could not bring himself to feel the righteous indignation he might have felt at receiving such advice. The rain poured down and they were all wet and cold, shivering as they sat their horses and stared at one another. Norfolk spoke the truth, that King Henry’s capture in the first moments meant the battle had been lost before it had properly begun. Warwick cursed the rain aloud, making Norfolk smile.

  ‘If you choose to withdraw, my lord Warwick, it will be with the army largely intact and with little loss of honour. Edward of York will reach us soon and then … well, then we will see.’

  Norfolk was a persuasive man, but Warwick felt a fresh spike of irritation intrude on his rueful mood. Edward of York would be a roaring, stubborn, chaotic part of any campaign, he was certain. Yet like his father before him, there was the blood of kings in York, a stronger claim than any other except King Henry himself. The bloodline had power, that was the simple truth of it. Warwick hid his annoyance. If Lancaster was brought down, only York could take the throne, deserving or not.

  At that moment, Warwick had more pressing concerns. He took a long look across the battlefield, wincing at the thought that any withdrawal to the north would take him past every yard of the useless defences he had prepared.

  His gaze settled on where he had seen his brother fall. If he still lived, John would be held for ransom. He could hope for that. Warwick filled his lungs with frozen air, knowing it was the right decision from the sudden rush of relief he felt.

  ‘Withdraw in good order!’ he bellowed, waiting until his captains took up the cry. He groaned aloud at the thought of leaving his marvellous cannon behind, but that part of the field had already been overrun. There was no going back, even to hammer spikes down the barrels to ruin them for anyone else. Warwick knew he’d have to cast others in northern foundries, bigger guns, with weatherproof covers over the touch-holes.

  His order was echoed a hundred times across the field. On another day, perhaps the enemy ranks might have pressed forward in response, delighted at the scent of victory. Under that downpour and in the sucking mud, they stopped as soon as a gap appeared, standing to wipe rain from their eyes and hair while Warwick’s army turned its back on them and marched away.

  Margaret sat in a pleasant tavern room, warmed by a fire of very dry wood. The owner had set an entire pig’s head to simmer for the queen. In a cauldron, it bobbed in a dark liquor with vegetables and beans. As she watched, some part of the pale snout or face would surface to peer at her, before tumbling away and vanishing. It was oddly fascinating and Margaret stared at it as the inn bustled with her people all around. Her son Edward was sitting silently in a temper, having been prevented from poking the pig’s face with a stick.

  The usual patrons had been turfed out for her guards and her son. Margaret had heard some sort of scuffle in the street as some local lads objected. Her personal guard of Scots and English had been happy to run them off, helping along anyone too slow with their boots. The town had fallen quiet around the tavern and all she could hear was the drumming of rain on the roof, the murmur of voices and the steady hiss and flutter of the fire. She wound her hands in and out together, using the nails of one to clean the other.

  Margaret had seen battle before, enough not to want to see it again. She found herself shuddering at the memories of crying men, their voices raised as high as women or slaughtered animals, shrieking. In all other walks of life, a sound of agony would cause some effort to stop it. A wife would run to her husband if he cut himself with an axe. Parents would run to a child keening in fever or with a broken bone. Yet on the field of battle, the ugliest of sobs and shrieks went unanswered, or worse, they revealed weakness in the wounded, drawing in predators. Margaret stared at the bobbing head of the pig as it faced her and she looked away, pimples standing up on her arms.

  Outside, she heard horses draw up and men’s voices calling out the watchword of the day to her guards. Derry Brewer had insisted on such things, saying he would look a right fool if he let the queen be captured for want of a few childish passwords and rituals. Margaret frowned as she heard the voice to match the name, wondering why her spymaster had returned from St Albans. Surely the battle could not have been won so early in the day?

  Her son rose and ran to the open door, waving and calling a greeting. Margaret looked up sharply when he fell suddenly silent, his eyes grown wide. She was half out of her chair and rising as she heard a clatter of armoured men dropping to kneel on the cobblestones of the street. Derry’s voice rang out, louder.

  ‘Gentlemen, I give you His Grace, King Henry of England, Lord of Ireland, King of France and Duke of Lancaster,’ he said.

  Margaret could hear the satisfaction in his voice. She strode to the door and pressed past her son, still standing with his mouth hanging open like any village dolt. As her dress swept across the boy, Edward seemed to come awake and he rushed out with her into the rain and wind.

  Margaret had not seen her husband in eight months, since she had saved her son and herself, leaving Henry alone in his tent at Northampton. She felt herself flush at the prospect of a rebuke, but raised her he
ad even so, a fraction higher. Warwick and York had been triumphant then, carrying all before them to capture the Lancaster king. From that low point, Margaret had turned their victories right over. York and Salisbury were dead and Warwick was at bay. Her husband had lived through his ordeal. That was all that mattered.

  Henry turned from dismounting and staggered under the impact of his son embracing him.

  ‘Edward,’ he said. ‘Boy! How you have grown. Is your mother here? Ah, Margaret, I see you there. Have you no embrace for me? It has been a long time.’

  Margaret stepped out, feeling the wind like a slap. She bowed her head and Henry reached out almost wonderingly to her damp cheek. He was very thin, she saw, his skin as pale as the pig’s face in the pot behind her. She knew he rarely ate unless pressed to do so, and those who had kept him would not have cared overmuch. Henry did not look strong and his eyes were as empty and guileless as they had always been.

  ‘You are a Madonna, Margaret,’ he said softly. ‘A mother of great beauty.’

  Margaret felt her colour deepen as she breathed. She was thirty years old and there were matrons of her age with a dozen brats and hips wide enough to have birthed them in litters. She knew she had her vanity, but that was a small sin in comparison to some others.

  ‘My heart is full to see you, Henry,’ she said. ‘Now you are safe, we can pursue the traitors to their destruction.’

  She knew better than to expect praise, but she felt herself curl with the need of it even so.

  ‘I brought an army south, Henry,’ she went on, unable to stop herself. ‘All the way from Scotland, some of them.’

  Her husband tilted his head, his eyes faintly quizzical, like a dog trying to discern the wishes of its mistress. Was it too much to ask that her husband might speak in love and praise to her, after a battle won and a rescue? Her heart seemed to shrink as he gazed back, blank as a man asked questions he did not understand. Margaret felt tears prickle into her eyes and she raised her head further so they would not spill.