Revenge (39 page)

   Martin was reminded of the words of the ballad:

   “
God’s curse be upon this man,” he said,

   “And all who traitors be,”

   “For this hawk stoops to gather you all,

   “That betrayed our good King Henry…”

  
Whoever composed that verse had known Richard Bolton well. He was a driven man, obsessed with the destruction of all those who followed the House of York. Looking at Richard now, Martin could well believe that he had led the murderous raid on Malvern Hall, and sliced off Sir Thomas Malvern’s head without a qualm.

   My brother is a killer,
he thought, and wondered if he was a killer too. The near future offered an unrivalled opportunity to find out.

   Conyers pushed on down the highway, hoping to meet up with Warwick’s vanguard, which, he was informed, was advancing straight up from London via Saint Albans.

   Night was falling when a galloper arrived, breathless and exhausted, to gasp out that the Yorkist reinforcements under Pembroke and Devon was camped just a few miles to the south-west, near Banbury.

   His news sent a shiver down the spine of the army. Men started clamouring for battle almost before Conyers had time to make a decision.

   “We can’t fight now,” said Richard, “the men are too tired, and it’s getting dark. Conyers, you bloody fool, don’t let them fight!”

   Fortunately, Conyers was too far away to overhear this. However, he was of the same mind, and refused to risk a battle at night. He placated the blowhards by ordering the army to swing south-west and march on until the enemy were within sight.

   Black clouds were billowing across the sky when the rebel vanguard spotted dozens of camp-fires to the south. The land had flattened out into broad open fields, spotted with lonely trees and the odd clump of woodland, and a little river that followed a meandering course east to west. The rows of campfires lay south of the river, while the rebels approached from the north-east.

   Martin and Richard could not resist breaking out of line and riding towards the river. They stayed out of bow-shot, mindful that archers might be patrolling the opposite bank.

   “See there,” said Richard, pointing at one of the banners as it became visible in the gloom, “those are the arms of Sir Richard Herbert, Pembroke’s brother.”

   He shaded his eyes to peer up and down the riverbank. “They should have more men,” he muttered, “where is Devon’s banner? Perhaps this is just the advance guard.”

   They were spotted as they rode back to the line, and beckoned over by Conyers himself.

   “Our ballad hero,” he grunted at Richard, “I have a use for you. There’s no sign of my lord Warwick’s men yet, and my scouts are all done in. Get down the road to Saint Albans and see what’s happening.”

   Richard didn’t hesitate, though he had been in the saddle all day. “Yes, lord,” he said, “I’ll take half my men, and leave the rest with my brother.”

   Conyers shrugged. “As you please. Just find out what’s happened to our allies, and bring them back here before first light. We attack at dawn.”

   The parting of the brothers was as awkward as their reunion. “We have barely had a day together,” said Richard, “God grant that we shall have many more, when this war is over.”

   Martin wasn’t certain he shared that hope, but shook the other’s hand. “Good fortune,” he said lamely, unable to think of anything better.

   Richard stared at him, and Martin started to feel that he was being weighed in the balance. There was something deeply unknowable about his brother, a gulf of experience and suffering that he could never hope to cross.

   “You have need of good fortune more than I,” said Richard, “tomorrow morning you will be thrown into battle for the first time. Don’t let them put you in the front line. Be mindful of arrows, and keep your head down. Do your part, if necessary, so no man can call you a coward, but no more. Our family has spilled enough blood in recent times. For what it’s worth, I would like to see you again in this world rather than the next.”

   He gave Martin’s hand one last squeeze, then disengaged and cantered away, followed by eight of his men. Seven stayed with Martin. All through that sleepless night they strove to keep his spirits up with strong ale and an inexhaustible fund of dirty stories.

   “Your brother is a good man, and a brave captain,” said William Maker, a leathery-skinned brute with an almost incomprehensible Cumbrian accent, “he has saved my life more than once. Be proud of him.”

   Martin smiled and nodded, and punished another jug of ale. Thoughts of his brother were fast receding, swallowed up by the terror of what awaited him in the morning.

   He kept glancing towards the river. True to his character, Conyers’ plan was a simple one. At first light, so he had informed his captains, the rebels would attack in force across the river and drive the Yorkists from the high ground on the opposite bank. Pembroke’s men were outnumbered, and for some reason Devon’s contingent was still nowhere in sight.

   The night crawled past. In the early hours of the morning, when his fledgling courage was at its lowest ebb, Martin briefly considered abandoning the army and fleeing into darkness. There was a fair chance he might get away undetected, though Conyers had posted sentries around the camp to catch any would-be deserters. The penalty for desertion was death.

   In the end, Martin’s fear was defeated by a stubborn core of pride. Like all gentlemen, he had been raised and trained to fight from an early age, and steeped in the noble traditions of family and duty. His father had died in battle, and his brother had dedicated his life to the Lancastrian cause. To run away would be an act of betrayal, not only of them, but himself.

   “You had best arm yourself,” Hodson told him, “it’s getting near light.”

   The veteran helped Martin on with his armour. Richard had lost their father’s gear at Towton, and the Boltons were too poor to afford a new set. The best Heydon Court’s armoury could supply Martin with was a sallet, gauntlets, greaves for his thighs, a padded jack, a warhammer, sword and dagger.

   Martin hefted the warhammer. It was a simple and brutal weapon, a thick iron hammerhead mounted on a pole. He had wielded it to deadly effect on the practice-field back home, crushing any number of straw targets and leather helmets on sticks. He had never really contemplated using the dreadful thing on a fellow human being.

   It was a solemn and white-faced young man who emerged from the troubled sleep he had eventually collapsed into, woken by the thunder of drums and trumpets.

   The rebel army was bristling into life. Marshals and captains rode about, shouting the footmen into line and plying their truncheons on those who dallied. Martin’s men were already awake and buckling on their weapons and armour with a calm efficiency that he found enviable.

   “Best get moving, lad,” said Hodson, handing Martin his sallet, “you’re our captain now.”

   A fresh wave of terror rolled over Martin as he saw the men looking at him expectantly. Every one of them was a tough veteran fighter, scarred and brutalised by any number of past massacres, while he was a mere boy, fresh-faced and shivering with what he hoped they interpreted as cold.

   He swallowed hard and dredged his brain for some suitably encouraging words. “Let’s go, fellows,” was the best he could manage.

   They seemed to approve of such brevity, and happily fell in step behind him as he strode with feigned eagerness towards the river.

    It was still early, but the dawn mist was lifting to reveal the Yorkist army drawn up beyond the opposite bank. Sweat glistened on Martin’s skin as he took in the sight of thousands of men, a forest of lances, spear-heads, pikes, halberds and bills.

   The Yorkists were dismounted, and the tall figure of Pembroke himself stood in the centre of their line, surrounded by his household knights. Their burnished armour shone in the weak morning sun. Pembroke’s standard, a huge square piece of canvas displaying three rearing white lions against red and blue halves, flew defiantly above their heads.

   Formidable as they appeared, the Yorkists were heavily outnumbered by the rebels moving into position on the northern bank. Conyers put himself at the head of the forward line. He formed his army into three divisions, a steel core of knights and men-at-arms flanked by the less well-armed billmen and halberdiers.

   “Not so eager now,” said Hodson, putting a friendly hand on Martin’s shoulder as they made their way to the front, “mind what your brother said, and let others risk their necks in the front.”

   Martin saw the sense of that. He slowed his pace and shuffled into the rear ranks of the left division, which was commanded by a lord whose banner he didn’t recognise.

   The shouts and cheers of the men, mingled with the rising storm of drums and trumpets, were deafening. Tall as he was, he strained to see over the massed ranks of pole-arms and helmeted heads in front of him.

   “Why do we not advance?” he asked, though no-one could hear him. His hands were trembling violently. He clasped his warhammer close to his chest in a bid to make them stop.

   Jesu, I beseech thee
, he prayed silently,
bring me safe and whole through this day, let me prove worthy of Kate, and give us the victory.

  
Fresh cheers rippled down the line, and then the noise suddenly dropped. Martin made out the voices of individual captains shouting orders.  Moments later the sky briefly darkened as a phantom cloud blotted out the sun.

   Hundreds of goose-feathered shafts filled the air. Conyers had sent his archers forward to thin out the Yorkist lines before he tried to storm their position. The arrows fell from view, and seconds later Martin heard the reality of battle for the first time: wounded and dying men, screaming in pain. He clenched his teeth against the terrible cries, which reminded him of the noise pigs made when they were slaughtered.

   The rebel archers sent in volley after volley, but the Yorkists failed to respond.

   “They’ve got no archers,” Hodson shouted into his ear, “they must all be with Devon’s lot. Where the hell are they?”

   After a short time the arrow-storm ceased. Martin sensed the tension. They were about to attack.

   The trumpets screeched out their song once more, and the forward ranks lurched into life. Hemmed in by his neighbours, Martin was compelled to shuffle along with them. Panic seized him as the space between the close-packed bodies constricted until he could hardly breathe, let alone wield a weapon, but then the ranks started to loosen.

   The men were shifting into a jog. “Now!” a rough voice shouted behind him – he thought it was Hodson – and someone shoved him hard in the back. He stumbled forward and almost dropped his warhammer on his foot.

   The war-yell rose, a keening wail torn from the throats of men charging into battle. Something about the visceral noise entered Martin’s soul. He ceased to think, and at the same moment his terror receded to nothing.

   “A Bolton!” he piped, adding his own voice to the tumult, “Saint George for Lancaster! King Henry! The White Hawk!”

   The rebels poured unopposed across the river, which was shallow here and only came up their thighs. Martin glimpsed Conyers and his knights gain the opposing bank first, and lumber up the grassy slope beyond to engage Pembroke’s division. The clatter and clash of steel erupted all down the line as men came to grips, swiftly accompanied by the inevitable chorus of death and pain.      

   There was little finesse about the shoving-match that followed. Martin stumbled to a halt as the men in front of him laboured to force back the Yorkists.

   Unable to come to blows, the rebels in the rear ranks threw the weight of their bodies into the press, Martin among them, as though they were trying to push over a wall.

   He could see nothing except heaving backs and shoulders. His panic returned as the ranks constricted again, squeezing his body in a gigantic human press.

   “On them!” men shouted around him, “on them! They fail! They fail!”

   Again the pressure eased. He started to inch forward. Slowly, slowly, the momentum built, and a rush of euphoria surged through him as the rebels gained ground.

   Suddenly all resistance vanished, and Martin was able to break into a run. He splashed through the water, his nostrils filled with a heady stench of blood and fear, spilled guts and excrement.

   At last he could see something. The meagre Yorkist lines were being swept away, their banners falling as men abandoned them or were chopped down.

   Martin was eager to kill. He wanted to slay a man, just one, so he could get his hands dirty and had something to boast of to Richard when he next saw him.

   He picked out a Yorkist knight who had apparently decided to stand his ground and hold back the rebel tide by himself. The knight was huge and faceless in his costly German-made armour, which was liberally splattered with gore and dented in several places. More blood flowed from his armpit, where a pike had found a weak point in his steel shell. He wielded a broadsword with consummate skill, holding back the footmen that surrounded him like dogs snapping at a cornered boar. One ventured too close and collapsed shrieking as his left leg was whipped off at the knee.