Trinity (9 page)

If not for the table between them, he might have drawn and struck at York then and there. Others in the room touched their own hilts nervously, ready to act. York kept his own hands away from his sword, knowing he was in reach of a sudden lunge and that Somerset was damnably quick. Carefully, he too came to his feet.

‘You threaten the Protector and Defender of the Realm,’ York replied. His voice had grown soft in warning, though he still smiled, unable to hide his delight at this course of events. ‘Take your hand off your sword.’

‘I have said I will have satisfaction,’ Somerset grated in reply, his face flushing.

York chuckled, though the tension in the room made it sound false.

‘You are mistaken, but your threat is a crime I cannot forgive. Guards!’ He raised his voice at the end, startling those around him. Two heavyset men entered on the instant, drawing blades as soon as they saw the rigid scene before them. York addressed the parliamentary soldiers without looking away from Somerset for an instant.

‘Arrest Lord Somerset. He has threatened the person of the Protector. I’m sure investigation will reveal some deeper plot against the throne and those who serve it.’

Somerset moved at last, drawing his sword in one smooth motion and lunging over the width of the table with it. His reach was extraordinary and York threw himself back, crashing into the wall behind him so that dry plaster rained down in spirals from the ceiling. In wonder, he raised a hand to his face and looked at the fingers, half-expecting to see blood. Yet the guards had lurched for Somerset even as he moved, grappling him and spoiling his blow. As he struggled, they took his sword and jerked his arm behind his back, making him growl in pain.

‘You fool, Edmund,’ York said, his own anger swelling. ‘You will be taken from here along the Thames to the Tower. I do not think I shall see you again, while charges are prepared. I will send news of your arrest to the queen, in Windsor. I do not doubt she will be distraught to lose one so
very
well loved.’

Somerset was dragged away, still roaring and struggling. York wiped sweat from his forehead. He waved a hand at the parchment on the table.

‘Have that taken to Windsor, to be read and given to King Henry. God knows, he will not hear the words, but it must be done, even so.’

York gathered himself then, raising his head and striding out into the warm air of Westminster Palace. The other lords traipsed out behind him without a word.

Baron Egremont rode hard at the Neville centre. He knew only too well that he was utterly committed to destroying the wedding party. Even with the Percy arms scrubbed out or covered, his archers had drawn first blood and gone on to kill half a dozen of the Neville knights and men-at-arms. No quiet withdrawal would be allowed after that, no second chance. He could see Earl Salisbury’s fury written on his face as Egremont cantered in. The Neville earl was surrounded by his best warriors, swinging his sword left and right as he pointed with it and yelled to alter the formation. Thomas guided his horse straight at the older man, his shield and sword feeling light in his hands. He had trained for this. He had brought seven hundred against less than a third as many. He would have them down before the sun reached noon.

All along the line, Percy and Neville horsemen crashed against each other and through, whipping past in thumping blows that left one or both reeling and dazed. It was a frightening moment for the Percy knights, as they struck and were carried on by their own speed, shoved away from those who rode with them. Horses slowed against the solid mass of Neville men and suddenly Percy warriors were at a standstill, hacking and blocking, their mounts kicking out at anyone milling around their legs.

Thomas slashed wildly at the first Neville knight he faced. The man dodged so sharply that his sword glanced across a plate, scoring a spiral shaving of bright metal. Thomas yelped as his left leg was struck with a clang, instantly numb as he slid past the man he was trying to kill. He heard the knight’s growled curse, but neither of them could turn back. Two more faced Thomas and, beyond them, he could see Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury.

‘Balion, strike afore!’ Thomas roared, feeling his huge horse bunch under him as it responded. It had taken him almost a year to train the animal not to rear to its full height, as it might have done against another stallion. Instead, Balion rose and lunged almost in the same moment, barely leaving the ground before its front hooves punched out against the horses ahead.

God knew, Balion would have led any herd in the wild. The massive destrier needed no urging and the danger was only in losing control when it began to buck and smash. Thomas saw movement behind him and roared ‘Strike back!’ as he parried a blow with his shield. He heard a shriek cut short as Balion hammered a rear foot against some unseen assailant. Thomas found himself laughing in his helmet, exulting in the damage he could do with just a word.

‘And
steady
!’ he called to the excited stallion, though Balion still pranced and skittered, snorting and wanting to rear once more. As the huge beast settled, Thomas took a heavy impact on his backplate. He rose in his stirrups to give himself height as he swung with all his might in reply. Thomas shouted in triumph as his heavy sword cut a great gash in a knight’s side, sending blood spraying over lips of torn metal. It was not a mortal wound, but the Neville man fell sideways, losing his grip on the saddle. One leg flailed and kicked upside down, while the other was held by a twisted stirrup. Lord Egremont watched in delight as a man who had faced him in battle was dragged from the field by his bolting mount.

Something crashed against his helmet then. Thomas grunted in pain, cutting back automatically as his vision blurred. He could hear the tumult all along the line and, with a touch of guilt, he hoped Trunning was out there, keeping a cool head. There was no chance to oversee the fighting, not from the thick of it. Those around him pressed with savage vigour, denting and scarring his armour, aiming to break the metal joints or stab and slash at Balion so that the animal’s fall would bring him down.

For a time, it felt as if they could not touch him. His armour was good, thicker and harder than the wrought-iron pieces worn by poorer knights. God knew, it hurt to be struck, but Thomas was encased, protected, while others fell to his swinging sword. Salisbury seemed to have vanished in the press, but Thomas saw him again and dug razor spurs into the gashes on Balion’s flanks, making fresh blood flow. The stallion leaped forward, crashing over two axemen who had come creeping through the ranks of horse. They hardly had time to raise their weapons before they were kicked down and trampled. Thomas had eyes only for his uncle then, his expression wild inside the visor. His head still rang from a blow and he could taste blood in his mouth, but his father would hear if Thomas took the head of the Neville clan himself. The Percy family might not be able to trumpet a victory of hedge knights, but his father would know he had sent the right son.

‘Salisbury!’ Thomas shouted, seeing the older man twist in his saddle to see who called his name. The Neville wore no chestplate or armour beyond an iron gorget. His shield was unmarked still, as no one had reached him through his guards. Perhaps because their master was so ill equipped, those men clustered close around him, losing half a dozen from the fray to protect the earl they served. It was all to the good. Thomas could see the numbers were beginning to tell. Trunning’s terrible hoarse voice could be heard somewhere on his right, ordering men against the flanks. It would not be too long, Thomas realized, before he was master of the field, the victor for his house.

‘Percy!’ Salisbury spat back in his direction. Thomas almost yanked on his reins in shock, a momentary hesitation that had Richard Neville showing his teeth. ‘Of course, a Percy son! Who else would ride without colours and attack a wedding? Which of you honourless whelps is it? Henry? Thomas? Raise your visor, man, that I may put my sword through that ugly Percy beak.’

With a wild shout, Thomas dug in his spurs once more and Balion lunged in. He could hear the Neville lord laughing as his way was blocked. For the first time, Thomas found himself matched by men as skilled as he was. No, he realized, overmatched by their sword arms. He could not force his way through and, all the time, the old bastard hooted, for all the world an echo of his father’s derision that made his sight turn red and his ears rush with blood until it felt like sea-waves breaking. Thomas blinked against blood running from some gash high on his head. The helmet was well padded, but a blow from a heavy mace had dented in a sharp edge that ground against his skull like he was being trepanned. His breath laboured hot against the breathing holes and still he swung and snapped at Balion to strike, though the beast was flinging froth from its bit and losing strength from blood sheeting down its ribs.

In among the feet of the struggling knights, grey axemen had reached the fighting. The wounds they caused were horrific, striking at the legs of horses to send men tumbling with their screaming animals. On the ground, armoured knights were dazed and vulnerable until they could stand once more. The fight had become a savage mêlée, neither side giving way. Percy soldiers still swarmed in greater numbers, but Thomas saw too many of them cut down by Salisbury’s men. The Neville’s personal guard were both burly and quick, oath-sworn to protect their master and armoured as well as Thomas himself. When those men came against axe-wielding smiths and butchers, they went through them in quick, chopping blows.

The fighting coalesced around the raging centre – those who were bred and trained for such work, who had built their wind and muscle to fight all day. Armour was vital to withstand the crushing blows that came from all sides as men fought and tore sinews, wrenching limbs and joints to hammer the enemy in a frenzy. Those who had no such protection fell like wheat to the scythe, the white grasses rolled flat by dying men. All the time, the sun continued to rise above them, bringing heat that had knights gasping like birds, their mouths open in their helmets, so that their teeth clashed and broke against the iron when they were struck.

After less than an hour, the fighting lost its manic, jerking pace. Stamina alone began to decide who would live or die as each pair or three met and fought and staggered on. Most of the Percy townsmen had been killed by then, or bore such savage wounds that they could only limp and wander back, holding arms and stomachs that were bloody ruin. The Neville guards had been reduced to no more than eighty men, surrounded by twice as many in good armour.

Thomas could barely raise his head as he sat Balion some way back, taking stock of the progress and scowling at the seemingly inexhaustible energy of Trunning. He could see the swordmaster riding up and down the Percy line, exhorting fading men to greater efforts. Thomas tried to clench his right hand in a gauntlet that dripped blood from some unseen wound. The first sharp agony of his gouged scalp had faded to a dull throbbing. Even Balion’s great armoured head was dipping towards the long grasses and, as far as Thomas could tell, Salisbury still lived. Thomas clenched his jaw in frustration. He hadn’t seen the man’s son, the groom, at any stage of the fighting. The dead lay all around that field, but those who had fallen were all retainers of the houses, with not a single name between them.

Thomas tried to summon the energy to go in again, needing only to imagine his father’s scorn to prick his spirits from their drowsy stupor. He could see Trunning gesturing at him out of the corner of his eye and it was the implication that he hung back from fear that truly gave him the will to attack once more. Calling him in, like a reluctant schoolboy! Thomas only wished some Neville would cut Trunning’s foul head from his shoulders.
There
was a name he would like to leave on the field, even if it was the only one.

As he trotted back to the fighting, Thomas felt Balion stumble, recovering too slowly so that the horse almost went down. He made a quick decision, seeing how few of the Nevilles were still on horseback. Raising his visor, he whistled to a pair of wounded men watching the killing struggle, checking first that they wore no colours. They took his reins and helped him to dismount, his legs feeling oddly weak as they touched the ground and let him know how they had been battered. Thomas swayed slightly, but beyond bruises and a little blood, he was still strong, still fast enough, he was certain. He patted Balion’s neck, pleased that the valiant destrier would not be killed for its exhaustion.

‘Find him water, if you can. I’ll expect him to be brushed and his scratches covered in goose fat by the time I come for him.’

The men were pleased enough to leave the bloody meadow. They touched their foreheads, dipping low for Lord Egremont as they led his warhorse away.

Thomas turned, raising his head into the breeze. God, it was a relief to feel the air move on his face after so long confined. He stalked forward, passing a spray of yellow blossoms standing out among the white grasses. His armour creaked and grated, the oil rubbed away from the joints. He swung his sword as he went, loosening the pauldron plates across his shoulders and chest as well as the blackening muscles beneath them.

‘Egremont!’ Thomas called as he closed on the fighting, letting his men know who and where he was. He swore and dropped his visor down a moment later, shocked to see Salisbury moving backwards through his men, beginning to disengage. They were moving away with their master and Thomas suddenly wished he’d kept Balion. Those still horsed were harrying the Neville line, but there was no doubt they were retreating.

‘No!’ Thomas bawled at them. ‘Stand and face us!’ He could see the drooping black shape of Balion growing smaller behind him and he began to jog forward, not knowing what else he could do.

A Neville knight stood with his arms waving over his head, perhaps hoping to call his own people back. With savage strength, Thomas hacked at the man’s neck as he passed, sending him broken to the grass. He ran on, puffing so hard he had to raise his visor once more. Trunning rode up then, the swordmaster’s face only slightly redder than usual as he chewed his drooping moustache and peered down at Thomas Percy.