Trinity (38 page)

Above them, white smoke billowed again and a rolling thunder began. Iron balls that could cross a mile of air were sent crashing through the crowd, killing dozens at a time in great bloody smears. The sound of the people changed to a moan then, an animal sound of distress as they began to push away from the Tower, searching for any path out of that open space. The rippling cracks kept sounding and nowhere was safe.

Warwick jerked his head up as something snagged him, leaving a line of blood on his cheek as if he had been caught by a blade. An iron ball had ripped through the crowd near him, too fast to see. He was thanking God for his luck when his horse coughed, spraying blood from its muzzle. Warwick threw his leg over and stood clear as the animal sank to its knees. Wherever the iron balls struck stone, splinters filled the air, ripping through the packed crowd. In desperation, Warwick blew retreat again and was almost knocked down as a man and woman rushed blindly past him, heading away.

Over the sounds of pain and rage, no one heard the catapults. Warwick saw three black balls leap out from the battlements, moving much more slowly than the cannon shot, so that his eyes fixed on them in confusion. He saw them vanish into the crowd and a breath of warmth bloomed, rolling across the open space. Three pools of fire erupted, liquid flames leaping and splashing over the struggling crowd.

They surged away from the heat in complete panic and the screaming of those caught was raw and pitiful to hear. Warwick stayed close to his father’s horse, but they were both shoved back. He caught sight of Edward of March, unhorsed in the flood of rushing men. Though Jameson and Sir Robert still guarded him, even those three could not resist the flood of people pressing to get away. March struck out around him, clearing a space. No one who fell in that mad rush would ever get up again, their bodies trampled and crushed as the mob streamed back from the walls.

Hard voices called in outrage at the edges of the square, shouting for others to follow. As far as Warwick or his father could see, it was the Londoners themselves, gesturing back to the bridge. Thousands broke into a run as they left the Tower behind and it was all Warwick could do to press against a wall with his father’s horse and let them go past. The killing ground emptied as quickly as it had filled, leaving smears of broken flesh, rings of burning bodies and black smoke. Above their heads, men leaned over the walls, pointing and shouting.

Warwick saw Edward of March staggering past him. The smith, Jameson, was at his back, though Sir Robert Dalton had vanished somewhere in the crush. Warwick reached out to snag Edward’s chestplate, dragging him out of the clutches of the crowd. Jameson came with him, resting one arm against a wall and blowing hard.

March nodded to Warwick in wide-eyed thanks. His great strength had counted for nothing in that crowd and he had been frightened for the first time in his life. The multitude still rushed past them all, and the three earls could only pant and look on. More of their men struggled to that spot, until around forty had gathered against the walls. Dozens had been right at the base of the Tower when the wildfire crashed amongst them. Those flames still burned, flickering on bodies and stone like living things.

‘We should get further back,’ Salisbury said. He was pale and exhausted-looking, worn down by fear and the battering of the crowd.

A side road lay just a dozen yards away from the open space around the Tower and the three earls made their way to it, seeing the grey Thames at the far end. Their men came with them, casting nervous glances behind as they went.

‘Go on,’ Salisbury said, guiding his horse along it.

They were safe from the Tower cannon, at least. Six or seven houses long, the tiny street ended at the river and they could all see blackened corpses floating on the surface as they stopped. Some of the soldiers began to point and Warwick looked up to see a moving mass of men on the far side of the river. The Londoners had already crossed the bridge and made their way back along the opposite bank. He thought at first that they were still running in terror. It made no sense, and Warwick stared.

There were many buildings on the other side of the river, businesses and homes that had spilled across from the city, taking valuable land around the only bridge. Storehouses and meat markets thrived there. Warwick caught glimpses of the torrent of men as they passed between houses of wood and brick.

‘What are they doing, over there?’ he heard March asking.

Warwick could only shrug. Londoners knew their city better than he ever would. He could see the running men gathering in one place, using their weapons to break into one brick building, squat and low, as it stood on the banks of the Thames.

‘It must be for weapons,’ Salisbury said. ‘Is there an armoury there?’

One of the nearby soldiers swore suddenly. Warwick recalled he was a London man and he called him forward.

‘I know it, my lord,’ the man said, his face awed. ‘It’s a royal depot, where they make cannon.’

Every man there turned in dawning amazement, in time to see a black gun carriage wheeled out along the bank path, pushed by a great knot of Londoners. The length of iron it carried could have been one of those that had torn through the crowd. Despite its ponderous weight, the roaring mob pushed it on and on, until it faced the Tower’s southern wall, where no guns were.

They had found bags of powder and other men staggered along with round shot held in their arms. Warwick craned out as far as he could, catching a glimpse of scurrying figures on the high walls of the Tower. The river was a quarter of a mile wide, but the rushing water would be no protection.

The first ball cracked out, smashing into the Tower walls and falling back with lumps of stone and masonry dropping on to the paths below. The water of the river rippled as a thousand smaller pieces struck and sank. A savage cheer went up from that side of the river, but it was not a joyous sound, rather the cry of wolves, meant to terrify. It took an age between shots, but a second cannon had been brought out from the royal works and pointed across the river. The iron balls smashed hard against old stones again and again, until a huge crack could be seen and part of the curtain wall crumbled outwards.

Warwick watched, stunned, as the men of London adjusted their aim and blew out another piece the size of a horse with a single shot. Smoke and dust hid the extent of the damage for a time, but when it cleared, the sight pleased those who had worked so hard for it.

They abandoned the guns where they stood and began to stream back along the bank to London Bridge. Warwick had no doubt they would be returning to that spot and shook his head, imagining the slaughter that would surely follow.

‘That’s it now,’ he said to his father. ‘They’ve made their breach. Will you stay to keep order? I’ve lost enough time here already and my aim is more than one Tower, or London herself.’

‘Go, by God,’ Salisbury said, looking from his son to Edward of March. If anything, Salisbury was relieved at the chance to remain, rather than trying to force his old bones another eighty or ninety miles to Coventry. ‘Leave me a few hundred soldiers and I’ll keep an eye on the mob, though I think their anger will burn as long as the wildfire. God’s bones, I never thought to see that filthy muck used against my own people. Someone will suffer for it.’

The older earl sat back as his son and March raced off with two dozen of the men, already raising the horn to call in the rest. Salisbury knew it would take for ever to bring the Kentish lads to order and then turn them on to the road north. He was proud of his son then. In all the chaos, Warwick had not lost sight of the path. Whatever horrors they had witnessed, London was just a step and the beginning of it.

Darkness was edging closer by the time Warwick and March had their army gathered once again on the north side of the city walls. Over the hours of twilight, something like calm had been restored amongst them, though a number of the Kent men had looted ale and others stank of smoke and stood stupefied at what they had witnessed.

The captains had been busy gathering the men and had to batter a few before they would agree to leave the city. They had witnessed the sort of violence against innocents that made them cry out for vengeance. Women and children had been burned in that crowd by the Tower and they wanted to see blood in return. Warwick had harangued a dozen surly groups, reminding them that they had come to strike a blow against the king himself. That was enough for most and Warwick could see how they took a grip on their axes and imagined using them, paying back something of what they had seen. He did not doubt the fervour of the Kentish men, frightening in its intensity.

The church bells were ringing across London by then, led by Old Edward’s muffled note at the Palace of Westminster a mile away. The air was warm and thick with darkness around ten thousand men. The road lay at their feet, good Roman stones. Warwick could only wish he had the time to take some of those London cannon with him, but such lumbering things would be left far behind. Speed was the key to it all, he knew it. His men had found two carthorses in a stable by the city wall. The animals snorted and whickered, less than happy at the weight of armoured men on their backs.

‘Eighty miles!’ Warwick bellowed suddenly to the men all around. ‘Just eighty miles on fine roads – and you will see the king’s own army, quaking in fear. Men who have taken everything from me – and men who would take everything from you. Cry Warwick, cry March! Cry York and Jack Cade! Will you walk with me?’

They growled and stamped in response, and he led them north.

26

Thomas, Lord Egremont, preferred to look down at his boots rather than face the anger of the queen. He stood under a huge swathe of canvas, aware of the six-year-old prince tugging at his mother’s skirts and demanding her attention, asking question after question while Margaret glared at Egremont and ignored her son.

‘Your Highness,’ Thomas tried again. ‘I have sent my fastest scouts to my brother. I cannot give them wings, but he will already be marching his army here to support your husband. Beyond that, I have the men with me and my own personal guard.’

‘Not enough!’ Margaret said. She turned suddenly to Edward, grabbing him by the arm. She could see she had startled her son and gentled her tone with a visible effort. ‘Edward
dear
, would you please find something else to do besides asking all these questions? Go and find Lord Buckingham. He wanted to show you his new armour.’

The little boy dashed away in excitement, leaving Margaret to face the younger son of the Percy household. Thomas already missed the boy, for the useful distraction he had been.

‘My lord Egremont, if you cannot promise me the numbers we gathered at Ludlow, I have no choice. I must take my husband back to Kenilworth and wait to be attacked! The king of England, Thomas! Forced to run from a rabble of traitors!’

Egremont shook his head. He suspected Margaret said such things to shock or shame him, though he could not disagree with her assessment. Royal scouts had raced north from London with the news of a Neville army as soon as they had been sighted on the south bank of the Thames. The exhausted riders had reached the royal camp by Northampton two days later. God alone knew how much time they had gained, even exchanging horses at taverns and almost killing the animals they rode. If the Yorkist earls lost only a little time in the capital, they would still have to come at the pace of marching men. The royal camp had been in a panic ever since the news came in, with every spare rider haring off to summon soldiers and nobles back from their estates.

‘My lady, I understand your anger, but were you to retreat to Kenilworth, it would allow enough time to bring more Gallants back from their farms and homes. My brother and Lord Somerset are already riding. In two, perhaps three days, we will double the number standing with us now. It will not matter then if these forces of York have besieged your castle. Sieges can be broken from the outside.’

‘That is your advice then, Lord Egremont?’ Margaret said in disbelief. ‘After the Attainder of York, Salisbury and Warwick? After the death of those noble houses and the scattering of their titles and lands? After a great royal victory at Ludlow and seeing the king’s enemies flee into the night, you’d tell me to retreat?’

Thomas looked away.

‘My lady,’ he said at last. ‘No, I would not. We have time – and we have five thousand men. Lord Buckingham, Baron Grey and I are sufficient protection for the king in the field. Yet if you did decide to take your son and King Henry to safety, I would be happier. I cannot predict the outcome as things stand. Salisbury and Warwick will be marching north by now. We do not know how long they stayed in London, or whether they went out to their old estates to swell their ranks. We do not know their numbers, or the quality of their men, though I expect it to be poor. It shames me to suggest it, but Kenilworth is only thirty miles away. I would not be so concerned if I knew the royal family was safe.’

Before Margaret could reply, Lord Grey entered the tented pavilion behind Egremont, bowing deeply to the queen. Older than the Percy son, he dipped his head the merest fraction in greeting. Margaret did not know if Lord Egremont knew of Grey’s unpleasant appetites. Whatever the reason, neither of the two men had found much to like in the other.

‘Your Highness, Lord Egremont, my riders report the forces of Warwick and March.’ Grey paused for a beat, working out how far they might have come in the time it took his scouts to race back with the news. ‘They are around … ten miles to the south, moving quickly. Will King Henry give me my orders?’

Despite her shock at the news, Margaret glanced over her shoulder, to where Henry sat, leaning back on a couch at the rear of the tent. His eyes were open and he wore plate for the battlefield, but he did not move or acknowledge their interest. A brief spasm of distaste passed across Grey’s face when the queen’s eyes were not on him. He had come to serve a king recovered from his weaknesses. Instead, Grey had found a dazed child, utterly unaware of what went on around him.