Warwick had kept his word. He waited, and his men held steady for new orders. For a time, they were content to shove forward with a shield line. Some were killed, on both sides. In the heat of engagement, the men were close to berserk and could not hold back. Yet the two front ranks kept discipline and the shield line held.
Ahead of him, Warwick saw Lord Grey turn his horse right around in the midst of his men, gesturing away from Warwick’s forces and signalling an attack on the centre. A great roar went up from every throat on the field. Warwick’s men cried out in savage triumph, while Buckingham’s forces shouted in horror at the betrayal. The centre faltered and Warwick found himself surging forward in a great rush, almost falling into the gap left by those his men had pressed against. Lord Grey too had kept his word.
Edward of March ran through a dozen ranks of allies to crash against the milling centre, smashing shields to splinters in huge blows. Warwick almost stopped to watch in awe at the sight of the massive warrior throwing men back in wrenching movements, making himself and Jameson the point of a wedge of soldiers, cutting deep into the ranks around Buckingham.
Warwick looked back for the cavalry he still feared, only to see them standing in a compact group some way off. Grey’s men, he saw, breathing in relief. They would not take part.
Faced with the betrayal of Lord Grey, Buckingham’s soldiers broke. They tried to retreat in order, hampering each other and dying in droves as they were harried and cut at every step. Warwick saw his Kentish men pour in, engaging anyone they could reach and cutting axes into those who turned away and ran. It was butchery and madness, but the ten thousand could not have been held then. They had come a long way to fight the king’s soldiers and they knew they had them beaten.
At the centre of the king’s army, Warwick saw Buckingham unhorsed. Edward of March raced over, crashing into a cluster of knights with his sword and shield. With his gaze fixed on the fallen duke, March knocked them away in great sweeping blows, two or three falling on to their backs. Those men began to struggle up with murder in their eyes, but Jameson was there at March’s side with his sword ready and no one challenged the young giant who treated them so carelessly. Warwick was still a dozen paces away when Buckingham came to his feet and raised his sword once again. The duke’s ruined face was hidden beneath his visor, though Warwick noted he was holding his left arm against his side, protecting broken ribs.
Edward of March nodded to him, waiting with both hands on his hilt.
‘Are you ready, my lord?’ March said, his voice echoing in iron.
Buckingham dipped his head in reply and was dead a moment later. March had smashed his great sword down through the duke’s shoulder plates, cracking the iron and cutting deep. Warwick left him levering the sword out with his boot on Buckingham’s chest. Some of the king’s men were trying to surrender, but Warwick had seen the Percy banners of blue and yellow and he did not touch the horn on his hip. The killing went on all around him and March came jogging back to Warwick’s side, his armour covered in blood and his companion smiling in grim pride. Warwick looked up at both of them as the young earl pulled off his helmet and rubbed a hand through his hair.
‘Did you see me kill Buckingham?’ March asked.
‘I did,’ Warwick said. He had liked Humphrey Stafford and it crossed his mind that the man had deserved a better end for faithful service. Yet that was the way of it. He did not think there was a man in England that year who could have stood against March with a sword.
‘Egremont is mine,’ Warwick said.
March gestured, as if allowing him to go first through a door, then spun suddenly as Jameson crashed his sword against a man running at them, cutting through chain mail. March laughed, clapping the big smith on the shoulder and making Warwick think once again of Calais mastiffs. He might have spoken, but he had crossed a hundred yards of bodies and ahead the Percy colours suddenly wavered and fell. Warwick cursed, shoving through Kentish men.
‘Egremont! Mine!’ Warwick yelled as he went, suddenly afraid that he would be denied his revenge on his family’s enemy.
His men moved back, revealing six armoured knights around their lord.
Thomas Percy stood with his hands resting on the hilt of his sword, stealing a moment to breathe and rest. He raised his visor.
‘Richard Neville!’ he called. ‘Who was once an earl. Who is that great troll at your side, Richard?’
‘Let me kill him,’ March growled.
‘If I fall, yes. Not till then,’ Warwick replied. He was still fresh, kept from the fighting by all the ranks ahead. He realized he had lost his shield somewhere and accepted one that was handed to him by one of his men, tugging it on to his arm. His armour felt light and he was confident, though Thomas, Lord Egremont, was known for his skill.
The Percy lord stepped forward to meet him. The battered knights at his side seemed in no hurry to continue the fight, surrounded as they were. The stillness of that centre point crept out across the field so that fighters backed away from each other and king’s men threw down their weapons rather than be killed.
‘Will you surrender, Thomas?’ Warwick said. ‘It seems the day is ours.’
‘Would you allow it, if I did?’
Warwick smiled and shook his head.
‘No, Thomas. I would not. I just wanted to see if you would try.’
Egremont snapped his visor down in response, coming forward. His first blow smacked against Warwick’s shield and was then followed by three more, forcing Warwick back. The Percy lord was fast, though the fourth swing seemed to lack strength and he staggered. Warwick knocked the man’s shield away and hacked a great dent into his side.
Egremont went on to one knee, gasping audibly in his helmet. Warwick waited for him. When Egremont rose, his sword came up fast from low down, smashing the edge of Warwick’s shield and almost ripping it from his arm. His return strike was against the same spot on the man’s side, breaking the plates.
Once more, Egremont dipped to his knee, wheezing. With a groan, he forced himself up for a second time, protecting his side as Warwick brought his sword across in a chopping blow against his neck. Thomas Percy crumpled limply then, lying face-down, with his helmet pressed into the grass. For the first time, Warwick could see the leather hilt of a dagger that had been shoved up between the man’s back-plates. Blood had streamed out of him for every moment of the fight and Egremont had surely felt his strength draining away. He did not rise again and it was March who wrestled Thomas Percy’s helmet away and revealed his lifeless face, bruised and white.
Warwick looked around him, at the swords thrown down and the bodies on all sides. He felt his blood pound and he took off his own helmet, sending it spinning into the air as he roared for the victory. Thousands of Kent men echoed him, a great hoarse cry that could have been heard for miles.
Warwick turned to March, feeling for once that nothing the young earl could say would possibly spoil his mood.
‘The king?’ March said, chuckling at his expression.
‘Yes. The king,’ Warwick replied.
The two men turned as one to face the royal tent behind them.
They found king Henry sitting in the gloom of his tent. He had removed his armour and sat wearing only black broadcloth, a long tunic and hose all dyed the same colour, with no rings or jewels beyond a royal crest picked out in gold thread on his chest. As March ducked to enter the canopy, he shuddered at the thought of the king sitting the whole time in silence while thousands died nearby.
‘Your Majesty?’ Warwick said. He sheathed his sword when he saw there were no guards around, or even servants to tend him. They had all fled. Henry looked up, frowning at them.
‘Will you kill me?’ he said. Warwick could see he was shaking. ‘Will there be blood?’
‘We should,’ March said, stepping forward. He looked around angrily as Warwick took a good grip on his arm. It was like holding a branch and both men knew March could shrug it off.
Warwick spoke quickly, his voice low.
‘If the king dies here, his son, Edward of Lancaster, inherits the throne. A boy who would have no love of us.’
March grunted in irritation and Warwick’s eyes widened as he saw the young earl held a long dagger in his right hand.
‘What do I care for that?’ March growled, staring at the slender man watching them both. ‘His is a weak line. I do not fear it.’
Warwick felt anger surge in him.
‘Care then for your father! He will not be York until the Attainder is reversed. With King Henry alive, his Seal and Parliament will give our families back everything we have lost.’
To his relief, March made a grumbling sound deep in his chest and put away the blade.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Yet I think it will come after that. I have no use for a king who would take my inheritance from me.’
Warwick let his hand fall, feeling ill at how close March had come to murdering the man who still stared at them with wide, dark eyes. The possibility of violence remained in March’s every brooding glance.
‘We have what we hoped, Edward,’ Warwick said slowly. He spoke as if to a dangerous hound who might turn savage at any moment. ‘We’ll take the king back to London and meet your father there. Be at peace. We’ve won.’
27
York ran his hand over a smooth white square, blank and ready for repainting. The panels in that room had once been an unbroken blaze of colours, the arms of every noble house in England. It had been one of the pleasures of his youth, to come to the Palace of Westminster and see the crest of his house sitting proudly with all the others. No longer. The painted panels stretched right around the four walls of the room, emblems and histories written in the symbols of ancient houses. Three white squares spoiled the unbroken run. Three that had been ripped out and replastered in palest cream. The crests of York, Salisbury and Warwick had been removed by the king’s heralds. It was some consolation that the Earldom of March was still there, quartered in blue, yellow, red and white. It seemed the agents of the royal courts had been uncertain whether that title should be included in the Attainder, given that it had already been passed on.
Salisbury watched the duke sweeping his hand across the blank plaster, lost in thought.
‘They’ll be replaced now, Richard,’ he said. ‘The king’s own Seal has undone all the lies of his queen. It gave me great pleasure to see all those little Parliament men running to do our bidding.’
York blew air, his lips twisting.
‘It was a foul thing and it should not have been attempted. Our families
are
England, deep into the bone. Yet I’ve seen your crest and mine cut from stone and wood, hacked smooth by files and chisels. Those damned heralds were busy while I was in Ireland. Ludlow Castle was stripped, did you hear that? Sandal Castle had tapestries and statues as old as Rome, but they have all vanished, spirited away while I could not defend them. The damage of this Attainder will take me a lifetime to repair.’
‘I’ve seen as much, though it gave me some pleasure to take back my estates from those who bought them. Some of my lands are now in Percy hands, think of that! At least you were able to reclaim all of yours. While Henry Percy lives and spites me for the death of his father and brother, I’ll never get some of mine without bloodshed.’
York turned away from the wall at that.
‘I trusted you at Ludlow. And you kept your word. I will not forget it. You and your son brought me back from despair and disaster, such a feeling as I will not endure again for anyone. I will always be in your debt.’ He held out his hand and Salisbury took it, hand to elbow, gripping the forearm.
Bells across London began to sound noon then, a long clamour that had both York and Salisbury turning to the door.
‘How is the king?’ Salisbury asked as they swept out into a corridor.
‘Well enough,’ York replied. ‘Bishop Kempe says he is the most agreeable guest he has ever known. Henry spends his time in the chapel, or reading, so I’ve heard. He has to be reminded to eat.’
‘Have you considered what you will do with him, now the Attainders have been struck from the rolls?’
‘I have
considered
it many times,’ York replied, stiffly. ‘I have not yet come to a decision.’
The two men made their way up a set of stairs, passing over the room where the Commons met and into the chamber at the far end. It was already busy with voices, all of which fell silent as York was sighted.
The White Chamber was little more than a debating hall, much smaller than the one where members of Parliament met below. It had benches running along each side and a lectern to address those present. At one side, placed to overlook the room, the king’s seat remained empty, a simple oak throne carved with three lions and gilded along the edge.
York’s mind was still on his own losses and he barely acknowledged the assembly of lords. They were small enough in number and rank. No Percy had come, no Somerset, no Clifford, nor any of the others who had fought for the king. York recognized a dozen minor barons, Cromwell among them. He paused on the raised step and inclined his head to Lord Grey. The baron had put on a great deal of weight since the battle close by Northampton, York noticed, developing chins and jowls better suited to a bishop. York had heard every detail of Grey’s part in that victory from his son and Warwick. It pleased him to imagine the king’s forces being told their enemies were miles away when they were almost upon them. More importantly, Grey had kept his word and turned his men against Buckingham at the right moment. Growing fat on new wealth and being made Treasurer of England was small return for such a vital betrayal.
As York stood by the lectern, Salisbury walked down, joining Warwick and Edward of March and some twenty others. They looked up at the duke and Salisbury’s eyes widened as York laid his hand on the royal seat, as if he claimed it. He nodded sharply and York smiled.
The expression lasted just an instant, as the other men there saw where his hand lay and what it might mean. York frowned as someone hissed and another growled angry words. He looked up into a cluster of forbidding faces and saw only March, Grey, Salisbury and Warwick were raising their hands in his support. Four Lords Spiritual were present and, to his irritation, he saw Bishop Kempe shake his large head slowly from side to side. York considered sitting down in the royal seat and scorning them all for their tutting and sighing. The chancellor, William Oldhall, entered from the side and looked horror-struck at the scene before him.