Read Online Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) by Conn Iggulden - Free Book Online Page A
Book: Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) by Conn Iggulden
Read Free Book Online
Authors: Conn Iggulden
Ads: Link
memories mingling as the wind tried to freeze his eyes open.
The drummers could not hold back the attack. As Derry watched, he could see a great bite appear in the leftmost square as it was charged and rolled up. A nimble army might have turned to face the queen’s forces – perhaps some had. Yet half Warwick’s men were standing in trenches and ditches facing north, unable to deploy quickly to a new direction.
Duke Somerset, Earl Percy of Northumberland, even Lord Clifford and the other barons took their men in at a reckless pace, recognizing an opportunity. Warwick’s squares
would
turn; his archers would scramble back to slow the queen’s army down while they did so. The outcome of the battle hung on how much damage and destruction could be done to that rear square before Warwick’s forces re-formed to face their tormentors.
Derry rested his cheek against the whiskery soft muzzle of Retribution and stared across miles of farmland, pleased to be out of the fray. It might have been a moment of calm and beauty if two armies hadn’t been clashing on the open fields. At such a distance, Derry could barely see the banners. It was certainly too far off to mark individual men, or anything more than the main sweeps and charges, like herds moving across the earth.
He had stood in a few lines of that kind, when he’d been young. Derry jerked his head, feeling a shiver run the length of his back as if his skin wanted to leap off him. He knew there was awful slaughter going on below, the final gasping instants when it comes down to two men rushing at each other with a club or a blade, with the will to stand until one of them dropped. And then again, and then again, until a man could hardly raise his sword as yet another young fellow steps up, all fresh and smiling, beckoning him in.
Warwick sat with his hands numb on the reins, his fingers half frozen as they gripped the leather. His breath was visible, but with a thick wool coat under his armour, he was warm enough, a heat fed by both anger and embarrassment. He could hear his captains yelling orders to turn andface the enemy, but over them all, clearly visible, the streets of St Albans had become rushing streams of soldiers, pouring out on to the plain and biting into Montagu’s ranks like a devouring acid. Warwick shook his head, so furious with himself and with them that he could hardly summon his wits to command. Yet he did so. His horse and personal guard became the centre of galloping messengers, racing in to hear his orders, then charging away with cries for others to get out of their way. His captains knew their trade, but the Kent and London soldiers were raw, not used to quick manoeuvres on the field. It was one reason why Warwick had depended so heavily on a fortified position against the queen’s more experienced army. He knew his men had courage, but they had to be told when to stand or to retreat, when to flank and bolster a line, when to attack. The grand movements were the concern of the most senior officers, while big-handed labourers and fighting men decided the details with sharp iron.
Warwick sent all his archers back in two trotting groups along the flanks. He clenched one fist as they began to send looping volleys soaring against the men still streaming down the hill. Not one in a score would strike at that range, but the queen’s forces would come with more caution under that whirring, hissing barrage.
Warwick sent a boy to give his compliments to Norfolk. Through no fault of its own, the duke’s vanguard was as far as it could possibly be from the fighting. Norfolk had not moved at all since he had returned to his men. Warwick had no idea if his colleague had frozen in shock or was simply waiting to see the best use of his forces. The runner went with no orders, simply the expectation of some word from the duke to bring back.
With that done, Warwick shook off the last of the lethargy that had made his thoughts slow. His own square of three
The drummers could not hold back the attack. As Derry watched, he could see a great bite appear in the leftmost square as it was charged and rolled up. A nimble army might have turned to face the queen’s forces – perhaps some had. Yet half Warwick’s men were standing in trenches and ditches facing north, unable to deploy quickly to a new direction.
Duke Somerset, Earl Percy of Northumberland, even Lord Clifford and the other barons took their men in at a reckless pace, recognizing an opportunity. Warwick’s squares
would
turn; his archers would scramble back to slow the queen’s army down while they did so. The outcome of the battle hung on how much damage and destruction could be done to that rear square before Warwick’s forces re-formed to face their tormentors.
Derry rested his cheek against the whiskery soft muzzle of Retribution and stared across miles of farmland, pleased to be out of the fray. It might have been a moment of calm and beauty if two armies hadn’t been clashing on the open fields. At such a distance, Derry could barely see the banners. It was certainly too far off to mark individual men, or anything more than the main sweeps and charges, like herds moving across the earth.
He had stood in a few lines of that kind, when he’d been young. Derry jerked his head, feeling a shiver run the length of his back as if his skin wanted to leap off him. He knew there was awful slaughter going on below, the final gasping instants when it comes down to two men rushing at each other with a club or a blade, with the will to stand until one of them dropped. And then again, and then again, until a man could hardly raise his sword as yet another young fellow steps up, all fresh and smiling, beckoning him in.
Warwick sat with his hands numb on the reins, his fingers half frozen as they gripped the leather. His breath was visible, but with a thick wool coat under his armour, he was warm enough, a heat fed by both anger and embarrassment. He could hear his captains yelling orders to turn andface the enemy, but over them all, clearly visible, the streets of St Albans had become rushing streams of soldiers, pouring out on to the plain and biting into Montagu’s ranks like a devouring acid. Warwick shook his head, so furious with himself and with them that he could hardly summon his wits to command. Yet he did so. His horse and personal guard became the centre of galloping messengers, racing in to hear his orders, then charging away with cries for others to get out of their way. His captains knew their trade, but the Kent and London soldiers were raw, not used to quick manoeuvres on the field. It was one reason why Warwick had depended so heavily on a fortified position against the queen’s more experienced army. He knew his men had courage, but they had to be told when to stand or to retreat, when to flank and bolster a line, when to attack. The grand movements were the concern of the most senior officers, while big-handed labourers and fighting men decided the details with sharp iron.
Warwick sent all his archers back in two trotting groups along the flanks. He clenched one fist as they began to send looping volleys soaring against the men still streaming down the hill. Not one in a score would strike at that range, but the queen’s forces would come with more caution under that whirring, hissing barrage.
Warwick sent a boy to give his compliments to Norfolk. Through no fault of its own, the duke’s vanguard was as far as it could possibly be from the fighting. Norfolk had not moved at all since he had returned to his men. Warwick had no idea if his colleague had frozen in shock or was simply waiting to see the best use of his forces. The runner went with no orders, simply the expectation of some word from the duke to bring back.
With that done, Warwick shook off the last of the lethargy that had made his thoughts slow. His own square of three
Similar Books
