Read Online Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) by Conn Iggulden - Free Book Online Page B
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
thousand men had turned as best it could, climbing out of trenches and ramparts. It broke his heart to see it, but half the obstacles he had set for the enemy had become irritations to his own men forced to walk over them. Caltrops strewn across the ground sank in partway, making them invisible in the mud. Horses had to go wide around any field of those, for fear of ruining the animal for the price of a couple of iron nails bound together and tossed down. It was slow work and Warwick continued to command and harangue his officers. His brother John was deep in the thick of the fighting, his banners seeming to hold back a tide that threatened to spill right around him.
Warwick thought then of King Henry. He could still see the tree where the king sat, unshackled. The man was close enough to stroll to his wife’s forces if he’d had the wit or the will. Warwick raised a gauntlet to his bare forehead, pressing hard enough over his closed eyes to leave a print of scales. His hand-gunners were assembling in awkward ranks. His archers had slowed the enemy. His men-at-arms were ready to march.
Warwick sent one simple order to Norfolk, calling him in. He did not know if he could save his brother John, or even the left wing, but he could still turn the battle and prevent a rout. He muttered the words to himself in growing desperation.
6
King Henry came to his feet as a flood of marching men raced past him. His knees were aching, but he wished to confess to Abbot Whethamstede. The old man heard his sins every morning, a ceremony of great pomp and splendour, with a silent heart to it as Henry whispered his failings and his guilts. He knew he had lost good men through his weakness and poor health, men like William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk; men like Richard, Duke of York, and Earl Salisbury. Henry felt every death like another coin on the scales of his shoulders, twisting his bones, bearing him down. He had liked Richard of York, very much. He had enjoyed their conversations. That good man had not known the danger of standing against the king. Heaven cried out against blasphemy, and Henry knew York had been broken for his pride – yet the sin was also the king’s, as one who had not forced York to understand. Perhaps if Henry had made that truth ring in York’s ears, the man would live yet.
The king had heard the talk in the camp, heard the fate of York and Salisbury and York’s son Edmund. He had witnessed the pain and hatred caused by those deaths, the ragged need for vengeance that took them all into darker lands, beginning to spiral together faster and faster like leaves in a gale. Under that weight of guilt, Henry was little more than one bright spot in the void, weak and flickering.
Around his oak, thousands of the queen’s men weretrotting, jingling, riding, spilling out of the town with faces still flushed from descending the hill. Two knights remained by the king, a tiny island of stillness left behind as Neville lines retreated. The most senior, Sir Thomas Kyriell, was a great bear of a man, a grey-haired veteran of two dozen years at war. His moustaches and beard were oiled and about as heavy as his appalled expression.
Henry wondered if he should call to one of the passing men-at-arms, to say he would like to be taken up to the abbot. He took great breaths of the cold air, knowing that it sharpened his thoughts to do so. As he watched the men, many of them turned their heads to the lone figure, standing with one hand on the trunk of an ancient tree, smiling at them while they marched to the killing. One or two gestured back aggressively, somehow irritated by the peace and good humour they saw in him, so out of place on that field. They drew thumbs across their throats, raised fists, touched their teeth or jerked two fingers at the small group of three men. The movements reminded Henry of his music master at Windsor, who would cut the air with his hands for silence before every tune. It was a happier memory
Warwick thought then of King Henry. He could still see the tree where the king sat, unshackled. The man was close enough to stroll to his wife’s forces if he’d had the wit or the will. Warwick raised a gauntlet to his bare forehead, pressing hard enough over his closed eyes to leave a print of scales. His hand-gunners were assembling in awkward ranks. His archers had slowed the enemy. His men-at-arms were ready to march.
Warwick sent one simple order to Norfolk, calling him in. He did not know if he could save his brother John, or even the left wing, but he could still turn the battle and prevent a rout. He muttered the words to himself in growing desperation.
6
King Henry came to his feet as a flood of marching men raced past him. His knees were aching, but he wished to confess to Abbot Whethamstede. The old man heard his sins every morning, a ceremony of great pomp and splendour, with a silent heart to it as Henry whispered his failings and his guilts. He knew he had lost good men through his weakness and poor health, men like William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk; men like Richard, Duke of York, and Earl Salisbury. Henry felt every death like another coin on the scales of his shoulders, twisting his bones, bearing him down. He had liked Richard of York, very much. He had enjoyed their conversations. That good man had not known the danger of standing against the king. Heaven cried out against blasphemy, and Henry knew York had been broken for his pride – yet the sin was also the king’s, as one who had not forced York to understand. Perhaps if Henry had made that truth ring in York’s ears, the man would live yet.
The king had heard the talk in the camp, heard the fate of York and Salisbury and York’s son Edmund. He had witnessed the pain and hatred caused by those deaths, the ragged need for vengeance that took them all into darker lands, beginning to spiral together faster and faster like leaves in a gale. Under that weight of guilt, Henry was little more than one bright spot in the void, weak and flickering.
Around his oak, thousands of the queen’s men weretrotting, jingling, riding, spilling out of the town with faces still flushed from descending the hill. Two knights remained by the king, a tiny island of stillness left behind as Neville lines retreated. The most senior, Sir Thomas Kyriell, was a great bear of a man, a grey-haired veteran of two dozen years at war. His moustaches and beard were oiled and about as heavy as his appalled expression.
Henry wondered if he should call to one of the passing men-at-arms, to say he would like to be taken up to the abbot. He took great breaths of the cold air, knowing that it sharpened his thoughts to do so. As he watched the men, many of them turned their heads to the lone figure, standing with one hand on the trunk of an ancient tree, smiling at them while they marched to the killing. One or two gestured back aggressively, somehow irritated by the peace and good humour they saw in him, so out of place on that field. They drew thumbs across their throats, raised fists, touched their teeth or jerked two fingers at the small group of three men. The movements reminded Henry of his music master at Windsor, who would cut the air with his hands for silence before every tune. It was a happier memory
Similar Books
