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Back Winter Pilgrims Save as PDF
Chapters (55)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Book
  3. About the Author
  4. Kingmaker: Winter Pilgrims
  5. Dedication
  6. Though the Lancastrian Claim comes from Edward III’s THIRD son, it relies on a) possession and b) that the crown can not pass through a woman – Philippa Mormer – so must fall to the next male in line. The Yorkist Claim relies on their descent from Edward III’s SECOND son, and says it can pass through Philippa. The Tudor Claim ignores the fact of passing through a woman – Lady Margaret Beaufort – or that John, Earl of Somerset, was born illegimate.
  7. Factions in the Wars of the Roses
  8. Prologue
  9. PART ONE
  10. 1
  11. 2
  12. 3
  13. 4
  14. PART TWO
  15. 5
  16. 6
  17. 7
  18. 8
  19. 9
  20. 10
  21. 11
  22. 12
  23. 13
  24. PART THREE
  25. 14
  26. 15
  27. 16
  28. 17
  29. 18
  30. 19
  31. PART FOUR
  32. 20
  33. 21
  34. 22
  35. 23
  36. PART FIVE
  37. 24
  38. 25
  39. 26
  40. 27
  41. 28
  42. 29
  43. 30
  44. 31
  45. PART SIX
  46. 32
  47. 33
  48. PART SEVEN
  49. 34
  50. 35
  51. 36
  52. 37
  53. 38
  54. 39
  55. Acknowledgements

The man next to Thomas goes down, skewered by an arrow between the buttons of his jack. It is the other Thomas. Johnson takes an arrow through the thigh, too, a typical archer’s injury. He doesn’t scream, but throws down his bow and turns, limping away, where he is swatted aside by one of Fauconberg’s men trying to make firm ground.

Another one of Fauconberg’s men falls just as he’s scrambling over the ship’s side on to the harbour wall. He screams and Thomas feels his body give under the press of the boat against the dockside. He doesn’t look down.

‘A Fauconberg!’

Thomas makes it stumbling on to the dockside, getting the pole of his axe caught between his legs and tripping just as an arrow whispers over him to crash into the burning ship. Black smoke chokes them all. He finds his feet, swings the axe on his back and begins loosing his arrows without any thought, nock, draw, loose, nock, draw, loose, all those hours in the butts rewarding him now. He lets his shafts go wherever he sees the pale disc of a face.

The defenders are wearing the same livery as the men in Calais: murky linen jacks with the cross of St George. They are good archers, too. They keep the sky overcast with volleys and they are withering Fauconberg’s men. Shafts boom down, men are killed and the wounded cry out. Friends drag friends away before they are hit again, and blood turns the cobbles black.

An arrow strikes his helmet. It seems to grab his head and throw it at the ground. His feet fly up above him. He sees a flash of green light and then finds himself lying staring up at the grey sky where smoke clouds billow and arrows flit from left to right and back again. Men step over him, trip on his lifeless legs. They are shouting. He can’t get up. Darkness crimps his vision. Sound comes at a remove. Where is he? What is happening? He feels warmth stealing over him. He can feel a foolish smile covering his face. Then his view is blocked. Owen towers over him, a great paddle of a hand catches him under the arm and hauls him to his feet.

‘Back,’ Owen says. He is using his huge body to protect Thomas, and he pushes him. ‘Go back.’

Thomas comes to. Power returns to his legs. He bends to recover his bow. Owen is still with him, back turned to the enemy. Dafydd arrives.

‘All right?’ he shouts.