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Back Winter Pilgrims
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

Walter is screaming with delight.

‘They’ve turned! Ruthyn’s men have turned. Come on, you fuckers! Let’s get at ’em!’

They scramble across the rough bridges, Thomas helped by the outstretched hand of one of Ruthyn’s men, and then they are in the camp. Underfoot it is foul with mud, river water, blood and shit. There is a pile of corpses to one side, stuck with broken arrows; already one of Fauconberg’s archers is going through them. Thomas tries to push through the crowd of men, to get back towards the river, towards Riven’s flag.

But the fight isn’t over yet. In the camp trumpets sound, drums beat, and orders are shouted. The rage of the recently betrayed lends the King’s men an unstoppable savagery. They tear into Ruthyn’s troops, men who only moments before had been their comrades in arms, and begin driving them back.

For a moment it looks as if they’ll be cut down or thrown back into the ditch to drown, but as more of Fauconberg’s men-at-arms join them, the balance begins to tip against the King’s army, who have relied on the guns instead of archers, and on the strength of their wall instead of numbers of men. Now both have let them down. They are outnumbered and outflanked. There are only two things they can do: run and be killed, or fight and be killed.

They choose to fight.

One knight in black and red livery blocks Thomas’s way. His plume of exotic feathers bobs and sways as he clears a circle around him with a long hammer, as if cutting hay. Bodies of every hue are piled around. He stands on dead men and knocks a billman’s glaive to the ground, steps forward and despatches him with a backhanded chop that passes through his teeth. He is inhuman, sealed in his blood-glazed armour, wheeling and stabbing. Nothing can touch him.

This is no place for a man without even the meanest armour, but Fauconberg’s men are crowding forward. Thomas is caught in the crush, his arms pinned to his sides, shunted towards the knight. Nor is the knight alone. His household men are together holding back the blue and white liveried tide.