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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

He points eastwards, with that bow of his, which Thomas notices is not so fine as he’d first thought, but weighted wrong, top heavy, rushed from the bowyer’s bench perhaps. Perers points it towards the tree on their right flank, where the ground rises.

‘You sure?’

‘No. I said. Hey. Where are you going?’

Thomas is up and running, up the slope towards the King’s right flank, across the fields towards where Fauconberg’s blue and white fishtailed banner is held aloft at the back. Before he has gone far his way is barred by more men moving up the slope in a block and behind them, coming up from the village, many more in blue and white livery. The reserve, held in blocks, is waiting for the order that means it is their turn.

And already the wounded are starting to emerge from the battles, dragged clear by their fellows, making their unsteady ways back, down towards the village. What are they hoping for? Is there a hospital there? Thomas has no idea. A party of men carry their wounded commander sitting on a chair made of polearms. He is gasping and rolling his eyes with the pain of some unseen wound, and all the while he thumps one of his bearers’ shoulder, as if this helps. More bloodied men keep coming, with dented plate, their faces sordid with blood: one with his arm pinned stiff to his chest; another with no helmet, his eyes startlingly white in a face dark with blood from his opened scalp; another staggering in loops as if drunk, unable to get his balance until at length he crashes headlong to the ground, and no one moves to help.

Above them arrows wicker through the air, so light in the sky, so heavy on impact. They fall everywhere, anywhere, all the time, any time. Men who one moment are doing one thing are suddenly doing another as they stagger and bellow; others are knocked flat. Some are instantly still; others flail at their wounds and scream for their mothers, their wives, for the help of the saints. Survivors step over them.

Thomas hurries on. Archers in Fauconberg’s livery are gathered on the slope behind his men-at-arms, and they’ve started returning speculative volleys over their own men’s heads, trying to drop their arrows through the slanting sleet into the northerners’ faces. They’ll be aiming for the flags and the banners, hoping to hit the commanders. His own men must refresh themselves and then begin to join Fauconberg’s, drawing and loosing, drawing and loosing . . .