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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

He pulls off his gloves, holds out his hands, each palm stained with blood, some his own, some belonging to others, and the snowflakes melt on them, thinning the blood. His greaves are splashed royal purple where blood has hardened in a glaze and there are shreds of something else caught in the web of his sabatons. One boot is filled with warm liquid, and his toes swim in it, though whether this is blood or water, he cannot say.

At length he stands, picks up his gloves and finds a hammer lying bloodied in the snow.

‘You all right, mate?’ someone asks.

Thomas ignores him. He wonders what time of day it is, and how long they have been fighting. He wonders that there are still more men left to kill, and still more men willing to kill them. But here they are, more of them, and still more of them, moving up from the village, fresh men, yet to fight, though it seems that that is all he has been doing all day. That is all everybody has been doing all day.

But now the din of it seems to have faded, and as Thomas stumbles eastwards, he sees events as if through a pane of thick glass. Men are blurred and then sharp, their sounds are muffled and then loud, and even the sleet takes on a curious sort of beauty. He is warm, for the first time since he can remember, and as he walks gradually everything is suffused with a golden aura, as if leaking sunlight. He’s stopped shivering, he realises, and he walks on, no weapons to burden him, even his greaves and sabatons turned so light and easy to walk in. And his jack too, which has been stiff with damp and dirt for a month or more, now seems like a linen chemise floating lightly on his shoulders.

It occurs to him that perhaps he is dying.

A priest passes him and starts murmuring something but Thomas laughs and makes the sign of the cross in the air as if he were blessing a congregation and he feels light enough to dance away from the priest, and a little farther on he notices blood is dripping from his fingers and that he cannot really move them, and then he thinks that this does not matter anyway.