Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) Read Online Free
Author: Conn Iggulden
in. Papers in a corner flung themselves into the air like birds, escaping the lead weights that held them down.
As the entrance yawned open, the brothers looked outon a night scene that might have been a painting of hell. St Albans lay just to the south of them. Before the town, in the torchlit dark, ten thousand men worked all around that spot, building defences in three great armoured ‘battles’ of men. Fires and forges stretched in all directions, like the stars above, though they gave a sullen light. Rain fell across that multitude in gusts and swooping slaps of damp, delighting in their misery. Over its noise could be heard the shouts of men, bowed down under beams and weights, driving lowing oxen as they heaved carts along the tracks.
Warwick felt his two brothers come to his side, staring out with him. Perhaps two hundred round tents formed the heart of the camp, all facing north, from where they knew Queen Margaret’s army would come.
Warwick had been returning from Kent when he’d heard of his father’s death at Sandal. He’d had a month and a half from that hard day to prepare for the queen’s army. She wanted her husband, Warwick knew that well enough. For all Henry’s blank eyes and frailty, he was the king still. There was but one crown and one man to rule, even if he knew nothing of it.
‘Every time the sun rises, I see new strips of spikes and ditches and …’
Bishop George Neville waved his hand, lacking the words to describe the tools and machines of death his brother had gathered. The rows of cannon were just a part of it. Warwick had consulted the armouries in London, seeking out any vicious device that had ever proved its worth in war – back to the seven kingdoms of the Britons and the Roman invaders. Their combined gaze swept out across spiked nets, caltrops, ditch traps and towers. It was a field of death, ready for a great host to come against it.
2
Margaret stood at the door of her tent, watching her son fight a local lad. No one had any idea where the black-eyed urchin had come from, but he had fastened himself to Edward’s side and now they rolled with sticks held like swords, clacking and grunting on the damp ground. The struggling pair crashed against a rack of weapons and shields, bright-coloured in the twilight, with the breeze catching the banners of a dozen lords.
Margaret saw Derry Brewer approach, her spymaster looking fit as he jogged through the long grass. They had chosen a meadow for that day’s camp, close by a river and with few hills in sight. Fifteen thousand men were just about a city on the move, with all the horses, carts and equipment taking up a vast space. In late summer, they would have stripped orchards and walled gardens, but there was little to steal as February began. The fields were dark, life hidden deep. The men had begun to look like beggars as their clothes wore to rags and their bellies and muscles wasted away. No one fought in winter, unless it was to rescue a king. The reason was all around her, in the frosted earth.
Derry Brewer reached the entrance of the queen’s tent and bowed. Margaret raised a hand to make him wait and he turned to observe the Prince of Wales vanquishing his opponent, knocking the weaker boy on to his back. The other lad screeched like a cat being strangled.
Neither Derry nor the queen said anything to interrupt and Prince Edward changed his grip on the stick and jabbed it past the boy’s defence, sinking it hard into his chest. The boy curled up and lost all interest while the prince raised his stick like a lance, cupping one hand and mimicking a wolf. Derry grinned at him, both amused and surprised. The boy’s royal father had not shown an ounce of martial fervour his entire life, and yet there was the son, feeling the rush of excitement that came only from standing over a beaten man. Derry remembered the feeling well. He saw Edward reach down to help the other boy to his feet and spoke quickly.
‘Prince
As the entrance yawned open, the brothers looked outon a night scene that might have been a painting of hell. St Albans lay just to the south of them. Before the town, in the torchlit dark, ten thousand men worked all around that spot, building defences in three great armoured ‘battles’ of men. Fires and forges stretched in all directions, like the stars above, though they gave a sullen light. Rain fell across that multitude in gusts and swooping slaps of damp, delighting in their misery. Over its noise could be heard the shouts of men, bowed down under beams and weights, driving lowing oxen as they heaved carts along the tracks.
Warwick felt his two brothers come to his side, staring out with him. Perhaps two hundred round tents formed the heart of the camp, all facing north, from where they knew Queen Margaret’s army would come.
Warwick had been returning from Kent when he’d heard of his father’s death at Sandal. He’d had a month and a half from that hard day to prepare for the queen’s army. She wanted her husband, Warwick knew that well enough. For all Henry’s blank eyes and frailty, he was the king still. There was but one crown and one man to rule, even if he knew nothing of it.
‘Every time the sun rises, I see new strips of spikes and ditches and …’
Bishop George Neville waved his hand, lacking the words to describe the tools and machines of death his brother had gathered. The rows of cannon were just a part of it. Warwick had consulted the armouries in London, seeking out any vicious device that had ever proved its worth in war – back to the seven kingdoms of the Britons and the Roman invaders. Their combined gaze swept out across spiked nets, caltrops, ditch traps and towers. It was a field of death, ready for a great host to come against it.
2
Margaret stood at the door of her tent, watching her son fight a local lad. No one had any idea where the black-eyed urchin had come from, but he had fastened himself to Edward’s side and now they rolled with sticks held like swords, clacking and grunting on the damp ground. The struggling pair crashed against a rack of weapons and shields, bright-coloured in the twilight, with the breeze catching the banners of a dozen lords.
Margaret saw Derry Brewer approach, her spymaster looking fit as he jogged through the long grass. They had chosen a meadow for that day’s camp, close by a river and with few hills in sight. Fifteen thousand men were just about a city on the move, with all the horses, carts and equipment taking up a vast space. In late summer, they would have stripped orchards and walled gardens, but there was little to steal as February began. The fields were dark, life hidden deep. The men had begun to look like beggars as their clothes wore to rags and their bellies and muscles wasted away. No one fought in winter, unless it was to rescue a king. The reason was all around her, in the frosted earth.
Derry Brewer reached the entrance of the queen’s tent and bowed. Margaret raised a hand to make him wait and he turned to observe the Prince of Wales vanquishing his opponent, knocking the weaker boy on to his back. The other lad screeched like a cat being strangled.
Neither Derry nor the queen said anything to interrupt and Prince Edward changed his grip on the stick and jabbed it past the boy’s defence, sinking it hard into his chest. The boy curled up and lost all interest while the prince raised his stick like a lance, cupping one hand and mimicking a wolf. Derry grinned at him, both amused and surprised. The boy’s royal father had not shown an ounce of martial fervour his entire life, and yet there was the son, feeling the rush of excitement that came only from standing over a beaten man. Derry remembered the feeling well. He saw Edward reach down to help the other boy to his feet and spoke quickly.
‘Prince
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