Revenge Read Online Free PDF Page B

common men would rather cut off their sword-hands than harm His Majesty. To fight against Buckingham or Somerset is one thing, but the King himself…”
    He went back to studying the land to the west. Somewhere over there, advancing along the road to Ludlow, was the King’s army. Parts of the road had been flooded, but still the Lancastrians advanced remorselessly, determined to run their foe to earth.
    York did some swift mental calculation. The results were not encouraging. He had some eight thousand men, made up of his own retinues, those of his two sons Edward and Edmund, the Earls of Salisbury and Warwick, and two lesser barons. There should have been more, but York’s ally Lord Herbert had failed to bring up his promised reinforcements from Wales.
    The Lancastrians, according to the dire reports of the Yorkist scouts, numbered over twice that many. Most of the great peers of England had rallied to the King’s banner, including the Dukes of Buckingham, Somerset and Exeter, the Earls of Shrewsbury, Devon and Wiltshire, and others. All with their fee’d and liveried retainers, as well as masses of conscripts and enthused volunteers.
    “Take heart, lord,” said Warwick, who seemed determined to remain cheerful. “The enemy may have the numbers, but we have the men of Calais.”
    York rubbed his face, considering. The rain pattered on his harness, trickling into the joints and aggravating the rheumatism in his limbs. At forty-eight he was no longer young, and a life of almost ceaseless military activity had taken its toll. His body suffered from the brunts and scrapes of combat, stretched tendons and torn muscles that never healed properly. On top of that, he was getting slow. One day, he knew, he would fail to duck or parry in time.
    Irritating as Warwick was, the young nobleman spoke sense. The garrison of Calais was the only official English standing army, and their captain, Andrew Trollope, reckoned the most able soldier in the realm. They were Warwick’s men, in his capacity as Constable of Calais: six hundred well-armed and trained veterans, and more than a match for anything in the King’s army. If only there were a few more of them.
    York looked at his banners drooping in the rain, so many coloured rags hanging wetly off crooked poles, and sighed. Somehow, in his bid to oust the Queen’s party, reform the failing government and become the dominant power in England, he had lost the initiative. Now God had brought him to this miserable pass.
    “I’m away to supper,” he said, turning his horse. “Keep watch here, and send word when the King’s banners are sighted.”
    Warwick saluted, rather too ostentatiously for York’s liking, and remained at his post while the Duke rode off in search of food and warmth.
    York was ensconced in his tent, devouring the remains of an overcooked capon in the company of his sons, when Warwick’s father, the Earl of Salisbury, interrupted their meal.
    “The royalist van is sighted, lord,” he said, poking his head through the tent-flap, his ageing, crumpled features dripping wet and pale with consternation. “They have halted a mile beyond the redoubt, and are waiting for the rest of their host to come up.”
    “We must attack at once!” cried Edward, his harness clanking as he shot to his feet, upsetting the table. He was a muscular fair-haired giant, just seventeen, and a clear head taller than his father.“Scatter their vanguard to the winds, and then fall on and smash the main body.”
    His younger brother Edmund clapped his hands in approval. He was more like their father in appearance, dark-haired and rather short, but just as belligerent as his sibling. He hero-worshipped Edward and followed him about like a devoted puppy.
    York swiftly doused their enthusiasm. “So you two master tacticians would abandon our redoubt,” he said, “and throw away our strength, such as it is, against an enemy superior in numbers and arms, who our men are reluctant to fight.