AS BOLINGBROKE had foretold, so it had come to pass. Richard and his twenty-five thousand approached the castle at sunset, and, as the leading unit had neared the castle itself, Bolingbroke gave the signal for the gates to open and the marsh-hidden archers to reveal themselves.
He and Neville, fully armored and helmeted, were at the head of the horsemen who rode out of Flint Castle along the causeway toward the leading ranks of Richard’s army, and Neville felt a fierce delight at the prospect of the fight.
True, they would be fighting their own countrymen, but countrymen who bowed their heads at a demon’s orders, and who had thus forfeited the right to pity.
Then there was no time for thought or introspection, for Bolingbroke and Neville, their command at their backs, rode straight into Wiltshire’s front units.
Despite his surprise at the ambush, Wiltshire put up a spirited defense. Neville found himself trading hard, vicious blows to left and right, parrying here, thrusting there, feeling the sweat of battle trickle underneath his helmet within the opening moments of the engagement.
The heat rose beneath his armor, and he fought with both hands about the hilt of his great sword, controlling his stallion with only the pressure of his knees.
His breath came quicker, harsher, echoing in the metallic confines of his helmet.
There was a man behind him, but Neville somehow knew he was there, and turned, weaving his body to one side as he did so.
The sword stroke meant for his head swept uselessly through the air.
Neville swung his own sword in a great arc, all the strength of his body behind it, and just for a moment he saw its blade catch fire in the setting sun… and then saw the fire vanish and felt the jolt through his arms and shoulders as the sword buried itself in his assailant’s throat.
The dying man toppled from his horse, and Neville screamed for joy as he wrenched his sword free of the man’s flesh.
How had he ever thought to give this up for the Church? This was how he served both God and man best, with his sword in the heat of the battle. This is to what his life had directed him, all these years.
Using his voice and knees, he swung his horse about, and buried his sword in the momentarily exposed lower spine of the horseman next to him.
AS NEVILLE fought, consumed with the battle-fury of the berserker, Bolingbroke cut a path through to Wiltshire.
Wiltshire struck at him with his sword, but Bolingbroke parried the blow with ease, sliding his sword down Wiltshire’s and thrusting it to one side with the strength of his younger muscles.
As he did so, Bolingbroke dropped the reins of his stallion from his other hand, and lifted the visor of his helmet.
“For Christ’s sake, man,” he screamed at Wiltshire. “What need is there for us to kill each other? What is the point, when this could be solved through talk? Tell your men to lay down their swords … now! There is no need for this slaughter to continue.”
Wiltshire, his forehead bloodied where someone had caught him a glancing blow, stared at Bolingbroke. Then he hefted his sword, threw it to the ground, and shouted at his men to lay down their weapons, Bolingbroke doing the same to his command an instant later.
“I thank you,” Bolingbroke said to him quietly, as the sounds of fighting about them quieted.
“Where is Richard?”
Wiltshire jerked his head back down the causeway. “Some fifty or sixty men behind me.”
Bolingbroke nodded, then looked about for Neville. “Tom. Tom? Ah, there you are. Come,
follow me.”
Neville was close by, the visor of his own helmet now raised.
Beneath it his face was flushed and sweat-stained, his brown eyes bright with his remaining battle-lust. He had only lowered his sword with reluctance, and with the greatest of effort, when he’d heard Wiltshire and then Bolingbroke command their men to cease the fight.
He took a deep breath, calming himself, then pushed his horse after Bolingbroke, who was riding down the causeway.
They had gone only a few paces when they saw de Vere’s horse leap over the archers, then drop dying into the marsh with its belly bristling with arrows.
De Vere struggled to his feet, but, just as the archers aimed, Bolingbroke shouted, “Leave him! Leave him!”
Neville pushed his horse close to Bolingbroke’s. “Leave him? What mean you? That is the man who raped—”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Bolingbroke hissed. “Sweet Jesu. Tom, we shall have our revenge, believe me.”
They locked eyes, then after a moment Neville looked away, and Bolingbroke nodded. “Good.
Now, follow me.”
They rode at a slow trot down the causeway. There was a clear space of some twenty or thirty paces dividing the battle that had taken place at the very top of the column, and the section about Richard that had tried to turn and flee.
Now, as Bolingbroke and Neville rode toward them, the men about Richard stilled, not knowing how to act.
Behind them, Richard’s army, some on the causeway, some spread about the nearby fields, waited for orders.
Their eyes slid to the man on the white stallion riding toward Richard, and now to Richard himself, sitting his horse in the center of the causeway.
They waited, their breath still in their throats, for someone to tell them what to do.
The men about Richard drew their horses to one side as Bolingbroke approached.
Richard, still pale with shock at de Vere’s action, nevertheless managed a sneer as Bolingbroke reined his stallion to a halt two paces away.
He sat at the head of an army twenty-five thousand strong, for the Lord God’s sake, and Bolingbroke had nothing hut a few hundred pitiful archers.
“You can order your longbowmen to put a score of arrows through my throat, Richard said, his voice low and even, “but you, too, will be dead within the instant. Do you think that England will stand for your treachery?”
Bolingbroke stared at him. “You fool,” he said, “I am England.”
And then he raised his hand, and a peculiar light came into his eyes, and time stilled, and all faded from the marshes and causeway and fields but Bolingbroke, sitting there on his horse, all white and gold in the sunset.
CHAPTER IV
The day before the Vigil of the
Feast of SS. Egidius and Priscus
In the second year of the reign of Richard II
(Thursday 30th August 1380)
— II —
DE VERE WADED through the marshes, the arm of his wounded shoulder held tightly against his chest. He had broken off the major portion of the shaft of the arrow that had hit him, but the head and a good four inches of the shaft was embedded within the wound, and it gnawed its way deeper into de Vere’s flesh with every movement he made.
The pain was agonizing, but de Vere tried to put it out of his mind, concentrating on moving away from the archers as fast as possible. But, even though de Vere was a strong man, his speed was little more than a jerking crawl for there was almost nothing but water and sludge beneath his feet, and in some places de Vere found himself sinking up to mid-thigh in mud.
Behind him the sounds of the battle had stilled, and de Vere struggled the more, believing that at any moment the archers would be following him.
Or at least, sending their arrows plunging after him.
He fell, ten times, perhaps a score of times, and each time he had to lurch and struggle in order to free himself from the marsh’s grip his shoulder flared in agony: de Vere had torn free several portions of reed to bite down on to stop himself crying out with the pain.
He struggled on, hardly aware of time passing, until, suddenly, de Vere realized that not only had he completely lost his bearings, but that he could no longer hear any sound but his own harsh breathing. De Vere stopped, trying to orient himself. His strength was draining fast, and he knew that he had to somehow find dry land before he collapsed completely.
He raised his right hand to clutch at his wounded shoulder.
It felt cold, and slimy.
He cursed foully. Then he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to expel the pain with his exhalations.
After a while he blinked, wiped mud from his face, and looked about. Surely he should be almost to dry land by now? Weren’t the fields—and Richard’s army—in this direction?
But he could see little through the thick, head-high reeds.
He stilled, trying to breathe softly, and listened.
There was nothing but the soft sounds of birds, and the croak of frogs.
Why had no one followed him?
“Didn’t want to get their feet wet,” de Vere said with as much sarcasm as he could muster.