you and yours will prosper.‖
Neville, watching, couldn‘t believe the depth of Hotspur‘s hatred and overweening
ambition. Bolingbroke was giving him every opportunity to back away, to plead some passing madness, and to retire home to his family.
And Hotspur was determined to refuse him.
―Don‘t do this, Harry,‖ Neville whispered, appalled at what Hotspur was about to set in
motion.
But Hotspur was intent on Bolingbroke, and did not hear Neville. ―I will not wait for the
knife in the back,‖ he said. ―This is Percy‘s time, Bolingbroke. Tomorrow will prove it. I have
twenty-one thousand battle-hardened men behind me. What do you have?‖
―Men who love me,‖ Bolingbroke said softly, then he swung his horse about and kicked
it into a canter.
He did not look back as he rode away.
―Tomorrow, mid-morning,‖ Hotspur said to Neville. ―Here. This field. Battlefield.‖
―Harry—‖
―I will see you dead, too,‖ Hotspur said. ―You should have pinned your hopes and
ambition with the House of Percy, Tom, not Lancaster.‖
Then he swung his horse about and galloped off.
Neville was left sitting his horse in the dry, dusty hot field, wondering at what friendship
had come to.
He raised his head, staring about, and fancied he could already hear the screams of the
dead and dying, and see the pools of hot blood soaking into the earth.
Thus ends all friendship, he thought, remembering his indulgent thoughts of the night
past, in the bitterness of bloody ambition. What will happen to Hal and myself?
IX
Tuesday 18th June 1381
The sea surged and receded, swollen and heavy. It pounded against the twin rocks of
ambition and resolve, dragging under men and horses, conscious but uncaring of their screaming
and dying. Overhead circled crows and ravens, dipping and soaring, riding the sea of death
below.
The battle raged.
The two forces met at nine of the clock in the morning. Hotspur had positioned his forces
atop a ridge, forcing King Hal to cross the ploughed field to meet him. Bolingbroke‘s forces
protected their advance with volley after volley of arrows, met with stoic shields and returning
arrow fire by Hotspur‘s force. Then the two forces met in a rolling thunderous shriek of steel
against steel and the scream of horses. The forces merged in a chaotic melee, swelling first this
way, then that, then in a different direction altogether as if, locked together, the two armies
formed one gigantic, convulsing animal.
For two hours they fought, roiling back and forth, the injured with nowhere to go but to
be sucked under the ocean of battling men, to be lost forever in the trampled dust of the depths.
Then, just after eleven of the clock, Hotspur called in the Scots he‘d been holding in
reserve. The Scots, several thousand strong, attacked from the western flank, slamming into the
twisted, muddled melee. Their faces were striped with war paint, their mouths open and gaping and shouting battle cries the like of which had never been heard below the border regions before.
Their impact carried the full force of their hatred for the English. Bolingbroke‘s army
faltered, stumbled, then rallied at Bolingbroke‘s scream of encouragement.
And then, disaster.
Neville was fighting close to Bolingbroke‘s side. Their section was doing well, advancing
slowly but steadily forward towards Hotspur‘s standard. Bolingbroke himself fought in a tight,
contained manner, wasting not a movement nor a breath, and killing with quiet efficiency. When
the Scots broke upon their left flank, Bolingbroke stood in his stirrups, rallying his army with his
extraordinary, clear voice, calling for calm and effort in the face of the new threat.
―I am your king!‖ he called. ―And with me at your head, nothing can deflect our
purpose!‖
At that exact moment, and just as Neville had twisted his head to stare towards
Bolingbroke, an arrow dipped out of the sky. It caught the sunlight, shimmering as if on fire, and
plummeted earthwards.
Bolingbroke himself seemed aware of it, for, as fate would have it, just before it struck he
raised his helmeted head and stared upwards.
The arrow sliced neatly into the right eye slot of his visor, shuddering as it impacted
― Hal! ‖ Neville screamed, digging spurs into his stallion as he twisted its head towards
Bolingbroke.
Bolingbroke wavered, once, twice, then toppled to one side.
Men screamed about him, several reaching to grab him before he fell to the ground.
Neville pushed through several ranks of fighting men, killing once or twice with
thoughtless swings of his sword, reaching Bolingbroke‘s side just as helping hands pushed him
back into his saddle.
―Hal,‖ Neville said again. ―Hal?‖
Bolingbroke had dropped both his sword and the reins of his horse, but as Neville spoke
he managed to wave one hand weakly, then pointed urgently to his helmet.
Neville looked about—ranks of Bolingbroke‘s personal guard had closed in around them.
They had a few minutes, at least.
Neville scabbarded his own sword, drew off his mailed gloves, and grabbed at
Bolingbroke‘s helmet.
The arrow still stuck obscenely out of the eye slot, and now blood bubbled forth, sliding
down Bolingbroke‘s visor.
―The king is murdered!‖ someone several paces distant screamed. ―The king is
murdered!‖
―The king is alive, damn you,‖ Neville shouted back, but the refrain had been taken up,
rolling through the ranks.
―The king is dead! The king is dead!‖
Neville‘s fingers fumbled with the straps of the helmet, but he had no idea how he could
get it off without perhaps fatally dislodging the arrow in Bolingbroke‘s face.
Please, sweet Jesu, not his eye. Not his eye.
But Bolingbroke took the decision, quite literally, out of Neville‘s hands.
As Neville fumbled with the helmet, Bolingbroke reached up with both his hands,
grabbed the arrow, and jerked it out.
Blood flooded out of the eye slot, and down his neck underneath the helmet.
―Jesu, Hal,‖ Neville hissed, then finally managed to lift the helmet away from
Bolingbroke‘s head and hand it to a man-at-arms standing by.
Neville grabbed at a torn piece of banner another man handed him, wiping away the
worst of the blood from Bolingbroke‘s face.
―Thank the Lord Christ,‖ Neville murmured. The arrow had narrowly missed
Bolingbroke‘s eye, embedding itself in the flesh above his right cheekbone.
―How deeply did it bite?‖ Neville said as Bolingbroke took the now blood-soaked rag
from him and held it firmly against the wound.
―Deep enough,‖ Bolingbroke said, wincing as he pressed hard against the wound. ―My
cheekbone is split asunder.‖
―Then your beauty is all but ruined,‖ Neville said, trying to grin, ―and the ladies shall be
desolate. Hal—‖
―I know, I know, I will speak in a moment. Here, find me something cleaner.‖
Neville tossed aside the bloodied rag, then handed Bolingbroke a larger and cleaner piece
of the banner. Bolingbroke pressed it against his cheek.
―There, that will do. It must. The surgeons can stitch it up once I win this field. No, don‘t
give me back the helmet. Men must see that it is I, alive. Where‘s my sword? Ah, thank you my
good man. Tom, I thank you also. Now you must take up your own sword, for I think I can see a
flock of black Scots fighting their way through to us.‖
Without further ado, Bolingbroke grabbed his sword, gave his cheek a final wipe, then
gathered up the reins of his stallion.
―Men of England!‖ he shouted across the battlefield. ―Think you that an arrow could
harm me? That a mere arrow could strike me from my throne? Here I am! Bloodied, but only
into a prettier picture of the warrior king. Men of England, the traitor‘s chance has come and
gone. Take up your swords and bows once more, one final time, and seize the victory that fate
has handed us!‖
And so saying, he plunged back into the fray.
Bolingbroke‘s words, coming so instantly after his men had thought him dead, galvanised
them as nothing else could have done. There rode their king, fighting like a berserker deep into
the enemy lines as if uncaring of his own safety.
Nothing could harm him. Nothing could stop him.
The sight gave them added strength at the same time it sapped the resolve of their
enemies, and within minutes Bolingbroke‘s force had turned the tide of the battle. The fighting
continued in the tumbled, chaotic manner that it had been fought thus far, but now both the Scots
and the northern Englishmen fighting for Hotspur fell back just that little more easily, and fell
maimed or dead just that little more quickly than they had previously.
Neville stuck to Bolingbroke‘s back, defending him as best he could. They were fighting
halfway up the slope of the ridge now, and Neville could see that Hotspur‘s standard fluttered
but a few paces away.
―Hal!‖ he gasped.
―I know,‖ he heard Bolingbroke reply.
―He will try to escape,‖ Neville said.
―No,‖ came the soft response. ―I think that is the last thing that Hotspur will do.‖