Free Margaret of Anjou by Conn Iggulden

hand off your sword.”
    “I have said I will have satisfaction,” Somerset grated in reply, his face flushing.
    York chuckled, though the tension in the room made it sound false.
    “You are mistaken, but your threat is a crime I cannot forgive. Guards!” He raised his voice at the end, startling those around him. Two heavyset men entered on the instant, drawing blades as soon as they saw the rigid scene before them. York addressed the parliamentary soldiers without looking away from Somerset for an instant.
    “Arrest Lord Somerset. He has threatened the person of the Protector. I’m sure investigation will reveal some deeper plot against the throne and those who serve it.”
    Somerset moved at last, drawing his sword in one smooth motion and lunging over the width of the table with it. His reach was extraordinary and York threw himself back, crashing into the wall behind him so that dry plaster rained down in spirals from the ceiling. In wonder, he raised a hand to his face and looked at the fingers, half expecting to see blood. Yet the guards had lurched for Somerset even as he moved, grappling him and spoiling his blow. As he struggled, they took his sword and jerked his arm behind his back, making him growl in pain.
    “You fool, Edmund,” York said, his own anger swelling. “You will be taken from here along the Thames to the Tower. I do not think I shall see you again, while charges are prepared. I will send news of your arrest to the queen, in Windsor. I do not doubt she will be distraught to lose one so
very
well loved.”
    Somerset was dragged away, still roaring and struggling. York wiped sweat from his forehead. He waved a hand at the parchment on the table.
    “Have that taken to Windsor, to be read and given to King Henry. God knows, he will not hear the words, but it must be done, even so.”
    York gathered himself then, raising his head and striding out into the warm air of Westminster Palace. The other lords traipsed out behind him without a word.
    —
    B ARON E GREMONT RODE HARD at the Neville center. He knew only too well that he was utterly committed to destroying the wedding party. Even with the Percy arms scrubbed out or covered, his archers had drawn first blood and gone on to kill half a dozen of the Neville knights and men-at-arms. No quiet withdrawal would be allowed after that, no second chance. He could see Earl Salisbury’s fury written on his face as Egremont cantered in. The Neville earl was surrounded by his best warriors, swinging his sword left and right as he pointed with it and yelled to alter the formation. Thomas guided his horse straight at the older man, his shield and sword feeling light in his hands. He had trained for this. He had brought seven hundred against less than a third as many. He would have them down before the sun reached noon.
    All along the line, Percy and Neville horsemen crashed against each other and through, whipping past in thumping blows that left one or both reeling and dazed. It was a frightening moment for the Percy knights, as they struck and were carried on by their own speed, shoved away from those who rode with them. Horses slowed against the solid mass of Neville men and suddenly Percy warriors were at a standstill, hacking and blocking, their mounts kicking out at anyone milling around their legs.
    Thomas slashed wildly at the first Neville knight he faced. The man dodged so sharply that his sword glanced across a plate, scoring a spiral shaving of bright metal. Thomas yelped as his left leg was struck with a clang, instantly numb as he slid past the man he was trying to kill. He heard the knight’s growled curse, but neither of them could turn back. Two more faced Thomas and, beyond them, he could see Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury.
    “Balion, strike afore!” Thomas roared, feeling his huge horse bunch under him as it responded. It had taken him almost a year to train the animal not to rear to its full height, as it might have done against