Free Margaret of Anjou by Conn Iggulden Page A

another stallion. Instead, Balion rose and lunged almost in the same moment, barely leaving the ground before its front hooves punched out against the horses ahead.
    God knew, Balion would have led any herd in the wild. The massive destrier needed no urging and the danger was only in losing control when it began to buck and smash. Thomas saw movement behind him and roared “Strike back!” as he parried a blow with his shield. He heard a shriek cut short as Balion hammered a rear foot against some unseen assailant. Thomas found himself laughing in his helmet, exulting in the damage he could do with just a word.
    “And
steady
!” he called to the excited stallion, though Balion still pranced and skittered, snorting and wanting to rear once more. As the huge beast settled, Thomas took a heavy impact on his backplate. He rose in his stirrups to give him height as he swung with all his might in reply. Thomas shouted in triumph as his heavy sword cut a great gash in a knight’s side, sending blood spraying over lips of torn metal. It was not a mortal wound, but the Neville man fell sideways, losing his grip on the saddle. One leg flailed and kicked upside down, while the other was held by a twisted stirrup. Lord Egremont watched in delight as a man who had faced him in battle was dragged from the field by his bolting mount.
    Something crashed against his helmet then. Thomas grunted in pain, cutting back automatically as his vision blurred. He could hear the tumult all along the line and, with a touch of guilt, he hoped Trunning was out there, keeping a cool head. There was no chance to oversee the fighting, not from the thick of it. Those around him pressed with savage vigor, denting and scarring his armor, aiming to break the metal joints or stab and slash at Balion so that the animal’s fall would bring him down.
    For a time, it felt as if they could not touch him. His armor was good, thicker and harder than the wrought-iron pieces worn by poorer knights. God knew, it hurt to be struck, but Thomas was encased, protected, while others fell to his swinging sword. Salisbury seemed to have vanished in the press, but Thomas saw him again and dug razor spurs into the gashes on Balion’s flanks, making fresh blood flow. The stallion leaped forward, crashing over two axemen who had come creeping through the ranks of horse. They hardly had time to raise their weapons before they were kicked down and trampled. Thomas had eyes only for his uncle then, his expression wild inside the visor. His head still rang from a blow and he could taste blood in his mouth, but his father would hear if Thomas took the head of the Neville clan himself. The Percy family might not be able to trumpet a victory of hedge knights, but his father would know he had sent the right son.
    “Salisbury!” Thomas shouted, seeing the older man twist in his saddle to see who called his name. The Neville wore no chestplate or armor beyond an iron gorget. His shield was unmarked still, as no one had reached him through his guards. Perhaps because their master was so ill equipped, those men clustered close around him, losing half a dozen from the fray to protect the earl they served. It was all to the good. Thomas could see the numbers were beginning to tell. Trunning’s terrible hoarse voice could be heard somewhere on his right, ordering men against the flanks. It would not be too long, Thomas realized, before he was master of the field, the victor for his house.
    “Percy!” Salisbury spat back in his direction. Thomas almost yanked on his reins in shock, a momentary hesitation that had Richard Neville showing his teeth. “Of course, a Percy son! Who else would ride without colors and attack a wedding? Which of you honorless whelps is it? Henry? Thomas? Raise your visor, man, that I may put my sword through that ugly Percy beak.”
    With a wild shout, Thomas dug in his spurs once more and Balion lunged in. He could hear the Neville lord laughing as his way was