Free Margaret of Anjou by Conn Iggulden Page B

blocked. For the first time, Thomas found himself matched by men as skilled as he was. No, he realized, overmatched by their sword arms. He could not force his way through and, all the time, the old bastard hooted, for all the world an echo of his father’s derision that made his sight turn red and his ears rush with blood until it felt like sea-waves breaking. Thomas blinked against blood running from some gash high on his head. The helmet was well padded, but a blow from a heavy mace had dented in a sharp edge that ground against his skull like he was being trepanned. His breath labored hot against the breathing holes and still he swung and snapped at Balion to strike, though the beast was flinging froth from its bit and losing strength from blood sheeting down its ribs.
    In among the feet of the struggling knights, gray axemen had reached the fighting. The wounds they caused were horrific, striking at the legs of horses to send men tumbling with their screaming animals. On the ground, armored knights were dazed and vulnerable until they could stand once more. The fight had become a savage mêlée, neither side giving way. Percy soldiers still swarmed in greater numbers, but Thomas saw too many of them cut down by Salisbury’s men. The Neville’s personal guard were both burly and quick, oath-sworn to protect their master and armored as well as Thomas himself. When those men came against ax-wielding smiths and butchers, they went through them in quick, chopping blows.
    The fighting coalesced around the raging center—those who were bred and trained for such work, who had built their wind and muscle to fight all day. Armor was vital to withstand the crushing blows that came from all sides as men fought and tore sinews, wrenching limbs and joints to hammer the enemy in a frenzy. Those who had no such protection fell like wheat to the scythe, the white grasses rolled flat by dying men. All the time, the sun continued to rise above them, bringing heat that had knights gasping like birds, their mouths open in their helmets, so that their teeth clashed and broke against the iron when they were struck.
    After less than an hour, the fighting lost its manic, jerking pace. Stamina alone began to decide who would live or die as each pair or three met and fought and staggered on. Most of the Percy townsmen had been killed by then, or bore such savage wounds that they could only limp and wander back, holding arms and stomachs that were bloody ruin. The Neville guards had been reduced to no more than eighty men, surrounded by twice as many in good armor.
    Thomas could barely raise his head as he sat Balion some way back, taking stock of the progress and scowling at the seemingly inexhaustible energy of Trunning. He could see the swordmaster riding up and down the Percy line, exhorting fading men to greater efforts. Thomas tried to clench his right hand in a gauntlet that dripped blood from some unseen wound. The first sharp agony of his gouged scalp had faded to a dull throbbing. Even Balion’s great armored head was dipping toward the long grasses and, as far as Thomas could tell, Salisbury still lived. Thomas clenched his jaw in frustration. He hadn’t seen the man’s son, the groom, at any stage of the fighting. The dead lay all around that field, but those who had fallen were all retainers of the houses, with not a single name between them.
    Thomas tried to summon the energy to go in again, needing only to imagine his father’s scorn to prick his spirits from their drowsy stupor. He could see Trunning gesturing at him out of the corner of his eye and it was the implication that he hung back from fear that truly gave him the will to attack once more. Calling him in, like a reluctant schoolboy! Thomas only wished some Neville would cut Trunning’s foul head from his shoulders.
There
was a name he would like to leave on the field, even if it was the only one.
    As he trotted back to the fighting, Thomas felt Balion stumble,