Free Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) by Conn Iggulden

and he began at first to hum and then to sing a simple folk song, almost to the rhythm of the marching ranks.
    Sir Kyriell cleared his throat, going a deeper shade of red.
    ‘Your Grace, though that is a fine, strong tune, perhaps it is not suited for today. It is too sweet for soldiers’ ears, I think. Certes too sweet for mine.’
    The knight was sweating as the king laughed and continued to sing. The chorus was close and no song should be denied its chorus – old Kyriell would see that when he heard it.
    ‘And
when
the green is seen again, and the larks give song to
spring
…’
    One of the passing men in armour turned his head at the sound of a cheerful voice in such a place. The fighting was not far ahead, with screams and rushing arrows and the clamour of metal on metal mingling with men’s growling voices. They knew that music well, all of them. The high tenor calling out a song of spring was enough to make the knight rein in and raise his helmet.
    Sir Edwin de Lise felt his heart thump beneath his breastplate as he stared beneath the stark oak branches. The great tree looked dead, but it spread in twisting boughs for fifty feet in all directions, waiting for the green to return. At the foot of a massive trunk, two knights stood to flank one man, with their swords drawn and resting on the ground before them. They resembled stone effigies, still and dignified.
    Sir Edwin had seen King Henry once before, at Kenilworth, though at a distance. With care, he dismounted and pulled the reins over his horse’s head to lead the animal. As he ducked under the outermost branches, the knight removed his helmet completely, revealing a young face, flushed with awe. Sir Edwin was blond and wore a straggling moustache and beard, gone untrimmed for an age on the march and the campaign. He tucked the helmet under his arm and approached the three men, seeing tension in the pair who flanked their unarmoured charge. Sir Edwin noted the dirt that marred clothes of great quality.
    ‘King Henry … ?’ he murmured in wonder. ‘Your Majesty?’
    Henry broke off his singing at the words. He looked up, his eyes as blank as a child’s.
    ‘Yes? Have you come to take me to confession?’
    ‘Your Grace, if you will permit it, I will take you to your wife, Queen Margaret – and to your son.’
    If the knight had expected a rush of gratitude, he was disappointed. Henry tilted his head, frowning.
    ‘And Abbot Whethamstede? For my confession.’
    ‘Of course, Your Grace, whatever is your will,’ Sir Edwin replied. He looked up, sensing a subtle shift in the way the older knight stood.
    Sir Kyriell shook his head slowly.
    ‘I cannot let you take him.’
    Sir Edwin was twenty-two years old and certain of his strength and right.
    ‘Don’t be a fool, sir. Look around you,’ he said. ‘I am Sir Edwin de Lise of Bristol. What is your name?’
    ‘Sir Thomas Kyriell. My companion is Sir William Bonville.’
    ‘You are men of honour?’
    The question drew a spark of anger from Sir Kyriell’s eyes, but he smiled even so.
    ‘I have been called so, lad, yes.’
    ‘I see. Yet you hold the
rightful king
of England as a prisoner. Give His Grace into my care and I will see him returned to his family and his loyal lords. Or I must kill you.’
    Sir Kyriell sighed, feeling his age in the face of the younger man’s simple faith.
    ‘I gave my word I would not give him up. I cannot do as you ask.’
    He knew the blow was coming before it began. A more experienced warrior than the young man might have called for support from the ranks, perhaps even a few archers togrant him overwhelming force. Yet in his youth and power, Sir Edwin de Lise had not imagined a future where he could possibly fail.
    As Sir Edwin began to draw his sword, Kyriell stepped in quickly and jammed a narrow blade into his throat, then stepped back with sorrow written deep in the lines of his face. The young knight’s sword clicked back into its scabbard. The two stared at