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

each other, Sir Edwin’s eyes widening in shock as he felt his warm blood spilling and his breath spattering droplets from his throat.
    ‘I am truly sorry, Sir Edwin de Lise of Bristol,’ Kyriell said softly. ‘Go to God now. I will pray for your soul.’
    The action had not gone unnoticed. As Sir Edwin fell with a crash, voices shouted in anger and warning. Those walking by were ready to fight, their pulses racing, their faces flushed. They were like wild dogs scenting blood in the air, and yet they did not rush the grey-haired figure in silver armour glaring at them all. More than a few of those men chose to look away from him, leaving the task to another. Yet there were enough. Men with billhooks stepped out and approached the tree, rushing the armoured knight who had killed one of theirs. Above them all, it began to rain, sheeting down across the field and making them all cold and sodden in an instant.
    Sir Thomas Kyriell did not raise his sword again. In grief and shame, he only turned his head a fraction to present his neck, so that the first swinging blow struck him dead. His companion struggled and roared until he was battered from his feet and his throat gorget hammered in with an axe-handle, so that Sir William Bonville choked to death in his armour.
    Resting one shoulder against the oak, King Henry shiveredslightly, though it was the cold and the rain that raised his skin like a Christmas goose. He watched the deaths of his captors with no more horror or interest than he would have shown at the plucking of such a bird for the table. When the violence came to an end and those present turned to him, the king asked quietly once again to be taken to the abbot for confession. More senior men came then to bear him away, awed by their fortune. They had come to rescue the king and he had fallen into their hands in the first moments of the fighting. If there had ever been a sign that God was on the side of Lancaster, it was surely then.
    John Neville, Lord Montagu, staggered, breathing so hard he could feel his lungs curling like kidneys on a spit. There was blood running in veins on his armour, sliding and changing paths in the oil. He looked at the lines of red in confusion, slowly recalling a great blow that had rung his bell for him. Sparks of white shone at the edges of his vision, fading as the noise of fighting returned. One of his personal guard was staring at him, pointing to his eye.
    ‘Can you see, my lord?’ the man was asking, his voice oddly muffled.
    John nodded irritably. Of course he could see! He shook himself again and saw that his shield had fallen to the ground. The rain was turning everything to mud, but the fighting went on. Montagu blinked, the dimness fading away, to be replaced by cries and clashes. He understood he’d taken some sort of blow to his helmet. He could see it by his feet, with a great dent in its crest and dome. Montagu looked up as a boy skidded to a stop at his feet. He’d come through marching lines like a rabbit through gorse, holding a spare helmet up to his lord and master.
    The boy bowed his head as he presented the polished helm, panting visibly.
    ‘Thank you,’ Montagu managed.
    He jammed it down over his head, feeling blood unstick from his cheek and fresh pain sharpen him further. He drew his sword and looked at the blade, standing perfectly still while all around him the forces of the queen pushed on and on.
    ‘My lord,
please
, come with me now. We must fall back for a time.’
    The knight had taken him by the elbow and was tugging at him. Montagu shook him off, feeling weak but angry once again. He swallowed vomit, almost choking on it as it rose without warning into his throat, burning the inside of his nose. Head wounds were strange things. He’d known one man who had lost his sense of smell after such a blow, and another who lost all kindness, even to his own family.
    As a young knight of good form, John Neville had known for years that rage could let a man