Conn Iggulden - Stormbird

Jack struck as hard a first blow as he’d ever landed in his life, giving no thought to defence. He was lost in rage and near mindless as he smashed a smaller man out of his path, hitting with the heavy blade edge, or striking with the haft, all the time roaring at those standing in his way. He did not feel alone as he went over the first rank and into the second. Some of his guards had fallen to bolts, but the survivors, even the wounded ones, were swinging with abandon, as much a danger to the ones around them as the men in front. It was savage and terrible and they lurched on the slippery ground as they pushed on, pressured in turn by the men at their backs who wanted just to get off the damned bridge.

Jack could see beyond the soldiers into the darker streets. He had a sense that there were only a few hundred men waiting there for him. It might have been enough to hold the Freemen on the bridge for ever, unless they could be forced back into the wider roads beyond. Jack acted as soon as he saw the need, pushing forward with his axe shaft held across his chest like a bar. With a burst of strength, he shoved two men on to their backs when they raised shields against him. He shuddered as he stamped over them, imagining a blade licking up from below. The pair of fallen soldiers were too busy in their panic as the Freemen trampled after him. One moment, there had been neat lines of sword and shield men; the next, they were down and the Freemen were rushing over the fallen and wounded, knocking the next rank apart with great blows and crushing the rest underfoot.

Those still on the bridge felt the blockage of men give way. They shouted wildly as they were given space to push forward, cheering as they surged out into the streets of rain-swept London. Nothing lived in their wake and they only stopped to make sure of helpless soldiers, stabbing and kicking down with hard boots until the king’s men were a bloody mess on the stones and wet straw.

A hundred yards past the bridge, Jack came to a halt and stood panting, with his hands resting on the haft of his axe and the blade half-buried in the thick mud of the street. The storm was right over the city and the rain was striking hard enough to sting exposed skin. He was puffing and dizzy as he looked back, his face showing wild triumph. The bridge had not held them. He exulted as he stood there, with men clapping him on the back and laughing breathlessly. They were in.

‘Soldiers coming,’ Ecclestone shouted nearby.

Jack raised his head, but he couldn’t tell the direction over the rain and rumbling clouds overhead.

‘Which way?’ Jack yelled back.

Ecclestone pointed east towards the Tower as Paddy appeared at Jack’s shoulder. Half their army was either on the bridge or still across the river, waiting impatiently to join them in the city.

‘We need to go further in, Jack,’ Paddy said. ‘To make room for the rest.’

‘I know,’ Cade said. ‘Let me take a breath to think.’

He wished he had a drink in him to keep out the cold. Beyond that thought, he wondered what the hell he was stepping in that could suck at his feet in such a sickening way. Streams had begun to run along the streets, shining where the moon reached through the clouds. Some of his men had come to a gasping stop with him, while others shoved and cursed each other to stand at his side. Though his hearing wasn’t as good as Ecclestone’s, Cade fancied he could indeed hear the jingle of armoured men coming closer by then. He had a sudden vision of the London Guildhall that Woodchurch had described and he made his decision. He needed to get all his followers into the city and God knew the Tower would wait a while longer.

‘Woodchurch! Where are you?’

‘Here, Jack! Watching your back, as usual,’ Thomas replied cheerfully. He too was giddy with their success.

‘Show me the way to the Guildhall, then. I’ll have a word with that mayor. I have a grievance or two for him! On now, Freemen! On, with me!’ Jack bawled, suddenly enjoying himself again.

The men laughed, still dazed at having survived the brutal run across the bridge. Good plans changed, Jack reminded himself. The Guildhall would do as a base to plan the rest of the evening.

As he marched away, Jack gave thanks for the dim light of the moon. The houses seemed to close in on all sides when it passed behind rushing clouds. In those moments, he could see almost nothing of the city all around him. It was dark and endless, a labyrinth of streets and alleyways in all directions. He shuddered at the thought, feeling as if he’d been swallowed.

It was with relief that he reached a small crossroads, a quarter of a mile from the bridge. Like a blessing, the moon struggled free of the clouds and he could see. There was a stone at the centre of it, a great boulder that seemed to have no purpose beyond marking the spot between roads. Jack rested his arms on it and looked back down the street to the men coming on behind him. He had a thought of gathering them in some open square and making them cheer for what they’d achieved. There just wasn’t the room for that and he shook his head. Every door around the crossroads was barred, every house filled with whispering heads watching from the upper floors. He ignored the frightened people as they stared down.

Rowan had found himself a torch from somewhere, a bundle of rags tied to the end of a wooden pole and dipped in oil — perhaps from the oil lamps of London Bridge, Jack didn’t know. He welcomed the yellow light as Woodchurch and his son caught up.

Thomas chuckled at the sight of Jack Cade resting on the stone.

‘Do you know what that is, Jack?’ he said.

His voice was strange and Jack looked again at the rock under his hands. It seemed ordinary enough, though he was struck again at finding such a massive natural thing marking a city crossroads.

‘It’s the London Stone, Jack,’ Thomas went on, his voice awed. There had to be some fate at work that had led Jack Cade along roads he didn’t know to that very spot.

‘Well, I can see that, Tom. It’s a stone and it’s in London. What of it?’

Woodchurch laughed, reaching out himself and patting the stone for luck.

‘It’s older than the city, Jack. Some say it was a piece of King Arthur’s stone, the one that split when he pulled a sword out of it. Or they say it was brought over from Troy to found a city here by the river.’ He shook his head in amusement. ‘Or it could just be the stone they measure the mile markers from, all over England. Either way, you have your hand on the cold stone heart of London, Jack.’

‘I do, do I?’ Jack said, looking down at the boulder with new appreciation. On impulse, he stood back and swung his axe, making the blade skip and spark across the surface. ‘Then it’s a good place to declare Jack Cade has entered London with his Freemen!’ He laughed aloud then. ‘The man who will be king!’

The men around him looked serious and their voices stilled.

‘Well, all right, Jack,’ Woodchurch murmured. ‘If we survive till morning, why not?’

‘Christ, such fancies,’ Jack said, shaking his big head. ‘Show me which road leads quickest to the Guildhall, Tom. That’s what matters.’

Richard Neville was beginning to appreciate the accuracy of Brewer’s warnings. His headlong rush across the city had been hampered by crowds of drunken, violent men and even women, screeching and jeering at his soldiers. Entire streets had been blocked by makeshift barricades so that he had to divert again and again, guided by his London-born captains towards the Kentish Freemen.

He could not understand the mood on the streets, beyond a cold contempt for opportunists and wrong-headed fools. Cade’s army was a threat to London and there Warwick was, rushing to their defence, only to be pelted with cold slop, stones and tiles whenever a mob gathered in his way. It was infuriating, but there were not yet enough of them to block his path completely. He was ready to give the order to draw swords on any rioters and ne’er-do-wells, but for the moment, his captains led him on a twisting path through the heart, heading south with six hundred men.