Conn Iggulden - Stormbird

Derry was four streets east of the Guildhall when he heard the sounds of fresh fighting. He was still groggy from a blow taken from some swearing great farmer in a side alley as he raced through the city. Derry shook his head, feeling his eye and cheek swell until he could hardly see from his right side. He’d chopped the bastard, but left him wailing in pain when more of Cade’s men had appeared.

Derry could hear Lord Scales panting over on his right. The baron had stopped his bristling resentment some time before, after Derry had led the soldiers out of an ambush, taking alleyways that were little wider than the shoulders of a single man with unerring accuracy. They’d run through reeking filth that was almost knee-deep in places, darting along turns and pushing aside damp washing when it slapped into their faces. They’d come out on the other side of a makeshift barricade and killed a dozen rioting men before they even knew they’d been flanked.

It should have been more of an advantage, Derry told himself. He knew the city as well as any urchin used to escaping from shopkeepers and the gangs. The king’s defenders should have been able to use that knowledge to run rings around Cade’s mob. The problem was that most of them had been summoned to London from the shires or even further. Very few knew the streets they were running down. More than once that night, Derry and Scales had been brought up short by armoured men, only to discover they were on the same side. It was cold and messy and chaotic, and Derry didn’t doubt Cade was taking full advantage of the feeble defences. If they’d had one man in command, it would have been easier, but with the king out of the city, eleven or twelve lords were their own authority over the forces they led. Derry cursed, feeling his lungs burn. Even if King Henry had been there in person, he doubted the Yorkist lords would have put themselves under anyone else’s command. Not that night.

‘Next left!’ Scales shouted to those around him. ‘Head towards the Guildhall!’

Derry counted in his head. He’d just run past two side streets and was certain it hadn’t been more.

‘The Guildhall is two streets up from here,’ Derry said, his voice little more than a croak.

He could not see the baron’s expression clearly, but the soldiers running with them knew better than to question their lord’s orders. They swung left in good order, tramping around abandoned carts and a pile of bodies from some previous encounter that night. Derry thought his lungs were going to burst as he staggered over a dark mass of dead men, wincing as he heard bones creak and snap under his boots.

‘God forgive me,’ he whispered, suddenly certain he’d felt one of them move and groan under his weight.

There were moving torches ahead and the sound of a woman screaming. Derry’s face was burning and the spittle in his mouth was like thick pease pudding, but he set his jaw and stayed with the others. He told himself he’d be damned if he’d let young soldiers run the legs off him, but he was out of condition and it was beginning to show.

‘Anyone looting or raping is fair game, lads,’ Derry called.

He sensed Lord Scales jerk his head around, but it hadn’t been a true order. The growl of agreement from the soldiers made their feelings plain, but Scales took a moment to reply over his weariness and frustration.

‘Cade’s men are the priority,’ he said firmly. ‘Anything else, anything , can wait till morning.’

Derry wondered what Scales thought their fourscore could do against thousands, but he kept his silence as the light ahead grew and they saw men streaming past. Whatever else Scales may have been, the man had no sense of fear. He didn’t slow at all as he reached the junction. Derry could only heave for breath as the rest of them went with him, smacking against the bellowing crowd with a crash, followed instantly by the first screams. Scales’s soldiers wore breastplates and mail shirts. They cut into the crowd like a spear thrust, striking down anything in their path. Around them, Cade’s men fell back, scrambling to get away from soldiers who used their armour as its own weapon, smashing metal-clad elbows into the teeth of men with every swing.

Derry found himself plunging into the flow as if he’d leaped into a river. He blocked a swinging staff and stabbed out with a good bit of sharp iron that had seen service for a century or more. Scales’s men swung swords and long-handled hammers as if they’d gone berserk in a great slaughter, cutting right across the torchlit procession. They held a place in the centre of the road, blocking the onward movement as they faced those still coming up behind.

Derry glanced left and right, seeing the line stretched to the Guildhall in one direction and back around a corner on the other side. There seemed no end to the red-faced Kentish men and he realized Scales had found the wellspring. For all Derry knew, this mob stretched the whole way back to the river. In the first mad rush, Scales and his men had carried all before them and blocked the road. They now stood together, bristling with weapons, daring the heaving crowd to try and regain the ground.

Derry chuckled as he saw the lack of desire in Cade’s men. They’d been cheerfully following those in front, not quite ready to lead on their own, at least not then. The head of the snake travelled on, with the rearmost ranks looking back and calling jeers and insults, but still choosing to march on rather than turn and fight. With just eighty men, Scales had stopped the mob cold, but Derry saw them moving into side streets even as he had the thought.

‘Watch the flanks!’ he called.

There was no single route to the Guildhall and by instinct or local knowledge, Cade’s men were already working their way around, taking their torches with them so that the light in the street began to fade. Derry looked to Scales, but the lord was hesitating, indecision writ clearly on his face. They could hold the spot, or chase down the moving streams of men. Derry tried to think. Just eighty soldiers could not take on Cade’s main force, though the narrow streets prevented them being easily crushed by huge numbers. Derry knew the Guildhall was poorly defended, with half the lords in London assuming Cade would go for the Tower. By the time they learned the truth, the Guildhall would have been gutted and the mob long gone.

As he rubbed his swollen face, Derry saw the flood of Cade’s men break into a run as more of them vanished into the side streets. He craned his neck, wishing for more light, but there were cries of pain and rage not far off and the sounds seemed to be coming closer.

‘What’s going on back there?’ Scales called to him.

Derry shook his head in confusion, then scowled. Coming around the corner and up the street was a marching rank of armoured knights and men-at-arms, led by a man carrying the patterned shield of the Warwick family. The street continued to empty between the two groups, with the last of those between them casually spitted on swords as they tried and failed to climb out of trouble. In as many heartbeats, Derry saw a dozen men yanked down and butchered before the two groups faced each other, panting.

‘Well met, Warwick,’ Scales said in delight to their young leader. ‘How many do you have?’

Richard Neville caught sight of Derry watching him and raised an eyebrow. He too had taken blows on his polished armour, but in the prime of his youth, he looked exhilarated rather than exhausted. He made a point of facing Scales to reply, ignoring Derry’s sullen glower.

‘I have my six hundred, Lord Scales. Enough to clear the streets of this rabble. Is it your intention to stand here until the sun rises, or may we pass?’

Even in moonlight and shadow, Derry could see Scales flush. The man had pride and his chin came up. There had been no offer to join their forces together and Scales would not ask after such a comment from a younger man.