Wars of the Roses 03 - Bloodline by Iggulden Conn

Wars of the Roses 03 - Bloodline by Iggulden Conn

Author:Iggulden, Conn [Iggulden, Conn]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780718196448
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2015-09-23T16:00:00+00:00


19

The snow continued to fall, the wind gusting so that the fighting men had to squint against flecks of ice. Their skin and hair and the creases of cloth were all rimed with it, crackling and falling away with every step or swing of a blade. The day wore on with the two vast armies locked together, neither giving way unless it was over the dead bodies of their own. Pikes jabbed forward as captains charged into a gap, tearing holes in lines. All the while, pollaxes and billhooks rose and fell, with short falchion cleavers doing brutal work.

Behind the fighting lines, ranks compressed themselves together for warmth, to get away from the wind whistling through them and stealing away their strength. They stamped their feet and blew on hands as they were drawn inexorably forward. They could not retreat, could barely even manoeuvre, as the dim light began to fade and shadows fell across tens of thousands standing on frozen earth, with wood and iron in their hands.

There were moments when the snow was blown back and the battlefield was revealed. For those lords and men-at-arms who had come north with Edward, the sight was not one to inspire. The army of Lancaster was yet a host, a dark flock swarming like starlings on the white ground. Exhausted men from the south looked at each other and shook their heads. With the light leaving, it was hard to see such a sight and not quail, not feel some touch of despair, with bodies aching and stiff with cold.

Boys still ran through the lines, carrying leather water bags with a pipe that could be sucked like a mother’s teat. The urchins allowed parched men to snatch a desperate mouthful, cursing and prodding them when they took too much or spilled the precious stuff down their beards. All the time, the fighting went on, lines heaving together, men crying out for friends and loved ones as they understood they would die in the dark, shrieking at the last or slipping down amidst the legs of those trudging past.

When the sun went down, it took something vital. Seasoned fighters hunched their shoulders and dropped their heads, settling in for grim endurance in the darkness. No one called a halt, not the lords or their captains. They seemed to understand that they had come to that place in the service of two kings; they would leave serving only one. Horns and drums fell silent, no longer smothering a roar of men that built and sobbed away like waves crashing on shingle, nor the voices of the dying, calling like gulls.

Men-at-arms who had fought for hours had reached a point of leaden weariness and confusion that only grew worse in the dark. They stumbled along with their mates and if they were caught by fresher enemies, they were cut down like wheat. The number of deaths grew and grew as the strong fell savagely on weakened men – and then became weak, to be cut down in turn.



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