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

wet ground.
    Behind the cannon teams came hundreds of his hand-gunners, trotting along with strained faces and their weapons wrapped in cloth, resting on their shoulders. Some of them had already loaded the long guns, pouring in black grains and lighting the slow fuse that coiled like a snake ready to be lowered in. The weapons were much cheaper than crossbows and the men needed only a day to learn their use. Warwick shook his head in dismay as the rain increased, the clouds thickening overhead as they poured across the sky. The new guns would be a wonder to behold, if they could be made to fire at all.
    Rank by ragged rank, Warwick’s army turned towards the sounds of iron. The red-coated archers bought them time on the wings, while Montagu’s left wing fell back without their commander, stopping to gasp and swear and bleed once they were through the line of cannon.
    The hand-gun ranks came out then to meet the enemy, standing with their heads bowed in the rain. The ground was slippery and men skidded and cursed as they brought their weapons to their shoulders and squinted down the iron barrels.
    ‘Fire,’ Warwick whispered.
    His serjeants bellowed the order and puffs of smoke spread along the line as men touched fuses to damp powder. The ranks of the queen’s soldiers did not flinch as they came forward in good order. They saw no threat in those facing them.
    The rippling crack was more hiss than thunder. Rushing, stinging smoke shocked some of the queen’s men to a halt. Gaps appeared as soldiers fell back, struck and dying. Before the rest of them could react, Warwick’s gunners were turning their backs and running past the line of heavyguns to reload. A great roar of confusion and anger went up amongst the queen’s forces – and the line of cannon replied. At no range at all, even a weakened shot tore through their ranks in a great welter of bone and limbs. With the enemy right upon them, Warwick’s gun teams touched a hot wire or a taper to the powder in the touch-hole and then just ran, as the world shook.
    Warwick felt his heart beating madly as gold flashed in the smoke and dirt amidst the queen’s soldiers, hidden instantly by grey clouds. Men threw themselves down in panic, hiding their ears against the thump of sound that pressed against their skin and deafened them. Some who had been close to the guns and yet escaped rushed forward in a sort of madness, shrieking with weapons high and their eyes wild with death.
    After the cannon had fired, the line was overwhelmed. One last single shot cracked out, behind the queen’s ranks, perhaps on a longer fuse or damp powder. That ball smashed through running men. All the rest had fallen silent. Warwick clenched his fists as his hand-gunners were butchered, their weapons no more use than sticks. Some thirty of them tried to rally the retreat, and Warwick watched in despair as they stood in a line and brought their weapons up to aim. His spirits sank as they peered along the barrels, pulling the curved fuses into place and seeing only a damp puff of smoke or nothing at all.
    The rain had ruined the moment and the queen’s forces knew one thing – archers or crossbowmen had to be rushed. It was an old balance between the power of a spear or an arrow or a bolt – and the ancestral knowledge that if you could just get close, a chopping billhook was the best answer.
    The queen’s ranks gave a howl and the sound was terrible to all the hand-gunners still struggling with damp powder, scraping it out with their bare fingers and fumbling for a dry quantity in a purse or horn. Those who came at them carried axes and seax knives that would not fail in the rain. A few more guns cracked to send soldiers tumbling, but the rest of the hand-gunners were slashed and stabbed aside, run down.
    Montagu’s entire battle of men had been rolled up, the broken rags of it running back to interfere with the stronger centre. Those were Warwick’s best-armoured knights, his Kentish