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

veterans and captains.
    Warwick was surrounded by bannermen and a dozen guards whose sole task was to protect him. He looked round as angry voices sounded over on his right, then he called on his men to let the Duke of Norfolk through.
    Norfolk brought his own close group of riders, all in his colours. Their master wore no helmet once again. He stared at Warwick from under heavy brows, his head a block on a wide neck.
    With a gesture, Warwick called the man closer. As a man in his forties, Norfolk was still in his prime, though oddly pale. Warwick wished again that he could trust the duke as he needed to. There had been betrayals before, between the houses of York and Lancaster. With all the stars lining up for Queen Margaret, Warwick could not afford another misjudgement.
    ‘My lord Norfolk,’ Warwick called as he approached, acknowledging his own lesser rank by speaking first. ‘Despite this poor start, I believe we can hold them.’
    To his irritation, Norfolk did not reply immediately, appearing to make his own assessment as his gaze sweptover the broken rear, the abandoned cannon and the massed ranks still coming down out of the town. Norfolk shook his head, looking up into the rain so that it sheeted down his bare crown and face.
    ‘I’d agree with you if the rain hadn’t ruined all the guns. My lord, has the king been recaptured?’
    It was Warwick’s turn to look back over his shoulder to where the oak tree stood, far back in the ranks of queen’s soldiers.
    ‘The devil’s own luck put Henry right in their path,’ he said. ‘I thought him safe at the rear, where no man could reach him.’
    Norfolk shrugged, coughing into his hand.
    ‘They have all they wanted, then. This battle is over. The best we can do now is to withdraw. We have lost only a few souls – fewer than six hundred, of a certainty.’
    ‘My brother John among them,’ Warwick said.
    His own estimate of the dead was much higher, but Norfolk was trying to salve the news of the disaster. Warwick could not bring himself to feel the righteous indignation he might have felt at receiving such advice. The rain poured down and they were all wet and cold, shivering as they sat their horses and stared at one another. Norfolk spoke the truth, that King Henry’s capture in the first moments meant the battle had been lost before it had properly begun. Warwick cursed the rain aloud, making Norfolk smile.
    ‘If you choose to withdraw, my lord Warwick, it will be with the army largely intact and with little loss of honour. Edward of York will reach us soon and then … well, then we will see.’
    Norfolk was a persuasive man, but Warwick felt a fresh spike of irritation intrude on his rueful mood. Edward ofYork would be a roaring, stubborn, chaotic part of any campaign, he was certain. Yet like his father before him, there was the blood of kings in York, a stronger claim than any other except King Henry himself. The bloodline had power, that was the simple truth of it. Warwick hid his annoyance. If Lancaster was brought down, only York could take the throne, deserving or not.
    At that moment, Warwick had more pressing concerns. He took a long look across the battlefield, wincing at the thought that any withdrawal to the north would take him past every yard of the useless defences he had prepared.
    His gaze settled on where he had seen his brother fall. If he still lived, John would be held for ransom. He could hope for that. Warwick filled his lungs with frozen air, knowing it was the right decision from the sudden rush of relief he felt.
    ‘Withdraw in good order!’ he bellowed, waiting until his captains took up the cry. He groaned aloud at the thought of leaving his marvellous cannon behind, but that part of the field had already been overrun. There was no going back, even to hammer spikes down the barrels to ruin them for anyone else. Warwick knew he’d have to cast others in northern foundries, bigger guns, with weatherproof covers over the