Revenge Read Free Page A

and hammer away at each other, before their limbs drooped with cramp and weariness? He wondered if his father and brother were still alive, and if he should venture closer to the battle to look for them.
    That would be the right course, the bravest and most honourable. Why, then, did he remain sitting on the grass, feeling sorry for himself? Was he a coward, too afraid to risk his body?
    James couldn’t remember. His true character was long since drowned in drink, and he found it difficult to piece together the memory of it. Merely riding to Market Drayton, to bless the Lancastrian soldiers and wish his father and brother good fortune before they marched off to battle, had been a titanic effort of will. Far easier to slump over a jug of cloudy ale in the Plough inn at Cromford, or visit one of his illicit mistresses scattered about Staffordshire.
    The sudden excited roars of some soldiers made his head throb. James shifted his mournful gaze from the empty wineskin and, looking past the shouting carriage guards, spied eight riders approaching, galloping at a tearing pace across the field.
    One of the riders carried a huge standard displaying the royal arms of England. The captain of the Queen’s escort spurred forward to meet them, followed by his men.
    James struggled to his feet. The wine fumes that clouded his mind and his judgement receded, blown away by a terrible fear. If the royal standard bearer had fled the battle, then the Lancastrians must have lost, which meant his kin were in terrible danger. Or dead.
    He staggered towards the milling crowd of horsemen, careless of how ridiculous he looked. “What news?” he cried, waving his arms, his habit flapping about his bare ankles. “In God’s name, what news?”
    One of the soldiers glanced down at him in disgust. “None that concerns you, sot,” he said, jabbing at James with the butt of his spear, who caught it and glared fiercely at him.
    “None of my concern?” he growled. “My brother and my father, both better men than you, were fighting on the King’s side in the battle. Fighting, while you sat here, picking at the boils on your arse!”
    “Leave it, James,” said a familiar voice. James turned around to see the flushed features of Henry of Sedgley, another Staffordshire gentleman and a close neighbour of the Boltons.
    Henry was a big, fleshy youth, and an unacknowledged bastard son of the Duke of Buckingham, one of the Queen’s chief allies.  Like the Boltons, he was loyal to the ruling House of Lancaster, and had come to Blore Heath to serve in the Queen’s army.
    Judging from his appearance, he had seen a great deal of fighting. His helm was gone, his breastplate scarred and dented, and he was spattered in blood and dirt.
    He leaned down, stroking his shuddering, sweat-soaked horse’s neck to calm her. “Our army is fleeing in rout,” he panted, “and the Yorkists will be here soon, to plunder the town. You must get away, quickly.”
    James opened his mouth to reply, but was distracted as the ashen-faced captain of the guard galloped past him, back towards the carriage.
    The captain vaulted from the saddle and spoke urgently to the Queen, whose creamy face turned an even ghastlier shade of pale. She yelled at her driver, and the captain had to leap back from the step as the door slammed in his face.
    The driver roused the horses into life with a shout and a snap of his whip, and the heavy carriage slewed about and rumbled away to the north. The Queen’s escort and the fugitives from the battle galloped in pursuit.
    Henry and James remained behind on the heath. “Here,” said Henry, offering his hand to the priest, “jump up behind me. That old pony of yours won’t carry you out of danger fast enough.”
    James closed his eyes for a moment. His head was bursting, as it always did when deprived of a steady flow of alcohol.
    “You can leave if you wish, but I am going to take shelter there until nightfall,” he said, pointing to a small