Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) Read Free

confident in his youth compared with the older man.
    ‘Queen Margaret wants her husband back, Master Brewer, not to hear your womanish concerns over the conduct of the men. Perhaps you should let her be the queen, eh? In this one instance?’
    Somerset took a breath to throw back his head and guffaw at his own humour. As he did so, Derry reached down to the man’s boot and gripped the shank of his spur with his gloved hand, giving a heave. The duke vanished over his horse’s side with a roar, making the animal skitter back and forth as the reins sawed. One ducal leg pointed almost straight up to the sky and Somerset struggled madly to regain his seat. For a few stupefied instants, his head jogged along with a good view of the horse’s leathery genitals swinging below.
    ‘Careful there, my lord,’ Derry called, prodding his own nag to trot a little distance between them. ‘The road is most uneven.’
    The greater part of his irritation was at himself, for losing his temper, but Derry was infuriated at the duke as well. The source of Margaret’s strength, the source of a large part of her authority, lay in her being
right
. The whole country knew that King Henry was held prisoner by the Yorkist faction, traitors to a man. There was sympathy for the queen and her young son, forced to roam the land and find support for her cause. It was a romantic view, perhaps, but it had swayed good men like Owen Tudor and brought armies to the field that might otherwise have stayed at home. It had given them the victory at the end, with the house of Lancaster rising up, after so long with its face pressed down.
    Letting an army of Scots and northerners murder, rape and loot their way to London would not help Margaret’scause or bring one more man to her side. They were fresh from their triumph, still half drunk on it. They had all seen Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, forced to his knees and killed. They had seen the heads of their most powerful enemies taken away to be spiked on the walls of the city of York. For fifteen thousand men, after the rage and wild panic of battle had settled, they still had the victory like coins in a purse. Ten years of struggle had come to an end and York was dead on the field, his ambitions broken. The victory was
everything
, won hard. The men who had bared York’s head for the blade expected rewards – food, wine and gold altar cups, whatever they came across.
    Behind Brewer, the column stretched into a haze, farther than the eye could see on a winter’s day. Bare-legged Scots stalked along with short Welsh archers and tall English swordsmen, all grown thin, with ragged cloaks, but still walking, still proud.
    Some forty yards back, the red-faced young Duke of Somerset had regained his seat with the help of one of his men. Both glared at Derry Brewer as he touched his forehead in false respect. Armoured knights had always raised their visors when their lords passed, showing their faces. The gesture had become a salute of sorts. Derry could see it hadn’t eased the outrage in the pompous young man he’d unseated, however. Once more, Derry cursed his own temper, a rush of red that could overwhelm him so completely and suddenly that he’d lash out without a moment’s thought. It had always been a weakness in him, though it was true that the abandonment of all caution could be quite satisfying. He was too old for it, though, he thought. He’d get himself killed by a younger cock if he wasn’t more careful.
    Derry half expected Somerset to come charging over to demand redress, but he could see the man’s companion speaking urgently into his ear. There was no dignity in petty squabbling, not for one of Somerset’s station. Derry sighed to himself, knowing he’d better choose his sleeping spots carefully for a few nights – and avoid going anywhere alone. He’d dealt with the arrogance of lords all his life and knew only too well how they considered it their right, almost their primary