Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) by Conn Iggulden Read Free Book Online

It was not high enough to protect him from hard men seeking him in the night. He’d just have to stay awake and in company. He did not curse himself for aggravating Clifford or even Somerset. There was an absence of power around Margaret, ever since the death of York. With her chief enemy dead and her husband still in captivity, she had lost some of the fierceness that had driven her for years, almost as if she did not know exactly how to go on. Into that emptiness had stepped men like Somerset, bright and ambitious young fellows, looking far to the future. Weaker sods like Clifford were doing no more than choosing a champion to flatter.
    It was hard not to hope, Derry knew. York was dead, Salisbury with him, after years of having their hands on the throne as if they had a damned right to it. The loss of King Henry was the only itch still to be scratched – one poor innocent held by men with every reason to hate him. The truth was that if Henry had been killed, his queen would not grieve for too long. Derry could see how her eyes brightened when they rested on Somerset. It was hard to miss, if you looked for it.

4
     
    Nightfall brought a freezing wind, even colder than the day. Hunched into the icy blast, the queen’s army swung away from the London road. At Somerset’s order, they left the wide, flat stones, cutting west, the men’s boots crunching frosty earth. Scouts waited for them on horses, waving torches to keep them on the right path, close by the town of Dunstable. That had been Derry’s suggestion, to make fifteen thousand men disappear overnight while Warwick’s scouts waited in vain for the first glimpse on the road south.
    In the days since Derry had seen Lord Clifford reduced to red-faced frustration, no one had sidled close or even threatened the spymaster. He had not relaxed his vigil, knowing men like Clifford and their spite rather well. There had been no word from Somerset either, as if the young duke preferred just to ignore and forget any insult he had witnessed. Derry knew if Somerset changed his mind, the result would be something like a public flogging – carried out without embarrassment, in full view of the men. Clifford had neither the authority nor the manhood to arrange such a thing. From him, Derry expected an attack when he was distracted. As a result, without a solid and definite intention, Derry had begun to plan for the man’s quiet disappearance. Yet even for a spymaster, removing a king’s baron from the world was no small task.
    The ranks of marching men woke the terrified inhabitants of Dunstable with a parade of torches and what had already become a weary demand to ‘bring out victuals or livestock’. It wasn’t as if the people of the town had much left by the end of winter. The bulk of their stores had been consumed during the hard months.
    For once, Queen Margaret and her son were there on horseback to oversee the army’s passage through the town. There would be no destruction in her presence, at least under the light of the torches. Derry had no doubt the gleanings would be much poorer as a result. He heard someone begin shrieking in a back street and would have sent a few lads over with cudgels, if Somerset hadn’t reacted first and given the order. A dozen men were brought back to the main road, yelping as they were struck and lashed along. Some raised their voices in complaint, until one of the captains snapped furiously that he could, if he wished, treat them all as deserters. That shut them up like a scold’s bridle. The penalties for desertion were meant to discourage men who might consider it, perhaps over the cold, dark hours of a winter watch. There was much mention of iron and fire in those traditions, learned and recited by men who could not read or write.
    The nights in February were long enough to hide most sins. By the time the army had flooded through Dunstable, all the shops and houses on the main street had been stripped of food. Wailing voices