The Freemen shoved and bustled around them, panicking men in rain-sodden clothes who knew that to stop was to die, that they
had
to reach the end of the bridge. It was impossible to aim in the bustle of elbows and pushing. All Thomas and his son could do was send out snap shots, relying on instinct and training to guide them. The range was practically nothing at first, but then Thomas saw Jack roar and race ahead, forced on by the bolts streaking down to tear holes in his men. There were no axemen to kick in doors beyond that front rank and the crowd had run for it, leaving the last hundred yards clear all the way to a line of king’s soldiers. Thomas thought furiously. It was a killing ground and he knew Jack would not survive it. He glanced up as a crossbowman above his head was jerked back with a strangled shriek. Someone had reached him inside.
‘Christ!’ Thomas growled aloud. ‘The windows ahead, Rowan! Pick your shots; we’ve only a few shafts.’
He grabbed two men trying to run past him, placing them with main strength in the path behind and yelling orders to give him space. They stared wide-eyed as they recognized him, but they took up the positions a few paces back, perhaps grateful to walk in his shadow while bolts buzzed and hissed through the air. Their presence allowed father and son the space to aim as they stalked forward along the bridge.
Thomas felt his hip pull in agony, as if someone had cut him. Instinct made him drop a palm to his side and check it for blood, but it was just the scars stretching. He showed his teeth then, anger engulfing him. He was strong again. Strong enough for this.
He bent the longbow and sent a shot into a window up ahead. The range was no more than fifty yards and he knew it was good before the man fell out on to those passing below. Rowan’s first shot missed by inches, making its target flinch back. The young man sent another on almost the same path, staring ahead and up as he strummed the bow. A soldier sighting down a crossbow took the second shaft in the neck, twisting in agony as it nailed him to the wooden window frame.
Father and son walked on together, eyes focused through the drizzle on the low windows ahead. Those who had thought to shoot down into helpless men did not know they were vulnerable until an arrow tore through them. As the two archers walked, they killed further and further ahead, keeping Cade safe as he ran to see what else the London lords had ready for their arrival.
Jack heard the thump of longbows behind him and his first reaction was to flinch. He’d known that sound on battlefields and he was filled with horror at the thought of English
archers being part of the ambush on the bridge. Yet the crossbowmen leaning out of windows began to lurch and fall out of their dark slots. The barrage of bolts lessened overhead and the dead and dying fell behind.
Jack was panting hard as he saw he’d come almost to the end of the bridge. His clothes were heavy and plastered to him, chilling his flesh. There were soldiers waiting there in mail, ready for his attack. Despite the cold, his eyes gleamed at the sight, the distance closing too fast for him to take in more than a blur. He could only thank God they had chosen to place their crossbowmen along the bridge rather than making a fighting line. His front ranks had a few shields, but there was nothing in the world as terrifying as running into a massed volley of bolts or shafts.
All thought stopped as he ran full tilt at two of the king’s men, his axe held high for a butcher’s chopping blow. The Kentish men around him raised their own weapons in blind fury, driven almost to madness by their run under the bolts, by seeing their friends killed. They fell on the front ranks of soldiers like a pack of baying hounds, cutting in a frenzy and not feeling the wounds they took in return.
Jack struck as hard a first blow as he’d ever landed in his life, giving no thought to defence. He was lost in rage and near mindless as he smashed a smaller man out of his path, hitting with the heavy blade edge, or striking with the haft, all the time roaring at those standing in his way. He did not feel alone as he went over the first rank and into the second. Some of his guards had fallen to bolts, but the survivors, even the wounded ones, were swinging with abandon, as much a danger to the ones around them as the men in front. It was savage and terrible and they lurched on the slippery ground as they pushed on, pressured in turn by the men at their backs who wanted just to get off the damned bridge.
Jack could see beyond the soldiers into the darker streets. He had a sense that there were only a few hundred men waiting there for him. It might have been enough to hold the Freemen on the bridge for ever, unless they could be forced back into the wider roads beyond. Jack acted as soon as he saw the need, pushing forward with his axe shaft held across his chest like a bar. With a burst of strength, he shoved two men on to their backs when they raised shields against him. He shuddered as he stamped over them, imagining a blade licking up from below. The pair of fallen soldiers were too busy in their panic as the Freemen trampled after him. One moment, there had been neat lines of sword and shield men; the next, they were down and the Freemen were rushing over the fallen and wounded, knocking the next rank apart with great blows and crushing the rest underfoot.
Those still on the bridge felt the blockage of men give way. They shouted wildly as they were given space to push forward, cheering as they surged out into the streets of rain-swept London. Nothing lived in their wake and they only stopped to make sure of helpless soldiers, stabbing and kicking down with hard boots until the king’s men were a bloody mess on the stones and wet straw.
A hundred yards past the bridge, Jack came to a halt and stood panting, with his hands resting on the haft of his axe and the blade half-buried in the thick mud of the street. The storm was right over the city and the rain was striking hard enough to sting exposed skin. He was puffing and dizzy as he looked back, his face showing wild triumph. The bridge had not held them. He exulted as he stood there, with men clapping him on the back and laughing breathlessly. They were in.
‘Soldiers coming,’ Ecclestone shouted nearby.
Jack raised his head, but he couldn’t tell the direction over the rain and rumbling clouds overhead.
‘Which way?’ Jack yelled back.
Ecclestone pointed east towards the Tower as Paddy appeared at Jack’s shoulder. Half their army was either on the bridge or still across the river, waiting impatiently to join them in the city.
‘We need to go further in, Jack,’ Paddy said. ‘To make room for the rest.’
‘I know,’ Cade said. ‘Let me take a breath to think.’
He wished he had a drink in him to keep out the cold. Beyond that thought, he wondered what the hell he was stepping in that could suck at his feet in such a sickening way. Streams had begun to run along the streets, shining where the moon reached through the clouds. Some of his men had come to a gasping stop with him, while others shoved and cursed each other to stand at his side. Though his hearing wasn’t as good as Ecclestone’s, Cade fancied he could indeed hear the jingle of armoured men coming closer by then. He had a sudden vision of the London Guildhall that Woodchurch had described and he made his decision. He needed to get all his followers into the city and God knew the Tower would wait a while longer.
‘Woodchurch! Where are you?’
‘Here, Jack! Watching your back, as usual,’ Thomas replied cheerfully. He too was giddy with their success.
‘Show me the way to the Guildhall, then. I’ll have a word with that mayor. I have a grievance or two for him! On now, Freemen! On, with me!’ Jack bawled, suddenly enjoying himself again.
The men laughed, still dazed at having survived the brutal run across the bridge. Good plans changed, Jack reminded himself. The Guildhall would do as a base to plan the rest of the evening.
As he marched away, Jack gave thanks for the dim light of
the moon. The houses seemed to close in on all sides when it passed behind rushing clouds. In those moments, he could see almost nothing of the city all around him. It was dark and endless, a labyrinth of streets and alleyways in all directions. He shuddered at the thought, feeling as if he’d been swallowed.
It was with relief that he reached a small crossroads, a quarter of a mile from the bridge. Like a blessing, the moon struggled free of the clouds and he could see. There was a stone at the centre of it, a great boulder that seemed to have no purpose beyond marking the spot between roads. Jack rested his arms on it and looked back down the street to the men coming on behind him. He had a thought of gathering them in some open square and making them cheer for what they’d achieved. There just wasn’t the room for that and he shook his head. Every door around the crossroads was barred, every house filled with whispering heads watching from the upper floors. He ignored the frightened people as they stared down.
Rowan had found himself a torch from somewhere, a bundle of rags tied to the end of a wooden pole and dipped in oil – perhaps from the oil lamps of London Bridge, Jack didn’t know. He welcomed the yellow light as Woodchurch and his son caught up.
Thomas chuckled at the sight of Jack Cade resting on the stone.
‘Do you know what that is, Jack?’ he said.
His voice was strange and Jack looked again at the rock under his hands. It seemed ordinary enough, though he was struck again at finding such a massive natural thing marking a city crossroads.
‘It’s the London Stone, Jack,’ Thomas went on, his voice
awed. There had to be some fate at work that had led Jack Cade along roads he didn’t know to that very spot.
‘Well, I can see that, Tom. It’s a stone and it’s in London. What of it?’
Woodchurch laughed, reaching out himself and patting the stone for luck.
‘It’s older than the city, Jack. Some say it was a piece of King Arthur’s stone, the one that split when he pulled a sword out of it. Or they say it was brought over from Troy to found a city here by the river.’ He shook his head in amusement. ‘Or it could just be the stone they measure the mile markers from, all over England. Either way, you have your hand on the cold stone heart of London, Jack.’
‘I do, do I?’ Jack said, looking down at the boulder with new appreciation. On impulse, he stood back and swung his axe, making the blade skip and spark across the surface. ‘Then it’s a good place to declare Jack Cade has entered London with his Freemen!’ He laughed aloud then. ‘The man who will be king!’
The men around him looked serious and their voices stilled.
‘Well, all right, Jack,’ Woodchurch murmured. ‘If we survive till morning, why not?’
‘Christ, such fancies,’ Jack said, shaking his big head. ‘Show me which road leads quickest to the Guildhall, Tom. That’s what matters.’
Richard Neville was beginning to appreciate the accuracy of Brewer’s warnings. His headlong rush across the city had been hampered by crowds of drunken, violent men and even women, screeching and jeering at his soldiers. Entire streets had been blocked by makeshift barricades so that he had to divert again and again, guided by his London-born captains towards the Kentish Freemen.
He could not understand the mood on the streets, beyond a cold contempt for opportunists and wrong-headed fools. Cade’s army was a threat to London and there Warwick was, rushing to their defence, only to be pelted with cold slop, stones and tiles whenever a mob gathered in his way. It was infuriating, but there were not yet enough of them to block his path completely. He was ready to give the order to draw swords on any rioters and ne’er-do-wells, but for the moment, his captains led him on a twisting path through the heart, heading south with six hundred men.
The knights and men-at-arms he had brought to London were not enough to take on Cade directly, he knew that much. Yet his captains assured him Cade’s mob would be spread out along miles of streets and tracks. The young earl knew his best chance would be to cut the line at any one of a dozen places, then withdraw quickly to strike again somewhere else. He knew he should avoid a major clash – the numbers invading the city were just too high.
His first chance came as he had imagined it, as Warwick turned a corner and looked down a slight hill to a junction,
skidding to a stop at the sight of armed men streaming past in a great hurry. He stood under the downpour in relative safety, not twenty yards from Cade’s main forces as they headed unaware across his route. Some of them even looked left as they passed the mouth of the road, catching a glimpse of Warwick’s soldiers in the dark side street, watching them. Caught up in the snake of angry men, they were carried on past before they could stop.
‘Keep a line of retreat,’ Warwick ordered. To his disgust, his voice trembled and he cleared his throat loudly before going on with his orders. ‘They are traitors all. We go in, kill as many as we can in the surprise, then pull back into …’ He looked around, seeing a small wooden signpost. He leaned closer to read it and for an instant raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Back into Shiteburn Lane.’
It helped to explain what he had sunk ankle-deep into, at least. He spent a moment longing for wooden overshoes to raise him up above the slop, though he could hardly have fought in those. His boots would just have to be burned afterwards.
He drew his sword, the hilt still new, with the Warwick coat of arms enamelled on silver. Rain streamed down it, joining a slurry of filth at his feet. He settled his shield against his left forearm and briefly touched the iron visor across his brow. Unconsciously, he shook his head, almost shuddering at the thought of disappearing into that mass of armed men with just a slit of light to see through. He left the visor up and turned to his men.
‘Cut the line, gentlemen. Let’s see if we can hold a single street. With me now.’
Raising his sword, Warwick strode forward to the road crossing, his men forming up around him for the first strike.
Thomas dogtrotted along roads he kept remembering from his youth, so that moments of nostalgia would strike him, set against the insane reality of following Jack Cade and his bloodstained rabble through the heart of London. He kept Rowan close as they went and both of them wore the longbows strung on their shoulders, useless now with rain-stretched strings and all the arrows gone on the bridge. Swords were in short supply and Thomas had only a stout oak club he’d wrestled from a dying man. Rowan was armed with a stabbing dagger he’d picked up from one of the soldiers foolish enough to stand in their way.
Jack’s men took better weapons from each group they came across, overwhelming lines of soldiers and then robbing the bodies, replacing daggers with swords, bucklers with full shields, regardless of whose colours they carried. Even then, there were not enough for all those behind still clamouring for a good length of sharp iron.
The storm squalls were growing weaker and the moon had risen overhead, lending its light to the streets running directly beneath. The violence Thomas had seen in the previous hour had been simply breathtaking as Cade’s men cut anyone in front of them to pieces and then walked on over the dead. The soldiers defending the city were in disarray, appearing in side streets or standing in panic as they realized they had manoeuvred themselves into Cade’s path. The king’s men simply had too much ground to cover. Even if they guessed Cade’s intentions from his path towards the Guildhall, they couldn’t communicate to the individual forces in the streets. Roaming troops of soldiers either manned barricades in the wrong places, or followed the sounds of fighting as best they could in the maze.
Cade’s front ranks had come across one group of around eighty men in mail just standing in an empty street under the
moonlight, with their heads cocked as they listened to the night noise of the city. They had been cut apart, then suffered the indignity of having their greasy mail shirts wrenched from still-warm bodies.
The snake of Kent and Essex men had spread out as the streets diverged, adding new tails and routes as men lost track of each other in the darkness. The general direction was north, into the city, with Cannon Street and the London Stone far behind.
Thomas stretched his memory back, checking every crossroads for some sign that he was on the right path. He knew Jack looked to him to know the way, but the truth was he hadn’t been in the city for twenty years and the streets always looked different at night. He chuckled at the thought of Jack’s reaction if he led them round in a great circle and they saw the Thames again.
One street wider than the rest allowed Thomas to check his bearings on the moon and as soon as he was sure, he urged the others on. He sensed they had to keep moving, that the king’s forces would be massing somewhere close. Thomas wanted to see the Guildhall, that symbol of the city’s wealth and strength. He wanted the king and his lords to know they’d been in a real fight, not just some petty squabble with angry traders giving speeches and stamping their feet.
Ecclestone jerked and stumbled ahead of him. Thomas looked up in time to see a dark shape rush past Ecclestone’s feet, squealing in terror before anyone could stab it.
‘A pig! Just a bleeding,
fucking
pig,’ Ecclestone muttered to himself, lowering his razor.
No one laughed at the way he’d jumped and cursed. There was something terrible and frightening about Ecclestone and his bloody short-blade. He was not the sort of man to invite
rough humour at his expense, not at all. Thomas noted how Ecclestone kept an eye on Jack at all times, watching his back. The thought made him look for the big Irishman, but for once, Paddy was nowhere to be seen.
As they passed a side street, Thomas looked into it automatically, almost coming to a shocked halt at the sight of ranks of armed men waiting there, just twenty paces away. He had a glimpse of iron and dark-bearded soldiers before he was carried past.
‘’Ware left!’ he shouted to those behind, trying to hold himself back against the rush of moving men for a moment before he was shoved on. Thomas moved faster to catch up with Rowan and the group around Jack.
‘Soldiers behind, Jack!’ Thomas called.
He saw the big man look over his shoulder, but he too was deep in the press and they were all moving forward, unable to slow or stop. They heard the crash and shouting begin, but by then it was a hundred yards to the rear and they could only go on.
The streets were just as thick with clotted mud underfoot as they’d been since first entering London, but Thomas could see some of the houses had changed to stone, with better gutters running along the edges of the main road, so that men lurched as they put their feet into them. A wisp of memory told him where he was and he had time to shout a warning before the front lines staggered out into a wider stone yard.
London’s Guildhall lay ahead of them under the rain, deliberately imposing, though it was less than a dozen years old. Thomas saw Jack raise his head from rebellious instinct as he caught sight of it, knowing only that it represented wealth and power and everything he had never known. The pace increased and Thomas could see king’s men scurrying around the great oak doors, screaming orders at each other
in desperation as they saw hundreds of men come pouring out of the night streets at them.
On the other side, ranks of marching men appeared, their neat lines faltering as they saw Cade’s army swelling into the open like a burst blister. At both ends of the small square, captains yelled orders and men began to run towards one another, raising weapons and howling. The rain drummed hard across the wide flagstones and the sound echoed back on all sides from the buildings, magnified and frightening in the moonlight.
Derry was four streets east of the Guildhall when he heard the sounds of fresh fighting. He was still groggy from a blow taken from some swearing great farmer in a side alley as he raced through the city. Derry shook his head, feeling his eye and cheek swell until he could hardly see from his right side. He’d chopped the bastard, but left him wailing in pain when more of Cade’s men had appeared.
Derry could hear Lord Scales panting over on his right. The baron had stopped his bristling resentment some time before, after Derry had led the soldiers out of an ambush, taking alleyways that were little wider than the shoulders of a single man with unerring accuracy. They’d run through reeking filth that was almost knee-deep in places, darting along turns and pushing aside damp washing when it slapped into their faces. They’d come out on the other side of a makeshift barricade and killed a dozen rioting men before they even knew they’d been flanked.
It should have been more of an advantage, Derry told himself. He knew the city as well as any urchin used to escaping from shopkeepers and the gangs. The king’s defenders should have been able to use that knowledge to run rings around Cade’s mob. The problem was that most of them
had been summoned to London from the shires or even further. Very few knew the streets they were running down. More than once that night, Derry and Scales had been brought up short by armoured men, only to discover they were on the same side. It was cold and messy and chaotic, and Derry didn’t doubt Cade was taking full advantage of the feeble defences. If they’d had one man in command, it would have been easier, but with the king out of the city, eleven or twelve lords were their own authority over the forces they led. Derry cursed, feeling his lungs burn. Even if King Henry had been there in person, he doubted the Yorkist lords would have put themselves under anyone else’s command. Not that night.
‘Next left!’ Scales shouted to those around him. ‘Head towards the Guildhall!’
Derry counted in his head. He’d just run past two side streets and was certain it hadn’t been more.
‘The Guildhall is two streets up from here,’ Derry said, his voice little more than a croak.
He could not see the baron’s expression clearly, but the soldiers running with them knew better than to question their lord’s orders. They swung left in good order, tramping around abandoned carts and a pile of bodies from some previous encounter that night. Derry thought his lungs were going to burst as he staggered over a dark mass of dead men, wincing as he heard bones creak and snap under his boots.
‘God forgive me,’ he whispered, suddenly certain he’d felt one of them move and groan under his weight.
There were moving torches ahead and the sound of a woman screaming. Derry’s face was burning and the spittle in his mouth was like thick pease pudding, but he set his jaw and stayed with the others. He told himself he’d be damned
if he’d let young soldiers run the legs off him, but he was out of condition and it was beginning to show.
‘Anyone looting or raping is fair game, lads,’ Derry called.
He sensed Lord Scales jerk his head around, but it hadn’t been a true order. The growl of agreement from the soldiers made their feelings plain, but Scales took a moment to reply over his weariness and frustration.
‘Cade’s men are the priority,’ he said firmly. ‘Anything else,
anything
, can wait till morning.’
Derry wondered what Scales thought their fourscore could do against thousands, but he kept his silence as the light ahead grew and they saw men streaming past. Whatever else Scales may have been, the man had no sense of fear. He didn’t slow at all as he reached the junction. Derry could only heave for breath as the rest of them went with him, smacking against the bellowing crowd with a crash, followed instantly by the first screams. Scales’s soldiers wore breastplates and mail shirts. They cut into the crowd like a spear thrust, striking down anything in their path. Around them, Cade’s men fell back, scrambling to get away from soldiers who used their armour as its own weapon, smashing metal-clad elbows into the teeth of men with every swing.
Derry found himself plunging into the flow as if he’d leaped into a river. He blocked a swinging staff and stabbed out with a good bit of sharp iron that had seen service for a century or more. Scales’s men swung swords and long-handled hammers as if they’d gone berserk in a great slaughter, cutting right across the torchlit procession. They held a place in the centre of the road, blocking the onward movement as they faced those still coming up behind.
Derry glanced left and right, seeing the line stretched to the Guildhall in one direction and back around a corner on
the other side. There seemed no end to the red-faced Kentish men and he realized Scales had found the wellspring. For all Derry knew, this mob stretched the whole way back to the river. In the first mad rush, Scales and his men had carried all before them and blocked the road. They now stood together, bristling with weapons, daring the heaving crowd to try and regain the ground.
Derry chuckled as he saw the lack of desire in Cade’s men. They’d been cheerfully following those in front, not quite ready to lead on their own, at least not then. The head of the snake travelled on, with the rearmost ranks looking back and calling jeers and insults, but still choosing to march on rather than turn and fight. With just eighty men, Scales had stopped the mob cold, but Derry saw them moving into side streets even as he had the thought.