Page 7 of The Forsaken (Echoes from the Past #4)

SIX

Towton, Yorkshire

Guy’s sense of smell was the first to reassert itself, which was unfortunate since the stink of blood, shit, sweat, and death was overwhelming despite the cold.

The storm had raged all through the battle, from morning until well into the night.

The snow and sleet had come down in sheets, blinding the soldiers and at times immobilizing them for what had seemed like hours, when in fact it had only been minutes.

The carnage was unprecedented. Guy had seen his share of battles, but he’d never seen anything that came close to what he’d witnessed this day.

The dead and dying were piled so high the knights couldn’t get around them, or lift their armor-clad legs enough to step over the fallen.

The men were exhausted, not only from fighting but from battling the elements.

Countless men had drowned as they tried to flee the battlefield, driven into the river by the pursuing enemy.

The water had run red for hours, the scene reminiscent of a Biblical plague.

It should have been an easy victory. How had it all gone so wrong?

With the army of the House of York vastly outnumbered by the Lancastrians, the outcome of the battle had been almost certain, until God had made His will known this Palm Sunday.

Harnessing the power of the wind, the Yorkists had shot their arrows further and faster than the Lancastrians, whose own arrows were blown off course and fell at the feet of the Yorkist archers.

The whoresons had actually used Lancastrian arrows against them, picking them up as they fell and turning them on the men who’d loosed them.

And then the Yorkist reinforcements had arrived, with the Duke of Norfolk leading the charge.

The Lancastrian army had been routed, leaving absolutely no doubt as to who won the day .

For a moment, Guy thought he must have died, since he could no longer hear the clash of steel or the screams of dying men and horses, but there was an almighty roar.

The battle was over, so the roar had to be in his head.

It throbbed and ached so badly he couldn’t even open his eyes, which were nearly frozen shut from the sleet that had penetrated his visor.

No, if he were dead, he wouldn’t be this cold, or feel such searing pain.

He was still among the living, if only just.

Guy tried to move his legs. They appeared to be pinned down by something heavy, likely a corpse, but were both still functional.

His left arm felt numb, but his right arm was as heavy as a fallen log, and the pain that gripped his upper arm when he tried to move it was so severe he nearly passed out again.

He must have blacked out when he was wounded, but if he allowed himself to lose consciousness now, he’d be mistaken for one of the dead and left untended.

It would take him hours, possibly even days, to finally die of his injuries or the brutal cold that turned his armor into an icy metal shell.

Guy’s mind ordered him to throw the dead weight of the corpse off his legs and rise, but his body wouldn’t comply.

He couldn’t seem to find the strength to do anything but lie there like carrion, waiting to be pecked at by crows until he really was blind.

Opening his eyes took some doing since he couldn’t use his hands to thaw the ice that had formed on his lids.

Guy’s vision was blurred and a wave of nausea threatened to turn his guts inside out.

He turned his head just in time to retch into the blood-stained snow.

There wasn’t much in his stomach; he hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday morning.

He’d had some broth and bread to break his fast, but his body had burned through the meager meal by the time he was clad in his armor and in the saddle, ready for battle.

And it had to be morning now, since the sky was just beginning to lighten, and the fury of the storm had abated, leaving behind an eerie calm broken only by the moans of the dying and the cawing of crows gleefully enjoying their gruesome breakfast.

Guy accidentally moved his arm and agonizing pain shot through his entire right side, making him cry out .

“Guy, thank Jesu,” a voice from somewhere above him exclaimed. It pronounced Guy as Ghee , the way his French mother had. Few people called him that, so even though Guy couldn’t quite make out Hugh’s face, he knew it was his older brother bending over him. “Are you badly hurt?”

Guy had every intention of denying his injury, but when he tried to speak, agony laced his voice and he exhaled painfully. “Yes.”

“Stay here. I’m going for help.”

That nearly made Guy laugh. As if he could just get up and walk away. He was fairly certain his armor was frozen to the ground, and even if it weren’t for his injury, to so much as roll onto his side, he’d struggle like a turtle that’d been flipped on its back.

“Is it over?” he mumbled.

“It is,” Hugh replied.

His brother’s grim expression told Guy everything he needed to know.

He hadn’t missed a last-minute miracle while he was unconscious.

The Lancastrians had been trounced, and many of their comrades were either severely wounded, lying dead on this Godforsaken field, or rested on the riverbed, weighed down by their armor as the rushing water flowed over them as if they were nothing more than boulders.

The grim thought made Guy sick again. He unwittingly leaned on his wounded arm to retch and the pain rendered him senseless, which at that moment was a blessing.

When he opened his eyes again, it was very bright.

A hazy winter sun glowed through the bare branches of a tree, its limbs black against the colorless sky.

Beside him, Walter sat with his back against the massive trunk.

The boy was fast asleep, his dirty cheek pressed against the leather of his doublet.

Guy carefully reached out and pulled on Walter’s sleeve.

The boy came awake with a start and scrambled to his feet, as though ashamed at having nodded off.

“I’m thirsty, Walter,” Guy whispered .

“Of course, sir. Right away, sir,” Walter mumbled as he fetched a skin of wine and held it to Guy’s lips.

Guy took a few sips and pushed it aside with his good hand. “Where’s Hugh?” he croaked.

“He went to look for your brother, sir,” Walter replied, a mournful expression on his face. He was only fifteen and hadn’t yet learned the art of hiding his feelings.

“Did William fall in battle?” Guy asked.

Walter nodded miserably. “He never came back. I’m sorry, sir. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

“You can take off my armor,” Guy replied. His voice was barely audible and he felt sick and dizzy again. His armor weighed a ton and he could barely move.

“I have,” Walter replied, clearly confused. “It’s just there.” Walter pointed to a pile of metal stacked to his left. Guy’s sword rested alongside his breastplate, which glinted in the sun and appeared to have been cleaned of blood and gore.

Guy carefully raised his left hand and touched his head. Sure enough, his helmet wasn’t there, but his head felt as if it were locked in a vise and was too heavy to lift. He moved his hand lower. Walter had removed what he could, but Guy was still wearing chain mail.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I will need help with the chain mail,” Walter explained. “You’re too heavy to lift and your arm is badly injured.”

“What happened to my head?” Guy whispered.

“You took a mace to the head. I saw it myself. I had a devil of a time getting your helmet off. It’s badly dented,” Walter added. “I thought you were done for.”

“I think I still might be,” Guy rasped. He was going for humor, but sounded pathetic and filled with self-pity .

“You will recover, sir. I know you will,” Walter sputtered.

“I will look after you.” The boy’s wide blue eyes looked earnest in his freckled face.

Walter was pale, the dark circles beneath his eyes a testament to exhaustion and hunger, and suffering.

He’d seen too much for a lad his age, and would need time to come to terms with the slaughter he’d witnessed. Likely, he never would.

Guy felt a wave of affection for the boy.

He was too young and sensitive to be a squire, but it was Walter’s most sacred dream to become a knight, and he had been in the service of the de Rosels since he was eight years of age, as was the custom.

He came from a good family, but his father, Lord Elliott, had died shortly after Walter was born, leaving his mother with seven children to raise, six of them girls.

Lady Elliott had hated to part with her son, but understood the importance of having the boy properly placed in order to assure his training and future.

Walter took his duties seriously and had nearly burst with pride when he was finally elevated from page to squire.

Guy’s eyes slid to the left when he heard someone approaching. Hugh’s face appeared above him again. Even in the bright light of day his skin looked ashen.

“William is dead, Guy. I’ll need to find a wagon to bring you both home.”

“What happened to Somerset?” Guy asked. Henry Beaufort, the Duke of Somerset, was not only the acting commander of the Lancastrian army in King Henry’s absence, but also something of a friend and mentor to the de Rosels, despite his exulted rank.

No soldier could match Somerset for bravery on the battlefield, and only the Earl of Warwick, Somerset’s Yorkist counterpart, could be credited with the sort of military prowess and cunning that made Somerset a force to be reckoned with.

“Somerset escaped. Trollope and Northumberland fell,” Hugh replied curtly. “Walter, see to your master. I will be back presently. I must have a word with Stanwyck.”

“Yes, sir,” Walter replied timidly .