‘No killing the lambs!’ Jack growled at the men around him. ‘No stealing, or touching the women! Understand? If you see a man with a blade or a shield, you can cut his damned head off. No one else.’
His guards grumbled their assent.
It was probably Jack’s imagination when he felt the stones tremble underfoot as he crossed from solid ground to the first steps of the bridge itself. His men went before him, but he had insisted on being in the first few ranks, to call orders as necessary. Despite Woodchurch’s efforts, they had formed too wide a line on the open road and had to funnel in behind him, with thousands just standing with their heads bowed in the pouring rain, unable to go forward. Yet the snake of armed Kentish men pushed further and further in, driving the crowds before them like animals on market day. To Jack’s surprise, many of the Londoners were cheering and shouting his name, pointing him out as if he were coming to break a siege. They didn’t seem to be afraid and Jack Cade couldn’t understand them at all.
He swallowed nervously as he began to pass buildings on either side, hanging so far out above his head that they blocked the falling rain from all but the track down the centre. He didn’t like being overlooked and he glared up at the open windows.
‘Watch for archers!’ Woodchurch shouted behind them.
Jack could see Ecclestone jerking his head around, wiping his eyes of rain and trying to see in all directions. If the windows filled, Jack knew his men would seek the shadow of the buildings themselves, crowding the pavements for the false promise of cover. They’d be vulnerable to anyone with a bow on the other side then, like chickens in a pen. Jack crossed his fingers, but he could hear the jingling tramp of soldiers up ahead, moving to block the far end of the bridge. He shifted his axe to his other shoulder, forcing himself to keep walking, steady and strong behind the Kentish banner that little Jonas held high.
Jack looked back over his shoulder, trying to judge how many had come on to the bridge. Woodchurch had been like an old woman all day, worrying about being bottled up. In the light of the crackling bridge lamps, Jack could see the man and his son, both archers staring up at the windows. They were empty, dark spaces with no lamps lit inside. Something about that bothered Jack, but he couldn’t put a name to it.
Ahead of him, the crowds had thickened into a great mass, so that it began to look as if the marching men would have to stop.
‘Show them your iron, lads!’ Jack bellowed. ‘Keep the lambs moving!’
Ecclestone held his razor a little higher, steady against his thumb. On all sides, Cade’s men raised axes and swords, while those with shields used them roughly, shoving and pushing anyone too slow to get out of the way. They marched on and as they passed the midpoint, Jack could see flashes of polished armour on the far side, with the fleeing crowd streaming through lines of waiting men. It came to his mind that the king’s soldiers were as hampered by the crowds as he was himself. They could not form solid shield walls while innocents still struggled to get away.
He raised his head and gave a great bellow, trusting the men with him to obey.
‘For Kent! Forward and attack!’
He could only jog rather than sprint forward as the men ahead of him lurched on through slippery mud. Jack saw Ecclestone shove a cheering Londoner in the chest, knocking him aside as they began to run. Each man roared so that it became a wall of sound over the hiss of rain, echoing back in the enclosed space. It was wordless, a rising snarl from hundreds of throats.
Jack slipped on something underfoot, staggering. At least he could see. The bridge lamps lit the whole length, their light filled with glittering flecks driven by the rising wind. He was no more than two hundred yards from the hard men waiting for him.
Some of the crowd flattened themselves against the walls of the houses rather than try to outrun a charging army. Others were not fast enough and screamed as they fell, quickly trampled. Jack had glimpses of shocked and tumbling bodies as he went faster and faster, trusting to speed and his own weight to break through.
The windows ahead and above filled with men leaning out from the dark spaces. Jack swore in horror at the sight of crossbows. With such weapons, the narrow bridge was a brutal trap, the slaughter limited only by how fast the soldiers could reload and how many of them there were. Jack dared not turn to see how far along the bridge they stretched, but his heart pounded in terror with the desire to seek cover. Their only chance to survive lay ahead: through the soldiers, off the bridge and into the city proper.
‘Rush ’em!’ he yelled.
He went faster as the men with him surged forward in panic. The boy Jonas could not keep up and when he staggered, one of Jack’s guards reached out and grabbed the banner pole in one hand, lowering it almost like a lance as he sprinted.
The first bolts thumped down into the running men from just a few feet above their heads. Jack ducked under a raised shield held by the man closest to him, flinching as he ran on. He heard screams of shock and pain all along the bridge and he knew he was the prime target, standing almost directly behind the banner. Jack looked up in time to see the boy Jonas shudder and skid forward on his chest as he was struck. Another bolt smacked into the man who had grabbed the falling banner and he too crashed down. The shield of Kent and the sheriff’s head dropped into the mud and filth and no one tried to raise them up once more as they ran in mindless terror.
Thomas had felt the same unease as Jack at the empty windows — dark when every man and woman in London wanted to see Cade’s Freemen coming in. He’d sensed the trap and shouted to anyone with an axe to peel off at every door they passed. Even as the first bolts flew, those doors were being kicked in. Some of the crossbowmen had thought to block the floor below and it took heavy blows to smash down their doors and barricades.
Thomas jogged slowly, with Rowan on his left, down the centre of the bridge. They carried longbows that were still green and lacked the power and workmanship of the ones they’d lost in France. Half the skill of a longbow archer came from knowing his own weapon, with all its quirks and strengths. Thomas would have given a year of his life then for the bows he and Rowan had left behind.
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.