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.