Page 9 of The Forsaken
“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.
Guy closed his eyes as silent tears slid down his temples and into his hair. William was dead. His oldest brother, who had been more like a father to him since the deaths of their parents, was gone, and now Eleanor was widowed. She’d suffered a stillbirth only two months since, and now she’d lost the husband she adored, and their son, Adam, had lost his father. The boy was only four, and likely wouldn’t remember William once he reached adulthood. Guy barely remembered his own mother, who had died in childbirth when he was nearly six. The child never drew breath and had been buried with their mother on a beautiful spring day, a day so lovely and bursting with the promise of summer that Guy had only wanted to run and play and not stand with his head bowed as his mother was laid to rest. Their father had died a few years later of a fever that had burned hot and bright and took him in less than a week, leaving the de Rosel children orphaned, but not alone.
As had been previously agreed upon, John Ambrose, the Earl of Stanwyck, a great nobleman who’d had an affection for their father from the days of their youth, had become their patron. William, the new Baron de Rosel, and Hugh had already been in his service, William as a squire and Hugh as a page. Guy was taken on as a page and then elevated to squire after the required seven years of training. The brothers had squired for the earl until their knighting at the age of twenty-two.
Having been raised and fostered by the supporters of the House of Lancaster, the de Rosels had always pledged their allegiance to King Henry VI and his lady, Margaret of Anjou, and their French heritage had contributed to their loyalty to the French queen. There had never been any question about which side they’d fight on when the conflict between the houses of Lancaster and York escalated into open warfare with the ultimate prize being the throne of England. And now the Duke of Northumberland was dead, as were Sir Andrew Trollope and Lord Clifford, who had died before the battle of Towton during the retreat from Ferrybridge. The Lancastrian army was in disarray, as was their cause.
Guy tried to remain alert, but physical pain and emotional turmoil left him disoriented and confused. He fell into a restless sleep, plagued by nightmares of a never-ending battle in which he fell again and again, only to rise, bloodied and battered, to fight on, driven toward the river by his Yorkist foes. At the riverbank, the ground became slippery and uneven. He cried out in frustration as he lost his balance and tumbled backward into the icy river, the rushing water stealing his breath and pulling him down. He sank like a stone, his lungs burning, until his armor-clad body settled on the slimy bottom.
By the time Guy woke from his nightmare, Hugh had returned and sat on the ground next to Walter, exhaling loudly as he leaned against the tree trunk.
“Were you able to find a wagon, sir?” Walter asked.
Hugh nodded. “It’s more of a rickety cart than a wagon, but it’ll have to do. Walter, find us something to eat. I’m famished,” Hugh said as he rubbed his eyes.
“Yes, sir,” Walter replied. He looked like he was about to cry, but after a stern look from Hugh, he set off, weaving between fallen knights and dead horses. Several fires burned on the outskirts of the field where Lancastrian survivors warmed themselves as they tried to regroup and account for their dead. The Duke of York’s army had moved on after the battle. Walter heard it said that Edward had taken his victory to the city of York, where the staunchly Lancastrian population waited in terror for a reprisal from the enemy.
In the coming days, graves would be dug for the Yorkists who had fallen at the Battle of Towton, but today was the day Edward Plantagenet would celebrate his victory and solidify his claim to the throne. His cousin, Richard Neville, the Earl of Warrick, had proclaimed Edward king less than a month ago, but yesterday’s battle had served to solidify his position. The balance of power had shifted, and every man who had survived the battle, Yorkist and Lancastrian alike, surely knew it.
Guy drifted off again but woke with a start, unable to bear the recurring nightmare any longer. He was terribly cold and hungry, but he didn’t complain. He was sure every man on that field felt much the same. He turned to Hugh. His brother appeared unhurt, but his face was gray with fatigue and his breastplate was smeared with blood. His dark hair was matted, and three-day stubble shadowed his jaw. Hugh’s eyes flew open as though he felt Guy’s gaze on him.
“Stay with me,” Hugh commanded. “Do you hear me, Guy?”
Guy nodded. “I’d find it easier to stick around if I had something to eat.”
“Walter will have a devil of a time finding even scraps of bread. There are hundreds of men here, and they are all hungry. I doubt the villagers have much left to spare. The sooner we leave, the better.”
“Are we going home?” Guy asked. He found it hard to form the words due to the roar in his head, but had no desire to go back to sleep and face the demons with bloodied swords and empty eye sockets that sprang back to life to fight on and on.
“Aye, we are,” Hugh replied. “We must bury William, and you’re in no condition to do any fighting in the foreseeable future.”
“Walter said Edward has gone to York.”
