At their end, the routiers struck like wolves at a flock of sheep, and men-especially the rear rankers-broke, ran and were cut down. Most of the routiers had bills or poleaxes, and they used them cruelly, killing the wounded on the ground, hacking militiamen down as they turned to run. A generation of fletchers’ apprentices died in seconds. The Butcher’s Guild lost a master, four journeymen and a dozen apprentices as the line caved in.
At the other end of the line, the result was utterly different. The armourers had been right behind the captain. They had been the first men called, and the first in armour.
The Captain of the Crossbows-a stepping stone to the command of the whole Band-ordered his men to loose their bolts.
Sixty arbalest bolts struck the front rank of the charging routiers. The volley was sufficiently crisp that the bolts striking home sounded like a wooden mallet striking meat.
The armourers, on the word of command, levelled their heavy spears and charged.
Edmund-front rank, right marker, corporal-was calm enough to spare a glance at the crispness of his front rank before he caught a screaming Galle under the chin with his heavy spear. The blow almost tore the man’s head from his body, and Edmund shortened his grip, pulled the weapon clear of the corpse and stepped forward so as not to impede the men in his file behind him.
Thirty routiers went down in a few seconds. Their ferocity was flayed by the crossbowmen-when they hesitated, the young, strong, and extremely well-armoured apprentices and journeymen of the Armourer’s Guild reaped them like ripe wheat.
The fight turned like a pinwheel, and a full minute had not yet passed.
But as most such fights do, the result rested on spirit. The routiers had no reason to stay, beyond loot and pride. The Band were protecting their homes and livelihoods. They held.
The routiers broke. They ran into the market-overturning tables and slaughtering anyone who stood near enough to be reached with a blade.
The Band-that part of it that had held together-gave chase.
The market became a scene from hell.
As the butchers-who had broken and now reformed-turned on their tormenters for revenge, the massacre began to spread down Cheaping Street in both directions.
Captain de Burgh was down. In fact, his life was gurgling out of him. There was no one to give orders.
The whole of the “Battle of Cheaping Street” lasted less than two minutes. But the massacre that followed went on for hours, as a mob of apprentices and militia began to hunt and kill every Galle-or anyone who looked to them like Galles. The rumour spread that the Galles had seized the Queen and that added a new fuel to the fighting.
By the time Holy Thursday dawned, five hundred Harndoners were dead and as many Galles, most of them servants, grooms, whores, and other relative innocents. Much of the dockside north of the Cheaping was on fire-the slums around the Angel Inn. Men said the Galles had set the fires to cover their retreat, and the Band-now out in force with their six surviving captains-stood guard while the guilds and the poor fought the fires. Sluice Alley was ditched across to make a fire brake.
The last fires didn’t go out until noon, at which point the whole city, Harndoner and Galle, subsided into surly exhaustion.
De Vrailly stood in an embrasure of the palace, looking out over the rising smoke by the river-smoke so thick it mostly obscured First Bridge and the areas across the river. Only the masts of the great Venike cogs-all of which had slipped their cables and re-anchored in midstream-could be seen above it.
“This is the Queen’s doing,” de Vrailly told the King.
The King nodded.
“Her partisans were primed for this rebellion.” De Vrailly shook his head. “I have lost good men-loyal men-to the canaille of this accursed town.” He was so angry he could barely speak. “I would like to strike back at these mutineers.”
De Rohan handed him a set of scrolls. “Your grace, these are orders for the arrests of the ring leaders,” he said. “They are exhausted-sated with their depravity. We can strike now, with our retainers and the Royal Guard.”
The King appeared confused. He had chosen to read the arrest documents. The scroll he’d opened bore the name Gerald Random.
“Ser Gerald is one of my most loyal knights,” the King said.
De Rohan shook his head vehemently. “Not at all, sire. He’s a renegade-a traitor in service to the Queen.”
The King made a face. “Rohan, you have the oddest notions. He is the master of the tournament. A Royal officer-”
“He was in the streets all night in armour, leading the town’s rabble of a militia against my men,” said de Vrailly.
“There is some mistake,” the King said. He crossed his arms. “I will not sign an arrest warrant for Ser Gerald Random.”
De Rohan looked at de Vrailly.
The King leaned out over the wall. “How many men do you have?” the King asked.
“All of Du Corse’s men and all of my own,” de Vrailly said. “And the Royal Guard,” he added quickly.
The King looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Almost three thousand men,” he said.
De Vrailly smiled grimly. “Yes, your grace.”
“And you plan to use them against the Trained Band of Harndon.” The King shook his head. “Made up of the best men of this city-the masters and journeymen.”
“We will destroy them,” de Vrailly said happily enough.
“You will destroy my city!” the King said suddenly. “You will behead the trades. You will leave me a burned-out shell.”
De Vrailly’s head snapped back as if he’d been struck. “I will expurgate treason!”
The King shook his head. “No, de Vrailly. You are creating treason. And you don’t have enough men, even with Du Corse, to take Harndon against the will of the whole population.”
De Rohan, misunderstanding, made a face. “We have hired every sell-sword and every mercenary in the city or passing nearby. We have all the soldiers.”
The King looked out over his city. He turned back to de Vrailly. “No. I will not have it.” He opened his mouth to say more-to speak his will.
De Rohan stepped boldly in front of de Vrailly. De Vrailly looked at him, appalled, but the King’s eyes were on de Rohan.
“Your grace’s feelings for your subjects do you credit,” he murmured. “But you squander your fine feelings on the very men who helped the Queen make you a figure of fun.”
The King paused. His colour rose-a sudden flush.
“We have tracked the woman who carried the Queen’s messages,” de Rohan said. “She went straight to the house of your armourer, Master Pye, from the Queen. Master Pye then summoned Ser Gerald Random.” De Rohan had it pat. It was his business-to know, and where he could not know, to create. “Men-good men-died to bring us this information.”
The King stood, balanced on some sort of edge. He was searching for something; his mouth moved. “If the Queen,” he said, hesitantly. “If the Queen was not…”
De Rohan spoke over him-an unheard of piece of lese-majeste. “But the Queen is an adulteress.”
The King swung on de Rohan. “That is not proven.”
De Vrailly was not pleased. His colour was high. He stepped away from de Rohan as if the man carried leprosy. Nonetheless, he said, “I will prove it on any man’s body,” he said. “We will give her a public trial. Trial by combat.”
The King looked at them both. He seemed, in that moment, to shrink. He turned his back on them. “You may not arrest Ser Gerald,” he said.
De Rohan-delighted by the idea of a trial by combat with de Vrailly as the accuser-stepped closer to the King. “We can invite him to the palace. With the other ring leaders.”
De Vrailly smiled mirthlessly.
“You will hear his treason from his own lips,” de Rohan said.
The King looked at both of them with weary distaste. “Everything was better before you came,” he managed. Then he looked at the ground.