Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) by Conn Iggulden

was being included in some manly gesture of family support. Between them, they had come close to knocking him out of his saddle more than once.
    Warwick smiled for John, though his eyes remained cold. At least, in Montagu, John Neville had the title he had long desired, falling on him at the moment of their father’s death. The Earldom of Salisbury had become Warwick’s inheritance, another few dozen manors, castles and great houses, including his childhood estate of Middleham, where his mother still lived and wore black. Warwick cared nothing for any of it, though he knew John envied him lands that made him the richest man in England. Not even the house of York could match him then. Yet it was all tin, at least while his father’s murderers lived and drank and whored and smiled. It was not right that the severed head of Salisbury should stare down from the walls of the city of York while his enemies prospered. Warwick dared not speak of that, though he felt it like an open wound. Any attempt to retrieve their father’s head would see them all killed. It had to stay there, in the wind and rain, while his sons laboured on.
    Warwick’s gaze turned again to the distant figure of King Henry, sitting and dreaming away the short winter’s day. John had called for his death, of course, the younger man seeing only an eye for an eye, a father for a father. Yet in Henry’s case, Warwick suspected the king was not much loved even among his own people. While he remained alive, Henry was a weakness in the queen and her loyal lords. Henry was the piece of fat in the wolf-trap, and his followers could not ignore such a fine and royal bait. Warwick knew the king’s death would simply set Queen Margaret free to raise the man’s son and try again.
    Wind gusted into Warwick like a tongue in his mouth, making him gasp. He looked up into the pale face of the Duke of Norfolk, realizing the man had been staring and weighing him without saying a word. They had come together while Warwick had been torn and raw with grief, and no man could say they were friends. Yet Norfolk had done him no wrong – and that counted for something after the treachery of so many.
    The duke was thickset, his head more square than round and shaved to stubble from his crown to the point of his jaw. At forty-five, he showed the marks and scars of old battles on his face – and no trace of weakness at all, just a cold assessment. Warwick knew the man was related by blood to both York and Lancaster. There were just too many cousins standing on opposite sides, he thought. Looking at the man’s powerful build as he sat so comfortably on his horse, Warwick gave thanks that Norfolk’s Neville blood had run true.
    ‘Well met, my lord,’ Warwick said to Norfolk.
    The older man dipped his head and smiled in response.
    ‘I thought it could not hurt to ride across to you, Richard,’ Norfolk said. ‘Your uncle worries about you.’
    There was a suggestion of a light in Norfolk’s eyes as Fauconberg nodded solemnly. Warwick snorted air from his nose. There was no malice in Fauconberg, he was certain. It was beneath Warwick to find honest pity so cloying, but it had somehow become the very focus of his anger. Perhaps Norfolk was not such a block after all, if he had noticed what had escaped Fauconberg.
    ‘Any reports from the scouts?’ Warwick said, his mouth quirking on one side as he breathed out.
    Norfolk shook his head, instantly stern at the business of the camp.
    ‘None. No word at all, beyond a trickle of the dispossessed coming south, with all their complaints.’ He saw Warwick open his mouth to speak and went on. ‘Yes, as you ordered, Richard. They are fed and made warm, given a small purse and sent south to London. Strong lads are made to remain and join our ranks, of course, but there are enough old men and children wending their way to London with tales of horror. The queen will not be welcome in the south as word spreads.’
    ‘No small thing,’