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noses pulled down from where they had been lifted into the air.
    ‘I do not fear Warwick’s army,’ Somerset said.
    ‘Of course not!’ Clifford muttered, silenced by a warning glance.
    ‘It is true that they have had a month or so to prepare a defence, while we marched as slowly south as any group of washerwomen.’ Somerset held up his hand to quell a rising grumble of objection. ‘Peace, gentlemen. I know the men had to be fed, but the result is that Warwick has been given time – and with his wealth, I do not doubt he enjoyed the resources of London. More, he has King Henry and a strange sort of … influence from that. Though the king is a prisoner, I believe we are all aware he will not be crying out or attempting to escape. Yet, despite all such things, they are too small a force of Kentish, London, some Sussex and Essex lads. I do not fear
that
army – but of course there is another.’
    Somerset looked around at the gathered men, his gaze resting briefly on Margaret, though she did not look up from where her hands lay in her lap.
    ‘York’s son, Edward, shall I call him York now? He who was the Earl of March, who had no more than a few thousand in Wales and still managed to break the forces ofthree Tudors, killing the father and scattering the sons. Perhaps he has not recruited others to his banners after that victory, though there are angry men all over the country who might walk to him if called. York is a royal house and he could threaten us. If York joins Warwick, they are almost our match – certainly too close in number for any comfort.’ He shook his head. ‘Like Warwick, I might wish for an enemy in front of me, ready to fight and die, but York’s son will surely come against us in time – and he could strike our flank.’
    Somerset paused to take a breath, looking around at them all.
    ‘My lords, my lady, Master Brewer, we cannot dance with Warwick and be caught between them. We cannot let him call the tune. If Master Brewer’s informers have brought news of a fortress with a weak flank, my orders will be to take any advantage we have been offered. I do not see the especial honour of sending thousands of men to die against a well-fortified position, Lord Clifford. Caesar manoeuvred on the field, I believe. In these very fields perhaps, John!’
    Derry saw Clifford smile and dip his head. For some reason, he suddenly could not bear to see the man relaxed in such company. It might have been another aspect of growing older, but he could not let the moment pass.
    ‘If I might explain it to Baron Clifford, my lord, there is a difference between killing a wounded boy as he runs away and attacking a solid defence that has …’
    ‘Brewer! Hold your
tongue
!’ Somerset snapped at him before Clifford could do more than stare in shock. ‘No, get out! How
dare
you speak in such a way before me! I will consider your punishment.
Out!
’
    Derry bowed deeply to Margaret, seething more at himself than anyone in that tent. He found some grim satisfaction that he had given voice to Clifford’s crime. York’s son had been seventeen and no threat to anyone as he tried to run from the field at Sandal. Derry didn’t know if the boy had been wounded, but he’d added the detail to make Clifford all the more the spiteful bully he actually was. That was how stories grew.
    Derry kept his back stiff as he left the tent, knowing he had gone too far. In the colder air, as his anger seeped away, he felt old and weary. Clifford could call him out, though Derry suspected the man would neither lower himself nor take the risk of a duel before witnesses. Derry’s best years were behind him, of a certainty, but he’d still bash Clifford to a brainless pulp if he had the chance, and the man would know it. No, it would be a knife in the dark, or chopped cat whiskers in his food to make him puke blood.
    Derry looked up miserably to the spire of the village chapel, built on land owned by the Stokker family of Wyboston.