Sacrifice by David Pilling

grudges. War was war, and Meurig, a hardened professional who fought for pay, had changed sides more often than he could remember.
       “I keep hearing things about this King Richard,” he said after a moment, “all kinds of rumours. He has killed men, they say. Great lords and knights. All the men who might have stopped him taking the crown.”
       “Nothing new there, then,” replied Martin, “God grant he massacres the lot of them before falling on his sword.”
       “I saw him, once,” he added, “at Tewkesbury. He drove back the Duke of Somerset’s charge. But for Richard, we might have caved in the Yorkist flank, and I would not be here now. A good soldier. Curse him.”
       Meurig nodded. “To be sure. But what else is he? There is rebellion in England. Maybe civil war soon. All because he won’t produce his nephews.”
       The night was cold, but Martin suddenly felt an extra chill. He snatched up his cloak and draped it over his shoulders.
       “Where are they?” said Meurig, “what has he done with the boys?”
       “I don’t give a damn,” snarled Martin, “give me some more of that blasted wine, and shut up.”
       His men gradually drifted off to bed, but he stayed, staring at the flames as they burned lower and lower.
       I am sick of this war , he decided, sucking down more wine even though his head was already pounding, and of risking my life for King Matthias. Fat swine. To hell with him and his Black Army. To hell with the Emperor Frederick as well. Why don’t they settle the issue themselves, man to man, instead of plunging two kingdoms into misery?
       It’s time I had something for myself. Took something.
       The more he pondered it, the more attractive this seemed. Plenty of mercenary captains deserted their employers and rode off to look for profit elsewhere. A few had set themselves up as minor lords, seized some abandoned castle and forced the local peasants to serve them.
    Martin thought of one captain in particular: another Martin, Martin Schwartz, a famous German mercenary. If the stories were true, Schwartz started life as the son of a poor shoemaker in Augsburg. Capable and arrogant, and frightened of nothing on earth, he had since risen to become an important captain-general, much sought after by the princes of Europe.
    If a German shoemaker’s son can rise so high through sheer guile and strength of arm, why not an English gentleman?
    King Matthias made little effort to stop desertions from his army, or punish them. There were always plenty of soldiers. Most able-bodied men in Hungary, down to the meanest peasant, expected to spend part of their lives doing military service. The kingdom was threatened on all sides by Austrians, Bohemians, Ottomans, Venetians and Poles, and in a virtually constant state of war.
       Lord Martin Bolton. Lord Bolton. Martin thought it had a nice ring. Baron Bolton. Margrave Bolton. Viscount Bolton.
       “King Martin the First!” he shouted drunkenly, and toppled onto his back.
       The next morning he woke up with a thick head, a foul taste in his mouth, and a new resolve.
       It was a damp, grey morning. A very English morning. Groaning, Martin pushed aside all thoughts of England and went in search of Meurig.
       “Up,” he rasped, putting his boot into the slumbering Welshman’s ribs, “get up, you old corpse. We’re moving.”
       Meurig’s hide was hard as teak, and it required three hard kicks to make him stir in his bedroll.
       “God help us,” he muttered, passing a hand over his raddled face, “what’s the bloody rush? The fortress is only a few miles away.”
       “Bugger the fortress. Matthias will have to knock it over all by himself. We’re leaving.”
       Meurig sat up. He had slept out in the open, and his bedroll was soaked, but he took no notice. “Leaving? You mean deserting?”
       “I see the years have done little to blunt your wits. Crawl out of your pit and help me