Stormbird wotr-1

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘This is my wife, Joan,’ Thomas said. ‘A sweet little rookery girl who took a risk once and married an archer.’ He smiled at her, though her own expression remained wary. ‘Joan, this is Derry Brewer. We used to be friends once.’

  ‘We still are, or I wouldn’t have risked my hide coming out here. You sent a message to John Gilpin at Calais and here I am, in the pouring rain.’

  ‘Why should we trust a man who sits out in the lane and watches us for hours?’ Joan said. Despite the years in France, her accent was all London, as if she’d left the slums of the capital just the day before.

  ‘All right, Joan, he’s just a cautious man,’ Thomas replied as Derry blinked and fidgeted under her stare. ‘He always was.’

  She made a hard, snorting sound deep in her throat and set about pouring hot water into a dash of brandy in each cup. Derry noted that his measure was only half the size of her husband’s, though he thought better of mentioning it.

  ‘You can go to bed now, Joan, if you want,’ Thomas said. ‘There’s no one else out there; I’d have seen them.’

  His wife frowned at her husband.

  ‘I don’t like to feel a prisoner in my own ’ome, Thomas Woodchurch. I’ll take the girls away tomorrow. When I come back, I want this sorted out. I won’t be looking over my shoulder no longer, I just won’t do it. And you look after Rowan. He’s just a boy, for all his size.’

  ‘I’ll keep him safe, love. Don’t worry about that.’

  Thomas kissed his wife on the cheek she offered him, though she still watched his guest with cold eyes.

  When she had gone, Derry reached for the bottle of brandy and added another slosh to keep the cold out from his bones.

  ‘You married a bit of a dragon there, Tom,’ he said, settling himself in a chair. It was well made, he noticed, taking his weight without a creak. The whole kitchen had the mark of a loved place, a home. It brought a pang of sadness to Derry that he had nowhere like it of his own.

  ‘I’ll thank you to keep your opinions about my wife to yourself, Derry. We’ve other things to talk about and you’ll want to be on your way before sunrise.’

  ‘You’d turn me out? I had hoped for a meal and a bed. I’ve been on the road for a week to get here.’

  ‘All right,’ Thomas said grudgingly. ‘There’s a stew in that big pot. Horsemeat. As to whether you stay under my roof, maybe it depends on what you can tell me.’

  Derry sipped the hot drink, feeling it put a little fire back into his veins.

  ‘Fair enough. So what was so important that you remembered your old friend? Gilpin nearly missed me, you know. I was at the docks on my way to England when he found me. It’s a good thing the man knows my pubs or I wouldn’t be here.’

  Thomas looked at the man he had not seen for fourteen years. Time and worry had weathered Derry Brewer. Yet he still looked strong and fit, even with wet hair plastered to his head and stuck with red-gold leaves.

  ‘I heard you made good, Derry, over there in London.’

  ‘I do all right,’ Derry said warily. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Nothing for me. I just want to know what will happen if the men of Maine fight, Derry. Will King Henry send men to stand with us, or are we on our own?’

  Derry choked on his drink and coughed until he was red in the face.

  ‘There’s a French army camped in Anjou, Tom. When they move next spring, will you have your wife wave her broom at them?’

  He looked into the grey eyes of his old friend and he sighed.

  ‘Look, I wish it could be another way, but Maine and Anjou were the price for the truce. You understand? It’s done, bought and sold. Your son won’t have to go to war before he can grow a decent beard, the way we had to. This is the price.’

  ‘It’s my land, Derry. My land that’s been given away without so much as a word to me.’

  ‘What’s that now? It’s not your bleeding land, Tom! King Henry owns this farm and sixty thousand like it. He owns this house and this cup I’m holding. It sounds to me like you’ve forgotten that. You pay your tithe each year, though. Did you think it was voluntary? King Henry and the church are the only ones who own land, or are you one of those who think it should all be shared out? Is that it? Are you a firebrand, Tom? An agitator? Seems having a farm has changed you.’

  Thomas glared at the man he had once called a friend.

  ‘Perhaps it has changed me, at that. It’s my labour bringing in the fleeces, Derry. It’s me and my son out there in all weathers, keeping the lambs alive. I don’t work to fill a lord’s purse, I’ll tell you that. I work for my family and my holding, because a man must work or he isn’t a man at all. If you’d ever tried it, you wouldn’t mock me. You’d know I begrudge every coin I pay in tithe, every damned year. Every coin that I earned. My work makes this my land, Derry. My choices and my skills. Christ, it’s not like this is some ancient Kent plot, with a lord’s family ruling for generations. This isn’t England, Derry! This is new land, with new people on it.’

  Derry sipped from his cup, shaking his head at the other man’s anger.

  ‘There’s more at stake than a few hills, Tom. There’ll be no help coming, trust me on that. The best thing you can do is cart away everything you can carry and head north before the roads get too crowded. If that’s what you wanted to know, I’m doing you the courtesy of telling it to you straight.’

  Thomas didn’t reply for a time, as he finished his drink and refilled both cups. He was more generous than his wife with the brandy and Derry watched with interest as he crumbled a little cinnamon into the cups before handing one back.

  ‘Then out of courtesy, Derry, I’ll tell you we’re going to fight,’ Thomas said. The words were not a boast. He spoke with quiet certainty, which was why Derry sat up straight, shrugging off tiredness and the effects of the brandy.

  ‘You’ll get yourself killed, then. There are two or three thousand Frenchmen coming here, Thomas Woodchurch. What do you have in Maine? A few dozen farmers and veterans? It will be a slaughter and they’ll still have your farm when it’s over. Listen to me now. This is done, understand? I couldn’t change it if my life depended on it. Yours does. You want to see your boy cut down by some French knight? How old is he? Seventeen, eighteen? Jesus. There are times when a man has to cut and run. I know you don’t like to be pushed, Tom. But we ran when that cavalry troop spotted us, didn’t we? Just three of us against fifty? We ran like fucking hares then and there was no shame in it because we lived and we fought again. It’s the same thing here. Kings rule. The rest of us just get by and hope to survive it.’

  ‘Are you finished? Good. Now you listen, Derry. You’ve said there won’t be help coming and I’ve heard you. I’m telling you we’ll stand. This is my land and I don’t care if King Henry himself comes to order me off. I’d spit in his eye too. I’m not running this time.’

  ‘Then you’re dead,’ Derry snapped, ‘and God help you, because I can’t.’

  Both men sat glaring at each other, no give in either of them. After a time, Derry drained his cup and went on.

  ‘If you fight, you’ll get your men killed. Worse, you’ll break the truce I’ve worked for, before the damn thing has even properly begun. Do you understand that, Tom? If that’s the way they’re talking, I need you to go to your friends and tell them what I’ve told you. Tell them to let this one go. Tell them it’s better to stay alive and start again than to throw it all away and end up another corpse in a ditch. There’s more riding on this than you know. If you ruin it for a few scrub farms, I’ll kill you myself.’

  Thomas laughed, though there was no mirth in it.

  ‘You won’t. You owe me your life, Derry. You owe me more than your old-woman warnings.’

  ‘I’m saving your life by telling you to get out!’ Derry roared. ‘For once, why don’t you just listen, you stubborn sod?’

  ‘Our arrows had all gone, remember?’

  ‘Tom, please …’

  ‘You had a gash in yo
ur leg and you couldn’t run — and that French knight saw you in the long grass and turned back, do you remember?’

  ‘I remember,’ Derry said miserably.

  ‘And he didn’t see me, so I jumped up at him and pulled him down before he could cut off your head with his fine French sword. I took my little knife and I stuck it into his eye slit, Derry, while you just stood and watched. Now that same man is sitting in my kitchen, on my land, and telling me he won’t help? I thought better of you, I really did. We stood together once and it meant something.’

  ‘The king can’t fight, Tom. He’s not his father and he can’t fight — or lead men who can. He’s like a child and it’s my neck if you ever say it was me who told you. When my king asked me to get him a truce, I did it. Because it was the right thing to do. Because otherwise we’d lose the whole of France anyway. I’m sorry, because I know you and it’s like a knife in me to sit in your kitchen and tell you it’s hopeless, but it is.’

  Thomas stared at him over the rim of his cup.

  ‘You’re telling me this was all your idea?’ he said in wonder. ‘Who the hell are you, Derry Brewer?’

  ‘I’m a man you never want to cross, Tom. Never. I’m someone you should listen to, because I know what I’m talking about and I don’t forgive easy. I’ve told you what I know. If you start a war over a few hills and some sheep … Just don’t, that’s all. I’ll find you a stake to buy another place in the north, for old times’ sake. I can do that much.’

  ‘Alms for the poor? I don’t want your charity,’ Thomas said, almost spitting the word. ‘I earned my land here. I earned it in blood and pain and killing. It’s all mine, Derry, no debts, nothing. You’re sitting in my home and these are the hands that built it.’

  ‘It’s just another tenant farm,’ Derry growled at him, growing angry once more. ‘Let it go.’

  ‘No. You should go, Derry. You’ve said all there is to say.’

  ‘You’re turning me out?’ Derry asked incredulously. He closed his fists and Thomas lowered his head, so he looked back from under thunderous brows.

  ‘I am. I’d hoped for more from you, but you’ve made yourself clear.’

  ‘Right.’

  Derry rose and Thomas stood with him, so that they faced each other in the small kitchen, their anger filling it. Derry reached for his waxed cloak and pulled it over himself with furious, sharp movements.

  ‘The king wanted a truce, Tom,’ he said as he reached the door and flung it open. ‘He gave up some of his lands for it and it’s done. Don’t stand in the road like a fool. Save your family.’

  The wind howled into the kitchen, making the fire flutter and spit. Derry left the door swinging and disappeared into the night. After a time, Thomas walked over and closed it against the gale.

  The ship plunged, dropping into a wave with such suddenness that it seemed to leave Margaret’s stomach behind. Spray spattered across the deck, adding to the crust of salt that sparkled on the railings and every exposed piece of timber. The sails creaked and billowed above her head and Margaret could not remember when she had enjoyed herself as much. The second mate roared an order and the sailors began heaving on ropes as thick as her wrist, moving the wooden yards round to keep the sails full and tight. She saw William striding along the deck, one of his big hands hovering near the railing as he approached.

  ‘One hand for the ship, one for yourself,’ she muttered, delighted at the English phrase and the sense of nautical knowledge it gave her. How could she have reached fourteen years of age and never been to sea? It was a long way from Saumur Castle in every possible sense. The captain treated her with blushing respect, bowing and listening as if every word she said was a gem to be treasured. She only wished her brothers could see it, or better still, Yolande. The thought of her sister brought an ache to her chest, but she resisted, holding her head up and breathing in air so cold and fresh that it stung her lungs. Her father had refused to send even a maid with her, causing William to become so red-faced and angry that she’d thought he might strike Lord René of Anjou.

  It had not been a pleasant parting, but William had given up his indignation and hired two maids in Calais to tend to her, using his own coins.

  Margaret smiled as Suffolk staggered and grabbed the railing. The ship lurched on grey seas, with cold autumn winds battering from the west. Calais itself had contained so many new experiences that it had overwhelmed her. The fortress port had been crammed full of the English within its walls. She’d seen beggars and shopkeepers as well as hundreds of gruff sailors everywhere, bustling to and fro with their sea chests and cargoes. When they’d paid off the last carriage driver, William had hustled her past some painted women, as if Margaret had never heard of whores. She laughed to recall his very English embarrassment as he tried to protect her from a sight of them.

  A seagull called overhead and, to her delight, settled on one of the spiderweb of ropes that led everywhere, almost within reach of her hand. It watched her with beady little eyes and Margaret was sorry she didn’t have a crumb of cake or dry bread to feed the bird.

  The gull startled and flew off with a harsh cry as William came up to her. He smiled to see her expression.

  ‘My lady, I thought you might enjoy your first glimpse of England. If you’ll keep a hand on the rail at all times, the captain says we can go to the prow — the front of the ship.’

  Margaret stumbled as she went eagerly and he put a strong arm on hers to steady her.

  ‘Forgive the impertinence, my lady. You’re warm enough?’ he asked her. ‘No sickness?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Margaret replied. ‘A stomach of iron, Lord Suffolk!’

  He chuckled at that, leading her along the pitching deck. Margaret could hear the hiss of the sea passing under them. Such speed! It was extraordinary and exhilarating. She resolved to return to sea when she was properly married in England. A queen could have her own ship, surely?

  ‘Can a queen have her own ship?’ she called, pitching her voice over the wind and screaming gulls.

  ‘I’m sure a queen can have her own fleet, if she wants,’ William roared back, grinning over his shoulder.

  The wind was freshening and the mates were bellowing orders. The sailors moved busily once again, loosening shrouds and folding great wet sections of sails, then tying them off before making it all taut once again.

  Margaret reached the bow of the ship, with William’s hand steady on her shoulder. As well as the stays and the high jib sail, only the wooden bowsprit and some netting were further out, crashing down almost to the waves and then up again, over and over. She gasped in delight as white cliffs loomed in the distance, bright and clean against the sea mist. Margaret took a breath and held it, knowing it was English air. She had never left France before. She had never even left Anjou. Her senses swam with so many new experiences and thoughts.

  ‘They are beautiful, monsieur! Magnifique!’

  The sailors heard her. They smiled and cheered, already affectionate towards the girl who would be queen and who loved the sea as much as they did.

  ‘Look down, my lady,’ William said.

  Margaret dropped her gaze and then gasped to see sleek grey dolphins racing along the surface of the sea, keeping perfect pace with the ship. They darted and leaped as if they played a game, daring each other to see how close they could come. As she watched, a pole and chain off the bowsprit dipped deep enough to touch one of them. In a sudden flurry, they all vanished into the deep as if they had never existed. Margaret was left with a sense of awe and wonder at what she had seen. William laughed, amused to be able to show her such things.

  ‘That’s why they call that part a dolphin striker,’ he said, smiling. ‘It doesn’t hurt them.’ The wind howled, so that he had to lean close and shout into her ear. ‘Now, it will be a few hours yet before we make port. Shall I call your maids to prepare dry clothes for you?’

  Margaret stared out at the white cliffs, at the land whose king she had never met but would marry tw
ice. England, her England.

  ‘Not yet, William,’ she said. ‘Let me stand here for a while first.’

  PART TWO

  Mine heart is set, and all mine whole intent,

  To serve this flower in my most humble wyse

  As faithfully as can be thought or meant,

  Without feigning or sloth in my servyse;

  For know thee well, it is a paradyse

  To see this flower when it begyn to sprede,

  With colours fresh ennewyd, white and red.

  William de la Pole [written about Margaret of Anjou]

  11

  With warm furs on her hands and wrapped snugly around her neck, Margaret walked into the frost-covered gardens. Wetherby House was her first home in England, where she’d spent almost three months. The trees were still stark and bare, but there were snowdrops growing around their roots and spring was on its way. It could almost have been France and walking the paths eased some of the homesickness in her.

  All the local farms were slaughtering pigs and salting meat. Margaret could smell the smoke and she knew the dead animals were being piled with straw, which was lit to burn off their bristles. The bitter odour brought a sudden memory, so vivid that she stood and stared. Her mouth recalled the taste when her mother had let the stable lads mix fresh blood with sugar into a paste, almost a mousse. Her sister Yolande and her brothers had shared a bowl of the rare treat, squabbling over the spoon until it fell into the dust, then dipping their fingers until their skin and teeth were stained red.

  Margaret felt her eyes sting with tears. Saumur would be quieter without her that summer. It was hard not to miss her mother’s stuffed sardines or fennel chicken when Margaret was presented with a solid pork joint sitting like a boulder in a sea of peas in heavy cream. It seemed the English liked to boil food. It was one more thing to get used to.