Stormbird wotr-1

by Conn Iggulden

In the Jewel Tower, across the road from the Palace of Westminster, William paced the room, making the thick oak boards creak with every step. The room was cold and bare beyond a table and chair placed for the light to fall across it. Some perverse part of him felt it was only right that he should be confined in such a way. He had been unable to stop the French army. Though his men had butchered or maimed thousands of them, they’d still been forced back to Calais, step by bloody step. Before he’d left, he’d seen his men winching up the Calais gates, closing the ancient portcullis and lining the walls with archers. William smiled wearily to himself. At least he’d saved the archers. The rest fell on his head. He had not resisted when Tresham’s men came to arrest him. His guards had touched their swords in question but he’d shaken his head and gone quietly. A duke had protections from the king himself and William knew he would have the chance to deny the charges against him.

  Staring out of the window, he could see both the king’s palace and the ancient abbey, with its octagonal Chapter House. The Commons met there, or in the Painted Chamber in the palace. William had heard talk of giving them some permanent place for their debates, but there were always more pressing issues than warm seats for men from the shires. He rubbed his temples, feeling tension and not a little fear. Only a blind man would have missed the anger and threat of violence he’d seen ever since touching the land of his birth. He’d ridden fast through Kent, at times in the same tracks as large bodies of soldiers. When he’d stopped for the night at a crossroads inn, he’d heard nothing but stories of Jack Cade and his army. The owners had thrown hostile glances William’s way all evening, but whether he’d been recognized or not, no one had dared to interrupt his progress back to the capital.

  Turning away from the view, William resumed his pacing, clasping his hands tightly behind his back. The charges were a farce to anyone who knew what had truly gone on that year and the one before. He was certain they would not stand, not once the king was informed. William wondered if Derry Brewer had heard of his confinement. After the warning he’d sent, it amused William to think of Derry’s disgust at his decision to come home anyway, but there had been no real choice. William straightened his back. He was the commander of English soldiers in France and a duke of the Crown. For all the disasters he’d witnessed, nothing changed that. He found himself thinking of his wife, Alice. She would know nothing except the worst rumours. He wondered if his captors would let him write to her as well as to his son, John. He did not want them to worry.

  William paused in his slow tread as he heard men’s voices on the floors below. His mouth firmed into a hard line and the knuckles showed white on his clasped hands. He stood waiting at the top of the stairs, almost as if he were guarding the room. Without conscious thought, his right hand moved to clutch at the empty space where his sword would usually sit.

  Richard of York led two other men up the stairs with boyish energy. He paused with his hand on the railing at the sight of Suffolk standing to face them as if he might attack at any moment.

  ‘Calm yourself, William,’ York said softly as he came into the room. ‘I told you in France you’d been given a poisoned cup. Did you think I would vanish quietly to Ireland while great events played themselves out in my absence? Hardly. I’ve been busy these last few months. I believe you have been busier still, though not perhaps with such good results.’

  York crossed the room to stare out at the rising sun and the mists burning off around Westminster. Behind him, Sir William Tresham and Cardinal Beaufort stepped into the tower space. York waved two fingers in their direction without looking round.

  ‘You know Tresham and Beaufort, of course. I suggest you listen to what they have to say, William. That is my best advice to you.’

  York smiled thinly, enjoying the view. There was something about high places that had always pleased him, as if God were closer than to men on the ground below.

  William had noticed York’s sword, of course, as well as the bollock dagger he wore thrust through his belt, with a polished pair of carved wooden testicles holding it steady. It was a stabbing blade, long and thin. William doubted York was fool enough to let him come within reach of either weapon, but he judged the distances even so. Neither Tresham nor Cardinal Beaufort was armed as far as he could see, but William knew he was as much a prisoner as any wretch in the cells of Westminster or the Tower. The thought made him look up from his musing.

  ‘Why have I not been taken to the Tower of London? On charges of high treason? I wonder, Richard, if it is because you know these accusations sit on weak foundations. I have done nothing on my own. It was never possible for one man to arrange a truce with France, however it turned out.’ His mind flashed to Derry Brewer and he shook his head, sick of all the games and promises.

  No one answered him. The three men stood patiently until two heavy-set soldiers trudged up the stairs. They wore mail and grubby tabards, as if they had been called from other duties. William noticed with distaste that they carried a stained canvas sack between them. It clinked as they rested it on the wooden floor and then stood to attention.

  Cardinal Beaufort cleared his throat and William turned to the man, hiding his distaste. The king’s great-uncle looked the part, with his shaven pate and long, white fingers held together as if in prayer. Yet the man had been lord chancellor to two kings and was descended himself from Edward the Third, through John of Gaunt. Beaufort had been the one who sentenced Joan of Arc to death by fire and William knew there was no kindness in the old man. He suspected that of the three, Beaufort was his true captor. The presence of York was a clear statement of the cardinal’s loyalties. William could not keep a sneer from his face as Beaufort spoke in a voice made soft by decades of prayer and honey wine.

  ‘You stand accused of the most serious crimes, Lord William. I would have thought an aspect of humility and penance would suit you more than this feigned blustering. If you are brought to trial, I am sorry to say I do not doubt the outcome. There are too many witnesses willing to speak against you.’

  William frowned as the three men exchanged glances before Beaufort went on. They’d discussed his fate before, that much was obvious. He tensed his jaw, determined to resist their conspiracy.

  ‘Your name appears on all the papers of state, my lord,’ Beaufort said. ‘The failed truce, the original marriage papers from Tours, the orders to defend Normandy against French incursion. The people of England cry out for justice, Lord Suffolk — and your life must answer for your treasons.’

  The cardinal had that white softness of flesh William had seen before, from a life of cloisters and the Mass. Yet the black eyes were hard as they weighed him and found him wanting. He stared back, letting his contempt show. Beaufort shook his head sadly.

  ‘What a bad year it has been, William! I know you for a good man, a pious man. I wish it had not come to this. Yet the forms must be observed. I will ask you to confess to your crimes. You will no doubt refuse and then, I am afraid, my colleagues and I will retire. You will be secured to that chair and these two men will persuade you to sign your name to the mortal sin of treason.’

  Listening to the soft voice drone on, William swallowed painfully, his heart pounding. His certainties were crumbling. York was smiling wryly, not looking at him. Tresham at least looked uncomfortable, but there was no doubting their resolve. William could not help looking over to the canvas sack as it sat there, dreading his first sight of the tools within.

  ‘I demand to speak to the king,’ William said, pleased that his voice came out calm and apparently unafraid.

  When Tresham replied, the old lawyer’s voice was as dry as if he was discussing a difficult point from the statutes.

  ‘I’m afraid a charge of high treason does not allow that, my lord,’ he said. ‘You will appreciate that a man who has conspired against the Crown can hardly be allowed to approach the Crown. You must first be put to the question. When every detail … and all your confederates have been named, you will sign the confession. You
will then be bound over for trial, though as you know it will be no more than a formality. The king will not be involved at any stage, my lord, unless of course he chooses to attend your execution.’

  ‘Unless …’ York said. He paused as he stood staring out of the window over Westminster. ‘Unless the loss of France can be laid at the feet of the king himself, William. You and I both know the truth of it. Tell me, how many men came at your request to bolster your forces in Normandy? How many stood with you against the French king? Yet there are eight thousand soldiers in the counties around London, William, all to ease a king’s terror of rebellion. If those men had been allowed to cross to France when you needed them, do you think you would be here now? Would we have lost Normandy if you’d had twelve thousand in the field?’

  William glowered at York, anger building in him as he saw where the man was aiming his thrust.

  ‘Henry is my anointed king, my lord York,’ he said slowly and with force. ‘You will not have petty accusations from me, if that is what you’re after. It is not my place to judge the actions of the king of England, nor yours, nor this cardinal, his uncle, nor Tresham, for all his lawyer’s tricks. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ York said, turning to him with an odd smile. ‘I understand that there are only two paths, William. Either the king loses you, his most powerful supporter, or … he loses everything. Either way, the kingdom and my cause will be strengthened immeasurably. Face the truth, Suffolk! The king is a boy too weak and sickly to rule. I am not the first to say it and, believe me, it is being muttered now in every hamlet, town and city across England. The losses in France have only confirmed what some of us knew since he was a child. We waited, William! Out of respect and loyalty to his father and the Crown, we waited. And look where that has brought us!’ York paused, finding calm once again. ‘To this room, William, and to you. Bear the guilt on your own and die, or name your king as the architect of this failure. It is your choice and it matters not to me.’

  In the face of York’s poisonous triumph, William sagged, resting one hand on the table to support his weight.

  ‘I see,’ William said, his voice bleak. For all York’s words, he had no choice at all. He seated himself at the table. His hands trembled as they rested on the polished wood.

  ‘I will not confess to treasons I have not committed. I will not name my king, or any other man. Torture me if you must; it will make no difference. And may God forgive you, because I will not.’

  In exasperation, York gestured to the two soldiers. One of them crouched by his bag and began unrolling it, revealing the neat lines of pincers, awls and saws within.

  22

  More than thirty of the fifty-five lords of England had property around the centre of London, Derry knew. Given an hour or two, he could have listed each house, as well as the men and women he had working for him. Yet Somerset was William’s personal friend. More importantly, Derry knew he was in London that day, rather than his estates in the south-west. He’d had another Thames boatman come close to bursting his lungs to reach Somerset’s townhouse along the river, drawing up on the wide water-landing. Derry had almost got himself killed by Somerset’s guards there before he’d identified himself and raced with them through the gardens. Somerset had been writing letters and stood to listen with a quill held in his fingers. Though every passing moment was an agony, Derry had forced himself to explain clearly what he needed. Halfway through, the diminutive earl clapped him on the back and shouted for his stewards.

  ‘Tell me the rest on the way, Brewer,’ Somerset said briskly, walking down to the water-landing.

  The earl was forty-four years of age, with no spare flesh on his frame and the energy of a man twenty years younger. Derry had to scurry to keep up with him and despite the earl’s lack of height and amiable look, he noted how Somerset’s guards still jumped when he gave orders. The earl’s personal barge was being poled along the river barely an hour after Derry had arrived.

  They grounded it at Westminster dock and Derry found himself breathing hard as he counted the men Somerset had summoned. It looked like his entire personal guard. There were six men on the barge with them, while another dozen had been told to make their best speed to Westminster on the roads. They had run a good two miles around the bend of the river that flowed through London, plunging through filthy streets to arrive spattered and panting only a brief time after their master’s barge drew up.

  Derry was impressed, despite himself. Somerset was in a froth of indignation at the thought of a threat to his friend, and yet he turned to Derry with a questioning look as they strode towards the river gate of the palace.

  ‘Stay close, my lord, if you would,’ Derry said. ‘I will need your authority for this.’

  Having eighteen armed men at his back was satisfying and worrying at the same time. It was not beyond possibility that Parliament would react badly to an armed invasion of their sanctum. Derry felt his heart thump in anticipation as he approached the first guards, already yelling for their superiors and fumbling their pikes and swords. Somerset cracked his neck with a sharp gesture, his expression both confident and eager. The two men were from very different worlds, but with William de la Pole in danger, both of them were spoiling for a fight.

  Margaret heard her name called when she was in the middle of another furious conversation with the king’s physician. She broke off on the instant, rushing back to her husband’s rooms. She gaped as she saw Henry with his legs on the floor and two boots waiting to be put on. He had pulled a long white shirt over his bony chest and found woollen leggings.

  ‘Margaret? Can you help me with these? I can’t pull them on myself.’

  She knelt quickly, yanking the thick wool up his legs before taking up one of the boots and working his foot into it.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ she said, looking up at him. There were dark circles under his eyes, but he seemed more alert than she had seen him in days.

  ‘A little, I think. Derry was here, Margaret. He wanted me to come to Westminster.’

  Her face crumpled and she hid her expression by bowing her head and concentrating on the second boot.

  ‘I know, Henry. I was with you when he came. Are you well enough to rise?’

  ‘I think so. I can take a boat and that will not be much of a trial, though the river is cold. Would you ask my servants to bring blankets for me? I will need to be well wrapped against the wind.’

  Margaret finished pulling on the second boot and rubbed her eyes clear. Her husband put out an arm and she helped to raise him to his feet, tugging the leggings higher and fastening his belt. He looked thin and pale, but his eyes were clear and she could have wept just to see him standing. She saw a robe hanging on a hook across the room and fetched it for him, placing it around his shoulders. He patted her hand as it touched him.

  ‘Thank you, Margaret. You are very kind to me.’

  ‘You honour me. I know you are not well. To see you rise for your friend …’

  She broke off before the mingled sadness and joy overwhelmed her. Taking her husband’s arm, she went out into the corridor, surprising the guards as they came to attention.

  Master Allworthy heard the noise and came out of the next room along, holding some twisted piece of the contraption Margaret had kicked earlier on. His thunderous expression cleared into amazement as he saw the king. The doctor lowered himself to kneel on the stone floor.

  ‘Your Grace! I am so very pleased to see this improvement in you. Have you moved your bowels, Your Grace, if I may make so bold with such a question? Such an event will sometimes clear a confused mind. It was the green liquor, I am certain, as well as the wormwood tapers. Are you to take a turn in the gardens? I would not like you to exert yourself too much. Your Grace’s health is balanced on a hair. If I may suggest …’

  Henry seemed willing to listen to the babbling doctor for ever, but Margaret’s patience wore thin. She spoke over him.

  ‘King Henry is going to the river ga
te, Master Allworthy. If you’d step out of the way instead of blocking the entire corridor, we might get past you.’

  In response, the doctor tried to bow and press himself against the wall at the same time. He could not help staring at the king as Margaret helped her husband along the corridor and she shuddered under that professional inspection. Perhaps her glare kept the man quiet; she neither knew nor cared. She and Henry descended the stairs and the king’s chamber steward came rushing to greet them.

  ‘Have the barge made ready,’ Margaret said firmly, before he could object. ‘And have blankets brought, as many as you can find.’

  For once, the steward did not reply, only bowing and retreating at speed. The news spread quickly that the king was about and the wing of the Tower seemed to fill with bustling servants carrying armfuls of thick cloth. Henry stared glassily as his wife brought him into the breeze. She felt him shiver and she took a blanket from a young woman heading for the royal barge, draping it over Henry’s shoulders. He clutched it to his chest, looking sick and frail.

  Margaret held his hand as he stepped on to the rocking barge and lowered himself on to the ornate bench seat on the open deck, unaware or uncaring as crowds began to gather on the banks all around. Margaret could see men waving their hats and the sound of cheering began to grow as the locals realized the royal family were coming out and could be seen. Servants piled more blankets around the king to keep him warm and Margaret found she too was shivering, so that she was grateful for the thick wool coverings. The bargemen cast off and the sweeps dipped into the current, taking them out on to the fast-flowing waters of the Thames.

  The journey was strangely peaceful, with just the sound of the oars and shouts from the banks as urchins and young men and women ran along with them, keeping pace as best they could. As they rounded the great bend in the river and sighted the Palace of Westminster and the docks there, Margaret felt Henry’s grip tighten on her small hand. He turned to her, wrapped in the layers of wool.