Wars of the Roses 01 - Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  William had been horrified to see the two soldiers set about their work with a relaxed and casual air he still found hard to believe. They were not silent and they made no threats. Instead, they chatted idly as they brought various devices into view, each one designed to rip away a man’s dignity and will. He’d learned that the older man was Ted and the younger, James. James was something of an apprentice to Ted, it seemed, still learning the trade. The older man often paused to explain what he was doing and why it worked, while William only wanted to scream. In a strange way, he was almost an observer, a thing to be worked upon rather than another man.

  At the start, they’d asked him only if he was right- or left-handed. William had told them the truth and Ted laid out a set of nasty-looking vices that could be screwed down until his fingers broke. They cut his wedding ring off with a pair of clippers, tucking it into his pocket for him. They’d chosen that finger to attach the first screw and wound it down, ignoring his hissing breath.

  William had begun to pray in Latin as the finger burst all along its length, looking as if a seam had ripped. He’d thought that was agony enough until the bone cracked with another two turns, bringing the plates together with the broken flesh crushed between. The two men took their time attaching the others, winding each one further shut at intervals as they discussed some whore down at the docks and what she would do for a few pennies. James claimed to have shown her things she’d never known before and Ted told him not to waste his breath lying, or his money on getting the pox. It touched off a furious argument, with William the unwilling witness, bound and helpless between them.

  His left hand throbbed in time with his heart; he could feel it. They’d sat him at the table with his hands free on the wood, passing the ropes around his chest. He had tried to jerk his hands away at first, but they’d held him too firmly. He looked down now at the swollen, purpling flesh, seeing a spur of bone sticking out of his smallest finger. He’d chewed the marrow from chicken bones in his life and the picture of his hand with the dreadful little contraptions attached was somehow unreal, not his hand at all.

  William shook his head, breathing the Pater Noster, the Ave Maria, the Nicene Creed, mumbling lines he had learned as a boy, with his tutor taking a whip to him if he stumbled over a single syllable.

  ‘Credo in unum Deum!’ he said, gasping. ‘Patrem omni … potentem! Factorem caeli … et terrae.’

  He’d taken wounds in battle that hadn’t hurt as much. He tried to list them in his mind, as well as how they’d occurred. He’d once had a gash branded shut with a hot iron and, though he could not understand it, his nose filled with the same smell of burning flesh that he thought he’d forgotten, making him retch weakly against the ropes.

  The two men paused, with Ted holding a hand up to interrupt his companion when he asked a question. William’s senses swam in pain, but he thought he heard a voice he knew. He’d seen dying men suffer terrifying visions in the past and he tried to close his ears against the sound at first, believing in his terror that he was hearing the first whispers of an angel, come to take him.

  ‘Confess!’ he heard clearly, the voice muffled by the stones all around.

  William raised his head, tempted crazily to ask his torturers if they had heard it as well. The words were being shouted at the top of someone’s voice and with each repetition, different parts were lost. William pieced it together, crying out in surprise and pain as Ted lost his vague look of incomprehension and remembered to tighten the screws once more. Another bone cracked, sending a spray of blood across the wooden surface. William felt tears come from his eyes, though it only increased his anger at the thought of such men thinking they saw him weep.

  He took a deep, shuddering breath. He knew Derry’s voice. No one else called him William Pole. It broke his heart to consider giving in to the two men, but the thought of it opened the door and his resolve vanished like wax in a furnace.

  ‘Very well … gentlemen,’ he said, panting. ‘I confess to it all. Bring me your parchment and I will sign my name.’

  The younger man looked astonished, but Ted shrugged and began to unwind the screws, wiping each one down with great care and applying oil to the mechanisms so that they would not rust in the bag. William glanced down at the open roll of thick cloth and shuddered at the things he saw there. They had only begun his torment.

  Ted cleared his throat, wiping the table clean of blood and lifting William’s crushed hand on to a cloth to one side. With care, the man placed a sheet of calfskin vellum where William could reach it. From his bag of equipment, he brought an ink pot and quill, dipping the nib for him when he saw William’s right hand was shaking too violently and might upset the ink.

  William read the accusations of high treason with a feeling of nausea. His son John would hear. His wife would live the rest of her life in the shadow of such a shameful admission. It was a lot to ask to trust Derry Brewer with his honour, but he did, and he signed.

  ‘I told you he would!’ James said triumphantly. ‘You said a duke would hold out for a day or two, maybe more!’

  Ted looked disgusted, but he handed over a silver groat to his young companion.

  ‘I had money on you, old son,’ he told William, shaking his head.

  ‘Remove these ropes,’ William replied.

  Ted chuckled.

  ‘Not yet, my lord. We had a fellow once who threw his own confession on the very fire we’d heated for him. Had to start it all again! No, mate. You’ll abide while James takes it to the men who asked for it. After that, you’re no concern of mine.’

  With mocking ceremony, he handed over the signed sheet to James, who rolled it up and placed it in a tube, tying the ends with a clean black ribbon.

  ‘Don’t dawdle now, lad!’ Ted called after him as he left. ‘There’s daylight still and I’m dry – and you’re buying!’

  Taken by force at a slower pace, Derry was struck once more at the sheer size of the Palace of Westminster. The guards who marched him back into the building were determined to bring him straight through, but it was still a different route from the one he had taken before. Derry passed courtrooms and chambers with vaulted ceilings like cathedrals. By the time they’d passed the echoing chamber where the Lords met, he was deeply glum. His search for Suffolk had never had a chance of succeeding in the time he’d been given. All he had was what he’d read in Tresham’s furious face and he was not certain, could not be certain. An army could search the vast palace and never find a single man.

  Ahead of his small group of guards, Derry saw another cluster of people swirling in something like agitation. He’d been taken right through to the other side of the palace and as he was shoved closer, he saw to his astonishment that the river gate was open, a bright bar of sunlight gleaming like heaven. Derry stumbled on the uneven floor, his attention drawn to the two figures entering the palace. One of his guards cursed as they heaved him onward, then a mutter of awe went through them.

  They brought Derry to the rear of a group facing the outer gate. Every man there was down on one knee, or bowing deeply as the king and queen of England entered their domain. Derry began to smile, looking round to see Tresham and Cardinal Beaufort among them. His moving gaze sharpened at the sight of Lord York to one side. It was no surprise to find the duke had not yet gone to Ireland, but it confirmed some of Derry’s suspicions about the plot against William Pole.

  King Henry looked thin and white. Derry saw him pass a thick blanket from his shoulders to a servant, revealing simple clothes with no ornament. The queen seemed to be holding his arm in support and Derry’s heart went out to her, blessing Margaret for bringing her husband. His mind began to race again, weighing his chances.

  Derry turned to the guard who held him. The man was trying to bow in the king’s presence without removing his grip from the felon he’d been charged with capturing.

  ‘There are no cardinals on a chessboard, but a king takes your bishop, if you follow me. Now then. I’m on the king’s bus
iness, so take your hand off my arm.’

  The guard stood back, unnerved by the presence of the king and simply wanting to remain unnoticed by so many men of power. Derry cracked his neck and stretched his back, the only one standing up straight. Other men were beginning to rise, Tresham and Cardinal Beaufort among them.

  ‘Your Royal Highness, it is a great honour to see you well,’ Tresham said.

  Henry blinked in his direction and Derry was sure he saw Margaret tighten her grip.

  ‘Where is William de la Pole, Lord Suffolk?’ Henry said clearly.

  Derry could have kissed him as a ripple went around the group. Some of them were clearly puzzled, but the expressions of Beaufort, York and Tresham told Derry all he needed to know.

  ‘Your Grace!’ Derry called.

  Dozens of men turned to see who was speaking and Derry used the opportunity to walk through the crowd. His guards were left grasping air behind him, furious that he had brought such attention on them.

  ‘Your Grace, Lord Suffolk has been accused of treason against the Crown,’ Derry said.

  Tresham was hissing instructions to another man and Derry went on quickly before the Speaker could regain the initiative. In his mind, he could see how it had to go, if he could find the words.

  ‘Lord Suffolk has thrown himself on your mercy, Your Grace. He submits to the king’s will, in this and all things.’ Derry saw only blankness in Henry’s face and had the sickening sense that the man hadn’t heard him. He looked desperately to Margaret, silently pleading for her help as he kept speaking. ‘If you summoned his peers, Your Grace, you could decide his fate yourself.’

  Cardinal Beaufort raised himself up then, his voice ringing out.

  ‘Lord Suffolk will be brought to trial, Your Grace. It is a matter for the courts of Parliament.’

  As he spoke, Derry saw a grubby young man come racing through the crowd from the back. He carried a tube tied with a black ribbon and whispered to Tresham before bowing and backing away. Tresham shot a triumphant glance in Derry’s direction, raising what he had been given.

  ‘Lord Suffolk has confessed, Your Grace. He must …’

  ‘He has thrown himself on your mercy! He submits to the royal will!’ Derry said firmly and clearly, his voice ringing out across them all.

  The phrases he used were as old as the building around them, a call for the king himself to rule on the fate of one of his lords. Derry was desperate, but he could not let Tresham and Beaufort assert their authority. The king was on the board. The queen was on the board as well, he realized, as Margaret began to speak.

  Margaret shook with the effort of holding back tears. She had never been so terrified in her life as she was facing that array of powerful men. She’d seen the light fade in her husband’s eyes. The river trip had exhausted him, his body and mind as weak as a child. He had struggled against it, with thin muscles twisting in his arms and back as he left the barge and walked into the palace. He had called for William with the last whispers of his will and she could feel him stagger against her as the men shouted and gamed for position. She listened closely to Derry’s words, knowing that at least he would be protecting William.

  For an age, Margaret waited for Henry to speak again. He said nothing, just blinking slowly. Her throat was dry, her heart hammering against her dress, but she could feel his coldness through the cloth and there was no one else.

  ‘My husband …’ she began. Her voice came out like a creaking door and she stopped and cleared her throat to try again. At one time or another, half the men there had tried to manipulate her husband. God forgive her, but she had to do the same.

  ‘King Henry will retire to his chambers now,’ she said clearly. ‘It is his command that William, Lord Suffolk, be brought to him. Lord Suffolk has submitted to the king’s will. The king alone bears the responsibility.’

  She waited while the men stared at her, unsure how to take such a statement from the young Frenchwoman. No one seemed able to respond and her patience wore thin.

  ‘Steward! His Royal Highness is still recovering from his illness. Help him.’

  The king’s servants were more used to her authority and they bustled around on the instant, leading Henry away from the chamber in the direction of the king’s personal rooms in the palace. A great tension left the group of men and Derry released a held breath in a long sigh. He winked at Tresham. The horse-faced lawyer could only glower as Derry strolled after the royal party. No one dared to stop him. The king’s presence had changed the entire game and they were still reeling.

  23

  Through a narrow window, Derry stared out over a cloister in the Palace of Westminster. It was cold outside, dark beyond the glass. He could see little except his bulging reflection staring back at him in gold and shadow. He sniffed and rubbed his nose, suspecting he had a cold coming on. Giving orders on behalf of the king, it had taken him two days to bring every lord in reach of London to Henry’s royal chambers. At Derry’s back, even the largest of the private rooms was uncomfortably crowded and warm. Fat white candles lit the stateroom from the walls, adding oily smoke to the fug of heat and sweat. In all, twenty-four men of great estate had come to witness the king’s judgment on one of their own. Derry had slept for just a few hours while they rode in and he hurt with tiredness. He had done all he could. When he’d finally seen William’s broken hand, he’d vowed to keep going until his heart gave out.

  Lord York was there, of course, standing with six other noblemen with connections to the Neville family. Richard, Earl of Salisbury, stood at York’s right shoulder, wearing a thick Scots twill that may have suited the far north, but was making him sweat profusely in the cramped confines of that room. Derry found he could watch the group in the reflection of the glass and he studied the man’s son, Richard of Warwick. The young earl seemed to sense his scrutiny and suddenly looked over at him, pointing and muttering something to York. Derry didn’t move, or reveal his awareness of them. Those six men continued to talk quietly among themselves and Derry continued to watch them. Together, they represented a faction at least as powerful as the king himself. Three of them were Richards, he thought wryly: York, Salisbury and Warwick. Married to a Neville, son and grandson of old Ralph Neville. It was a powerful little triumvirate, though the Neville clan had married its daughters and sons into every line from King Edward the Third. Derry smiled at the thought that York had given his youngest son the same name, with a shocking lack of imagination.

  Against them – and he was no longer in doubt that he stood against them – Derry had Somerset among the king’s allies, along with the lords Scales, Grey, Oxford, Dudley and a dozen other men of power and influence. All who could be called in time were present that evening, some of them still travel-stained and tired from a breakneck ride to reach London. It was more than the fate of a duke that had brought them. The king’s own powers had been called into question and the country was still going up in flames away from the streets around the capital.

  Derry rubbed his eyes, thinking of the reports stacking up in the Tower for him to read. He recalled Margaret’s promise that she would cast an eye over every vital document. It made him smile wearily. There were too many for him – and he knew how to sift the wheat from the chaff.

  He turned to the room, wanting it to be over. The life of his friend was at stake, but while fine lords played at justice and vengeance, the country they ruled was falling into banditry and chaos. It galled Derry that he had known Jack Cade during his time in the army. If he could go back to that time and put a knife in the man’s ribs, it would have eased his mind considerably.

  ‘Bloody Jack Cade,’ he murmured to himself.

  The man he remembered had been a weeping drunk, a terror with an axe and a natural bully, though he’d held no rank of note. Cade’s tendency to thump his sergeants put paid to any chances of promotion from within, and as far as Derry recalled, the man had served his term and gone home with just a lattice of stripes on his back to show for it.
It beggared belief to hear Cade had assembled an army for himself, roaring through hamlets and villages around London as they grew wild on success. They’d taken the head of the king’s own sheriff and Derry knew it had to be answered, hard and fast. It was almost sinful to have the king and his lords distracted at such a time. Derry vowed his own vengeance on all the men responsible, bringing calm to his disordered thoughts. Cade, York, Beaufort, the Nevilles and bloody Tresham. He’d have them all for daring to attack the lamb.

  The room fell silent as William, Lord Suffolk, was brought in. He walked upright, though his arms were manacled behind his back. Derry had been able to see him only once in the Jewel Tower and he still felt rage at the cruel injuries and indignities his friend had suffered. Suffolk was an innocent in many ways. He did not deserve the spite levelled against him. Much of the responsibility lay with Derry himself and the guilt was a heavy burden as he saw William suffer the scrutiny of the Neville lords. William’s left forearm was like a leg of pork, fat and pink with splints on the fingers and all wrapped around in bandages. They’d had to find leg irons to get a set big enough to enclose his swollen flesh. Derry knew the sleeve of William’s jacket had been cut along the seam just to pull it on.

  The king’s chancellor entered behind the prisoner, a short man with a wide forehead made larger by his receding hair. The chancellor looked around the room and pursed his lips in satisfaction as to how the lords were arrayed.

  A lonely little space at the centre of the room had been left for William to face his peers. As he took his place, they murmured, staring and commenting in fascination. Suffolk waited with dignity for the king, though his eyes rested briefly on Derry as they passed over the room. William’s hair had been brushed by some anonymous maid. That small touch of kindness brought Derry a twinge of pain for some reason. In the midst of enemies and plots, some pot-girl had thought to take a cloth to the duke’s stained clothes and a brush to his head.