Wars of the Roses 01 - Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘Let down a rope to him,’ Margaret ordered the soldiers clustering behind her. ‘While they find me a way down, Derry, you can climb up.’

  He didn’t question the command and only groaned quietly to himself, wondering if he had the strength. In the end, it took three men pulling on the rope above before he reached the lip and they were able to heave him over. Derry lay gasping on the stone floor, quite unable to rise until the guards helped him. He attempted a bow and almost fell.

  ‘You are exhausted,’ Margaret said, reaching out to take his arm. ‘Come in further. There is food enough and wine.’

  ‘Ah, that would be very welcome, my lady. I am not quite at my best, I admit.’

  Half an hour later, he was seated in a room within the tower, wrapped in a blanket by the fire and chewing fat slices of cured ham as he fought against the desire to sleep. Outside, the noise of hammers told him Lord Scales was busying himself constructing rough steps. Some of the men inside had already climbed down to help with the work. Derry was left alone with the young queen, watching him with large brown eyes that missed nothing.

  Margaret bit her lip with impatience, forcing herself to wait until he had satisfied his hunger and belched into his fist, the platter of ham polished clean. She needed to know what Derry had witnessed in the night. Perhaps first, she needed him to know what had been done for her.

  ‘Captain Brown was a good, brave man,’ she said.

  Derry looked up sharply, seeing the unnatural paleness of her face, the fear and exhaustion still showing in her.

  ‘I knew him well, my lady. I was sorry to see he hadn’t come through. It was a hard night for all of us.’

  ‘It was. Good men have died in my defence, Derry. And I live still. We have both survived – and the sun has risen.’

  Her voice firmed as she spoke, as she put her grief and weariness away for another time.

  ‘How good is your information today, Master Brewer?’ she asked.

  He straightened in the chair, struck by the formality and understanding that it was a recall to duty. He was hard-pressed not to groan as every bone and muscle sent sharp warnings at the movement.

  ‘Not as good as I would like, my lady. I know Cade has marched back to the bridge and over it. I have men watching him, ready to run back to me if something changes. For today, I would imagine he’ll stay in Southwark to rest and count his spoils.’ His voice became bitter as he spoke. ‘But he’ll be back tonight, I don’t doubt. That is the burr, my lady. That is the thorn. I don’t have the count of men lost, but from what I’ve seen and heard, there are precious few soldiers left in London. We have no more than a few hundred, perhaps a thousand men at most, from here to the west wall. With your permission, I will send riders out today to summon every knight and man-at-arms within range for tonight.’

  ‘Will it be enough?’ she asked, looking into the flames of the fire.

  He considered lying to raise her spirits, but there was no point. He shook his head.

  ‘The lords of the north have armies to crush Cade and half a dozen like him, but we can’t reach them in time. Those we can … well, there are not enough, not if he comes back tonight.’

  Margaret felt her fears surface at the despair she saw in him. Derry was never down for long, she knew that. He always bounced up when he was knocked on to his back. Seeing his hopelessness was almost more frightening than the dark murders of the night before.

  ‘How is it possible?’ she said in a whisper. It might have been a question she did not mean to ask aloud, but Derry shrugged.

  ‘We were spread too thin, or the unrest was too wide to contain. My lady, it doesn’t matter what has gone before. We are here today and we will defend London tonight. I think you should get out of the city, either to Kenilworth or the palace in Greenwich. I can have boats brought before noon to take you. I will know then that you are safe, no matter what follows.’

  Margaret hesitated a beat before she shook her head.

  ‘No. It has not yet come to that. If I flee the city, this man Cade will be calling himself king before tomorrow – or perhaps Lord York the day after, if he is behind this.’

  Derry looked sharply at the young queen, wondering how much she understood of the threats arrayed against her family.

  ‘If York’s hand is anywhere in this attack, he’s been more subtle than before, my lady. I would not be surprised if there are agents working in his name, but I know for a fact that the man himself is still in Ireland.’

  Her voice was low and urgent as she replied, leaning closer in case they could be overheard.

  ‘I am aware of the threat, Derry. York is the royal “heir” after all.’ Unconsciously, her hand dipped to run over her womb as she went on. ‘He is a subtle man, Derry. It would not surprise me if he were taking care to stay clear and untainted, while his loyal followers bring down my husband.’

  Derry blinked slowly at her, struggling against the weariness and warmth that threatened sleep, just when he needed to be sharp. He saw her thinking, sitting close enough to watch the pupils of her eyes contract and then widen.

  ‘I saw them take the fresh-minted gold,’ she said, staring at nothing, ‘last night and this morning. Cade’s men have found loot beyond their wildest dreams. They will be counting and gloating over it today, aware that they will never see such wealth again.’

  ‘My lady?’ Derry said in confusion. He sat up and rubbed his face, feeling the calluses on his hands.

  ‘They do not know how weak we are, how feeble the defence has become. They must not know.’ She took a sharp breath, making the decision. ‘I will send them a pardon for all their crimes, on condition they disperse.’

  ‘A what?’ Derry said in shock.

  He began to rise from his chair, but the queen pressed a hand on his shoulder. Derry looked at her in disbelief. He had fought Cade’s men through a night that had lasted for an eternity and now she would pardon them all, let them all walk home with royal gold in their pockets? It was madness, and he searched for the least offensive way of telling her so.

  ‘A pardon, Derry,’ she repeated, her voice firm. ‘In full, in writing, delivered to Jack Cade in his camp at Southwark. A chance for them to take what they have won and leave. Tell me of another choice that would achieve the same result. Can they be held back?’

  Derry looked at her.

  ‘We could destroy the bridge!’ he said. ‘There is gunpowder in the armoury here, not fifty feet from where we are now. With enough barrels, I could bring it down. How would they cross then?’

  The young French queen blanched for a moment, considering her fortune that the rioters had not breached the powder stores and used them. She gave silent thanks and then, after a time, shook her head.

  ‘You would only provoke another attack. If we had a free day, perhaps you could bring it down, but Cade will cross again into the city the moment he sees barrels being rolled along the streets. Listen to me, Derry. Every man who entered London deserves to hang, but how many of them died last night? Thousands? The rest will imagine another night like it – and they will think of the wealth they have already gained. Some of them – God grant, most of them – will want so much just to go home. I will give them the chance to leave. If they refuse, we have lost nothing. If they take what I offer, we will have saved London.’

  She stopped, watching for his agreement and seeing only blankness. ‘Or will you let them come back in for another night of rape and slaughter? I heard their talk, Derry. I know what they have done. Monsieur, I wish with every sinew of my heart to see them punished, but if there is another answer, I do not have it. So you will obey me in this, Master Brewer.’

  Derry was still staring in astonishment at the cold fury he was seeing when his attention was dragged away by shouting outside the tower. Margaret too looked up with an expression of sudden fear. His heart broke for her and he levered himself to his feet.

  ‘Let me see what it is, my lady. Lord Scales is a good man, don’t worry.’
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  Derry cast the blanket aside rather than appear at the tower door like a frightened old woman in a shawl. He came out into the sunshine and looked down to see Scales arguing with Warwick, both men pointing up at the tower. Derry felt thoughts stir in the sluggish broth between his ears. He leaned against the door, looking down on them both as nonchalantly as he could manage.

  ‘Morning, my lord Warwick. I see you survived, thank God. Better late than not at all, eh?’

  Warwick looked up, his expression darkening at the sight of Derry grinning down at him from above.

  ‘I will see the queen, Master Brewer. I will see for myself that she is unharmed.’

  ‘As you wish, my lord. Shall I let a rope down for you, or will you wait for stairs and ladders?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I was saying …’ Lord Scales began indignantly.

  Warwick glowered at both of them, but he was young and he shrugged at what might have been an indignity for an older man.

  ‘Rope, Brewer. Right now, if you please.’

  Derry uncoiled the one he’d used himself. He saw Warwick come up it at surprising speed, feeling suddenly pleased the young earl had not been present when the soldiers had heaved him up like a sack of coal. As Warwick came to his feet on the lip of the doorway, Derry vanished back to the warmer rooms within. He reached the queen just a few feet ahead of the man behind.

  ‘Your Royal Highness, it is my pleasure to announce Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick,’ Derry announced, stopping Warwick in his tracks while he was forced to bow. ‘On the matter we were discussing, I am of course your obedient servant.’ He stared off into the middle distance as he spoke. ‘I will attend to it immediately, my lady.’

  Margaret dismissed him with a gesture. The significance of the name Neville had not been wasted on her, but there were guards within call and she felt no fear facing such a battered and exhausted young man. Derry beat a retreat, followed down the corridor by Warwick’s suspicious glare.

  ‘As you see, I am safe, Lord Warwick. Are you able to stand, or would you like a chair and something to eat and drink? It seems I must be a nurse this morning, to you and perhaps to London.’

  Warwick accepted gratefully, pleased to find the young queen still in possession of her wits and dignity after such a night. He was not usually comfortable in the presence of women, preferring the bluff talk of men of his own station. Yet he was too weary even to feel embarrassed. With a stifled groan, he sat in turn, beginning his account of the night’s events as servants prepared fresh cuts of ham and cool ale to slake his thirst. Margaret listened closely, questioning him only when he faltered or was unclear. He hardly noticed how much his manner warmed to her, as the sun continued to rise over the Tower.

  30

  The afternoon sun beat down on the host gathered in Southwark, to the south of the city. For those who had come through the night unscathed, it was something to bless, a warmth that eased cramped muscles and made them sweat out the poisons of liquor and violence. For the wounded, the sun was a torment. Cade’s army had no tents to keep the glare off their faces and sweat streamed from them as the pitifully small number of healers worked their way around the worst cases. Most had little to offer beyond a sip of water and bandages in great bundles of strips on their shoulders, giving them a hump as they appeared against the glare. One or two of the old women carried pots of unguent, oil of cloves, or a pouch of myrtle leaves they could grind into a green paste against pain. Those stocks were soon gone and the men could only turn on their sides in the open air and wait for the cool of evening.

  Jack knew he was one of the lucky ones. He had examined himself in the upper room of his inn, removing his shirt and peering this way and that to see the extent of his bruising. His skin was a patchwork of puckered marks and stripes, but the few gashes were shallow and already clotted. Though it made him wince, he could still move his right arm.

  Rather than let another man see him undressed, he pulled his stinking shirt back on when he heard footsteps on the stairs, slicking his hair down from a water bucket and standing to face whoever it was. The air was close and still in the small room and he could feel fresh sweat break out on top of the old. He thought wistfully of the horse trough in the inn yard, but the water there was being used to fill jugs for the wounded and it was likely already dry. He’d sent men back to the Thames to fill water-skins, though there would never be enough for so many, not in that July heat.

  As the door crashed open, Jack glanced guiltily at the jug of ale on the dresser, already half-empty. There were perks in being the leader and he wasn’t about to share his good fortune.

  Woodchurch stood there, looking pale and dark around his eyes from lack of sleep. Most of the men who’d made it back from London had reached their camp and simply folded to the ground as soon as they found a good spot. Woodchurch and his son had kept going, organizing the village herbalists and doctors, sending men for water and passing out coin to have food brought in. The men were starving after the night they’d had, but in that one thing they would be satisfied. With the king’s gold, Woodchurch had purchased a dozen young bullocks from a local farmer. There were more than a few butchers among the Kentish and Essex men and they’d set to with a will and an appetite, dressing the carcasses and preparing enormous fire pits for the joints. Jack could smell woodsmoke on the archer as he stood there. He smiled at the thought. Gold in their pockets and the prospect of beef running with bloody juices. God knew, he’d had worse days.

  ‘What is it, Tom?’ he said. ‘I’m pissing blood and I ha’n’t the strength for any more talk until I’ve eaten.’

  ‘You’ll want to see this, Jack,’ Thomas said. He was still hoarse from shouting, his voice little more than a rasping growl. He held up a scroll in his hand and Jack’s gaze fastened on it. Clean vellum and a blood-red seal. Jack’s eyes narrowed, wondering if Woodchurch knew he couldn’t read.

  ‘What’s that, then?’ he said uneasily.

  The written word had always been his enemy. Whenever he’d been flogged or fined or put in the village stocks, there had always been some white-faced scribe at the heart of it, scribbling away with his goose quill and ink. Jack could see Thomas was all in a flutter about something. The man was breathing hard and Jack knew by then that the archer wasn’t one to get excited over nothing.

  ‘They’re offering us a pardon, Jack! A bleeding pardon! All crimes and misprisions forgotten, on condition we disperse.’ He saw Cade begin to frown and went on quickly before the obstinate man could start arguing. ‘It’s victory, Jack! We knocked ’em bloody and they want no more of it! God, Jack. We’ve done it!’

  ‘Does it say they’ll dismiss the judges, then?’ Jack asked softly. ‘Does it say they’ll repeal the poacher’s laws or lower the taxes on working men? Can you read those words in your little scroll, Tom?’

  Thomas shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘The messenger read it to me downstairs – and don’t start that, Jack, not now. It’s a pardon – for all crimes up to this day. The men can go home with gold and their freedom – and no one will come chasing us, after. You’ll be the hero who took on London and won. Isn’t that what you wanted? Come on, Jack. This is good. The ink still smudges, Jack, and it has the queen’s signature on it. They’ve put this together in a morning.’

  Cade raised his hand to his neck and cracked it left and right, easing the stiffness there. Half of him wanted to whoop and holler, to respond with the same wild pleasure he saw in Woodchurch. With a grunt, he throttled that part to silence while he thought it over.

  ‘We frightened them last night,’ he said, after a time. ‘That’s the root of it.’

  ‘We did, Jack,’ Thomas replied immediately. ‘We showed them what happens if they ride too hard over men like us. We put the fear of God and Jack Cade into them and this is the result.’

  Cade crossed to the door and yelled for Ecclestone and Paddy to come up. Both men were sound asleep on the ground floor of the inn. It took a while to ro
use them, but they came at last up the steps, bleary-eyed and blinking. Paddy had found a stoppered jug of spirits and cradled it like a favourite child.

  ‘Tell them, Tom,’ Jack said, turning back to sit on the low bed. ‘Tell the lads what you told me.’

  He waited as Thomas repeated himself, watching the faces of his friends closely as they began to understand. Not that Ecclestone gave anything away. The man’s expression didn’t change a whit, even when he sensed the silent scrutiny and glanced at Jack. Paddy was shaking his head in amazement.

  ‘My whole life and I never thought I’d live to see something like this,’ Paddy said. ‘The bailiffs and sheriffs and landowning bastards, all quaking in fear of us. They’ve been on my back since I was a boy. I never saw them turn away, Jack, not once.’

  ‘They’re still the same, though,’ Jack said. ‘We killed their soldiers and we strung up a few of the king’s officers. We even took the head of the Kent sheriff. But they’ll find new men. If we take this pardon, they’ll go on just as they are and we’ll have changed nothing.’

  Thomas understood the mingled fear and longing and delight in the big man, resting his powerful hands on his thighs as he sat there. Thomas felt the same caution, but he’d also seen the crowds of London line the streets as they left. No one in the inn would admit it, but there wasn’t the heart in the Kentish Freemen for another attack, if they could even cross the bridge again in the face of strong resistance. The crowds of London had been moved to anger and there were more than enough of them. Yet as Paddy and Ecclestone looked at each other, Thomas knew both men would follow Jack again, even if he took them back into the city.

  ‘We did our part, Jack,’ Thomas went on before they could speak. ‘No man could ask more. And they won’t be the same, not after this. They’ll tread careful, for a few years at least. They’ll know they make their laws only as long as the people say they can. They still rule, all right, but with our damned permission. That’s what they know now. That’s what they know today that they didn’t know yesterday. And if they ride us too hard, they know we’ll gather once more. They know we’ll be standing there in the evening shadows, ready to remind them.’