Wars of the Roses 01 - Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  Jack smiled at the words, enjoying Woodchurch’s fervour and certainty. He too had seen the crowds gather as he’d crossed the bridge that morning. The thought of going back in was not a joyous one, though Jack would rather have died than admit it in that company. He wanted to be persuaded and Thomas had given it to him. He looked up slowly.

  ‘Is that all right with you, Paddy? Rob?’

  Both men nodded and Ecclestone even smiled, his pale face creasing into unaccustomed seams.

  Jack stood up and clapped both arms around the group of three men, squeezing them all together.

  ‘Is the messenger still here, Tom?’ he asked.

  ‘Waiting outside,’ Thomas replied, feeling a growing sense of relief.

  ‘Tell him we accept, then. Send him back and let the men know. We’ll enjoy a bit of beef and ale tonight and then tomorrow I’m for home. I think I’ll buy that magistrate’s house and raise a glass to Alwyn bloody Judgment in his own kitchen.’

  ‘You burned it, Jack,’ Ecclestone muttered.

  Cade blinked at him, remembering.

  ‘I did, didn’t I? Well, I can build a new one. I’ll have my mates around and we’ll sit in the sun and drink from a keg – and toast the dear old king of England, who paid for it all.’

  At the day’s end, Margaret stood on the wide wall surrounding the Tower of London, looking down on a city that had suffered. The setting sun turned the horizon the colour of bruises and blood, promising a clear, warm day on the morrow. In truth, from that vantage point there was little sign of the destruction of the night before. The long summer day had seen the first stirrings of order in the capital, with men like Lord Warwick organizing teams of carts to collect the dead. She sighed, disappointed yet again that such an impressive young man should be a supporter of York. The Neville blood ran through too many of her husband’s noble houses, she thought. The family would continue to be a danger to her, at least until her first child was born.

  She tapped her hand lightly over her womb, feeling the ache of her fluxes and all the grief and frustration it brought. It would not be this month. She blushed as she recalled the small number of intimate meetings with her husband. Perhaps there would come a time when they were so many she would not be able to remember them all in great detail, but at that moment they were still events in her life, each one as important as her wedding day, or the assault on the Tower.

  She prayed in a whisper, the soft words lost into the breeze and the city.

  ‘Mary, mother of God, please let me grow with child. I am no longer a girl, given to foolish dreams and fancies. Let me be fertile, let me swell.’ She closed her eyes for a moment, sensing the vast weight of the city all around her. ‘Allow me a child and I will bless you all my days. Allow me a son and I will raise chapels to your glory.’

  When she opened her eyes once more, she saw a slow line of carts trundling along a road in the distance, filled with white-wrapped bodies. She knew great pits had been dug, each dead man or woman laid out carefully, with a priest to chant a benison over them before the labourers set to work covering them with earth and cold clay. Weeping relatives followed the carts, but it was vital to work fast in the heat of summer. Plagues and sickness would walk in the same footsteps. Margaret shuddered at the thought.

  Across the river, Cade’s host had begun a great feast, with bonfires visible as roaring points of light. They had sent their response, but she did not know yet if they would honour it, if they would leave. She did know Derry had made the bridge a fortress if they did not, setting teams of London men to building great barricades along its length.

  She smiled to think of his mischievous expression that day, as he raided the Tower for weapons and barrels of powder. He would never have been allowed such a free hand before, but no one would stop him now, not after the previous night. She knew she should not depend on Cade going home, but it was hard to see Derry’s bright malice and not feel confident in whatever he had planned if they rushed the bridge once more. The men of London had worked all day to be ready, sharpening iron and closing roads around the bridge. The news of Cade’s pardon had not yet spread among them and she did not know how they would react when they heard. She did not regret the offer, not now it had been accepted. King Henry was not at her side and for a time the city was her responsibility, her jewel, the pounding heart of the country that had adopted her. Her father, René, could hardly have imagined such trials for his youngest daughter.

  Margaret stayed on the wall until the sun went down and she could see the distant fires more clearly in the great camp across the Thames. Cade had thousands of his Kentish men there and she still did not know if he would come. The night air was cold and quiet as London held its breath and waited. The sky was clear and the moon showed low, creeping upwards as the stars of Orion rose.

  Margaret said rosaries in her vigil, chanting the Ave Marias and Pater Nosters and lost in a trance so perfect that she did not even feel discomfort. She drifted, aware only of her pale hands on the rough-cut stone of the wall, anchoring her to the city. She wondered if this was the peace Henry found when he prayed from dawn till dusk, or even onward, through the night, until he could not rise without men to lift him up. It helped her to understand her husband and she prayed for him as well.

  The stars turned around the north and Cade did not come. As the moon crossed the city, she felt she could almost see the constellations move. Her heart slowed and in the silence that pressed against her she was filled with a sense of peace and presence. She bowed her head, giving thanks to God for delivering her city.

  With care, she descended the steps down from the wall as the sun began to rise, feeling a dull ache in every joint. She crossed stones still marked with rusty spills of blood from the attack, though the bodies and the coins had been cleared away. She raised her head as guards fell into step at her back, following her from the shadows of the wall to the White Tower. They had waited with the queen through the dark hours, keeping vigil in their own way to ensure her safety.

  In the White Tower, she walked down a corridor to where a smaller group had spent the night. Her arrival was heralded by the stamp and clatter of armoured men standing to attention. If those men had slept, it didn’t show as they stood and then knelt for the young queen. Margaret swept by them, taking her seat on a throne at the far end of the room and hiding the relief it brought to her knees and hips.

  ‘Approach, Alexander Iden,’ she said.

  The largest of the men rose from his kneeling position, walking to within a few paces of her before dipping down again. Like her guards, he had spent the night waiting for her, but he looked fresh enough, warmed by the fire burning in the grate. Margaret looked him over, seeing a hard man, with strong features and a trimmed beard.

  ‘You were recommended to me, Master Iden,’ she began. ‘I have been told you are a man of honour and good character.’

  ‘With God’s grace, Your Highness,’ he said, his voice deep and loud in the room, though he kept his head bowed.

  ‘Derihew Brewer speaks well of your talents, Master Iden. I am of a mind to trust his opinions.’

  ‘I am grateful, Your Highness,’ he said, visibly pleased.

  Margaret thought for a moment longer, then decided.

  ‘You are hereby appointed as sheriff of Kent. My clerks have the papers for you to seal.’

  To her surprise, the big man kneeling at her feet blushed with pleasure, still apparently unable to look up.

  ‘Thank you, Your Highness. Your … My … Your Highness does me great honour.’

  Margaret found herself wanting to smile and repressed the desire.

  ‘Master Brewer has assembled sixty men who will accompany you to your new home in Maidstone. In the light of recent troubles, you must be kept safe. The authority of the Crown must not be flouted again in Kent. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

  ‘By the Lord’s grace, the rebellion of Kentish men is at an end. Pardons have been granted a
nd they are going back to their farms and villages with the wealth they have wrenched from London. What crimes they have committed are all forgiven and may not be brought before the courts.’ She paused, her eyes glittering over the man’s bowed head. ‘But you have been appointed by my hand, mine alone, Master Iden. What I have given, I can as easily take away. When I send you orders, you will carry them out swiftly, as the king’s law, as the king’s sword in Kent. Do you understand?’

  ‘I do, Your Highness,’ Iden replied immediately. ‘I pledge my honour and my obedience to you.’ He blessed Derry Brewer for putting his name forward. It was a reward for a lifetime in service and war and Iden could still hardly comprehend what he had been given.

  ‘Go with God then, Sheriff Iden. You will hear from me again.’

  Iden blushed with pleasure at hearing his new title. He rose and bowed deeply once more.

  ‘I am your loyal servant, Your Highness.’

  Margaret smiled.

  ‘That is all I ask.’

  Thomas Woodchurch walked in silence through the echoing streets of London with his son, keeping a close eye out for anyone who might mark or recognize them. They’d stripped themselves of the green bows, keeping only a decent knife each to protect the pouches of gold they both carried. Jack Cade had been more than generous with the spoils, allowing triple shares for those who’d led the Kentish men. With the smaller pouch Rowan had hidden under his belt and tunic, they had enough to lease a decent-sized farm, if the right one could be found.

  They’d crossed the Thames by ferryboat, rather than test the strength of the queen’s pardon on those defending London Bridge. Thomas and Rowan had reached a landing place further down the river and then Thomas led his son through the dense and winding streets. Little by little, they grew more familiar in memory, until they reached the rookeries themselves, the slums Thomas had first known when his father had uprooted their little family from Kent and settled in the city to seek a living.

  For Rowan, it was his first view of London in the daylight. He stayed close to his father as the crowds bustled around them, out to trade and talk as the sun rose. Already, the signs of fighting and destruction were fading, swallowed up by a city that always went on, regardless of the suffering of individuals. There were funeral processions blocking some of the streets, but the two archers worked their way around and through the maze, until Thomas came to a small black door, deep in the rookeries. That part of London was one of the poorest, but the two men did not look as if they had anything to steal and Thomas made sure his hand stayed close by his knife. He took a deep breath and hammered on the wood, stepping back into the muck underfoot as he waited.

  Both of them smiled as Joan Woodchurch opened the door and stood there, looking up suspiciously at the hulking great figures of her husband and son.

  ‘I thought you were both dead,’ she said flatly.

  Thomas beamed at her. ‘It’s good to see you too, my dearest angel.’

  She snorted at that, but when he embraced his wife, some of the hardness melted out of her.

  ‘Come in, then,’ she said. ‘You’ll be wanting breakfast.’

  Father and son went into the tiny house, followed shortly by the excited squeals of the daughters as they welcomed the Woodchurch men home.

  31

  Jack stepped back, squinting at the line of mortar he’d pressed against the brick. With a steady hand, he ran his pointed trowel along the line, taking satisfaction from the way the walls were growing. As the long summer days began to shorten, he’d persuaded Paddy and Ecclestone to join him on the job. Neither of them had needed the work, but it had given him pleasure that they’d still come. Paddy was up on the roof, banging nails through the slates with more enthusiasm than skill. Jack knew his friend had sent some of his coins home to Ireland, to a family he hadn’t seen for many years. Paddy had drunk away a heavy portion of the rest in every inn and tavern for miles around. It was a blessing that the Irishman was a reasonable drunk, given to singing and sometimes weeping, rather than breaking the tables. Jack knew his old friend was uncomfortable with having wealth of any kind. For reasons he could not completely explain, Paddy seemed determined to burn through his fortune and be penniless once again. It showed in the weight he’d put on and the sagging skin around his bloodshot eyes. Jack shook his head sadly at the thought. Some men could not be happy, that was all there was to it. There would come a day when Paddy had lost it all and was reduced to beggary, that much was certain. Jack hadn’t said anything to him, but there would be a bed for Paddy then in the house they were building, or perhaps a warm barn on the land where the big man could sleep. It was better to plan for that, rather than see his friend freeze to death in a gutter.

  Ecclestone was mixing more of the lime, horsehair, sand and water, with a cloth wrapped around his face to counter the acrid fumes. He’d bought a tallow shop in town, learning the trade of candles and rough soap with a small staff of two local lasses and one old man. By all accounts Ecclestone was doing well with it. Jack knew he used his famous razor to cut the blocks of flecked white soap, while the girls looked on with horrified expressions. At times, a crowd would gather at the shop doorway, men and women who knew his exploits, come just to watch the terrible neatness of his cuts.

  The work might have gone faster if they hadn’t spent so much time laughing and talking together, but Jack didn’t mind that. He’d employed three local men to raise the timber structure, cutting joints and pegs with the skill and speed of long experience. Another local man had supplied the bricks, each with the maker’s thumbprint pressed into the clay as it dried. Jack thought he and his two friends would have the rest finished before winter, with the house as snug as a drum.

  The new building was nowhere near as large as the one he’d burned down. The magistrate’s land had been cheap enough with just blackened timbers standing in the gardens, but it hadn’t felt right to build another mansion. Instead, Jack had laid out a place for a small family, with two big rooms on the ground floor and three bedrooms above it. He hadn’t told the other two, for fear of their laughter, but news of his exploits in London had brought the interest of more than one unmarried woman. He had his eye on one baker’s daughter in particular, from the local village. He thought a man could probably do worse than have fresh bread all his life. Jack could imagine a couple of boys racing around and swimming in the pond, with no one to run them off the land. It was a good thought. Kent was a beautiful county, right enough. He’d even considered renting a few local fields to grow hops. Some of the inns in town had begun selling various brews as Jack Cade’s ale. It made sense to consider providing them with the real thing.

  Jack chuckled to himself as he picked up another brick and slapped wet cement on to it. He’d be the proper man of business then, with fine clothes and a horse to ride into town. It wasn’t a bad fate for a brawler and his mates.

  He heard the tramp of marching men before he saw them coming up the long drive. Paddy whistled a warning overhead, already beginning to climb down. In response, Cade felt an old tremor in his stomach before he remembered he had nothing to fear, not any longer. He’d lived his entire life with the thought that the bailiffs might come for him one day. It was somehow hard to remember he’d been pardoned for all his crimes – and careful not to commit another. These days, Jack tipped his hat to king’s men as he passed them in town, seeing their knowledge of who he was in their sour expressions. Yet they couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  Jack laid his trowel down on the brick courses, tapping the seax in his belt from old habit, to reassure himself it was still there. He was on his own land, legally bought. Whoever they were, he was a free man, he told himself, with a written pardon to prove it. There was a wood axe not far off, with the blade buried in a stump to stop it rusting. Jack eyed it, knowing he would be happier even so with a decent weapon in his hand. It was a thought from the man he had been. It was not the thought of landowning, respectable Jack Cade, half-engaged to be married, or at
least thinking about it.

  Paddy reached his side, blowing lightly after his scramble down from the roof. He held a hammer in his hand, a short length of club iron and oak. He pointed it at the soldiers.

  ‘Looks like a couple of dozen, maybe more, Jack. Do you want to run?’

  ‘No,’ Jack said shortly. He crossed to the axe and levered it out of the wood, resting his right hand on the top of the long ash handle. ‘You heard the new sheriff has come from London. I don’t doubt he’d like to see us haring off through the fields, but we’re free men now, Paddy. Free men don’t run.’

  Ecclestone came to stand with them, wiping a streak of yellow-white lime from his cheek. Jack saw he had his razor concealed in a hand, an old habit he hadn’t allowed to fall into disuse over the previous months.

  ‘Don’t do anything stupid, lads,’ Jack muttered as the line of marching soldiers came closer. He could see the sheriff’s banner fluttering on a pole among them and he couldn’t help but smile, thinking of the last one.

  The three friends stood tall and surly as the soldiers fanned out, forming a half-ring around them. The man who dismounted at the centre wore a short black beard and stood almost as large as Jack and Paddy.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, smiling. ‘My name is Alexander Iden. I have the honour of being sheriff to this county.’

  ‘We know you,’ Jack said. ‘We remember the last one as well.’

  A shadow crossed Iden’s face at that reply.

  ‘Yes, poor fellow. Would you be Jack Cade, then?’

  ‘I am, yes. You’re on my land as well, so I’ll be thanking you to state your business and be on your way. As you can see from the house, I have work to finish.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Iden replied. As Jack watched, the man drew a long sword from the scabbard at his waist. ‘You’re under arrest, Jack Cade, on orders of the Crown. The charges are unlawful assembly, treason and murder of the king’s officers. Now then, will you go quietly to London, or will you go hard? Tell me now; it’ll be the same either way.’