Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  York was the second city of England, with high walls and thriving trade that had created a class of merchants all vying to build bigger houses and employ more armed men to protect their fortunes. Every day that passed increased the size of the army around the city, though the leper hospital outside the walls was given a wide berth, with ropes and stakes keeping a path clear and the softly rotting inhabitants well away from healthy soldiers.

  Derry Brewer sank the last of a pint of ale, gasping and wiping his lips up and down a bit of a beard he was growing. It was coming in grey, which bothered him. On the other hand, he admitted to being fifty-three years old, give or take a year. His knees hurt and his arms were too short to hold whatever he wanted to read, but he was still in a very good mood.

  The only other man in the room was chained to a wall, though but lightly. The manacles were not spiked or tongued in iron to chafe him or tear his flesh. As brother to Warwick and a noblemen in his own right, Lord John Neville of Montagu was too valuable to bruise. Derry cleaned his nails with a tiny knife, kept especially sharp. He could feel Warwick’s younger brother eyeing him whenever he thought the spymaster had his attention elsewhere. Not that there was much to stare at in the little cell below the guildhall in York. The only light came from a slot at street level, opening on to some private yard where passers-by could not look in. It was a quiet place, where no one could hear or see.

  Derry peered into the jug of ale, seeing the best part of a pint still in it. John Neville’s lips were cracked and sore from licking at them, his whole mouth a shade of raw pink. The ale had been meant for him, but Derry had been feeling thirsty. Ale drunk was never ale wasted, everyone knew that.

  ‘Are you awake, my lord? The guards said you were shouting again, demanding your right to a priest or some such. The ransom has not been paid, John, not yet. Until it has been, we’ll keep you alive and in reasonable comfort, as might be expected for a man of your station. Or I could hand this knife to our queen and leave her alone to tickle your parts with it, what do you think? She’d take that wrinkled purse of yours to keep her pins in, quick as you like. I don’t think she’d refuse, do you?’

  The prisoner straightened in his chains and gazed at Derry Brewer with all the confidence of one whose body had never betrayed him. Faced with that noble scorn, Derry briefly considered hobbling him. One tendon in the ankle – just one, sawn through – and the Neville family would remember the name of Derry Brewer until the Day of Judgement.

  ‘Or would you like to declare for King Henry, perhaps?’ he asked the young Neville lord. ‘God is with Lancaster, son; that much is obvious! Why, I remember when we cut your dear father’s head off. Now, I said then …’

  He paused as Montagu lunged at him, his lips cracking as he snarled and heaved at his chains. The young man strained as if he thought he could rip them right out of the wall, but under Derry’s cool gaze, he gave up and took a step back, flicking the chains like a snake coiling.

  ‘Your father was a fool, John,’ Derry said. ‘He cared so much about his feud with Earl Percy that he very nearly brought down the king.’

  ‘If he had, York would be on the throne,’ Montagu said suddenly. ‘You’re a paid man, Brewer, for all your airs. You don’t truly understand honour, or care. I wonder if you even know loyalty to those who press coins into your hand. Who are you, Brewer? A servant?’

  ‘No more,’ Brewer said, his eyes strangely bright.

  ‘What? Are you saying “No, I am more than a servant”? Or that you are not more than a servant? Or … no longer a servant? Are these the sort of foolish games you play? If I had spit, I’d spit on them and you.’

  The lord turned away and Derry stepped into the range of his chains. Montagu spun round, but Derry brought a cudgel down on his head, finding the right spot so that the young man slumped into the filthy straw. Derry looked down on him, panting and then surprised that he was breathing hard after so little exertion. He missed being young and strong and certain in everything he did.

  His problem that frozen morning was that Warwick had sent the ransom for his brother without a word or a delay. The chest of gold coins had arrived in York on a cart, guarded by a dozen armed men. With the vast army around York, they had almost sparked off a minor slaughter as they came into range. Those guards had none of Lord Montagu’s protections, so Derry knew they were being questioned with iron and flame about their masters. Either way, it meant he would be losing John Neville. It was a simple matter of self-protection for the lords around King Henry and Queen Margaret. If they did not release their noble enemies, they could not expect to be released themselves, if fate went the other way. Before sunset, Montagu would be given a horse and put on the road south. By tradition, he would be given three full days before he could be captured once again.

  As Derry had observed before, the king’s spymaster could not be a noble man. There was a well of spite in him that had no sounding, at least when he had the chance. For fifteen years, he had been made to run, to hide, to sweat by York, Salisbury and the Nevilles. It was true he was on the winning side, but that eased his brooding anger not at all.

  ‘Master Brewer?’

  A voice from above interrupted his thoughts, calling down the steps. It was one of the York sheriff’s men, downy-cheeked and stiff with his new responsibilities.

  ‘Have you freed Lord Montagu? There is a mount for him here … I have …’

  The voice trailed away and, without looking up, Derry guessed he was staring into the room and at the sprawled prisoner.

  ‘Has he fallen ill?’ the officer said.

  ‘No, he’ll be fine,’ Derry said, still thinking. ‘Give me a few minutes alone, without you breathing down my neck, would you? I’d like to speak to him.’

  To his surprise, the young man hesitated.

  ‘He does not look aware, Master Brewer. Did you strike him?’

  ‘Is that milk on your mouth, boy?’ Derry snapped. ‘Did I strike him? Go and wait with the horse. Lord Montagu may need a hand to mount. Jesus Christ.’

  The young man’s face flamed with either anger or humiliation, Derry couldn’t tell. He could almost feel the heat of it recede as he retreated up the stairs. With a sigh, Derry knew the boy would be trotting off to find a senior man. He had only moments and no time for invention.

  He took hold of Montagu’s outstretched hand and turned it palm down, folding the fingers into a fist. With quick, deep slashes, he cut a ‘T’ for ‘traitor’ into the flesh. Dark blood rushed to fill the lines, spilling over. Montagu opened his eyes as Derry finished, jerking the hand away from him. The Neville lord was still groggy and clearly no threat as he unlocked the chains. Derry struck him again with the cudgel, so that he fell face-first.

  ‘Master Brewer?’ came a growling voice from the stairs. ‘You will release the prisoner to me now.’

  The sheriff of York was not a young man. Derry imagined the white-haired old stick had seen about everything one fellow could do to another over the years. He certainly didn’t seem surprised by the blood dripping from Montagu’s fist or nose as Derry removed the manacles and dragged the young lord over the flags and straw. He saw the sheriff examining the letter he’d carved.

  ‘Nice work,’ the old man said with a sniff. ‘Did you addle his brains?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Derry said, pleased at his calm.

  To his astonishment, the old sheriff lunged suddenly at the man in Derry’s arms, chopping a punch into his lower rib. Montagu groaned, his head lolling.

  ‘He stood against the king. He deserves to have his balls taken,’ the sheriff said.

  ‘I’m game if you are,’ Derry replied immediately.

  He watched the old man consider and sensed Montagu struggling to regain his wits, dimly aware of what they were discussing. Derry readied his cudgel to silence John Neville once again.

  ‘No, perhaps not,’ the sheriff said reluctantly. ‘It’d be my own if I allowed it. I’ll have him tied to his horse so he don’t fall off
. You’ll need to wake him a bit more to sign his name, or I can’t let him go.’

  Derry clapped the old man on the back with one hand, sensing a kindred spirit. Together, they heaved Montagu up the stairs, towards the fading light and his freedom restored. The blood from the nobleman’s swinging hand left a trail, as the wounds would leave a scar.

  Margaret shivered as the band of Scots regarded her. It was not from fear. Those bearded lads had been loyal – if not to her, then to their own queen. Yet the cold seemed to grow more fierce every day, though Margaret wore cloaks and layers of wool and linen under them, proof against the wind. March had begun and there was still no sign of spring, with the ploughed fields hard as stone. The city of York huddled around fires and ate stews made from the sort of beans that lasted decades and were only brought out when all else had gone. Winter meant death, and she could hardly believe these young men would walk bare-legged into the north once again. A slight shudder crossed her shoulders at the thought of losing four thousand of her army, but she had offered them everything she had. There was nothing left to keep them there.

  ‘My lady, it has been an honour for these boys,’ Laird Andrew Douglas said, through his hedge of black beard, ‘to see how another great lady conducts herself. I will take back the news to our queen – of the destruction of your most powerful enemies and bringing your husband King Henry out of the fell clutches of those who might have hurt him.’

  The Douglas nodded to himself in satisfaction and many of the young men on horses or on foot echoed the movement and smiled, proud of what they had achieved.

  ‘No man could say we have not fulfilled our bargain, my lady. My lads have bled into this land – and in return, you promised Berwick and your wee boy Edward in a union.’

  ‘Do not lecture me, Andrew,’ Margaret said suddenly. ‘I know what I have done.’ She waited a beat to let the Scottish laird colour in embarrassment, then went on. ‘And I will honour all my promises. I would promise more, my lord, if I thought you would stay. Your men have shown their strength and their loyalty.’

  She might have bitten her tongue then, given that the loyalty was all for their own queen, but it was true they had kept their side of the agreements between them – and helped to win back all she had lost.

  ‘My men have farms to plant in spring, my lady, though it is good to know we are held in high esteem so far to the south.’

  Margaret blinked at the idea that York could be considered a southern city to a Scot.

  ‘And yet we would not leave if you had not half of England coming to take arms for you.’

  The Douglas gestured around him to the vast camp by the city, lords and warriors who had streamed in from north, west, south, even the coastal villages, where ships landed and disgorged more men. There had been little sign of so much support while Henry was a prisoner and Margaret was chased like a spring hare. Now, everything had changed. She dipped her head, showing respect to the laird, who coloured even more deeply. Margaret reached out and took his hand.

  ‘You have my letters for Queen Mary. They contain my thanks – and I will not forget the part you played, Andrew Douglas. You came when I was lost and in darkness, with not a single lamp to show the path. God’s blessings go with you and keep you safe on the road.’

  The laird raised his hand and the captains he took with him cheered, waving caps and spears. Margaret turned slightly as Derry Brewer came to her shoulder to watch them march away.

  ‘It brings a tear to my eye to see this …’ Derry said. Margaret looked at him in surprise and he raised his eyebrows. ‘When I think of all the things they have stolen, my lady, just walking away with them now, wrapped in their breech-cloths.’

  In surprise, Margaret clapped a hand over her mouth as Derry went on, showing his teeth at the pleasure of making her eyes round.

  ‘They clank as they walk, my lady. I think that bearded laird has Somerset’s dagger and Lord Clifford’s boots, though I would not begrudge him those.’

  ‘You are a bad man, Derry Brewer. They came to my aid when I had need.’

  ‘They did, but look at us now,’ he said, raising his head.

  Around them, their fifteen thousand men had doubled in number and still more came in. She could afford to dismiss the Scots at last – and if she had not, they would have gone anyway, serving another queen.

  In amiable silence, Derry and Margaret watched the marching ranks dwindle into the distance, before the fading light and deepening cold made them both shiver too hard to stand out any longer.

  Buffeted by the sound of bells and roaring voices, Edward beamed. Outside, Londoners were surging like bees between the Abbey and the great Palace of Westminster, filling every inch of open ground until they were up on the feet of the columns to catch a glimpse of the new king. He knew they had refused King Henry and his French wife. Perhaps they had been afraid of the city being sacked, but the result was that they had declared for York. He had not been certain the people of London fully understood the new reality. Their cheering reassured him.

  Edward strode down the central aisle, thin ranks of his men holding back the mob. The path narrowed behind him as the soldiers were pushed inward. Everyone who could reached out and tried to touch Edward’s coat or armour.

  Warwick and his bishop brother were shoved aside in the mass of men and women pressing to see Edward and wanting to follow him out. Bells rang above and the echoes filled the open spaces, becoming discordant as they refused to die away. Warwick swore as a great, pink-cheeked merchant raked a boot down his shin and trampled one of his feet, straining to see over the heads of the others. With a shove, Warwick watched the man go down hard and stepped over him, bawling for them to make way, to clear a path. Norfolk and his guards were not gentle in their handling of the crowd, and cries of pain showed their progress to the open air.

  They could still see the head and shoulders of Edward, taller than anyone else. The sun had risen and Warwick stood still for an instant as Edward reached the even colder air outside and the light caught the ring of gold set into the harder metal. Even then, with the uncomfortable sense of too many pressing around him and a thousand things needing to be done, Warwick froze for a heartbeat, then blinked as an even greater roar went up from outside. He pushed and shoved more roughly, forcing his way through and ignoring both the apologies and the shouts of anger from those he wronged or knocked flat.

  By the time Warwick reached the outside air, he was panting and red-faced, with sweat drying instantly on his skin. Edward noticed his arrival and laughed at his ruffled state.

  ‘See them, Richard!’ Edward shouted over the noise. ‘It is as if they have been waiting for this moment as long as I have!’

  With a flourish, Edward drew his sword, held bare in his hand. Smiling wryly to himself, Warwick noted the blade was unbroken.

  The crowd raised their hands and voices, seeing a king of England standing before them – and not a slight and pious figure, but a warrior of such physical power and height that he carried majesty in him. Some of them knelt, on stones so cold they numbed flesh in moments. It started with just a few monks, but the rest followed and the action spread along the square, revealing the members of Parliament, where they still stood and watched.

  Edward met the stares of the Parliament men and he was not abashed, standing calmly until they too knelt in turn. They had made his father the heir and they held something like power, but there was not a man there who misunderstood the reality. In that moment, all Edward had to do was point his sword and they would have been torn apart by the crowds, desperate to prove themselves to the new king.

  ‘London is a great fortress on a great river,’ Edward said suddenly. He made his voice hard and very clear, so that it rang back from the walls around him. He spoke like a Caesar. Watching the young man, Warwick felt his heart leap with hope for the first time since he had heard of his father’s death.

  ‘I have become King Edward the Fourth on this day, King of England, Wales and France
and Lord of Ireland by the Grace of God, in the presence of His Holy Church, in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.’

  The kneeling masses echoed his final words, crossing themselves. Not one rose, though they shivered in a freezing wind. Edward looked down on them all.

  ‘I call you now, as your liege lord. Noble or commons, I call you to my side. Bring sword, axe, dagger, staff or bow. I am Edward Plantagenet, King of England. Send word. I call you out. Walk with me.’

  14

  Edward held up one half of a round silver seal, weighing it in his hand. With his thumbnail, he scraped away a trace of red wax, flicking it through the air. Around him stood a dozen long tables, all laid out with Writs of Array summoning knights and lords. Thirty-two counties and a dozen cities would receive the vellum scripts demanding the best armed men in the country to answer the new king’s call.

  Edward smiled as the four bearers of the Great Seal scurried about their business. The braziers created enough heat to make them all sweat. One man stirred a great vat of wax the colour of blood, while two others tended smaller pots of hot water bubbling around clay jugs. When the wax was liquid, they picked up the jugs with rags around the handles, bowing their heads to signal they were ready.

  Edward gestured to them, tapping air.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘Your Highness does not need to … We have, er …’ One of the men blushed and stared at his feet.

  ‘No, I’ll do it. My first Royal Seal deserves my own hand.’

  The official swallowed and he and his companion approached the ring of tables. Edward laid the seal down and both men stepped in quickly. One poured exactly the right amount of wax into the silver mould, while the other placed a gold ribbon and smeared a disc of wax on to the vellum to prepare the surface. It was the work of expert hands and eyes, and Edward was fascinated as he turned the setting seal over before the wax could harden too far. He waited then, for what seemed an age, as the seal-bearers fussed around the substance that ruled their lives.