Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  Elizabeth felt her husband’s gaze and smiled up at him, seeing his contentment.

  ‘I didn’t imagine this when I saw you first,’ he said, ‘all leaves and dust, scrambling down to save your dog from wolves.’

  ‘And falling! Though I recall a great oaf of a man who did not catch me!’

  He smiled at her. Over the years, the words had become a recitation between them, with no real sting. He enjoyed the closeness such things seemed to bring about, rattling through shared memories and seeing again that Elizabeth enjoyed his company.

  ‘You know, I have seen too many men who have to demand respect from their wives.’

  ‘That is not so very strange, husband, with Eve made to be Adam’s helpmeet. That is the natural order of the world, as ewes follow the ram.’

  ‘Yes, but …’ Edward gripped a spot between his eyes, seeking the words. ‘Men need to be adored, Elizabeth. Even the weak ones, the poltroons, the cowards and the fools. Those are pitiful creatures, whose wives screech and rail at them. They are not masters of their homes.’

  ‘Some women have not the first idea how to treat their men,’ Elizabeth said, with a trace of self-satisfaction. ‘All they cause with their complaining is resentment and their own misery. They are fools to themselves.’

  ‘Not you, though.’ Edward smiled. ‘You treat me as if you have found a wonder of the world. I want to deserve it, do you see? I want to be called master in my home, but only because I damn well am one. Not because the laws of man or God would have me so, but because I am made to lead.’

  ‘Made to be my king,’ Elizabeth said, her voice soft. She raised her head to be kissed and he crossed the room in three strides, pressing his lips on hers. The baby girl began to fuss and snuffle, losing the nipple.

  ‘I would like to call this one Cecily, to honour your mother,’ Elizabeth said, responding to the joy she saw in him. ‘If she lives, she will make you proud.’

  ‘My mother will be pleased, though I confess I would have been happier with a son, Elizabeth.’

  ‘You’ll need daughters to adore you in your old age – and to marry away to keep the kingdom strong and bring you allies. You will not regret these darling little girls in the years to come, not a single one of them.’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s just, with a boy, I could show him how to fly a falcon against pigeons and rabbits, how to hunt boar with just dogs and a knife, how to build the strength to fight in armour.’ He shrugged. ‘I have … been a boy. I remember the years fondly. I would make him squire to a knight, perhaps one of your brothers, so that he learns how much work it takes to keep a man in royal service.’

  ‘I would like that,’ she said. ‘And you will be a fine teacher to a son, Edward. The next one, I promise. I only hope your training will be enough protection, if your heirs are challenged by your brother’s sons.’

  Edward took a step away from her, hissing air.

  ‘Again? I have not been rash, just as I said. I have given it time and months of patience, and still I cannot see the error in bringing all of Warwick’s estates and wealth into my own family, under my own roof!’

  ‘Edward, this is important. I wish it were not. If you allow George to marry this Isabel Neville, he will inherit hundreds of manors and estates, not dozens. Castles, villages, towns. Warwick and Salisbury are combined now – and that inheritance is the single greatest fortune in England.’

  ‘Which I would give to my brother! He and Isabel are matched in age. They even love each other, so he says. Who am I to refuse a brother his love, when it will also bring him half of England as a dowry?’

  Elizabeth pursed her lips, controlling her temper with difficulty. Tucking her breast away, she called for a servant and handed the child over even as the girl began to squall. A wet nurse would continue the feed in the kitchens.

  When they were alone once more, Elizabeth leaned forward on her chair, clasping her hands on her lap.

  ‘You know, my husband, I do adore you – and you are master in our house, or wherever we find ourselves. If you give me your final word on this, I will accept it, I swear to you I will. Think only this, though – yours is not the royal line.’ She held up her hand as Edward rounded on her in growing anger. ‘Please. Your great-grandfather was Edmund of York, the fourth son of a king. He was not in reach of the crown you wear now, but he had wealth. He married well and his son and grandson were both clever and strong. They built great estates and gathered titles by marriages and honours, until your father was strong enough to challenge for the throne.’

  ‘I understand,’ Edward said. From the set of his jaw, she suspected he did, but she chose to say the words even so, to be certain he heard.

  ‘Your brother George of Clarence is your father’s son as well, Edward. He has the same wit and strength. If you let him marry into Warwick’s vast fortunes, he will live to challenge you – or his sons, or his grandsons. You will be storing up trouble for another day, or another war between cousins and brothers. Please. As much as it will hurt George, you must deny this suit for the sake of your own children.’

  ‘That is not a reason I can give him,’ Edward said. ‘I can hardly say, “George, I do not want you and yours to prosper, in case your sons ever threaten mine.” This is a coward’s response, Elizabeth. You’d have me worry about my own brothers? About George and Richard? My mother Cecily did not raise weak men, but she did not raise turncoats either. I do not fear them – or their sons.’

  ‘No, though you rose from a lesser line. You are a king now, Edward. You should look further, to a thousand years, beginning with the little girls I have fed on my lap. George of Clarence has been made a duke by your hand. Let him be content. I will find him another wife, and if he chooses later to take Isabel Neville as a mistress, that will be up to him, of course. These are decisions and choices a king must make, Edward. Your brother will understand that.’

  ‘And when he asks my reason?’ Edward said.

  Elizabeth smiled at him.

  ‘Tell him you do not trust the man who would be his father-in-law, if you must. Or that the Neville girl is barren, or that the moon was dark when you heard the news. It does not matter. He gave an oath on his immortal soul to obey you in all things. If he asks you, remind him of that.’

  Warwick found himself panting, though he had walked only five or six miles in the cold. Middleham estate had been made quiet by the winter. Half the great house had been locked and barred away, with all windows sealed against bats and birds roosting. No doubt the odd owl or sparrow would find its way in. They always did, so that the first job of spring was to clear away the little corpses, always lighter than they looked.

  ‘We could rest here for a moment,’ he said. ‘More for you, Isabel, than for me, obviously. I could walk all day.’

  ‘I should hope you could, Father,’ his daughter replied, utterly oblivious to the fact that her father was suffering a stitch and was weary. If he had told her, she would not have believed it of him, either way. He leaned on a wooden stile-post and looked over the hill of dark earth touched with the first frosts, stretching away across a valley. In that cold, half the birds had gone. For a time, the only sound in the entire world was his own breathing, surprisingly loud as soon as he noticed it.

  His daughter was beautiful, Warwick was certain, long-necked and bright of cheek, with teeth white and even, sharpened on the apples she adored. She had grown up at Middleham, just as he had, though most of her year was in the company of his mother and her own, three women fussing around the estate together and, to his everlasting gratitude, getting on well almost as sisters or friends. His brother John had made a comment about the three ages of women that he had come to regret, but Isabel was every inch the virgin, just as his wife Anne was the mother and his mother Alice had become a crone, withered by the death of his father, as if the old man had taken some vital part of her to his grave.

  Whenever Isabel awoke each morning, she looked for some letter that might have arrived in the night
. Each time it broke Warwick’s heart anew to see her disappointment when there was none. It had been hard enough when he spent his days in London with the king. At least then his returns had been accompanied by news and odd sweets or gifts from the city.

  He had not left Middleham for three months, not since the autumn. The late sun had given them so much fruit that drunken wasps plagued the house, wandering along the inside of every window for weeks. All that time, Warwick had stalked the estate grounds, losing himself on long walks and yet returning with an even deeper glower. Letters came for him from London, some with the Privy Seal of King Edward. Not one had contained the king’s permission for Isabel to marry Clarence, or any mention of the subject at all.

  Though Warwick did not know it, Isabel was watching him carefully, judging his mood and his unhappiness. She had heard him rage about his brother losing the Great Seal and, worse, her uncle John’s title being taken from him. In private with his wife, Warwick gave vent to outrage and disappointment, unaware or uncaring that his daughters heard.

  The sky was a sharp blue, with no sign of rain. The world was touched with frost and the coldness of the air made both father and daughter aware of their breaths, the winter cutting into them. Isabel chose her moment.

  ‘Do you think the king will ever respond to his brother?’ she said. ‘George has not paid me a visit here since the harvest and his letters make no mention of the suit, as if there is no chance at all. It has been so very long now and I confess I lose hope.’

  Her father looked down at her, seeing the quiver at her mouth where she struggled to hide just how much his answer meant. His fist gripped hard on the icy wood of the post, the knuckles showing.

  ‘No, Isabel, I am sorry. I have waited for six months, longer. All my letters have gone without answer. I do not believe King Edward will grant his permission, not now.’

  ‘But he has sent for you, has he not? The messenger I saw? Perhaps King Edward has agreed to the marriage and all it would take is for you to go to London.’

  ‘Isabel, every time I enter his presence, he finds some new way to take something I prize. It is as if there is some spite in him against me. Undeserved by any measure, I swear it. I do not know whether that great clod of a man is jealous of me or afraid of me, or just the plaything of his wife, but these last few years have been a trial. It is … better for me to remain on my estates, to tend them and the people on them, away from the intrigues of the court.’ He took a huge breath of air that scoured out his lungs. ‘There! That is what I need, not whispers and lies.’

  His face fell as he saw her grief and he stepped closer so that he could put his arms around her.

  ‘I am sorry. I know this is harder on you than me. I have lost a king’s trust, while you have lost your first suitor.’

  ‘My first love,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘There will not be another.’

  ‘Oh, Isabel,’ he said sadly into her hair.

  ‘Will you ask again for me?’ Isabel said. ‘I know that George is meant to be the one to speak to the king, but I don’t know if he has. If you ask, I will have an answer – though if it is no, I don’t, I can’t …’ She sobbed, burying her head in her father’s coat.

  Warwick made his decision, long unable to resist her entreaties.

  ‘I will ask, of course. I can be there and back in a week. As you say, it is better to know for certain.’

  He stroked her hair as she leaned on him. Christmas was almost upon them and a trip to London would help make it a more festive occasion at Middleham, with market hams spiked with cloves, roast geese and roaring fires.

  Warwick rode out to London with Richard of Gloucester riding alongside and Isabel’s fears and hopes weighing him down. The young duke often accompanied him to the capital, more so perhaps as they both realized his time at Middleham was coming to an end. They wore leather coats over mail and thick hose, with swords on their hips and enough dust kicked up from the road to make it look as if they wore masks.

  The first day south was spent in near silence, with Warwick settling into a grim anticipation of what he would find in London. He ate some poor stew in a roadside inn and muttered a goodnight to his ward as they found rooms. Both of them missed the light heart and chatter of Henry Percy that had made conversations flow easily between them. Without Henry, both Warwick and Richard felt the silence was oppressive.

  In the morning, Warwick woke with an aching head, though he had drunk only a cup of wine. He growled and grunted his way through a bowl of hot oats and honey, snapping at the inn servants and then growing angry at his own lack of control. He found that Richard had saddled his horse and brushed the animal down, so that it gleamed once more. Warwick stepped on to the mounting block and swung over his leg.

  ‘Thank you, lad,’ he said. ‘I have a great deal on my mind today. I fear I am a poor companion.’

  ‘I understand, sir. You fear my brother will refuse you.’

  Warwick looked up, caught between surprise and worry.

  ‘What do you know about it?’

  Richard smiled weakly, sensing the anger in a man he wanted to impress.

  ‘Isabel has talked of little else these past months. And George is my brother, sir. He writes to me.’

  Warwick blinked, closing his mouth over the desire to ask for the young man’s opinion. It would not do. Instead, he tugged the reins and turned his horse to face the gate of the inn yard, where the London road ran alongside, some thirty yards away.

  ‘I hope the king grants the petition, sir. I would like to see Isabel made happy.’

  ‘So would I,’ Warwick muttered.

  He cracked his neck back and forth and trotted out on to the road. Richard followed, wishing he could give something back to the man who had been so kind to him.

  Warwick was granted an audience with the king without any delay. He rode from private lodgings to the Palace of Westminster along the river. Richard of Gloucester stayed with him as far as the doors to the king’s own apartments. They stood side by side there, waiting to be admitted. Warwick took a moment to look the young man over and brush dust from his coat. The gesture made the king’s brother smile as the doors swept open and they went in.

  Warwick’s expression tightened as he saw Edward and Elizabeth seated together, with their children around them. It was an intimate family scene and it somehow rang a false note. Warwick wanted Edward to consider his petition as a king, not as a husband and father. In that place, with a doting wife and gurgling little girls at his feet, he could not be both.

  Warwick and Gloucester each went down on one knee before the royal family, rising as Edward stepped forward to greet them. He embraced his brother hard enough to make him gasp.

  ‘You look strong!’ Edward said, reaching out to squeeze his brother’s right arm like a prize calf. ‘I have you to thank for it,’ Edward went on, nodding to Warwick.

  Warwick shook his head, still tense.

  ‘He has worked hard, Your Highness. Sword, lance and pollaxe, horsemanship, Latin, French …’ He trailed away and Edward’s brother broke in.

  ‘Law and tactics, too Edward. It is my desire to be useful to you.’

  ‘You will be, I do not doubt it,’ Edward replied. ‘My mother asks after my brother, Warwick. Will you release him to me now, as your ward?’

  Warwick blinked and cleared his throat, buying time.

  ‘Your Highness, I had not thought … I did not plan to excuse him from his duties today.’

  ‘Still, I am pleased at what I see in him. You have my thanks. Wardships come to an end, Warwick, and you have done well.’

  Embarrassed under the stares of the king and queen, Warwick and Gloucester shook hands and embraced awkwardly and briefly. Warwick opened his mouth to say something to mark the years, but the young man bowed stiffly to the king, turned on his heel and left the room.

  Warwick turned back to feel their eyes still on him. Only the young children were oblivious, gathered up by a nursemaid when they wandered
too far. His breath shuddered in his chest as he realized the moment was upon him and would no longer be denied.

  ‘Your Highness, it has been many months since I petitioned for my daughter to marry your brother, George of Clarence. As we are friends, may I have an answer?’

  ‘I have given it much thought, Richard,’ Edward said. ‘My brother George is just nineteen. I do not doubt he believes he is in love, but I will choose a wife for him in a few years. My answer is no, to your petition.’

  Warwick stood still. Though the arrangement of his expression changed hardly at all, his anger was written as clearly as his control. Behind Edward, Elizabeth sat forward a fraction, fascinated. Her mouth was slightly open, the edges rising as if she drank in his discomfort.

  ‘Thank you, Edward. Your Highness,’ Warwick said with perfect courtesy. ‘I would rather know, and be disappointed, than not know. Now, if I could be dismissed, I would like to visit the London fairs and purchase geese for Christmas at Middleham.’

  ‘Of course. I am sorry, Richard,’ Edward said.

  In response, Warwick inclined his head, his eyes tight with pain.

  Isabel waited for Warwick on the road, taking up a spot each morning and evening and standing there for hours, desperate for news. When she saw him, she knew from his face, before her father could say a single word. She retired to her room for three days then, weeping for the young man she loved and could never have.

  Warwick spent that time in private discussion with a stream of visitors, all riding to Middleham to pay their respects to the head of the Neville clan. For an age, the Nevilles had suffered reverse upon reverse. They had lost land, fortunes, titles and vital influence. For all that time, Warwick had insisted they endure and stay silent, without one cry or murmur against the king. He had changed his mind. As January was born in darkness and cold, he decided to let them rise.