Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

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  Winter was a time of darkness and of death. In any house, a fine, frosty morning could reveal the stiff body of an old man, or a child too young to survive a fever. The bitter season meant stews of blood in oats and the earthy taste of old vegetables, months or years after they had been picked. Carrots and onions and turnips and old potatoes all went into broths with hard blue cheese or curds of lard to help keep out the cold. With bread and eggs and ale, the king’s subjects endured, waking halfway through the night to talk or mend, then sleeping again until the sun brought the return of the day.

  Spring meant far more than green shoots and snowdrops in the hedgerows. The rebirth showed in a sense of purpose, in the waking from slumber with new life in the veins. There was laughter to be heard, and the last of the preserved food could be devoured now that they had reached the end of another winter. Fresh meat and greens appeared again in the town markets. Graves were dug in softening ground, small or long, with bodies carried out from where they had lain in barns and cool cellars. Men and women who might want to find a husband or bride greeted the season with clean clothes and a bath. They broke their first sweat with a day’s labour, making things to sell or preparing the ground for the first planting.

  Edward Plantagenet could feel the sap rising with the dawn light. Spring meant the first hunt since riding out at New Year, with hot blood and breathless speed and drunken revelry far from towns and villages. The hunt brought anger and fear to the surface, revealing the man. Edward smiled to himself as he watched his horse being saddled in the royal stables at Windsor. The hunter’s coat had been brushed, but it was still shaggy with winter growth. He patted a flank and grinned at the cloud of hair and dust that lifted into the air.

  Around him, the stables were busy and loud with squires rushing to prepare their masters for the royal hunt. Thirty knights and the same number of servants would ride out to beat game for the dogs and birds. Edward smiled at the energy of it, scratching his horse’s neck and making the big stallion snort and flick its tail at him.

  Over the years of his reign, he had assembled a group of stalwarts to accompany him on such days when the sun held a little warmth and the sky was clear. Men like Anthony and John Woodville, who could match him for recklessness, if not the king’s skill with his falcon.

  Edward’s great bird sat hooded on an ornate stand, turning its head to every sound. He heard it make a chirrup and reached out to stroke the dark wings, more for his own pleasure than any sense that the bird enjoyed his touch. Gyrfalcons were savage killers, taking what looked very much like delight in their ability to dominate and terrify ducks, grouse or hares, stooping from a thousand feet up, smashing into running prey at incredible speed, then ripping through flesh with a razor beak. Edward murmured a greeting to the bird. She had hunted with him for six years and turned to his voice instantly, recognizing it. It amused him that she could turn to face him wherever he was, even in the hood. As he watched, the bird clacked her beak and made a questioning sound. The falcon was hungry and Edward felt his heart beat faster at the thought of sending her into the air.

  He looked up at a clatter of hooves as a horse came crabbing down the length of the stables, held on a tight rein but still trotting almost sideways with rolling eyes. The animal had been startled by something and it made the others whinny and stamp, reminding them of predators attacking the herd.

  Edward stared in irritation at the wiry fellow who had brought the gelding in to unsettle the rest. He did not know him, though it was not possible for a stranger to reach the stables and the person of the king without having been challenged. Edward liked to pretend he had no interest in the care his guards took, but as he eyed him, he was still pleased to know the man had been searched. Edward watched, frowning, as the stranger dismounted and went down on to one knee. He wore mail and a tabard over leather and wool, all well worn and about as dusty as the horses. Edward guessed he had come a long way and was not surprised when the man spoke with a rolling accent of the north.

  ‘Your Royal Highness, my master Sir James Strangeways, sheriff of York, has sent me to you. I am to report an uprising among the weavers in villages around the city, with riots and alarums, my lord, too great in number for the sheriff’s men there to put down. Sir James asks for a few dozen men, sixty or eighty, no more, to ride north. In the king’s name, he would remind the weavers that they do not decide what taxes they will pay and what laws they will obey.’

  Edward raised his eyebrows and rubbed the bristles on his jaw. He no longer wore a beard, having shaved for spring. He had been cooped up in Windsor and Westminster for months of cold and darkness, eating and drinking too much, so that he had put on fat like a dormouse. He patted his stomach as he thought, while the messenger waited.

  ‘Go to the kitchens and tell them I said to feed you well,’ Edward said to the man.

  As he bowed and hurried off, Edward stared out to the sunlight, past the horses and men and noise. He made his decision, chuckling to himself. The country was at peace. The winter had given way to spring, with all the promise it brought.

  ‘I believe I will go to York,’ Edward muttered to himself with a grin. He imagined the faces of the rebellious weavers when they saw no less a man than the king of England riding up with his men. He might have to hang the leaders or flog a few of them; that was often the case. He would match his falcon against the new goshawk the Woodville brothers had raised from a chick. Edward knew he would enjoy showing his wife’s brothers how fast a royal falcon could fly, once the weavers had slunk back to their homes.

  ‘Anthony!’ he called.

  The knight looked up from where he was standing nearby, having watched the messenger enter and leave. The Woodville men were always quick to respond when Edward called.

  ‘Yes, Your Highness,’ Anthony Woodville said, as he halted and bowed. His right wrist and forearm was splinted and wrapped so tight the fingers were fat and red.

  ‘How is your hand?’ Edward asked.

  ‘Still broken, Your Highness. I believe it will mend well enough. Perhaps I will then be granted a chance to redeem my honour.’

  ‘If you wish,’ Edward said with a smile. As he was the one who had broken the man’s wrist in tourney practice, it was only fair to agree. ‘Though I am sorry you cannot accompany us today. Your brother can fly your hawk; it will make no difference in the end.’ He grinned as the other man raised his eyes in mock frustration. ‘I believe I will take the hunt out a little further than I had planned.’ Edward looked around him, counting under his breath. ‘Now, I will certainly need these fine fellows here, but then another forty knights ahorse … and a hundred or so of the best archers as well.’

  ‘There are only a few master bowmen in the barracks here, my lord,’ Sir Anthony replied. ‘I can find another dozen at Baynard’s, more from the archery school …’ He broke off at Edward’s impatient gesture. ‘Yes, Your Highness, I will have them assembled immediately.’

  He clattered away, leaving Edward to tempt the gyrfalcon from the perch to his forearm. He could feel the bird’s claws flexing, even through thick layers of leather.

  It was a pleasure to sense the growth and green all around him. Edward would leave Windsor and all the damp and chills of winter behind, to hunt, to seek, to punish, as he saw fit. It was a heady feeling and the falcon sensed it in him, flaring its wings and screeching out a call to hunt.

  By noon, the whole town of Windsor knew the king was riding out. Anthony Woodville had run the king’s stewards ragged, seeking out archers from villages all around Windsor and London. They had ridden as far as they dared and the results came in by threes and fours, adding to the number of bowmen with the king until there were two hundred of them with bows and quivers ready, bright-faced and beaming with the sense of adventure. It was an honour to accompany the king, and Edward could be seen at the stable yard, cheerfully bantering with his knights and squires. He would hunt as a king of England, with his falcon on his arm. At the last minute, he h
ad decided to wear heavier plate and changed horses for his great destrier, now sixteen years old and in its prime.

  In the same way that the number of archers had doubled, his hunting party had attracted any man who thought he might find advancement under the king’s sight. At least a hundred milled and curbed their mounts, while about as many dogs chased and barked. It was all clatter and shouting and laughter, and Edward was at the heart of it, content to shrug off the cobwebs.

  ‘Hold fast!’ Edward heard called. He turned his horse on the spot to witness his wife’s father come trotting out on a fine mare, wrapped in coats and cloaks, with a boar spear held high. Edward chuckled in amusement at Earl Rivers. He had grown to like the old fellow well enough, though he greeted him with a warning shake of his head.

  ‘These fine lads won’t hold back for age, my lord Rivers. Youth will prevail, once the horns are blown.’

  ‘Your Highness, I am content just to ride out once more. After such a winter, it is good to feel the sun on my face once again. If I cannot stay with the main group, I will drift back and be tended by my servants. Have no fears for me, lad.’

  Edward chuckled at being called ‘lad’ by his wife’s father, though the man was sixty-four years old and a life of punishing the wine and ale had left him red-faced and bleary-eyed. Still, he was good company when the drink and wild tales began to flow.

  The earl’s mention of servants had Edward frowning and looking over the assembly as it swirled around him. His original plan to bolster his hunting party had grown unrecognizably. With servants and knights and archers, he was looking at around four hundred men. He saw Anthony Woodville utterly forlorn at what he would miss. It was noisy, joyous chaos and Edward realized the numbers would only grow if he remained where he was. It was the power of a king once again – men wanted to follow him.

  Edward raised his hunting horn from its cord around his neck and blew a long note. By the time he stopped, the men had fallen silent, though the dogs still yelped and snapped in excitement.

  ‘I am informed of unrest around the city of York,’ he called to them. ‘The weavers, gentlemen! They have forgotten they owe their livings to me. We will remind them of their duty. Away now! North and the hunt!’

  The baying of the hounds rose in intensity, becoming an almost constant wail. Horns blew and hundreds moved off, trotting and laughing, waving to loved ones and those left behind. Spring had come.

  Warwick strode through the great hall of Baynard’s Castle on the bank of the Thames in London. The last time he had passed that fireplace had been on the night Edward had declared himself king in Westminster Hall. Warwick shook his head at the memories, feeling no regret. It had been the right thing to do then, without a doubt. Edward could never have triumphed at Towton without the peculiar aura of royalty. For all the young man’s talent, Edward could not have brought in enough men without the crown, not in the time they’d had. That had been Warwick’s great contribution.

  His reward had been a series of assaults on his family’s holdings – and on its honour. It seemed Edward was willing to use the crown to act beyond the law, without thought to consequence. Warwick set his jaw as he walked. So be it. He might have endured all the disappointments if they had come from Edward himself, yet it was clear to Warwick that for the second time in his life, a queen’s spite was behind the reverse in his fortunes. Margaret of Anjou had been bad enough. It was too much to expect him to suffer it again!

  George, Duke of Clarence, came into the hall, wiping his face with a steaming cloth as he had been called and interrupted while about to be shaved. He looked in astonishment at Richard Neville approaching.

  ‘My lord Warwick? What’s afoot, for you to seek me here?’ The young man suddenly grew pale. ‘Is it Isabel? My lord, is she unwell?’

  Warwick halted, bowing to the man’s more senior rank.

  ‘Isabel is with me, George. Outside and full of life.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Clarence said, wiping his neck and tossing the cloth to a steward to snatch out of the air. ‘Shall I come with you, to see her? Sir, you have me at a loss.’

  Warwick glanced at the servant, reminded that they were not alone. He gestured to a door he knew led to stairs up to the iron roof of the castle, where an observatory had been built. It would be quiet and protected from the ears of those who would report his words to the king.

  ‘What I have to say is for you alone, my lord Clarence. Come with me, if you please. I will make it clear.’

  The young duke followed immediately, his face without a trace of suspicion as they ascended flights of iron stairs and shoved open the hatch to the open air. Anyone climbing to listen behind them would be heard and Warwick breathed more easily than he had in days, smelling the river and the city as gulls swooped and shrieked overhead.

  ‘Do you put your trust in me, George?’ Warwick said as the younger man came to stand by him.

  ‘Of course, sir. I know you supported my suit to the king. I know you argued for me and I am grateful, more than you know. I am only sorry it came to nothing in the end. Is Isabel well, sir? I have not dared to write to her these last months. May I see her at the carriage when you leave?’

  ‘That will be your choice, George,’ Warwick said, with an odd smile playing across his mouth. ‘I have come to take you to the coast, if you wish to come. I have a ship waiting there, a fine little cog to carry us to the fortress of Calais. From there, I have papers to go through the gates and into France.’

  Clarence shook his head. ‘With Isabel, sir? I don’t understand your meaning.’

  Warwick took a deep breath. This was the heart of it and part of what he had planned over the winter months.

  ‘Your brother cannot unmarry you, if you are bound, George. If you marry my daughter, there is nothing Edward can do to prevent it, not then. You are his own brother and it is my feeling that he will see it is the best thing for you.’

  George of Clarence stared, the wind at that height flicking his hair across his forehead and wide eyes.

  ‘You would allow me to marry Isabel? In France?’

  ‘My lord Clarence, it will be done before sunset today if you gather your wits in time! I have made it all ready for you. The question is only whether you want the marriage and are willing to risk your brother’s wrath.’

  ‘To marry Isabel? A thousand times over!’ the young man replied, gripping his future father-in-law by the arm, hard enough to make Warwick wince. ‘Yes, my lord. I thank you. Thank you! Yes, I will come to France and, yes, I will marry your daughter and protect her and give her my honour as her shield.’

  The young man stared out across the boats on the Thames in a sort of dazed wonder. His eyes darkened suddenly and he looked back.

  ‘What of you, though, sir? My brother will forgive me, of a certainty. He will, of course, forgive my wife. Did he not marry for love himself? Edward will rage and break pots, but he will not hold me to account, I think. For you, though, his anger will be …’ He trailed away, aware that he did not want to dissuade Warwick from going ahead.

  ‘I am his foremost earl and a member of his council,’ Warwick said gently. ‘He named me companion after Towton and my family has supported both Edward and your father from the very beginning. He may rage, George – yes, I am sure he will – but he and I are friends and the storms will blow out.’

  Warwick spoke easily, though he no longer believed any of it. Whether by the poison Elizabeth Woodville dripped into Edward’s ear or the king’s own sense of betrayal and childish temper, Warwick had a very clear sense of the breach that would follow. He had spent a number of dark nights planning for it.

  George of Clarence heard what he wanted to hear, that the wedding could go ahead and it would all be to the good with the passage of time. He embraced Warwick, surprising the earl, before making his way down the steps at such a speed Warwick thought he would surely fall and break his neck.

  Warwick could not keep up with the duke as he galloped through the
halls. The older man reached the outer doors of Baynard’s Castle just in time to see George of Clarence leap up on to the side of the open carriage. The duke gathered a weeping Isabel Neville into his arms, scandalizing the coachmen, two guards and a gaggle of passers-by. Warwick found himself flushing in embarrassment and he cleared his throat noisily as he drew close, sending the pair springing apart with matching expressions of guilty passion.

  Richard, Earl Warwick, climbed up and sat deliberately between the two of them, staring woodenly ahead as the duke and his daughter tried to look round him.

  ‘Away, coachman!’ Warwick called, pulling up furs over their knees.

  The man snapped a whip across the pair of black horses and they broke into a trot through the muddy streets. Warwick could see people stopping to point at the strange sight, but the news could not travel as fast as they could. By the time anyone understood what they were about, the marriage would have been made and he would have the king’s brother for his son-in-law.

  They passed rapidly across London Bridge, where the head of Jack Cade had been taken down years before. Warwick shuddered at the row of iron spikes there, remembering darker days and the fate of his own father. It was possible for a man to reach too far. God knew, it was hard to dispute that. Warwick clenched his fist unseen on his lap. He had suffered enough without response. Saints would not have had the patience he had shown, but that had come to an end. The die was cast, the plan begun. Neither King Edward nor Elizabeth Woodville would stop him, not then. He reached out and touched the wooden side of the carriage for luck as they turned on to the ancient road to the south coast, some sixty miles away. As they travelled on, the sun was still rising over the capital.

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