Stormbird

32

Dawn rain drizzled across Windsor Hunting Park, cold and gusting April showers that did little to dampen the enthusiasm of the lords who had gathered at the king’s command. Derry Brewer had been right about that much, Margaret had to admit, shivering slightly. Still yawning from what little sleep she had managed, she looked out across the vast fields, with the smudge of dark forests beyond. During the reign of her husband’s father, royal hunts had been organized every year, with hundreds of nobles and their servants descending on the royal grounds to take deer or demonstrate their skill with falcons and dogs. The feasts that followed were still famous and when she had asked Derry what would bring even the Neville lords to Windsor, his response had been immediate and without thought. She suspected even a normal hunt would have brought them, after seeing so many flushed faces and the delighted pride in men like Earl Salisbury returning with his servants laden down by hares and pheasants, or the buck deer Lord Oxford had taken. Her husband had not ridden to the hunt in a decade and the royal grounds teemed with prey. The first two nights had been spent in lavish feasts, with musicians and dancing to keep their wives happy, while the men tore into the succulent meat they had taken, boasting and laughing at the events of the day. It had been a success in every way that mattered — and the main draw was still to come.

Margaret had been down to the stables of the castle to see the two captive boars they would release that morning. Duke Philip of Burgundy had sent the beasts as a gift, perhaps in part to mark his sorrow at the death of William de la Pole. For that alone, she blessed his name, though his offer of sanctuary to William meant she would always think of him as a friend. Male boars were the monarchs of the deep forest, the only animals in England capable of killing the men who hunted them. She shuddered at the recollection of the massive, reeking bodies and the fierce anger in their small eyes. In her childhood, she had once seen dancing bears in Saumur, when a travelling fair came to Anjou. The hogs in the stalls had twice the bulk of those animals, with bristles as thick as a bear’s brown fur and backs as wide as a kitchen table. It made sense that as a gift between noble houses they would be fine examples of the breed, but she had still not been prepared for the sheer size of the grunting animals as they kicked and nudged the wooden stalls and made dust rain down from the roof. To Margaret’s eye, they had as much resemblance to a succulent butcher’s pig as a lion does to a household cat. The hunt master had spoken of them in awe, saying each one was said to weigh four hundred pounds and carried a pair of matched tusks as long as a man’s forearm. Margaret had seen the near mindless threat in the animals as they gouged the stalls with those tusks, gnawing and scraping, furious at being unable to reach their captors.

She knew Earl Warwick had taken to calling them Castor and Pollux, warriors and twins from ancient Greek tales. It was common knowledge that the young Richard Neville was intent on taking one of the heads home with him, though there were many others who eyed the great sweep of the tusks with delight and longing. True boars had been hunted almost to vanishing in England and there were few among the gathering in Windsor who had brought one down. Margaret had been hard-pressed not to laugh at the endless advice between the men on the subject, whether it was better to use the catch dogs to hold it steady, then seek its heart with an arrow, or whether a spear-thrust between the ribs was more effective.

She ran her hand over the swell of her womb, feeling again the intense satisfaction of being pregnant. She had endured the bitterness of having York named as royal heir, saying nothing for all the time it seemed Parliament had been right to prepare for the worst. Then she had felt the first signs and turned back and forth in front of mirrors, convinced she was imagining it. The bulge had grown with every week, a wonder to her and an answer to a thousand fervent prayers. Even the sickness was a delight to her as the child grew. All she had needed then was for the earls of England to see the signs, the curve of her womb that meant York’s games had come to nothing.

‘Be a son,’ she muttered to herself, as she did a dozen times each day. She longed for daughters, but a son would secure the throne for her husband and her line. A son would cast Richard and Cecily York out into the darkness, with all their plots in tatters. The thought gave her more pleasure than she could express and she found her hand was gripping her cup so tightly that the gemstones around the rim left a print on her palm.

Richard of York had not been invited to the Windsor hunt. Though he had inherited the title of Earl of March, he was the only one of the twelve English earls and ‘king’s companions’ not to be called to Windsor for the hunt. No doubt his supporters would consider it another insult to an ancient family, but she had made the decision even so. Let them think and say what they would. She did not want that man and his cold wife anywhere near her or her husband. Margaret still blamed York for the death of Lord Suffolk and, though it had never been proved, she suspected him of involvement in Cade’s rebellion and all the damage and pain it had caused. Cade’s head sat high on a spike on the same bridge he had fought his way across. Margaret had gone to see it.

One of the hovering servants stepped forward to refill her cup, but she waved him away. For months, her stomach had clenched and protested at much of anything. Even watered wine had to be taken in small amounts and most of her nourishment came in the form of thin broths that she would lose as often as she kept them down. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that the Neville lords had seen her gravid state, her proof that King Henry’s bloodline would run on and not be lost. The moment when Earl Warwick had frozen and stood staring on their first meeting in the castle had been one of the happiest of her life. York would be told now, she knew. Her husband may have lost France, but he had survived. King Henry had not been crushed by rebellions, riots or plots — not even by the attack on London itself. Her husband lived, and all York’s plans and manoeuvres, all his bribery and flattery of supporters, had come to nothing as her womb swelled.

Margaret started as a great shout went up outside, realizing that the gathered lords had gone out to see the squealing hogs released into the royal forest. The king’s huntsmen would chase the animals deep into the trees and then keep an eye on them while the hunters mounted and prepared their dogs and weapons. She could already hear the spurred boots of men clattering around downstairs. It was easy to picture the scene as excited nobles called and joked with each other, grabbing cold meats from the tables to break their fast.

Over the raucous tumult below, Margaret did not hear her husband enter the room. She jerked from her reverie when he was announced by his steward, rising to her feet with a slight gasp of effort. Henry was as pale as ever, though she thought he looked a little less thin. It pleased her to see there were no bandages on his left hand, where the wound had finally healed. A pink mark like a burn remained, ridged and hard compared to the smoothness of his skin elsewhere. There were still bandages on his right palm, a tight wrap of white cloth that was changed and cleaned every morning. Even so, she was pleased at any small improvement in him.

King Henry smiled to see his wife. He kissed her forehead and then her mouth, his lips dry and warm.

‘Good morning, Margaret,’ he said. ‘Did you sleep? I had such dreams! Master Allworthy gave me a new draught that brought the strangest visions to me.’

‘And I would hear them all, my husband,’ Margaret replied, ‘but the great hunt is beginning. Your men have released the boars and your lords are gathering to go out.’

‘Already? I have only just risen, Margaret. I have eaten nothing. I will have my horse brought. Where is my stable master?’

Seeing Henry was growing agitated, Margaret smoothed her hands across his brow, a cool touch that always seemed to calm him. He subsided, his eyes growing vague.

‘You are not well enough to ride out with them, Henry. You would risk a fall or an injury if your weakness came suddenly upon you. They understand, Henry. The boars are your gift to them and they are grateful for the sport.’

‘Good … good, Margaret. I was hoping to pray in the chapel today and I did not see how I could find the time.’

He let himself be guided by her to a chair at a long table. A servant held it for him to sit and he settled himself as a steaming bowl of soup was placed before him. He picked up a spoon, eyeing the soup dubiously as Margaret’s own servant helped her to take a seat at his side.

On the floors below, Margaret could still hear the loud voices of the lords, clattering about with their preparations. Outside in the drizzle, the baying of hounds was rising in intensity as the animals sensed they would soon be set free to race after the boars. During the night, half the earls she had invited had brought their best hounds down to the stables to take the scent of Castor and Pollux. From the resulting noise, the dogs had been driven almost to frenzy by the closeness of the monstrous beasts. Margaret had slept little with the din, but she had smiled as she dozed even so.

Margaret watched as her husband spooned the soup into his mouth, his eyes completely blank, as if he saw some other landscape amongst the cutlery and square wooden plates. The terrors that had almost destroyed him had lessened in the year after Cade’s rebellion. She had made sure he saw and understood that the city of London was safe and peaceful once again, at least for a time.

Henry put down his spoon suddenly, rising from his place.

‘I should go out to them, Margaret. As host, I should wish them luck and good sport. Have the boars been sent out?’

‘They have, husband. Sit, it is all in hand.’

He sat once more, though her sternness faded at the sight of him fiddling with his cutlery, for all the world like a boy denied the chance to run outside. Margaret raised her eyes, amused and indulgent.

‘Go then, husband, if you think you must. Steward! The king will need a cloak. Be sure he puts it on before going into the rain.’

Henry rose quickly, leaning forward to kiss her before leaving the room at something close to a run. She smiled then, settling down to her own soup before it grew too cold.

The gathering of earls and their servants at the castle entrance might have resembled the preparations for a battle, if not for the laughter and general goodwill. Under a great stone arch out of the rain, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, was discussing tactics with his huntsman and his father, while three more of his men readied four horses and a pack of savage, leashed dogs that snarled and barked at each other in their excitement. Warwick’s falcons were not present that morning. All his valuable birds were hooded and being looked after in his suite of rooms. He had no interest in fowl or fur that morning, just the two noble boars rooting around somewhere in the king’s five thousand acres of meadows and deep forest. The squires for both father and son were ready with their weapons and the dogs would bring the boars to bay, gripping on to their flesh and holding them for the kill.

Earl Salisbury looked at his son, seeing the flush on his face despite the cold day.

‘Is there any point in my telling you to be careful?’ he said.

His son laughed, shaking his head as he checked the belly straps were tight enough on his mounts.

‘You saw them, sir. The heads will suit my castle hearth, don’t you think?’

The older man smiled ruefully, knowing that his son was set on reaching the boars first, no matter the risk. When the king’s heralds blew their horns, they’d all be off, charging across the open fields and into the trees.

‘Keep an eye on those Tudor lads,’ his father said suddenly. He waved off one of the huntsmen and clasped his hands together to help his son mount. ‘They’re young and that Edmund is still so new an earl you can see the green on him. He’ll do his utmost to please the king, I do not doubt it. And watch out for Somerset. That man is fearless to the point of stupidity.’ Against his better judgement, he could not help adding another word of warning. ‘Don’t get between any of the king’s favourites and a boar, lad, that’s all. Not if they’re holding a spear to throw or have an arrow on the string. You understand?’

‘I do, sir, but I’ll come back with one of those heads or both of them. There isn’t a horse here to match my pair. I’ll be on those boars before the rest. Let them worry then!’

Some of the older earls would count the kill even if their servants brought down the boar. Warwick intended to make the thrust himself if he could, with one of three boar spears he had brought for the occasion. They stood taller than he was, with blades sharp enough to shave. His father handed them up to him, shaking his head in amusement to hide his worries.

‘I’ll be along after you, with Westmorland. Who knows, I might get a shot with my bow when you young pups have exhausted yourselves.’ He smiled as he spoke and his son chuckled.

Both of the Neville lords turned their heads as conversations halted all around and the servants knelt on the cobbles. King Henry came out into the rainy courtyard, with his steward on his heels, still trying to drape the king in a thick cloak.

Henry stood and looked around at the gathering of a dozen earls and their hunt servants, forty or fifty men in all, with as many horses and dogs making a terrible noise between them. One by one, the noblemen caught sight of the king and bowed, dipping their heads. Henry smiled at them all, the rain falling harder, so that it plastered his hair to his head. He accepted the cloak at last, though it was already dark and heavy.

‘Please rise. I wish you well, my lords. I am only sorry I cannot join you myself today.’

He looked wistfully at the horses near to hand, but Margaret had been very clear.

‘Good fortune to all, but I will hope to see at least one of those heads brought back by my brothers.’

The assembled men laughed, looking over to where Edmund and Jasper Tudor stood, proud to have been mentioned. When they had arrived at court from Wales, Henry had wanted to make both men earls, honouring the children of his mother’s brief second marriage. Yet half-French and half-Welsh as they were, there was not a drop of English blood in either of them. His reluctant Parliament had been forced to allow them the rights of an Englishman by statute before Henry could settle estates on his Tudor half-brothers. The sight of them brought the memory of his mother’s face to the fore. Tears came without warning to his eyes, washed away on the instant by the falling rain.

‘I am only sorry our mother is not alive to see you, but she will be watching, I know.’

Silence stretched then, growing uncomfortable as the dozen earls could not leave for the hunt until they had been dismissed. Henry stared blankly at them, rubbing his forehead as a headache began. Some awareness seeped back into him slowly and he looked up.

‘I will see you all at the feast tonight, to toast the victor of the hunt.’

Earls and their men alike gave a great cheer at that and Henry beamed delightedly before going back into the castle. He was shivering and his lips bore a tinge of blue from the cold. The steward who had brought the cloak was pale with frustration, knowing he would hear all about letting the king stand in the rain.

In the lamplight, Henry shivered, feeling chilled. He had a blanket over his legs to keep him warm and he was trying to read, shifting uncomfortably in the armchair. Ever since his speech that morning, his head had throbbed with pain. He’d drunk a little wine at the feast, as well as picking at the great haunch of pork that steamed on his trencher. Richard of Warwick had been wildly drunk after his successful hunt. Through the pain in his head, Henry smiled at the memory even as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Edmund Tudor had taken Castor, to Warwick’s Pollux. Three dogs had been killed, opened from stem to stern by the boars’ tusks. Two of Warwick’s huntsmen had been gashed as well. They were being tended by Allworthy, stitched and dosed for the pain.

Henry had granted equal honours at the banquet, toasting the health of Warwick and Edmund Tudor from the head of the table. Margaret had squeezed his knee under the cloth and his happiness had been complete. He had worried for the longest time that his earls would bicker or even come to blows. They had seemed so very angry for a year or longer. Yet they had drunk and gorged themselves in good humour, singing along with the musicians and hooting at the actors and jongleurs he’d brought in to entertain them. The hunt had been a success, Henry knew. Margaret was pleased and even old Richard Neville had cracked his dour face in pride at seeing his son honoured.

Henry looked away from the page, preferring to rest his gaze on the dark forests beyond the panes of glass. Midnight had passed long before, but he could not sleep with his head pounding and pressure all around the socket of his right eye. All he could do was endure until the sun rose and he could leave his rooms. He thought for a moment of calling Margaret, but remembered that she would be long asleep by then. Pregnant women needed to sleep, he had been told. Henry smiled to himself at the thought, peering again at the page that blurred as he stared at it.

In the silence, the king gave a small groan. He recognized the footsteps approaching, tapping closer on the polished wooden floors. Henry looked up in dismay as Master Allworthy entered, carrying his bulging leather bag. In his black coat and polished black shoes, the doctor looked more like a priest than a physician.

‘I did not summon you, doctor,’ Henry said, with less than perfect certainty. ‘I am resting, as you see. It cannot be time for another draught.’

‘Now now, Your Grace. Your steward told me you might have taken a fever, walking around in the rain. Your health is my care and it’s no trouble for me to look in on you.’

Allworthy reached out and pressed his palm against Henry’s forehead, tutting to himself.

‘Too much heat, as I suspected.’

Shaking his head in disapproval, the doctor opened the bag and set out the tools and vials of his trade, checking each one carefully and adjusting their position until they were arrayed to his satisfaction.

‘I think I would like to see my wife, Allworthy. I wish to see her.’

‘Of course, Your Grace,’ the doctor replied carelessly. ‘Just as soon as you’ve been bled. Which arm would you prefer?’

Despite his rising anger, Henry found himself holding out his right arm. It took an effort of will to resist Allworthy’s chatter and he could not find the strength. He let the arm hang limp as Allworthy pushed the shirtsleeve up and tapped the veins. With care, the doctor laid the arm on the king’s lap and turned back to his preparations. As Henry stared at nothing, Allworthy passed over a small silver tray, with a number of hand-pressed pills resting on the polished surface.

‘So many,’ Henry murmured. ‘What are they today?’

The doctor hardly paused as he checked the edge of his curette, ready to be plunged into a vein.

‘Why, they are for pain, Your Grace! You’d like the pain to go away, wouldn’t you?’

An expression of intense irritation crossed Henry’s face at hearing the reply. Some deep part of him hated being treated like a child. Even so, he opened his mouth and let the doctor place the bitter pills on his tongue to be swallowed. Allworthy passed the king a clay cup containing one of his usual vile liquids. Henry managed one small gulp before he grimaced and pushed it away.

‘And again,’ Allworthy urged him, making the vessel clink as he pressed it against the king’s teeth.

A little of the liquid dribbled down Henry’s chin and he coughed, choking on it. His bare arm jerked up, knocking the cup away with a great crash as it shattered into pieces on the floor.

Allworthy frowned, standing completely still for a moment before he mastered his outrage.

‘I will have another brought, Your Grace. You want to be well again, don’t you? Of course you do.’

He was rougher than he had to be as he used a cloth to wipe the king’s mouth, making the skin pink around Henry’s lips.

‘Margaret,’ Henry said clearly.

Allworthy looked up in irritation as a servant against the far wall started into movement. He had not noticed the man standing there at silent attention.

‘His Grace is not to be disturbed!’ the doctor snapped across the room.

The servant paused in his rush, but only briefly. In a conflict of authority, his best course was to follow the king’s orders over the doctor’s. Allworthy tutted again to himself as the man vanished, clattering off down the corridors of the east wing.

‘Now half the house will be woken, I do not doubt. I will stay and talk to the queen; don’t worry. Give me your arm again.’

Henry looked away as Allworthy cut a vein in the crook of his elbow, squeezing the flesh until a good flow of blood was established. The doctor peered closely at the colour of it, holding a bowl under the king’s elbow that slowly filled.

Margaret came before the bleeding had finished, dressed in a sleeping robe with a thick cloak over her shoulders.

Doctor Allworthy bowed as she entered, sensitive to her authority, but at the same time certain of his own.

‘I am so sorry Your Royal Highness has been disturbed at this hour. King Henry is still unwell. His Grace called your name and I’m afraid the servant …’

Allworthy broke off as Margaret knelt at her husband’s side, giving no sign that she heard a word the physician said. Instead, she eyed the slowly filling bowl with disgust.

‘Are you unwell, Henry? I am here now.’

Henry patted her hand, taking comfort from the touch as he struggled against a weariness that had stolen over him.

‘I’m sorry to wake you, Margaret,’ he murmured. ‘I was sitting in the quiet and then Allworthy came and I wanted you to be with me. Perhaps I should sleep.’

‘Of course you should, Your Grace!’ Allworthy said sternly. ‘How else will you ever be well again?’ He turned to Margaret, addressing her. ‘The servant should not have run to you, my lady. I told him as much, but he didn’t listen.’

‘You were mistaken,’ Margaret responded instantly. ‘If my husband tells you to fetch me, you drop your bag and run, Master Allworthy!’

She had never liked the pompous doctor. The man treated Henry like a village idiot, as far as Margaret could see.

‘I cannot say,’ Henry replied, answering a question no one had asked him.

He opened his eyes, but the room seemed to be moving around him as his senses swam on acids in his blood. He choked suddenly, his mouth filling with green bile. Margaret gasped in horror as the bitter-smelling liquid spilled past his lips.

‘You are tiring the king, my lady,’ Allworthy said, barely hiding his satisfaction. He used his cloth to collect the thin slurry coming from the king’s mouth, wiping hard. ‘As the royal physician …’

Margaret looked up with such venom that Allworthy flushed and fell silent. Henry continued to choke, groaning as his stomach clenched and emptied. Foul liquids spattered from his mouth on to the blanket and his tunic. Blood continued to trickle from his arm, making bright beads around the bowl that sank instantly into the blanket. Allworthy fussed around the king, mopping and dabbing.

As Margaret clutched his hand, Henry lurched in his seat, showing tendons like wires in his throat. The bowl of blood went flying with a terrible crash, spilling its thick contents down the blanket and into a spreading red pool on the floor. As it came to rest upside down, Henry’s muscles clamped tight all over his body and his eyes rolled up in his head.

‘Your Grace?’ Allworthy said, worried.

There was no response. The young king lolled to one side, senseless.

‘Henry? Can you hear me? What have you done to him?’ Margaret demanded.

Doctor Allworthy shook his head in nervous confusion.

‘My lady, nothing I’ve given would cause fits,’ he said. ‘The same distemper has its hand on him, now as before. All I have done is to hold it back this long.’

Hiding his panic, the doctor stepped into the spilled blood to loom over the king. He pinched Henry’s cheeks, at first gently and then harder so that he left red marks.

‘Your Grace?’ he said.

There was no response. The king’s chest rose and fell as before, but the man himself had fallen away and was lost.

Margaret looked from her husband’s slack face to the doctor standing at his side, stains of blood and vomit on his black coat. She reached out and took a firm grip on the doctor’s arm.

‘No more of your foul draughts, your bleeding and your pills. No more, doctor! One protest and I will have you arrested and put to the question. I will tend my husband.’

She turned her back on the doctor, reaching for a strip of bandage to tie around the still-bleeding curette wound on Henry’s arm. Margaret pulled it tight with her teeth, then gripped her husband by both arms. His head sagged forward, spit dribbling from his mouth.

Allworthy gaped as the young queen bit her lip in indecision, then raised her open hand and held it in the air, trembling visibly. She took a long, slow breath and slapped Henry across the cheek, rocking his head back. He made no sound at all, though a scarlet print spread slowly across his cheek to show where he had been struck. Margaret let him sag back into the chair, sobbing in frustration and sick fear. The doctor’s mouth opened and closed, but he had nothing else to say.