Stormbird

3

The Crow Room was silent as Margaret moved across it in bare feet. She’d spent part of the previous summer sketching the floor in charcoal on the back of an old map, marking each groaning joint or board with tiny crosses. The light from the fire in the upper hall spilled up over the balcony and she crossed it like a dancer, taking exaggerated steps in a pattern that matched the one she saw in her memory. The crows remained silent and she reached the balcony in triumph, turning back to gesture to Yolande.

Lit by flickering gold and shadow, her sister gestured in frustration, but she had caught the same illicit excitement and crept out across the polished boards, wincing with Margaret as they groaned under her. The two girls froze at every sound, but their father and the king were oblivious. The fire huffed and crackled, and an old house always moved and shifted in the night. René of Anjou didn’t look up as Yolande settled herself beside her sister and peered down through the upright wooden balusters on to the scene below.

The upper hall had survived the stripping of Saumur almost intact. Perhaps because it remained the heart and centre of the family seat, its tapestries and oak furniture had been safe from the men of Paris. The fireplace was big enough for a grown man to walk into without dipping his head. A log the size of a small couch burned merrily there, heating black iron pokers laid across it until the tips glowed gold. King Charles sat in a huge padded chair drawn close to the flames, while her father stood and fussed with cups and bottles. Margaret watched in fascination as René plunged one of the pokers into a goblet of wine for his king, sending up a hiss of steam and sweetening the air. She could smell cloves and cinnamon and her mouth quirked as she imagined the taste of it. The heat did not reach as far as her hiding place, unfortunately. The stones of the castle sucked warmth away, especially at night. Margaret shivered as she sat there with her legs curled up to one side, ready to dart away from the light if her father looked up.

Both men had changed their clothes, she saw. Her father wore a quilted sleeping robe over loose trousers and felt shoes. In the flickering light she thought it made him look like a sorcerer, gesturing with steam and fire over the cups. The king wore a heavy garment of some shimmering material, belted at his waist. The fanciful idea pleased her, that she was witness to some arcane rite between magic workers. Her father’s unctuous tones shattered the illusion.

‘You have brought them to this position, Your Majesty, no other. If you had not secured Orléans and strengthened the army into the force it has become, they would not be pleading for a truce now. This is a sign of our strength and their weakness. They have come to us, Your Majesty, as supplicants. It is all to your glory and the glory of France.’

‘Perhaps, René, perhaps you are right. Yet they are cunning and clever, like Jews almost. If I were dying of thirst and an Englishman offered me a cup of water, I would hesitate and look for the advantage it brought him. My father was more trusting, and they repaid his goodwill with deceit.’

‘Your Majesty, I agree with you. I hope I am never so trusting as to shake the hand of an English lord without checking my pockets afterwards! Yet we have the report of your ambassador. He said their king hardly spoke to him at all and he was rushed in and out of the royal presence as if the room was on fire. This Henry is not the man his father was, or he would have renewed their wanton destruction years ago. I believe this is an offer made from weakness — and in that weakness, we can regain lands lost to us. For Anjou, Your Majesty, but also for France. Can we afford to ignore such an opportunity?’

‘That is exactly why I suspect a trap,’ King Charles said sourly, sipping his hot wine and breathing in the steam. ‘Oh, I can well believe they want a French princess to improve their polluted line further, to bless it with better blood. I have seen two sisters given over to English hands, René. My father was … inconstant in his final years. I am certain he did not fully understand the danger of giving Isabelle to their King Richard, or my beloved Catherine to the English butcher. Is it so surprising that they now claim my own throne, my own inheritance? The impudence, René! The boy Henry is a man of two halves: one angel, one devil. To think I have an English king as my nephew! The saints must laugh, or weep — I don’t know.’

The king drained his cup, his long nose dipping into the vessel. He made a face as he reached the dregs and wiped a purple line from his lips with his sleeve. He gestured idly, lost in thought as Margaret’s father refilled the cup and brought another poker out of the rack in the fire.

‘I do not want to strengthen their claim with one more drop of French blood, Lord Anjou. Will you have me disinherit my own children for a foreign king? And for what? Little Anjou? Maine? A truce? I would rather gather my army and kick them black and blue until they fall into the sea. That is the answer I want to give, not a truce. Where is the honour in that? Where is the dignity while they sell wheat and salt peas in Calais and polish their boots on French tables? It is not to be borne, René.’

Above, Margaret watched her father’s expression change, unseen by the gloomy king. René was thinking hard, choosing his words with great care. She knew her mother had been feeding him oil and senna pods for his constipation, one legacy of his imprisonment he seemed to have brought home with him. The heavy white face was flushed with wine or the heat from the fire and he did look congested, she thought, a man stuffed full of something unpleasant. Her dislike only deepened and, against reason, she hoped he would be disappointed, whatever it was he wanted.

‘Your Majesty, I am at your command in all things. If you say it is to be war, I will have the army march against the English in spring. Perhaps we will have the luck of Orléans once again.’

‘Or perhaps the luck of Agincourt,’ King Charles replied, his voice sour. For a moment, his arm jerked, as if he was considering throwing his cup into the fire. He controlled himself with a visible effort. ‘If I could be certain of victory, I would raise the flags tomorrow, I swear it.’ He brooded for a time, staring into the flames as they shifted and flickered. ‘Yet I have seen them fight, the English. I remember those red-faced, shouting animals roaring in triumph. They have no culture, but their men are savage. You know, René. You have seen them, those ham-hocks with their swords and bows, those great fat blunderers who know nothing but slaughter.’ He waved a hand in irritation at dark memories, but Margaret’s father dared to interrupt before the king could ruin all his hopes and plans.

‘What a triumph it would be to take back a quarter of their land in France without even a battle, Your Majesty! For a mere promise of truce and a marriage, we will win more than anyone has in a decade or longer against them. They have no lion of England any longer and we would have denied them the heart of France.’

King Charles snorted.

‘You are too obvious, René. I see very well that you want your family lands returned to you. The benefit is clear to your line. Less so to mine!’

‘Your Majesty, I cannot disagree. You see clearer and further than I could ever do. Yet I can serve you better with the wealth of Anjou and Maine in my hands. I can repay my debts to the Crown with those rents, Your Majesty. Our gain is their loss and even an acre of France is worth a little risk, I am certain.’ He warmed to his theme, seeing the king’s grudging approval. ‘An acre of France returned is worth a great deal, Your Majesty, still more when it is returned from the old enemy. That is a victory, whether it is brought about by French negotiation or French blood. Your lords will see only that you have won land back from the English.’

The king sighed to himself, setting his cup down on the stone floor to rub his eyes.

‘Your daughter will be an English queen, of course, if I agree to this. I take it she is of sound character?’

‘Your Majesty, she is the very soul of demure nobility. It can only strengthen your position to have a loyal member of my family in the English court.’

‘Yes … there is that,’ Charles said. ‘But it is close to incestuous, René, is it not? King Henry is already my nephew. Your daughters are my nieces. I would have to apply to the Pope for special dispensation — and that has its costs, at least if we want it granted within the decade.’

René smiled at the signs of progress. He knew the English would send to Rome for the dispensation if he demanded it. He was also aware that his king was bargaining for a tithe in exchange for his agreement. The fact that Saumur’s treasure rooms were filled with empty sacks and spiders bothered him not at all. He could borrow more, from the Jews.

‘My lord, it would be an honour to meet those costs, of course. I sense we are very close to a solution.’

Slowly, Charles dipped his head, his mouth working as if he had found a morsel in his back teeth.

‘Very well, I will be guided by you in this, René. You will be lord of Anjou and Maine once more. I trust you will be suitably grateful.’

René knelt, reaching for the king’s hand and pressing it to his lips.

‘I am your man, Your Majesty. You may depend on me for any task, even to my life’s blood.’

Far above their heads, Margaret’s eyes were round and wide as she turned away. Yolande was staring, her mouth hanging open. Reaching out, Margaret closed it gently with a finger.

‘I am already promised,’ Yolande whispered. ‘Father would not break my engagement.’

In silent accord, they crept back from the light, with Margaret wincing as the boards complained under them. Away from the balcony, the two sisters stood up in the gloom. Yolande was trembling in excitement and she gripped her sister’s hands, almost hopping in place as if she wanted to dance.

‘You’ll marry a king, Margaret. It has to be you.’

‘An English king,’ Margaret replied doubtfully. She had always known her husband would be chosen for her, but she had assumed her mother would make the choice, or at least be involved in it. She looked irritably at her sister, bouncing like a robin in the shadows.

‘I have been bargained for like a prize heifer, Yolande. You heard them. It is … overwhelming.’

Yolande drew her still further away, into another room that was even darker without the spilled gleam from the balcony. In pale moonlight, she embraced her sister.

‘You will be a queen, Margaret. That is what matters. Their Henry is young, at least. You could have been given to some fat old lord. Are you not thrilled? When we are grown, I will have to bow to you when we meet. Our brothers will have to bow to you!’

A slow smile spread across Margaret’s face at the thought of her brother John being forced to acknowledge her superior rank. It was a pleasant image.

‘I could have some English guardsman stuff him in a cauldron, perhaps,’ she said, giggling.

‘You could, and no one would stop you because you would be a queen.’

Some of Yolande’s uncomplicated pleasure reached her and the two girls held hands in the darkness.

The city of Angers was beautiful in the evening. Though it was the capital of Anjou and so under English authority, the inhabitants rarely encountered the foreign oppressors, outside of the courts and tax-gatherers. Reuben Moselle had invited many of the English merchants to his house on the river, as he did every year. In trade alone, the party always paid for itself and he considered it a fair investment.

In comparison to the French and English, he dressed very simply, in dark colours. It had long been a habit of his not to show his wealth in his attire. It did not matter that he could have bought and sold many of the men in the room, or that a third of them owed him a fortune in gold, land or liens on their businesses. Away from his bank or in it, he was the soul of modesty.

He noted that his wife was talking to Lord York, making him welcome in their home. Sara was a treasure, finding it far easier than Reuben did to speak to the bluff English rulers. On the whole, Reuben preferred the French, whose subtle minds were more suited to the nuances of business. Yet York commanded the English soldiers in Normandy and had been invited as a matter of course. The man controlled contracts for vast sums, just to feed his men-at-arms. Reuben sighed as he rehearsed his English and approached them through the crowd.

‘Milord York,’ he said, smiling. ‘I see you have met my wife. It is a great honour to have you in my home.’

The nobleman turned to see who addressed him and Reuben forced himself to smile under a stare that was full of disdain. The moment seemed to last a long time, then York inclined his head in acknowledgement, the spell broken.

‘Ah, the host,’ York said without noticeable warmth. ‘Monsieur Moselle, may I introduce my wife, Duchess Cecily?’

‘Mon plaisir, madame,’ Reuben said, bowing.

She did not extend her hand and he was caught in the act of reaching for it, covering his confusion by fiddling with his wine glass. Diamonds sparkled at her throat and she seemed well-suited to her English husband, with cold eyes and thin lips that did not smile. Everything about her looked stern and humourless, Reuben thought. Her eyebrows had been plucked almost to nothing and across her white forehead she wore a band of lace sewn with gems.

‘You have a fine house, monsieur,’ the duchess said. ‘My husband tells me you are in trade.’ She spoke the word as if she could hardly bear to dirty her lips with it.

‘Thank you, madame. I have a small bank and supply house, a local affair for the most part. Your husband’s valiant soldiers must be kept fed and warm in the winter. It falls to me to provide some of their comforts.’

‘For a fortune in gold,’ York added. ‘I have been considering other suppliers, Monsieur Moselle, but this is not the place to discuss such things.’

Reuben blinked at the tone, though he had heard it before in men of all stations.

‘I hope I can dissuade you, milord. It has been a profitable association for us both.’

The wife’s mouth twisted at the mention of profit, but Reuben continued to smile, trying hard to be a good host.

‘Dinner will be served very soon, madame. I hope you enjoy what small pleasures we can provide. If you have a moment, the orangery is lovely at night.’

Reuben was on the point of excusing himself when he heard coarse voices raised in the garden. He pursed his lips tight, hiding his irritation behind the wine glass as he sipped. One of the local farmers had been trying for some time to bring him in front of a magistrate. It was a trivial matter and Reuben knew the city officials too well to be worried about some poor peasant with a grievance. It was not impossible that the fool had come to the annual party to cause a disturbance. He tilted his head, exchanging a glance with his wife that showed she understood.

‘I should go and see to my other guests. Lady York, milord. I’m very sorry.’

The noise was increasing and he could see dozens of heads turning. Reuben moved smoothly through the crowd, smiling and making his excuses as he went. His wife would entertain the English lord and his cold wife, making them both welcome, he thought. Sara was God’s gift to a devout man.

The house had once belonged to a French baron, a family fallen on hard times and forced to sell their properties after disasters in battle. Reuben had bought it outright, much to the disgust of local noble families who objected to a Jew owning a Christian home. Yet the English were more relaxed about such things, or at least easy to bribe.

Reuben reached the great windows in clear glass that opened out on to the lawn. They were folded back that night, to let in the warm air. He frowned as he saw soldiers standing with their boots on the neatly trimmed grass. His guests were all listening, of course, so he kept his voice calm and low.

‘Gentlemen, as you can see, I am in the middle of a private dinner for friends. Can this not wait until tomorrow morning?’

‘Are you Reuben Moselle?’ one of the soldiers asked. The voice contained a sneer, but Reuben dealt with that every day and his pleasant expression didn’t falter.

‘I am. You are standing in my home, sir.’

‘You do well for yourself,’ the soldier replied, looking into the hall.

Reuben cleared his throat, feeling the first tingle of nervousness. The man was confident, where usually he might have expected a certain wariness around wealth and power.

‘May I have the honour of knowing your name in return?’ Reuben said, his voice shading into coldness. The soldier did not deserve his courtesy, but there were still too many interested heads turned in his direction.

‘Captain Recine of Saumur, Monsieur Moselle. I have orders for your arrest.’

‘Pardon? On what charge? This is a mistake, captain, I assure you. The magistrate is inside, in fact. Allow me to take you to him and he will explain …’

‘I have my orders, monsieur. An accusation has been made, at département level. You’ll come with me now. You can explain yourself to the judge.’

Reuben stared at the soldier. The man had dirty hands and his uniform stank, but there was still that unsettling confidence about him. Three more men showed yellow teeth at his back, enjoying the discomfort they were causing. The thought of being forced to go with such men made Reuben begin to sweat.

‘I wonder if I can be of help, Monsieur Moselle?’ a voice said at his shoulder.

He turned to see the figure of Lord York standing there with a glass of wine in his hand. Reuben breathed in relief. The English noble looked like a soldier, with his jutting chin and wide shoulders. The French soldiers were instantly more respectful.

‘This … captain is saying I am to be arrested, Lord York,’ Reuben said quickly, deliberately using the title. ‘He has not yet mentioned the charge, but I am certain there has been some sort of mistake.’

‘I see. What is the charge?’ York said.

Reuben could see the soldier consider an insolent reply, but then the man shrugged. It was not wise to irritate a man of York’s reputation and influence, at least not for a lowly captain.

‘Blasphemy and witchcraft, milord. He’ll have to answer at the court in Nantes.’

Reuben felt his mouth fall open in surprise.

‘Blasphemy and … This is madness, monsieur! Who is my accuser?’

‘Not my place to say,’ the soldier replied. He was watching Lord York, fully aware that the man could choose to interfere. Reuben too turned to the Englishman.

‘My lord, if you will have them return tomorrow morning, I am certain I can find witnesses and assurances that will reveal this for the falsehood it is.’

York looked down on him and his eyes glittered in the lamplight.

‘It does not strike me as a matter for English law, Monsieur Moselle. This is no business of mine.’

The captain smiled wider at hearing that. He stepped forward and took Reuben by the arm in a firm grip.

‘Begging your indulgence, monsieur. Come with me now. I don’t want to have to drag you.’ The grip grew stronger, giving the lie to his words. Reuben stumbled with it, unable to believe what was happening.

‘The magistrate is in my house, captain! Will you at least let me bring him out to you? He will explain it all.’

‘It’s not a local matter, monsieur. Why don’t you say something else and give me the pleasure of knocking your teeth into the back of your throat?’

Reuben shook his head, mute with fear. He was fifty years old and already breathing hard. The violent threat astonished him.

Richard, Duke of York, watched his host being taken away with something like amusement. He saw his wife come through the crowd to stand at his shoulder, her expression delighted as the elderly man stumbled out through the gardens with his captors.

‘I thought this evening would be terribly dull,’ she said. ‘That is the only way to deal with Jews. They grow too bold unless they are reminded of their station. I hope they beat him for his insolence.’

‘I’m sure they will, my dear,’ he said, amused.

In the main hall, they both heard a shriek as the news reached Reuben’s wife. Cecily smiled.

‘I think I would like to see the orangery,’ she said, extending her arm for her husband to guide her inside.

‘The charges are rather serious, my dear,’ York said thoughtfully. ‘I could buy the house for you, if you wish. Angers is splendid in summer and I have no property here.’

Her thin lips curled as she shook her head.

‘Better to have it burned and rebuilt, after the previous owner,’ she replied, making him laugh as they went in.