Stormbird

5

The summer sun rose over a clear horizon at Windsor, lighting the great walls in red-gold as the town around it grew busy. Richard of York was dusty and tired after a long ride from the coast, but simmering anger lent him the energy to banish weariness. The three soldiers with him were all veterans of fighting in France, hard men in well-worn leather and mail, chosen for their size and the ability to intimidate. It was not difficult to guess why the duke had summoned three of the most brutal soldiers under his command for the night crossing and hard ride. Someone, somewhere needed killing, or at least the threat of it. His men were enjoying the sense of authority that came from being in a duke’s wake. They exchanged glances of amusement as their patron bullied his way past two outer rings of castle guards. York didn’t suffer fools and he would not be baulked in his desire to see the king that morning.

Somewhere close by, they could hear orders being roared and the tramp and jingle of marching soldiers. York’s movement towards the king’s private rooms was about to be met by armed men. The three with him loosened their swords in the scabbards, cracking knuckles and necks in anticipation. They had not spent years getting soft in England like the king’s guards. They were enjoying the prospect of meeting men they felt were only barely on the same side.

The duke loped forward, his strides long and sure. He saw two solid-looking pikemen guarding a doorway ahead and drew to a halt as he came right up to them.

‘Stand aside. I’m York, on urgent business for the king.’

The guards stiffened, their eyes staring. One of them glanced at his companion and the man shifted his grip on the pike uncomfortably. He was due to come off watch as soon as the sun cleared the battlements and he looked irritably at the gold thread showing on the horizon. Just a few minutes more and he would have been in the guardhouse, eating his breakfast and wondering what all the noise was about.

‘My lord, I have no orders to admit you,’ the guard said. He swallowed nervously as York turned his full glare on him.

‘That is the nature of urgent business. Get out of my way, or I’ll have you flogged.’

The guard swallowed and opened his mouth to reply, already shaking his head. As he began to repeat himself, York’s temper surged and broke. He gestured sharply and one of his men grabbed the guard by the throat with a gauntleted hand, pushing him off his feet as he crashed back against the door. The sound was loud, echoing around the outer walls. Someone walking up there yelled an alarm.

The guard struggled wildly and his companion jerked his pike down. Another of York’s men stepped inside the range of the heavy iron head and thumped a blow to the man’s chin that sent the pike and its owner clattering to the ground. The first guard was dispatched as quickly, with two fast punches that spread his nose across his face.

A troop of running guards appeared around a corner fifty yards away, led by a red-faced sergeant with his sword drawn. York glanced coldly in their direction as he opened the door and went through.

Inside, he stopped, looking back.

‘Francis, hold the door. You two, come with me,’ he ordered.

The biggest of the three men pressed his weight against the door, dropping the locking bar and holding it in place with both hands. It shuddered immediately as someone crashed against it from outside. Without another word, the duke broke into a run through the rooms beyond. The king’s private suite lay ahead and he knew Windsor well enough not to hesitate. At speed, he went across a tall-ceilinged empty hall and up a flight of steps, then skidded to a halt, his men almost running into him. The three of them stood breathing hard as York stared at the sight of Derihew Brewer leaning back against a low stone window that looked out over the vast hunting park of Windsor.

‘Morning, my lord. I’m afraid the king isn’t feeling well enough for visitors, if that’s who you’re after.’

‘Stand up when you’re talking to me, Brewer,’ the duke retorted, coming further into the room and stopping. His gaze swept around suspiciously, looking for some explanation for the spymaster’s confidence. With a sigh, Derry pushed himself away from the windowsill and yawned. On the floor below, they could all hear a rhythmic thumping as the guards outside began to batter the door down.

Derry glanced out of the window at files of soldiers running in all directions.

‘Bit of a brawl out there this morning, my lord. Your work, is it?’

York eyed the door that he knew led directly to the king’s apartments. It was solidly shut against him, with only Derry in the waiting room. Yet something about the man’s insolent smile pricked at his nerves.

‘I’ve come to see the king,’ the duke said. ‘Go in and announce me, or I’ll do it myself.’

‘No, I don’t think I’ll be doing that, Richard old son. And I don’t think you will either. The king calls for you, or you don’t come. Has he called for you? No? Then you know what you can do with yourself, don’t you?’

As Derry spoke, York’s face grew dark with affronted rage. His men were as surprised as he was to hear a lord addressed by his common name. Both men stepped towards Derry and he squared up to them, still smiling strangely.

‘Lay a hand on me, lads, please. See what you get.’

‘Wait,’ York ordered. He could not shake the feeling that he was being trapped, that something was wrong. It was almost the sense of having eyes on him that he could not see. The two soldiers loomed over Derry, though he was as wide as either of them at the shoulder.

‘Good to see you still have a few wits knocking about,’ Derry said. ‘Now, lads, that door downstairs won’t last longer than a heartbeat. If I’m not here to stop them cutting you down, I don’t think your master’s title will hold them back, do you? Not next to the king’s rooms, it won’t.’

York swore to himself, suddenly understanding that Derry was deliberately wasting time. He strode to the oak door, determined to see the king that morning, no matter what else happened.

As he moved, something flashed past him. A cracking sound like a beam breaking made him jerk to a stop, his hand still out to take the door’s handle. York stared at the black iron bolt sticking out of the oak at head height.

‘That’s the only warning, Richard old son,’ he heard Derry say. ‘The next one goes through your neck.’

The duke spun round in time to see a ribbon of dark purple curtain flutter to the ground. In its fall, it revealed a long slit that ran around the ceiling on one side, almost for the full length of the room. Three men lay flat in the gap, so that he could see only their heads and shoulders, as well as the terrible weapons they were aiming at him. Two of the three watched him coldly as they stared down the sights of crossbows. The third shuffled back on his elbows to reload. York gaped up at the men, seeing the sunlight gleam on the polished bolt tips. He swallowed as Derry laughed.

‘I told you, Richard. The king calls or you don’t come.’

Below their feet, a great crash told them the outer door had given way at last. The two soldiers with the duke exchanged a worried glance, their good mood evaporating.

‘Lads, lads!’ Derry said, taking a pace towards them. ‘I’m sure your armed presence near the king is just a misunderstanding! No, don’t back away from me. I have a few things I’d like to say to you before we’re done.’

The clatter of running soldiers grew louder and voices shouted a challenge as men poured into the room.

‘I’d lie down if I was you,’ Derry told the two soldiers.

They dropped quickly, holding their hands out empty so as not to be run through by one of the red-faced bawling men as they came in. York remained standing and folded his arms, watching with cold eyes. He knew none of the men-at-arms would dare to touch him. When his soldiers were trussed securely on the floor, they all seemed to look to Derry for new orders.

‘That’s better, Richard,’ Derry said. ‘Isn’t that better? I think it is. Now, I don’t want to be the one responsible for waking the king up this morning, if we haven’t already. How about we take this outside? Quiet as mice now, lads.’

The duke strode through the assembled guards with his face a shade of dark red. No one stopped him heading down the stairs. To Derry’s eyes at least, it was almost comical the way the guards picked up their prisoners as quietly as possible and trooped back down after him.

York did not pause at the body of his biggest soldier by the shattered outer door. His man Francis had his throat slashed open and lay in a spreading pool of blood. York stepped over him without a downward glance. The bound prisoners moaned in fear as they saw their companion, so that one of the guards reached down and cuffed the closest one hard across the face.

The sun was bright after the gloom of the inner rooms. Derry strolled out behind them all and was immediately approached by the sergeant-at-arms, a man who sported a huge white moustache and practically shook with anger. Derry accepted his salute.

‘No harm done, Hobbs. Your men deserve a pint on me tonight.’

‘I wanted to thank you, sir, for the warning,’ the sergeant said, glowering at York as he stood watching. For all the gulf between their ranks, the security of Windsor was the sergeant’s personal responsibility and he was furious at the assault on it.

‘It’s no more than my job, Hobbs,’ Derry replied. ‘You’ve one body to clear away, but that’s all. I think our point has been made.’

‘As you say, sir, though I don’t like to think how far he reached. I will still make an official complaint if you don’t mind, sir. This is not to be borne and the king will hear of it.’ He spoke for the duke’s benefit, though York listened without any visible reaction.

‘Take our pair of trussed chickens to the guardhouse, would you, Hobbs? I’d like a word with them before I send them back to their ship. I’ll deal with his lordship myself.’

‘Right you are, sir. Thank you, sir.’

With a final glare hot enough to melt iron, the old soldier marched his men away, leaving Derry and York alone.

‘I wonder, Brewer, if you can survive having me as an enemy,’ York said. He had lost his red flush, but his eyes glittered with malice.

‘Oh, I dare say I can, but then I’ve known much more dangerous men than you, you pompous prick.’

There was no one to hear and Derry’s mask of wry good nature dropped away as he faced the duke and stood threateningly close to him.

‘You should have stayed in France and carried out your king’s orders,’ Derry said, poking him in the chest with a stiff finger.

York clenched his fists in rage, but he knew Derry would beat him into the ground at the slightest provocation. The king’s spymaster was known to frequent the fight rings in London. It was the sort of rumour he made sure all his enemies heard.

‘Are they his orders?’ York grated. ‘A wedding and a truce? My men to remain in Calais? I command the army, Brewer. Yet I get no word until now. Who will protect the king if his soldiers are three hundred miles to the north? Have you even thought of that?’

‘The orders were genuine?’ Derry asked innocently.

York sneered.

‘The seals were correct, Brewer, as I’m sure you know. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear it was your hand on them, melting the wax. I’m not the only one who thinks you have too much control over King Henry. You have no real rank, no title, yet you issue commands in his name. Who can say if they have truly come from the king? And if you poke your finger at me again, I will see you hanged.’

‘I could have a title,’ Derry replied. ‘He’s offered me one before. I think, though, that I’m perfectly happy as I am, for the moment. Perhaps I’ll retire as Duke of York, who knows?’

‘You couldn’t fill my shoes, Brewer. You couldn’t even fill my codpiece, you low-born …’ The duke was interrupted as Derry barked a laugh at him.

‘Your codpiece! That’s a fine jest. Now, why don’t you go back to your ship? You’re due at the king’s wedding next month. I don’t want you to miss it.’

‘Will you be there?’ York asked, his gaze sharpening.

Derry didn’t miss the implication. It was one thing to scorn the man’s authority in Windsor, while surrounded by the king’s guards. It was quite another to consider how the Duke of York might act in France.

‘I wouldn’t be absent for such a joyous occasion,’ Derry replied. He watched as York smiled at the thought.

‘I’ll have my personal guard with me, Brewer. Those pretty orders don’t prevent that. With so many bandits on the roads, I won’t feel comfortable with less than a thousand men, maybe more. I’ll speak to the king then. I wonder if he knows half the games you play.’

‘Alas, I am but the agent of the royal will,’ Derry said with a smirk that hid his dismay at the threat. ‘I believe the king desires a few years of peace and a wife, but who can know his mind, truly?’

‘You don’t fool me, Brewer. Nor that bootlicker Suffolk. Whatever you’ve offered the French, whatever you’ve concocted between you, you’re both wrong! That’s the worst of it. If we offer a truce, do you think the French will leave us in peace? It makes us look weak. If this goes ahead, we’ll be at war before the summer is over, you poor dullard.’

‘I am tempted to risk the king’s anger just to see you knocked out on this grass, my lord,’ Derry said, standing very close to the other man. ‘Give me a moment to consider the pros and cons, would you? I would enjoy breaking that sharp beak of yours, but then you are a duke and you have a certain level of protection, even after the prick you made of yourself this morning. Of course, I could always say you took a tumble when the guards chased you away.’

‘Say what you like, Brewer. Your threats and prods don’t frighten me. I’ll see you again, in France.’

‘Oh, are you off then? Very well. I’ll send your men on in a while. I’ll look forward to continuing our chat at the wedding.’

York marched away back to the main entrance of the castle. Derry watched him go, a thoughtful expression on his face. It had been a little closer than he’d hoped. He’d heard the duke was coming two nights before, but the guards at the outer gate should have been warned. York should never have reached the inner keep, never mind the door to the king’s own rooms. As it happened, Henry was still praying in the chapel, but the duke didn’t have that vital piece of information.

For a moment, Derry considered the conversation. He had no regrets. A man like York would have tried to get him killed just for the scene at the king’s rooms. It didn’t matter that Derry had made it worse with insults and threats. It couldn’t be worse. He sighed to himself. Yet he couldn’t let the outraged duke see the king either. York would have had Henry agreeing to everything and the whole subtle arrangement and months of negotiations would have been wasted. Derry had known when he woke up that it would be a bad day. So far, it had met his expectations in every aspect. He wondered what odds he could get on surviving the wedding in Tours. With a rueful expression, he realized he should make preparations for not coming back.

He remembered old Bertle doing just the same on more than one occasion. The spymaster before him had survived three attempts at poison and one man waiting for him in his rooms with a dagger. That was just part of the job, Derry recalled him saying. A useful man made enemies, that was all there was to it. If you were useful to kings, your enemies would be quality. Derry smiled at the memory of the old man speaking the word with relish.

‘Look at his clothes, lads. Look at this knife! Quality, lads,’ he’d said, grinning proudly at them as he stood over the body of the man found in his rooms. ‘What a compliment to me that they sent such a gentleman!’

Old Bertle may have been an evil sod, but Derry had liked him from the start. They’d shared a delight in making other men dance, men who never even knew the choices they made were not their own. Bertle had seen it as an art. For a young man like Derry, fresh from war in France, his teachings had been like water to a dry soul.

Derry took a deep breath, feeling calm return to him. When Bertle summoned his six best men and gave his authority to one of them, you knew things were serious, that he might not be coming back from wherever the work took him. Each time it was a different man, so that they were never sure which one of them was truly his chosen successor. Yet after a dozen close shaves, the old man had died in his bed, slipping peacefully into sleep. Derry had paid three physicians to check the corpse for poisons, just to be sure he didn’t have to track someone down.

At peace once more, Derry cracked his knuckles as he strolled towards the guardhouse. It wouldn’t make things any worse for him to give the two soldiers a proper beating. He was certainly in the right mood for it.

It promised to be a glorious summer’s day as the sun rose, with the air already warm and the skies clear. In Saumur Castle, Margaret was up before the light. She was not sure if she had slept at all, after so long lying in the heat and darkness, her mind filled with visions of her husband and not a little fear. Her fourteenth birthday had passed a few months before, almost unremarked. Yet Margaret had noticed, not least because she had begun to bleed the following morning. The shock of that was still with her as she bathed and checked herself in the light of a night lamp. Her maid had told her it would come each month, a few miserable days of bundling rags into her undergarments. It seemed a symbol of change to her, of things going so fast that she could barely take in a new discovery without a dozen others clamouring for her attention. Were her breasts fuller? She thought they were and used a looking glass to pinch and squeeze them into something like a cleavage.

The castle was not silent that day, even at so early an hour. Like mice in the walls, Margaret could already hear distant voices and footsteps and doors slamming. Her father had spent gold like a river over the previous months, employing a vast staff and even bringing dressmakers from Paris to do their best with his daughter’s skinny frame. Seamstresses had been working every night in the castle rooms, sewing and cutting cloth for her sister and three cousins, who had travelled from the south to accompany her at the ceremony. Over the previous days, Margaret had found the girls slightly irritating as they preened and giggled around her, but somehow she had gone from knowing the wedding was far off to the actual morning, without any sense of how the time had vanished. It was still hard to believe today was the day she would marry a king of England. What would he be like? The thought was so terrifying she could not give voice to it. Everyone said his father had been a brute, a savage who spoke French like a dithering geck. Would the son be the same? She tried to imagine an Englishman holding her in his powerful arms and her imagination failed. It was just too strange.

‘Good morning, my … husband,’ she said slowly.

Her English was good, so her old governess had said, but then the woman had been paid to teach her. Margaret blushed furiously at the thought of sounding like a fool in front of King Henry.

Standing in front of the glass, she frowned at her tangle of brown hair.

‘I do take thee to be my husband,’ she murmured.

These were the last moments she would have alone, she knew. As soon as the maids heard her moving, they would descend in a flock to primp and colour and dress her. She held her breath at the thought, listening with half an ear for the first footsteps outside.

When the knock came, Margaret jumped, gathering a sheet around her. She crossed quickly to the door.

‘Yes?’ she whispered. The sun was not yet up. Surely it could not be time already?

‘It’s Yolande,’ she heard. ‘I can’t sleep.’

Margaret cracked open the door and let her in, pushing it gently shut behind her.

‘I think I slept,’ Margaret whispered. ‘I remember a strange dream, so I must have dozed for a while.’

‘Are you excited?’

Yolande was staring at her with fascination and Margaret drew the sheet around her shoulders with some attempt at modesty.

‘I am terrified. What if he does not like me? What if I say the wrong words and everyone laughs? The king will be there, Yolande.’

‘Two kings!’ Yolande said. ‘And half the noblemen of France and England. It will be marvellous, Margaret. My Frederick will be there!’ She sighed deliberately, swirling her nightshift hem over the oak floorboards. ‘He will look very handsome, I know. I would have married him this year if not for this, but … Oh, Margaret, I did not mean anything by that! I am content to wait. At least Father has restored some of the wealth we lost. It would have been a pauper’s wedding last year. I just hope he has left enough to marry me to Frederick. I will be a countess, Margaret, but you will be a queen. Only of England, of course, but still a queen. Today!’ Yolande gasped as it sank in. ‘You will be a queen today, Margaret! Can you conceive?’

‘I believe I can bear one or two,’ Margaret said, wryly.

Yolande looked blank at her pun and Margaret laughed. Her expression changed on the instant to one of panic as she heard trotting footsteps in the corridor outside.

‘They’re coming, Yolande. Bloody hell, I’m not ready for them!’

‘Blerdy ’ell?’

‘It’s an English saying. John told it to me. Bloody hell. It’s like “sacré bleu!” he said, a curse.’

Yolande beamed at her sister.

‘Bloody hell, I like it!’

The door opened to admit an apparently endless stream of maids, bearing steaming buckets of water and armfuls of strange-looking implements to work on her hair and face. Margaret blushed again, resigned to hours of discomfort before she would be allowed into the public gaze.

‘Bloody hell!’ Yolande murmured again at her shoulder, awed as the room filled with bustling women.