Stormbird

14

Jack Cade stumbled as he tried to dance a jig on the fine lawn. There was no moon and the only light for miles was the house he had set on fire. As he waved his arms, he dropped the jug he was carrying and almost wept when it cracked into two neat pieces and its precious contents drained away. One half of the broken clay contained a mouthful of the fiery spirit and he tipped it up and drank the last of it, never noticing how he cut his lips on the sharp edges.

Leaning back, he roared red-faced up at the windows already reflecting the flames creeping up to the roof.

‘I am a drunken, Kentish man, you Welsh milk-liver! I am everything you said I was the last time you striped my back! I am a violent man and a whoreson! And now I’ve set your house on fire! Come out and see what I have for you! Are you in there, magistrate? Can you see me out here, waiting for you? Is it getting hot, you sheep-bothering craven?’

Jack threw his shard of pottery at the flames and staggered with the effort. Tears were running freely down his face and when two men came running up behind him, he turned with a snarl, his fists bunching and his head dropping from a fighter’s instinct.

The first man to reach him was around the same burly size, with pale, freckled skin and a mass of wild red hair and beard.

‘Easy there, Jack!’ he said, trying to take hold of an arm as it whirled by his head in a great missed blow. ‘It’s Patrick — Paddy. I’m your friend, remember? For Christ’s sake, come away now. You’ll be hanged yourself, if you don’t.’

With a roar, Jack shook him off, turning back to the house.

‘I’ll be here when the craven is forced to come out.’ His voice rose to an almost incoherent bellow. ‘You hear me, you little Welsh prick? I’m out here, waiting for you.’

The third man was thin, all knuckles and elbows, with hollow cheeks and long, bare arms. Robert Ecclestone was as ragged and pale as the other two, with black chemical stains marking the skin of his hands that looked like shifting shadows in the flamelight.

‘You’ve shown him now, Jack,’ Ecclestone said. ‘By God, you’ve shown him well enough. This will burn all night. Paddy’s right, though. You should take yourself away, before the bailiffs come.’

Jack rounded on Ecclestone before he’d finished speaking, taking a bunched hand of his jerkin and lifting him. In response, Ecclestone’s hand blurred, so that a long razor appeared at Jack’s throat. Drunk as he was, the cold touch was enough to hold him still.

‘You’d draw a knife on me, Rob Ecclestone? On your own mate?’

‘You laid hands on me first, Jack. Let me down slow and I’ll make it disappear. We’re friends, Jack. Friends don’t fight.’

Jack unclenched the fist holding him and, good as his word, Ecclestone folded the blade and slid it under his belt behind him. As Jack began to speak again, they all heard the same sound and turned as one to the house. Above the crackle and whoosh of the flames, they could hear the voices of children crying out.

‘Ah shit, Jack. His boys are in there,’ Paddy said, rubbing his jaw. He took a more serious look at the house, seeing how the entire ground floor was in flames. The windows above were still whole, but no one could live who went in.

‘I had a son yesterday,’ Jack growled, his eyes glittering. ‘Before he was hung by Alwyn bloody Judgment. Before the Welsh magistrate, who ain’t even a Kentish man, hung him for practically nothing. If I’d been here, I’d have got him out.’

Paddy shook his head at Robert Ecclestone.

‘Time to go, Rob. Take one of his arms. We’ll have to run now. They’ll come looking tomorrow, if they aren’t on the way here already.’

Ecclestone rubbed his chin.

‘If it were my lads in there, I’d have broken the windows by now and tossed ’em out. Why hasn’t he done that?’

‘Maybe because of the three of us standing here with knives, Rob,’ Paddy replied. ‘Maybe the magistrate would rather they died in the fire than see his little lads cut up; I don’t know. Take an arm now. He won’t come else.’

Once again, Paddy grabbed Jack Cade by the arm and almost fell as the other man wrenched himself away. New tears were running through the soot and muck that covered his skin.

A window exploded above their heads, making them all duck away and cover themselves against flying glass. All three men could see the magistrate, dressed in a grubby sleeping shift with his hair wild. The window was too small to escape, but he pushed his head out.

‘I have three boys here,’ Alwyn Judgment called down to them. ‘They’re innocents. Will you take them if I have them jump to you?’

None of them replied. Paddy looked away to the road, wishing he was already on it and running. Ecclestone watched Jack, who was breathing hard, a great bull of a man with his mind befuddled in drink. He glowered at the sight of his enemy above his head.

‘Why don’t you come down, you Welsh bastard?’ Jack demanded, swaying as he stood there.

‘Because my stairs are on fire, man! Now will you take my boys, in mercy?’

‘They’ll tell the bailiffs, Jack,’ Paddy muttered half under his breath. ‘If those boys live, they’ll see us all hang.’

Jack was almost panting as he stood with his fists clenched in rage.

‘Throw them down!’ he bellowed. ‘I’ll give them more mercy than you showed my son, Alwyn bleeding Judgment.’

‘Your word on it?’

‘You’ll just have to trust a Kentish man, won’t you, you Welsh pisspot.’

Whatever doubts the magistrate may have had were overcome by the torrent of black smoke that was already pouring out of the window around his head. He ducked back into the room and they could hear him coughing.

‘Are you sure, Jack?’ Ecclestone said softly. ‘They’re old enough to pick us out. Maybe Paddy and me should vanish.’

‘I didn’t know there was bloody kids in there. The man lives alone, I was told, rattling around in that big house while better men have to poach a little just to eat. Men like my lad, my boy Stephen. God, my boy!’

Jack bent right over as a surge of grief hit him. He groaned at his boots and a long tendril of spit laced the grass from his lips. He only looked up when the first frightened child was shoved roughly out above his head, clinging to the broken window and crying.

‘Jump, brat!’ he shouted up. ‘Jack Cade will catch you.’

‘Christ, Jack!’ Paddy swore. ‘Names, man. Stop using your bloody name!’

Above their heads, the little boy leaped out as far as he could, sailing through the air as a moving shadow with the light all behind him. Drunk as he was, Jack Cade caught him easily and set him down on the grass.

‘Wait there,’ Jack said gruffly. ‘Don’t move an inch, or I will rip your bleeding ears off.’

Paddy caught the second boy, smaller than the first. He put him still snivelling by the first and together they all stared up.

The eldest brother cried out in agony as he was forced past the broken glass. The window was almost too small for him and his father was pushing him from inside, leaving skin and blood behind as he blocked the hole. With a lurch, the boy came out, tumbling down with a wail. Jack snatched him from the air as if his weight was nothing at all.

Once again, the three men saw the magistrate’s head appear, looking down with an expression of mingled hope and rage.

‘I thank you, Jack Cade, though you’ll burn in hell for tonight’s work, you drunken ass.’

‘What’s that? What’s that you say to me, you poxed Welsh …’

With a bellow like a dying bullock, Jack rushed towards the house. Both Paddy and Robert Ecclestone reached for him, but he slipped their clutching hands and threw his weight against the door, falling in on top of it. Flame gusted out above his head, driving his friends back. The two men looked at each other, then at the children sitting in wide-eyed misery on the grass.

‘I ain’t going in there,’ Paddy said. ‘Not for a pass to heaven and a bleeding fortune.’

He and Rob backed away from the heat, staring into the inferno.

‘Nothing’s coming out of that,’ Paddy said. ‘By God, he always said he wanted a grand ending and he found it, didn’t he? He saved the boys and went back in to kill the magistrate.’

They could hear Jack crashing about inside the house, lost to sight in the flames. After a time, the sounds grew quiet and Ecclestone shook his head.

‘I’ve heard they’re looking for workers up in Lincoln, to build some bridge. It’ll be too hot for us around here now.’ He paused, knowing the words were the wrong choice as his friend died in the burning house.

‘I might just walk north with you, at that,’ Paddy replied. He turned to the three boys staring at the fire consuming their home. ‘You three will tell the bailiffs about us, won’t you? It won’t matter a whit that we saved your lives, will it, lads?’

Two of them shook their heads in terrified confusion, but the oldest boy glared up at him and came to his feet.

‘I’ll tell them,’ he said. His eyes were bright with tears and a sort of madness as he heard his father crying out in terror above their heads. ‘I’ll see you hanged for what you’ve done.’

‘Ah, Jesus, is that the way of it?’ Paddy said, shaking his head. ‘If I was a harder man, lad, I’d cut your throat for a foolish threat like that. I’ve done worse, believe me. Oh, sit down, son. I’m not going to kill you, not tonight. Not with my friend dying with his grief on him. Do you know why he came here, boy? Because your father hanged his son this morning. Did you know that? For stealing a couple of lambs from a herd six hundred strong. How does that sit with your fine righteous anger, eh? His boy is dead, but he still caught you when you came falling.’

The oldest boy looked away, unable to meet the fierce gaze of the Irishman any longer. A thumping crash sounded above them and they all looked up as an entire section of burning wall fell out. Paddy lunged to protect the children, knocking the eldest to the ground in the impact. Ecclestone just stepped away, letting the section of brick and lime and ancient straw fall without him under it. He looked round to where the big Irishman’s body was sheltering the magistrate’s sons.

‘You’re soft, Paddy, that’s your trouble. Jesus, you couldn’t …’

He broke off, his jaw dropping as Jack Cade threw himself out of the hole above them, a body in his arms.

The pair landed hard, with a great shout of pain coming from Jack. He rolled as soon as he struck and, in the light of the fire, they could all see smoke rising from his hair and clothes. The magistrate lay like a broken doll, completely senseless, while Jack turned on to his back and bellowed up at the stars.

Robert Ecclestone walked over to him, staring down in wonder. He could see his friend’s hands were seared raw and marked in soot. Every exposed part of him seemed to have blistered or been torn. Cade coughed and wheezed and spat weakly as he lay there.

‘Christ, it hurts!’ he said. ‘My throat …’

He tried to sit up and gasped at the pain of his burned skin. His eyes turned as he remembered the pond across the garden and he dragged himself up and wandered away.

Paddy stood and looked at the three children, though they only had eyes for their father.

‘Is he …?’ the oldest boy whispered.

‘You can see him breathing, though he might not wake after all that smoke. I’ve seen a few go like that in my time.’

In the distance, they all heard the great splash as Jack Cade either fell or flung himself into the cold waters of the pond. The boys clustered around their father, pinching his cheeks and slapping his hands. The two youngest began to weep again as he groaned and opened his eyes.

‘What?’ he said.

The magistrate began to cough before he could speak again, a violent paroxysm that went on and on until he was close to passing out again and his face had gone purple. He could only whisper at his sons, rubbing his throat with a blistered hand that oozed blood over the soot.

‘How …?’

He became aware that there were still two men standing over his sons. With a massive effort, Alwyn Judgment heaved himself to his feet. He could not stand fully and rested with his hands on his knees.

‘Where’s Jack Cade?’ he wheezed at them.

‘In your pond,’ Ecclestone replied. ‘He saved you, your honour. And he caught your sons and kept his word. And it won’t matter a damn, will it? You’ll send your bailiffs and we’ll all be taken and have our heads on a spike.’

The burning house still huffed and spat, but they all heard the noise of hooves on the road, drifting to them on the night air. Alwyn Judgment heard it at the same time as Jack Cade heaved himself out of the pond with a moaning sound that carried almost as far.

‘Take the boys away, Paddy,’ Rob Ecclestone said suddenly. ‘Take them towards the road and leave them there for his men to find.’

‘We should run now, Rob. Only chance is to run like buggery.’

Ecclestone turned to his old friend and shook his head.

‘Just take them away.’

The big Irishman chose not to argue with that look. He gathered them all up, taking the oldest by the scruff of the neck when he began to struggle and shout. Paddy cuffed him hard to keep him silent and half-carried, half-dragged them away across the garden.

The magistrate watched him uneasily.

‘I could promise to let you go,’ he said.

Ecclestone shook his head, his eyes glittering in the light of the flames.

‘I wouldn’t believe a word, your honour. I’ve met too many of you, you see? My mates and me will hang anyway, so I might as well do some good first.’

Alwyn Judgment was opening his mouth to reply when Ecclestone stepped forward with a razor held just right in his hand. With one slash, he opened a gushing line in the man’s throat and waited only a heartbeat to be sure before he walked away.

Jack Cade was staggering across the garden when he saw his friend kill the magistrate. He tried to shout, but his throat was so raw and swollen that only a hiss of breath came out. Ecclestone reached him then and Jack was able to rest some of his sodden weight on the man as they headed away from the burning house.

‘Paddy?’ Jack grunted at him, shivering.

‘He’ll find his own way, Jack; don’t worry about that big sod. He’s almost as hard to kill as you are. God, Jack! I thought you were finished then.’

‘So … did I …’ Jack Cade groaned at him. ‘Glad … you killed him. Good man.’

‘I am not a good man, Jack, as you well know. But I am an angry one. He should not’ve taken your boy and he’s paid for it. Where to now?’

Jack Cade heaved in a great, constricted breath to give his answer.

‘Hangman’s … house. Going to set it … on fire.’

The two men staggered and stumbled their way into the darkness, leaving the burning house and the dead magistrate behind.

The morning was cold and grey, with a light drizzle that did nothing to wash the oily soot from their hands. As the three men came back to town, Jack would have walked right into the crowd gathered in the town square. It took Paddy’s big hand pushing him against a wall to stop him.

‘There’ll be bailiffs in that crowd, Jack, looking for you. I have a coin or two. We’ll find an inn or a stable and wait out this meeting, whatever it is. You can come back when it’s dark again, to cut your boy down.’

The man who looked back at him had sobered up somewhere during the long night. Jack’s skin was swollen pink and his eyes were deeply bloodshot around the blue. His black hair had crisped and gone light brown in patches, while his clothes were in such a state of filth that even a beggar would have thought twice before trying them.

He still wheezed a little as he took a breath and rolled his shoulders. He removed the hand from his chest almost gently.

‘Listen to me close, Paddy. I’ve got nothing now, understand? They took my boy. It’s in my mind to cut him down and put him safe in the ground up at the church. If they raise a hand to me, I’ll make them regret it. I ha’n’t got nothing else, but I’d like to do that last thing this morning before I fall down. If you don’t like it, you know what you can do, don’t you?’

They glared at each other and Ecclestone cleared his throat loudly to interrupt them.

‘I reckon I saved your life getting you away last night,’ Ecclestone said, rubbing his eyes and yawning. ‘I don’t know how you’re still standing, Jack old son. Either way, that means you owe me, so come and sink a pint, then sleep. There are stables nearby and I know the head lad. He’ll turn a blind eye for a bent penny; he’s done it before. We’ve no business walking into a crowd that have probably gathered to talk about the houses on fire last night. I don’t want to state the bleeding obvious, Jack, but you stink of smoke. We all do. You might as well hang yourself now and save them the trouble.’

‘I didn’t ask you to come with me, did I?’ Jack grumbled back.

His gaze searched past them, out of the alleyway to the light of the square. The crowd were noisy and there were enough people to hide the body creaking on the rope. Even so, Jack could see it. He could see every detail of the face he had raised, the boy who’d run from the bailiffs with him a hundred times, with pheasants hidden in their coats.

‘No. No, it won’t do, Rob. You stay here if you want, but I have my knife and I’m cutting him down.’

He stuck out his jaw, his red eyes gleaming like the woken devil. Slowly Jack Cade raised one meaty fist, a great hairy lump that had all the knuckles pushed in, so it seemed a hammer as he waved it in Ecclestone’s face.

‘Don’t stop me, I warn you now.’

‘Christ,’ Ecclestone muttered. ‘Will you walk with us, Paddy?’

‘Have you lost your wits, along with him? Ever seen a crowd in a rage, Rob Ecclestone? They’ll tear us to rags, from fear. By God, we look like the dangerous vagrants they say we are!’

‘So? Are you coming or not?’ Ecclestone said.

‘I am. Did I say I wasn’t? I can’t trust you two to do this on your own. Jesus protect all fools like us, on fool’s errands.’

Jack smiled like a boy to hear them. He patted their shoulders and beamed.

‘You’re good mates when a man is down, lads. Come on then. This needs doing.’

He straightened his shoulders and walked towards the crowd, trying not to limp.

Thomas watched in something like awe as Baron Highbury blew a horn and his troop of horsemen charged down a slope. In the cold of the morning, the horses steamed and came fast, like molten silver pouring out of the trees. The French knights chasing his group of archers were caught flat, their flank smashed apart by Highbury’s lances. In just a moment, they went from hunters intent on their fleeing quarry to desperate men, hemmed in by the land and crushed by Highbury’s hammer blow. Thomas yelled in savage pleasure to see them fall, men and horses spitted on sharp points. Yet Highbury’s men were outnumbered even as they charged and Thomas could see more and more French knights thundering in. The charge slowed and became a vicious mêlée of swords and swinging axes.

‘Strike and away,’ Thomas whispered. ‘Come on, Highbury. Strike and away.’

Those three words had kept them going for two weeks of almost constant fighting, taking a terrible toll on both sides. There were no songs sung in the French lines any more. The king’s column moved with scouts and merciless purpose through Maine, burning as they went. They left behind them villages and towns wreathed in black smoke, but they paid a price for every single one. Thomas and his men saw to that. The reprisals had grown more brutal every day and there was true rage on both sides.

Highbury had bought him time to get clear and Thomas thanked God for a man who acted as he thought a lord should act. The bearded noble was driven by something, Thomas had learned that much. Whatever crime or atrocity he was repaying, Highbury fought with manic courage, punishing anyone foolish enough to come in range of his great sword. The men loved him for his fearlessness and Baron Strange hated him with a fierce intensity Thomas could not understand.

As Thomas climbed the path through the trees his men had marked, he stopped and touched the scrap of cloth tied to a branch, then looked back. He knew the land around him. It was no more than a dozen miles from his own farm and he’d walked every lane and river bank with his wife and children at some point. That local knowledge made it even harder for the French army to pin them down, but still they pushed forward a few miles each day, enduring the ambushes and killing anyone they could catch. For a moment, Thomas felt despair. He and his men had watered the ground with French blood for forty miles, but there was no end to them.

‘Get away now,’ Thomas said, knowing Highbury couldn’t hear him.

The noble’s men were defending their position as the French grew bold, more and more of them riding in hard and trying to surround the small English force. The only way clear was back up the hill and Highbury gave no sign of even seeing the line of retreat. His sword swung tirelessly, his armour red with other men’s blood or his own.

The fighting became a knot of swarming knights around Highbury, maces swinging to crush skulls in their helmets. They were just three hundred yards away and Thomas saw Highbury’s face bared as his helmet was smashed off in a single, ringing blow. His nose was running red and his long hair fell free, whipping around in sweat-soaked strands. Thomas thought he could hear Highbury laugh as he spat blood and lunged at the man who had struck him.

‘Shit. Get away now!’ Thomas yelled.

He thought he saw Highbury jerk and turn at his roar. It jolted him out of whatever murderous trance he’d been in and the baron began to look round him. A dozen of his forty were unhorsed, some of them still moving and lashing out at any French knight they could reach.

Thomas swore softly. He could see flashes of silver movement in all the trees he faced across the valley. The French king had committed a massive force of knights to this action. It meant the archers Thomas had set to ambush the French in the closest town would face fewer men, but sheer numbers would carry the scrambling fight in the valley. Thomas gripped his bow, checking his remaining shafts without looking at them. He knew if he went down again, he would be slaughtered.

He turned at the sound of running steps, fearing some enemy had come up around his men. Thomas breathed in relief to see Rowan skidding to a halt with an odd smile. A dozen more stood waiting for Thomas to lead them over the hill and away.

Rowan saw his father’s expression as both men watched Highbury smashing out his hurt and anger, laying about him with powerful sweeps of his sword. The man was grinning at something, his eyes wild.

‘You can’t save him,’ Rowan said. ‘If you go down to help him now, you’ll be killed for nothing.’

Thomas turned to look at his son, but only shook his head.

‘There are too many, Dad,’ Rowan said. He saw his father running his fingers over the shafts left in his quiver, the motion like a twitch. It made a rough, dry sound. Six bodkin points and a broadhead, that was all.

Thomas cursed in anger, spitting out words that his son had never heard from him before. He liked Highbury. The man deserved better.

‘Take the others clear, Rowan. Pass me your arrows and take the lads over the hill. Look to Strange for your orders, but use your own wits as well.’ Without looking back, he held out his hand for spare arrows.

‘I won’t,’ Rowan said. He reached out and took a grip on his father’s right arm, feeling the muscle there that made it like a branch. ‘Come on with me, Dad. You can’t save him.’

Thomas turned and lunged at his son, grabbing the front of his green jerkin and pushing him back a pace. Though they were almost the same size, he dragged the younger man up, so that his feet dangled in the wet leaves.

‘You’ll obey me when I tell you to,’ Thomas growled at him. ‘Give me your shafts and go!’

Rowan flushed in anger. His big hands reached up to grip his father’s where they held him. The two men stood, locked together for a moment, testing each other’s strength, while the others looked on with wide eyes. They both let go at the same moment, standing with clenched fists. Thomas didn’t look away and Rowan removed the strap of his quiver, throwing it to the ground.

‘Take them then, for all the good they’ll do.’

Thomas took a handful of the feathered shafts and added them to his own.

‘I’ll find you at the farm, if I can. Don’t worry.’ He grew still for a time under his son’s glare. ‘Give me your word you won’t follow me down.’

‘No,’ Rowan said.

‘Damn you, boy. Give me your word! I won’t see you killed today.’

Rowan dipped his head, caught between sullen anger and fear for his father. Thomas breathed deeply, relieved.

‘Look for me at the farm.’