As he’d turned to leave, he had been pulling up the hood to conceal his face when he heard York’s voice, one he knew as well as any other. Derry had watched the entire meeting from his hiding place, his fingers gripping his seax knife where it hung under the robe at his waist. He had thought for a time that he would be witness to Henry’s murder. Yet York had stayed his hand and Derry had watched the king’s humiliation in sorrow.
When York strode back down the nave, Derry knew at last that it was all in ruins. He’d seen Somerset fall, brought down in blood and violence. Derry had tried to stand with the king. He’d struggled to reach him against the tide of men. Seeing Somerset butchered had brought it home. The day was lost. The cause was lost. The king was lost. Blind with tears and mute with grief, Derry had run then for the abbey, thinking only of escape.
He pulled up the hood, his head bowed. York and Salisbury and Warwick had triumphed, gaining everything they wanted.
Derry felt a fresh prickling of his eyes and rubbed at them with the sleeve of the robe, angry at himself for his weakness. He clasped his hands in front of him and adopted the gliding steps of his disguise as he headed away from his fallen king.
17
London felt like the heart of the world. Those who had died were in the ground, and wounds had become scars for those who lived. The fears and dark memories were already fading, driven out and swept away in the roar of cheering throats.
Huge crowds had gathered from long before dawn for their one chance in a lifetime to see the king and queen of England. None of them had fought on the hill at St Albans. Though the town was barely twenty miles from the city, the butchers and tanners and aldermen of London had not been there to see Henry fall, nor the barricades torn down. They knew only that the strife between houses was at an end, that peace had returned and King Henry had forgiven his rebellious lords.
The entire city seemed to have turned out along the route of the royal procession through the great, wide road of Cheapside, towards St Paul’s. The mob heaved against lines of soldiers in bright colours, their faces strained with duty and irritation. There were a few scuffles – moments when a purse was cut, or screeching urchins ran wild through the throng – but for most the mood was light.
Rain had fallen the day before, washing much of the city cleaner than usual. That July morning had dawned clear and warm, with hundreds of carts rattling out with the sun to prepare the king’s route. From huge sheaves in the open backs, women had scattered clean, dry rushes where Henry and Margaret would walk later on. The wet muck underneath would seep through again, but for a time, the road was clean and made new.
The treachery and bloodshed at St Albans had been deliberately forgotten as the city prepared for the king and queen to walk among the people of the capital. There would be no more talk of traitors and civil war, not after that day. All the crowds saw was the triumphant parade through the heart of the city, led by fine destriers groomed and gleaming in perfect ranks. Banners of a dozen noble houses in support of the king were held high to flutter in the wind, overtopped by those of Lancaster and York, brought together in peace.
Behind six dozen ranks of knights came hundreds of royal retainers in their most colourful garb, throwing flowers or even coins into the crowd from baskets at their sides. Imploring hands reached out to them and the women blew kisses to handsome men. Their passing brought the greatest sound and then, following, each section of the crowd seemed to draw a breath, a long moment of whispering awe, before the applause and cheering crashed out once more, enough to make the houses tremble on either side.
King Henry of England walked alone on white rushes. He wore a cloak, tunic and hose in darkest blue, almost black, his chest embroidered with three gold lions ‘passant guardant’, lying still but ready. The cloak was held by a silver clasp.
He looked neither left nor right as he walked in the path of hundreds before him, nor took care to step around the steaming heaps of manure left by the warhorses gone ahead. For those who could see through tears of joy, the king was very pale, but his back was straight and his head held up. News of the battle at St Albans had taken wing around the country. Rumours had flown of Henry’s wound, even of his death, as they were built and embroidered into fantastical tales. He needed to be seen alive and strong, at York’s order. The king had already opened the Parliament that morning, sitting through fresh oaths of allegiance to him, led by Richard of York as his most ardent supporter. Lords spiritual and temporal had come to kneel and take Henry’s hand and swear their lives and honour over to the king. He looked around him with blank eyes, following those ahead.
Behind Henry, Queen Margaret walked with the Duke of York, his chest puffed out with pleasure as he gripped her hand and would not let it go. In his private thoughts, York wished Henry would acknowledge the crowd. There was something discomforting about the white-faced king stiffly following the route they had laid out, as if no mortal spark animated him at all. York and Margaret were three paces back, too far from him to exchange even a word. Instead, York raised his left hand to the passing rows of faces, jammed together and hanging from every high window. He saw flowers trampled into the rushes as the crowds pushed and heaved against the ranks of soldiers. Some of his men joined their staffs across at waist height, making a barrier of them as the Londoners grew frantic to see and hold a memory they could cherish for the rest of their lives.
‘See how they love the king,’ York said, turning to Margaret. She made no response and he leaned closer to her, so that his lips brushed her ear. ‘They love your husband!’ he shouted over the roar.
Margaret looked up at him then, her eyes so cold that he broke the gaze even as it began, looking back to the cheering people. The grand procession through London had been Salisbury’s idea, now walking some way behind with his two sons. Perhaps the suggestion had been some recompense for the angry words they had exchanged in the marketplace of St Albans, York didn’t know. The people of London would see the house of York was restored to the very heart of royal favour. There would be no more whispers about his name or line. York felt the queen’s hand move in his own, both their palms sweat-slick after so long pressed together. He tightened his grip, fearing she might pull away. He did not see her wince, nor the way she carefully ordered her expression to blankness once more.
This was York’s day, Margaret could not doubt it. Her husband walked like a prisoner ahead of his executioners and she ached to go forward and stand with him. She had no choice but to walk behind, staring at Henry’s back as if she could reach out and comfort him with her love and thoughts alone.
St Paul’s lay ahead of them, that ancient cathedral where an even larger crowd had gathered from long before dawn, to see the king accept his crown from York’s hands. No greater symbol of power existed, and York felt his spirits soar higher as the massive building came into view. God and good luck had been with him and with his house. If Henry’s wound had been just a fraction closer to his throat, Prince Edward would have become king. As things stood, King Henry lived, but York would rule. He gave thanks to God for that, recalling that he had services being said day and night in gratitude for his good fortune.
Warwick had been given the Captaincy of Calais, that wealthy port, in return for his part in the action to save the king at St Albans. Salisbury was once more the king’s lord chancellor, though his reward was truly in the death of Earl Percy and his triumph in the feud between his family and Northumberland. York had asked for and been given the title of Constable of England, with powers to command in the king’s name. Perhaps most importantly of all, Henry had meekly signed the pardons for all men involved in the battle, absolving them of all guilt or stains on their honour. The houses of York and Lancaster were reborn, together, on a summer’s day of blue skies.
Margaret looked up at the man she hated hard enough to curdle milk. When the farce was over, with its mummer’s games of crowns handed to the king from unworthy hands, she would see who still stood with her and with Henry. W
hen the crowd were back in their homes and there was silence, she would see. She had learned a great deal since coming to England as a girl. She would not move quickly, nor rashly. But when the time came, she would move.
York sensed her gaze on him. When he glanced down at the queen walking at his side, he was relieved to see Margaret was smiling.
Part Two
1459
The realm of England was out of all governance … for the king was simple … held no household, maintained no wars.
Anon. [15th century English chronicler]
18
Derry Brewer stood in sheeting rain and watched the column of armed soldiers ride the great avenue towards the castle of Kenilworth. On the open land, there was no protection from the downpour that hissed over them. They rode with their heads bowed, seven score of men in full plate armour, carrying banners so drenched that they had wrapped around the poles. Even so, they were alert, ready for an attack. Despite four years of peace, the entire country seethed, jangling and clashing like a pot-lid on a fire.
Derry stepped into the path of the men, taking up a position in the middle of the drive. He had chosen six big lads to stand with him, just to form a decent-looking group. Two white plough horses went some way to block the avenue, enormous animals with twice the muscle and weight even of a warhorse. The way things were, Derry doubted any of the visitors would stop for just one man. The foul weather didn’t help, nor the fact that the castle was in sight, with all its promise of warmth and safety. He raised his hand, palm out, standing tall and with as much confidence as he could muster while the rain stung his skin. At his side, his friend Wilfred Tanner raised the royal banner, a splash of red and gold that could be seen from far away. The bony little smuggler stood with quivering pride at being allowed to hold the king’s colours.
It was barely an hour past noon, though the clouds overhead had reduced the great drive to a dark grey. Derry stared ahead at the approaching riders, observing the moment when they spotted him and called back to the duke they protected. Derry could not see beyond the first couple of ranks, but somewhere in the mass of soldiers was the man he needed to reach.
‘In the name of the king, hold!’ Derry bellowed over the wind. He muttered swear words at the lack of response.
The column trotted closer, jingling towards him with no sign of slowing. If the man who led them gave no order, Derry knew they would ride straight through his miserable group, scattering them. God knew, there was suspicion enough in England that year. Every minor baron, every knight and his neighbours seemed to be gathering men and buying weapons. The cauldron was likely to spill, with so much heat under it.
When the front rank was just paces from him, Derry heard another voice snap an order. It rippled down the line, though they had at least expected it and halted before he was knocked off his feet. When they stopped at last, Derry could have reached out and touched the damp muzzle of the closest mounts, though he decided not to do so. No rider liked to see another man reaching for his reins.
The downpour increased without thunder, just the heavens ripping open and pouring out a month’s worth of rain in a single day. The ground ran with a thousand streams and great sheets of shining water stretched all around them. Rain drummed on the armoured column, a tinny roar that rose and fell in volume with each gust.
‘Who are you, to stand in the road?’ a knight in the second rank called out. ‘You are in the path of the Duke of Somerset. Step aside.’
Derry could sense the readiness for violence in the knights watching him. They had come armed for war and they were twitchy and nervous. As no one had raised a visor, it was hard to see who had spoken. They might as well have been silver statues, half-hidden in sodden blue cloaks, drenched almost to black.
‘I would speak with Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset,’ Derry said loudly and clearly, ‘whose father I knew well and who I once called a friend. I speak for King Henry and Queen Margaret. You see I have no men to threaten you, but on orders of the king, I must speak to Somerset before you enter the castle.’
The men in the front rank stared down at him through the slots in their visors. Those behind turned their heads, and Derry craned to see one among them who wore the colours of Somerset beneath his cloak, a sodden tabard banded in blue and white, with gold fleur-de-lis quartered with the lions of England. Derry fixed his gaze on that slim figure, feeling a pang in his heart at the memory of the man’s father. One of the knights leaned in to their master and murmured something Derry could not hear. To his relief, he saw the young duke shake his head and dig in his heels, forcing his armoured warhorse through to the front. Like its owner, the enormous animal was girded in iron plates across the chest and head, segments that moved with the horse’s gait and could withstand almost any blow. Against an unarmed man, the armour itself was a weapon and Derry swallowed, knowing a wrong step would see him gashed.
As Derry stared, the new Duke of Somerset raised his visor, revealing his eyes and squinting as the rain reached them.
‘Your Grace, my name is Derry Brewer. I knew your father.’
‘He spoke of you,’ Henry Beaufort replied grudgingly. ‘He said you were a man to trust, though I will make my own judgement. What would you have of me?’
‘A word in private, my lord, on my name, my oath of fealty and my position as servant of the king.’
Derry waited under the young man’s cool gaze, but another of the knights spoke before Somerset could reply.
‘My lord, this smells wrong. To be stopped on the road in the pissing rain? Let us move on to the queen’s castle. We will hear the right of it there.’
‘It is urgent, my lord,’ Derry added in reply, waiting. ‘I am unarmed.’
The suggestion that Somerset held back from anything like fear or caution was enough to prick him to immediate anger. He dismounted, striding up to Derry and deliberately standing over him, threateningly close. In response, Derry turned away and led the young man a dozen paces clear of his men. They bristled at every step that took their master away from them, ready to kick their horses into murderous action at the first wrong move.
‘What do you want?’ Somerset hissed at Derry, leaning in close. ‘I am summoned here with nothing more than a royal seal demanding my presence. What must you say to me that keeps me out in the rain?’
Derry breathed in relief.
‘There is a man in your company, my lord, a man who passed papers to Earl Salisbury not a month ago. My people watched him do it and then followed the one he met.’
‘A traitor?’ Somerset said in surprise. ‘Why then did you not bring me the news before?’
Derry found his cheeks growing hot, despite the freezing rain.
‘It has sometimes been of use to know which men are false, my lord, without rounding them all up. In such a way, they can be made to feed the wrong path to their masters, if you follow me.’
‘Yet you stop me now,’ Somerset prompted, glaring at the bedraggled spymaster before him.
‘You will hear plans in Kenilworth that are not for his ears, my lord. I thought it would be easier and quieter to make the problem vanish on the road, instead of in the queen’s presence.’
‘I see. What is this man’s name, to be damned on your word alone?’
Derry winced at the young lord’s tone of suspicion.
‘Sir Hugh Sarrow, my lord. And there is no doubt in this, none at all. Send him back, if you wish, though he will know and disappear to your enemies if you do.’
Somerset cast a glance back at his glowering men.
‘Sir Hugh? He was one of my father’s men! I have known him since I was a child!’
‘Even so, my lord. He cannot enter the castle and be allowed to hear what is for your ears alone. Your father trusted me, my lord. King Henry and Queen Margaret trust me still. This is my work – to find traitors and use them, or to break them.’
‘My father may have known you, Master Brewer. I do not. If I refuse?’
‘I regret to
say you will be turned back from the castle gate.’ Derry had to struggle to breathe easily, aware that men like Henry Beaufort were used to absolute obedience to their slightest whim. ‘You may not enter with that man free, my lord. On your order, he could be trussed and bound, taken to a cell while you speak to the queen. I would welcome the chance to question him, but he is your man. And it is your choice.’
Derry started as Somerset turned and roared at his men.
‘Sir Hugh Sarrow! To me, here.’
The ranks shifted and clattered, as one man came to the front and dismounted, walking stiffly towards his master and Derry Brewer.
‘Remove your helmet, Sir Hugh,’ Somerset said.
The knight revealed a narrow, worried face, part-obscured by moustaches as his brown eyes flickered back and forth between the two men.
Somerset leaned close enough for Derry to feel the warmth of his breath.
‘I am loyal to the king, Master Brewer. My father’s death cries out for vengeance still and I will not be denied it. If this is a test of my loyalty, you have my answer.’ With no warning, he drew his sword and swung, turning from the hip and putting all his strength into a strike against the knight’s bared neck.
The blade caught the edge of the man’s gorget before cutting into flesh, striking a spark that was washed away in blood and rain. Sir Hugh staggered at the force of the blow. His face drained death-white and he raised a hand to his throat in wide-eyed shock, then fell with a crash into the mud.
Derry stared at the young man before him, seeing a rage that had been completely hidden before.
‘There is an end to it,’ Somerset said. ‘If you have nothing else for me, Master Brewer? I am wet and cold and I would yet hear what awaits me at Kenilworth.’
Wars of the Roses: Trinity (War of the Roses Book 2) Page 20