‘Thank you for your trust, my lord,’ Derry said, shaken. He made a gesture to his companions and they removed themselves from the path of the column, pitiful obstacle as they had been. Somerset stalked back and mounted his horse once again. The column rode past Derry with dozens of armoured helmets turning to fix him with suspicion and dislike. He stood carefully back from their path, his work done.
When they had passed, Derry signalled to his men. They tied the armoured corpse to the plough horses and dragged it behind them through the mud, heading back into the castle.
Margaret’s expression was intent as she watched Derry Brewer and another man enter and bow. The spymaster’s hair was rain-slick, though he had changed into dry clothes before coming into her presence. Whatever warning Derry may have given, his companion was clearly terrified at finding himself under the scrutiny of a queen of England. The man at Derry’s side was stick thin, with a brush of unkempt brown hair that looked as if he’d tried to smooth it with spit and a palm. He trembled as he tried to copy Derry’s action, pressing one leg out before him and dropping low over it. To Margaret’s hidden amusement, Derry had to reach out and steady the man before he toppled over.
Despite the storm that battered the castle walls that day, the long summer of ’59 had baked Kenilworth, cracking the plaster and turning green pastures to dry, brown fields as far as the eye could see. Margaret loved the place.
Three years before, twenty-six great serpentine guns had been winched up to the stone walls and towers, enough to fill a quarter mile with iron roundshot – and broken flesh and metal, if an enemy dared approach. Margaret had given no warning to York or Salisbury of her intentions, no sign that she was not utterly content with her lot. She had taken only Derry Brewer into her confidence, the one man she trusted. Together, they had arranged for Henry to come out of his rooms in the Palace of Westminster, suborning his doctors with the need for fresh, country air. As soon as they were clear of London, Margaret had rushed him north before anyone else knew what they were planning. She had received a hundred indignant letters and heralds over the three years that followed, but what could York do? There could be no new parliaments called without the king. Law and order in the country began to fail and crumble, yet Kenilworth was a fortress. Even York would not dare summon an army to take King Henry from his own wife.
‘Approach, Master Brewer,’ Margaret said. ‘And bring your … companion with you, that I may judge the quality of men you employ in my husband’s name.’
Derry straightened up, seeing the hint of mischief in his queen’s eyes. A smile came easily to him.
‘This wondrous fine specimen is Wilfred Tanner, Your Highness. He has been useful to me this last year. He was a smuggler, once, though not a good one …’
‘Derry!’ Tanner hissed at him, horrified to have his previous profession spoken aloud.
‘… but he is now in royal service,’ Derry went on smoothly, ‘travelling with me around the country to collect your indentures.’ He held up a leather satchel, stuffed full of parchment. ‘Another fifty-odd in here, Your Highness. Signed statements of men who will join the Gallants, on their oaths and honour.’
‘I am well served in you, Master Brewer. My husband has spoken often of your loyalty. If he were present, I know he would express his gratitude for all you have done these past years.’
Mentioning King Henry brought a crease between her eyes, Derry noticed. Margaret was not yet thirty years of age and had grown extraordinarily beautiful in the years since her marriage. Her hair was dark, a shining braid that hung almost to her waist. As he stared at her, Derry wondered idly if Margaret knew the effect she had on men. He suspected she did, to the last pennyworth. She sat on a carved wooden chair, wearing a dress of dark blue silk that subtly emphasized her figure. No second child had come to strain those seams, not in the six years since the birth of Prince Edward. Derry tilted his head a fraction to observe the queen, experiencing no flutter of passion, but simply the pleasure, almost awe, that comes from a man gazing upon a fine woman. Light from one of the large windows ran across the queen, making her eyes shine and filling the air around her with golden motes.
‘These new men to our cause,’ Margaret asked, ‘are they Queen’s Gallants? Or my husband’s?’
‘These forty-six are sworn to you, my lady. Wilfred passed out your swan’s badges and I can report they are worn with great pride. I think I will need another gross when I go out again. In some places, they have become the height of fashion, with many men making a gift of them to their wives.’
‘When we call though, Master Brewer, they must wear my token, or my husband’s antelope. Yes? Whatever the fashion, our Gallants must know each other by their badges.’
Derry waved a hand airily.
‘Queen or King’s Gallants, they serve the Crown, Your Highness. It has been a joy to me to see the fervour in the towns and villages. I am treated like a visiting nobleman myself, whenever I’m sighted on Retribution.’
‘Sighted on … ? Ah. Is that not a rather fanciful name for a horse, Master Brewer?’
‘In truth, he is a vengeful beast, my lady. It suits him rather well, as the work suits me. Wilfred here has won more than a few sweethearts, just by carrying my bag of paper and badges.’
Margaret laughed and Wilfred Tanner blushed furiously, an elbow poking at Derry, though he was out of range.
One of the queen’s stewards entered the audience chamber behind the two men, sweeping silently through the great doors on felt shoes. When he addressed his mistress, Derry and Wilfred Tanner both started in surprise. Margaret knew weapons were forbidden in her presence, so it was with some interest that she saw their hands dart to different parts of their tunics and sleeves. Both men recovered quickly, exchanging a sheepish glance.
‘Your Highness. Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, and Sir John Fortescue, Chief Justice of the King’s Bench,’ her steward announced, stepping back to allow the two men into her presence.
In response, Derry bowed once again.
‘May I remain, my lady? I would hear these men, in my role as your counsellor.’
Margaret inclined her head, allowing Derry to guide Wilfred Tanner to one side. They stood meekly, though Derry Brewer watched from under lowered brows. At the end of the chamber, two very different men entered.
Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, was just twenty-three years of age. As one who had known his father well, Derry could discern few traces of the old duke in the son’s face, though he knew by then that the bland expression concealed a terrible anger, still burning bright after four years. Beaufort was perhaps a fraction taller than his father, Edmund, had been, coming forward with a lithe step into the queen’s presence. Beards had come back into favour in the four years since the battle of St Albans and young Somerset appeared to be growing one with indifferent success, a confection of dark brown and ginger, with the ends of his moustaches curving slightly upwards over his mouth.
‘Your Highness,’ Somerset said, sweeping into a bow that was more elegant than Derry’s had been. The duke’s gaze settled on Derry for a heartbeat as he rose straight, acknowledging the spymaster.
‘My lord Somerset, I welcome your presence,’ Margaret said. ‘Abide just a moment while I greet your companion.’
Derry saw a flush come to the young man’s cheeks and raised his eyebrows in interest as Somerset stood aside. The duke had not taken a wife and Derry wondered if he should counsel the young man to be cautious in making cow-eyes at the queen where another might see. He recalled the sudden violence he had witnessed on the castle avenue and decided against it. Derry supposed the man was handsome enough, in an uninspiring sort of way. Derry caught himself smoothing down his own locks of hair, then shook his head in amusement at the foolishness of men generally.
Entering behind the young nobleman, Sir John Fortescue was dressed entirely in black, from the voluminous robes he gathered at his chest down to a few inches of woollen stockings and black leather boots ben
eath. At sixty-two, his face was almost unlined, the flesh full. It reminded Derry of the members of some monastic orders, who spend so much of their lives in slack-faced prayer that they do not age as other men. Though Fortescue wore no beard, a slim moustache sat above his lip, dark in the centre and white towards the ends of his wide mouth. It went some way to disguise the missing upper and lower teeth on one side of the jaw, giving him a wry expression even when he was at rest. The teeth he retained were strong and yellow, but fully half his mouth was just gum. Derry caught Fortescue’s flickering glance in his direction. The king’s Chief Justice was famously observant and, in that single instant, Derry felt he had been assessed and dismissed, with the still-cringing Tanner at his side. No doubt Fortescue would observe the signs of Somerset’s infatuation with the same cold eyes and twisted smile.
‘May I approach, Your Highness?’ Fortescue said. His voice was strong and firm, as might befit a man used to addressing a court as Chief Justice. Derry noted the slight hiss on his sibilant sounds as the man’s tongue found space where teeth would once have been.
‘You may of course, Sir John,’ Margaret replied. She saw Fortescue glance at the others in the room and spoke before him. ‘You may also trust those you meet in this place, or none at all. Is that understood? However unfamiliar you are to one another, I know you all for loyal men.’
The four visitors spent a moment in silence, each considering the others. Both the duke and Judge Fortescue frowned at Wilfred Tanner, who scratched his jaw and appeared to want to be anywhere else but in that room. Tanner had met a judge or two in his life.
Margaret lost patience with the tension between them.
‘My lord Somerset, gentlemen, friends. In the king’s name you each play a part in a greater enterprise. Master Brewer here has spent two years on the road for me, gathering loyal men aggrieved at the ill-treatment of the king by his most powerful lords. York, Salisbury and Warwick have mocked the throne, mocked England and the Crown. There, I have declared myself. They took arms to make bloody murder on the king’s own noble counsellors and yet the heavens did not strike them down. They thrive still, strutting like bantams while better men lie under the sod.’
Margaret realized she had clenched one hand into a fist and released it, seeing her white fingers open like a flower.
‘I have not slept a night since then without thinking of some punishment for those men. Sir John came to me to explain the law, but what is the law, even the law of England, if it cannot be enforced? How many do you have sworn to my Queen’s Gallants, Master Brewer? How many is it now?’
Derry blinked. The woman who sat so still to lecture them had lost all trace of lightness. He saw again the young queen who had received the news of her husband’s wound and the rise of York over all. Not grief, but a frozen rage. Though she had certainly been broken, it was into pieces sharp enough to cut.
‘Nine thousand men will wear the swan, Your Highness. I … cannot answer to their quality, for the most part. Though some eight hundred knights have pledged to you, the rest are farmers and smiths and squires. They need good men to lead them, but they have given their oaths to stand for your cause.’
‘And the second of our great enterprises, Master Brewer? Tell Sir John how many men will wear my husband’s antelope when the king is threatened by his enemies.’
‘Eight thousand, Your Highness. From Dorset to Northumberland, they have been training to march and fight. They merely await the king’s command.’
‘Thank you, Master Brewer,’ Margaret said. ‘Well, Sir John? Is it to your satisfaction? Do such numbers please you?’
Sir John Fortescue had listened in fascination. He bowed once more, a smile playing around his lips.
‘Your Highness, I am overwhelmed. I believe it is enough. No, I am certain.’
The judge might have gone on, but Henry Beaufort cleared his throat. He may have been only four years a duke, but as far as Derry could see, Somerset already had some of the arrogance of the breed. The young man raised a single finger and, in response, the king’s most senior judge closed his mouth with a snap.
‘Your Highness, that is welcome news,’ Somerset said. ‘I am honoured to be included in this circle.’ He glanced at Wilfred Tanner then, allowing an expression of doubt to cross his face. ‘I would accept any position of authority in such a … what did you call it, my lady? Such a “great enterprise”. You may depend on my loyalty, to the last horns blown.’
‘Oh, I do, my lord Somerset,’ Margaret replied coldly. ‘There is no middle ground in this. It has been too long in the planning. This very morning, I have met Lords Buckingham, Clifford, Grey and Audley. My husband’s nobles will stand either with him, or in his path. I tell you now, he will not allow mercy to be shown to those who make the wrong choice.’
To Derry’s private pleasure, Henry Beaufort held up his finger once again, asking permission to speak. Margaret’s mouth tightened, but she nodded to him.
‘Your Highness, if these armies will only march when the king is threatened, I have to ask, where is the threat? Even without a parliament, York seems content with all he has won. Warwick is in Calais. Salisbury holds his feasts and hunts, but not one of them could be said to threaten His Majesty directly.’
Margaret’s expression grew bleak as Somerset spoke, her previous warmth vanishing.
‘Yes. They consider all the battles won. It is a pretty point and one that vexed me. I thought I should never overcome it until Sir John explained Attainder to me. That is the spark that will bring them out, my lord. That is the stone to break their heads.’
Somerset nodded, touching his finger to his lips. It was clear enough to Derry that the young duke had no knowledge of the term. All the men there turned to Fortescue as the man worked his half-empty mouth, showing pleasure at their attention.
‘It is a law for traitors,’ Fortescue said. ‘Long in the annals, but rarely used, perhaps because of the power it allows. With the king’s seal on a Bill of Attainder, a nobleman is made common. His titles are void, his succession is denied. All property passes back to the king. It is, in short, the death in ashes of a noble house.’
‘York will never allow it to be issued,’ Derry said immediately, just as he had agreed with the queen in a private meeting. To his exasperation, Sir John wagged a finger at him, smiling.
‘Attainder was created for the most extreme threats to the royal house, Master Brewer. Those who wrote it into English law understood that there would be occasions where time was short and traitors perilously close to success. There is very little burden of proof required. Though it must come before a parliament at some point, it can be sealed into law and the action begun with no more than a quorum of lords and the king’s agreement.’
For the benefit of Somerset, Derry rubbed his forehead as if in thought, making a pretence of hearing it all for the first time.
‘Sir John has prepared the writ,’ Margaret said. ‘My husband has agreed to add his seal. Lords Percy and Egremont have lost as much as any other with the death of their father. With you, my lord Somerset, they will command my husband’s Gallants.’ Her tone offered no opportunity for him to refuse and Somerset bowed his head. ‘Once begun, gentlemen, Attainder cannot be undone. It is a call to arms. The house of York will fall, or fight – and still fall.’
Her voice trembled as she spoke, as well it might, Derry thought. York would come out like a mad dog when he heard of it, that much was certain. The queen would bring about a war with just a piece of parchment.
Margaret went on, her eyes glittering to have reached this point after months and years of preparation.
‘My husband will summon a council of loyal lords to Coventry, to hear the bill read. No more of London, gentlemen. Coventry is but five miles from this place. It will do as our heartland. Master Brewer, you will call the men who have sworn their service and lives to the Crown. Use whatever words you wish, but bring the last of them to the field and have them train. I have a commander for my own
Gallants in James Tuchet, Baron Audley. My husband will take the field himself with his army.’
‘I know Lord Audley,’ Derry replied. ‘He is a veteran, a whitebeard in service, Your Highness. I have no quarrel with your decision. I must ask though, if King Henry is well enough for what lies ahead?’
As he spoke, Derry looked down in embarrassment. He and Margaret had agreed that he would ask the question, though he did not enjoy that part of his role, nor the lies the queen would surely tell. The king was most notable for his absence, with such great affairs being decided around him. Derry could almost feel Margaret’s gaze sharpen.
‘My husband is eager, Master Brewer. His health has been inconstant, but he grows stronger every day. Have no fears on his account.’ She waved a hand as if to dismiss the idea. ‘I have bought another batch of pikes and lead clubs for my Gallants, stacked high in the storerooms of Kenilworth. I would have you inspect them and arrange for them to be taken where they are needed. In a month, send out news of this Attainder of York. You will let your whisperers do their work, so that York and Salisbury learn of it as well. They will come, then. And they will be met.’
‘Your Highness,’ Derry said, accepting his orders. As he stood there, he could not help but recall the last great plan of the royal house – to secure a truce and a wife from France in exchange for the territories of Maine and Anjou. Derry had been one of the architects of that, and the queen before him was part of the result. Yet Lord Suffolk had been killed, London had been invaded and almost all English land in France had been lost. He could not help the shiver of fear that ran through him at the thought of another scheme to move nations and noble houses like pieces on a board. The ripples from that earlier catastrophe had led to where they stood on that day – and were still spreading.
Putting aside his misgivings for the moment, Derry dropped to one knee, copied instantly by Wilfred Tanner, while Somerset and Sir John Fortescue looked on.
Wars of the Roses: Trinity (War of the Roses Book 2) Page 21