‘Thank you, my love,’ he called appreciatively.
She looked sourly at him, folding her arms in a way he knew from every boarding house and tavern he’d been turned away from over the years. The thought made his spirits rise. They couldn’t turn old Jack Cade out into the night any longer, not now. With huge gulps, he sank the beer to the dregs and gasped, wiping away a thick line from the bristles around his mouth.
The inn was packed with around eighty of those he’d singled out in the previous few weeks. For the most part, they were men like himself: heavy in the shoulders, with good strong legs and big hands. Every one of them had been born in Kent, it went without saying. With the exception of Paddy himself, Jack was more comfortable with those. He knew how their minds worked, how they thought and how they spoke. As a result, he could speak to them, something he was not accustomed to doing, at least not in crowds.
Jack looked round at them appreciatively, all waiting on his word.
‘Now, I know some of you buggers don’t know me well, so you’re perhaps wondering why Jack Cade tapped you on the shoulder. You’ll know I don’t like to talk the way some do, either, so you’ll know it’s not just froth.’
They stared back at him and Paddy chuckled in the silence. The big Irishman was wearing new clothes and boots, taken fresh from one of the towns they’d passed and better than anything he had ever owned before. Jack let his eyes drift until he found Rob Ecclestone at the back. That was one more suited to standing in the shadows, where he could keep an eye on the rest. Ecclestone seemed to make the men uncomfortable when he was seen stropping his razor each morning — and that was a good thing, as far as Jack was concerned.
‘Fetch me another, would you, Flora?’ Jack called, passing the cup. ‘All right?’
He turned back to the crowd, enjoying himself.
‘I’ve had you buggers running and marching to mend your wind. I’ve made you sweat with pruning hooks and axes, whatever we could find for you. I’ve done all that because when the sheriff of Kent comes against us, he’ll have soldiers with him, as many as he can find. And I ha’n’t come so far to lose it now.’
A murmur came from the crowd as those who knew each other bent their heads and muttered comments. Jack flushed slightly.
‘I’ve heard your tales, lads. I’ve heard about what those bastards did in France, how they gave away your land and then stood back while French soldiers put hands on your women and killed your old men. I’ve heard about the taxes, so a man can work hard all his life and still have nothing when they’ve done taking their share of your money. Well, lads, you’ve got a chance now to make them listen, if you want. You’ll stand in a muddy field with the men you see around you — and the ones outside. You’ll watch the sheriff’s soldiers marching up with their swords and bows and you’ll want to forget how bleeding angry you are at them. You’ll want to run and let them win, with your piss running down your legs as you go.’
The packed tavern seemed almost to shake as the men inside it growled and shouted that they would do no such thing. Jack’s lips curled in amusement as he took his second ale and sank it as fast as the first.
‘I’ve known that fear, lads, so don’t go telling me about how brave you are when you’re standing safe in the warm. Your guts will tighten and your heart will jump and you’ll want to be anywhere else.’ His voice hardened and his eyes glittered, the old anger rising in him with the drink. ‘But if you do, you won’t be Kentish men. You won’t even be men. You’ll get one chance to knock their teeth back into their head, just one fight where they’ll expect you to run and piss yourself. If you stand, they won’t know what’s hit them and we’ll go through them like wheat, I swear to God. We’ll put that sheriff’s head on a stick and carry it like a fucking banner! We’ll march on London, boys, if you can stand. Just once, and then you’ll know you have the stomach for it.’
He looked around the room, satisfied at what he saw in their expressions.
‘When you go out, I want each of you to pick a dozen men. They’ll be yours, so learn their names and have them learn each other’s. I want them to know that if they run, their mates will be the ones they leave behind, understand? Not strangers, their mates. Have them drink together and train together every day until they’re as close to brothers as you can make them. That way we have a chance.’
He lowered his head for a moment, almost as if he were praying. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse.
‘Then, when you hear me shout, or Paddy or Rob, you follow. You do as you’re told and you watch the sheriff’s soldiers fall. I’ll point you in the right direction. I know how. You take your one chance and you take heads. You’ll walk right over the men who stand against us.’
Paddy and Rob cheered and the rest of them joined in. Jack waved a hand to Flora and she spat on the floor in disgust, but began passing out more flagons of ale. Over the noise, Jack raised his voice once again, though his sight was blurring. The black ale was good enough to pay for, if he’d been paying.
‘There’s more and more Kentish men coming in to join us every day, lads. The whole county knows what we’re about by now and there’s more from France every day as well. They say Normandy is falling and that our fine king has betrayed us all again. Well, I have an answer to that!’
He raised a hatchet from where it had been lying by his boots and slammed the blade into the wooden bar. In an instant of silence, Flora swore. The word she used made them all laugh as they cheered and drank. Jack raised his cup to them.
Thomas walked with a slight limp, the remnant of the injury he’d taken. The stitches had puckered into a swollen line that ran across his hip and stretched painfully with every step. After a week of crossing fields and hiding in ditches, it was strange to use the roads again. He and Rowan blended well into the miserable, straggling crowd of refugees heading towards Calais. There was no room on most of the carts, already creaking under the weight of anyone with a few coins to spend. Thomas and Rowan had nothing between them, so they trudged on with lowered heads, just putting as many miles under their boots as they could each day. Thomas tried to stay alert, but hunger and thirst made him listless and he sometimes came to evening with very little memory of the roads he’d taken. It grated on his nerves to travel in the open, but neither he nor his son had seen a French soldier for days. They were off somewhere else, perhaps with better things to do than harass and rob the flood of English families leaving France.
The twilight was shading into darkness when Thomas dropped. With a grunt, he simply crumpled and lay flat in the road, with refugees stepping over him. Rowan heaved him up and then gave his horn-handled seax to a carter willing to shove two more into the back. The man even shared a thin soup with them that night, which Rowan spooned into his father’s mouth. They were in no worse a state than many of those around them, but it helped to be carried along.
Another day passed with the world reduced to a square of sky visible through the back of the cart. Rowan stopped looking out when he saw three men battering and robbing some helpless soul. No one went to the man’s aid and the cart trundled on, leaving the scene behind.
They were not asleep when the cart came to a halt, just in a state of dazed stupor that made the days a blur. Rowan sat up with a start when the carter thumped loudly on the flat sides of his wagon. There were three others pressed in with the archers, two old men and a woman Rowan understood was married to one of them, though he wasn’t sure which. The old folks stirred sluggishly as the carter continued to thump and rouse them all.
‘Why have we stopped?’ Thomas murmured without getting up from his place against the wooden side.
Rowan clambered down and stood looking into the distance. After so long, it was strange to see the fortress walls of Calais, no more than a mile off. The roads were so packed that the cart could only move with the flow of people, at the speed of the slowest. Rowan leaned back in and shook his father by the shoulder.
‘Time to get off, I think,’ he said.
‘I can smell the sea at last.’
Gulls called in the distance and Rowan felt his spirits lift, though he had no more coins than a beggar and not even a knife to defend himself. He helped his father down to the road and thanked the carter, who bade them farewell with his attention on his parents and the uncle in the back.
‘God be with you, lads,’ he said.
Rowan put an arm around his father, feeling the bones stand out sharply where the flesh had wasted away.
The walls of Calais seemed to grow as they pushed and shoved their way through the mass of people. The archers were at least unencumbered, with no possessions to guard. More than once they heard a cry of outrage as someone stole something and tried to vanish. Rowan shook his head as he saw two men kicking another on the ground. They were intent on the task and as Rowan passed, one of them looked up and stared a challenge. Rowan looked away and the man resumed stamping on the prone figure.
Thomas groaned, his head hanging as Rowan struggled with him. There were so many people! For a man raised on an isolated sheep farm, it made Rowan sweat to be in such a crush, all heading to the docks. They were almost carried along, unable to stop or turn aside from the movement of people.
If anything, the press grew even thicker as Rowan staggered with his father through the massive town gates and along the main street towards the sea. He could see the tall masts of ships there and lifted his head in hope.
It took all morning and the best part of the afternoon before they reached the docks themselves. Rowan had been forced to rest more than once, when he saw an open step or even a wall to sag against. He was dizzy and weary, but the sight of the ships drew him on. His father drifted in and out of alertness, sometimes completely aware and talking, only to sink back into his drowsing state.
The sun was setting on another day without a decent meal. There had been some monks giving out rounds of hard bread and ladles of water to the crowd. Rowan had blessed them for their kindness, though that had been hours ago. He felt his tongue had thickened in his mouth and his father hadn’t said a word since then. With the sun creeping towards the horizon, they’d joined a queue that bustled and wound through the moving crowds, heading always to a group of burly men guarding the entranceway to a ship. As the light was turning red and gold, Rowan helped his father along the last few steps, knowing they must look like beggars or the damned, even in that company.
One of the men looked up and winced visibly at the two gaunt scarecrows standing and swaying before him.
‘Names?’ he said.
‘Rowan and Thomas Woodchurch,’ Rowan replied. ‘Have you a spot for us?’
‘Do you have coin?’ the man asked. His voice was dull with endlessly asking the same questions.
‘My mother has, in England,’ Rowan said, his heart sinking in him.
His father stirred in his arms, raising his head. The sailor shrugged, already looking beyond them to the next in line.
‘Can’t help you today, son. There’ll be other ships tomorrow or the day after. One of them will take you.’
Thomas Woodchurch leaned forward, almost toppling his son.
‘Derry Brewer,’ he muttered, though it scorched him to use the name. ‘Derry Brewer or John Gilpin. They’ll vouch for me. They’ll vouch for an archer.’
The sailor stopped in the act of waving the next group forward. He looked uncomfortable as he checked his wooden tally board.
‘Right, sir. On you go. There’s space still on the deck. You’ll be all right as long as the wind stays gentle. We’ll be leaving soon.’
As Rowan watched in astonishment, the man used his knife to mark two more souls on the wooden block.
‘Thank you,’ he said as he helped his father up the gangplank. The sailor touched his forelock in brief salute. Rowan shoved and argued his way into a bare spot on the deck near the prow. In relief, he and his father lay down and waited to be taken to England.
20
Derry looked out of the window of the Jewel Tower, rather than face the forbidding expression of Speaker William Tresham. He could see the vast Palace of Westminster across the road, with its clock tower and its famous bell, the Edward. Four parliamentary guards had kept him cooling his heels in the tower for an entire morning, unable to leave until the great man graced him with his presence.
Derry sighed to himself, staring out through thick glass with a green tinge that made the world beyond swim and blur. He knew Westminster Hall would be at its busiest, with all the shops inside doing a roaring trade in wigs, pens, paper: anything and everything that might be required by the Commons or the courts to administer the king’s lands. On the whole, Derry wished he could be out there instead. The Jewel Tower was surrounded by its own walls and moat, originally to protect the personal valuables of King Edward. With just a few guards, it worked equally well to keep a man prisoner.
Having seated himself comfortably at an enormous oak desk, Tresham cleared his throat with deliberate emphasis. Reluctantly, Derry turned from the window to face him and the two men stared at each other with mutual suspicion. The Speaker of the Commons was not yet fifty, though he had served a dozen parliaments since his first election at the age of nineteen. At forty-six, Tresham was said to be at the height of his powers, with a reputation for intelligence that made Derry more than a little wary of him. Tresham looked him over in silence, the cold gaze taking in every detail, from Derry’s mud-spattered boots to the frayed lining of his cloak. It was hard to remain still with those eyes noticing everything.
‘Master Brewer,’ Tresham said after a time. ‘I feel I must apologize for keeping you waiting for so long. Parliament is a harsh mistress, as they say. Still, I will not keep you much longer, now that we are settled. I remind you that your presence is a courtesy to me, for which you have my thanks. I can only hope to impress you with the seriousness of my purpose, so that you do not feel I have wasted the time of a king’s man.’
Tresham smiled as he spoke, knowing full well that Derry had been brought to him by the same armed soldiers who now guarded the door of the tower two floors below. The king’s spymaster had not been given a choice, or a warning, perhaps because Tresham knew very well that he would have quietly disappeared at the first whisper of a summons.
Derry continued to glower at the man seated before him. Before the career in politics, he knew Sir William Tresham had trained first as a lawyer. In the privacy of his own thoughts, Derry told himself to tread carefully around the horse-faced old devil, with his small, square teeth.
‘You have no answer for me, Master Brewer?’ Tresham went on. ‘I have it on good authority that you are not a mute, yet I have not heard a word from you since I arrived. Is there nothing you would say to me?’
Derry smiled, but took refuge in silence rather than give the man anything he could use. It was said Tresham could spin a web thick enough to hang a man from nothing more than a knife and a dropped glove. Derry only watched as Tresham harrumphed to himself and sifted through a pile of papers he had arranged across the desk.
‘Your name appears on none of these papers, Master Brewer. This is not an inquisition, at least as it pertains to you. Instead, I had rather hoped you would be willing to aid the Speaker of the House in his inquiries. The charges that will be laid are in the realm of high treason, after all. I believe a case can be made that it is your duty, sir, to aid me in any way I see fit.’
Tresham paused, raising his enormous eyebrows in the hope of a comment. Derry ground his teeth but kept silent, preferring to let the older man reveal whatever he knew. When Tresham merely stared back at him, Derry felt his patience fray in the most irritating manner.
‘If that is all, Sir William, I must be about the king’s business. I am, as you say, his man. I should not be detained here, not with that greater call.’
‘Master Brewer! You are free to leave here at any moment, of course …’
Derry turned instantly towards the door and Tresham held up a single bony finger in warning.
&
nbsp; ‘But … ah yes, Master Brewer, there is always a “but”, is there not? I have summoned you here to aid my lawful inquiries. If you choose to leave, I will be forced to assume you are one of the very men I seek! No innocent man would run from me, Master Brewer. Not when I pursue justice in the king’s name.’
Despite himself, Derry’s temper rose and he spoke again, perhaps taking comfort from the doorway so close to hand. It was no more than an illusion of escape, with guardsmen below to stop him. Even so, it freed his tongue against his better judgement.
‘You seek a scapegoat, Sir William. God knows you cannot involve King Henry in these false charges of treason, so you wish to find some lesser man to hang and disembowel for the pleasure of the London crowds. You do not deceive me, Sir William. I know what you are about!’
The older man settled back, confident that Derry would not, or rather could not leave. He rested his clasped hands on the buttons of his tired old coat and looked up at the ceiling.
‘I see I can be candid with you. It does not surprise me, given what I have been led to understand about your influence at court. It is true that your name appears on no papers, though it is certainly spoken by many. I did not lie when I said you were in no danger, Master Brewer. You are but a servant of the king, though your service is wide and astonishingly varied, I believe. However, let me be blunt, as one man to another. The disasters in France must be laid at the feet of whoever is responsible. Maine, Anjou and now Normandy have been lost, no, torn from their rightful owners in murder, fire and blood! Are you so surprised that there is a cost to be paid for such chaos and bad dealing?’
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