Stormbird wotr-1

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘I am sorry I have been … unwell, Margaret. There are times when I feel as if I have fallen, am still falling. I cannot describe it. I wish I could. I will try to be strong for you, but if it comes on me again … I cannot hold it back.’

  Margaret found herself weeping once more and rubbed her eyes, angry at herself. Her husband was a good man, she knew. She raised the bandaged hand and kissed it gently, weaving the fingers into hers. It seemed to comfort him.

  Derry moved as fast as he could, using his lamp to peer into the dark spaces. He had an idea that Tresham would summon men to stop his search as soon as he was told. Even the presence of the Earl of Somerset might not be enough to prevent Derry’s arrest if he refused to obey the Speaker, or perhaps Cardinal Beaufort. It didn’t help that he’d left Somerset behind some dozen rooms ago.

  Derry was still finding it hard to believe the size of the warren under the Palace of Westminster. He’d searched the main cells easily enough, but William wasn’t there to be found. The line of iron-barred rooms was just one small part of the floors and basements beneath the palace, some so far beneath the level of the river that they stank of mildew and the walls seeped black spores and dribbling green liquid. Derry expected to hear shouts telling him to stop at any moment and he’d begun to think he’d set himself an impossible task. Given a hundred men and a week, he could have searched every part of the storerooms and the openings to sewers that gusted foetid vapours when he yanked at the doors. William could be anywhere and Derry was beginning to wonder if Tresham hadn’t guessed he would try to find him and moved the duke to some other location.

  Derry shook his head as he ran, arguing with himself in silence. The Commons Parliament had little power outside the Palace of Westminster, even less outside London. Away from the Painted Chamber, or the Chapter House, they had no real authority beyond business in the king’s name. In a conflict with the king himself, they would hardly dare to use a royal property. Derry skidded to a stop, raising his iron lamp to illuminate a long, low vault that stretched away into the distance, far beyond the range of his small light.

  Tresham was clever, Derry knew. If he kept William long enough to secure his confession, it didn’t really matter where they’d put him. Derry had no illusions about William’s ability to resist. The duke was a strong man in every sense, too strong perhaps. Derry had seen torture before. His fear was that his friend would be permanently crippled or driven insane by the time his will failed at last.

  He was halfway through the vaulted room, ducking his head to miss an ancient arch, when he stopped again and turned to two of Somerset’s guards.

  ‘Come away, lads. I want to try another place.’

  He began to run back along the way he’d come, weighing his chances. He wouldn’t be allowed back into Parliament, once he left the main palace. Tresham would surely see to that. The old spider was probably organizing men to arrest him as he came out, with Derry rushing right into their arms.

  Derry headed up a rickety stairwell, slipping as a step cracked and fell to the floor below. God, the whole place was damp and rotten! One of the men with him swore and yelped as he put his foot through the hole. Derry didn’t stop to help him out and instead rushed through the floor above and up another half-flight to the better-lit corridors by the cells. He heard angry voices before he could see who was making the noise, though his heart sank.

  Tresham caught sight of Derry first, as he’d been staring in that direction. The lawyer’s face was brick-red with fury and he raised a hand to point.

  ‘There he is! Arrest that man!’ Tresham shouted.

  Soldiers began to move and Derry looked desperately to Somerset. He could have blessed the earl when he spoke with only an instant’s hesitation, though his reputation and life were at stake.

  ‘Stand back from him!’ Somerset roared at the parliamentary guards. ‘Master Brewer is in my custody. I am on the king’s business and you are not to impede or hinder him.’

  Tresham’s guards hesitated, unable to decide who had the authority. Derry had not stopped moving and he sauntered past the guards and right up to Tresham in the moment of stillness.

  ‘William, Lord Suffolk,’ Derry said, watching the other man closely. ‘Is he in the Chapter House? Shall I search the abbey itself, or would it be sacrilege to torture a man on consecrated ground?’ He was watching Tresham closely as the man relaxed, lines smoothing around his eyes. ‘Or the Jewel Tower? Would you have had the gall to put him where you held me?’

  ‘You have no authority here, Brewer! How dare you put questions to me!’ Tresham sputtered indignantly.

  Derry smiled, satisfied.

  ‘I think that’s where he is, Lord Somerset. I’ll run across the road and see.’

  ‘Guards!’ Tresham roared. ‘Arrest him now or, by God, I’ll see you all swing.’

  It was enough of a threat to decide the impasse. They reached for Derry, but Somerset’s men blocked the passage with their swords drawn. Derry ran, leaving them all behind.

  As he came out into the main halls and the light of the afternoon, he heard horns blow down by the river. The heralds sounded only on state occasions or to announce a royal visit. Derry stopped, unable to believe it could be Henry. Could Margaret have come alone? She had almost no formal authority, but there were few men who would risk offending the queen of England and, through her, the king. Derry shook his head, caught in indecision. He stood and practically quivered, pulled in two directions. No. He had to keep moving.

  He pelted on towards sunlight, sprinting the length of the palace and passing into the vast beamed space of Westminster Hall. Derry didn’t pause for the bustling crowds there, threading through them all, then across the road with the abbey shadow falling on him as he went. He passed hawkers and rich men enjoying the sun, carriages and walkers both, leaving the smell of the river far behind.

  As he went, he fretted. He was on his own. Even if he was right, he knew William would surely be guarded. Derry’s mind raced as fast as his feet, panting hard as he came to the moat of the Jewel Tower. The drawbridge was down, at least. At the sight of it, he almost doubted his initial certainty that William was inside. Yet Tresham was too canny to give away the location of his prisoner by making the place a fortress. Derry shot past a single guard and then came to a halt.

  Two men faced him at the main door. Two solid soldiers who had watched him run across the road from the palace and had their swords drawn and ready. Seeing their expressions, Derry knew he was done, at least for a moment. He’d have to run back and fetch Somerset. No doubt Tresham would have summoned more soldiers by then, enough to turf them all out of the palace or straight into the cells. Speed and surprise had brought him only so far — and not far enough. Derry swore and one of the guards raised his head in a scornful jerk, agreeing with his assessment.

  Derry filled his lungs, cupping his hands around his mouth.

  ‘William Pole!’ he bellowed at the top of his lungs. ‘Confess! Throw yourself on the king’s mercy. Give me time, you stupid sod!’

  The guards gaped at him as Derry panted and then repeated himself, over and over. The Jewel Tower was only three floors high and he was certain he could be heard, if William was being held inside.

  Derry sagged as a troop of guards came jogging into view from over the road. They were not Somerset’s men and he made no protest as they took him into custody and half-dragged him back to the palace over the road.

  William had bitten his lower lip right through. It bled freely, leaving trails of blood on the wooden table that one of the two men mopped up at intervals, his face blank of anything except a slight irritation. Tresham, Beaufort and York had waited until William was tied securely to a chair, then left him alone with the pair of men. York had left last, raising his hand in farewell with something like regret on his face.

  William had been horrified to see the two soldiers set about their work with a relaxed and casual air he still found hard to believe. They were not silent and they ma
de no threats. Instead, they chatted idly as they brought various devices into view, each one designed to rip away a man’s dignity and will. He’d learned that the older man was Ted and the younger, James. James was something of an apprentice to Ted, it seemed, still learning the trade. The older man often paused to explain what he was doing and why it worked, while William only wanted to scream. In a strange way, he was almost an observer, a thing to be worked upon rather than another man.

  At the start, they’d asked him only if he was right- or left-handed. William had told them the truth and Ted laid out a set of nasty-looking vices that could be screwed down until his fingers broke. They cut his wedding ring off with a pair of clippers, tucking it into his pocket for him. They’d chosen that finger to attach the first screw and wound it down, ignoring his hissing breath.

  William had begun to pray in Latin as the finger burst all along its length, looking as if a seam had ripped. He’d thought that was agony enough until the bone cracked with another two turns, bringing the plates together with the broken flesh crushed between. The two men took their time attaching the others, winding each one further shut at intervals as they discussed some whore down at the docks and what she would do for a few pennies. James claimed to have shown her things she’d never known before and Ted told him not to waste his breath lying, or his money on getting the pox. It touched off a furious argument, with William the unwilling witness, bound and helpless between them.

  His left hand throbbed in time with his heart; he could feel it. They’d sat him at the table with his hands free on the wood, passing the ropes around his chest. He had tried to jerk his hands away at first, but they’d held him too firmly. He looked down now at the swollen, purpling flesh, seeing a spur of bone sticking out of his smallest finger. He’d chewed the marrow from chicken bones in his life and the picture of his hand with the dreadful little contraptions attached was somehow unreal, not his hand at all.

  William shook his head, breathing the Pater Noster, the Ave Maria, the Nicene Creed, mumbling lines he had learned as a boy, with his tutor taking a whip to him if he stumbled over a single syllable.

  ‘Credo in unum Deum!’ he said, gasping. ‘Patrem omni … potentem! Factorem caeli … et terrae.’

  He’d taken wounds in battle that hadn’t hurt as much. He tried to list them in his mind, as well as how they’d occurred. He’d once had a gash branded shut with a hot iron and, though he could not understand it, his nose filled with the same smell of burning flesh that he thought he’d forgotten, making him retch weakly against the ropes.

  The two men paused, with Ted holding a hand up to interrupt his companion when he asked a question. William’s senses swam in pain, but he thought he heard a voice he knew. He’d seen dying men suffer terrifying visions in the past and he tried to close his ears against the sound at first, believing in his terror that he was hearing the first whispers of an angel, come to take him.

  ‘Confess!’ he heard clearly, the voice muffled by the stones all around.

  William raised his head, tempted crazily to ask his torturers if they had heard it as well. The words were being shouted at the top of someone’s voice and with each repetition, different parts were lost. William pieced it together, crying out in surprise and pain as Ted lost his vague look of incomprehension and remembered to tighten the screws once more. Another bone cracked, sending a spray of blood across the wooden surface. William felt tears come from his eyes, though it only increased his anger at the thought of such men thinking they saw him weep.

  He took a deep, shuddering breath. He knew Derry’s voice. No one else called him William Pole. It broke his heart to consider giving in to the two men, but the thought of it opened the door and his resolve vanished like wax in a furnace.

  ‘Very well … gentlemen,’ he said, panting. ‘I confess to it all. Bring me your parchment and I will sign my name.’

  The younger man looked astonished, but Ted shrugged and began to unwind the screws, wiping each one down with great care and applying oil to the mechanisms so that they would not rust in the bag. William glanced down at the open roll of thick cloth and shuddered at the things he saw there. They had only begun his torment.

  Ted cleared his throat, wiping the table clean of blood and lifting William’s crushed hand on to a cloth to one side. With care, the man placed a sheet of calfskin vellum where William could reach it. From his bag of equipment, he brought an ink pot and quill, dipping the nib for him when he saw William’s right hand was shaking too violently and might upset the ink.

  William read the accusations of high treason with a feeling of nausea. His son John would hear. His wife would live the rest of her life in the shadow of such a shameful admission. It was a lot to ask to trust Derry Brewer with his honour, but he did, and he signed.

  ‘I told you he would!’ James said triumphantly. ‘You said a duke would hold out for a day or two, maybe more!’

  Ted looked disgusted, but he handed over a silver groat to his young companion.

  ‘I had money on you, old son,’ he told William, shaking his head.

  ‘Remove these ropes,’ William replied.

  Ted chuckled.

  ‘Not yet, my lord. We had a fellow once who threw his own confession on the very fire we’d heated for him. Had to start it all again! No, mate. You’ll abide while James takes it to the men who asked for it. After that, you’re no concern of mine.’

  With mocking ceremony, he handed over the signed sheet to James, who rolled it up and placed it in a tube, tying the ends with a clean black ribbon.

  ‘Don’t dawdle now, lad!’ Ted called after him as he left. ‘There’s daylight still and I’m dry — and you’re buying!’

  Taken by force at a slower pace, Derry was struck once more at the sheer size of the Palace of Westminster. The guards who marched him back into the building were determined to bring him straight through, but it was still a different route from the one he had taken before. Derry passed courtrooms and chambers with vaulted ceilings like cathedrals. By the time they’d passed the echoing chamber where the Lords met, he was deeply glum. His search for Suffolk had never had a chance of succeeding in the time he’d been given. All he had was what he’d read in Tresham’s furious face and he was not certain, could not be certain. An army could search the vast palace and never find a single man.

  Ahead of his small group of guards, Derry saw another cluster of people swirling in something like agitation. He’d been taken right through to the other side of the palace and as he was shoved closer, he saw to his astonishment that the river gate was open, a bright bar of sunlight gleaming like heaven. Derry stumbled on the uneven floor, his attention drawn to the two figures entering the palace. One of his guards cursed as they heaved him onward, then a mutter of awe went through them.

  They brought Derry to the rear of a group facing the outer gate. Every man there was down on one knee, or bowing deeply as the king and queen of England entered their domain. Derry began to smile, looking round to see Tresham and Cardinal Beaufort among them. His moving gaze sharpened at the sight of Lord York to one side. It was no surprise to find the duke had not yet gone to Ireland, but it confirmed some of Derry’s suspicions about the plot against William Pole.

  King Henry looked thin and white. Derry saw him pass a thick blanket from his shoulders to a servant, revealing simple clothes with no ornament. The queen seemed to be holding his arm in support and Derry’s heart went out to her, blessing Margaret for bringing her husband. His mind began to race again, weighing his chances.

  Derry turned to the guard who held him. The man was trying to bow in the king’s presence without removing his grip from the felon he’d been charged with capturing.

  ‘There are no cardinals on a chessboard, but a king takes your bishop, if you follow me. Now then. I’m on the king’s business, so take your hand off my arm.’

  The guard stood back, unnerved by the presence of the king and simply wanting to remain unnoticed by so many men of power. Derr
y cracked his neck and stretched his back, the only one standing up straight. Other men were beginning to rise, Tresham and Cardinal Beaufort among them.

  ‘Your Royal Highness, it is a great honour to see you well,’ Tresham said.

  Henry blinked in his direction and Derry was sure he saw Margaret tighten her grip.

  ‘Where is William de la Pole, Lord Suffolk?’ Henry said clearly.

  Derry could have kissed him as a ripple went around the group. Some of them were clearly puzzled, but the expressions of Beaufort, York and Tresham told Derry all he needed to know.

  ‘Your Grace!’ Derry called.

  Dozens of men turned to see who was speaking and Derry used the opportunity to walk through the crowd. His guards were left grasping air behind him, furious that he had brought such attention on them.

  ‘Your Grace, Lord Suffolk has been accused of treason against the Crown,’ Derry said.

  Tresham was hissing instructions to another man and Derry went on quickly before the Speaker could regain the initiative. In his mind, he could see how it had to go, if he could find the words.

  ‘Lord Suffolk has thrown himself on your mercy, Your Grace. He submits to the king’s will, in this and all things.’ Derry saw only blankness in Henry’s face and had the sickening sense that the man hadn’t heard him. He looked desperately to Margaret, silently pleading for her help as he kept speaking. ‘If you summoned his peers, Your Grace, you could decide his fate yourself.’

  Cardinal Beaufort raised himself up then, his voice ringing out.

  ‘Lord Suffolk will be brought to trial, Your Grace. It is a matter for the courts of Parliament.’

  As he spoke, Derry saw a grubby young man come racing through the crowd from the back. He carried a tube tied with a black ribbon and whispered to Tresham before bowing and backing away. Tresham shot a triumphant glance in Derry’s direction, raising what he had been given.

  ‘Lord Suffolk has confessed, Your Grace. He must …’