Stormbird wotr-1

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘I have horses waiting to take you through London to the coast, William,’ Derry said, searching his friend’s face as they walked. ‘There is a cog waiting at Dover, the Bernice. She’ll take you to Burgundy, where Duke Philip has offered to give you sanctuary for the period of your banishment. Do you understand, William? You’ll have a house of your own and you can bring Alice out there when you’re settled. Your son can come to see you and I’ll write each month to keep you informed of what goes on here. It’s just five years.’

  Derry was struck by the look of despair William turned on him. He seemed dazed and Derry’s hand remained on his shoulder to keep him upright, though he was careful not to touch the swollen hand and forearm.

  ‘I’m sorry, William. If the king had dismissed all the charges, there would be riots, do you understand? This was the best deal I could broker for you. There was a vintner hanged just yesterday for threatening unrest if you were set free.’

  ‘I understand, Derry. Thank you for all you’ve done. Perhaps I should have run when you told me. Yet I didn’t think they would go so far.’

  Derry felt the grief of his friend as if it were his own.

  ‘I’ll pay them what they’re owed, William, I swear it. In five years, you’ll return to England and we’ll chase them like hares, if I haven’t finished. You’ll see.’

  They’d walked together through the vast space of Westminster Hall, ignoring the stares of merchants and members of Parliament. The news was spreading quickly and some of them were daring to hiss and jeer at the sight of a condemned traitor walking among them. William raised his head at their noise, a touch of anger replacing the dead look in his eyes.

  ‘As you say, Derry. It’s just five years,’ he muttered, straightening his back and glaring around him.

  They left the hall and walked to the two men waiting with packhorses. Derry swallowed nervously as the crowd began to thicken, the sense of violence in the air growing with every passing moment.

  ‘Go with God, my friend,’ Derry said softly.

  With his damaged hand, William could not mount easily on his own and Derry helped him into the saddle with a great heave, then passed a sword with belt and scabbard up to him. The sight of the long blade helped to quell the more raucous in the crowd, but more and more were pushing in, hissing and shouting insults. William looked down on them, his mouth a firm, pale line. He nodded to Derry, then clicked his mouth and dug in his heels, trotting close enough to a bawling collier to send the man lurching back into the arms of his mates. Derry had borrowed two good men from Lord Somerset to escort him. They drew swords as they kicked their mounts and rode, the threat clear.

  Derry stood for a moment watching them go, until he sensed the spite of the crowd swing away from them, searching for another target. With a few quick steps, he disappeared back into the great hall and the gloom within. There in the shadows, away from their sight, he rested his head against cool plaster, wanting only to sleep.

  Though it was dark outside, the Palace of Westminster was lit gold, every window gleaming with the light of hundreds of candles. The noble lords who had assembled to hear the king’s judgment on William de la Pole did not depart quickly. Their servants scuttled back and forth, taking messages between them as they walked the corridors or called for wine and sat to discuss the night’s events. Two clear factions emerged in just a short time after the king had retired. Around Lord Somerset and Lord Scales, a dozen other barons and earls gathered to discuss the evening and express their dismay at the fate of Suffolk.

  York had strolled with the Neville lords to an empty room not far from the king’s chambers. Tresham and Cardinal Beaufort went with them, deep in conversation. Servants scurried around the group of eight men, lighting candles and a fire in the hearth, while still more went to fetch wine and food. As the evening wore on, a number of noble lords found their way to the open door and raised a glass to York’s health. They said nothing of importance, but they showed their support.

  Tresham had been out and returned twice by the time he settled himself close to the fire, accepting a glass of hot wine with murmured thanks. He was frozen from walking outside and shivered as he sat back and picked up the thread of the conversation. The elder Richard Neville was speaking. Beyond his title as Earl of Salisbury, Tresham did not know the man well. Salisbury had estates and duties that kept him away on the border with Scotland and he was rarely seen in Parliament. Tresham sipped his wine gratefully, noting the number of men with connections to the Neville family. When York had married into that particular clan, he’d gained the support of one of the most powerful groups in the country. It had certainly not hurt the man to have the Nevilles behind him.

  ‘I’m saying only that there must be an heir,’ Salisbury was saying. ‘You saw the queen, still as slender as a reed. I do not say a child will not come, only that if she is barren, in time it will plunge the country into chaos once again. With this army of Cade’s threatening even London, it would not hurt to propose a named heir.’

  Tresham pricked up his ears, sitting forward and draining his cup. He’d seen the mood of York’s friends go from delight to despair as he’d dropped in on them over the previous hours. They’d found a scapegoat for the disasters in France, though the king and Derry Brewer had saved Suffolk from the headsman’s axe. The name of Brewer was spoken with particular disgust and anger in that room, though in truth he’d only partly dodged the blow York had arranged. Suffolk was gone for five years, removed from the king’s side at the height of his strength. It was a partial victory, despite Brewer’s quick feet and wits. Yet the talk of an heir was a new thing and Tresham listened closely as the Neville lords mumbled assent into their cups. They had their own loyalties and if the elder Richard Neville spoke, it would be for all of them, long before decided.

  ‘We could ask Tresham here,’ Salisbury went on. ‘He’d know the papers and laws that need to be proposed. What do you think, Sir William? Can we name another heir, until such time as a child is born to the king and queen? Is there precedent?’

  A servant refilled his cup, giving Tresham time to sip it and think.

  ‘It would take a law, passed in Parliament, of course. Such a vote would be … contentious, I suspect.’

  ‘But possible?’ Salisbury barked at him.

  Tresham inclined his head.

  ‘All things are possible, my lord … with enough votes.’

  They chuckled at his response, while York sat at the centre of them and smiled to himself. There was no question who the heir would be, if such a vote could be called on the floor of Parliament. Richard of York was descended from a son of King Edward, as Henry was himself. Cecily York’s grandfather had been John of Gaunt, another of those sons. Between them, the Yorks had a claim that was as good as the king’s own — and they had six children. Tresham mentally corrected himself, recalling the recent birth of another son. Seven children, all descended from sons of the battle king.

  ‘Such a proposal would be a declaration of intent, my lords,’ Tresham said, his voice low and firm. ‘There would be no disguising its purpose, nor the loyalties of those in support. I mention this to be sure you understand the possible consequences, should such a vote fail.’

  To his surprise, York laughed bitterly as he sat looking into the fire.

  ‘Sir William, my father was executed for treason against this king’s father. I was brought up an orphan, reliant on the kindness of old Ralph Neville. I think I know a little about the consequences — and the risks — of ambition. Though perhaps a man should not fear to talk of treason after what we all witnessed tonight. It seems it does not bear the sting it once had.’

  They smiled at his wry tone, watching him and each other closely.

  ‘Yet I am not talking in whispers, Sir William! This is no plot, no secret cabal. Only a discussion. My blood is good, my line is good. The king has been married now for years yet filled no womb. In such a time of upheaval, I think the country needs to know it has a strong line
in waiting, if his seed is weak. Yes, I think so, Tresham. Prepare your papers, your law. I will allow my name to go forward as heir to the throne. What I have seen tonight has convinced me it is the right thing to do.’

  Tresham saw from the satisfied smile on Salisbury that it was not the first time they had discussed the subject. He had a sense that all the men there had been waiting only for his arrival to spring the conversation on him and gauge his response.

  ‘My lord York, I agree. For the good of the country, there must be an heir. Of course, any such agreement would be void if the queen conceives.’

  ‘Of course,’ York replied, showing his teeth. ‘Yet we must be prepared for all outcomes, Sir William. As I discovered tonight, it is good to have plans in place, no matter the weave of events.’

  24

  William, Lord Suffolk, stood on the white cliffs above the harbour of Dover. Somerset’s men waited respectfully a little way off, understanding perhaps that an Englishman might like a moment of quiet reflection before he left his home for five years of banishment.

  The air was clean after the stews and stenches of London. There was a touch of spring warmth to it, even at such a height. William was pleased he’d stopped. He could see the merchant ship waiting in the harbour, but he just stood, and looked out across the sea, and breathed. The massive fortification of Dover Castle could be seen over on his right. He knew William the Conqueror had burned it, then paid for its restoration, a mixture of terror and generosity that was typical of the man. The French had burned the entire town just a century before. Memories went a long way back on that piece of coast. William smiled at the thought, taking comfort from it. The locals had rebuilt after disasters far worse than the one that had befallen him. They had stood in ashes and set to, building homes once more. Perhaps he would do the same.

  He was surprised to find his mood growing light as he drew in the soft air. So many years of responsibility had not seemed a weight. Yet losing it made him feel free for the first time in as long as he could remember. He could no longer change anything. King Henry had other men to support him and guide him through. While Derry Brewer lived and schemed, there was always hope.

  William knew he was making the best of ill fate, a trait he shared with the phlegmatic people of the town below. Life was not a walk in the Garden of Eden. If it had been, William knew he was the sort to look around and build himself a damned house. He’d never been idle and the thought of how to fill his years in Burgundy was a prickling worry. Duke Philip was a good man to have made the offer, and was at least no friend of the French king. The irony of being accused of treason was that William had far more friends in France than England, at least at that moment. Travelling under papers granting Duke Philip’s personal protection, he would pass through the heart of France, stopping for a time in Paris before heading on to his new home.

  William worked the tip of his boot into the green turf, down to the chalk below. Yet his roots were there, his soul in the chalk. He brushed roughly at his eyes, hoping the men had not seen the strength of emotion that washed through him.

  William released a breath, clearing his lungs.

  ‘Come on, lads,’ he said, walking back to his horse. ‘The tide won’t wait for us or any man.’

  He had found a way to mount without jarring his arm too badly and he struggled into the saddle and took the reins in his good hand. They made their way down paths and a solid road to the dock front. Once again, William could feel hostile gazes on him as he heard his name whispered, though he thought he must have been a day ahead of the news. He kept his head high as he was introduced to the merchant captain and oversaw the unloading of the supplies Derry had provided. It was only enough to keep a man of his station for a few weeks at most. William knew he would have to send to his wife for both funds and clothes. Burgundy was part of the French mainland, a world away and yet painfully close to home. He dismissed Somerset’s men, passing over a few silver coins and thanking them for their protection and courtesy. At least they treated him with the respect due to a lord, a fact not lost on the ship’s captain.

  William was used to naval vessels and the merchant cog seemed sloppily kept to his eye. Ropes were not curled in neat loops and the deck was in need of a good scrub with rough stones. He sighed to himself as he leaned on the rail and looked out at the townsfolk moving busily around. Derry had greased palms as necessary for his journey, achieving wonders in just a short time. As well as his wife and son, William knew he was leaving good friends behind. He stayed on deck as the ship cast off, the first and second mate shouting from bow and stern to each other. The crew heaved the mainsail yard up the mast, chanting in rhythm with each pull. William looked up as the sail billowed above his head and the ship gathered speed.

  William saw the land recede from him and he drank in the sights, wanting to catch every last detail to sustain him. He knew he’d be almost sixty years of age by the time he saw those white cliffs again. His father had died at just forty-eight, killed in battle. It was a disturbing thought and he wondered if it would be his last glimpse of home, shivering as the wind picked up past the harbour, making the great sail creak.

  Out of the shelter of the coast, the open sea hissed under the prow and the cog rolled. William recalled his trip across the Channel with Margaret, when she had been little more than a girl. Her delight had been infectious and the memory of it made him smile.

  He was lost in a reverie of better times and at first he did not understand the sudden flurry of barefooted sailors racing from one end of the deck to the other. The first mate was roaring new orders and the ship heeled over on to a different tack, ropes and yards shifted by men who knew their trade. In confusion, William looked first at the crew, then turned to see where they were all staring.

  He gripped the rail hard at the sight of another ship surging out from a bay further along the coast. It was a warship, built high on the bow and stern with a low middle deck for boarding — no merchant vessel. A wave of nausea swept over William as all his plans, all the peace he had gathered like sand, were suddenly washed away. Heavily laden cogs like the Bernice made fine prizes for pirates. The channel between France and England was busy with traders at all times of year and pirates raided ships and coastal villages, slipping over from France, or even up from Cornwall to raid their own folk. If they were caught, the penalties were brutal and it was rare to see the cages empty in the big seaports.

  William’s sense of sick dismay only intensified as the other ship came on with its one great sail bellied taut. Despite its unwieldy fore and aft castles, it was narrower in the beam than the Bernice and clearly faster. It lunged at them like a hawk stooping on prey, trying to snatch them up.

  France was close enough to run for the coast. William could see it, though the wind was still rising and the continent was blurring in the distance. Of all of those on board, William knew there were few safe havens left in France. He grabbed a running sailor by the arm, almost sending the man tumbling.

  ‘Make for Calais,’ William ordered. ‘Tell the captain. It’s the only port with English ships.’

  The man gaped at him, then touched his forehead in acknowledgement before pulling away, racing back to his duties.

  The sky began to darken overhead, the weather lowering. Through the mist and wet, William could still catch glimpses of France ahead and England behind, the white cliffs of Dover just a dim line. The Bernice heeled right over under the weight of sail and the wind, but he could see it was not going to be enough. Cogs were built wide to carry cargo, great lumbering vessels that were the life’s blood of trade. The chasing ship was practically a greyhound compared to the Bernice, edging closer and closer as the waves grew rough and spray battered the decks of both vessels. William could taste salt on his lips as the Bernice hissed along and the captain roared orders to head for Calais.

  A dozen crewmen heaved at thick ropes to turn the yards, while others put their weight against the long beam of the whipstaff, porting it over to force
the ship on to the new course. The sail fluttered wildly as ropes were eased and the following ship seemed to leap closer. If they could have run on, it would have been a much longer chase, but one that ended with the Bernice crashing into the French coast. They had to try for Calais, though the turn stole almost all their speed.

  William felt his heart thumping as the Bernice slowed and creaked. He could see every detail of the ship pursuing them by then, just half a mile away over the grey waves and closing. He squinted at it, reading a name marked out in enormous gold letters. The Tower was an exceptionally well-appointed vessel for a pirate to command.

  The sail came taut once more in the wind and the merchant sailors gave a ragged cheer as they tied off ropes and rested, panting. The senior men would all own shares in the ship and its cargo. Their livelihood as well as their lives depended on the Bernice escaping. The waves seethed again under the prow as they cut through the dark waters. France was just a few miles away and William dared to hope. The other ship was still astern of them and there would surely be English ships closer to France, ready to fly out when they saw a valuable cog being chased down.

  An hour crept by, then another, with the wind growing in strength the whole time and clouds sinking towards the rough sea below. White caps appeared on the waves and cold salt water was flung through the air as mist. William knew the Channel could be capricious, sending squalls from nowhere. Yet the Bernice was solid and he thought she could keep her great sail out longer than the Tower. He began to mutter a prayer for a storm, watching the captain closely as the man stood at the bottom of his mainmast and looked up, waiting for the first sign of a rip. The wind became a gale and darker clouds scudded overhead, matching the ships struggling on the sea below. The sunlight faded quickly and William felt the first drops of rain even as he heard them drumming on the deck. He shivered, seeing the chasing ship plunge deep and come up with white and green seawater streaming from its prow.