Wars of the Roses 01 - Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  With an effort, she put such thoughts aside. She would meet her husband today. She would see his face. As the cart rocked back and forth, she prayed silently that he would not be ugly or deformed. William had promised her that Henry was handsome, but she knew he could say nothing else. Fear and hope mingled in equal measures and she could only watch the hedges pass and the black rooks flying. Her forehead itched where her maids had plucked it back, but she dared not scratch marks in the white powder and bit her lip against the irritation. Flowers had been woven into her hair and her face felt stiff with all the paints and perfumes that had been applied since she’d bathed at dawn. She tried not to breathe too hard against the confining panels of her dress in case she fainted.

  Margaret knew when they were growing close to the abbey of St Mary and St John the Evangelist because the local families had come out to see her pass, gathering on the road that led into the vast farmland owned by the monks. Apprentices had been given the day off from their labours in her honour and townsmen and -women had put on their church clothes just to stand and wait for the woman who would be queen of England. Margaret had a view of a cheering, waving crowd before her carriage swept past on to a drive that led for miles through woodland and fields laid in dark furrows.

  The well-wishers did not cross that invisible boundary, and as the road dipped, Margaret could see carriages ahead and behind, fourteen of them travelling together to the abbey church in the distance. Her heart hammered against the dress and she touched her hand to her chest to feel it race. Henry would be there, a twenty-three-year-old king. She looked past her sister and Frederick to strain her eyes for the first glimpse of him. It was pointless, she knew. King Henry would be already inside, warned by the sight of the carriages on the drive. He could well be waiting at the altar, with William at his shoulder.

  Margaret felt light-headed and feared she would faint before she could even arrive at the church. Seeing her distress, Yolande took out a fan and wafted cool air over her while Margaret sat back and breathed with her eyes closed.

  The abbey church was part of a much larger complex of buildings. On that day, the monks were not working in the fields, but Margaret saw fishponds, walled gardens and vineyards, as well as stables and a dozen other structures. She found herself getting out of the carriage, helped by Frederick, who raced round to take her hand.

  The carriages ahead had emptied and though many of the guests had gone inside, there was still a crowd at the church doors, smiling and talking amongst themselves. She saw Derry Brewer standing close to the Duke of York. Derry waved to her as Margaret swept forward with her sister and a gaggle of maids in tow. She saw him say something to York that made the man’s expression harden. As Margaret approached the church door, they all went into the gloom beyond, like geese ushered in by a goosegirl, so that she was alone with her sister and her maids.

  ‘Bless you for being here, Yolande,’ she said with feeling. ‘I would not have liked to stand alone.’

  ‘Pfui! It should have been Father, but he is away searching for his foolish titles once again. He is never satisfied. My Frederick says … No, that does not matter today. I only wish Mama could have stood here with us, but Father insisted she stay and run Saumur. You are in her prayers, Margaret. You can be sure of that. Are you ready to see your king? Are you nervous?’

  ‘I am … and I am, yes. I am dizzy with it. Just stay with me while I catch my breath, will you? This dress is too tight.’

  ‘You have grown since last summer, Margaret, that’s what it is. It was not too tight before. I see a bosom developing and I swear you are taller. Perhaps it’s true that English meat is good for you.’

  She winked as she said it and Margaret gasped and shook her head.

  ‘You are shocking, sister. To make such jokes when I am waiting to be married!’

  ‘Best time, I think,’ Yolande said cheerfully. She switched to English with a sparkle in her eyes. ‘Now will you bloody hell be married?’

  ‘That’s not how you say it,’ Margaret said, smiling. She took another breath as best she could and inclined her head to the monks standing at the door. Inside, bellows were pumped and the most complicated device in the world built up pressure. The first chords sounded across the church congregation and they turned almost as one to see the bride enter.

  Baron Jean de Roche was a happy man, though even brandy could not keep out the cold wind. Spring was coming, he could feel it. No one fought in winter. As well as being practically impossible to feed a marching army in the cold months, it was a brutal time to go to war. Hands went numb, rain soaked down and there was always a chance that your men would simply up and vanish in the night. He looked around at his little band of ruffian knights and smiled widely, showing his pink upper gum where he’d had all the teeth pulled. He’d hated those teeth. They’d hurt him so badly that he hated them even when they were gone. The day he’d agreed to have the pincer man yank them all had been one of the happiest of his adult life. A mouthful of blood and having to dip his bread in milk was a small price to pay for release from agony. He was certain his life had begun to improve from that day on, as if his teeth had been holding him back with all their poisons and swellings. He sucked in his top lip as he trotted on, folding it back along the gum and chewing the bristles. He’d had a few taken out below as well, but just the big ones at the back, where they’d rotted. He still had the teeth at the lower front and he had perfected a smile that revealed only that neat yellow row.

  Life was good for a man with healthy teeth, he thought, complacently. He reached back and patted the saddlebags behind his hip, enjoying the fatness of them. Life was also good for a man with the initiative to ride ahead of the army into Maine. De Roche had been amazed at the results of looting homes in Anjou. It seemed the English did nothing but amass stores of coins, like the greedy little merchants they all were. De Roche had seen knights made rich in a single day and the French lords had learned quickly that it was worth their while to search carts heading north away from them. Families tended to take their most valuable possessions and leave the rest. Why spend time smashing a house apart when those who knew had already taken the best pieces? The noblemen gave a portion of whatever they found to the king, of course, but that was exactly the problem, at least as far as de Roche was concerned. They could afford it. Those men were already rich and would be much richer by the time they finished taking back English farms and towns.

  His expression soured as he considered his own estate compared to theirs. His men could almost be described as hedge knights if not for his house colours. Just a year before, he’d been considering turning them all out before he became known as a hedge baron. He sucked his lips again at bitter memories. His family farms had all gone to pay debts, sliced away year by year until he had almost nothing left. He’d discovered cards then, introduced by a friend of his who had long since had his throat cut. De Roche thought of the colourful boards and wondered if there was anyone in Maine who could be persuaded to gamble with him. He’d had a run of bad luck, it was true, but now he had gold again, and he knew he understood the games better than most people he came across. With just a little change of fortune, he could double what his men had won for him, or even triple it. He smiled, showing just his bottom teeth. He’d buy back his father’s castle and turn the old boy out into the snow for all his sneering. That would be just the start.

  The road under his little group changed from a dirt track to cut stone, a sure sign that those ahead were wealthy. De Roche let his mount amble along, wondering whether it would be worth the risk to enter a town. He had only a dozen men with him, enough to take whatever they wanted from a lonely farm or a small village. Towns could sometimes afford to employ a militia and de Roche had no desire to get into a real fight. Yet he wasn’t a criminal, wanted for anything. He was merely the forward vanguard of the victorious French army. Some forty miles forward, before the rest of his countrymen could take all the best pieces. De Roche made a quick decision. He could at le
ast glance around at the local English merchants and decide then whether they’d make it too hot for his men.

  ‘Head into town,’ he called to the others. ‘We’ll have a little look and, if it’s quiet, see what we can find. If there’s a guardhouse, or a militia, we’ll find a good inn for the night like any other dusty travellers.’

  His men were weary after another day on the road, but they talked and laughed as they trotted along. Some of the gold and silver would make its way to them and they’d found a farmhouse with three sisters the night before. De Roche scratched his crotch at the thought, hoping he hadn’t picked up lice again. He hated having to get his groin shaved and singed. He’d gone first with the sisters, of course, as was his right. His men had stories from that encounter to last them for months and he chuckled as they became wilder in the telling. De Roche had insisted on burning the place as they left that morning. Living witnesses could cause him a few difficulties, but another blackened shell would be ignored by the army coming up behind. God knew, they’d created enough of them.

  He saw Albert angle his mount closer. The old man had been with de Roche’s family for as long as he could remember, as groundsman and horse trainer, usually, though de Roche could remember Albert running a few special errands for his father. Albert wore no armour, but he carried a long knife that was almost a sword and, like his father before him, de Roche had found him a useful man in rough country.

  ‘What is it, Albert?’ he asked.

  ‘I had an aunt near here when I was a boy. There’s a castle a few miles west, with soldiers.’

  ‘Well?’ de Roche said, glowering. It would not do to have a servant questioning his courage in front of the men.

  ‘Begging your pardon, milord. I just thought you should know it might be a little tougher than farmhouses and women.’

  De Roche blinked at the old man. Had that been an insult? He could not believe it, but Albert was positively glaring at him.

  ‘Do I have to remind you that this little trip is no more than the English will get from the king and his army? They could have left, Albert. Many of them already have, in fact. Those who remain are illegal, every man, woman and child. No! Considering they have rebelled against their own king’s wishes, they are traitors, Albert. We are doing God’s work.’

  As he spoke, his troop passed a farmer standing with his head bowed. The man’s cart was piled high with parsnips and a few of the men reached down and took a couple at a time. The peasant looked angry, but he knew better than to say anything. Somehow the sight appeased de Roche’s prickling outrage. He recalled that Albert had not taken his turn with the women the night before and decided the man was criticizing him.

  ‘Ride at the back, Albert. I’m not a child for you to wag your fingers at.’

  Albert shrugged and pulled his horse to the side to let the others pass. De Roche settled himself, still furious at the man’s insolence. That was one who would not be benefiting from the riches of Maine, he thought. When they turned back to the army, de Roche swore he’d leave Albert behind to beg for his food, with all the years he’d served the family to keep him warm.

  They reached the outskirts of the town with the sun already low in the west, a short winter’s day with a long night ahead before they saw it again. De Roche was tired and sweating by then, though his spirits rose at the sight of a painted inn sign swinging in the breeze. He and his men handed over their horses to stable lads, casting lots for which of their number would stay with the mounts while the others got a night’s sleep. De Roche led them inside, calling for wine and food in a loud voice. He did not notice the inn-owner’s child leave a few minutes later, belting off down the street into the town as if the devil himself was on his heels.

  12

  Margaret released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Two little boys had taken up station in front of her as she walked into the church, the sons of some noble family. One of them kept looking back as they walked in time with the organ music through the crowd to the carved oak screen and hidden altar. The boys were dressed in red and wore sprigs of dried rosemary wound and tied around their arms. Margaret could smell the scent of the herb as she followed them. The entire standing crowd seemed to be carrying dried flowers, or golden wheat sheaves kept back from the harvest. They rustled as she passed through them, turning to watch and smile and whisper comments.

  The boys and her maids stopped at the screen, so that only Yolande went through with her, giving her arm a squeeze as she too stepped aside and found her seat. Margaret saw Henry for the first time. Relief made her dizzy. Even through the haze of her veil, she could see he was not deformed, or even scarred. If anything, Henry was handsome, with an oval head, dark eyes and black hair that curled over his ears. Henry wore a simple gold crown and his wedding outfit was almost unadorned, a tunic of red that was belted at the waist and ended at his calves, where cream wool stockings covered his skin. Over it all was an embroidered cloak, patterned in gold thread and held with a heavy brooch on his shoulder. She saw that he wore a sword on his right hip, a polished line of silver chased in gold. The effect was one of understated simplicity – and then she saw him smile. She blushed, realizing she had been staring. Henry turned back to face the altar and she kept walking, forcing herself to a slow pace.

  The organ notes swelled and the gathered crowd chattered to each other, letting out their own breaths as the great doors to the fields were shut behind them. Very few could see the altar, but they had witnessed her arrival and they were content.

  Beyond the screen, the chancel was a much smaller space. Unlike the main church, there were chairs there and Margaret passed rows of richly attired lords and ladies. One or two were fanning themselves from habit or custom, though the air was cold.

  Margaret felt herself shivering as she reached Henry’s shoulder. He was taller than her, she noted with satisfaction. All the fears she had not even been able to admit to herself were washed away as the elderly abbot began to speak in sonorous Latin.

  She almost jumped when Henry reached out and lifted her veil, folding it back on to her hair. Margaret looked up as he stared in turn, suddenly aware that he had not seen her face in life before that day. Her heart pounded. Her shivering worsened, but somehow it felt as if she gave off enough heat to take the chill from the entire church. The king smiled again and some hidden part of her chest and stomach unclenched. Her eyes gleamed with tears so she could hardly see.

  The abbot was a stern man, or at least seemed so to Margaret. His voice filled the church as he asked if there were impediments, whether prior betrothals or consanguinity. Margaret watched as William handed over a papal dispensation, bound in gold ribbon. The abbot took it with a bow, though he had read it long before and only glanced formally at it before handing it over to one of his monks. Though they were cousins, he knew there was no blood shared between them.

  Margaret knelt when Henry knelt, rose when he rose. The Latin service was a peaceful, rhythmic drone that seemed to roll over and through her. When she looked up, she saw coloured light come through a window of stained glass, patterning the floor by the altar in bright greens and red and blue. Her eyes opened wide as she heard her own name. Henry had turned to her and, as she looked at him in wonder, he took her hand, his voice both warm and calm.

  ‘I take thee, Margaret of Anjou, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us depart, if Holy Church it will ordain. Thereto I plight thee my troth.’

  In something like panic, Margaret felt the eyes of the English lords and ladies fasten on her as she struggled to remember the words she had to say. Henry reached down to kiss her hand.

  ‘It is your turn now, Margaret,’ he whispered.

  The tension eased in her and the words came.

  ‘I take thee, Henry of England, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to be meek and obedient, i
n bed and at board, till death us depart, if Holy Church it will ordain. Thereto-I-plight-thee-my-troth.’ The last words came out in a rush and she felt a great joy that she had managed it without a mistake. She heard William chuckle and even the dour abbot smiled a little.

  Margaret stood very still as her new husband took her left hand and placed a ruby ring on the fourth finger. She felt dizzy again, still struggling to take a full breath in the confines of the dress. When the abbot told them to kneel and prostrate themselves, she might have fallen, if not for Henry’s arm on hers. A pure white cloth was placed over both their heads, draping itself down her back, so that for a moment she almost felt she was alone with her husband. As the Mass began, she sensed Henry turn towards her and looked back at him, tilting her head in silent question.

  ‘You are very beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘William told me I should say so, but it is true anyway.’

  Margaret began to reply, but when he reached over and took her hand once more, she found herself weeping in reaction. Henry looked sideways at her in blank astonishment as the abbot performed the final part of the service over their bowed heads.

  ‘If we do this, we don’t stop,’ Thomas said, leaning close to Baron Strange. ‘As soon as the French king hears there is fighting in Maine, he’ll come in fast and rough, with his blood up. They won’t dally in estates and vineyards any longer, sampling the wines and village girls. With spring on the way, there will be murder and destruction, and it won’t end until we’re all dead or we break the back of his men. Do you understand, milord baron? It won’t be enough to kill a few and vanish into the woods like Rob Hood or some outlaw. If we attack tonight, there’ll be no going home for any of us, not till it’s done.’