Wars of the Roses 01 - Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘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.

  ‘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?’

  With a sick sense of inevitability, Derry saw where the man was prodding him. He spoke quickly to head him off.

  ‘The marriage in France was at the king’s own request, the terms agreed by His Royal Highness to the last drop of ink. The royal seal sits secure upon it all, Sir William. Will you be the man to lay your accusations at the king’s feet? I wish you luck. Royal approval is immunity enough, I think, for the disasters you mention. I do not deny the lost territories and I regret the loss of every farm and holding there, but this scrabbling-around for a culprit, a scapegoat, is beneath the dignity of Parliament or its Speaker. Sir William, there are times when England triumphs, and others when … she fails. We endure and we go on. It behoves us ill to look back and point fingers, saying “Ah, that should not have happened. That should not have been allowed.” Such a perspective is granted only to men staring backwards, Sir William. For those of us with the will to go forward, it is as if we walk blindfolded into a dark room. Not every false step or stumble can be judged after the moment has passed, nor should it be.’

  Sir William Tresham looked amused as Derry spoke. The old lawyer brought his gaze down from on high and Derry felt pierced by eyes that saw and understood too much.

  ‘By your reasoning, Master Brewer, there would never be punishment for any misdeeds! You would have us shrug our shoulders and put all failures down to luck or fate. It is an intriguing vision and, I must say, an interesting insight into your mind. I almost wish the world could work like that, Master Brewer. Sadly, it does not. Those who have brought about the ruination and deaths of thousands must in turn be brought to justice! There must be justice and it must be seen to be done!’

  Derry found himself breathing heavily, his fists curling and uncurling in frustration at his sides.

  ‘And the king’s protection?’ he demanded.

  ‘Why, it extends only so far, Master Brewer! When riots and vile murders spread across the country, I suspect even the king’s protection has its limits. Would you have those responsible for such destruction go unpunished? The loss of Crown lands in France? The butchery of men of high estate? If so, you and I must differ.’

  Derry narrowed his eyes, wondering again at the peculiar timing of the summons that had snatched him up and borne him across London to Westminster.

  ‘If my name is nowhere mentioned, why am I here?’ he demanded.

  To his irritation, Tresham chuckled in what looked like genuine pleasure.

  ‘I am surprised you did not ask that question at the start, Master Brewer. A suspicious man might find fault in you taking so long to reach this point.’

  Tresham stood up and looked out of the window himself. Close by the river, the great bell chimed at that moment, struck twice within to let all men know that it was two hours past noon. Tresham clasped his hands behind his back as if he lectured students of the law and Derry’s heart sank at the man’s unnerving confidence.

  ‘You are an intriguing fellow, Master Brewer. You fought as a king’s man in France, some sixteen years ago, with some distinction I am told. You found service as a runner and an informant for old Saul Bertleman after that. Risky occupations both, Master Brewer! I have even heard talk of you fighting in the rookeries, as if both violence and peril are things you crave. I knew Saul Bertleman for many years, are you aware? I would not say we were friends, exactly, just that I learned to admire the quality of information he could provide. Yet the aspect of him that remains in my mind was perhaps his greatest virtue: caution. Your predecessor was a cautious man, Master Brewer. Why such a man would choose you to follow him is beyond me.’

  Tresham paused to observe the effect of his words. His delight at having a captive audience was vastly irritating, but there was nothing Derry could do but endure it.

  ‘I expect he saw things you don’t,’ Derry replied. ‘Or perhaps you didn’t know him as well as you thought.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that is possible,’ Tresham said, his doubts clear. ‘From the first moment I began looking into this farrago, this unspeakable mess of vanity and truces and arrogance, your name has been whispered to me. Honest men will breathe it from behind their hands, Master Brewer, as if they fear you would learn they have spoken to me, or to my men. Whatever the truth of your own involvement, it seems but the merest common sense to keep you under my eye while I send men to arrest a friend of yours.’

  Derry felt a cold hand clutch his innards. His mouth worked but no words came. Tresham could hardly contain his satisfaction as he smiled in the direction of the clock tower.

  ‘Lord Suffolk should be arriving at Portsmouth today, Master Brewer, while the ragged survivors of his army lick their wounds in Calais. The reports are not good, though I dare say I do not have to tell you that.’

  Tresham gestured to the papers on the desk, the corners of his mouth turning down in something like regret.

  ‘Your name may not be mentioned here, Master Brewer, but that of William de la Pole, Lord Suffolk, is on almost every one. You ask why you are here? It was the message of those whispering voices, Master Brewer. They warned me that if I were to set out nets, I should first be sure you were not there to cut them. I believe that task has been accomplished by now. You may leave, unless of course you have any further questions. No? Then speak the word “Fisherman” to the guards below.’ Tresham chuckled. ‘A foolish conceit, I know, but if you give them the word, they will let you pass.’

  He spoke the last words to empty air as Derry clattered down the steps. He’d lost the best part of a day being held at Tresham’s pleasure. His thoughts were wild as he ran across the road and hard along the outer edge of the palace, heading down to the ferry boats on the river. The Tower of London was three miles off, right round the bend of the Thames. He had men there who could be sent to the coast on fast horses. As he ran, he laughed nervously to himself, his eyes bright. Sir William bloody Tresham was a dangerous enemy to have, there was no
doubt about it. Yet, for all his cleverness, Tresham had been wrong in just one thing. William de la Pole wasn’t coming to Portsmouth, two days’ ride and south-west of the city of London. He was coming to Folkestone in Kent, and Derry was the only one who knew it.

  He was out of breath by the time he reached the landing stage, where ferries for members of Parliament waited at all times of the day and night. Derry pushed past an elderly gentleman as he was being helped down, leaping aboard the narrow scull and making its owner curse as the vessel lurched and almost went over.

  ‘Take me to the Tower,’ he said over the ferryman’s protest. ‘A gold noble if you row like your house is on fire.’

  The man’s mouth shut fast then. He abandoned the old man he’d been helping and touched his forehead briefly before jumping down and sweeping them out on to the dark waters.

  ‘I bloody hate fighting in mist and rain,’ Jack Cade said as he walked. ‘Your hands slip, your feet slip, bowstrings rot and you can’t see the enemy worth a damn before he’s on you.’

  Paddy grunted at his shoulder, hunched and shivering as they walked in line. Despite Jack’s irritation at the downpour, he supposed it was some sort of a blessing. He doubted the sheriff of Kent had many archers at his disposal. It was a valuable talent and those who had it were all in France for better pay, getting themselves slaughtered. If the king’s officers in Kent had even a dozen crossbows between them, they’d be lucky, but in heavy rain the strings stretched and the range was reduced. If Jack hadn’t been miserable, sodden and frozen, he might have thanked God for the rain. He didn’t, though.

  Paddy’s outlook was, if anything, slightly worse. He had always been suspicious of good luck in any form. It didn’t seem to be the natural order of things and he was usually happier when his fortunes were bad. Yet they’d marched through Kent almost without incident, from Maidstone on. The king’s sheriff hadn’t been in the county seat when they came looking for him. Cade’s army had caught a few of his bailiffs around the jail and amused themselves hanging them before freeing the prisoners and burning the place down. Since then, they’d walked like children in the Garden of Eden, with neither sight nor sound of the king’s soldiers. With every day of peace, Paddy’s mood sank further into his boots. It was all very well spending the daylight practising with farm tools in place of weapons, but there would come a reckoning and a retribution, he was certain. The king and his fine lords couldn’t allow them to roam the countryside at will, taking and burning whatever they wanted. Only the thought that they were not alone kept Paddy’s spirits up. They’d heard reports of riots in London and the shires, all sparked off by the righteous grievances of families coming home from France. Paddy prayed each night that the king’s soldiers would be kept busy somewhere else, but in his heart of hearts, he knew they were coming. He’d had a grand few weeks in the Kentish Freemen, but he expected tears and the weather suited his gloom.