Wars of the Roses 01 - Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘Stop fiddling around with the damned pot, Hallerton! And forget Tresham. Where is the king this morning?’

  ‘In his chambers here, sir,’ his servant replied, worried at the woolly dullness of his master. ‘He remains abed and his servants say he is still suffering with an ague. I believe his wife is with him, or close by.’

  ‘Good. Announce me there instead. I will need the fountainhead if I’m to find a way through for William. Go, man! I don’t need you to watch me piss.’

  Derry placed the pot on the blankets and sighed in relief as he urinated into it. Hallerton left quickly, calling for other servants to attend the spymaster. He raced down the steps of the White Tower and out across the open sward beyond, slowing only a fraction as he passed marching files of heavily armed soldiers. The Tower of London was a maze of buildings and paths and Hallerton was sweating by the time he reached the king’s personal chambers and announced the imminent arrival of his master to the servants there. He was still arguing with the steward of the royal bedchamber when Derry came up panting behind him.

  ‘Master Brewer!’ the king’s steward said loudly. ‘I have been explaining to your servant that His Royal Highness King Henry is unwell and cannot be disturbed.’

  Derry went past them both, simply pressing a hand on to the steward’s chest to hold him back against the wall. Two stern-looking soldiers watched his approach and stepped deliberately into his way. Derry had a sudden thought of Lord York attempting to reach the king in Windsor and he almost laughed.

  ‘Step aside, lads. I have standing orders to be allowed to reach the king, day or night. You know me and you know that is true.’

  The soldiers shifted uncomfortably. They looked past Derry to the king’s steward, who folded his arms in clear refusal. It was an impasse and Derry turned in relief at the sound of a woman’s voice on the floor above.

  ‘What goes on? Is that Master Brewer?’ Margaret called as she came halfway down a set of oak stairs, peering at the group of men gathered there. She was barefoot, dressed in a long white sleeping robe with her hair tousled. After a moment of dull shock, all the men looked at their boots rather than stare at the queen in such a state of undress.

  ‘Your Highness, I don’t …’ the king’s steward began, still looking down.

  Derry spoke over him, suddenly feeling that time pressed on them all.

  ‘Suffolk has been arrested, my lady. I need to speak to the king.’

  Margaret’s mouth opened in surprise and the king’s steward stopped talking. The queen saw the worry in Derry and made a quick decision.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ Margaret said in clear dismissal. ‘Come, Master Brewer. I will wake my husband.’

  Derry was too concerned even to enjoy his small victory over the steward and clattered up the steps behind Margaret. As they walked down a long corridor, he passed rooms that stank of bitter chemicals. Derry shuddered as the air seemed to thicken. The king’s chambers smelled of sickness and he sipped his breath to avoid drawing in too much of the bad air.

  ‘Wait here, Master Brewer,’ Margaret said. ‘I will see if he is awake.’

  She stepped into the king’s personal rooms and Derry was left to kick his heels in the corridor. He noticed two more soldiers watching him suspiciously from one end of it, but Margaret’s permission put him beyond their reach in all ways. He ignored them while he waited.

  By the time the door opened again, Derry had readied his arguments. They died in his throat as he saw the pale figure of the king sitting up in bed, his thin white chest wrapped in a cloak. Derry could still remember the bull-like frame of the boy’s father and sadness came in a surge as he closed the door and faced King Henry.

  Derry knelt, with his head bowed. Margaret stood watching him, her hands writhing together as she waited for Henry to acknowledge his spymaster. When the silence stretched unbroken, it was she who spoke at last.

  ‘Please stand, Master Brewer. You said Lord William has been arrested. On what charge?’

  Derry rose slowly and dared to step closer. Without looking away from the king, he replied, searching for some spark of life that would show Henry was aware and understood.

  ‘For high treason, my lady. Cardinal Beaufort’s men arrested him when he came back from Kent last night. I’m certain Tresham is behind it. He said as much to me a few days ago. I told him then that it was a charge that could lead only to disaster.’ He stepped closer still, within arm’s reach of the king. ‘Your Grace? We cannot let William de la Pole go to trial. I feel York’s hand in this. Tresham and Beaufort will put Lord Suffolk to the question. On such a charge, there are no protections. They will insist on proving the truth with hot irons.’

  He waited a beat, but Henry’s eyes remained blank and guileless. For an instant, Derry believed he saw something like compassion, though he could equally have imagined it.

  ‘Your Grace?’ he said again. ‘I fear this is a plot aimed at the royal line itself. If they force Lord Suffolk to reveal the details of the truce in France, he will say the truth, that it was by royal order. After the losses there, such an admission will aid their cause, Your Grace.’ He took a slow breath, forcing himself to ask a question that shamed him. ‘Do you understand, Your Grace?’

  For a time, he thought the king would not respond, but then Henry sighed and spoke, his voice slurred.

  ‘William would not betray me, Master Brewer. If the charge is false, he should be released. Is that the truth?’

  ‘It is, Your Grace! They seek to blame and kill Lord Suffolk, to placate the mobs of London. Please. You know William cannot be put to trial.’

  ‘No trial? Very well, Master Brewer. I know …’

  The king’s voice faded and he stared with dull eyes. Derry cleared his throat, but the face remained utterly still and slack, as if its guiding spirit had been snuffed.

  ‘Your Grace?’ Derry said, glancing up at Margaret in confusion.

  She shook her head, tears filling her eyes so that they shone.

  The moment passed and Henry seemed to return, blinking and smiling as if nothing had happened.

  ‘I am weary now, Master Brewer. I would like to sleep. The learned doctor says I must sleep if I am to be well again.’

  Derry looked at Margaret and saw her anguish as she gazed down on her husband. It was a moment of shocking intimacy and it surprised him to see something like love there as well. For a moment, their eyes met.

  ‘What do you need from your king, Master Brewer?’ Margaret asked softly. ‘Can he order William’s release?’

  ‘He could, if they would honour it,’ Derry said, rubbing his eyes. ‘I don’t doubt the order will be delayed, or William taken to some dark place where I can’t reach him. In Westminster, Tresham and Beaufort have a great deal of power, if only because Parliament pays the guards. Please, my lady, let me think for a moment. It is not enough to send a written order to free him.’

  He hated to speak of Henry while the man himself sat there and watched him like a trusting child, but there was no help for it.

  ‘Is His Royal Highness well enough to travel? If the king took a barge to Westminster, he could walk into the cells and no one would dare to stop him. We could free William today, before they have done too much harm.’

  To his sorrow, Margaret shook her head, reaching down to touch Derry’s shoulder, then drawing him aside. Henry’s head turned to watch them, smiling innocently.

  ‘He has … suffered this … vagueness for days now. He is as well as I have seen him, at this moment,’ Margaret whispered. ‘There has to be some other way to get William out of their clutches. What about Lord Somerset? Is he not in London? He and William are friends. Somerset would not allow William to be tortured, no matter what charges they have brought.’

  ‘I wish it were that simple. They have him, Your Grace! I can hardly believe he was such a fool as to give himself up to them, but you know William. You know his sense of honour and his pride. I gave him the chance to run, but instead h
e came meekly, trusting that his captors were men of honour themselves. They are not, my lady. They will either bring down a powerful lord who supports the king, or … the king himself. I don’t know yet exactly what they intend, but William …’

  His voice trailed off as a fresh thought struck him.

  ‘There is a way to avoid a trial, I think! Wait … yes. They cannot put him to the question if he admits guilt immediately, to all the charges.’

  Margaret’s brow furrowed as she listened.

  ‘But does that not play into their hands, Master Brewer? That is surely what this Tresham and Cardinal Beaufort want!’

  To her confusion, she saw Derry smile, his eyes glittering. It was not a pleasant expression.

  ‘It will do for now. It will give me a little more time and that is what I lack most. I have to find where they have put him. I have to reach him. Your Highness, thank you. I will fetch Lord Somerset from his home. I know he will help me and he has his own men-at-arms. Only pray that William has not been tortured already, for his honour and his damned pride.’

  He knelt again at the bedside of his sovereign, bowing his head to address Henry once more.

  ‘Your Grace? Your palace at Westminster is but a short boat’s journey away. It would help William if you were there. It would help me.’

  Henry blinked at him.

  ‘No beer from you, Brewer! Eh? Doctor Allworthy says I must sleep.’

  Derry closed his eyes in frustration.

  ‘As you say, Your Grace. If it pleases you, I will leave now.’

  King Henry waved a hand and Margaret saw Derry’s face had grown pale and strained as he bowed slowly to her and then clattered out of the room at a run.

  In the Jewel Tower, across the road from the Palace of Westminster, William paced the room, making the thick oak boards creak with every step. The room was cold and bare beyond a table and chair placed for the light to fall across it. Some perverse part of him felt it was only right that he should be confined in such a way. He had been unable to stop the French army. Though his men had butchered or maimed thousands of them, they’d still been forced back to Calais, step by bloody step. Before he’d left, he’d seen his men winching up the Calais gates, closing the ancient portcullis and lining the walls with archers. William smiled wearily to himself. At least he’d saved the archers. The rest fell on his head. He had not resisted when Tresham’s men came to arrest him. His guards had touched their swords in question but he’d shaken his head and gone quietly. A duke had protections from the king himself and William knew he would have the chance to deny the charges against him.

  Staring out of the window, he could see both the king’s palace and the ancient abbey, with its octagonal Chapter House. The Commons met there, or in the Painted Chamber in the palace. William had heard talk of giving them some permanent place for their debates, but there were always more pressing issues than warm seats for men from the shires. He rubbed his temples, feeling tension and not a little fear. Only a blind man would have missed the anger and threat of violence he’d seen ever since touching the land of his birth. He’d ridden fast through Kent, at times in the same tracks as large bodies of soldiers. When he’d stopped for the night at a crossroads inn, he’d heard nothing but stories of Jack Cade and his army. The owners had thrown hostile glances William’s way all evening, but whether he’d been recognized or not, no one had dared to interrupt his progress back to the capital.

  Turning away from the view, William resumed his pacing, clasping his hands tightly behind his back. The charges were a farce to anyone who knew what had truly gone on that year and the one before. He was certain they would not stand, not once the king was informed. William wondered if Derry Brewer had heard of his confinement. After the warning he’d sent, it amused William to think of Derry’s disgust at his decision to come home anyway, but there had been no real choice. William straightened his back. He was the commander of English soldiers in France and a duke of the Crown. For all the disasters he’d witnessed, nothing changed that. He found himself thinking of his wife, Alice. She would know nothing except the worst rumours. He wondered if his captors would let him write to her as well as to his son, John. He did not want them to worry.

  William paused in his slow tread as he heard men’s voices on the floors below. His mouth firmed into a hard line and the knuckles showed white on his clasped hands. He stood waiting at the top of the stairs, almost as if he were guarding the room. Without conscious thought, his right hand moved to clutch at the empty space where his sword would usually sit.

  Richard of York led two other men up the stairs with boyish energy. He paused with his hand on the railing at the sight of Suffolk standing to face them as if he might attack at any moment.

  ‘Calm yourself, William,’ York said softly as he came into the room. ‘I told you in France you’d been given a poisoned cup. Did you think I would vanish quietly to Ireland while great events played themselves out in my absence? Hardly. I’ve been busy these last few months. I believe you have been busier still, though not perhaps with such good results.’

  York crossed the room to stare out at the rising sun and the mists burning off around Westminster. Behind him, Sir William Tresham and Cardinal Beaufort stepped into the tower space. York waved two fingers in their direction without looking round.

  ‘You know Tresham and Beaufort, of course. I suggest you listen to what they have to say, William. That is my best advice to you.’

  York smiled thinly, enjoying the view. There was something about high places that had always pleased him, as if God were closer than to men on the ground below.

  William had noticed York’s sword, of course, as well as the bollock dagger he wore thrust through his belt, with a polished pair of carved wooden testicles holding it steady. It was a stabbing blade, long and thin. William doubted York was fool enough to let him come within reach of either weapon, but he judged the distances even so. Neither Tresham nor Cardinal Beaufort was armed as far as he could see, but William knew he was as much a prisoner as any wretch in the cells of Westminster or the Tower. The thought made him look up from his musing.

  ‘Why have I not been taken to the Tower of London? On charges of high treason? I wonder, Richard, if it is because you know these accusations sit on weak foundations. I have done nothing on my own. It was never possible for one man to arrange a truce with France, however it turned out.’ His mind flashed to Derry Brewer and he shook his head, sick of all the games and promises.

  No one answered him. The three men stood patiently until two heavy-set soldiers trudged up the stairs. They wore mail and grubby tabards, as if they had been called from other duties. William noticed with distaste that they carried a stained canvas sack between them. It clinked as they rested it on the wooden floor and then stood to attention.

  Cardinal Beaufort cleared his throat and William turned to the man, hiding his distaste. The king’s great-uncle looked the part, with his shaven pate and long, white fingers held together as if in prayer. Yet the man had been lord chancellor to two kings and was descended himself from Edward the Third, through John of Gaunt. Beaufort had been the one who sentenced Joan of Arc to death by fire and William knew there was no kindness in the old man. He suspected that of the three, Beaufort was his true captor. The presence of York was a clear statement of the cardinal’s loyalties. William could not keep a sneer from his face as Beaufort spoke in a voice made soft by decades of prayer and honey wine.

  ‘You stand accused of the most serious crimes, Lord William. I would have thought an aspect of humility and penance would suit you more than this feigned blustering. If you are brought to trial, I am sorry to say I do not doubt the outcome. There are too many witnesses willing to speak against you.’

  William frowned as the three men exchanged glances before Beaufort went on. They’d discussed his fate before, that much was obvious. He tensed his jaw, determined to resist their conspiracy.

  ‘Your name appears on all the papers of state, my lo
rd,’ Beaufort said. ‘The failed truce, the original marriage papers from Tours, the orders to defend Normandy against French incursion. The people of England cry out for justice, Lord Suffolk – and your life must answer for your treasons.’

  The cardinal had that white softness of flesh William had seen before, from a life of cloisters and the Mass. Yet the black eyes were hard as they weighed him and found him wanting. He stared back, letting his contempt show. Beaufort shook his head sadly.

  ‘What a bad year it has been, William! I know you for a good man, a pious man. I wish it had not come to this. Yet the forms must be observed. I will ask you to confess to your crimes. You will no doubt refuse and then, I am afraid, my colleagues and I will retire. You will be secured to that chair and these two men will persuade you to sign your name to the mortal sin of treason.’

  Listening to the soft voice drone on, William swallowed painfully, his heart pounding. His certainties were crumbling. York was smiling wryly, not looking at him. Tresham at least looked uncomfortable, but there was no doubting their resolve. William could not help looking over to the canvas sack as it sat there, dreading his first sight of the tools within.

  ‘I demand to speak to the king,’ William said, pleased that his voice came out calm and apparently unafraid.

  When Tresham replied, the old lawyer’s voice was as dry as if he was discussing a difficult point from the statutes.

  ‘I’m afraid a charge of high treason does not allow that, my lord,’ he said. ‘You will appreciate that a man who has conspired against the Crown can hardly be allowed to approach the Crown. You must first be put to the question. When every detail … and all your confederates have been named, you will sign the confession. You will then be bound over for trial, though as you know it will be no more than a formality. The king will not be involved at any stage, my lord, unless of course he chooses to attend your execution.’