Wars of the Roses 01 - Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘Unless …’ York said. He paused as he stood staring out of the window over Westminster. ‘Unless the loss of France can be laid at the feet of the king himself, William. You and I both know the truth of it. Tell me, how many men came at your request to bolster your forces in Normandy? How many stood with you against the French king? Yet there are eight thousand soldiers in the counties around London, William, all to ease a king’s terror of rebellion. If those men had been allowed to cross to France when you needed them, do you think you would be here now? Would we have lost Normandy if you’d had twelve thousand in the field?’

  William glowered at York, anger building in him as he saw where the man was aiming his thrust.

  ‘Henry is my anointed king, my lord York,’ he said slowly and with force. ‘You will not have petty accusations from me, if that is what you’re after. It is not my place to judge the actions of the king of England, nor yours, nor this cardinal, his uncle, nor Tresham, for all his lawyer’s tricks. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ York said, turning to him with an odd smile. ‘I understand that there are only two paths, William. Either the king loses you, his most powerful supporter, or … he loses everything. Either way, the kingdom and my cause will be strengthened immeasurably. Face the truth, Suffolk! The king is a boy too weak and sickly to rule. I am not the first to say it and, believe me, it is being muttered now in every hamlet, town and city across England. The losses in France have only confirmed what some of us knew since he was a child. We waited, William! Out of respect and loyalty to his father and the Crown, we waited. And look where that has brought us!’ York paused, finding calm once again. ‘To this room, William, and to you. Bear the guilt on your own and die, or name your king as the architect of this failure. It is your choice and it matters not to me.’

  In the face of York’s poisonous triumph, William sagged, resting one hand on the table to support his weight.

  ‘I see,’ William said, his voice bleak. For all York’s words, he had no choice at all. He seated himself at the table. His hands trembled as they rested on the polished wood.

  ‘I will not confess to treasons I have not committed. I will not name my king, or any other man. Torture me if you must; it will make no difference. And may God forgive you, because I will not.’

  In exasperation, York gestured to the two soldiers. One of them crouched by his bag and began unrolling it, revealing the neat lines of pincers, awls and saws within.

  22

  More than thirty of the fifty-five lords of England had property around the centre of London, Derry knew. Given an hour or two, he could have listed each house, as well as the men and women he had working for him. Yet Somerset was William’s personal friend. More importantly, Derry knew he was in London that day, rather than his estates in the south-west. He’d had another Thames boatman come close to bursting his lungs to reach Somerset’s townhouse along the river, drawing up on the wide water-landing. Derry had almost got himself killed by Somerset’s guards there before he’d identified himself and raced with them through the gardens. Somerset had been writing letters and stood to listen with a quill held in his fingers. Though every passing moment was an agony, Derry had forced himself to explain clearly what he needed. Halfway through, the diminutive earl clapped him on the back and shouted for his stewards.

  ‘Tell me the rest on the way, Brewer,’ Somerset said briskly, walking down to the water-landing.

  The earl was forty-four years of age, with no spare flesh on his frame and the energy of a man twenty years younger. Derry had to scurry to keep up with him and despite the earl’s lack of height and amiable look, he noted how Somerset’s guards still jumped when he gave orders. The earl’s personal barge was being poled along the river barely an hour after Derry had arrived.

  They grounded it at Westminster dock and Derry found himself breathing hard as he counted the men Somerset had summoned. It looked like his entire personal guard. There were six men on the barge with them, while another dozen had been told to make their best speed to Westminster on the roads. They had run a good two miles around the bend of the river that flowed through London, plunging through filthy streets to arrive spattered and panting only a brief time after their master’s barge drew up.

  Derry was impressed, despite himself. Somerset was in a froth of indignation at the thought of a threat to his friend, and yet he turned to Derry with a questioning look as they strode towards the river gate of the palace.

  ‘Stay close, my lord, if you would,’ Derry said. ‘I will need your authority for this.’

  Having eighteen armed men at his back was satisfying and worrying at the same time. It was not beyond possibility that Parliament would react badly to an armed invasion of their sanctum. Derry felt his heart thump in anticipation as he approached the first guards, already yelling for their superiors and fumbling their pikes and swords. Somerset cracked his neck with a sharp gesture, his expression both confident and eager. The two men were from very different worlds, but with William de la Pole in danger, both of them were spoiling for a fight.

  Margaret heard her name called when she was in the middle of another furious conversation with the king’s physician. She broke off on the instant, rushing back to her husband’s rooms. She gaped as she saw Henry with his legs on the floor and two boots waiting to be put on. He had pulled a long white shirt over his bony chest and found woollen leggings.

  ‘Margaret? Can you help me with these? I can’t pull them on myself.’

  She knelt quickly, yanking the thick wool up his legs before taking up one of the boots and working his foot into it.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ she said, looking up at him. There were dark circles under his eyes, but he seemed more alert than she had seen him in days.

  ‘A little, I think. Derry was here, Margaret. He wanted me to come to Westminster.’

  Her face crumpled and she hid her expression by bowing her head and concentrating on the second boot.

  ‘I know, Henry. I was with you when he came. Are you well enough to rise?’

  ‘I think so. I can take a boat and that will not be much of a trial, though the river is cold. Would you ask my servants to bring blankets for me? I will need to be well wrapped against the wind.’

  Margaret finished pulling on the second boot and rubbed her eyes clear. Her husband put out an arm and she helped to raise him to his feet, tugging the leggings higher and fastening his belt. He looked thin and pale, but his eyes were clear and she could have wept just to see him standing. She saw a robe hanging on a hook across the room and fetched it for him, placing it around his shoulders. He patted her hand as it touched him.

  ‘Thank you, Margaret. You are very kind to me.’

  ‘You honour me. I know you are not well. To see you rise for your friend …’

  She broke off before the mingled sadness and joy overwhelmed her. Taking her husband’s arm, she went out into the corridor, surprising the guards as they came to attention.

  Master Allworthy heard the noise and came out of the next room along, holding some twisted piece of the contraption Margaret had kicked earlier on. His thunderous expression cleared into amazement as he saw the king. The doctor lowered himself to kneel on the stone floor.

  ‘Your Grace! I am so very pleased to see this improvement in you. Have you moved your bowels, Your Grace, if I may make so bold with such a question? Such an event will sometimes clear a confused mind. It was the green liquor, I am certain, as well as the wormwood tapers. Are you to take a turn in the gardens? I would not like you to exert yourself too much. Your Grace’s health is balanced on a hair. If I may suggest …’

  Henry seemed willing to listen to the babbling doctor for ever, but Margaret’s patience wore thin. She spoke over him.

  ‘King Henry is going to the river gate, Master Allworthy. If you’d step out of the way instead of blocking the entire corridor, we might get past you.’

  In response, the doctor tried to bow and press himself against
the wall at the same time. He could not help staring at the king as Margaret helped her husband along the corridor and she shuddered under that professional inspection. Perhaps her glare kept the man quiet; she neither knew nor cared. She and Henry descended the stairs and the king’s chamber steward came rushing to greet them.

  ‘Have the barge made ready,’ Margaret said firmly, before he could object. ‘And have blankets brought, as many as you can find.’

  For once, the steward did not reply, only bowing and retreating at speed. The news spread quickly that the king was about and the wing of the Tower seemed to fill with bustling servants carrying armfuls of thick cloth. Henry stared glassily as his wife brought him into the breeze. She felt him shiver and she took a blanket from a young woman heading for the royal barge, draping it over Henry’s shoulders. He clutched it to his chest, looking sick and frail.

  Margaret held his hand as he stepped on to the rocking barge and lowered himself on to the ornate bench seat on the open deck, unaware or uncaring as crowds began to gather on the banks all around. Margaret could see men waving their hats and the sound of cheering began to grow as the locals realized the royal family were coming out and could be seen. Servants piled more blankets around the king to keep him warm and Margaret found she too was shivering, so that she was grateful for the thick wool coverings. The bargemen cast off and the sweeps dipped into the current, taking them out on to the fast-flowing waters of the Thames.

  The journey was strangely peaceful, with just the sound of the oars and shouts from the banks as urchins and young men and women ran along with them, keeping pace as best they could. As they rounded the great bend in the river and sighted the Palace of Westminster and the docks there, Margaret felt Henry’s grip tighten on her small hand. He turned to her, wrapped in the layers of wool.

  ‘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.