Wars of the Roses 01 - Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  There was no fanfare to announce the king, not in his private chambers. No horns sounded. Derry saw a servant come like a mouse into a cage of lions, whispering to the king’s chancellor and then retire at speed. The chancellor cleared his throat to announce the royal presence and Derry closed his eyes briefly, sending up a prayer. He’d seen King Henry often over the previous two days and found him just as vague and blank as he had the morning Derry had rushed off to find William. The surprise had been to see Margaret bear up so well under the strain. For William’s sake, to save him, she’d put aside her fears. She’d given orders in her husband’s name as Derry instructed, trusting him. For the task of keeping William off the executioner’s block, they were allies to the end. He was only sorry Margaret could not attend the summoning. With the Neville lords and York watching, it would have been a sign of weakness to have the queen guide her husband. Yet the alternative was as bad, or worse. Derry bit his lip at the thought of Henry speaking to them. He’d risked treason himself in telling the king that he could not speak, not that night. Henry had agreed, of course, smiling and not seeming to understand a word. Yet there had been moments over the previous days when the king’s eyes sharpened, as if some part of his soul still struggled to rise above the seas that swamped him. Derry crossed his fingers as the king came in, new sweat breaking out over the old.

  A padded chair had been placed a few paces away from the right side of William, Lord Suffolk, so that Henry looked down the length of the room, seeing all those who had come at his royal command. Derry watched with his heart in his mouth as the king seated and settled himself, then looked up with amiable interest. The muttering and whispering lords fell silent at last and the king’s chancellor made his voice ring out.

  ‘His Excellent Grace: King Henry; by descent, title and grace of God, King of England and France, King of Ireland, Duke of Cornwall and Duke of Lancaster.’

  Henry nodded peaceably to the man and the chancellor swelled like a bladder as he opened a scroll with a flourish and read.

  ‘ “My lords, you have gathered at the king’s command to hear charges of high treason against William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk.” ’

  He paused as William knelt on the stone floor with difficulty, bowing his head. Derry saw York smother a smile and would have given his eye teeth to have that man alone to himself for an hour.

  The chancellor read the list. Half the charges related to the failed truce and the responsibility for the loss of English possessions in France. Derry had tried to strike some of the wilder accusations from the record, but that was one area where he had little influence. The scroll had been prepared by Tresham and Beaufort, no doubt with York looking over their shoulders and making suggestions. It was a damning list, even before the chancellor recited charges of secret meetings with the French king and lords, with the intention of usurping the English throne.

  Only the slow flush spreading across William’s face as he knelt showed he was listening intently to every word. Derry clenched his jaw as the chancellor read amounts in gold that William had apparently taken in return for his support. Anyone who knew him would have scoffed at Suffolk taking bribes of any kind. Even the idea that such amounts would have become part of the record was ludicrous. Yet as Derry looked around the chamber, serious men were shaking their heads as each article, each vile calumny, was read.

  ‘ “Be it known that on the twentieth of July, in the year of our Lord fourteen hundred and forty-seven, the accused conspired in the parish of Saint Sepulchre, in the ward of Farringdon, to facilitate a French invasion of these shores, with an aim to usurping the rightful throne of England. Be it also known …” ’

  It was not a trial. That was the only ray of light in the gloom, as far as Derry was concerned. He’d spent hours in argument with lawyers for Parliament and the Crown, but the king had the right to rule on a member of the peerage if the lord submitted to the king’s mercy. Yet William’s confession would stand, even when every man there knew how it had been obtained. The charges could not be completely revoked – that had been the deal hammered out in the small hours. To a degree, Derry had to accept Tresham’s claim that the country would rise in rebellion without a scapegoat for the loss of France.

  Cade’s rough army was poised to enter London, no doubt waiting to hear Suffolk’s fate with as much interest as any others in the kingdom. Many of Cade’s recruits had known William in France. It grated like sand between Derry’s teeth that none of them seemed to blame York for losing Maine and Anjou, though he had been in command at the time. Richard of York had been quick to accuse the king’s supporters and, in doing so, had escaped criticism himself.

  ‘Lord Suffolk has confessed to all charges,’ the chancellor finished, clearly enjoying his position at the heart of the drama that evening. He held up a scroll with a black ribbon in his other hand. Derry was only surprised the thing wasn’t spotted with blood after the injuries he’d seen.

  ‘I deny all charges, all treason!’ William growled suddenly.

  The silence was perfect in the chamber as all eyes fell on the kneeling man. Derry’s mouth went dry. He’d discussed this with William. Having the man recant his confession was not part of it.

  ‘You, er … you deny the charges?’ the chancellor said faintly, floundering.

  Even kneeling, even in manacles, William made an arresting figure as he raised his head and replied.

  ‘The charges are preposterous, the product of evil minds. I deny them utterly. I am innocent of treason. Yet I am brought low by scoundrels acting against my king and my country.’

  Derry wanted to shout for William to shut his mouth before he ruined them all. He saw York was smiling at the outburst, his eyes bright.

  ‘My lord Suffolk, are you now claiming your right to trial?’ the chancellor said.

  Derry saw York lean forward in anticipation. He wanted to shout out, but Derry had no real right even to be in that room. He dared not speak and only closed his eyes, waiting for William to respond.

  William glared round at them, then his massive head dipped and he sighed. ‘I do not. I submit to the king’s will and judgment in this. I trust in God’s grace and King Henry’s honour.’

  The chancellor mopped sweat from his high brow with a large green cloth.

  ‘Very well, my lord. It is then my duty to read the king’s judgment.’

  Many of the lords turned in surprise towards Henry, understanding that he would not speak and that the judgment had been prepared beforehand. York scowled and Derry held his breath in terror that Henry would sense the scrutiny and respond.

  The king looked around him, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. At a loss, he inclined his head and the chancellor took it as a signal to go on, holding up the third of his scrolls and unrolling it with a flourish.

  ‘ “Be witness to the king’s judgment against William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk, in the year of our Lord fourteen hundred and fifty.” ’ He paused to take another breath and wipe his brow once more. ‘ “For service past, the eight capital charges are dismissed by the king’s order and the king’s will.” ’

  There was a sudden barrage of sound from the gathered lords, led by York and Cardinal Beaufort as they barked angry responses. The chancellor wilted, but kept reading over the noise, his hands shaking visibly.

  ‘ “The remaining eleven charges, misprisions not criminal, are considered proven, insofar as the prisoner has confessed.” ’

  Another, greater growl came from the lords, and the chancellor looked helplessly at them, unable to go on. He did not have the authority to order silence and, though he looked to the king, Henry said nothing.

  Seeing the impasse, it was Somerset who called out, the wiry little earl standing with his chest out and head raised aggressively.

  ‘My lords, this is not a trial. This is certainly not a common tap-room! Will you barrack the king in his own chambers? Cease your noise.’

  Led by York’s furious whispering, some of them co
ntinued to shout and argue, though the majority accepted the rebuke and closed their mouths. The chancellor glanced in thanks to Lord Somerset, reaching once more for his cloth and wiping the shine from his face.

  ‘ “The sentence for these misprisions is banishment from these shores for the period of five years from today. You have our blessing for your patience. These papers signed and sealed in the year of our Lord fourteen hundred and fifty, Henry Rex.” ’

  The tumult died away at the speed of a candle being snuffed, falling to nothing as soon as the lords understood they had been listening to the words and orders of the king himself. In the moment of surprise, Derry stepped forward and used a heavy key to open the manacles around William’s wrists. His friend looked ill with relief. He stood slowly, rubbing his swollen hand and reminding those closest to him that he was yet a man of prodigious strength. His sword arm was undamaged and he flexed it in front of him, making a fist as he glared at York, Tresham and Beaufort.

  Derry reached out to take William’s arm. Without warning, his friend turned to face King Henry and a sudden tension stole across the room, with even York looking up. For such crimes and accusations, there had been no punishment but execution in the past. Yet a man who had confessed to treason stood within reach of the king. William was unarmed, but again they became aware of the bearlike strength in him and the king’s own frailty. Before anyone could move, William stepped forward, went down on one knee and bowed his head right to his chest.

  ‘I am sorry to have brought you grief, Your Royal Highness. If it please God, I will return to serve you again.’

  Henry frowned vaguely. For an instant his hand half-reached but then fell back. All the lords knelt as Henry rose from his seat, guided from their presence by the chancellor and his personal servants. He had not spoken a single word.

  William remained kneeling until the door closed behind the king. When he stood once more, there were tears in his eyes and he accepted Derry’s hand on his shoulder to lead him out. As they walked away through the corridors, they were passed by messengers running with the news to all those who had paid a few coins for it. William looked as if he had been struck, pale and stunned at the sentence he had been given.

  ‘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 befor
e 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.