Wars of the Roses 01 - Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘Yet I am not talking in whispers, Sir William! This is no plot, no secret cabal. Only a discussion. My blood is good, my line is good. The king has been married now for years yet filled no womb. In such a time of upheaval, I think the country needs to know it has a strong line in waiting, if his seed is weak. Yes, I think so, Tresham. Prepare your papers, your law. I will allow my name to go forward as heir to the throne. What I have seen tonight has convinced me it is the right thing to do.’

  Tresham saw from the satisfied smile on Salisbury that it was not the first time they had discussed the subject. He had a sense that all the men there had been waiting only for his arrival to spring the conversation on him and gauge his response.

  ‘My lord York, I agree. For the good of the country, there must be an heir. Of course, any such agreement would be void if the queen conceives.’

  ‘Of course,’ York replied, showing his teeth. ‘Yet we must be prepared for all outcomes, Sir William. As I discovered tonight, it is good to have plans in place, no matter the weave of events.’

  24

  William, Lord Suffolk, stood on the white cliffs above the harbour of Dover. Somerset’s men waited respectfully a little way off, understanding perhaps that an Englishman might like a moment of quiet reflection before he left his home for five years of banishment.

  The air was clean after the stews and stenches of London. There was a touch of spring warmth to it, even at such a height. William was pleased he’d stopped. He could see the merchant ship waiting in the harbour, but he just stood, and looked out across the sea, and breathed. The massive fortification of Dover Castle could be seen over on his right. He knew William the Conqueror had burned it, then paid for its restoration, a mixture of terror and generosity that was typical of the man. The French had burned the entire town just a century before. Memories went a long way back on that piece of coast. William smiled at the thought, taking comfort from it. The locals had rebuilt after disasters far worse than the one that had befallen him. They had stood in ashes and set to, building homes once more. Perhaps he would do the same.

  He was surprised to find his mood growing light as he drew in the soft air. So many years of responsibility had not seemed a weight. Yet losing it made him feel free for the first time in as long as he could remember. He could no longer change anything. King Henry had other men to support him and guide him through. While Derry Brewer lived and schemed, there was always hope.

  William knew he was making the best of ill fate, a trait he shared with the phlegmatic people of the town below. Life was not a walk in the Garden of Eden. If it had been, William knew he was the sort to look around and build himself a damned house. He’d never been idle and the thought of how to fill his years in Burgundy was a prickling worry. Duke Philip was a good man to have made the offer, and was at least no friend of the French king. The irony of being accused of treason was that William had far more friends in France than England, at least at that moment. Travelling under papers granting Duke Philip’s personal protection, he would pass through the heart of France, stopping for a time in Paris before heading on to his new home.

  William worked the tip of his boot into the green turf, down to the chalk below. Yet his roots were there, his soul in the chalk. He brushed roughly at his eyes, hoping the men had not seen the strength of emotion that washed through him.

  William released a breath, clearing his lungs.

  ‘Come on, lads,’ he said, walking back to his horse. ‘The tide won’t wait for us or any man.’

  He had found a way to mount without jarring his arm too badly and he struggled into the saddle and took the reins in his good hand. They made their way down paths and a solid road to the dock front. Once again, William could feel hostile gazes on him as he heard his name whispered, though he thought he must have been a day ahead of the news. He kept his head high as he was introduced to the merchant captain and oversaw the unloading of the supplies Derry had provided. It was only enough to keep a man of his station for a few weeks at most. William knew he would have to send to his wife for both funds and clothes. Burgundy was part of the French mainland, a world away and yet painfully close to home. He dismissed Somerset’s men, passing over a few silver coins and thanking them for their protection and courtesy. At least they treated him with the respect due to a lord, a fact not lost on the ship’s captain.

  William was used to naval vessels and the merchant cog seemed sloppily kept to his eye. Ropes were not curled in neat loops and the deck was in need of a good scrub with rough stones. He sighed to himself as he leaned on the rail and looked out at the townsfolk moving busily around. Derry had greased palms as necessary for his journey, achieving wonders in just a short time. As well as his wife and son, William knew he was leaving good friends behind. He stayed on deck as the ship cast off, the first and second mate shouting from bow and stern to each other. The crew heaved the mainsail yard up the mast, chanting in rhythm with each pull. William looked up as the sail billowed above his head and the ship gathered speed.

  William saw the land recede from him and he drank in the sights, wanting to catch every last detail to sustain him. He knew he’d be almost sixty years of age by the time he saw those white cliffs again. His father had died at just forty-eight, killed in battle. It was a disturbing thought and he wondered if it would be his last glimpse of home, shivering as the wind picked up past the harbour, making the great sail creak.

  Out of the shelter of the coast, the open sea hissed under the prow and the cog rolled. William recalled his trip across the Channel with Margaret, when she had been little more than a girl. Her delight had been infectious and the memory of it made him smile.

  He was lost in a reverie of better times and at first he did not understand the sudden flurry of barefooted sailors racing from one end of the deck to the other. The first mate was roaring new orders and the ship heeled over on to a different tack, ropes and yards shifted by men who knew their trade. In confusion, William looked first at the crew, then turned to see where they were all staring.

  He gripped the rail hard at the sight of another ship surging out from a bay further along the coast. It was a warship, built high on the bow and stern with a low middle deck for boarding – no merchant vessel. A wave of nausea swept over William as all his plans, all the peace he had gathered like sand, were suddenly washed away. Heavily laden cogs like the Bernice made fine prizes for pirates. The channel between France and England was busy with traders at all times of year and pirates raided ships and coastal villages, slipping over from France, or even up from Cornwall to raid their own folk. If they were caught, the penalties were brutal and it was rare to see the cages empty in the big seaports.

  William’s sense of sick dismay only intensified as the other ship came on with its one great sail bellied taut. Despite its unwieldy fore and aft castles, it was narrower in the beam than the Bernice and clearly faster. It lunged at them like a hawk stooping on prey, trying to snatch them up.

  France was close enough to run for the coast. William could see it, though the wind was still rising and the continent was blurring in the distance. Of all of those on board, William knew there were few safe havens left in France. He grabbed a running sailor by the arm, almost sending the man tumbling.

  ‘Make for Calais,’ William ordered. ‘Tell the captain. It’s the only port with English ships.’

  The man gaped at him, then touched his forehead in acknowledgement before pulling away, racing back to his duties.

  The sky began to darken overhead, the weather lowering. Through the mist and wet, William could still catch glimpses of France ahead and England behind, the white cliffs of Dover just a dim line. The Bernice heeled right over under the weight of sail and the wind, but he could see it was not going to be enough. Cogs were built wide to carry cargo, great lumbering vessels that were the life’s blood of trade. The chasing ship was practically a greyhound compared to the Bernice, edging closer and closer as the waves grew rough and spray battered the decks o
f both vessels. William could taste salt on his lips as the Bernice hissed along and the captain roared orders to head for Calais.

  A dozen crewmen heaved at thick ropes to turn the yards, while others put their weight against the long beam of the whipstaff, porting it over to force the ship on to the new course. The sail fluttered wildly as ropes were eased and the following ship seemed to leap closer. If they could have run on, it would have been a much longer chase, but one that ended with the Bernice crashing into the French coast. They had to try for Calais, though the turn stole almost all their speed.

  William felt his heart thumping as the Bernice slowed and creaked. He could see every detail of the ship pursuing them by then, just half a mile away over the grey waves and closing. He squinted at it, reading a name marked out in enormous gold letters. The Tower was an exceptionally well-appointed vessel for a pirate to command.

  The sail came taut once more in the wind and the merchant sailors gave a ragged cheer as they tied off ropes and rested, panting. The senior men would all own shares in the ship and its cargo. Their livelihood as well as their lives depended on the Bernice escaping. The waves seethed again under the prow as they cut through the dark waters. France was just a few miles away and William dared to hope. The other ship was still astern of them and there would surely be English ships closer to France, ready to fly out when they saw a valuable cog being chased down.

  An hour crept by, then another, with the wind growing in strength the whole time and clouds sinking towards the rough sea below. White caps appeared on the waves and cold salt water was flung through the air as mist. William knew the Channel could be capricious, sending squalls from nowhere. Yet the Bernice was solid and he thought she could keep her great sail out longer than the Tower. He began to mutter a prayer for a storm, watching the captain closely as the man stood at the bottom of his mainmast and looked up, waiting for the first sign of a rip. The wind became a gale and darker clouds scudded overhead, matching the ships struggling on the sea below. The sunlight faded quickly and William felt the first drops of rain even as he heard them drumming on the deck. He shivered, seeing the chasing ship plunge deep and come up with white and green seawater streaming from its prow.

  Their pursuers were no more than a few hundred yards off the stern by then. William could see men in chain mail and tabards standing on the open deck. There were perhaps two dozen of them, no more, though they carried swords and axes enough to board against a merchant crew. He swallowed as he saw archers come to the high wooden castle built up behind the prow. With both ships rising and falling and the wind blowing in gusts, he wished them luck, then watched in dismay as three longbows bent and sent arrows soaring to strike the deck of the Bernice with a noise like hammers.

  William’s good hand gripped the rail like a clamp, his frown deepening. Pirates found their crews in coastal towns, but there had never been a French bowman capable of that sort of accuracy. He knew he was watching English archers, traitors and scoundrels who preferred a life of thieving and murder to more honest work. The captain came past him at a run, heading to the stern to see this development. William tried to go with him, but with only one good hand, he staggered and almost fell as soon as he left the rail. From instinct, the captain grabbed at him before he went into the sea. It was bad luck that he fastened on the mangled hand, making William cry out in sudden pain.

  The captain was shouting an apology over the wind when an arrow took him, sinking cleanly into his back and through, so that William could see the bodkin head standing clear, with white rib splinters around the dark iron. The two men gaped at each other and the captain tried to speak before his eyes dulled and rolled up in his head. William flailed at him, but the weight was too much and the captain vanished over the rail into the froth, slipping under in an instant.

  More arrows thumped around them and William heard a sailor shout in pain and surprise as another found its mark. The great sail above William’s head began to flap. He could see the men at the whipstaff were lying flat, abandoning their duty in the face of arrow fire. The Bernice moved sloppily without their hands to guide her, wandering off course. Keeping as low as he could, William bellowed for them to take hold once again, but the damage was done. The pursuing warship crashed suddenly along the side, a rasping roar of splintering wood while the rain hammered down on them all.

  William was thrown from his feet and was still struggling up as armed men leaped over, yelling their own fear as they crossed the strip of heaving leaden waves. William saw one man miss his catch and slip to be crushed or drowned, but there was another there in an instant, scrambling over to him with a sword held straight and sure.

  ‘Pax!’ William said, gasping as he tried to rise. ‘I’m Lord Suffolk! I can be ransomed.’

  The man looming over him put his foot down hard on William’s broken hand, making the world go white for a second. He groaned and gave up any thought of standing as he lay there on the deck, drenched and frozen as the rain drummed the wood around him.

  The boarders relied on shock and violence to secure the Bernice. Her hapless crew were either tossed overboard or cut down in the first wild flurry, most of them unarmed. William glared up at his captor, half-surprised he had not already been killed. He knew they’d strip the cargo and probably sink the Bernice, taking all witnesses down with her. He’d seen bodies washed ashore enough times to know how they worked and even the prospect of a ransom might not be worth the added risk. He waited for the blow, sickened by the waves of agony coming from his crushed hand.

  The wind continued to howl around the ropes and the strange beast of two ships wallowing together in a crashing sea.

  Jack Cade glowered at the men who’d come to him daring to dispute his plans. It didn’t help that they were all those he’d raised to command others. They were the originals from his meeting at the tavern, where he’d set them to training groups of a dozen men. Under his leadership, they’d fought and won against the sheriff of Kent. That man’s gaping head still leaned at an odd angle on the top of a pole by Jack’s fire, with the white-horse shield resting at its foot. The sheriff had been a short man in life, but as Paddy pointed out, he was finally taller than all of them.

  Although Jack could not have said exactly why, it bothered him more than anything that it was Ecclestone they’d asked to beard the lion in his tent, or whatever the phrase was. His friend stood at the head of a small group of men, talking calmly and slowly, as if to a lunatic.

  ‘No one’s saying they’re afraid, Jack. That’s not it. It’s just that London … well, it’s big, Jack. God knows how many people are there, all crushed up between the river and the old walls. The king doesn’t even know, most likely, but there are a lot of them – and a lot more than we have.’

  ‘So you think we’re done,’ Jack said, his eyes glinting dangerously beneath his dipped head. He sat and watched the fire they’d lit, feeling nicely warm outside and in, with a bottle of clear spirit to hand that he’d been given just that morning. ‘Is that it then, Rob Ecclestone? I’m surprised to hear it from you. You think you speak for the men?’

  ‘I don’t speak for any of them, Jack. This is just me talking now. But you know, they have thousands of soldiers and a hundred times as many seething in the city. Half of those are hard men, Jack. There’ll be butchers and barbers to stand against us, men who know one end of a gutting knife from another. I’m just saying. It might be a step too far to go looking for the king himself. It might be the kind of step that will see us all swinging on the Tyburn gibbets. I hear they have three of them now, with room for eight on each one. They can hang two dozen at a time, Jack, that’s all. It’s a hard city.’

  Jack grunted in irritation, tipping his head back to empty the last of the fiery spirit down his throat. He stared a while longer and then clambered to his feet, looming over Ecclestone and the others.

  ‘If we stop now,’ he said softly, ‘they’ll still come for us. Did you think you could just go home? Boys, we’ve robbed and st
olen. We’ve killed king’s men. They’re not going to let us walk away, not now, not since we started. We either throw the dice for London, or …’ He shrugged his big shoulders. ‘Well, I suppose we could try for France. I don’t think we’d be too welcome there, though.’

  ‘They’d hang you in Maine, Jack Cade. They know a Kentish scoundrel when they see one.’

  The voice had come from the back of the group. Jack stiffened, blinded by the firelight as he peered into the darkness.

  ‘Who was that? Show your face if you’d speak to me.’

  He squinted into the yellow and black flickers. Shadows moved across men turning nervously to see who had spoken. Jack made out the bulk of his Irish friend heaving two other men towards him.

  ‘He said he knew you, Jack,’ Paddy said, panting. ‘He said you’d remember an archer. I didn’t think he was a madman to taunt you.’

  ‘He’s had worse from me in the past, you great Irish bullock,’ Thomas Woodchurch replied, struggling against an iron grip. ‘Christ, what do they feed you?’

  With both his hands full of cloth, Paddy could only shake the two he held in exasperation. He did that until their heads were lolling dizzily.

  ‘Had enough?’ he said.

  ‘Woodchurch?’ Jack said in amazement, walking forward out of the firelight. ‘Tom?’

  ‘I am. Now, will you tell this bog hound to put me back on my feet before I kick his balls up his throat!’

  With a roar, Paddy let go of Rowan and raised his fist to hammer Thomas to his knees. Rowan saw what he was about and grappled the Irishman in a rush, toppling all three in a heap of kicking and swearing.

  Jack Cade reached down and pulled the young man away with his fists still flailing.

  ‘Who’s this, then?’ Jack asked.

  Rowan could only glare at him, held by his own collar so tightly that he was choking and turning red.

  ‘My son,’ Thomas said, sitting up and fending Paddy’s kicks away.