Wars of the Roses 01 - Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  Derry’s eyes widened unseen in the darkness.

  ‘Anything else? Have you heard from Jim or the Kellys?’

  ‘Not since Cade’s lot came in, sir, sorry.’

  ‘Run back, then. Tell them I’m coming with a thousand men.’

  Derry sensed his informant looking sceptically up the street to the ragged group with Lord Scales.

  ‘I’ll have more by then, don’t doubt it. The queen is in the Tower, Burroughs. Bring anyone else you can find.’

  He watched as the man ran off at the best speed he could make through the reeking slop of the street.

  ‘Christ, Cade, you cunning old sod,’ Derry breathed aloud. He began to run in the opposite direction, to where Lord Scales waited impatiently for news.

  ‘They’re attacking the Tower, my lord. My man said they were already inside the outer walls.’

  Scales looked up at the night sky. The first light of dawn was showing at last. His spirits lifted now that he could finally begin to see the streets around him.

  ‘Dawn is almost here, thank the Lord. Thank you too, Master Brewer. We’ll leave that group at the Cockspur for someone else. Can you plot a course to the Tower from here?’

  ‘Easy as winking, my lord. I know these streets.’

  ‘Then lead us in, Brewer. Stop for nothing. The queen’s safety comes first.’

  Paddy looked up at the White Tower, oddly tempted to raise his hand in salute to those within, not that they would have been able to see it. His men had fought the king’s soldiers to a bloody last stand, loping along the tops of the outer walls and taking them one by one or in small groups, offering no quarter. For all their fine swords and mail, he’d had the best part of two thousand charging around inside the fortress, breaking down doors and removing everything worth taking. He knew the best pieces would surely be within the massive walls of the White Tower, but there was just no way to reach them.

  It stood unmarked, painted pale and gleaming in the moonlight. The only entrance was on the first floor, with the stairs reduced to kindling by the time he’d broken through the portcullis. It was such a simple thing to baulk his assault. Given a day, Paddy thought he could have put something together, but the soldiers waiting inside the small entrance door could defend it easily and there wasn’t enough time.

  He looked around, chewing on his lip. He could see across the inner yard to the massive walls. Dawn was coming and he had a strong sense that he should not be trapped within the complex of towers and walls when it came. As he stood and waited for the sun to rise, he saw two of his men staggering with the weight of an iron-bound chest.

  ‘What do you have there, lads?’ he called.

  ‘Coins!’ one of them shouted back. ‘More silver and gold than you would believe!’

  Paddy shook his head.

  ‘It’s too heavy, you daft sod. Fill your pockets, man. Jesus, how far will you get with a chest?’

  The man shouted back a curse and Paddy considered going after him to batter some sense into his head, before he mastered his temper. Jack and Woodchurch had been right about the Royal Mint, at least. Even without breaching the White Tower at the centre, they’d found enough gold to live like kings, if they could just get it out of the city. Shining gold coins littered the stones and Paddy picked one up and stared at it as the light improved. He’d never held gold before that night and yet his pockets now bulged with the things. It was a heavy metal, he’d discovered, with a great weight of them resting on his shoulder, in a sack made from a cloak.

  He wondered if they could find carts to carry their new wealth back across London Bridge. Yet the light was growing all the time and he feared the day. The king’s men had been cut to pieces all night, but they’d surely come back with a vengeance when they could see the damage done to the city.

  One of the men Paddy had placed high on the outer walls raised his arm and shouted. Paddy ran closer to hear, jingling with every step and dreading the news of an army come to relieve the Tower.

  ‘It’s Cade!’ the man was yelling through cupped hands. ‘Cade!’

  Paddy sagged in relief. Better than furious ranks of king’s soldiers, at least. Within the Tower walls, he could not yet see the sun, but it was rising all the same, revealing swirling mists and corpses on all sides. Paddy began to trot to the broken gatehouse to greet his friend. Behind him, the soldiers in the White Tower called insults and threats from the windows. He ignored them all. They might have been untouchable behind walls fifteen feet thick, but that trick with the high door meant they couldn’t come out and bother him, either. He waved cheerfully to them before going out through the gate to the street beyond.

  Jack Cade was about dead on his feet after a night spent fighting and walking. His legs and hands were frozen, spattered with filth and blood. He’d crossed the city twice in the darkness and the rising sun revealed how battered and ragged his men had become, as if they’d been through a war instead of just one night in London. It didn’t help that half of them were still drunk, looking blearily at those around them and just trying to stay upright and not vomit. He’d passed furious orders to leave the taverns alone, but most of the damage was already done.

  By the time they reached the outer walls of the Tower, Jack was feeling a worm of worry in his gut, as well as his exhaustion. He cheered up when he saw broken chests of new gold and silver coins on the ground, but as his men rushed with raucous cries to grab their share, he could see some had lost or thrown down their weapons. Most of those still with him were too tired and red-eyed to push away a small child, never mind a king’s man. A few hundred fresh soldiers would slaughter the lot of them. He looked up to see Woodchurch wearing the same worried expression.

  ‘I think we should get back across the river, Jack,’ Thomas said. He was swaying as he stood there, though his son Rowan was as busy as the rest, collecting handfuls of gold and stuffing them about his person.

  Jack looked up at the White Tower, hundreds of years old and still standing strong after the night they’d all been through. He sighed to himself, rubbing the bristles on his chin with one hand. London was waking up around them and half the men he’d brought in were either dead or lying in a drunken stupor.

  ‘We made ’em dance a bit, didn’t we? That was the best night of my life, Tom Woodchurch. I’ve a mind to come back tomorrow and have another one just the same.’

  Woodchurch laughed, a dry sound from a throat made sore by shouting. He would have replied, but Paddy came jogging up at that moment, embracing Jack and almost lifting him off his feet. Woodchurch heard the jingle of coins and laughed, seeing how the Irishman bulged all over. He was big enough to carry the weight.

  ‘It’s good to see you among the living, Jack!’ Paddy said. ‘There’s more gold here than I can believe. I have gathered a share for you, but I’m thinking we should perhaps take ourselves away now, before the king’s men come back with blood in their eyes.’

  Jack sighed, satisfaction and disappointment mingling in him in equal measures. It had been a grand night, with some moments of wonder, but he knew better than to push his luck.

  ‘All right, lads. Pass the word. Head back to the bridge.’

  The sun was up by the time Jack’s men were bullied and shoved away from their search for a few last coins at the Tower. Paddy had found a sewer-cleaner’s cart a few streets away, with a stench so strong it made the eyes water. Even so, they’d draped it in an embroidered cloth and piled it high with sacks and chests and anything else that could be lifted. There was no ox to pull it, so a dozen men grasped the shafts with great good humour, heaving it along the roads towards the river.

  Hundreds more emerged from every side road they passed, some exulting at the haul or with looted items they still carried, others looking guilty or shame-faced, or just blank with horror at the things they’d seen and done. Still more were carrying jugs of spirits and roaring or singing in twos and threes, still splashed with drying blood.

  The people of London had slept
little, if at all. As they removed furniture from behind doors and pulled out nails from shutters, they discovered a thousand scenes of destruction, from smashed houses to piles of dead men all over the city. There was no cheering then for Jack Cade’s army of Freemen. With no single voice or signal, the men of the city came out with staffs and blades, gathering in dozens and then hundreds to block the streets leading back into the city. Those of Cade’s men who had not already reached the river were woken by hard wooden clogs or enraged householders battering at them or cutting their throats. They had suffered through a night of terror and there was no mercy to be had.

  A few of the drunken Kentish men scrambled up and ran like rabbits before hounds, dragged down by the furious Londoners as they saw more and more of what Cade’s invasion had cost the city. As the sun rose, groups of Cade’s men came together, holding people at bay with swords and axes while they backed away. Some of those groups were trapped with crowds before and behind and were quickly disarmed and bound for hanging, or beaten to death in the sort of wild frenzy they knew from just hours before.

  The sense of an enraged city reached even those who’d made it to London Bridge. Jack found himself glancing back over his shoulder at lines of staring Londoners, calling insults and shouting after him. Some of them even beckoned for him to come back and he could only gape at the sheer numbers the city was capable of fielding against him. He did not look at Thomas, though he knew the man would be thinking back to his warning about rape and looting. London had been late to rouse, but the idea of just strolling back in the next night was looking less and less likely.

  Jack kept his head high as he walked back across the bridge. Close to the midpoint, he saw the pole with the head and the white-horse shield still bound to it. It was mud-spattered and the sight of it brought a shudder down Jack’s spine as he recalled the mad dash under pouring rain and crossbow bolts the night before. Even so, he stopped and picked it up, handing his axe to Ecclestone at his side. Nearby lay the body of the boy, Jonas, who’d carried it for a time. Jack shook his head in sorrow, feeling exhaustion hit him like a hammer blow.

  With a heave, he raised the banner pole. The men around him and on the bridge behind all cheered the sight of it as they marched away from the city and the dark memories they had made.

  29

  Richard Neville felt blood squish in his armoured boot with every step. He thought the gash under his thigh plate wasn’t too bad, but being forced to keep walking on it meant the blood still dribbled, making his leggings sodden and staining the oily metal red and black. He’d taken the wound as his men stormed across the open square by the Guildhall, slaughtering the drunken revellers. Warwick had seen the lack of resistance and cursed himself for dropping his guard long enough for one of the prone figures to jam a knife between his plates as he stood over him. Cade had gone by then, of course. Warwick had seen the results of the man’s ‘trial’ in the purple features of Lord Say, left sprawled under the beam where they’d hanged him.

  He felt as if he’d been fighting for ever in the rain and dark, and as the sun rose, he was tempted to find a place to sleep. His men were staggering with exhaustion and he couldn’t remember feeling so tired in all his young life. He just couldn’t make a good pace, even to follow the host of Cade’s men as they used the grey light before true dawn to push once more across the city.

  Warwick cursed to himself as he came to the mouth of another silent road. After the rain, the damp coming off the river had filled some of the streets with thick mist. He relied only on his hearing to tell him the street was empty, but if there were men waiting in another silent ambush, he knew he’d walk right into it.

  His soldiers were still among the largest forces of king’s men in the city. Their armour and iron mail had saved many of them. Even so, Warwick shuddered at dark memories, of Kentish madmen rushing them from three or four directions at once. He’d lost a hundred and eighty killed outright and another dozen too badly wounded to go on with him. He’d allowed the most seriously injured men to enter houses, calling his rank and the king’s name and then just kicking doors in when no one dared to answer.

  London was terrified; he could feel it like the mist seeping beneath his armour and mingling with the blood and sweat of a night on his feet. He’d seen so many dead bodies, it was almost odd to pass a street without its complement of corpses. Far too many of them were liveried soldiers, wearing a lord’s colours on their shields or on tunics plastered over bloody mail. The night dew had frozen on some of them, so that they sparkled and gleamed as if encased in ice.

  As he trudged on, Warwick was coldly furious: with himself and with King Henry for not staying to organize the defence. God, it looked as if York was right, after all. The king’s warrior father would have shown himself early and hit hard. Henry of Agincourt would have had Cade strung up by dawn, if the rebels had managed to get into the city at all. The old king would have made London a fortress.

  The thought made Warwick stop in the middle of a street of butchers. The foulness underfoot was mostly red, thick with hog bristles as well as scraps of rotting flesh and bone. His nose had become used to treading in such things, but this particular lane had an acrid tang that almost helped to clear his head.

  Cade’s men were streaming east and south. It was true the bridge lay in that direction, but so did the Tower and the young queen sheltering within its walls. Warwick closed his eyes for a brief moment, aching to find a place to sit. He could imagine all too easily the relief that would flood his wrists and knees if he allowed himself to stop. The thought made his legs buckle, so that he had to lock his knees with an effort.

  In the growing light, his closest men were looking back at him, eyes swollen, wounds bound in grubby cloths. More than a few had strapped their hands where they had broken small bones in wrists or fingers. They looked bedraggled and miserable, but they were still his, loyal to his house and his name. Warwick straightened, summoning his will with a massive effort.

  ‘The queen is in the Tower, gentlemen. I’ll want to see her safe before we can rest. The day is come. There’ll be reinforcements this morning, bringing fire and the sword for all those who took part. There will be justice then.’

  The heads of his soldiers drooped as they understood that their young lord would not let them stop. None of them dared to raise a voice in complaint and they pushed on through the mist, staring with bloodshot eyes as it swirled about them.

  Margaret shuddered in the cold, staring out of the entrance door to the White Tower. Her field of vision was blocked by the outer walls, so that she couldn’t see much more than the results of the night’s battles around her stone fastness. Mist had begun to creep across the bodies lying on the ground below, moving on fitful breezes. It would burn off in the day, but for a time, the paleness crawled over the dead, touching them intimately and making them mere humps and hills in the white.

  It had been a night of terrors, waiting for Cade’s rough men to smash their way inside. She’d done her best to show courage and keep her dignity, but the soldiers in the tower had been just as nervous as they peered out and down into blackness, straining to understand every sound.

  Margaret dipped her head, saying a prayer for Captain Brown, now lying sightless and still where he’d fallen in her defence. Her view of the fighting had been in spots and gleams of moonlight, a frozen witness to rushing, bawling shadows and a constant clash of metal that was like a whispering voice.

  That voice had fallen silent as the hours passed, replaced by the loud talk and hard laughter of Cade’s men. As the sun rose, she saw his followers running riot, breaking into the mint and staggering out under the weight of anything they could carry. She’d heard the mob hooting in delight and seen gold and silver coins spilled as carelessly as lives, to roll and spin untended on the stones.

  There had been a moment when one of them stood and looked up at the tower, as if he could see her standing back in the shadows of the door. Whoever he was, the man stood head and
shoulders above those around him. She’d wondered then if it was Cade himself, but the name she spat in her thoughts was called from the walls and the big man trotted away to meet his master. The sun was up and the tower had held. She gave thanks for that much.

  Others came past the outer walls then, to stare up at the White Tower. Margaret could feel their gaze creeping over it and her, making her want to scratch. If she’d had crossbows, it would have been the time to order their use, but such weapons as they’d had lay in dead hands on the ground below. It was strange to look down on the enemies who’d assaulted the city and be unable to do anything, though they stood within reach and walked as if they owned the land around them.

  By the time the sun cleared the outer walls, flooding gold light across the White Tower, they were marching away, carrying their spoils and leaving their dead behind for the Tower ravens to pluck and snag. The mist was thinning and Margaret slumped against the frozen doorway, making one of the guards reach nervously out to her in case she fell. He caught himself before he laid hands on the queen and she never noticed the movement, her attention captured by the jingling sound of armoured men coming through the broken gate.

  It was with an odd sensation of relief that she recognized Derry Brewer walking at the head of a small group. As he spotted the bodies and broke into a lurching run, she saw how filthy he was, spattered to the thighs with all manner of foul muck. He came right to the foot of the tower, standing in the smashed wood of the stairs and looking up at the doorway.

  Margaret came forward into the sunlight and she could have blessed him for the look of relief on his face as he caught sight of her.

  ‘Thank God,’ he said softly. ‘Cade’s men are on their way out of the city, my lady. I am pleased to see you well.’ Derry looked around. ‘It’s difficult to think of a safer place in London at this moment, but I imagine you are sick of this tower, at least for today. If you’ll allow me, I’ll have men sent to find ladders, or to build them.’