Wars of the Roses 01 - Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  Jack felt a great calm come over him, a coldness that stole from his gut and made his arms and legs feel numb. He felt a surge of anger at the way he’d trusted the London lords and noblemen to keep their word. They’d written down the pardon and sealed it! Written words; words with authority. He’d had a local clerk read it to him half a dozen times, as solid and real as anything in the world. After his return to Kent, Jack had lodged it with a moneylender in town and he’d asked to see it twice since then, just to run his hand over the dark letters and know it was true. Even as his heart thumped in his chest and his face flushed, he held on to that slender reed.

  ‘I’ve been pardoned, Iden. A paper with the queen’s own seal and signature on it sits in a strongbox in town. My name is on it and that means you can’t touch a hair of my head.’

  As he spoke, Jack raised the axe, gripping the shaft with both hands and pointing the big blade towards the sheriff.

  ‘I have my orders,’ Iden said with a shrug. He looked almost amused at the outrage he saw in the rebel. ‘You won’t come peaceably, then?’

  Jack could feel the tension in his two friends. He glanced at Paddy and saw the big man was sweating profusely. Ecclestone stood as if he’d been carved, staring balefully at the sheriff’s throat.

  ‘You two should walk away,’ Jack murmured. ‘Whatever this oath-breaking fool is after, it ain’t you. Go on.’

  Paddy looked at his friend as if he’d been struck, his eyes wide.

  ‘I’m tired of running, Jack,’ he said softly.

  All three had been given a glimpse of a different life those last few months, a life where they didn’t have to go in fear of king’s officials and county men watching them and making them beg for scraps. They’d fought in London and it had changed them. Ecclestone and Paddy looked at each other and both shook their heads.

  ‘All right then, lads,’ Jack said. He smiled at his two friends, ignoring the soldiers staring them down.

  The sheriff had been watching the exchange intently. As the three men showed no sign of surrendering, he made a chopping motion with his hand. His soldiers darted forward with shields and swords ready. There had been no warning but Jack had been expecting a rush and he swung wildly with his axe, smashing past a shield to crush the ribs of the first to lay a hand on him. The man screamed, a sudden and shocking sound in the garden.

  Ecclestone moved fast, turning his shoulders and slipping between two mailed men as he tried to reach the sheriff. Jack shouted in grief as he saw his friend hacked down in one great blow, the sheriff’s sword cutting him deep at the neck. Paddy was roaring, his big left hand tight in someone’s jerkin as he used his hammer to smash a soldier’s face and head. Jack continued to swing and strike, knowing already that it was hopeless, that it had always been hopeless. His breath came hard. He sensed the soldiers around him were trying not to land a fatal blow, but one of them caught him in the back with a blade, stabbing wildly. He heard Paddy grunt as the Irishman was knocked from his feet, his legs kicked away from him as he was struck from the side.

  Another knife went between Jack’s ribs, staying stuck there as he wrenched away from the pain. With a sense of wonder and shock, he felt his great strength vanish. He crashed down, quickly kicked and battered into a daze, with his fingers broken and his axe wrenched away from his grasp.

  Jack was only half-aware as they dragged him up for Sheriff Iden to stare at him. There was blood on Jack’s face and in his mouth. He spat weakly as strangers held him in an unbreakable grip. His friends had been cut down, left in their own blood where they had fallen. Jack swore as he saw their bodies, cursing the king’s men all around him.

  ‘Which of you fools stabbed him?’ Jack heard Iden snap. The sheriff was furious and the soldiers looked at their feet, panting and red-faced. ‘Damn it! He won’t live till London with that wound.’

  Jack smiled to hear that, though it hurt him. He could feel his life pouring out on to the dusty ground and he was only sorry Ecclestone hadn’t cut the new sheriff’s throat.

  ‘Tie this traitor on to a horse,’ Iden went on furiously. ‘God, didn’t I say he should be taken alive?’

  Jack shook his head, feeling oddly cold despite the warmth of the sun. For an instant, he thought he heard the high voices of children, but then it was gone and he sagged in the arms of the men who held him.

  32

  Dawn rain drizzled across Windsor Hunting Park, cold and gusting April showers that did little to dampen the enthusiasm of the lords who had gathered at the king’s command. Derry Brewer had been right about that much, Margaret had to admit, shivering slightly. Still yawning from what little sleep she had managed, she looked out across the vast fields, with the smudge of dark forests beyond. During the reign of her husband’s father, royal hunts had been organized every year, with hundreds of nobles and their servants descending on the royal grounds to take deer or demonstrate their skill with falcons and dogs. The feasts that followed were still famous and when she had asked Derry what would bring even the Neville lords to Windsor, his response had been immediate and without thought. She suspected even a normal hunt would have brought them, after seeing so many flushed faces and the delighted pride in men like Earl Salisbury returning with his servants laden down by hares and pheasants, or the buck deer Lord Oxford had taken. Her husband had not ridden to the hunt in a decade and the royal grounds teemed with prey. The first two nights had been spent in lavish feasts, with musicians and dancing to keep their wives happy, while the men tore into the succulent meat they had taken, boasting and laughing at the events of the day. It had been a success in every way that mattered – and the main draw was still to come.

  Margaret had been down to the stables of the castle to see the two captive boars they would release that morning. Duke Philip of Burgundy had sent the beasts as a gift, perhaps in part to mark his sorrow at the death of William de la Pole. For that alone, she blessed his name, though his offer of sanctuary to William meant she would always think of him as a friend. Male boars were the monarchs of the deep forest, the only animals in England capable of killing the men who hunted them. She shuddered at the recollection of the massive, reeking bodies and the fierce anger in their small eyes. In her childhood, she had once seen dancing bears in Saumur, when a travelling fair came to Anjou. The hogs in the stalls had twice the bulk of those animals, with bristles as thick as a bear’s brown fur and backs as wide as a kitchen table. It made sense that as a gift between noble houses they would be fine examples of the breed, but she had still not been prepared for the sheer size of the grunting animals as they kicked and nudged the wooden stalls and made dust rain down from the roof. To Margaret’s eye, they had as much resemblance to a succulent butcher’s pig as a lion does to a household cat. The hunt master had spoken of them in awe, saying each one was said to weigh four hundred pounds and carried a pair of matched tusks as long as a man’s forearm. Margaret had seen the near mindless threat in the animals as they gouged the stalls with those tusks, gnawing and scraping, furious at being unable to reach their captors.

  She knew Earl Warwick had taken to calling them Castor and Pollux, warriors and twins from ancient Greek tales. It was common knowledge that the young Richard Neville was intent on taking one of the heads home with him, though there were many others who eyed the great sweep of the tusks with delight and longing. True boars had been hunted almost to vanishing in England and there were few among the gathering in Windsor who had brought one down. Margaret had been hard-pressed not to laugh at the endless advice between the men on the subject, whether it was better to use the catch dogs to hold it steady, then seek its heart with an arrow, or whether a spear-thrust between the ribs was more effective.

  She ran her hand over the swell of her womb, feeling again the intense satisfaction of being pregnant. She had endured the bitterness of having York named as royal heir, saying nothing for all the time it seemed Parliament had been right to prepare for the worst. Then she had felt the first signs and turned back and
forth in front of mirrors, convinced she was imagining it. The bulge had grown with every week, a wonder to her and an answer to a thousand fervent prayers. Even the sickness was a delight to her as the child grew. All she had needed then was for the earls of England to see the signs, the curve of her womb that meant York’s games had come to nothing.

  ‘Be a son,’ she muttered to herself, as she did a dozen times each day. She longed for daughters, but a son would secure the throne for her husband and her line. A son would cast Richard and Cecily York out into the darkness, with all their plots in tatters. The thought gave her more pleasure than she could express and she found her hand was gripping her cup so tightly that the gemstones around the rim left a print on her palm.

  Richard of York had not been invited to the Windsor hunt. Though he had inherited the title of Earl of March, he was the only one of the twelve English earls and ‘king’s companions’ not to be called to Windsor for the hunt. No doubt his supporters would consider it another insult to an ancient family, but she had made the decision even so. Let them think and say what they would. She did not want that man and his cold wife anywhere near her or her husband. Margaret still blamed York for the death of Lord Suffolk and, though it had never been proved, she suspected him of involvement in Cade’s rebellion and all the damage and pain it had caused. Cade’s head sat high on a spike on the same bridge he had fought his way across. Margaret had gone to see it.

  One of the hovering servants stepped forward to refill her cup, but she waved him away. For months, her stomach had clenched and protested at much of anything. Even watered wine had to be taken in small amounts and most of her nourishment came in the form of thin broths that she would lose as often as she kept them down. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that the Neville lords had seen her gravid state, her proof that King Henry’s bloodline would run on and not be lost. The moment when Earl Warwick had frozen and stood staring on their first meeting in the castle had been one of the happiest of her life. York would be told now, she knew. Her husband may have lost France, but he had survived. King Henry had not been crushed by rebellions, riots or plots – not even by the attack on London itself. Her husband lived, and all York’s plans and manoeuvres, all his bribery and flattery of supporters, had come to nothing as her womb swelled.

  Margaret started as a great shout went up outside, realizing that the gathered lords had gone out to see the squealing hogs released into the royal forest. The king’s huntsmen would chase the animals deep into the trees and then keep an eye on them while the hunters mounted and prepared their dogs and weapons. She could already hear the spurred boots of men clattering around downstairs. It was easy to picture the scene as excited nobles called and joked with each other, grabbing cold meats from the tables to break their fast.

  Over the raucous tumult below, Margaret did not hear her husband enter the room. She jerked from her reverie when he was announced by his steward, rising to her feet with a slight gasp of effort. Henry was as pale as ever, though she thought he looked a little less thin. It pleased her to see there were no bandages on his left hand, where the wound had finally healed. A pink mark like a burn remained, ridged and hard compared to the smoothness of his skin elsewhere. There were still bandages on his right palm, a tight wrap of white cloth that was changed and cleaned every morning. Even so, she was pleased at any small improvement in him.

  King Henry smiled to see his wife. He kissed her forehead and then her mouth, his lips dry and warm.

  ‘Good morning, Margaret,’ he said. ‘Did you sleep? I had such dreams! Master Allworthy gave me a new draught that brought the strangest visions to me.’

  ‘And I would hear them all, my husband,’ Margaret replied, ‘but the great hunt is beginning. Your men have released the boars and your lords are gathering to go out.’

  ‘Already? I have only just risen, Margaret. I have eaten nothing. I will have my horse brought. Where is my stable master?’

  Seeing Henry was growing agitated, Margaret smoothed her hands across his brow, a cool touch that always seemed to calm him. He subsided, his eyes growing vague.

  ‘You are not well enough to ride out with them, Henry. You would risk a fall or an injury if your weakness came suddenly upon you. They understand, Henry. The boars are your gift to them and they are grateful for the sport.’

  ‘Good … good, Margaret. I was hoping to pray in the chapel today and I did not see how I could find the time.’

  He let himself be guided by her to a chair at a long table. A servant held it for him to sit and he settled himself as a steaming bowl of soup was placed before him. He picked up a spoon, eyeing the soup dubiously as Margaret’s own servant helped her to take a seat at his side.

  On the floors below, Margaret could still hear the loud voices of the lords, clattering about with their preparations. Outside in the drizzle, the baying of hounds was rising in intensity as the animals sensed they would soon be set free to race after the boars. During the night, half the earls she had invited had brought their best hounds down to the stables to take the scent of Castor and Pollux. From the resulting noise, the dogs had been driven almost to frenzy by the closeness of the monstrous beasts. Margaret had slept little with the din, but she had smiled as she dozed even so.

  Margaret watched as her husband spooned the soup into his mouth, his eyes completely blank, as if he saw some other landscape amongst the cutlery and square wooden plates. The terrors that had almost destroyed him had lessened in the year after Cade’s rebellion. She had made sure he saw and understood that the city of London was safe and peaceful once again, at least for a time.

  Henry put down his spoon suddenly, rising from his place.

  ‘I should go out to them, Margaret. As host, I should wish them luck and good sport. Have the boars been sent out?’

  ‘They have, husband. Sit, it is all in hand.’

  He sat once more, though her sternness faded at the sight of him fiddling with his cutlery, for all the world like a boy denied the chance to run outside. Margaret raised her eyes, amused and indulgent.

  ‘Go then, husband, if you think you must. Steward! The king will need a cloak. Be sure he puts it on before going into the rain.’

  Henry rose quickly, leaning forward to kiss her before leaving the room at something close to a run. She smiled then, settling down to her own soup before it grew too cold.

  The gathering of earls and their servants at the castle entrance might have resembled the preparations for a battle, if not for the laughter and general goodwill. Under a great stone arch out of the rain, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, was discussing tactics with his huntsman and his father, while three more of his men readied four horses and a pack of savage, leashed dogs that snarled and barked at each other in their excitement. Warwick’s falcons were not present that morning. All his valuable birds were hooded and being looked after in his suite of rooms. He had no interest in fowl or fur that morning, just the two noble boars rooting around somewhere in the king’s five thousand acres of meadows and deep forest. The squires for both father and son were ready with their weapons and the dogs would bring the boars to bay, gripping on to their flesh and holding them for the kill.

  Earl Salisbury looked at his son, seeing the flush on his face despite the cold day.

  ‘Is there any point in my telling you to be careful?’ he said.

  His son laughed, shaking his head as he checked the belly straps were tight enough on his mounts.

  ‘You saw them, sir. The heads will suit my castle hearth, don’t you think?’

  The older man smiled ruefully, knowing that his son was set on reaching the boars first, no matter the risk. When the king’s heralds blew their horns, they’d all be off, charging across the open fields and into the trees.

  ‘Keep an eye on those Tudor lads,’ his father said suddenly. He waved off one of the huntsmen and clasped his hands together to help his son mount. ‘They’re young and that Edmund is still so new an earl you can see the green on him. He
’ll do his utmost to please the king, I do not doubt it. And watch out for Somerset. That man is fearless to the point of stupidity.’ Against his better judgement, he could not help adding another word of warning. ‘Don’t get between any of the king’s favourites and a boar, lad, that’s all. Not if they’re holding a spear to throw or have an arrow on the string. You understand?’

  ‘I do, sir, but I’ll come back with one of those heads or both of them. There isn’t a horse here to match my pair. I’ll be on those boars before the rest. Let them worry then!’

  Some of the older earls would count the kill even if their servants brought down the boar. Warwick intended to make the thrust himself if he could, with one of three boar spears he had brought for the occasion. They stood taller than he was, with blades sharp enough to shave. His father handed them up to him, shaking his head in amusement to hide his worries.

  ‘I’ll be along after you, with Westmorland. Who knows, I might get a shot with my bow when you young pups have exhausted yourselves.’ He smiled as he spoke and his son chuckled.

  Both of the Neville lords turned their heads as conversations halted all around and the servants knelt on the cobbles. King Henry came out into the rainy courtyard, with his steward on his heels, still trying to drape the king in a thick cloak.

  Henry stood and looked around at the gathering of a dozen earls and their hunt servants, forty or fifty men in all, with as many horses and dogs making a terrible noise between them. One by one, the noblemen caught sight of the king and bowed, dipping their heads. Henry smiled at them all, the rain falling harder, so that it plastered his hair to his head. He accepted the cloak at last, though it was already dark and heavy.