Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  The French king watched in fascination as the old man chewed at his loose mouth, made restless in the heat. The upper and lower lips slid over each other with extraordinary slackness. With some reluctance, Louis pulled his gaze away. Half a dozen lords waited on him, marshalling between them both fortunes and a huge number of armed soldiers, if he had need. He rubbed the length of his long nose, polishing the bulb of the tip between forefinger and thumb as he thought.

  ‘Her father, Duke René, is not a fool, for all the failed claims he has made on Jerusalem and Naples. Still, I will not criticize a man for ambition. In turn, it means I must not assume his daughter lacks wits. She knows I would rather not find a match for her son, a boy without lands, without title, without coin! No, my concern is more with King Edward in England. Why would I choose to support a beggar prince of Lancaster? Why would I antagonize Edward Plantagenet, at the beginning of his reign? He fills the years ahead, Lalonde. He sends his friend Warwick to my court to ask for a princess, offering gifts and islands and flattering me with talk of a hundred years of peace to follow a hundred years of war. All lies, of course, but such pretty, pretty lies.’

  The king rose from his throne and began to pace, with his fan fluttering once again. His lords and servants scurried back so they would not touch him by accident and perhaps lose a hand.

  ‘Should I send such a king into the arms of my enemies, Lalonde? I do not doubt the Duke of Burgundy would welcome his interest, or milord of Brittany. All my rebellious dukes have daughters or sisters unwed. And there is Edward, king of England and without an heir.’

  His fan stirred the air only sluggishly and he dabbed at fresh sweat on his forehead with a silk cloth.

  ‘Cousin Margaret will surely know all this, but still, Lalonde … still she asks! As if …’ He touched a finger to his lips, pressing in the centre. ‘As if she knows Edward will never be a friend to this court. As if I must support her and that I will know there is no other choice. It is all very odd. She does not beg, though she has no favours owed to her, nor funds beyond a few small rents from her father. All she has to offer is her son.’ Louis brightened suddenly, a smile crossing his face. ‘It is like a wager, Lalonde. She is saying, “My little Edward is the son of King Henry of England. Find a wife for him, Louis – and perhaps one day you will be repaid.” Poor odds of that, Lalonde, eh?’

  The elderly chancellor looked at him from half-closed eyes. Before he could respond, Louis waved a hand in the air to show his frustration.

  ‘She gambles her future on my dislike of English kings. Yes, if I had a dozen sisters still unwed, I might consider one of them to give to her son, but I have seen so many die, Lalonde. You know. The twins, poor Isabella. And I have seen three dead children of my own, Lalonde! I have reached out to shake the shoulders of more little bodies than any father should ever see.’

  The king stopped talking for a time, staring across the great empty hall of his palace. Every man and woman present held still so as not to break his chain of thought. After what seemed an age, he cleared his throat and shuddered.

  ‘Enough of such things. My mind pricks me with old sorrows. It is too hot. No. Lady Margaret will be disappointed, Lalonde. Draft a reply, expressing my eternal regrets. Offer her a small pension. Perhaps then she will cease to trouble me.’

  His chancellor bowed over his cane in response.

  ‘As for King Edward Plantagenet, who stole his crown from another of my cousins … mon Dieu, Lalonde. Should I give my daughter Anne to such a wolf when she is grown? Should I throw my dear lamb to a rough English giant? When my father gave a sister to the English, their King Henry decided he was king of France! I remember when the English still strutted through French towns and cities, Lalonde – and claimed them. If I honour this King Edward with my little girl, how long before the horns blow again? If I do not, how long before Burgundy and Brittany blow their horns for war? It is most vexing.’

  To his surprise, Chancellor Lalonde responded.

  ‘The English have bled themselves white, Your Majesty, at the battle they call York Field, or Towton. They will not threaten France again, not as long as I live.’

  Louis regarded the old man dubiously.

  ‘Yes, though we will be lucky if you survive another winter, Lalonde. And this Edward is a son of York. I remember his father, before this enormous pup was even born. Duke Richard was … impressive – cruel and clever. My father liked him, as much as he liked anyone. I cannot make an enemy of his giant son, who triumphed against thirty thousand on the field of war! No, I have made my decision. None of my sisters remain unwed. My daughter is three, and of course the newborn, God grant she lives. I could betroth Anne to marry him when she is fourteen, eleven years from now. Let him cool his ardour for a decade! Let him prove himself as a king first before I send another daughter of France over the sea.’

  ‘Your Majesty …’ Lalonde began. Louis held up a hand.

  ‘Yes. I am aware he will not wait. Do you not understand a flight of fancy, Chancellor Lalonde? Do you comprehend humour at all? Or is it the deafness? I will send a delegation of lords and pretty birds to meet King Edward, with spies and scribes and pigeons ready to bring news back to my hand. They will suggest my daughter, perhaps, but he will demur, refuse! Impossible to wait for so long, without heirs! Then we will offer him my widowed sister-in-law, Bona, or one of the nieces who cluster so at Christmas and beg for gifts from my hand. He will accept and perhaps we will have prevented the giant from bringing an army across that sleeve of tears they call the English Channel. Do you understand now, Lalonde? Must I explain myself again?’

  ‘Once … is enough in this heat,’ the old man said, his eyes cold.

  King Louis chuckled.

  ‘Spirit! In one so very ancient! Incroyable, monsieur. Bravo! Perhaps you should be part of that delegation, yes? To meet the king in London. No, don’t thank me, Lalonde. Merely go from here and make ready. Immediately.’

  The summer seemed to have lasted a lifetime, as if there had never been a winter before it. The entire country baked, wilting listlessly as every day broke with a new promise of heat. The inner walls of Windsor Castle remained somewhat cooler, so many feet of stone proof against even the hottest days. As Warwick watched, King Edward pressed his forehead against smooth limestone and closed his eyes.

  ‘Edward, until you have an heir, nothing is written in stone!’ Warwick said, exasperated. ‘If you suffered an apoplexy after one of your feasts, or if a cut spoiled and made your blood sour …’ He summoned the nerve to say the words to the enormous man who glowered through the window. ‘If you died, Edward, with things as they are, what do you think would be the result? You have no son, but your brothers are too young to inherit. George is, what, fourteen? Richard is only eleven. There would have to be a regent. How long then before Margaret and Henry and their son set foot in England once more? It is not so long ago that every family in the country lost someone at Towton, Edward. Do you want to see chaos return?’

  ‘This is all madness. I won’t die,’ the king said, turning away. ‘Unless, of course, a man can be lashed to death by your tongue,’ he went on, half to himself. ‘How is Richard now? Has he settled at Middleham?’

  ‘You see, this is why I never know what you will say!’ Warwick replied, throwing up his hands in exasperation. ‘In one fell swoop, you can refuse all good advice and then remind me you have placed a brother into my care! Yet if you trust me, you should listen!’

  ‘I do listen,’ Edward replied. ‘Though you worry too much, I think. The worst will not happen! As for my brother Richard, he is about the age I was when I went to Calais with you. You were a good teacher to me then – and I have not forgotten how I looked up to you. I had some thought of sending him to the garrison there, but he is … well, more delicate than I was at his age. My mother coddled him, I am sure. He needs sword work and hours with an axe each day. You’ll know what to do, just as you did with me.’

  Warwick sighed, fed up with the role
he was forced to play, some combination of older brother, stepfather and chancellor that meant he had no real power whatsoever over the headstrong young king. He had thought it a great honour at first when Edward had passed his youngest brother into Warwick’s care. It was common enough to allow young men to grow to manhood away from their families. It toughened them and allowed them to make their last childish mistakes away from those they would disappoint. It built alliances as well, and Warwick was pleased Edward thought it worth his while. None of that obscured the utter emptiness of Warwick’s role as king’s companion.

  It had not mattered much for the first two or three years, while he and Edward tore through Lancaster rebellions in the north. That had been a heady time, with small-action battles and racing across the land to catch spies and traitors. Hundreds of great houses and titles lay unfilled as a result, with their owners either still hiding from justice, or dangling from trees or spiked on London Bridge. Edward had taken immense satisfaction from attainting the noble houses which had supported Lancaster, removing both the titles and the wealth of their lands. He and Warwick had been ruthless, of a certainty, but they had been given cause.

  It had been exciting, dangerous work while it went on, but then the country had fallen quiet and there were no more rebellions for an entire summer, not even a manor burned or news of a rising in King Henry’s name. It was those airless, sweat-soaked months that had Edward scratching at any door, wanting to be out hunting. He had always been happier in the cold, where he could wrap himself in fur. There was no relief from summer heat and it stole even his great strength, leaving him as weak as Samson shorn of hair.

  Warwick watched him, wondering at the cause of his restlessness. One suspicion came to his mind and he gave it voice.

  ‘You know, Edward, since Towton, we are not yet strong enough to consider crossing the Channel, no matter how much you might want it. We don’t have the army for it.’

  ‘They were just six thousand at Agincourt,’ Edward snapped, stung to anger at having his thoughts read. ‘Five thousand of them were archers.’

  ‘And that army was led by a king who had already fathered his son and heir,’ Warwick exclaimed. ‘Edward, you are twenty-two and a king of England. There is time for any campaign you wish in the years ahead, but please secure your heirs first. There is not a princess alive who would not consider your suit.’

  Warwick paused for a moment, aware that Edward was staring out over Windsor grounds. Warwick had no doubt the young man was considering throwing off duty and vanishing for a week or a fortnight, turning up reeking of sweat and blood, as if he had no other responsibilities. It didn’t take much more than a rumour of some wild animal menacing a flock or a village for Edward to be gathering his knights and sounding a hunting horn.

  Warwick sensed he was losing the king’s interest and attention as Edward’s gaze sharpened and he leaned close to the glass panes, his breath misting them. The Thames was visible from the tower. No doubt Edward had seen ducks skimming down to land. If it wasn’t hunting with dogs, it was falconry that obsessed the young king. He seemed to have a touch for it, or so they said in the royal mews. Something in the savage birds of prey put Edward in a joyous mood and he was never happier than riding out with his great speckled gyrfalcon on his arm, or coming back with a few brace of pigeon or ducks over his shoulder.

  ‘Your Highness?’ Warwick said softly.

  Edward turned from the glass at his title. They had fallen into the use of first names from long association. Edward knew Warwick only used one of the royal forms of address when he thought something was truly important. He nodded, standing with his hands clenched at his back, wondering if he should give voice to what was truly troubling him. For once in his life, Edward was embarrassed.

  ‘This French king Louis is Margaret’s first cousin,’ Warwick went on, unaware of the inner struggle in the man he faced. ‘In her exile, she might have asked for land or a title, but instead she calls on him to arrange a marriage for her son. King Louis is said to be clever, Edward. I cannot say I felt any especial warmth from him as he considered our request. I do know any union of Margaret’s boy and the French throne would be a dangerous thing.’

  ‘None of that would matter if Margaret’s simple husband hadn’t lost France!’ Edward retorted.

  Warwick shrugged.

  ‘That is in the past. Yet if we allow her son to marry a French princess, he could one day be king of France – and then claim England as his birthright. Do you see the danger now? Do you see why I have spent two years flattering King Louis and the French court and sending gifts in your name? Do you see why I have feasted a dozen of their ambassadors and entertained them at my estates?’

  ‘Yes, I see it. But you will tell me anyway,’ Edward replied, turning back to the window once more with a sullen expression.

  Warwick’s mouth tightened, feeling an old surge of impotent anger. He was absolutely certain of the best path, yet completely unable to force it on a man who was his superior in arms and status. Edward was not stupid, Warwick reminded himself. He was merely as bull-headed, ruthless and self-regarding as the falcons he flew.

  Earl Sir John Neville had reason to be satisfied with his life. After Towton, King Edward had included him in the Order of the Garter, making him one of a select band of knights who could always reach the king and be heard. It had been his father’s own place in the order and John had felt immense pride to be able to add the Garter legend to his crest: ‘HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE’ – ‘Evil be to him who evil thinks’. That had been a great honour, but it paled to nothing compared with being made lord of Alnwick Castle.

  The earls of Northumberland had been one of seven kings once, before Athelstan united them all into England. It was one of the largest landholdings in the country – and it had fallen to the Neville family over the Percy line. There was no other title that could possibly have meant so much to a man who had fought against the Percy father and sons. John Neville had survived a Percy attack on his own wedding. He had watched the elder Percy earl die at St Albans. One by one, the lords of the north had fallen. It was a constant joy to know that the last heir languished in the Tower of London, while a Neville strode the battlements at Alnwick and used their maids for sport.

  He had been cruel to the retainers, it was true, weeding out the ones he did not trust and leaving them to starve without work. It was always hard when a new lord replaced an old line. Hard, but the victory of better blood, in his humble opinion.

  In return for that generosity, the new Earl of Northumberland had ridden and worked for three years to winkle out every last hiding place of Lancastrian support. He was directly responsible for the execution of more than a hundred men and found he enjoyed the work. With his troop of sixty veteran men-at-arms, John Neville followed rumours and paid informers, much as he imagined Derry Brewer had done before him.

  That was one man he would have liked to see again. The letter ‘T’ that Brewer had carved had scarred thick and pink on the back of his hand. The cut had been so deep that John Neville found it hard to hold an eating knife and his fingers could be shocked open at the lightest blow. Still, for all that had been taken from him, he had been given more. He did not count the cost of his good fortune.

  Lord Somerset had lost his head stretched on a tree stump, pulled out from the basement where he had hidden from loyal Yorkist men. John Neville smiled in memory of the man’s spitting fury. It was extraordinary how those Lancaster lords and knights would creep into the earth to hide from their just fates. Sir William Tailboys had been caught in a coal pit and dragged out coughing and black with dust. Dozens more had been tracked and found, or betrayed for coin or vengeance. His work consumed him and he knew that he would rue the day it came to an end. Peace had never brought John Neville the satisfactions and rewards of war.

  His only regret was coming so close to taking King Henry himself. He was certain the king was still in England. There were rumours of a dozen sightings in the north, parti
cularly round Lancashire. John Neville and his men had found a cap with a Lancaster crest in an abandoned castle just two weeks before. He could almost feel the tracks getting fresher and the men hiding the king growing more desperate as he drew closer, following every scent and whisper. He might have left that last task to others, but he wanted to be there at the end. The truth was that he enjoyed hunting men more than deer, wolves or boar. There was more sport in those who understood the stakes and would fight as easily as run.

  The earl kept a tight rein on his excitement as he followed the broken road through Clitheroe Woods. It made sense that King Henry would be safest in Lancashire. His family name came from the ancient Lancaster fortress in the north-west, one of the largest castles in England. Lancashire was Henry’s heartland, perhaps more than anywhere. Yet the Tempest family had still betrayed him, whether out of loyalty to York or promise of later reward, John Neville neither knew nor cared.

  When he had arrived at the Tempest manor house, King Henry had been spirited away from his rooms. Three of the king’s attendants had escaped with him: two chaplains and a squire. How far could they have travelled in just a day, if the Tempest sons had told the truth? John Neville had men who could follow a man’s steps well enough, sheriff’s men well used to tracking down felons who ran. Even on rough roads baked hard in that summer heat, it had not taken them long to pick up one trail over all the others. A group of four, with just one on horseback. There could not have been too many groups of that kind.

  The Earl of Northumberland looked up as green shadows moved in bars across his face. He did not like deep forest, where brigands and traitors hid. He was a man who preferred open spaces, where the wind could howl. He was well suited to Northumberland, with its wilderness and valleys and raw hills that stirred his soul. Yet he had to follow where the tracks led; that was his duty.