Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  In the darkness, the Tower of London was a frightening place. The main gate was lit with just two small braziers on iron poles. They cast light in yellow eyes around the gatehouse, fading to blackness along the inside of the walls. Individuals of high estate were allowed candles or lamps in their rooms, whatever their families were willing to afford while they were confined. Yet most of the ancient fortress was without light, the stones invisible against the black river running by.

  Warwick could hear Edward’s arrival long before he saw him. He swallowed nervously, unsure what he would witness that night. The king had sent word he was coming, and for the hours of waiting, the Tower guards had bustled around at a run, checking everything and reporting to the Constable of the Tower, whose responsibility began and ended with the king’s presence. The sprawling complex of towers and buildings and cells and moats was all the property of the king, including the Royal Mint and the menagerie within the walls. In his absence, the Constable ran the Tower, overseeing every movement of the guards and keys.

  The gate was opened to admit Edward and a group of three armoured figures on horseback, clattering in fast as the king preferred. They dismounted, falling in behind Edward and the Constable as he led them to the rooms where Henry was held.

  Warwick heard the ring of metal coming closer until Edward appeared, bareheaded and stern. Warwick went down on one knee and bowed his head. The young king preferred the displays of honour, though he was usually good-natured and raised men quickly back to their feet.

  ‘Up, Richard. Your knees must be complaining on these old stones.’

  Warwick smiled stiffly at that, though at thirty-six, it was true that his right knee sent a spike of pain when he put his full weight on it.

  ‘You know my brother George,’ Edward said casually, looking past Warwick to the corridor of stone beyond.

  Warwick smiled and bowed deeply.

  ‘I do, of course. Good evening, Your Grace.’

  The fifteen-year-old had been made Duke of Clarence three years before at Edward’s formal coronation, lifted out of obscurity to wealth and power by his older brother. Just three sons of York had survived the perils of childhood and the violence of war. Warwick thought it a fine testament to Edward that he had raised both his brothers to the highest rank of the nobility. He wondered if the lavish grants and titles were in recompense for the loss of their beloved father. In silence, walking the gloomy path to Henry’s room, Warwick considered his brother John again, made Earl of Northumberland. It had not brought their father back to life, but if the old man could see, Warwick knew he would be proud. That mattered. Since his father’s death, he had kept a sense of being watched, of his most intimate moments perhaps being seen and judged by his father. For all he had loved the old man, it was not a pleasant feeling.

  Warwick could certainly not fault the young king for such acts of generosity. Edward was a creature of grand gestures, able to grant an earldom in the same breath as he ordered a man’s imprisonment or execution. He was utterly mercurial, Warwick thought, a quicksilver king. It paid best to show him honour and respect. Edward did not seem to notice the elaborate courtesies, yet he was very aware when they were not offered.

  Edward guided his brother George forward, to the outer door to Henry’s rooms. The hand on his brother’s arm was paternal and Warwick smiled, understanding that the entire visit was perhaps just to show a younger brother the face of a fallen king.

  Edward thumped his fist into the oak. They waited as the peephole slid back and forth and the door was unlocked by one of the guards who always sat with Henry of Lancaster, as both a servant and a jailer. Edward did not acknowledge the man as he caught sight of his old enemy through another door, kneeling on stone with his face raised to a window of iron and coloured glass. There was no light outside, but a small oil lamp in an alcove lit some part of Henry’s face. His eyes were closed; his hands clasped together. He appeared at peace and Edward frowned at the sight, unconsciously irritated.

  Warwick fretted, recalling a time before when he and Edward had found King Henry in a tent and captured him without a struggle. More than once, Edward had mused on how they might have changed the years ahead if they had killed Henry then.

  Henry was completely in Edward’s power and without one friend or supporter. Warwick’s gaze was on Edward and he sensed it, turning suddenly and smiling. With one arm, he pushed his dumbstruck brother George forward to observe the kneeling king. At the same time, Edward stepped over to whisper in Warwick’s ear.

  ‘Have no fear, Richard. I have not come here for violence, not tonight. After all, I am king now, blessed by the Church, proven in battle. This poor fellow cannot take that from me.’

  Warwick nodded. To his intense embarrassment, Edward reached out and clasped the back of his head, almost as if he would draw him into an awkward embrace. It might have been intended as a gesture of reassurance, but Warwick was thirty-six and a married father of two daughters. He did not enjoy being patted like a favourite hound. He held himself stiff until Edward clapped him twice on the same spot and drew back his arm. Edward stared at him, seeing something like resistance and misunderstanding it. The king took Warwick by the arm and walked him to the outer rooms, away from the kneeling king in torchlight.

  ‘I feel only pity when I look on him,’ Edward said softly. ‘I swear to you, Richard, he is in no danger.’ He chuckled, the sound touched with bitterness. ‘After all, while Henry lives, his son cannot claim my throne. Believe me, I wish that simpleton forty years of good health, so that they can never have a king over the water. Fear not for Henry of Lancaster in my care.’

  Warwick was reassured, though he almost made the mistake of pulling away as Edward took his arm again to lead him back in. The king was vastly more tactile than Warwick, especially in his oblivious youth. Warwick sighed in silence to himself, passing through the knights gawking at Henry.

  The kneeling king was at least clean, though Henry was painfully thin, with his skull showing under stretched skin. He had not opened his eyes once while Warwick had been watching, with the king’s hands shaking just a fraction from the pressure of being held together. It was not a peaceful pose, Warwick realized, but one of desperation and grief. He shook his head, sorry for the broken man and all he had lost.

  George, Duke of Clarence, knelt for a time at Henry’s side, his head bowed in prayer. The knights and King Edward joined him, making their own peace and asking for forgiveness of their sins. One by one, they made the sign of the cross and left the room, with its guard and single permanent occupant. At the doorway, Warwick looked further to the narrow bed on the far side of the room. Books lay on a table there, with a flask of wine and two small apples. It was not much for a man who had ruled England. At the same time, it was more than he might have had.

  Outside, the Constable of the Tower was practically falling over himself to thank Edward for his presence. Warwick rode with the small party out of the main gatehouse, taking a huge breath when they were through. It was a small pleasure, but they could breathe free air as those within the walls could not. It eased some slight constriction in Warwick’s chest to fill his lungs to their utmost, leaving the stillness of that place behind.

  Warwick walked his mount closer to the king, seeing that a contemplative mood had crept upon them all.

  ‘Your Highness, you have not told me how the meeting went with the French ambassador,’ Warwick said. ‘I am to see him at dawn tomorrow, to discuss which one of the charming French princesses will be yours.’

  Weeks or months of negotiations lay ahead, and he said the last with a chuckle, but Edward did not respond, seeming, if anything, gloomier. The young king blew out his cheeks, looking away across the Thames running past.

  ‘Edward?’ Warwick asked. ‘What is it? Is there something I should be told?’

  He had known the young man for most of Edward’s life, and yet the embarrassed grimace was not something he had seen before. Warwick saw Edward’s brother George look
away, staring deliberately at the river. The young duke’s face was flaming. He knew something.

  ‘Your Highness, if I am to serve you in this, I must …’

  ‘I’m married, Richard,’ Edward said suddenly. He took an enormous breath and blew it out. ‘There. I have said it. Oh, it is a relief! I could not think how to tell my council of lords, while all the time you were negotiating with the French. Then they came to London and I thought I have to tell you the truth; it’s already gone too far …’

  The king was babbling while Warwick simply stared in shock, utterly still. He realized his mouth had opened in amazement and he shut it carefully as it dried in the night air.

  ‘I can’t … Edward, who is she? You’re married? How? When, for Christ’s sake? No, who – that is what matters most.’

  ‘Elizabeth Grey, Richard. Or Elizabeth Woodville before she was married.’ Edward waited for that to sink in, but Warwick could only stare at him and he went on. ‘Her husband died on the field at the second battle around St Albans. A knight, Sir John Grey, fighting for Queen Margaret and King Henry.’ Edward risked a sheepish smile then. ‘Your defence meant the death of the one man who could deny me happiness. Is that not passing strange to think on? Our lives intertwine, like …’

  ‘Her family are not of royal blood?’ Warwick asked in amazement. He saw Edward’s colour deepen, touched by the anger that was always close to the surface. He would not accept being interrupted.

  ‘No, that is true, though her father is Baron Rivers. She has two sons by her first husband. Good lads, both of them.’

  ‘Of course. Two sons. And now I must go to the French delegation and tell them to put themselves back on a ship and return empty-handed to King Louis, as if we have made mock of them all for our amusement.’

  ‘I am sorry for that, Richard, truly. I wanted to tell you before, but I knew it would be difficult.’

  ‘Difficult?’ Warwick demanded. ‘There has never been a king of England who married outside the royal families. Since Athelstan. Never. I mean, I would have to see the archivists in the White Tower, but I do not think it has ever been done – and never to one who has married before, with two babies of her own.’

  Edward nodded, then caught himself.

  ‘Not babies, not really. The oldest is ten.’

  ‘What? How old is the mother?’ Warwick asked.

  ‘Twenty-eight, I think. Perhaps thirty. She will not tell me.’

  ‘Of course. Older than you. I suppose I should have expected it. Married before, not royal, a mother, older than you. Is there anything else? I imagine the ambassador will ask me, when I try to explain how the king of England can make a secret marriage without telling a soul! Who were your witnesses, Edward? Where did the service take place?’

  ‘It was at her family chapel, in Northamptonshire – and I grow weary of these questions, Richard. I am not a schoolboy summoned before you. I have said it all. Now, as my counsellor, you may tell the French to go home. I have had about enough of your astonishment! George, with me.’

  Edward dug in his heels and his warhorse surged into a canter along the cobbled street. His two knights fell in around him without a backwards look. George, Duke of Clarence, glanced delightedly at Warwick, grinning at everything he had heard, then rode after his older brother with his reins flicking back and forth for more speed.

  Warwick was left alone in the darkness, quite unable to imagine what he was going to say to the French delegation when the sun rose once again.

  24

  The musicians trooped away with their instruments held high, flushed with pride at the cheers of the assembled company. It had not hurt the appreciation of their performance that wine and ale had flowed in a river all evening, with no cup left empty. Beyond the candles at table, dozens of dark figures moved in and out, refilling jugs and replacing empty platters with full ones. The forty guests at King Edward’s great table were in a fine and raucous mood. They listened in delight as each man present told a story about a moment when he had been brave – and another when he had run away. The first brought solemn toasts and murmured thanks for great virtue; the second was amusing. Most of the men present had fought in battles or jousts. Between them, they had a thousand such tales to tell, until the drunken guests were roaring and wiping their eyes.

  King Edward removed a gobbet of clear chicken grease from his lips with a cloth, smiling contentedly at them all from the head of the table. His wife sat on his right and she reached out to touch his hand as he laid it down, a moment of intimacy that showed she was thinking of him in the midst of the ribaldry and laughter.

  ‘Is it my turn, then?’ her father demanded of the table, waving his cup of wine so that red drops sloshed out of it. ‘Ah, well, you have me at a loss. I have run from no man, by my oath!’ Baron Rivers rose to his feet as he declaimed, his voice becoming a bellow, answered by crashing cheers.

  Elizabeth hid her head in her arm, caught in equal parts by laughter and embarrassment. Her father’s capacity for drink was reaching even his limit. He swayed as he stood, blinking as he tried to remember what he had planned to say.

  ‘Oh yes! No man! But I did once run from the wife of a fisherman, a wench with forearms as broad as mine own. She had found me with her daughter, swiving like knives, I tell you, under a boat on the beach. Oh, to be young. I tell you, the smell of fish was such …’

  ‘Father!’ Elizabeth said.

  Baron Rivers stopped to peer at her, his face swollen and his eyes swimming.

  ‘Too far? My daughter is delicate, for a mother of two fine sons. A cup to my grandsons. May they know women as lise … as lithe as eels.’

  A great shout of laughter went up and Elizabeth buried her head once again in the crook of her arm. Her two boys were delighted to be mentioned by their grandfather and they accepted the flagons of ale pressed into their hands. They looked ruefully at each other then, having already been out once before to vomit in the garden. Still, they sat with the king of England and could not refuse as he raised a cup in their direction.

  Warwick did his best to smile along with the rest, though the occasional brief moment of silent communication with his brother John was of some help. The new queen had brought almost an entire court of her own family to London the moment the news of the marriage had become public. Within a month, no fewer than fourteen Woodvilles had moved in to the rooms and great houses of the capital, from Baynard’s Castle to the Tower and the Palace of Westminster itself. They had arrived like starving rats discovering a dead dog, as far as Warwick could see, though he would never have said such a thing, even to his own brother.

  Warwick let his gaze pass over the brothers and sisters of the new queen. Half of them were already filling roles in the royal houses, all of which carried a decent amount of coin. Elizabeth’s own sister had become her maid, at forty pounds a year.

  They were, at Warwick’s best estimate, country folk, with rough manners and no particular subtlety. Yet as that year’s summer had produced great surpluses of fruit and crops, so it had shone on the Woodville line, even as a pale reflection of Edward. The king withheld nothing from Elizabeth, granting her every wish, no matter how transparently it served her family. It had not hurt her cause to have fallen pregnant so quickly. The curve of it showed well under new dresses cut for her. Edward, of course, was as proud as a cockerel, doting on her. Warwick could only smile and keep silent as valuable titles were granted, one by one, to men and women who had been mere tenant farmers before, of no particular estate.

  Edward was resting his great head on his arms, laughing at something Elizabeth had muttered to him. Her hair spilled over the table, red run through with gold, a most extraordinary colour. As Warwick watched, the young king reached out and toyed with a lock of it, murmuring some endearment that made his queen blush and slap at his hand. Warwick had thought they were oblivious to his scrutiny, but Elizabeth had noticed his attention. When Edward turned to a servant to demand more wine, Warwick found himself the obje
ct of her calm and steady gaze.

  He blushed as if he had been caught doing something wrong, instead of simply staring. Slowly, he raised his cup to her. He thought her expression grew cold at that, but then she smiled and he was reminded what an extraordinary beauty she was. Her skin was pale and lightly marked, the tiny circles of old pox scars on her cheek. Her mouth was a little thin, though her lips were as red as if she’d bitten them. It was her eyes that held his attention, however, heavy-lidded and sleepy, on the verge of yawning. There was something wicked in such eyes, and Warwick could not help thinking of the bedchamber as she raised her cup and tilted her head in return, as if to an opponent before a joust. He drank deeply and saw that she matched him, so that the red wine stained her lips further.

  Warwick glanced at Edward almost nervously, so intimate had this exchange felt with Elizabeth. The king had put his head right back and was trying to throw some part of the meal so that it landed in his open mouth. Warwick chuckled at the silliness of it. For all his roaring and drunken games, Edward had chosen a woman who brought him no advantage at all. In an older man, it might have been something to admire, a measured choice of love over alliance or wealth. Yet Warwick did not trust Edward’s youth.

  Just as Edward had rushed to the battle of Towton – and yes, triumphed there – so he had hurled himself into a marriage with a woman he hardly knew. The sheer number of Woodvilles infesting the royal palaces seemed to have surprised Edward as much as anyone, though he only shook his head indulgently and retired to his private chambers for his more experienced wife to keep him amused.

  Warwick lurched, spilling his wine as a young man gestured, singing or shouting with wild movements that overset a ham and sent it spinning with a crash of crockery. He swore under his breath, sensing that Elizabeth was still watching him. She had appeared puzzled by his role in her husband’s life, seeing no reason for Edward to have private meetings with Warwick and a few other men. The Privy Council had not been disbanded, but in the previous three months of her influence, Edward had attended only once. If some matter of law or custom needed his attention, it had to be brought to him in person, with Elizabeth often present at those times, to cast an eye over the papers and have her husband explain them to her.