Stormbird

by Conn Iggulden

  The weather had held, with no rain and a mild sun, so that it had given the royal party almost perfect hunting skies. As importantly, King Edward’s falcon had made the Woodville goshawk look slow. Sir John Woodville flew his brother’s bird well enough, but the fault was in nature not his skill. The goshawk screeched in rage when it could not pursue, an emotion as clear as any the men felt themselves. In turn, the king’s falcon appeared to take pleasure in showing its mastery, pulling tight turns and dives right across the face of the Woodville knight, so that the hawk went stumbling in the disturbed air of its wake.

  There was prey for them both, flushed by the dogs from cover, so that hares went racing or grouse flapped madly into the air, with squires yelling and pointing out their course. The archers competed among themselves to take birds on the wing or, at one point, even trout from a river, with silver wagered by those who said it could not be done. Between them, the entire group took enough to feed themselves each night, with servants building spits and firepits. Those who missed their shots went hungry for days at a time, until their friends took pity on them. It helped that they had brought horses laden only with flasks and amphorae of wine. In the evenings, the drink flowed and the men jostled and competed to amuse the young king.

  Edward was content. He would have preferred more challenging prey, but there would be no sign of wolves or deer so near to the road. The animals were too used to the sounds of men and knew when to run and keep running. With great fondness, he recalled his hunts in the deep woods or the wilds of Wales, where the animals were not so used to the scent of man.

  It had not been a rush north, to bring king’s justice on rioting weavers. Edward and his knights had enjoyed the hospitality and feasts arranged for them in too many manor houses and market towns. There had been days when they’d been so taken by groaning, drunken illness that they had barely made five miles. Earl Rivers had suffered a terrible bout of loose bowels for two entire days, until Edward thought they would have to leave him behind, or perhaps get him a new horse.

  The young king laughed at the memory of the old man’s mortified expressions. His father-in-law was riding a little way over and looked up in suspicion, not quite seeing the humour that had reduced some of the knights to tears.

  Ahead lay the city of York and, at the sight of those walls and the thread of the River Ouse, Edward lost his desire to smile. There were too many savage memories bound up in the stones of that place ever to call it home. The worst of it was the damned Micklegate Bar, open to the south. He thought he might have those towers and walls there taken down, or rebuilt so as not to overwhelm him every time he saw them.

  Edward was staring ahead when he saw a darkening line appear on the horizon around the city. He squinted and leaned forward, shading his eyes. He had no scouts out and, for an instant, he felt his stomach clench, before his natural belligerence reasserted itself. He would not fear rioters.

  ‘Sir John!’ he called back. ‘Ride ahead and scout for me. Who are those men there?’

  His wife’s young brother dug in spurs and his horse bunched and lunged into a gallop, a fine display from a man whose hawk was too slow. Edward watched him go and, for the first time, cast an eye over his men as an armed force rather than a huge hunting party. What he saw did not please him, as one who had known the disciplined ranks of Towton. The knights and men-at-arms who had accompanied the king into the north were a little ragged for the experience. His archers still looked keen though.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ he murmured. With a whistle, he summoned a captain to his side and gave a string of orders, bringing something resembling structure to the disparate group.

  Sir John Woodville rode back some time later and looked with interest over the steady ranks of knights and wings of archers that had formed around the king at the centre. For all his faults, Edward Plantagenet would have made a fine captain; there had never been any doubt about that.

  Sir John began to dismount and Edward held up his hand, irritation showing.

  ‘Stay in the saddle, lad. What could you see?’

  The dark line around the city was clearly made of distant figures by then. They did not look like any rioters Edward had seen before, nor labourers, weavers or not.

  ‘Two thousand, maybe three, Your Highness. I saw perhaps a hundred ahorse, eight hundred archers. The rest are marching here, now that they have seen us.’

  ‘Banners? Who commands them?’

  ‘I saw none, though they formed like soldiers. It could be Lancaster rebels.’

  ‘Which? There are none left.’ Edward had a terrible thought then, that the Percy earl he had restored might have turned against him. The thought sickened him, not least because of how Warwick would look when he heard.

  ‘Whoever leads them, we are sorely outmatched, my lord,’ Earl Rivers said, riding up to Edward’s side.

  The Woodville father exchanged a worried glance with his youngest son, seeing the tension in him. They could both see the young giant tapping the hilt of his sword as he stared away to the horizon. If any man in England could turn the trap into a victory it was Edward, but Earl Rivers knew their lives – his son’s life – hung in that decision.

  ‘I believe your father sallied out against Lancaster forces, Your Highness,’ Earl Rivers murmured. ‘You have armies who would fight for you.’

  ‘I have two hundred archers here, now,’ Edward replied. ‘I have seen what they can do. For all we know, these others are false bowmen meant to make us run. Men with axe-handles and twine, my lord. My two hundred could tear them apart for their insolence and trickery.’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness. Or this is a plot to kill you and put Lancaster back on the throne of England. You won at Towton, my lord, but you had your army with you. Please.’

  Edward looked askance at his wife’s father, then back to those he had brought into the north. They were as fine a hunting party as he had ever known, but no kind of army. They looked afraid as the lines widened ahead of them.

  ‘Very well, Rivers. Though it breaks my heart, I will choose good sense and caution over rash action and giving the bastards blow for blow. Away south, gentlemen! With me, at your best pace now.’

  It did not escape Edward that they were a long, long way from the forces he needed to answer the threat, or that the hunters had become the hunted. He heard horns sound behind him and the king shivered, feeling the cold.

  Spring had come to France, with the fields a deep, vivid green as far as the eye could see. Warwick’s papers had been old permissions to land, with the dates sanded away and new ones inked. The harbourmaster who had been rowed out to them and then the captain of the fortress had barely glanced at the vellum and the seals. Both men remembered Warwick and Clarence from their previous visit and were visibly embarrassed in the presence of a beautiful young woman, radiant with happiness.

  Warwick had brought only his coachman and two guards with him, preferring speed to a real display of force. The small group had borrowed horses from a mystified king’s captain, promising to return them the following morning. The English officers all suspected some romantic scene was being played out before them, but they kept their questions to themselves.

  The small group had not ridden far from Calais, just a few miles down the road to the village of Ardres. There, Warwick greeted a white-haired country priest and explained what he required in fluent French. The priest beamed at them all, seemingly delighted at their mere presence in his humble church, though Warwick also passed over a pouch of silver coins.

  For his part, George of Clarence could only stand in wide-eyed joy and clasp Isabel’s hand, hardly believing that what they had desired for so long was happening right then and there. Warwick’s men had smoothed their hair down and brushed their jackets with water from the well. They would be the witnesses and they bristled with pride.

  Warwick held up his hand when he heard the approach of horses outside. His daughter looked at him in alarm, but he winked at her. No one had followed them f
rom the coast, he was certain. There was only one other who might have come at his private request.

  ‘Isabel, George. If you would wait for just a little time …’ he said over his shoulder to them, walking along the nave to the wooden doors.

  They opened before he reached them and two guards in armour entered, with swords held ready. Behind them came King Louis of France, bare-headed and in simpler clothes than Warwick had ever seen him wear.

  ‘Your Majesty, you do me a great honour,’ Warwick said.

  Louis smiled, looking around him at the stupefied priest and the young lovers waiting to be joined in marriage.

  ‘Ah! I am not too late, it seems. Such a place to find, this little Ardres. Carry on, carry on. I told milord Warwick I would attend if I could. Why not? A marriage in France is perhaps the best of all, no?’

  The king accepted the bow of Warwick’s men and the priest himself, who wiped his forehead and seemed to have forgotten the service he had planned.

  As the sun set outside, the priest rolled through the Latin vows, with Warwick repeating them in both English and French for Isabel and George of Clarence to say to one another. The little church was silent and dusty, but the day had been warm and spring was a time for love and new lives. There was a sense of happiness in that place, felt even by King Louis and his personal guards, so that they beamed and twinkled at the bride and groom as they turned with their hands clasped tightly together. Warwick led the cheers and they echoed well enough in that empty church as the small group clustered in to congratulate and kiss cheeks.

  ‘Milord Clarence, I have a wedding gift for you,’ King Louis announced, his chest swelling. ‘The armour I promised, from Master Auguste of Paris. He said he has never made a finer set and it is measured to you with room to grow across the shoulder and chest, so you will never need another.’

  George of Clarence was overwhelmed, by Isabel, the ceremony, the presence of the French king in that strange setting. He laughed as the priest handed him a square of rough cloth to wipe the perspiration from his brow, then followed them out.

  Warwick fell in beside King Louis a few paces behind the married couple, exchanging the smiles of more worldly men.

  ‘Your daughter is exquisite,’ King Louis said. ‘I assume her mother is an extraordinary creature.’

  Warwick smiled.

  ‘There is no other explanation, Your Majesty. Thank you for coming to this. It is such a small thing to witness, but they will remember you were here for the rest of their lives.’

  ‘We are friends, are we not?’ King Louis said. ‘You and I understand, I think. Peace does not matter – man will always fight and shed blood. My lords rebel and chafe under my laws. Even honour comes to an end. But love? Ah, Richard. Without love, what is the point of anything?’

  ‘I could not have put it better, Your Majesty,’ Warwick replied, bowing. ‘You have given me great honour here today. I will not forget.’

  ‘I should think not, milord!’ Louis said with a smile. He swept forward, ducking under the low lintel.

  Outside, Isabel was standing in blushing embarrassment, glowing. George of Clarence was exclaiming at the sword he had drawn, a blade marked with finely carved figures. The rest of King Louis’s gift lay in saddlebags on two mules.

  ‘It is almost dark now. Will you race back to your fortress of Calais, milord?’ King Louis said. ‘Scurry scurry, like little mice?’

  The French king’s eyes had crinkled in joy at the sight of Isabel once again, her long dark hair bound in a silver clasp and falling to her waist.

  Warwick glanced at the king, wondering, not for the first time, how much the man truly understood. It was not something he would say aloud, but it was important that the young couple consummate their marriage. He would spend a night in a tavern near the Calais fortress, giving them a room to themselves. After that, no man or indeed king could annul the union.

  ‘It is just a few miles, Your Majesty, though it has been a long, long day. Perhaps we will spend the night in comfort. To think, this morning I was in London! The speed of the world is extraordinary.’

  ‘Then I will bid you adieu, milord – and good luck. We will meet again as friends, I do not doubt.’

  King Louis waited courteously for the little group to mount and arrange themselves, remaining in the churchyard until they had vanished into the night, safe back on the road. He did not know yet whether they would prosper or fail, but he had laid down good, solid stones, unseen but present nonetheless. The king sighed to himself. She had been very beautiful, so much in love that she only had eyes for the young duke at her side.

  ‘Oh, to be young!’ he said to himself. ‘When life was so simple.’

  ‘Your Majesty?’ one of his men said cautiously, well used to the king’s murmurings.

  ‘It is nothing, Alain. Lead me to shelter. Lead me to warmth and good red wine.’

  Edward pushed on, though the moon was a slender reed and the stones of the road were hard to see. He could hear the army coming behind him, closer with every mile and every jingling step. There was still no sign of banners, even if there had been enough light to make them out. Edward grimaced, preferring to remain silent rather than speculate. It did not matter who they were, only that they had dared to attack his royal party and that they were so many he was in real danger of being taken. His knights simply could not ride a hundred miles without stopping. It was impossible, for both the men and the horses. They had already ridden a full day by the time they’d first caught sight of the city of York, and Edward had intended to rest within its walls. Instead, he had been forced to turn and ride away, the horses already blowing, the men weary. Behind them came fresh ranks, marching and riding, pressing as fast as they could go to close the gap, stretching a mile across the road in greater numbers than he could believe. No weavers these! This was an armed insurrection against royal authority, his enemies in the field.

  As the stars turned overhead, Edward’s men urged him to ride on alone. If his horse had been fresh, he might have done, but the animal’s head was drooping. His hopes soured into vinegar. The army behind was not content to herd him south. They were pressing on at their best speed, coming closer and closer. Edward and his men could see the dark, trudging lines blotting out the natural lie of the land behind them. There were thousands in his wake.

  The London road swung south-west for a time, taking Edward and his men past the rolling valleys where he had fought the battle of Towton. Those who remembered crossed themselves and said a prayer for the dead. No one ever rested a night there, not with so many ghosts and so much blood soaked into the clay.

  The image of being captured in such a place spurred Edward on. He called to his men to take heart and wait for dawn, all the while thinking furiously of where he might bolt and who he could reach in time to aid him.

  By the time the sun showed first light, Edward was grimly accepting. He had not a quarter of the men stalking him – and his men and the horses were spent, their stamina gone. The archers were pale and stumbling in the dawn light, halting the moment they saw Edward rein in.

  He turned his warhorse back to face those coming down the road. With sharp commands, his knights sent the archers out in a wide line in case fighting began. Two hundred of them could do terrible damage, though those on horseback would never survive an exchange of shafts.

  The light was too dim at first to see more than the rows of archers spreading out on the other side in answer to his own. Edward shook his head irritably. He was the king of England, and beyond the inner fury that lay banked, his main emotion was curiosity. There were not many enemies who would have had the nerve to trap him in such a way. He felt a touch of fear as well, causing him to recall his father’s fate. He pressed that away with an effort, determined to show only contempt.

  A small group of armoured men rode closer, with a herald out in front to call for peace. Edward turned to his men, patting the air with a mailed glove.

  ‘Keep your swords down,’ he t
old them. ‘You cannot defend against so many and I would not have you throw your lives away.’

  There was a palpable sense of relief on his side of the battle lines. His four hundred faced many more and they knew they were yawning and weak with hunger. It would not have gone well for them if the young king had ordered them to fight to the last man.

  ‘Surrender to my custody, Edward. You will be fairly treated, on my honour.’

  The voice came from the centre of the armoured men, making Edward peer. His eyes widened a fraction in the dim light as they made out the features of George Neville, Archbishop of York. In armour rather than robes, the man was as burly as any warrior.

  ‘Treason, then?’ Edward asked, still trying to understand what was happening. Alongside the archbishop, he saw John Neville, or Marquess Montagu as he had made him. Edward’s confusion faded and he nodded to himself.

  Seeing the king resigned to his fate, the archbishop chuckled and brought his horse up close. To Edward’s astonishment, the man levelled a sword at him, the point unwavering.

  ‘Now, surrender, Your Highness. Say the word or I will give you to my brother and he will take your head. As you took his title.’

  Edward stared back for an age, his expression reptilian.

  ‘So the Nevilles have turned against me,’ Edward muttered.

  Despite the archbishop’s breadth of shoulder, the man was no true warrior. Edward wanted to smack the sword aside and lay about him in fury. He knew if he did they would kill him. He clenched his fist and then unstrapped his sword, handing it over and watching as it was taken out of his reach. He felt weaker without the weapon, reduced.

  ‘Warwick, too?’ Edward asked suddenly. ‘Ah. His daughter’s marriage?’

  ‘You have given us cause, Your Highness,’ the archbishop replied. ‘I will ask you for the last time now.’

  ‘Yes, very well. I surrender,’ Edward snapped. He saw the tension leave some of the men facing him and he sneered at them.

  ‘What a mark of courage to hide your banners! Or is it that you know of all men I do not forgive my enemies? I understand your fear, lads. Were I in your position, I would feel it myself, most cruelly.’