Wars of the Roses 01 - Stormbird Page 14

  Thomas laughed, though there was no mirth in it.

  ‘You won’t. You owe me your life, Derry. You owe me more than your old-woman warnings.’

  ‘I’m saving your life by telling you to get out!’ Derry roared. ‘For once, why don’t you just listen, you stubborn sod?’

  ‘Our arrows had all gone, remember?’

  ‘Tom, please …’

  ‘You had a gash in your leg and you couldn’t run – and that French knight saw you in the long grass and turned back, do you remember?’

  ‘I remember,’ Derry said miserably.

  ‘And he didn’t see me, so I jumped up at him and pulled him down before he could cut off your head with his fine French sword. I took my little knife and I stuck it into his eye slit, Derry, while you just stood and watched. Now that same man is sitting in my kitchen, on my land, and telling me he won’t help? I thought better of you, I really did. We stood together once and it meant something.’

  ‘The king can’t fight, Tom. He’s not his father and he can’t fight – or lead men who can. He’s like a child and it’s my neck if you ever say it was me who told you. When my king asked me to get him a truce, I did it. Because it was the right thing to do. Because otherwise we’d lose the whole of France anyway. I’m sorry, because I know you and it’s like a knife in me to sit in your kitchen and tell you it’s hopeless, but it is.’

  Thomas stared at him over the rim of his cup.

  ‘You’re telling me this was all your idea?’ he said in wonder. ‘Who the hell are you, Derry Brewer?’

  ‘I’m a man you never want to cross, Tom. Never. I’m someone you should listen to, because I know what I’m talking about and I don’t forgive easy. I’ve told you what I know. If you start a war over a few hills and some sheep … Just don’t, that’s all. I’ll find you a stake to buy another place in the north, for old times’ sake. I can do that much.’

  ‘Alms for the poor? I don’t want your charity,’ Thomas said, almost spitting the word. ‘I earned my land here. I earned it in blood and pain and killing. It’s all mine, Derry, no debts, nothing. You’re sitting in my home and these are the hands that built it.’

  ‘It’s just another tenant farm,’ Derry growled at him, growing angry once more. ‘Let it go.’

  ‘No. You should go, Derry. You’ve said all there is to say.’

  ‘You’re turning me out?’ Derry asked incredulously. He closed his fists and Thomas lowered his head, so he looked back from under thunderous brows.

  ‘I am. I’d hoped for more from you, but you’ve made yourself clear.’

  ‘Right.’

  Derry rose and Thomas stood with him, so that they faced each other in the small kitchen, their anger filling it. Derry reached for his waxed cloak and pulled it over himself with furious, sharp movements.

  ‘The king wanted a truce, Tom,’ he said as he reached the door and flung it open. ‘He gave up some of his lands for it and it’s done. Don’t stand in the road like a fool. Save your family.’

  The wind howled into the kitchen, making the fire flutter and spit. Derry left the door swinging and disappeared into the night. After a time, Thomas walked over and closed it against the gale.

  The ship plunged, dropping into a wave with such suddenness that it seemed to leave Margaret’s stomach behind. Spray spattered across the deck, adding to the crust of salt that sparkled on the railings and every exposed piece of timber. The sails creaked and billowed above her head and Margaret could not remember when she had enjoyed herself as much. The second mate roared an order and the sailors began heaving on ropes as thick as her wrist, moving the wooden yards round to keep the sails full and tight. She saw William striding along the deck, one of his big hands hovering near the railing as he approached.

  ‘One hand for the ship, one for yourself,’ she muttered, delighted at the English phrase and the sense of nautical knowledge it gave her. How could she have reached fourteen years of age and never been to sea? It was a long way from Saumur Castle in every possible sense. The captain treated her with blushing respect, bowing and listening as if every word she said was a gem to be treasured. She only wished her brothers could see it, or better still, Yolande. The thought of her sister brought an ache to her chest, but she resisted, holding her head up and breathing in air so cold and fresh that it stung her lungs. Her father had refused to send even a maid with her, causing William to become so red-faced and angry that she’d thought he might strike Lord René of Anjou.

  It had not been a pleasant parting, but William had given up his indignation and hired two maids in Calais to tend to her, using his own coins.

  Margaret smiled as Suffolk staggered and grabbed the railing. The ship lurched on grey seas, with cold autumn winds battering from the west. Calais itself had contained so many new experiences that it had overwhelmed her. The fortress port had been crammed full of the English within its walls. She’d seen beggars and shopkeepers as well as hundreds of gruff sailors everywhere, bustling to and fro with their sea chests and cargoes. When they’d paid off the last carriage driver, William had hustled her past some painted women, as if Margaret had never heard of whores. She laughed to recall his very English embarrassment as he tried to protect her from a sight of them.

  A seagull called overhead and, to her delight, settled on one of the spiderweb of ropes that led everywhere, almost within reach of her hand. It watched her with beady little eyes and Margaret was sorry she didn’t have a crumb of cake or dry bread to feed the bird.

  The gull startled and flew off with a harsh cry as William came up to her. He smiled to see her expression.

  ‘My lady, I thought you might enjoy your first glimpse of England. If you’ll keep a hand on the rail at all times, the captain says we can go to the prow – the front of the ship.’

  Margaret stumbled as she went eagerly and he put a strong arm on hers to steady her.

  ‘Forgive the impertinence, my lady. You’re warm enough?’ he asked her. ‘No sickness?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Margaret replied. ‘A stomach of iron, Lord Suffolk!’

  He chuckled at that, leading her along the pitching deck. Margaret could hear the hiss of the sea passing under them. Such speed! It was extraordinary and exhilarating. She resolved to return to sea when she was properly married in England. A queen could have her own ship, surely?

  ‘Can a queen have her own ship?’ she called, pitching her voice over the wind and screaming gulls.

  ‘I’m sure a queen can have her own fleet, if she wants,’ William roared back, grinning over his shoulder.

  The wind was freshening and the mates were bellowing orders. The sailors moved busily once again, loosening shrouds and folding great wet sections of sails, then tying them off before making it all taut once again.

  Margaret reached the bow of the ship, with William’s hand steady on her shoulder. As well as the stays and the high jib sail, only the wooden bowsprit and some netting were further out, crashing down almost to the waves and then up again, over and over. She gasped in delight as white cliffs loomed in the distance, bright and clean against the sea mist. Margaret took a breath and held it, knowing it was English air. She had never left France before. She had never even left Anjou. Her senses swam with so many new experiences and thoughts.

  ‘They are beautiful, monsieur! Magnifique!’

  The sailors heard her. They smiled and cheered, already affectionate towards the girl who would be queen and who loved the sea as much as they did.

  ‘Look down, my lady,’ William said.

  Margaret dropped her gaze and then gasped to see sleek grey dolphins racing along the surface of the sea, keeping perfect pace with the ship. They darted and leaped as if they played a game, daring each other to see how close they could come. As she watched, a pole and chain off the bowsprit dipped deep enough to touch one of them. In a sudden flurry, they all vanished into the deep as if they had never existed. Margaret was left with a sense of awe and wonder at what she had seen. William laug
hed, amused to be able to show her such things.

  ‘That’s why they call that part a dolphin striker,’ he said, smiling. ‘It doesn’t hurt them.’ The wind howled, so that he had to lean close and shout into her ear. ‘Now, it will be a few hours yet before we make port. Shall I call your maids to prepare dry clothes for you?’

  Margaret stared out at the white cliffs, at the land whose king she had never met but would marry twice. England, her England.

  ‘Not yet, William,’ she said. ‘Let me stand here for a while first.’

  Mine heart is set, and all mine whole intent,

  To serve this flower in my most humble wyse

  As faithfully as can be thought or meant,

  Without feigning or sloth in my servyse;

  For know thee well, it is a paradyse

  To see this flower when it begyn to sprede,

  With colours fresh ennewyd, white and red.

  William de la Pole

  [written about Margaret of Anjou]

  11

  With warm furs on her hands and wrapped snugly around her neck, Margaret walked into the frost-covered gardens. Wetherby House was her first home in England, where she’d spent almost three months. The trees were still stark and bare, but there were snowdrops growing around their roots and spring was on its way. It could almost have been France and walking the paths eased some of the homesickness in her.

  All the local farms were slaughtering pigs and salting meat. Margaret could smell the smoke and she knew the dead animals were being piled with straw, which was lit to burn off their bristles. The bitter odour brought a sudden memory, so vivid that she stood and stared. Her mouth recalled the taste when her mother had let the stable lads mix fresh blood with sugar into a paste, almost a mousse. Her sister Yolande and her brothers had shared a bowl of the rare treat, squabbling over the spoon until it fell into the dust, then dipping their fingers until their skin and teeth were stained red.

  Margaret felt her eyes sting with tears. Saumur would be quieter without her that summer. It was hard not to miss her mother’s stuffed sardines or fennel chicken when Margaret was presented with a solid pork joint sitting like a boulder in a sea of peas in heavy cream. It seemed the English liked to boil food. It was one more thing to get used to.

  Lord William was a comfort, almost the only familiar face since leaving home. He had helped her improve her English, though he could rattle along in good French when he wanted, or when he had to explain a word. Yet he had been away more often than not, arriving back at the house every few days with more news of the wedding.

  It was a strange hiatus in Margaret’s life while great men and women arranged her second marriage. When she’d landed on the south coast by Portchester Castle, she’d hoped Henry would come to her. She’d had a vision of a handsome young king riding to the grand ruins from London, arriving perhaps that first night to sweep her into his arms. Instead, she’d been carried away to Wetherby and, apparently, forgotten. The days and weeks had slipped past with no sign of the king, only Suffolk or his friend Earl Somerset, a short, wiry man who had bowed so deeply that she feared he might never be able to rise again. She smiled to remember it. Before Somerset arrived, Derry Brewer had described him to her as ‘a right noble cockerel’. She’d learned the phrase in delight, her amusement made deeper when she met the earl and found him dressed in bright blue and yellow. She liked all three men for different reasons. Derry was both charming and polite and he’d slipped her a bag of tiny sweets when William wasn’t looking. She’d been caught halfway between outrage at being treated as a child and delight at bitter lemon drops that made her mouth pucker as she sucked them.

  Christmas had come and gone, with strange and gaudy presents arriving in her name from a hundred noble strangers, all taking the opportunity to introduce themselves. With William as her consort and chaperone, Margaret had gone to a ball she still remembered in a whirl of pungent apple cider and dancing. She’d hoped to see her husband there, her mind filled with romantic tales where the king would appear and the revellers would all fall silent. Yet Henry had not come. She was beginning to wonder if he ever would.

  She looked up at the sound of a carriage crunching across the gravel drive on the other side of the house. William was away that day and Margaret was filled with worry that it would be another of the English noblewomen come to inspect her or bargain for favours they clearly thought she could provide. She had sat in strained meetings with the wives of earls and barons, nibbling seed cake dipped into spiced wine and straining to find something to say in reply to their questions. Duchess Cecily of York had been the worst of them, a woman so very tall and assured that she made Margaret feel like a sticky child. Margaret’s English was still less than fluent and the duchess claimed to have no French, so it had been one of the hardest afternoons of her life, with far more silence than talk.

  ‘I will be ill again,’ Margaret muttered to herself at the thought of another such meeting. ‘I will be … indisposed.’

  In fact, she had been truly sick for a time after arriving. The strange heavy food perhaps, or just the change of air, had reduced her to helpless vomiting, with learned doctors forbidding her to leave her bed for the best part of two weeks. She’d thought then that the exquisite boredom would kill her, but those days of quiet had become a strangely happy memory, already half-forgotten.

  She had a vague idea that a queen should support her husband by flattering and cajoling his supporters, but if Cecily of York was the standard, it would not be an easy thing to learn. Margaret recalled the woman’s dry, sour smell and shuddered.

  She looked up as a high voice called her name in the distance. Dear God, they were looking for her again! She could see servants moving in the house and she trotted a little further down the garden paths to hide herself from the windows. William said the marriage would be in just a few days. He’d been red-faced and amused, his great mane of dark grey hair brushed and shining when he came to tell her. On his return, she’d travel to the abbey at Titchfield, not ten miles away. Henry would be there at last, waiting for her. She only wished she could picture the young king’s face when she imagined the scene. In her mind, she’d married him a thousand times, with every detail vivid except for that one.

  ‘Margaret!’ someone called.

  She looked up, suddenly more alert. When the voice called again, Margaret felt a great thump of excitement in her chest. She gathered her skirts and ran back towards the house.

  Her sister Yolande was standing by the garden doors, looking out. When she caught sight of Margaret, her face lit and she ran forward. They embraced in the frozen garden, with white grass all around. Yolande poured out a torrent of rapid French, bouncing in place as she held her younger sister.

  ‘It is such a joy to see you again! You are taller, I swear, and there are roses in your cheeks. It is agreeing with you to be in England, I think!’

  When there was no sign of the chatter coming to an end, Margaret pressed her hand over her sister’s mouth, making them both laugh.

  ‘How are you here, Yolande? I am thrilled to see you. I can hardly breathe with it, but how did you arrive? You must tell me everything.’

  ‘For your marriage, Margaret, of course! I thought we would miss it for a time, but I am here even so. Your Lord William sent the most beautiful invitation to me at Saumur. Father objected, of course, but he was distracted with some new trip he is planning. Our dear mother said the family must be represented and she prevailed, bless her saintly heart. Your English friend sent a ship for me, as you or I would send a carriage. Oh! And I am not alone! Frederick is with me. He’s growing a set of ridiculous whiskers. You must tell him they look terrible, as they scratch me so and I won’t have them on him.’

  Margaret looked away, suddenly aware of the strangeness of her situation. She had been married months before her sister, but had never yet seen her husband. With a quizzical eye, she looked more closely at Yolande.

  ‘You look … blooming yourself, si
ster. Are you with child?’

  Yolande blushed hot and pink.

  ‘I hope so! We have been trying and, oh Margaret, it is wonderful! The first time was a little unpleasant, but no worse than a bee sting perhaps. After that, well …’

  ‘Yolande!’ Margaret replied, blushing almost as deeply. ‘I don’t want to hear.’ She stopped to consider, realizing she did want to hear, very much. ‘All right, I’m sure Frederick will be out here looking for you in just a little while. Tell me everything, so that I know what to expect. What do you mean “a little unpleasant”?’

  Yolande chuckled throatily as she took her younger sister by the arm and led her down the path away from the house.

  Everything was different, yet everything was the same. The sense of déjà vu was intense as Margaret took her place in the carriage in the wedding dress she had worn at Tours. At least the day was cold, a blessing in a dress that crushed her.

  Yolande sat across from her sister. To Margaret’s eyes, she looked more adult, as if marriage worked some strange alchemy, or perhaps because Yolande was now a countess in her own right. Her husband Frederick sat on the bench seat, looking stern in a dark tunic and with his sword across his knees. Margaret noticed he still wore the whiskers, stretching from his ears right down to his jawline. He’d said his father’s set were much admired in their parish and Margaret wondered if her sister would ever succeed in getting him to shave them off. Yet his sternness faded when he looked at Yolande. The affection between them was touching and obvious as they clasped hands and shifted with the coach on the potholed roads.

  The morning had passed in a flurry of excitement, with William riding back and forth to the abbey on his own horse to see to the last details, then washing and changing into clean clothes in one of the upper rooms. Margaret had already been introduced to a dozen men and women she did not know as the wedding party filled Wetherby House, laughing and talking all the while. Her status was a delicate matter when it came to meeting noblemen and their wives. Not yet a queen, Margaret had curtsied to the Duchess of York, as she might have to any of her mother’s generation. Perhaps she only imagined Cecily York’s disdain as she complimented Margaret on her dress in return. Lord York was scrupulously polite and had bowed to her, saying how pleased he was to see her at her second marriage as well as her first. His wife had muttered a few words Margaret did not quite catch, but she saw it made York smile as he bent over her hand to kiss it. Something about their private amusement had irritated her.