Wars of the Roses 01 - Stormbird Read online

  The chapel seemed empty at first, though Suffolk sensed and then caught glimpses of men standing among the statues. In dark robes, they were almost invisible until they moved. Footsteps on stone echoed in the silence as the watchers walked towards the two men, faces hard with their responsibility. Twice, Derry had to wait until he was recognized before he could make his way along the nave towards the lone figure at prayer.

  The monarch’s seat was almost enclosed in carved and gilded wood, lit by dim lamps hanging far above. Henry knelt there with his hands out in front of him, tight-clenched and rigid. His eyes were closed and Derry sighed softly to himself. For a time, he and Suffolk just stood and waited, gazing on the upraised face of a boy, lit gold in the darkness. The king looked angelic, but it broke both their hearts to see how young he seemed, how frail. It was said his birth had been a trial for his French mother. She had been lucky to survive and the boy had been born blue and choking. Nine months later and his father, Henry V, was dead, torn from life by simple sickness after surviving a lifetime of war. There were some who said it was a blessing that the battle king had not lived to see his son become a man.

  In the gloom, Derry and Suffolk looked at each other in silence, sharing the same sense of loss. Derry leaned close.

  ‘It could be hours yet,’ he whispered into Suffolk’s ear. ‘You’ll have to interrupt or we’ll be here till morning.’

  In response, Suffolk cleared his throat, the sound louder than he had intended in the echoing silence. The king’s eyes fluttered open, as if he was returning from very far away. Slowly, Henry turned his head, taking in the two men standing there. He blinked, then smiled at them both, crossing himself and muttering a final prayer before rising on legs made stiff from hours of stillness.

  Suffolk watched his king fumble with the latch of the monarch’s seat before stepping down and approaching him. Henry left the pool of light behind, so that they could not see his face as he came close.

  Both men knelt, Suffolk’s knees protesting. Henry chuckled over their bowed heads.

  ‘My heart is full to see you, Lord Suffolk. Come now, stand up. The floor is too cold for old men. I’m sure that’s right. I hear my chambermaid complaining, though she doesn’t know I’m there. She’s younger than you, I think. Up, both of you, before you catch a chill.’

  As Derry stood, he opened the lamp he carried, spreading light across the chapel. The king was dressed in the simplest of clothes, just plain dark wool and blunt leather shoes like any townsman. He wore no gold and, with the look of a boy, he might have been an apprentice in some trade that did not require too much strength.

  Suffolk searched the young man’s face for some trace of the father, but the eyes were guileless and the frame was slender, showing no sign of the massive strength of his bloodline. Suffolk almost missed the bandages on Henry’s hands. His gaze snagged on them and Henry held them up into the light, his face flushing.

  ‘Sword practice, Lord Suffolk. Old Marsden says they’ll harden, but they just bleed and bleed. I thought for a while …’ He caught himself, raising one bound finger to tap lightly at his mouth. ‘No, you have not come from France to see my hands. Have you?’

  ‘No, Your Grace,’ Suffolk answered gently. ‘Can you grant me a moment? I have been talking to Master Brewer about the future.’

  ‘No beer from Derry!’ Henry said. ‘The only Master Brewer with no beer!’

  It was an old jest, but both the older men chuckled dutifully. Henry beamed at them.

  ‘In truth, I cannot go from this place. I am allowed to take a break each hour, for water or to fill a pot, but then I must return to my prayers. Cardinal Beaufort told me the secret and the burden is not too great.’

  ‘The secret, Your Grace?’

  ‘That the French can’t come while a king prays, Lord Suffolk! With my hands, even bandaged as they are, I hold them back. Isn’t that a wonderful thing?’

  Suffolk breathed slowly in and out, silently cursing the young man’s great-uncle for his foolishness. There was no purpose in having Henry waste his nights in such a way, though Suffolk imagined it made it easier for those around him. Somewhere nearby, Cardinal Beaufort would be sleeping. Suffolk resolved to wake him up and have him join the boy in prayers. A king’s prayers could only be gilded by those of a cardinal, after all.

  Derry had been listening closely, waiting to speak.

  ‘I’ll clear the men away, my lord Suffolk. Your Grace, with your permission? This is a private matter, best not overheard.’

  Henry gestured for him to carry on while Suffolk smiled at the formal tone. For all Derry’s bitterness and scorn, he was cautious in the presence of the king. There would be no blasphemy in that chapel, not from him.

  The king seemed not to notice the half-dozen men Derry ushered out of the chapel into the frozen night. Suffolk was cynical enough to suspect one or two remained in the darkest alcoves, but Derry knew his own men and Henry’s patience was already wearing thin, his gaze drifting back to his place of prayer.

  Suffolk felt a surge of affection for the young king. He had watched Henry grow with the hopes of an entire country on his shoulders. Suffolk had seen those hopes falter and then crumble into disappointment. He could only guess how hard it had been for the boy himself. Henry was not stupid, for all his strangeness. He would have heard every barbed comment made about him over the years.

  ‘Your Grace, Master Brewer has vouchsafed a plan to bargain for a wife and a truce together, in exchange for two great provinces of France. He believes the French will deliver a truce in exchange for Maine and Anjou.’

  ‘A wife?’ Henry said, blinking.

  ‘Yes, Your Grace, as the family in question has a suitable daughter. I wanted …’ Suffolk hesitated. He could not ask whether the king understood what he was saying. ‘Your Grace, there are English subjects living in both Maine and Anjou. They would be evicted if we give them up. I wanted to ask if it isn’t too high a price to pay for a truce.’

  ‘We must have a truce, Lord Suffolk. We must. My uncle the cardinal says so. Master Brewer agrees with him – though he has no beer! Tell me of the wife, though. Is there a picture?’

  Suffolk closed his eyes for an instant before opening them.

  ‘I will have one made, Your Grace. The truce, though. Maine and Anjou are the southern quarter of our lands in France. Together, they are as great as Wales, Your Grace. If we give such a tract of land away …’

  ‘What is her name, this girl? I cannot call her “girl” or even “wife”, now can I, Lord Suffolk?’

  ‘No, Your Grace. Her name is Margaret. Margaret of Anjou.’

  ‘You will go to France, Lord Suffolk, and you will see her for me. When you return, I shall want to hear every detail.’

  Suffolk hid his frustration.

  ‘Your Grace, do I have it right that you are willing to lose lands in France for peace?’

  To his surprise, the king leaned in close to reply, his pale blue eyes gleaming.

  ‘As you say, Lord Suffolk. We must have a truce. I depend on you to carry out my wishes. Bring me a picture of her.’

  Derry had returned while the conversation went on, his face carefully blank.

  ‘I’m sure His Royal Highness would like to return to his prayers now, Lord Suffolk.’

  ‘I would, yes,’ Henry replied, holding up one bandaged hand in farewell. Suffolk could see a dark red stain at the centre of the palm.

  They bowed deeply to the young king of England as he walked back to his place and knelt, his eyes closing slowly, his fingers lacing together like a lock.

  2

  Margaret let out a gasp as a hurrying figure thumped into her and they both went sprawling. She had a blurred sense of tight-drawn brown hair and a smell of healthy sweat and then she went down with a yelp. A copper pot crashed to the courtyard stones with a noise so great it hurt her ears. As Margaret fell, the maid flailed to catch the pot, but only sent it spinning.

  The maid looked up angrily, her
mouth opening on a curse. As she saw Margaret’s fine red dress and billowing white sleeves, the blood drained from her face, stealing away the flush from the kitchens. For an instant, her eyes flickered to the path, considering whether she could run. With so many strange faces in the castle, there was at least a chance the girl wouldn’t recognize her again.

  With a sigh, the maid wiped her hands on an apron. The kitchen mistress had warned her about the brothers and the father, but she’d said the youngest girl was a sweet little thing. She reached down to help Margaret to her feet.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, dear. I shouldn’t have been running, but it’s all a rush today. Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Margaret replied dubiously. Her side ached and she thought she had scraped an elbow, but the woman was already shifting from foot to foot, wanting to be off. Back on her feet, Margaret smiled at her, seeing the gleam of sweat on the young woman’s face.

  ‘My name is Margaret,’ she said, remembering her lessons. ‘May I know your name?’

  ‘Simone, my lady. But I must get back to the kitchens. There’s a thousand things to do still, with the king coming.’

  Margaret saw the handle of the pot sticking out of the trimmed hedge by her foot and picked it up. To her pleasure, the woman curtsied as she took it back. They shared a smile before the maid vanished at only a fraction less than her original speed. Margaret was left alone to stare after her. Saumur Castle had not been this busy for years and she could hear her father’s deep voice raised somewhere nearby. If he saw her, he would put her to work, she was certain, so she headed in the opposite direction.

  Her father’s sudden return to Saumur had brought Margaret to bitter, furious tears more than once. She resented him as she would have resented any stranger who arrived with such airs, assuming all his rights as lord and master of her home. Over the decade of his absence, her mother had spoken often of his great bravery and honour, but Margaret had seen the blank spaces on yellowing plaster as paintings and statues were quietly taken and sold. The collection of jewellery had been the last to go and she’d observed her mother’s pain as men from Paris arrived to appraise the best pieces, staring through their little tubes and counting out coins. Every year had brought fewer luxuries and comforts, until Saumur was stripped of anything beautiful, revealed in cold stones. Margaret had grown to hate her father by then, without knowing him at all. Even the servants had been dismissed one by one, with whole sections of the castle closed and left to grow blue with mildew.

  She looked up at the thought, wondering if she could get up to the east wing without being spotted and put to a task. There were mice running freely in one of the tower rooms, making their little nests in old couches and chairs. She had a pocket full of crumbs to entice them out and she could spend the afternoon there. It had become her refuge, a hiding place that no one knew about, not even her sister Yolande.

  When Margaret had seen the men from Paris counting the books in her father’s beautiful library, she’d crept in at night and taken as many as she could carry, stealing them away to the tower room before they could vanish. She felt no guilt about it, even when her father returned and his booming orders echoed around her home. Margaret didn’t really understand what a ransom was, or why they’d had to pay one to get him back, but she cherished the books she’d saved, even the one the mice had found and nibbled.

  Saumur was a maze of back stairs and passages, the legacy of four centuries of building and expansion that meant some corridors came to a stop for no clear reason, while certain rooms could only be reached by passing through half a dozen others. Yet it had been her world for as long as she could remember. Margaret knew every route and, after rubbing her elbow, she went quickly, crossing a corridor and clattering through a wide, empty room panelled in oak. If her mother saw her running, there would be harsh words. Margaret caught herself dreading the footsteps of her governess as well, before she remembered that terror of her youth had been dismissed with all the others.

  Two flights of wooden stairs brought her up to a landing that led straight across to the east tower. The ancient floorboards were bowed and twisted there, rising away from the joists below. Margaret had lost entire afternoons stepping on them in complicated patterns, making them speak in their creaking voices. She called it the Crow Room for the sound they made.

  Panting lightly, she paused under the eaves to look out across the upper hall, as she always did. There was something special in being able to lean over the vast space, up at the level of the chandeliers, with their fat yellow candles. She wondered who would light them for the king’s visit now that the tallowmen no longer called, but she supposed her father would have thought of it. He’d found the gold somewhere to hire all the new servants. The castle teemed with them like the mice in the tower, rushing hither and yon on unknown errands and all strangers to her.

  Onwards through the library, which made her shiver now that it was bare and cold. Yolande said some great houses had libraries on the ground floor, but even when they had been rich, her father had cared little for books. The shelves were thick with dust as she passed, idly drawing a face with a finger before hurrying on. At the library window, she looked down on a courtyard and scowled at the sight of her brothers practising sword drills. John was battering little Louis to his knees and laughing at the same time. Nicholas was standing to one side, his sword tip trailing in the dust as he yelled encouragement to them both. With a glance around to make sure no one was watching, Margaret pointed her finger at her oldest brother and cursed him, calling on God to give John a rash in his private region. It didn’t seem to affect his cheerful blows, but he deserved it for the pinch he’d given her that morning.

  To her horror, John suddenly looked up, his gaze fastening on hers. He gave a great shout that she could hear even through the diamonds of glass. Margaret froze. Her brothers liked to chase her, imitating hunting horns with their mouths and hands while they ran her down through the rooms and corridors of the castle. Surely they would be too busy with the king coming? Her heart sank as she saw John break off and point, then all three went charging from sight below. Margaret gave up on the idea of going to her secret room. They had not discovered it yet, but if they came to the library, they would hunt all around that part of the castle. It would be better to lead them far away.

  She ran, holding her skirt high and cursing them all with rashes and spots. The last time, they’d forced her into one of the great kitchen cauldrons and threatened to light the fire.

  ‘Maman!’ Margaret yelled. ‘Mamaaan!’

  At full speed, she barely seemed to touch the steps, using her arms to guide her as she hurtled down a floor and cut across a corridor to her mother’s suite of rooms. A startled maid jumped back with a mop and bucket as Margaret shot past. She could hear her brothers hallooing somewhere on the floor below, but she didn’t pause, jumping down three steps that appeared in the floor in front of her, then up another three, some ancient facet of the castle’s construction that had no clear purpose. Gasping for breath, she darted into her mother’s dressing rooms, looking wildly around for sanctuary. She saw a huge and heavy wardrobe and, quick as winking, opened the door and shoved herself into the back, comforted by the odour of her mother’s perfume and the thick furs.

  Silence came, though she could still hear John calling her name in the distance. Margaret fought not to cough in the dust she had raised. She heard footsteps enter the room and held herself as still as any statue. It was not beyond John to send Nicholas or little Louis out in another direction, while John crashed around and gulled her into a feeling of safety. Margaret held her breath and closed her eyes. The wardrobe was at least warm and they surely wouldn’t dare search for her in their mother’s rooms.

  The footsteps came closer and, with no warning, the door of the wardrobe creaked open. Margaret blinked at her father in the light.

  ‘What are you doing in here, girl?’ he demanded. ‘Do you not know the king is coming? If you have
time for games, by God, you have too much time.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’m sorry. John was chasing me and …’

  ‘Your hands are filthy! Just look at the marks you have made! Look at them, Margaret! Running around like a street urchin with the king on his way!’

  Margaret dipped her head, clambering out of the wardrobe and closing the door carefully behind her. It was true that her palms were black with grime, picked up in her wild scramble through the upper rooms. Resentment grew in her. Lord René may have been her father, but she had no memories of him, none at all. He was just a great white slug of a man who had come into her home and ordered her mother about like a servant. His face was unnaturally pale, perhaps from his years languishing in prison. His eyes were grey and cold, half hidden by heavy, unwrinkled lower lids, so that he always seemed to be peering over them. He had clearly not starved in the prison, she thought. That much was obvious. He’d complained to his wife about the tailor’s fees for letting out his clothing, leaving her in tears.

  ‘If I had a moment to spare, I’d have you whipped, Margaret! Those dresses will all have to be cleaned.’

  He shouted and gestured angrily for some time, while Margaret stood with her head bowed, trying to look suitably ashamed. There had been maids and house servants once, to scrub every stone and polish all the fine French oak. If dust lay thick now, whose fault was that, if not the man who had ruined Saumur for his vanity? Margaret had listened to him complaining to her mother about the state of the castle, but without an army of servants, Saumur was just too big to keep clean.

  Margaret remembered to nod as her father raged. He called himself the king of Jerusalem, Naples and Sicily, places she had never seen. She supposed it made her a princess, but she couldn’t be certain. After all, he’d failed to win any of them and a paper claim was worthless when he could only froth and strut and write furious letters. She hated him. As she stood there, she flushed at the memory of a conversation with her mother. Margaret had demanded to know why he couldn’t just leave again. In response, her mother’s mouth had pinched tight like a drawstring purse and she had spoken more harshly than Margaret could remember before.