Wars of the Roses 01 - Stormbird Read online

  Reuben remembered Jean Marisse leaning over him in his cell, like a crow examining a body for some part still worth eating.

  ‘There are some who wonder how a Jew could carry out such filthy spells and rituals without his wife and children knowing. Do you understand me, Monsieur Moselle? There are some who whisper that the wife is surely as guilty as the husband, that the children must be as tainted as the father. They are saying it would be a crime to let them go free. If you do not confess, it will be my duty to bring them here to these cells, to put them to the question. Can you imagine what it would be like for a woman, Monsieur Moselle? Or a child? Can you conceive of their terror? Yet evil cannot be allowed to take root. Weeds must be torn out and cast on the fire before they spread their seed on the wind. Do you understand, monsieur? Sign the confession and this will end. All this will end.’

  Just a year before, Reuben would have laughed at such a threat. He’d had friends and wealth then, even influence. The world had been an ordered place where innocent men did not find themselves held down and screaming as strangers worked on them, with no one coming to help, or one word of comfort to be had. He’d learned what evil really was in the cells beneath the prison yard at Nantes. Hope had died in him as his flesh was burned and broken.

  He’d signed. The memory was clear in his mind, looking down on his own shaking hand as he put his name to lies without bothering to read them. Jean Marisse had smiled, his lips peeling back from rotting teeth as he’d leaned close. Reuben still remembered his warm breath and the fact that the judge’s voice had been almost kind.

  ‘You have done well, monsieur,’ Marisse had said. ‘There is no shame in telling the truth at last. Take comfort in that.’

  The town square was packed with onlookers, leaving only a narrow path between ranks of guards. Reuben shuddered as he saw cauldrons of bubbling water on either side of a raised platform. The manner of his death had been described to him with relish by his torturers. It had amused them to make sure he understood what awaited. Boiling water would be poured over his skin, searing it from the bones and making it easier to strip long pieces of steaming flesh from his arms and chest. It would be hours of impossible torment for the pleasure of the crowd. Reuben knew with a shudder that he could not bear it. He saw himself becoming a screaming animal before them all, with all his dignity ripped away. He dared not think of his wife or his daughters. They would not be abandoned, he told himself, shaking. His brother would surely take them in.

  Even the thoughts of his enemies had to be squashed down to a small corner of his mind. He was half-certain he knew the architect of his fall, for all the good it did him. Duke René of Anjou had borrowed fortunes in the months before his arrest, against the security of Saumur Castle. The first tranche of repayment had been due around the time the soldiers came to arrest him. Reuben’s wife had advised against making the loan, saying it was well known that the Anjou family had no money, but then a lord like René of Anjou could ruin a man just as easily for a refusal.

  As Reuben was bound to poles facing the crowd, he tried to resist the gibbering terror that screamed inside him. It would be hard, as hard as they could make it. He could only wish for his heart to give way, the frightened, leaping thing that pounded in his chest.

  The men on the platform were all locals, paid a few silver deniers for the day’s work. Reuben did not know any of the faces, for which he was thankful. It was hard enough to have strangers howling and raging at him. He did not think he could stand to see the faces of men he knew. As his limbs were fastened in place with harsh tugging, the crowd pressed in to see his wounds, pointing them out in fascination.

  His gaze swept across the empty, roaring faces, then stopped suddenly, the mist clearing from his good eye. A balcony hung over the square and a small group of men and women rested there, watching the proceedings and talking amongst themselves. Reuben knew Lord York even before the man saw him looking and met his stare with interest. Reuben saw the man catch his wife’s attention and she too looked over the railing, pressing her hand to her mouth in delighted awe as his bony chest was revealed.

  Reuben looked down, his humiliation complete. The men on the platform had stripped his shirt away, revealing a mass of colourful bruises in all shades of yellow and purple, down almost to black where his ribs had been kicked and cracked.

  ‘Baruch dayan emet,’ Reuben muttered, pronouncing the words with difficulty. The crowd did not hear him bless the only true judge that mattered. He tried to press them away from him, closing his eyes as the first clay jugs were dipped into bubbling water and the long knives were shown to the crowd. He knew he could not bear it, but neither could he die, until they let him.

  Portsmouth was loud with street criers and the bustle of one of the kingdom’s great ports. Despite the anonymity of the busy street, Derry Brewer had insisted on emptying the inn of all customers and staff before he spoke a word of private business. He had three burly guards outside, facing disgruntled patrons unable even to finish their beers.

  Derry crossed to the bar and sniffed at a jug before pouring dark ale into a big wooden mug. He raised it up in a mock toast as he sat back down and drank a deep draught. Lord Suffolk poured from the jug of water on the table, emptying his cup and smacking his lips as he refilled it. Eyeing him, Derry pulled a satchel around from his back and rootled around in its depths. He held up a roll of parchment, sealed with wax and wrapped in a gold ribbon.

  ‘It seems the Pope is willing enough, William. I am amazed at such a spiritual man finding some purpose for the chest of silver we sent him, but perhaps it will go to the poor, no?’

  Suffolk chose not to dignify the mocking question with an answer. He took another long drink to wash the taste of sea salt from his mouth. He’d spent the last six months travelling back and forth from France so often that the Portsmouth dockers greeted him by name as they doffed their hats. He was weary beyond belief, sick of discussions and arguments in two languages. He eyed the bound roll in Derry’s hands, aware that it signalled a fast-approaching reality.

  ‘No congratulations?’ Derry said cheerfully. ‘No “well done, Derry”? I am disappointed in you, William Pole. There’s not many men could have pulled this off in such a time, but I have, haven’t I? The French looked for foxes and found only innocent chickens, just like we wanted. The marriage will go ahead and all we need to do now is mention casually to the English living in Maine and Anjou that their service is no longer appreciated by the Crown. In short, that they can fuck off.’

  Suffolk winced, both at the word and the truth of it. The English in Anjou and Maine ran businesses and huge estates. From noble lords with power and influence to the lowest apprentices, they would all be enraged when a French army came to evict them.

  ‘There is one thing, though, William. One delicate little matter that I hesitate to bring up to a noble lord of your exalted station in life.’

  ‘What is it, Derry?’ Suffolk said, tired of the games. His cup of water was empty again, but the jug was dry. Derry swirled his ale around in the mug, staring at the liquid as it moved.

  ‘They’ve asked for the marriage to take place in the cathedral at Tours, that’s what. Land that will have the French army camped outside, ready to take possession of the price of the truce, that’s what! I’m not letting Henry walk in there, William, not while there’s life in me.’

  ‘You’re not letting him?’ Suffolk replied, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘You know what I mean. It would be like dangling a bit of beefsteak in front of a cat. They’ll never let him out of their clutches, I’m telling you now.’

  ‘So change the venue. Insist on Calais, perhaps. If he’s not safe there, he wouldn’t be safe getting married in England.’

  ‘Those letters you have carried for months were not just makeweight, William Pole. They wouldn’t accept Calais, where their royals would be surrounded by an English army. I wonder why that is? Here’s a thought. Could it be for the same reason we wouldn’t agree to T
ours? Give me credit for having some wits, William. I tried to insist, but they wouldn’t budge a bloody inch. Either way, no matter where we hold it, we have another problem, don’t we? Our Henry can’t be allowed to speak to the French king. Just a short chat with the lamb and they’ll be blowing their own bloody trumpets and looking across the Channel.’

  ‘Ah. Yes, that is a problem. In Tours or Calais. I can’t see … is there not some neutral position, halfway between the two?’

  Derry looked up scornfully at the older man.

  ‘What a shame I never had your fine mind to help me when I was poring over the maps looking for just such a place. The answer is no, William. There is English territory and French territory. There is no in-between. Either we give way or they do, or the whole thing comes to a stop and there’ll be no marriage and no truce. Oh, and we haven’t solved the problem of the lamb having to remain silent for the entire service either. Do you think he’ll accept that, William? Or is it more likely that he’ll tell them he holds their ships back with his bloody hands each night? What do you think?’

  William saw Derry was smiling even as he announced the certain failure of months of work.

  ‘You have a solution,’ he said. ‘Is that it?’

  Derry raised his beer again, swallowing deeply and putting it down empty.

  ‘Nice drop, that. Yes, I have an answer to your prayers, William Pole. Or an answer to his royal ones, maybe. He’ll get married at Tours, all right. He just won’t be there.’

  ‘What? Is this some sort of riddle, Derry?’ He saw the other man’s eyes grow cold and he swallowed.

  ‘I don’t like being doubted, William Pole. I told you I had an answer and there aren’t three other men in England who could have thought their way through the wisps of fog the French have wrapped around this. You know what they’re like, so cocksure of their own superiority that they can hardly believe we keep thrashing them. It takes a certain kind of arrogance to ignore getting your backside tanned for you so many times, but they do manage it. Don’t ask me how.’ He looked at the confusion in Lord Suffolk’s expression and shook his head.

  ‘You’re too kind for all this, William. It’s what I like about you, mainly, but you need to be an adder-tongued bastard to get one by those sods. We’ll agree to the church in Tours, but our little lamb will be ill at the last moment, when it’s too late to call it off. That’s the sort of news that will set their own tongues wagging with excitement.’ He attempted an atrocious French accent as he went on. ‘Lak ’is fadder! ’Ee is tekken with the sickness! Peut-être ’ee will not live. But you’ll be there to exchange rings and vows in his place, William. You’ll marry little Margaret for him.’

  ‘I will not,’ Suffolk said firmly. ‘I’m already married! How can something like that even be legal? I’m forty-seven, Derry, and married!’

  ‘Yes, you said. I wish I had considered it before. Honestly, William, I don’t think you have the brains of a fish. It’s just for show, isn’t it? A service in Tours, with you standing in for Henry, then a real marriage when she is safely home in England. All legal. They’ll go along because it will have taken them months just to sort out the places at the wedding dinner. We’ll present it so they have no choices left but one.’

  ‘Dear Lord,’ William said faintly. ‘Someone will have to let her know, the girl.’

  ‘No, that is one thing we won’t do. If she’s told before the wedding day, the French king will have time to call it all off. Now look, William. We’ve brought this gilded peacock to the table. I am not letting him get away now. No, this is the only way. They find out on the day and the service goes ahead with you. Isn’t that a reason to have a beer for once, William? This is Kentish malted ale, you know, a farthing a pint if I was paying. They do nice chops and kidneys here as well, once I let them back in. Let’s toast your second wedding day, William Pole. Doesn’t your heart sing like a bleedin’ lark at the thought? Mine certainly does.’

  5

  The summer sun rose over a clear horizon at Windsor, lighting the great walls in red-gold as the town around it grew busy. Richard of York was dusty and tired after a long ride from the coast, but simmering anger lent him the energy to banish weariness. The three soldiers with him were all veterans of fighting in France, hard men in well-worn leather and mail, chosen for their size and the ability to intimidate. It was not difficult to guess why the duke had summoned three of the most brutal soldiers under his command for the night crossing and hard ride. Someone, somewhere needed killing, or at least the threat of it. His men were enjoying the sense of authority that came from being in a duke’s wake. They exchanged glances of amusement as their patron bullied his way past two outer rings of castle guards. York didn’t suffer fools and he would not be baulked in his desire to see the king that morning.

  Somewhere close by, they could hear orders being roared and the tramp and jingle of marching soldiers. York’s movement towards the king’s private rooms was about to be met by armed men. The three with him loosened their swords in the scabbards, cracking knuckles and necks in anticipation. They had not spent years getting soft in England like the king’s guards. They were enjoying the prospect of meeting men they felt were only barely on the same side.

  The duke loped forward, his strides long and sure. He saw two solid-looking pikemen guarding a doorway ahead and drew to a halt as he came right up to them.

  ‘Stand aside. I’m York, on urgent business for the king.’

  The guards stiffened, their eyes staring. One of them glanced at his companion and the man shifted his grip on the pike uncomfortably. He was due to come off watch as soon as the sun cleared the battlements and he looked irritably at the gold thread showing on the horizon. Just a few minutes more and he would have been in the guardhouse, eating his breakfast and wondering what all the noise was about.

  ‘My lord, I have no orders to admit you,’ the guard said. He swallowed nervously as York turned his full glare on him.

  ‘That is the nature of urgent business. Get out of my way, or I’ll have you flogged.’

  The guard swallowed and opened his mouth to reply, already shaking his head. As he began to repeat himself, York’s temper surged and broke. He gestured sharply and one of his men grabbed the guard by the throat with a gauntleted hand, pushing him off his feet as he crashed back against the door. The sound was loud, echoing around the outer walls. Someone walking up there yelled an alarm.

  The guard struggled wildly and his companion jerked his pike down. Another of York’s men stepped inside the range of the heavy iron head and thumped a blow to the man’s chin that sent the pike and its owner clattering to the ground. The first guard was dispatched as quickly, with two fast punches that spread his nose across his face.

  A troop of running guards appeared around a corner fifty yards away, led by a red-faced sergeant with his sword drawn. York glanced coldly in their direction as he opened the door and went through.

  Inside, he stopped, looking back.

  ‘Francis, hold the door. You two, come with me,’ he ordered.

  The biggest of the three men pressed his weight against the door, dropping the locking bar and holding it in place with both hands. It shuddered immediately as someone crashed against it from outside. Without another word, the duke broke into a run through the rooms beyond. The king’s private suite lay ahead and he knew Windsor well enough not to hesitate. At speed, he went across a tall-ceilinged empty hall and up a flight of steps, then skidded to a halt, his men almost running into him. The three of them stood breathing hard as York stared at the sight of Derihew Brewer leaning back against a low stone window that looked out over the vast hunting park of Windsor.

  ‘Morning, my lord. I’m afraid the king isn’t feeling well enough for visitors, if that’s who you’re after.’

  ‘Stand up when you’re talking to me, Brewer,’ the duke retorted, coming further into the room and stopping. His gaze swept around suspiciously, looking for some explanation for the spymaster’s
confidence. With a sigh, Derry pushed himself away from the windowsill and yawned. On the floor below, they could all hear a rhythmic thumping as the guards outside began to batter the door down.

  Derry glanced out of the window at files of soldiers running in all directions.

  ‘Bit of a brawl out there this morning, my lord. Your work, is it?’

  York eyed the door that he knew led directly to the king’s apartments. It was solidly shut against him, with only Derry in the waiting room. Yet something about the man’s insolent smile pricked at his nerves.

  ‘I’ve come to see the king,’ the duke said. ‘Go in and announce me, or I’ll do it myself.’

  ‘No, I don’t think I’ll be doing that, Richard old son. And I don’t think you will either. The king calls for you, or you don’t come. Has he called for you? No? Then you know what you can do with yourself, don’t you?’

  As Derry spoke, York’s face grew dark with affronted rage. His men were as surprised as he was to hear a lord addressed by his common name. Both men stepped towards Derry and he squared up to them, still smiling strangely.

  ‘Lay a hand on me, lads, please. See what you get.’

  ‘Wait,’ York ordered. He could not shake the feeling that he was being trapped, that something was wrong. It was almost the sense of having eyes on him that he could not see. The two soldiers loomed over Derry, though he was as wide as either of them at the shoulder.

  ‘Good to see you still have a few wits knocking about,’ Derry said. ‘Now, lads, that door downstairs won’t last longer than a heartbeat. If I’m not here to stop them cutting you down, I don’t think your master’s title will hold them back, do you? Not next to the king’s rooms, it won’t.’

  York swore to himself, suddenly understanding that Derry was deliberately wasting time. He strode to the oak door, determined to see the king that morning, no matter what else happened.

  As he moved, something flashed past him. A cracking sound like a beam breaking made him jerk to a stop, his hand still out to take the door’s handle. York stared at the black iron bolt sticking out of the oak at head height.