Stormbird (3 page)

 

Anno Domini 1443

Sixty-six years after the death of Edward III

Woe to thee, O land, when thy king is a child.

Ecclesiastes 10:16
    

England was cold that month. The frost made the paths shine whitely in the darkness, clinging to the trees in drooping webs of ice. Guardsmen hunched and shivered as they kept watch over the battlements. In the highest rooms, the wind sobbed and whistled as it creased around the stones. The fire in the chamber might as well have been a painting for all the warmth it brought.

‘I remember Prince Hal, William! I remember the lion! Just ten more years and he’d have had the rest of France at his feet. Henry of Monmouth was my king, no other. God knows I would follow his son, but this boy is not his father. You know it. Instead of a lion of England, we have a dear white lamb to lead us in prayer. Christ, it makes me want to weep.’

‘Derry, please! Your voice carries. And I won’t listen to blasphemy. I don’t allow it in my men and I expect better from you.’

The younger man stopped his pacing and looked up, a hard light in his eyes. He took two quick steps and stood very close, his arms slightly bent as they hung at his sides. He was half a head shorter than Lord Suffolk, but he was powerfully built and fit. Anger and strength simmered in him, always close to the surface.

‘I
swear
I’ve never been closer to knocking you out, William,’ he said. ‘The listeners are
my
men. Do you think I’m trying to trap you? Is that it? Let them hear. They know what I’ll do if they repeat a single word.’ With one heavy fist, he
thumped Suffolk lightly on the shoulder, turning away the man’s frown with a laugh.

‘Blasphemy? You’ve been a soldier all your life, William, but you talk like a soft-faced priest. I could still put you on your backside, William. That’s the difference between you and me. You’ll fight well enough when you’re told, but
I
fight because I like it. That’s why this falls to me, William. That’s why I’ll be the one who finds the right spot for the knife and sticks it in. We don’t need pious
gentlemen
, William, not for this. We need a man like me, a man who can see weakness and isn’t afraid to thumb its eyes out.’

Lord Suffolk glowered, taking a deep breath. When the king’s spymaster was in full flow, he could mix insults and compliments in a great flood of bitter vitriol. If a man took offence, Suffolk told himself, he’d never get anything done. He suspected Derihew Brewer knew the limits of his temper very well.

‘We may not need a “gentleman”, Derry, but we do need a lord to deal with the French. You wrote to
me
, remember? I crossed the sea and left my responsibilities in Orléans to listen to you. So I would appreciate it if you’d share your plans, or I’ll go back to the coast.’

‘That’s it, isn’t it? I come up with the answers and I’m to give them to my fine noble friend so he can reap all the glory? So they can say “That William Pole, that Earl Suffolk, he’s a
right
sharp one”, while Derry Brewer is forgotten.’

‘William
de la
Pole, Derry, as you know very well.’

Derry replied through clenched teeth, his voice close to a snarl.

‘Oh yes? You think this is the time to have a nice French-sounding name, do you? I thought you had more wits, I really did. Thing is, William, I’ll do it anyway, because I care what happens to that little lamb who rules us. And I don’t want to
see my country ripped apart by fools and cocky bastards. I do have an idea, though you won’t like it. I just need to know you understand the stakes.’

‘I understand them,’ Suffolk said, his grey eyes hard and cold.

Derry grinned at him without a trace of humour, revealing the whitest teeth Suffolk could remember seeing on a grown man.

‘No you don’t,’ he said with a sneer. ‘The whole country is waiting for young Henry to be half the man his dad was, to finish the glorious work that took half of France and made their precious Dauphin prince run like a little girl. They’re
waiting
, William. The king is twenty-two and his father was a
proper
fighter at that age. Remember? Old Henry would have torn their lungs out and worn ’em as gloves, just to keep his hands warm. Not the lamb, though. Not his boy. The lamb can’t lead and the lamb can’t fight. He can’t even grow a beard, William! When they realize he ain’t
never
coming, we’re all done, understand? When the French stop trembling in terror about King Harry, the lion of bloody England, coming back, it’s all finished. Maybe in a year or two, there’ll be a French army clustering like wasps to come for a day out in London. A nice bit of rape and slaughter and we’ll be taking off our caps and bowing whenever we hear a French voice. You want that for your daughters, William? For your sons? Those are your stakes, William
English
Pole.’

‘Then
tell
me how we can bring them to truce,’ Suffolk said slowly and with force.

At forty-six, he was a large man, with a mass of iron-grey hair that spread out from his wide head and fell almost to his shoulders. He’d put on bulk in the previous few years and next to Derry he felt old. His right shoulder ached on most days and one of his legs had been badly gashed years before,
so that the muscle never healed properly. He limped in winter and he could feel it sending fingers of pain up his leg as he stood in the cold room. His temper was growing short.

‘That’s what the boy said to me,’ Derry replied. ‘ “Bring me a truce, Derry,” he says. “Bring me peace.”
Peace
when we could take it all with one good season of fighting. It turned my stomach – and his poor old dad must be turning in his grave. I’ve spent more time in the archives than any man with red blood should ever be asked to do. But I found it, William Pole. I found something the French won’t turn down. You’ll take it to them and they’ll fret and worry, but they won’t be able to resist. He’ll get his truce.’

‘And will you share this revelation?’ Suffolk asked, holding his temper with difficulty. The man was infuriating, but Derry would not be rushed and there was still the suspicion that the spymaster enjoyed having an earl wait on his word. Suffolk resolved not to give Derry the satisfaction of showing impatience. He crossed the room to pour himself a cup of water from a jug, draining it in quick swallows.

‘Our Henry wants a wife,’ Derry replied. ‘They’d see hell freeze before they give him a royal princess like they did with his father. No, the French king will keep his daughters close by for Frenchmen, so I won’t even give him the pleasure of turning us down. But there is one other house, William – Anjou. The duke there has paper claims to Naples, Sicily and Jerusalem. Old René calls himself a king and he’s ruined his family trying to claim his rights for ten years now. He’s paid ransoms greater than you or I will ever see, William. And he has two daughters, one of them unpromised and thirteen.’

Suffolk shook his head, refilling the cup. He had sworn off wine and beer, but this was one time when he truly missed the stuff.

‘I
know
Duke René of Anjou,’ he said. ‘He hates the
English. His mother was a great friend of that girl, Joan of Arc – and you’ll recall, Derry, that we burned her.’

‘No more than right,’ Derry snapped. ‘You were there, you saw her. That little bitch was in league with someone, even if it wasn’t the devil himself. No, you’re not seeing it, William. René has the ear of his king. That French peacock owes René of Anjou his crown,
everything
. Didn’t René’s mother give him sanctuary when he tucked up his skirts and ran? Didn’t she send little Joan of Arc to Orléans to shame them into attacking? That family kept France in French hands, or at least the arse end of it. Anjou is the key to the whole lock, William. The French king married René’s sister, for Christ’s sake! That’s the family that can put pressure on their little royal – and they’re the ones with an unmarried daughter. They are the way in, I’m
telling
you. I’ve looked at them all, William, every French “lord” with three pigs and two servants. Margaret of Anjou
is
a princess; her father beggared himself to prove it.’

Suffolk sighed. It was late and he was weary.

‘Derry, it’s no good, even if you’re right. I’ve met the duke more than once. I remember him complaining to me that English soldiers laughed at his order of chivalry. He was most offended, I recall.’

‘He should not have called it the Order of the Croissant, then, should he?’

‘It’s no stranger than the Order of the Garter, is it? Either way, Derry, he won’t give us a daughter, certainly not in exchange for a truce. He might take a fortune for her, if things are as bad as you say, but a truce? They aren’t all fools, Derry. We haven’t had a campaign for a decade and every year it gets just a little harder to hold the land we have. They have an ambassador here and I’m sure he tells them everything he sees.’

‘He
tells them what I let him see; don’t you worry about
that
. I have that perfumed boy sewn up tight. But I haven’t told you what we’ll offer to make old René sweat and pull on his king’s sleeve, just begging his monarch to accept our terms. He’s poor as a blind archer without the rents from his ancestral lands. And why is that? Because
we
own them. He has a couple of derelict old castles that look out on the best farmland in France, with good Englishmen and soldiers enjoying it for him. Maine and Anjou entire, William. That will bring him to the table fast enough. That will win us our truce. Ten years? We’ll demand twenty and a bloody princess. And René of Anjou has the king’s ear. The snail-eaters will fall over themselves to say yes.’

Suffolk rubbed his eyes in frustration. He could feel the taste of wine in his mouth, though he had not touched a drop for more than a year.

‘This is madness. You’d have me give away a quarter of our land in France?’

‘You think I like it, William?’ Derry demanded angrily. ‘You think I haven’t sweated for months looking for a better path? The king said “Bring me a truce, Derry” – well, this is it. This is the only thing that will do it and, believe me, if there was another way, I’d have found it by now. If he could use his father’s sword – Christ, if he could even lift it – I wouldn’t be having this conversation with you. You and I would be out once more, with the horns blowing and the French on the run. If he can’t do that – and he
can’t
, William, you’ve seen him – then this is the only way to peace. We’ll find him a wife as well, to conceal the rest.’

‘Have you told the king?’ Suffolk asked, already knowing the answer.

‘If I had, he’d agree, wouldn’t he?’ Derry replied bitterly. ‘ “You know best, Derry,” “If you think so, Derry.” You
know how he talks. I could get him to say yes to anything. Trouble is, so can anyone else. He’s weak like that, William. All we can do is get him a wife, bide our time and wait for a strong son.’ He saw Suffolk’s dubious expression and he snorted. ‘It worked for Edward, didn’t it? The Hammer of the bloody Scots had a weak son, but his grandson? I wish I’d known a king like that. No, I
did
know a king like that. I knew Harry. I knew the lion of bloody Agincourt, and maybe that’s all a man can hope for in one lifetime. But while we wait for a proper monarch, we have to have a truce. The beardless boy isn’t up to anything else.’

‘Have you even seen a picture of this princess?’ Suffolk asked, staring off into the distance.

Derry laughed scornfully.

‘Margaret? You like them young, do you? And you a married man, William Pole! What does it matter what she looks like? She’s almost fourteen and a virgin; that’s all that matters. She could be covered in warts and moles and our Henry would say “If you think I should, Derry,” and that’s the truth of it.’

Derry came to stand at Suffolk’s shoulder, noting to himself how the older man seemed more bowed down than he had when he’d entered.

‘They know you in France, William. They knew your father and your brother – and they know your family has paid its dues. They’ll listen to you, if you take this to them. We’ll still have the north and all the coast. We’ll still have Calais and Normandy, Picardy, Brittany – all the way to Paris. If we could hold all that and Maine and Anjou as well, I’d be raising the flags and marching with you. But we can’t.’

‘I’ll need to hear this from the king before I go back,’ Suffolk said, his eyes bleak.

Derry looked away uncomfortably.

‘All
right, William. I understand. But you know … No, all right. You’ll find him in the chapel. Maybe you can interrupt his prayers, I don’t know. He’ll agree with me, William. He always bloody agrees.’

Across a swathe of frozen, crunching grass, the two men walked in darkness to the Windsor chapel, dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, Edward the Confessor and St George. In starlight, with his breath misting before him, Derry nodded to the guards at the outer door as they passed through into a candlelit interior that was almost as cold as the night outside.

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.