Stormbird

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 Tours? 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