Stormbird

‘I wanted to thank you, sir, for the warning,’ the sergeant said, glowering at York as he stood watching. For all the gulf between their ranks, the security of Windsor was the sergeant’s personal responsibility and he was furious at the assault on it.

‘It’s no more than my job, Hobbs,’ Derry replied. ‘You’ve one body to clear away, but that’s all. I think our point has been made.’

‘As you say, sir, though I don’t like to think how far he reached. I will still make an official complaint if you don’t mind, sir. This is not to be borne and the king will hear of it.’ He spoke for the duke’s benefit, though York listened without any visible reaction.

‘Take our pair of trussed chickens to the guardhouse, would you, Hobbs? I’d like a word with them before I send them back to their ship. I’ll deal with his lordship myself.’

‘Right you are, sir. Thank you, sir.’

With a final glare hot enough to melt iron, the old soldier marched his men away, leaving Derry and York alone.

‘I wonder, Brewer, if you can survive having me as an enemy,’ York said. He had lost his red flush, but his eyes glittered with malice.

‘Oh, I dare say I can, but then I’ve known much more dangerous men than you, you pompous prick.’

There was no one to hear and Derry’s mask of wry good nature dropped away as he faced the duke and stood threateningly close to him.

‘You should have stayed in France and carried out your king’s orders,’ Derry said, poking him in the chest with a stiff finger.

York clenched his fists in rage, but he knew Derry would beat him into the ground at the slightest provocation. The king’s spymaster was known to frequent the fight rings in London. It was the sort of rumour he made sure all his enemies heard.

‘Are they his orders?’ York grated. ‘A wedding and a truce? My men to remain in Calais? I command the army, Brewer. Yet I get no word until now. Who will protect the king if his soldiers are three hundred miles to the north? Have you even thought of that?’

‘The orders were genuine?’ Derry asked innocently.

York sneered.

‘The seals were correct, Brewer, as I’m sure you know. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear it was your hand on them, melting the wax. I’m not the only one who thinks you have too much control over King Henry. You have no real rank, no title, yet you issue commands in his name. Who can say if they have truly come from the king? And if you poke your finger at me again, I will see you hanged.’

‘I could have a title,’ Derry replied. ‘He’s offered me one before. I think, though, that I’m perfectly happy as I am, for the moment. Perhaps I’ll retire as Duke of York, who knows?’

‘You couldn’t fill my shoes, Brewer. You couldn’t even fill my codpiece, you low-born …’ The duke was interrupted as Derry barked a laugh at him.

‘Your codpiece! That’s a fine jest. Now, why don’t you go back to your ship? You’re due at the king’s wedding next month. I don’t want you to miss it.’

‘Will you be there?’ York asked, his gaze sharpening.

Derry didn’t miss the implication. It was one thing to scorn the man’s authority in Windsor, while surrounded by the king’s guards. It was quite another to consider how the Duke of York might act in France.

‘I wouldn’t be absent for such a joyous occasion,’ Derry replied. He watched as York smiled at the thought.

‘I’ll have my personal guard with me, Brewer. Those pretty orders don’t prevent that. With so many bandits on the roads, I won’t feel comfortable with less than a thousand men, maybe more. I’ll speak to the king then. I wonder if he knows half the games you play.’

‘Alas, I am but the agent of the royal will,’ Derry said with a smirk that hid his dismay at the threat. ‘I believe the king desires a few years of peace and a wife, but who can know his mind, truly?’

‘You don’t fool me, Brewer. Nor that bootlicker Suffolk. Whatever you’ve offered the French, whatever you’ve concocted between you, you’re both wrong! That’s the worst of it. If we offer a truce, do you think the French will leave us in peace? It makes us look weak. If this goes ahead, we’ll be at war before the summer is over, you poor dullard.’

‘I am tempted to risk the king’s anger just to see you knocked out on this grass, my lord,’ Derry said, standing very close to the other man. ‘Give me a moment to consider the pros and cons, would you? I would enjoy breaking that sharp beak of yours, but then you are a duke and you have a certain level of protection, even after the prick you made of yourself this morning. Of course, I could always say you took a tumble when the guards chased you away.’

‘Say what you like, Brewer. Your threats and prods don’t frighten me. I’ll see you again, in France.’

‘Oh, are you off then? Very well. I’ll send your men on in a while. I’ll look forward to continuing our chat at the wedding.’

York marched away back to the main entrance of the castle. Derry watched him go, a thoughtful expression on his face. It had been a little closer than he’d hoped. He’d heard the duke was coming two nights before, but the guards at the outer gate should have been warned. York should never have reached the inner keep, never mind the door to the king’s own rooms. As it happened, Henry was still praying in the chapel, but the duke didn’t have that vital piece of information.

For a moment, Derry considered the conversation. He had no regrets. A man like York would have tried to get him killed just for the scene at the king’s rooms. It didn’t matter that Derry had made it worse with insults and threats. It couldn’t be worse. He sighed to himself. Yet he couldn’t let the outraged duke see the king either. York would have had Henry agreeing to everything and the whole subtle arrangement and months of negotiations would have been wasted. Derry had known when he woke up that it would be a bad day. So far, it had met his expectations in every aspect. He wondered what odds he could get on surviving the wedding in Tours. With a rueful expression, he realized he should make preparations for not coming back.

He remembered old Bertle doing just the same on more than one occasion. The spymaster before him had survived three attempts at poison and one man waiting for him in his rooms with a dagger. That was just part of the job, Derry recalled him saying. A useful man made enemies, that was all there was to it. If you were useful to kings, your enemies would be quality. Derry smiled at the memory of the old man speaking the word with relish.

‘Look at his clothes, lads. Look at this knife! Quality, lads,’ he’d said, grinning proudly at them as he stood over the body of the man found in his rooms. ‘What a compliment to me that they sent such a gentleman!’

Old Bertle may have been an evil sod, but Derry had liked him from the start. They’d shared a delight in making other men dance, men who never even knew the choices they made were not their own. Bertle had seen it as an art. For a young man like Derry, fresh from war in France, his teachings had been like water to a dry soul.

Derry took a deep breath, feeling calm return to him. When Bertle summoned his six best men and gave his authority to one of them, you knew things were serious, that he might not be coming back from wherever the work took him. Each time it was a different man, so that they were never sure which one of them was truly his chosen successor. Yet after a dozen close shaves, the old man had died in his bed, slipping peacefully into sleep. Derry had paid three physicians to check the corpse for poisons, just to be sure he didn’t have to track someone down.

At peace once more, Derry cracked his knuckles as he strolled towards the guardhouse. It wouldn’t make things any worse for him to give the two soldiers a proper beating. He was certainly in the right mood for it.

It promised to be a glorious summer’s day as the sun rose, with the air already warm and the skies clear. In Saumur Castle, Margaret was up before the light. She was not sure if she had slept at all, after so long lying in the heat and darkness, her mind filled with visions of her husband and not a little fear. Her fourteenth birthday had passed a few months before, almost unremarked. Yet Margaret had noticed, not least because she had begun to bleed the following morning. The shock of that was still with her as she bathed and checked herself in the light of a night lamp. Her maid had told her it would come each month, a few miserable days of bundling rags into her undergarments. It seemed a symbol of change to her, of things going so fast that she could barely take in a new