‘Check the outskirts once more. I want Derry Brewer to be taken quietly. Bring word to me as soon as you have him.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
The guard saluted smartly and trotted away. York’s expression soured as he heard the crowd’s shout and understood that the French king had arrived at Tours. The sun was at noon and there was still no sign of the bridegroom or the bride.
Derry did his best to stroll as he walked through the field of French soldiers, all resting and eating lunch in the sun. The last time he’d seen that many together in one place had been a battlefield and the memories were unpleasant. He knew very well why they were there. The cheerful groups gossiping and chewing hard bread would become a military force again when orders came to take back the vast territories of Maine and Anjou.
Derry had expected to be challenged, but on instinct he’d lifted a heavy tureen of soup at the outskirts and staggered on with it. That simple prop had brought him right through the heart of the encampment. There were dozens of other servants fetching and carrying for the troops and whenever he felt a suspicious gaze, he stopped and allowed men to fill their bowls, smiling and bowing to them like a simple-minded mute.
By noon, he was through the camp and able at last to give the now-empty cauldron to a group of elderly women and walk on. The French king’s carriages had been sighted on the road and no one was watching the bedraggled figure wandering away from the camp.
Derry walked as far as he dared down the road, until he saw clusters of soldiers by the cathedral itself. It was just a short sprint away, but he knew he wouldn’t make it. Derry looked around to see if anyone had eyes on him, then dropped suddenly into a ditch by an ancient wooden gate, where the grasses grew thick.
Smug with satisfaction at having walked through a French army, Derry watched soldiers stop and search two carts that trundled past them. York’s men seemed to be everywhere. Derry made a face as he felt ditchwater seeping through his clothes, but he held his sack out of it and kept well down, using the gatepost as cover and waiting for his moment. The men-at-arms stayed clear of the actual cathedral, he noted. The church building had its own gardens, with a wall and gate. If he could just get through that outer boundary, he’d be in the clear. Cathedrals in France or England were all built along the same lines, he told himself. He’d be familiar enough with the layout if he could get inside.
Peering through fronds of dead grass, Derry could see the pretty birds of the wedding party, out in the sunshine of the churchyard. They were so close! He could almost see individual faces. For a moment, he was tempted simply to stand up and call to one of his allies, like Suffolk. York would surely not have him taken in public. Derry looked down at his sodden breeches and black fingers. He was as filthy as only days on the road could make him. If a peasant looking as rough as he did approached the wedding group, soldiers would grab him and bear him off before half the nobles even knew what was happening. Either way, it did not suit his sense of style to be manhandled by guards while he yelled for Suffolk. Derry was still determined to walk up to Richard of York in his best clothes and act as if it had all been easy. Old Bertle had always enjoyed his sense of style. In memory of the spymaster, he’d do it with a flourish.
Derry raised his head a fraction, watching a pair of guards who had taken a position solidly in front of the cathedral gate in the wall. They were sharing a pie and standing close together as they broke it apart with their fingers and chewed.
Beyond that wall lay the bishop’s own residence, with kitchens and pantries and drawing rooms fit for any lord. Derry widened his eyes, trying to keep watch for the other groups of soldiers on their rounds. Inch by inch, he reached into his sack for his heavy club. It couldn’t be the razor, not against English soldiers — and not on church ground. The sort of murky world he usually inhabited would only get him hanged in the bright light of a French day. Yet the thought of trying to go through two armed soldiers with just a slab of wood was more than daunting. One, yes, he could always surprise one with a rap behind the ear, but he couldn’t allow the alarm to go up or he was finished.
The sun moved into the afternoon as Derry lay there, growing frantic. Three times, half a dozen soldiers in English tabards of gold and red came marching round the cathedral boundary. They carried the sort of bows they’d made famous at Agincourt and Derry knew they could spit a rabbit at a hundred paces, never mind a full-grown man. He was almost invisible in his tattered brown cloth, but he still held his breath as they passed just twenty yards from him, knowing the hunters among them would spot even a twitch in the long grass.
Time crept by with aching slowness. Something large crawled across Derry’s face and he ignored it as it bit him on the neck and stayed there to suck his blood. There was only one thing that could distract the guards around the cathedral and he was waiting for it before he could move.
It came at two hours past noon, as far as he could judge from the sun. Men and women from the local villages began to swirl along the road and he could hear distant cheering. In a few moments, there was movement everywhere, with excited people running to get the best position to see the bridal carriages arrive. Derry stood up as a group of them went past him, using them to block the sight of England’s spymaster rising red-faced from a stinking ditch. He strode towards the guards at the gate and silently blessed the bride as he saw both men were looking west themselves. They had never seen a princess before and this one would be queen of England.
Derry stepped around a running child and brought his wooden club across the ear of one of the guards. The man slumped as if his legs had been cut and the other one was just turning in dawning surprise when Derry brought his stick back and smacked it across the man’s temple. The guard let out a grunt as he fell and Derry was certain he heard an English voice exclaim in shock nearby. He kicked open the gate and rushed inside, already pulling the grubby hat from his head and tossing it into a neatly trimmed bush.
The bishop’s apartments were separate from the cathedral and he ignored the path leading to them, heading instead to the vestry. Derry was willing to kick any door down by then, but it opened easily as he worked the latch and he was inside. He looked up slowly to see the enormous pink bulk of a French bishop, standing in what looked like white undergarments. Another cleric stood gaping, a long white robe in his hands.
‘My lord bishop, I apologize for disturbing you. I am late for the wedding, but Lord Suffolk will vouch for me.’
As he spoke, Derry yanked fine clothing from his sack and it was only the sight of fur-trim that stopped the bishop calling for help.
Derry felt a thump against the door at his back and turned swiftly to drop a locking bar across.
‘May I trouble you further for a jug of water? The bride is here and I fear I am too travel-stained to be seen.’
The two stunned clergymen looked at him, then the bishop gestured weakly to another room. Derry charged through to where a wide bowl waited on a marble dresser. He turned the water and a washcloth black as he rubbed himself down and stripped as fast as he could.
When he came out, the bishop was alone, his servant presumably gone out to check the bona fides of the stranger who had burst in on them. The bishop looked even bigger in his formal robes, a great tent of a man who watched with interest as Derry smoothed down his hair with a wet hand and shoved his crumpled sack in a corner.
‘God bless you, Your Excellency,’ Derry said. ‘I thought I wasn’t going to make it for a time.’
He walked out into the church.
‘There he is!’ a voice shouted in English.
Without looking back for the source of the call, Derry broke into a full sprint down the long nave, towards the sunlit door at the far end.
7
Margaret’s carriage pulled up in front of the cathedral, turning a wide circle. The crowd cheered and Margaret blushed as she and Yolande were helped down. The gossamer veil covered her face, but she could see them all clearly through it. They had come to that place for her. Her nervousness increased as she saw King Charles beaming to one side with her aunt Marie.
Her own smile grew strained under the veil as she caught sight of her father standing at the king’s shoulder, wearing a blood-red coat over cream breeches and polished black boots. The cloth was layered in patterns of gold
