Stormbird

French as he replied.

‘My dear, I am very sorry. It is true King Henry cannot be here. I have his permission to exchange vows in his name. Such things can be done and it will satisfy certain other parts of the union agreement. You will be betrothed today, at least, and you will marry formally in England. I would not be the one to bring such news to you, my dear, but we have come too far to lose it all now. If you will permit me, I will stand in place of King Henry this day.’

Margaret stared, her mouth slightly open. She found the veil suddenly stifling and tugged it away from her face.

‘Milord, tell me on your honour that this is a real thing? Am I to be married today or not?’

Suffolk hesitated and Derry spoke for him.

‘It will be a formal exchange of vows, princess. Without a groom, it cannot properly be said to be a marriage, but it will be enough.’

‘But I see a ring on Lord Suffolk’s finger!’ Margaret said, shaking her head. ‘How can he stand in a church and make solemn vows when he is already married?’

‘Kings make their own law, princess. If Henry wants it so — and if King Charles agrees that it will do — well, it will do.’

All eyes turned to the French king, who was listening in fascinated confusion.

‘Your Majesty,’ Lord René said quietly. ‘We have come so far. This is but a step.’

The king scratched his nose, thinking.

‘I have certain sealed agreements with your King Henry,’ he said. ‘Agreements that become active as soon as Princess Margaret is married. You say you will honour this … betrothal as a true marriage in those terms?’

‘I will,’ Suffolk and Derry said almost together.

The French king shrugged.

‘Then I am satisfied.’ He changed to rapid French to speak again to Margaret. ‘The English are gauche and clumsy, my dear, but if their king is ill, it is God’s plan and mere men can only bend. Will you accept these terms? It would honour your father.’

Margaret curtsied.

‘If it is your wish, Your Majesty.’

Tension seemed to flow out of the small group as she spoke. Lord Suffolk patted her awkwardly on the hand.

‘I think, then, that I should take my place at the altar, my dear. I see the bishop is waiting for the groom to come to the altar. He will surely believe I have led a terrible life to look so very old.’

He smiled down at her and Margaret’s eyes filled with tears at his attempt to be kind. She saw the Englishman wrestle a gold band from his finger and place it carefully into a pocket. She could see a white line where it had been for many years.

Before he moved to take his place in the pews, she saw Lord York lean in close to Suffolk. Though the thin lord smiled as he spoke, whatever he said made Suffolk grow pale in the gloom.

Yolande reached up to dab away Margaret’s tears before they could spoil the kohl on her lashes, then replaced the veil almost reverently. Margaret struggled to take a full breath. She was fourteen years old and she told herself firmly that she would not wilt or faint on her wedding day, or whatever it had become. In her silent thoughts, she vowed to have words with her English king when she met him at last. Leaving her alone at their own wedding ought to be worth at least a castle.

The thought made her chuckle and Yolande looked up in surprise. The rest of the men had dispersed to the pews and the crowd outside was coming in at last, looking nervously at her and whispering questions that could not be answered. At the end of the nave, William de la Pole had walked through the door in the black oak pulpitum that hid the mysteries of the altar and the choir from the congregation. Through that gap, she could see the Englishman’s wide back as he stood and waited for a princess of France. Margaret shook her head in disbelief.

‘This is a strange day,’ she muttered to her sister. ‘I find I am nothing more than a bauble, while they play games of power all around.’

She set her jaw, refusing to look as her father came to her side and took her arm. Yolande and her cousins fell into step behind her and the church filled with music as three harpists began to play. On her father’s arm, Margaret walked slowly down the nave, her head held high. They passed through the pulpitum screen together and the door was closed behind them. When Lord Suffolk looked back, he smiled to see such bravery in a girl so young. Whether by luck or God’s blessing, or perhaps the sheer chicanery of Derry Brewer, Suffolk thought King Henry had found a rare one to be his bride.

The bells of the Saint-Gatien cathedral rang out over Tours, a joyous sound that rippled on and on in complicated patterns that never repeated for the course of a full peal.

Derry watched placidly as the French princess came out and was escorted back to her waiting carriage with the bells and roaring crowd echoing all around her. She was smiling and weeping at the same time, which made Derry chuckle. If his own daughter had lived, she would have been about that age. The thought brought a stab of an old pain to his chest.

The French king and his most powerful lords came out to see the bride leave for Saumur Castle, the monarch already deep in conversation and surrounded by messengers running to and from the army waiting outside the city.

Derry’s thoughts were interrupted as a hand came down hard on his right shoulder. In the inns of east London, he’d have grabbed it and broken the small finger, but he resisted the impulse with an effort.

‘What have you done, in the king’s name, Derry Brewer?’ York hissed at him. ‘Tell me this is not so. Tell me that we haven’t just given up lands won back to good Englishmen by Henry of Monmouth.’

‘His son, our king, wanted a truce, Lord York, so yes, that is exactly what we have done,’ Derry replied. He removed the hand on his shoulder, deliberately squeezing the bones together as he did so. York grunted in pain, though he resisted the urge to rub his hand when he had it back.

‘This is treason. You will swing for this, along with that fool Suffolk.’

‘And the king at our sides, I suppose? Lord York, is it possible you have failed to comprehend the arrangement? Maine and Anjou are the price for twenty years of truce. Will you gainsay your own king in this? It is what he wanted. We who are his humble servants can only give way to the royal will.’

To his surprise, York stood back and smiled coldly at him.

‘I think you will discover that there are consequences to these games, Derry Brewer. Whatever you think you have accomplished, the news is out now. As your secret deals are heard, the country will know only that King Henry has given away territories won by his father — and by English blood, shed on the battlefields. They will say … Oh, I will leave you to work out what they will say. I wish you luck, but I want you to remember that I warned you.’ For a moment, York chuckled and shook his head. ‘Do you think they will go meekly, those Englishmen, just because a fat French lord points them back to Normandy? You have overreached yourself with your cleverness, Brewer. Men will die because of it.’

‘Are you selling lavender as well as prophecy? I ask because I would value a sprig of lavender and there are no gypsy women here.’

He thought York would lose his temper then, but the man merely smiled once more.

‘I have sight of you now, Derry Brewer. My men have sight of you. I wish you luck getting back to Calais, but I fear it is not with you today. All your bright magpie chatter will not serve you when we catch you up on the road.’

‘What an odd thing to say to me, Lord York! I will see you again in London or Calais, I’m certain. For the moment, though, the French king has invited me to accompany him on a hunt. I like him, Richard. He speaks English ever so well.’

Derry raised a hand to catch the attention of the French noble party. One of the barons saw and gestured in reply, calling him over. With a last insouciant raise of the eyebrows for York’s benefit, Derry strolled across to them.

Outside the town, the French army began to pack up its camp, ready to take command of more new land won in a morning than in the ten years before that day. Duke René was beaming as Derry reached the