Stormbird

spirits.

‘I should hope so, lad. You need to let them see you now. These boys need a leader and that Strange is not the man for it, not as I see it. A title don’t give him the right, though there’s some as think it does. No, lad. They need an archer, with a sense of the land. Share a pint or three with me and I’ll tell thee what I have in mind.’

Thomas let himself be carried along in the group heading to the inn. He sent a silent prayer that Derry Brewer could be found quickly — and that he would answer an old friend.

10

In the howling darkness Derry Brewer sat and waited, needing to know if it was a trap. He was convinced only an owl could have seen him move by then, but he still resisted the urge to wipe rain from his eyes. Though his sight blurred, he remained perfectly still, just blinking slowly as the heavens opened and drenched him. He wore a dark cloak of waxed linen, but he’d discovered it leaked and the rivulets running inside were freezing. He’d been in that spot for hours, with his back and knees growing slowly more painful.

There had been a little moonlight before the storm clouds boiled angrily above his head and the first fat drops pattered on the leaves. He’d seen that the land around the farmhouse had been cleared and laid out by a careful hand. The house looked normal enough at first glance, but the bushes and lane were planted so there was just one clear path to the door — a path a pair of archers could cover against an army. Derry smiled to himself, remembering different times, different places. He had spotted the pile of lumber left out in the open. It was in just the right place to use it as a barricade and then fall back to the main house. Thomas Woodchurch was a careful man, just as Derry was. Being careful and taking time had saved both their lives more than once.

The rain was easing, but the wind still moaned through the trees, filling the air with leaves that spun and danced like wet coins. Still he waited, reduced to a bright point of awareness in a shivering body. In the cottage, he noted which rooms showed moving shadows and tried to guess how many people he might expect inside.

Without warning, a sudden sense of illness touched him, making his stomach clench and his testicles creep. He’d heard nothing, seen nothing, but in the darkness Derry realized he’d taken the only spot that gave him a good view of the front door and the main rooms of the cottage. His heart began to race in his chest and he wondered if he could run after so long in a crouch. He cursed himself in silence, thinking as fast as he ever had. He edged his hand to the heavy seax knife at his waist, the hilt slick under his grasping fingers. In the wind and rain, he knew no one could hear him taking a long, slow breath. His pride made him pitch his voice at a normal tone, trusting his instincts.

‘How long will you wait out here with me?’ Derry said loudly.

He was certain he’d guessed right, but he still almost jumped out of his skin when someone laughed softly behind him. Derry tensed to move, either to run or throw himself in that direction.

‘I’ve been wondering the same thing, Derry,’ Thomas said. ‘It’s damned cold and there’s food and ale in the house. If you’ve finished playing your games now, why don’t you come in?’

Derry swore to himself.

‘There’s a few men in France who’d love to know where I am tonight,’ he said. He stood, his knees and hips protesting. ‘I had to know you hadn’t joined them.’

‘If I had, you’d be eating an arrow by now,’ Thomas said. ‘I had to know you were alone, for the same reasons. I have a few enemies myself, Derry.’

‘Good men like us always do,’ Derry replied. Though he knew by then where Thomas was standing, it was still hard to make him out in the darkness.

‘I’m not a good man, Brewer. And I know you’re not. Peace, old son. Come down and break bread with me. I’ll tell you what I’m after.’

Thomas crunched through the dead leaves and clapped Derry on the shoulder walking past him towards the house.

‘How did you know I was there?’ Thomas called over his shoulder.

‘I remembered how you liked to hunt,’ Derry said, following him. ‘How did you get so close without me hearing you?’

He heard his old friend chuckle in the gloom.

‘As you say, I’m a hunter, Derry. Stags or men, it’s all the same.’

‘No, truly. How did you do it?’

The two men walked together across the open yard, passing the stack of lumber as they approached the house.

‘I used the wind for cover, but there’s a bit more to it than that. If you have twenty years, I’ll teach you.’

As they reached the door, the light from the lamplit windows let Derry see his friend’s face for the first time. He watched as Thomas gave a low whistle out into the dark yard.

‘Someone else?’ Derry asked.

‘My son, Rowan,’ Thomas replied, smiling as he saw the irritation in Derry’s face. ‘This is my land, Derry — and his. You can’t creep up on me here and not have me know it.’

‘You mustn’t sleep much then,’ Derry muttered.

As he spoke, a tall young man appeared out of the wind and rain, wearing a cloak similar to Derry’s own. Without a word, Rowan took his father’s bow and quiver. The weapons were better wrapped and protected than the men who owned them.

‘Rub them down well with oil and check the shafts for warp,’ Thomas called as his son turned and walked away. He got a grunt in return, which made him smile.

‘You’re looking well,’ Derry said, meaning it. ‘Being a farmer has put a little meat on your bones.’

‘I’m well enough. Now come in out of the rain. I have a proposition for you.’

The farmhouse kitchen was blessedly warm, with a small fire burning in the grate. Derry removed his waxed cloak before it made a puddle on the stone floor, dipping his head respectfully to the stern-looking woman sitting at the table. She ignored him as she took a cloth and removed a black iron kettle from where it hung over the flames.

‘This is my wife, Joan,’ Thomas said. ‘A sweet little rookery girl who took a risk once and married an archer.’ He smiled at her, though her own expression remained wary. ‘Joan, this is Derry Brewer. We used to be friends once.’

‘We still are, or I wouldn’t have risked my hide coming out here. You sent a message to John Gilpin at Calais and here I am, in the pouring rain.’

‘Why should we trust a man who sits out in the lane and watches us for hours?’ Joan said. Despite the years in France, her accent was all London, as if she’d left the slums of the capital just the day before.

‘All right, Joan, he’s just a cautious man,’ Thomas replied as Derry blinked and fidgeted under her stare. ‘He always was.’

She made a hard, snorting sound deep in her throat and set about pouring hot water into a dash of brandy in each cup. Derry noted that his measure was only half the size of her husband’s, though he thought better of mentioning it.

‘You can go to bed now, Joan, if you want,’ Thomas said. ‘There’s no one else out there; I’d have seen them.’

His wife frowned at her husband.

‘I don’t like to feel a prisoner in my own ’ome, Thomas Woodchurch. I’ll take the girls away tomorrow. When I come back, I want this sorted out. I won’t be looking over my shoulder no longer, I just won’t do it. And you look after Rowan. He’s just a boy, for all his size.’

‘I’ll keep him safe, love. Don’t worry about that.’

Thomas kissed his wife on the cheek she offered him, though she still watched his guest with cold eyes.

When she had gone, Derry reached for the bottle of brandy and added another slosh to keep the cold out from his bones.