Stormbird

insults and compliments in a great flood of bitter vitriol. If a man took offence, Suffolk told himself, he’d never get anything done. He suspected Derihew Brewer knew the limits of his temper very well.

‘We may not need a “gentleman”, Derry, but we do need a lord to deal with the French. You wrote to me, remember? I crossed the sea and left my responsibilities in Orléans to listen to you. So I would appreciate it if you’d share your plans, or I’ll go back to the coast.’

‘That’s it, isn’t it? I come up with the answers and I’m to give them to my fine noble friend so he can reap all the glory? So they can say “That William Pole, that Earl Suffolk, he’s a right sharp one”, while Derry Brewer is forgotten.’

‘William de la Pole, Derry, as you know very well.’

Derry replied through clenched teeth, his voice close to a snarl.

‘Oh yes? You think this is the time to have a nice French-sounding name, do you? I thought you had more wits, I really did. Thing is, William, I’ll do it anyway, because I care what happens to that little lamb who rules us. And I don’t want to see my country ripped apart by fools and cocky bastards. I do have an idea, though you won’t like it. I just need to know you understand the stakes.’

‘I understand them,’ Suffolk said, his grey eyes hard and cold.

Derry grinned at him without a trace of humour, revealing the whitest teeth Suffolk could remember seeing on a grown man.

‘No you don’t,’ he said with a sneer. ‘The whole country is waiting for young Henry to be half the man his dad was, to finish the glorious work that took half of France and made their precious Dauphin prince run like a little girl. They’re waiting, William. The king is twenty-two and his father was a proper fighter at that age. Remember? Old Henry would have torn their lungs out and worn ’em as gloves, just to keep his hands warm. Not the lamb, though. Not his boy. The lamb can’t lead and the lamb can’t fight. He can’t even grow a beard, William! When they realize he ain’t never coming, we’re all done, understand? When the French stop trembling in terror about King Harry, the lion of bloody England, coming back, it’s all finished. Maybe in a year or two, there’ll be a French army clustering like wasps to come for a day out in London. A nice bit of rape and slaughter and we’ll be taking off our caps and bowing whenever we hear a French voice. You want that for your daughters, William? For your sons? Those are your stakes, William English Pole.’

‘Then tell me how we can bring them to truce,’ Suffolk said slowly and with force.

At forty-six, he was a large man, with a mass of iron-grey hair that spread out from his wide head and fell almost to his shoulders. He’d put on bulk in the previous few years and next to Derry he felt old. His right shoulder ached on most days and one of his legs had been badly gashed years before, so that the muscle never healed properly. He limped in winter and he could feel it sending fingers of pain up his leg as he stood in the cold room. His temper was growing short.

‘That’s what the boy said to me,’ Derry replied. ‘ “Bring me a truce, Derry,” he says. “Bring me peace.” Peace when we could take it all with one good season of fighting. It turned my stomach — and his poor old dad must be turning in his grave. I’ve spent more time in the archives than any man with red blood should ever be asked to do. But I found it, William Pole. I found something the French won’t turn down. You’ll take it to them and they’ll fret and worry, but they won’t be able to resist. He’ll get his truce.’

‘And will you share this revelation?’ Suffolk asked, holding his temper with difficulty. The man was infuriating, but Derry would not be rushed and there was still the suspicion that the spymaster enjoyed having an earl wait on his word. Suffolk resolved not to give Derry the satisfaction of showing impatience. He crossed the room to pour himself a cup of water from a jug, draining it in quick swallows.

‘Our Henry wants a wife,’ Derry replied. ‘They’d see hell freeze before they give him a royal princess like they did with his father. No, the French king will keep his daughters close by for Frenchmen, so I won’t even give him the pleasure of turning us down. But there is one other house, William — Anjou. The duke there has paper claims to Naples, Sicily and Jerusalem. Old René calls himself a king and he’s ruined his family trying to claim his rights for ten years now. He’s paid ransoms greater than you or I will ever see, William. And he has two daughters, one of them unpromised and thirteen.’

Suffolk shook his head, refilling the cup. He had sworn off wine and beer, but this was one time when he truly missed the stuff.

‘I know Duke René of Anjou,’ he said. ‘He hates the English. His mother was a great friend of that girl, Joan of Arc — and you’ll recall, Derry, that we burned her.’

‘No more than right,’ Derry snapped. ‘You were there, you saw her. That little bitch was in league with someone, even if it wasn’t the devil himself. No, you’re not seeing it, William. René has the ear of his king. That French peacock owes René of Anjou his crown, everything. Didn’t René’s mother give him sanctuary when he tucked up his skirts and ran? Didn’t she send little Joan of Arc to Orléans to shame them into attacking? That family kept France in French hands, or at least the arse end of it. Anjou is the key to the whole lock, William. The French king married René’s sister, for Christ’s sake! That’s the family that can put pressure on their little royal — and they’re the ones with an unmarried daughter. They are the way in, I’m telling you. I’ve looked at them all, William, every French “lord” with three pigs and two servants. Margaret of Anjou is a princess; her father beggared himself to prove it.’

Suffolk sighed. It was late and he was weary.

‘Derry, it’s no good, even if you’re right. I’ve met the duke more than once. I remember him complaining to me that English soldiers laughed at his order of chivalry. He was most offended, I recall.’

‘He should not have called it the Order of the Croissant, then, should he?’

‘It’s no stranger than the Order of the Garter, is it? Either way, Derry, he won’t give us a daughter, certainly not in exchange for a truce. He might take a fortune for her, if things are as bad as you say, but a truce? They aren’t all fools, Derry. We haven’t had a campaign for a decade and every year it gets just a little harder to hold the land we have. They have an ambassador here and I’m sure he tells them everything he sees.’

‘He tells them what I let him see; don’t you worry about that. I have that perfumed boy sewn up tight. But I haven’t told you what we’ll offer to make old René sweat and pull on his king’s sleeve, just begging his monarch to accept our terms. He’s poor as a blind archer without the rents from his ancestral lands. And why is that? Because we own them. He has a couple of derelict old castles that look out on the best farmland in France, with good Englishmen and soldiers enjoying it for him. Maine and Anjou entire, William. That will bring him to the table fast enough. That will win us our truce. Ten years? We’ll demand twenty and a bloody princess. And René of Anjou has the king’s ear. The snail-eaters will fall over themselves to say yes.’

Suffolk rubbed his eyes in frustration. He could feel the taste of wine in his mouth, though he had not touched a drop for more than a year.

‘This is madness. You’d have me give away a quarter of our land in France?’

‘You think I like it, William?’ Derry demanded angrily. ‘You think I haven’t sweated for months looking for a better path? The king said “Bring me a truce, Derry” — well, this is it. This is the only thing that will do it and, believe me, if there was another way, I’d have found it by now. If he could use his father’s sword — Christ, if he could even lift it — I wouldn’t be having this conversation with you. You and I would be out once more, with the horns blowing and the French on the run. If he can’t do that — and he can’t, William, you’ve seen him — then this is the only way to peace. We’ll find him a wife as well, to conceal the rest.’

‘Have you told the king?’ Suffolk asked, already knowing the answer.

‘If I had, he’d agree, wouldn’t he?’ Derry replied bitterly. ‘ “You know best, Derry,” “If you think so, Derry.” You know how he talks. I could get him to say yes to anything. Trouble is, so can anyone else. He’s weak like that, William. All we can do is get him a wife, bide our time and wait for a strong son.’ He saw Suffolk’s dubious expression and he snorted. ‘It worked for Edward, didn’t it? The Hammer of the bloody Scots had a weak son, but his grandson? I wish I’d known a king like that. No, I did know a king like that. I knew Harry. I knew the lion of bloody Agincourt, and maybe that’s all a man can hope for in one lifetime. But while we wait for a proper monarch, we have to have a truce. The beardless boy isn’t up to anything else.’

‘Have you even seen a picture of this princess?’ Suffolk asked, staring off into the distance.

Derry laughed scornfully.