Stormbird

‘I expected you two days back, my lord.’

‘I’ve been delayed,’ William said irritably.

His retreat to Calais had been one of the worst experiences of his life, with baying French pikemen at their heels the whole way. Half his army had been slaughtered, but he hadn’t abandoned his archers, not even when it looked as if they’d never make it to the fortress. Some of them had taken riderless horses, or run alongside, holding loose stirrups. It was a small point of pride amongst the failure, but William hadn’t left them to be tortured and torn apart by the triumphant French knights.

‘I bear a message, my lord, from Derihew Brewer.’

William closed his eyes for a moment and massaged the bridge of his nose with one hand.

‘Give it to me, then.’ When the man remained silent, William opened his bloodshot eyes and glared at him. ‘Well?’

‘My lord, I think it is a private message.’

‘Just … tell me,’ he said, weary beyond belief.

‘I am to warn you there are charges of treason waiting in London, my lord. Sir William Tresham has sent men to Portsmouth to arrest you. I am to say, “It’s time to run, William Pole.” I’m sorry, my lord, those are the exact words.’

William turned to his horse and checked the belly strap with a dour expression, slapping the animal on the haunch and then tightening it carefully. The servant and his guards all waited for him to say something, but he put a foot in a stirrup and mounted, casting a glance at the crowd, who had not yet dared to approach and truly threaten him. He placed his scabbard carefully alongside his leg and took up the reins before looking down at his guards.

‘What is it?’ he demanded.

The guards looked helplessly up at him. The closest cleared his throat.

‘We were wondering what you intended, my lord Suffolk. It’s grave news.’

‘I intend to honour my commission!’ William said curtly. ‘I intend to return to London. Now mount up, before these fishermen find their nerve.’

The messenger was gaping, but William ignored the man. The news had sickened him, but in truth it changed nothing, whatever Derry may have thought. William tensed his jaw as his men mounted their horses. He would not be a coward. He kept his back stiff as he walked his horse, walked it by God, past the fishermen. Some stones were thrown, but they didn’t touch him.

Thomas Woodchurch watched the Duke of Suffolk ride by. He’d seen William de la Pole before at a distance and he knew that iron hair and upright carriage, though the nobleman had lost a great deal of weight since then. Thomas scowled as some fool threw a stone. His angry expression was noticed by some fishermen nearby, watching the proceedings.

‘Don’t worry, lad,’ one of them called. ‘Old Jack Cade’ll get ’im, God’s as witness.’

Thomas turned sharply to the speaker, a grizzled old man with wiry hands and arms that were marked in white net scars.

‘Jack Cade?’ he demanded incredulously, taking a step closer.

‘Him who ’as an army of free men. They’ll settle yon fancy genn’lman, with his nose in the air while better men starve.’

‘Who’s Jack Cade?’ Rowan asked.

His father ignored him, reaching out and taking the boatman by the shoulder.

‘What do you mean, an army? Jack Cade from Kent? I knew a man by that name once.’

The boatman raised thick eyebrows and smiled, revealing just a couple of teeth in an expanse of brown gum.

‘We’ve seen a few come through to join ’im, last month or so. Some of us ’as to fish, lad, but if you’re of a mind to break heads, Cade’ll take you.’

‘Where is he?’ Thomas demanded, tightening his grip on the arm as the man tried to pull away and failed.

‘’E’s a ghost, lad. You won’t find ’im if ’e don’t want it. Go west and north, that’s what I heard. He’s up the woods there somewhere, killing bailiffs and sheriff’s men.’

Thomas swallowed. The wound on his hip still hurt, the healing slowed by starvation and sleeping each night on the shore in the wind and rain. He and Rowan had been eating fish guts on fires of driftwood, whatever they could find. He hadn’t even a coin to send a letter to his wife and daughters — and if he had, he’d have bought a meal with it. His eyes brightened as if his fever had returned.

‘That messenger, Rowan. He came on a horse, didn’t he?’

Rowan opened his mouth to reply, but his father was already walking to the tavern where they’d seen the man arrive. Thomas had to thump a stable boy to get the horse, but he and his son were thin and the animal was grain-fed, able to carry them both. They passed the dumbfounded messenger as he walked back just a little while later. The fishermen hooted with laughter at the man’s appalled expression as he watched his horse ridden away, slapping their knees and holding on to each other to stay upright.

21

In his rooms in the White Tower, Derry came awake by grabbing the hand that had touched him on the shoulder. Before he was even fully aware, he had a blade against the shocked face of his servant, pressing a line in the cheek below the eye. As quick as he had moved, he took a moment longer to understand he was not under attack and he put the blade away with a muttered apology. His servant’s hands were shaking as the man lit a candle and placed it under a glass funnel to spread the light.

‘I’m sorry, Hallerton, I’m … not in my right mind at the moment. I see assassins everywhere.’

‘I understand, sir,’ Hallerton replied, still pale with fear. ‘I would not have woken you, but you said to come if there was news of Lord Suffolk.’

The older man broke off as Derry swung his legs over the bed and stood up. He was fully dressed, having collapsed on to the blankets just a few hours before.

‘Well? Spit it out then, man. What news?’

‘He’s taken, sir. Arrested by Cardinal Beaufort’s men as he tried to report to Parliament.’

Derry blinked, his mind still foggy from sleep.

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake. I sent him a warning, Hallerton! What on earth was he thinking to come to London now?’ He rubbed his face, staring into nothing while he thought. ‘Do we know where they took him?’

His servant shook his head and Derry frowned, thinking hard.

‘Fetch me a bowl of water and the pot, would you?’

‘Yes, sir. Will you be needing me to shave you this morning?’

‘The way your hands are shaking? No, not today. I’ll shave myself, make myself neat for Speaker Tresham. Send a runner to his offices in Westminster announcing me. No doubt the old spider is already up and doing this morning. It is still morning?’

‘It is, sir,’ Hallerton replied, searching under the bed for the porcelain pot waiting there, already quarter-full with dark urine. Derry groaned to himself. He’d gone to bed with the first light of the sun in the sky. It hardly felt as if he’d slept at all, yet he had to be alert, or Tresham and Beaufort would have their scapegoat. What had William been thinking to come meekly into their hands? The trouble was that Derry knew the man’s pride well enough. Suffolk wouldn’t run, even from charges of high treason. In his own way, William was as much an innocent lamb as the king himself, but he was surrounded now by wolves. Derry had no illusions as to the seriousness of the charges. His friend would be torn apart unless Derry could save him.

‘Stop fiddling around with the damned pot, Hallerton! And forget Tresham. Where is the king this morning?’

‘In his chambers here, sir,’ his servant replied, worried at the woolly dullness of his master. ‘He remains abed and his servants say he is still suffering with an ague. I believe his wife is with him, or close by.’