hardly have imagined such trials for his youngest daughter.
Margaret stayed on the wall until the sun went down and she could see the distant fires more clearly in the great camp across the Thames. Cade had thousands of his Kentish men there and she still did not know if he would come. The night air was cold and quiet as London held its breath and waited. The sky was clear and the moon showed low, creeping upwards as the stars of Orion rose.
Margaret said rosaries in her vigil, chanting the Ave Marias and Pater Nosters and lost in a trance so perfect that she did not even feel discomfort. She drifted, aware only of her pale hands on the rough-cut stone of the wall, anchoring her to the city. She wondered if this was the peace Henry found when he prayed from dawn till dusk, or even onward, through the night, until he could not rise without men to lift him up. It helped her to understand her husband and she prayed for him as well.
The stars turned around the north and Cade did not come. As the moon crossed the city, she felt she could almost see the constellations move. Her heart slowed and in the silence that pressed against her she was filled with a sense of peace and presence. She bowed her head, giving thanks to God for delivering her city.
With care, she descended the steps down from the wall as the sun began to rise, feeling a dull ache in every joint. She crossed stones still marked with rusty spills of blood from the attack, though the bodies and the coins had been cleared away. She raised her head as guards fell into step at her back, following her from the shadows of the wall to the White Tower. They had waited with the queen through the dark hours, keeping vigil in their own way to ensure her safety.
In the White Tower, she walked down a corridor to where a smaller group had spent the night. Her arrival was heralded by the stamp and clatter of armoured men standing to attention. If those men had slept, it didn’t show as they stood and then knelt for the young queen. Margaret swept by them, taking her seat on a throne at the far end of the room and hiding the relief it brought to her knees and hips.
‘Approach, Alexander Iden,’ she said.
The largest of the men rose from his kneeling position, walking to within a few paces of her before dipping down again. Like her guards, he had spent the night waiting for her, but he looked fresh enough, warmed by the fire burning in the grate. Margaret looked him over, seeing a hard man, with strong features and a trimmed beard.
‘You were recommended to me, Master Iden,’ she began. ‘I have been told you are a man of honour and good character.’
‘With God’s grace, Your Highness,’ he said, his voice deep and loud in the room, though he kept his head bowed.
‘Derihew Brewer speaks well of your talents, Master Iden. I am of a mind to trust his opinions.’
‘I am grateful, Your Highness,’ he said, visibly pleased.
Margaret thought for a moment longer, then decided.
‘You are hereby appointed as sheriff of Kent. My clerks have the papers for you to seal.’
To her surprise, the big man kneeling at her feet blushed with pleasure, still apparently unable to look up.
‘Thank you, Your Highness. Your … My … Your Highness does me great honour.’
Margaret found herself wanting to smile and repressed the desire.
‘Master Brewer has assembled sixty men who will accompany you to your new home in Maidstone. In the light of recent troubles, you must be kept safe. The authority of the Crown must not be flouted again in Kent. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Your Highness.’
‘By the Lord’s grace, the rebellion of Kentish men is at an end. Pardons have been granted and they are going back to their farms and villages with the wealth they have wrenched from London. What crimes they have committed are all forgiven and may not be brought before the courts.’ She paused, her eyes glittering over the man’s bowed head. ‘But you have been appointed by
‘I do, Your Highness,’ Iden replied immediately. ‘I pledge my honour and my obedience to you.’ He blessed Derry Brewer for putting his name forward. It was a reward for a lifetime in service and war and Iden could still hardly comprehend what he had been given.
‘Go with God then, Sheriff Iden. You will hear from me again.’
Iden blushed with pleasure at hearing his new title. He rose and bowed deeply once more.
‘I am your loyal servant, Your Highness.’
Margaret smiled.
‘That is all I ask.’
Thomas Woodchurch walked in silence through the echoing streets of London with his son, keeping a close eye out for anyone who might mark or recognize them. They’d stripped themselves of the green bows, keeping only a decent knife each to protect the pouches of gold they both carried. Jack Cade had been more than generous with the spoils, allowing triple shares for those who’d led the Kentish men. With the smaller pouch Rowan had hidden under his belt and tunic, they had enough to lease a decent-sized farm, if the right one could be found.
They’d crossed the Thames by ferryboat, rather than test the strength of the queen’s pardon on those defending London Bridge. Thomas and Rowan had reached a landing place further down the river and then Thomas led his son through the dense and winding streets. Little by little, they grew more familiar in memory, until they reached the rookeries themselves, the slums Thomas had first known when his father had uprooted their little family from Kent and settled in the city to seek a living.
For Rowan, it was his first view of London in the daylight. He stayed close to his father as the crowds bustled around them, out to trade and talk as the sun rose. Already, the signs of fighting and destruction were fading, swallowed up by a city that always went on, regardless of the suffering of individuals. There were funeral processions blocking some of the streets, but the two archers worked their way around and through the maze, until Thomas came to a small black door, deep in the rookeries. That part of London was one of the poorest, but the two men did not look as if they had anything to steal and Thomas made sure his hand stayed close by his knife. He took a deep breath and hammered on the wood, stepping back into the muck underfoot as he waited.
Both of them smiled as Joan Woodchurch opened the door and stood there, looking up suspiciously at the hulking great figures of her husband and son.
‘I thought you were both dead,’ she said flatly.
Thomas beamed at her. ‘It’s good to see you too, my dearest angel.’
She snorted at that, but when he embraced his wife, some of the hardness melted out of her.
‘Come in, then,’ she said. ‘You’ll be wanting breakfast.’
Father and son went into the tiny house, followed shortly by the excited squeals of the daughters as they welcomed the Woodchurch men home.
31
Jack stepped back, squinting at the line of mortar he’d pressed against the brick. With a steady hand, he ran his pointed trowel along the line, taking satisfaction from the way the walls were growing. As the long summer days began to shorten, he’d persuaded Paddy and Ecclestone to join him on the job. Neither of them had needed the work, but it had given him pleasure that they’d still come. Paddy was up on the roof, banging nails through the slates with more enthusiasm than skill. Jack knew his friend had sent some of his coins home to Ireland, to a family he hadn’t seen for many years. Paddy had drunk away a heavy portion of the rest in every inn and tavern for miles around. It was a blessing that the Irishman was a reasonable drunk, given to singing and sometimes weeping, rather than breaking the tables. Jack knew his old friend was uncomfortable with having wealth of any kind. For reasons he could not completely explain, Paddy seemed determined to burn through his fortune and be penniless once again. It showed in the weight he’d put on and the sagging skin around his bloodshot eyes. Jack
