Conn Iggulden - Stormbird

‘What is it? Lost your nerve?’ he said, making his voice kind as he saw the man’s worry and fear written into every line of him.

‘I … I’m sorry, Jack,’ the man said, almost stammering. He looked around him at the glowering axemen and briefly up to the Kentish banner. To Jack’s surprise, he crossed himself as if he saw a holy relic.

‘Do I know you, son?’ Jack said, confused. ‘What brings you to me?’

Cade was leaning close to hear the reply when the man lunged towards his neck, a dagger in his hand. With a curse, Jack smacked it away with a raised arm, hissing in pain as the blade cut the back of his hand. The knife flew out of the man’s grip, clattering against metal and vanishing. Jack clenched his jaw and reached out with both hands, grabbing the man’s head and twisting hard. The man screeched and struggled until a snap sounded and he went limp. Jack let the body fall bonelessly to the ground.

‘ Fuck you, boy, whoever the hell you were,’ he said to the corpse. He found he was breathing hard as he looked up into the shocked faces of the men around him.

‘Well? Did you think we didn’t have enemies? London’s sly, and don’t you forget it. Whatever they promised him, I’m still standing and he’s done.’

At a sudden flurry of movement, Cade spun round, convinced he was about to be attacked again. He saw Ecclestone barge through the crowd, with his razor held high, ready to kill. Jack faced him, raising his shoulders bullishly as rage filled him with strength.

‘You too?’ he growled, readying himself.

Ecclestone looked down at the body, then up into Jack’s eyes.

‘ What? Christ, no, Jack. I was following him. He looked nervous and he kept creeping closer to you.’

Jack watched as his friend folded the narrow blade and made it vanish.

‘You were a bit late then, weren’t you?’ he said.

Ecclestone gestured uncomfortably to where blood dripped from Jack’s hands.

‘He cut you?’ he asked.

‘It’s not bad.’

‘I’ll stay close, Jack, if you don’t mind. We don’t know half of the men now. There could be others.’

Jack waved away the idea, his good mood already returning.

‘They’ve shot their bolt, but stay if it makes you happy. Are you ready, lads?’

The men around him were still pale and shocked at what they had witnessed, but they mumbled assent.

‘Watch my back while we march then, if it pleases you,’ Jack said. ‘I’m for London. They know we’re coming and they’re frightened. So they should be. Raise that pole high, Jonas! I bloody told you once! Let them see us coming.’

They cheered him as he set off, thousands of men walking in the darkness towards the capital. Fat drops of warm, summer rain began to fall, making the torches sizzle and spit. The men talked and laughed as they went, as if they were strolling to a market day or a county fair.

Cripplegate remained open, lit by braziers on iron poles. The king’s carriage was enclosed against the cold, with Henry well wrapped inside. Around the king, sixty mounted knights were his escort north, taking him away from the capital city. Henry looked out at the lighted gate, trying to turn in his seat to see it shut behind him. The ancient Roman wall stretched away in both directions, enclosing his city and his wife. His hands trembled and he shook his head in confusion, reaching for the door and opening it part of the way. The movement brought the instant attention of Lord Grey, who turned his horse towards the king’s carriage.

Henry gathered his thoughts, feeling the process like grasping threads. He recalled speaking to Margaret, asking her to come with him to Kenilworth, where she would be safe. Yet she was not there. She’d said Master Brewer had asked her to stay.

‘Where is my wife, Lord Grey?’ he asked. ‘Is she coming soon?’

To Henry’s surprise, the man did not respond. Lord Grey coloured as he dismounted and came to the carriage side. Henry blinked at him in confusion.

‘Lord Grey? Did you hear me? Where is my wife, Margaret …?’

He broke off, suddenly sensing it was a question he had asked many times before. He knew he’d been dreaming for a time. The physician’s draughts made false things seem real and dreams as vivid as reality. He could no longer tell the difference. Henry felt a gentle pressure on the carriage door as Lord Grey pushed on it, looking away at the same time so he would not have to see his king’s wide eyes and grief-stricken expression.

The door shut with a soft click, leaving Henry peering out of the small square of glass. When it misted with his breath he rubbed at it, in time to see Grey shake his head at one of the knights.

‘I’m afraid the king is unwell, Sir Rolfe, not quite in his right mind.’

The knight looked uncomfortable as he glanced back at the pale face watching him. His head dipped.

‘I understand, my lord.’

‘I hope so. It would be unwise of you to suggest I ever closed a door on my sovereign, Sir Rolfe. If we understand each other …?’

‘We do, Lord Grey, of course. I saw nothing of note.’

‘Very good. Driver! Ride on.’

A long whip snapped in the air and the carriage began to move away, bouncing and shuddering on the potholed road. As it went, the wind blew harder and it began to rain, the heavy drops drumming on the carriage roof and the dusty ground.

Derry held his temper in check with a huge effort. Midnight was not far off and he was weary and fed up.

‘My lord Warwick, if you withdraw your men-at-arms from the north of the city, we will have no one there to contain the rioting.’

Richard Neville was tall and slender, too young still for a beard. Yet he was an earl himself and the son and grandson of powerful men. He stared back with the sort of arrogance that took generations to perfect.

‘Who are you to tell me where to place my men, Master Brewer? I see you have Lord Somerset’s soldiers racing hither and thither at your word, but you’d have me stay away from the army approaching London? Have you lost your wits? Let me be clear. You don’t give orders here, Brewer. Don’t forget that.’

Derry felt his instincts bristle, but provoking a confrontation with a Neville while London was in real danger would serve no one.

‘My lord, I agree Cade’s mob is the worst of the threats facing the city. Yet when he comes, we will still have to keep the streets in order. The presence of an army on the doorstep of the city has riled and excited every troublemaker in London. There are riots tonight by St Paul’s, calling for the king to be dragged out and put to trial. Smithfield by the Tower has a gathering of hundreds with some damned Sussex orator firing their blood. Those places need an armed presence, my lord. We need soldiers to be seen on every street, from the Shambles to the markets, from Aldgate to Cripplegate. I only ask that you …’

‘I believe I have answered, Brewer,’ Richard Neville said coldly, talking over him. ‘My men and I will defend London Bridge and the Tower. That is the post where I have chosen to stand. Or will you tell me the king has other orders? Written orders I may read for myself? No? I should think not, as His Majesty has left the city! You overreach yourself, Brewer. I’m sure you would prefer a Neville to guard street corners while the true fight goes on without me. Yet you have no authority here! I suggest you remove yourself, or at least remain silent while your betters plan for the worst.’

Something about the dangerous stillness in Derry Brewer made Warwick stop talking. There were five men in the room at the newly built Guildhall, the seat of all civic authority in London. Lord Somerset had been listening closely to the conversation, making his own assessment of those present. Observing that Derry was about to speak in anger, he cleared his throat.