Conn Iggulden - Stormbird

‘This is no time to argue, gentlemen,’ he said drily. ‘Lord Scales? You mentioned guarding the other gates?’

Scales was in his fifties, a veteran of the French conflict who had remained in London ever since the trial of William, Lord Suffolk. He accepted the olive branch Somerset held out, speaking in a smooth baritone to break the tension in the room.

‘We know this chap Cade has a large number of followers. It is only the merest sense to reinforce the gates of London.’

‘ Seven gates, Lord Scales!’ Derry said, frustrated into letting his irritation show. ‘If we put even forty more men on each, we’ll have lost a vital number who can keep order on the streets . My lord, I have men in villages around the city, watching for an attack. Cade hasn’t moved out of Southwark. If he’s coming at all, he’s coming like a bull at a gate. If he was the only factor, I’d agree with the young earl here that we should gather like a knot at London Bridge. But there are tens of thousands in London who will take advantage of this unrest to burn, murder, rape and settle old scores. We may be spread too thin as it is, but Cade is only one part. Cade’s attack is no more or less than the horn signal that will destroy the city.’

Derry stopped, looking round at the men who would defend London when Cade came, assuming he ever did. At least Derry trusted Somerset, though the older man was just as prickly as Richard Neville when it came to being denied the honour of a prominent position. Scales had subsided into flushed silence for the same reason. Baron Rivers he knew hardly at all, beyond the fact that he had brought two hundred men down to London on orders Derry had written and sealed for the king. In comparison, the young Earl of Warwick was as hostile as any rioter, the face the Neville clan had chosen to represent their power. Derry regarded him sourly, knowing that York stood behind him, though of course the man himself was nowhere to be seen. The Neville faction could only gain from an attack on London, and Derry despaired at the thought of such men seizing their chances in the chaos that would follow. He needed more soldiers!

Margaret was safe enough in the Tower, Derry thought. He’d rather not have left four hundred men to guard her, but when she’d refused to leave, he’d had little choice. Derry knew the sins of men better than most. If London was saved but Margaret lost, Derry knew the Yorkist cause would be immeasurably strengthened. The Duke of York would then be king within the year, he was certain. Just once, he would have liked a single enemy facing him, like the old days. Instead, he felt as if he trod through a room of snakes, never knowing which one would strike at him.

One of the mayor’s staff came puffing up the stairs to the room, a great fat alderman in silks and velvet. He was pink-faced and sweating as he entered, though the stairs were few. The four lords and Derry turned to him with dark expressions, making him stare.

‘My lords,’ he panted. ‘Cade’s men are coming. Now, my lords. Tonight .’

Warwick cursed under his breath.

‘I am for the bridge,’ he said. ‘The rest of you see to your own.’

The alderman stood back to let him pass, trying to bow and breathe hard at the same time. Warwick vanished down the steps at a run. Derry glared after him, turning quickly to Lord Scales.

‘My lord, I have the king’s authority in this. Please give a part of your men to guard the city from within.’

Lord Scales looked down on the shorter man, weighing his words.

‘No, Master Brewer. My answer is no. I too will defend the bridge.’

‘ Christ , Scales,’ Somerset said. ‘We’re on the same side. I’ll send sixty men into the streets for you, Derry. I’ll have them report to the Guildhall for you to send where they’re needed, all right? That is all I can spare.’

‘It’s not enough,’ Derry said. ‘If Cade’s men get into the city, we’ll need hundreds to take them on, whichever way they turn.’

His fists were clenched and Somerset shrugged regretfully.

‘Then pray they do not get into the city,’ he said. He indicated the steps leading down. Outside, they could hear the hiss and roar of the rainstorm beginning to spread across London. ‘It looks to be a wet night. Shall we, gentlemen?’

There were torches on London Bridge, wide spitting bowls of flaming oil on pillars at the entrance and all along its length. The bridge shone gold in the darkness and could be seen from far to the south. Bowed down under the rain, Jack Cade marched towards that gleaming spot with his Freemen, wrapping a cloth around the wound he’d taken as he went and pulling the knot tight with his teeth. Behind the fingers of black cloud scudding across the sky, the moon was almost full. He could see the silvery mass of his men as they trudged on, moving closer to the city.

The Thames was a glittering strip across his path as he approached the bridge. Jack could hear Woodchurch yelling at the men behind to form a column. The bridge was wide, but most of that width was taken up with the buildings along each edge. The central road could take no more than four or six men abreast — and Jack could see it wasn’t empty. London Bridge seethed with people, animals and carts, with more and more of them staring out at the armed men. Jack felt like a wolf approaching a flock of lambs and he smiled at the thought, hefting his axe and letting it rest on his shoulder like any woodsman out for a stroll. Ecclestone chuckled with something like the same thought, though it was not a pleasant sound.

‘No killing the lambs!’ Jack growled at the men around him. ‘No stealing, or touching the women! Understand? If you see a man with a blade or a shield, you can cut his damned head off. No one else.’

His guards grumbled their assent.

It was probably Jack’s imagination when he felt the stones tremble underfoot as he crossed from solid ground to the first steps of the bridge itself. His men went before him, but he had insisted on being in the first few ranks, to call orders as necessary. Despite Woodchurch’s efforts, they had formed too wide a line on the open road and had to funnel in behind him, with thousands just standing with their heads bowed in the pouring rain, unable to go forward. Yet the snake of armed Kentish men pushed further and further in, driving the crowds before them like animals on market day. To Jack’s surprise, many of the Londoners were cheering and shouting his name, pointing him out as if he were coming to break a siege. They didn’t seem to be afraid and Jack Cade couldn’t understand them at all.

He swallowed nervously as he began to pass buildings on either side, hanging so far out above his head that they blocked the falling rain from all but the track down the centre. He didn’t like being overlooked and he glared up at the open windows.

‘Watch for archers!’ Woodchurch shouted behind them.

Jack could see Ecclestone jerking his head around, wiping his eyes of rain and trying to see in all directions. If the windows filled, Jack knew his men would seek the shadow of the buildings themselves, crowding the pavements for the false promise of cover. They’d be vulnerable to anyone with a bow on the other side then, like chickens in a pen. Jack crossed his fingers, but he could hear the jingling tramp of soldiers up ahead, moving to block the far end of the bridge. He shifted his axe to his other shoulder, forcing himself to keep walking, steady and strong behind the Kentish banner that little Jonas held high.

Jack looked back over his shoulder, trying to judge how many had come on to the bridge. Woodchurch had been like an old woman all day, worrying about being bottled up. In the light of the crackling bridge lamps, Jack could see the man and his son, both archers staring up at the windows. They were empty, dark spaces with no lamps lit inside. Something about that bothered Jack, but he couldn’t put a name to it.