Conn Iggulden - Stormbird

It was all falling apart, Derry could feel it. Cade’s men had reached the heart of the city and whatever rage had brought them in had exploded into a desire to loot, rape and murder while they could. It was something Derry knew well, from battles he’d seen, something about killing and surviving that put a shine in the blood and made a man wild. They might have been an army of Kentish Freemen coming in, but they’d become a savage and terrifying mob. Londoners crouched behind their own doors across the city, whispering prayers that no one would try to get in.

‘East again,’ Scales ordered from up ahead. ‘My scouts say there are fifty or so ahead, by the Cockspur Inn. We can hit them while they’re still bringing out the barrels.’

Derry shook his head to clear it, wishing he had a drink himself. London had more than three hundred taverns and alehouses. He’d already passed a dozen he knew from his youth, buildings shuttered and dark with the owners barricaded inside. Licking dry lips, Derry would have given a gold coin for a pint at that point, especially as he’d thrown away his water flask after seeing it pierced. The thing had probably saved his life, but its loss left him dry as a panting dog.

‘East again,’ he agreed.

Cade seemed to be heading back across the city and, in the condition they were in, all Scales and Derry could do was shadow him from a distance and pick off some of the smaller groups milling around in his wake — preferably the drunken ones, if they had a choice. Derry raised his head. He knew this part of the city. He took his bearings, rubbing his face with both hands to sharpen himself up. They were on Three Needle Street, a haunt from before he’d begun shaving. The livery hall of the Merchant Taylors was close by.

‘Hold there a moment, Lord Scales, if you would be so good,’ Derry called. ‘Let me see if there’s anyone waiting for me.’

Scales gestured irritably and Derry jogged off down the road, his feet squelching to the ankles. He’d been lost without his informants, but with the city heaving with knots of fighting, he’d been unable to find them. He reached the livery house and saw nothing. With a soft curse, he was turning to go back to the group when someone stepped out from a shadowed doorway. Derry jerked his spearhead up in shock at the sound, convinced he was about to be attacked.

‘Master Brewer? Sorry, sir. I wasn’t sure it was you.’

Derry gathered himself, clearing his throat to cover his embarrassment.

‘Who’s that?’ he said, his free hand resting on the hilt of the seax in his belt, just in case. Loyalty was in short supply that night.

‘John Burroughs, sir,’ the shadow replied. Under the eaves of the houses above, there was almost no light.

‘Well? You’ve found me, then,’ Derry snapped. ‘If you ask me for the password, I may just hand you your own entrails. Just tell me what you know.’

‘Right, sir, sorry. I came from the Tower, sir. When I left, they’d broken through the outer gatehouse.’

Derry’s eyes widened unseen in the darkness.

‘Anything else? Have you heard from Jim or the Kellys?’

‘Not since Cade’s lot came in, sir, sorry.’

‘Run back, then. Tell them I’m coming with a thousand men.’

Derry sensed his informant looking sceptically up the street to the ragged group with Lord Scales.

‘I’ll have more by then, don’t doubt it. The queen is in the Tower, Burroughs. Bring anyone else you can find.’

He watched as the man ran off at the best speed he could make through the reeking slop of the street.

‘Christ, Cade, you cunning old sod,’ Derry breathed aloud. He began to run in the opposite direction, to where Lord Scales waited impatiently for news.

‘They’re attacking the Tower, my lord. My man said they were already inside the outer walls.’

Scales looked up at the night sky. The first light of dawn was showing at last. His spirits lifted now that he could finally begin to see the streets around him.

‘Dawn is almost here, thank the Lord. Thank you too, Master Brewer. We’ll leave that group at the Cockspur for someone else. Can you plot a course to the Tower from here?’

‘Easy as winking, my lord. I know these streets.’

‘Then lead us in, Brewer. Stop for nothing. The queen’s safety comes first.’

Paddy looked up at the White Tower, oddly tempted to raise his hand in salute to those within, not that they would have been able to see it. His men had fought the king’s soldiers to a bloody last stand, loping along the tops of the outer walls and taking them one by one or in small groups, offering no quarter. For all their fine swords and mail, he’d had the best part of two thousand charging around inside the fortress, breaking down doors and removing everything worth taking. He knew the best pieces would surely be within the massive walls of the White Tower, but there was just no way to reach them.

It stood unmarked, painted pale and gleaming in the moonlight. The only entrance was on the first floor, with the stairs reduced to kindling by the time he’d broken through the portcullis. It was such a simple thing to baulk his assault. Given a day, Paddy thought he could have put something together, but the soldiers waiting inside the small entrance door could defend it easily and there wasn’t enough time.

He looked around, chewing on his lip. He could see across the inner yard to the massive walls. Dawn was coming and he had a strong sense that he should not be trapped within the complex of towers and walls when it came. As he stood and waited for the sun to rise, he saw two of his men staggering with the weight of an iron-bound chest.

‘What do you have there, lads?’ he called.

‘Coins!’ one of them shouted back. ‘More silver and gold than you would believe!’

Paddy shook his head.

‘It’s too heavy, you daft sod. Fill your pockets, man. Jesus, how far will you get with a chest?’

The man shouted back a curse and Paddy considered going after him to batter some sense into his head, before he mastered his temper. Jack and Woodchurch had been right about the Royal Mint, at least. Even without breaching the White Tower at the centre, they’d found enough gold to live like kings, if they could just get it out of the city. Shining gold coins littered the stones and Paddy picked one up and stared at it as the light improved. He’d never held gold before that night and yet his pockets now bulged with the things. It was a heavy metal, he’d discovered, with a great weight of them resting on his shoulder, in a sack made from a cloak.

He wondered if they could find carts to carry their new wealth back across London Bridge. Yet the light was growing all the time and he feared the day. The king’s men had been cut to pieces all night, but they’d surely come back with a vengeance when they could see the damage done to the city.

One of the men Paddy had placed high on the outer walls raised his arm and shouted. Paddy ran closer to hear, jingling with every step and dreading the news of an army come to relieve the Tower.

‘It’s Cade!’ the man was yelling through cupped hands. ‘ Cade! ’

Paddy sagged in relief. Better than furious ranks of king’s soldiers, at least. Within the Tower walls, he could not yet see the sun, but it was rising all the same, revealing swirling mists and corpses on all sides. Paddy began to trot to the broken gatehouse to greet his friend. Behind him, the soldiers in the White Tower called insults and threats from the windows. He ignored them all. They might have been untouchable behind walls fifteen feet thick, but that trick with the high door meant they couldn’t come out and bother him, either. He waved cheerfully to them before going out through the gate to the street beyond.