Conn Iggulden - Stormbird

‘My lord, it would be an honour to meet those costs, of course. I sense we are very close to a solution.’

Slowly, Charles dipped his head, his mouth working as if he had found a morsel in his back teeth.

‘Very well, I will be guided by you in this, René. You will be lord of Anjou and Maine once more. I trust you will be suitably grateful.’

René knelt, reaching for the king’s hand and pressing it to his lips.

‘I am your man, Your Majesty. You may depend on me for any task, even to my life’s blood.’

Far above their heads, Margaret’s eyes were round and wide as she turned away. Yolande was staring, her mouth hanging open. Reaching out, Margaret closed it gently with a finger.

‘I am already promised,’ Yolande whispered. ‘Father would not break my engagement.’

In silent accord, they crept back from the light, with Margaret wincing as the boards complained under them. Away from the balcony, the two sisters stood up in the gloom. Yolande was trembling in excitement and she gripped her sister’s hands, almost hopping in place as if she wanted to dance.

‘You’ll marry a king, Margaret. It has to be you.’

‘An English king,’ Margaret replied doubtfully. She had always known her husband would be chosen for her, but she had assumed her mother would make the choice, or at least be involved in it. She looked irritably at her sister, bouncing like a robin in the shadows.

‘I have been bargained for like a prize heifer, Yolande. You heard them. It is … overwhelming.’

Yolande drew her still further away, into another room that was even darker without the spilled gleam from the balcony. In pale moonlight, she embraced her sister.

‘You will be a queen , Margaret. That is what matters. Their Henry is young, at least. You could have been given to some fat old lord. Are you not thrilled? When we are grown, I will have to bow to you when we meet. Our brothers will have to bow to you!’

A slow smile spread across Margaret’s face at the thought of her brother John being forced to acknowledge her superior rank. It was a pleasant image.

‘I could have some English guardsman stuff him in a cauldron, perhaps,’ she said, giggling.

‘You could, and no one would stop you because you would be a queen.’

Some of Yolande’s uncomplicated pleasure reached her and the two girls held hands in the darkness.

The city of Angers was beautiful in the evening. Though it was the capital of Anjou and so under English authority, the inhabitants rarely encountered the foreign oppressors, outside of the courts and tax-gatherers. Reuben Moselle had invited many of the English merchants to his house on the river, as he did every year. In trade alone, the party always paid for itself and he considered it a fair investment.

In comparison to the French and English, he dressed very simply, in dark colours. It had long been a habit of his not to show his wealth in his attire. It did not matter that he could have bought and sold many of the men in the room, or that a third of them owed him a fortune in gold, land or liens on their businesses. Away from his bank or in it, he was the soul of modesty.

He noted that his wife was talking to Lord York, making him welcome in their home. Sara was a treasure, finding it far easier than Reuben did to speak to the bluff English rulers. On the whole, Reuben preferred the French, whose subtle minds were more suited to the nuances of business. Yet York commanded the English soldiers in Normandy and had been invited as a matter of course. The man controlled contracts for vast sums, just to feed his men-at-arms. Reuben sighed as he rehearsed his English and approached them through the crowd.

‘Milord York,’ he said, smiling. ‘I see you have met my wife. It is a great honour to have you in my home.’

The nobleman turned to see who addressed him and Reuben forced himself to smile under a stare that was full of disdain. The moment seemed to last a long time, then York inclined his head in acknowledgement, the spell broken.

‘Ah, the host,’ York said without noticeable warmth. ‘Monsieur Moselle, may I introduce my wife, Duchess Cecily?’

‘Mon plaisir, madame,’ Reuben said, bowing.

She did not extend her hand and he was caught in the act of reaching for it, covering his confusion by fiddling with his wine glass. Diamonds sparkled at her throat and she seemed well-suited to her English husband, with cold eyes and thin lips that did not smile. Everything about her looked stern and humourless, Reuben thought. Her eyebrows had been plucked almost to nothing and across her white forehead she wore a band of lace sewn with gems.

‘You have a fine house, monsieur,’ the duchess said. ‘My husband tells me you are in trade.’ She spoke the word as if she could hardly bear to dirty her lips with it.

‘Thank you, madame. I have a small bank and supply house, a local affair for the most part. Your husband’s valiant soldiers must be kept fed and warm in the winter. It falls to me to provide some of their comforts.’

‘For a fortune in gold,’ York added. ‘I have been considering other suppliers, Monsieur Moselle, but this is not the place to discuss such things.’

Reuben blinked at the tone, though he had heard it before in men of all stations.

‘I hope I can dissuade you, milord. It has been a profitable association for us both.’

The wife’s mouth twisted at the mention of profit, but Reuben continued to smile, trying hard to be a good host.

‘Dinner will be served very soon, madame. I hope you enjoy what small pleasures we can provide. If you have a moment, the orangery is lovely at night.’

Reuben was on the point of excusing himself when he heard coarse voices raised in the garden. He pursed his lips tight, hiding his irritation behind the wine glass as he sipped. One of the local farmers had been trying for some time to bring him in front of a magistrate. It was a trivial matter and Reuben knew the city officials too well to be worried about some poor peasant with a grievance. It was not impossible that the fool had come to the annual party to cause a disturbance. He tilted his head, exchanging a glance with his wife that showed she understood.

‘I should go and see to my other guests. Lady York, milord. I’m very sorry.’

The noise was increasing and he could see dozens of heads turning. Reuben moved smoothly through the crowd, smiling and making his excuses as he went. His wife would entertain the English lord and his cold wife, making them both welcome, he thought. Sara was God’s gift to a devout man.

The house had once belonged to a French baron, a family fallen on hard times and forced to sell their properties after disasters in battle. Reuben had bought it outright, much to the disgust of local noble families who objected to a Jew owning a Christian home. Yet the English were more relaxed about such things, or at least easy to bribe.

Reuben reached the great windows in clear glass that opened out on to the lawn. They were folded back that night, to let in the warm air. He frowned as he saw soldiers standing with their boots on the neatly trimmed grass. His guests were all listening, of course, so he kept his voice calm and low.

‘Gentlemen, as you can see, I am in the middle of a private dinner for friends. Can this not wait until tomorrow morning?’

‘Are you Reuben Moselle?’ one of the soldiers asked. The voice contained a sneer, but Reuben dealt with that every day and his pleasant expression didn’t falter.

‘I am. You are standing in my home, sir.’

‘You do well for yourself,’ the soldier replied, looking into the hall.

Reuben cleared his throat, feeling the first tingle of nervousness. The man was confident, where usually he might have expected a certain wariness around wealth and power.