Conn Iggulden - Stormbird

‘Your Royal Highness, it is my pleasure to announce Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick,’ Derry announced, stopping Warwick in his tracks while he was forced to bow. ‘On the matter we were discussing, I am of course your obedient servant.’ He stared off into the middle distance as he spoke. ‘I will attend to it immediately, my lady.’

Margaret dismissed him with a gesture. The significance of the name Neville had not been wasted on her, but there were guards within call and she felt no fear facing such a battered and exhausted young man. Derry beat a retreat, followed down the corridor by Warwick’s suspicious glare.

‘As you see, I am safe, Lord Warwick. Are you able to stand, or would you like a chair and something to eat and drink? It seems I must be a nurse this morning, to you and perhaps to London.’

Warwick accepted gratefully, pleased to find the young queen still in possession of her wits and dignity after such a night. He was not usually comfortable in the presence of women, preferring the bluff talk of men of his own station. Yet he was too weary even to feel embarrassed. With a stifled groan, he sat in turn, beginning his account of the night’s events as servants prepared fresh cuts of ham and cool ale to slake his thirst. Margaret listened closely, questioning him only when he faltered or was unclear. He hardly noticed how much his manner warmed to her, as the sun continued to rise over the Tower.

The afternoon sun beat down on the host gathered in Southwark, to the south of the city. For those who had come through the night unscathed, it was something to bless, a warmth that eased cramped muscles and made them sweat out the poisons of liquor and violence. For the wounded, the sun was a torment. Cade’s army had no tents to keep the glare off their faces and sweat streamed from them as the pitifully small number of healers worked their way around the worst cases. Most had little to offer beyond a sip of water and bandages in great bundles of strips on their shoulders, giving them a hump as they appeared against the glare. One or two of the old women carried pots of unguent, oil of cloves, or a pouch of myrtle leaves they could grind into a green paste against pain. Those stocks were soon gone and the men could only turn on their sides in the open air and wait for the cool of evening.

Jack knew he was one of the lucky ones. He had examined himself in the upper room of his inn, removing his shirt and peering this way and that to see the extent of his bruising. His skin was a patchwork of puckered marks and stripes, but the few gashes were shallow and already clotted. Though it made him wince, he could still move his right arm.

Rather than let another man see him undressed, he pulled his stinking shirt back on when he heard footsteps on the stairs, slicking his hair down from a water bucket and standing to face whoever it was. The air was close and still in the small room and he could feel fresh sweat break out on top of the old. He thought wistfully of the horse trough in the inn yard, but the water there was being used to fill jugs for the wounded and it was likely already dry. He’d sent men back to the Thames to fill water-skins, though there would never be enough for so many, not in that July heat.

As the door crashed open, Jack glanced guiltily at the jug of ale on the dresser, already half-empty. There were perks in being the leader and he wasn’t about to share his good fortune.

Woodchurch stood there, looking pale and dark around his eyes from lack of sleep. Most of the men who’d made it back from London had reached their camp and simply folded to the ground as soon as they found a good spot. Woodchurch and his son had kept going, organizing the village herbalists and doctors, sending men for water and passing out coin to have food brought in. The men were starving after the night they’d had, but in that one thing they would be satisfied. With the king’s gold, Woodchurch had purchased a dozen young bullocks from a local farmer. There were more than a few butchers among the Kentish and Essex men and they’d set to with a will and an appetite, dressing the carcasses and preparing enormous fire pits for the joints. Jack could smell woodsmoke on the archer as he stood there. He smiled at the thought. Gold in their pockets and the prospect of beef running with bloody juices. God knew, he’d had worse days.

‘What is it, Tom?’ he said. ‘I’m pissing blood and I ha’n’t the strength for any more talk until I’ve eaten.’

‘You’ll want to see this, Jack,’ Thomas said. He was still hoarse from shouting, his voice little more than a rasping growl. He held up a scroll in his hand and Jack’s gaze fastened on it. Clean vellum and a blood-red seal. Jack’s eyes narrowed, wondering if Woodchurch knew he couldn’t read.

‘What’s that, then?’ he said uneasily.

The written word had always been his enemy. Whenever he’d been flogged or fined or put in the village stocks, there had always been some white-faced scribe at the heart of it, scribbling away with his goose quill and ink. Jack could see Thomas was all in a flutter about something. The man was breathing hard and Jack knew by then that the archer wasn’t one to get excited over nothing.

‘They’re offering us a pardon, Jack! A bleeding pardon! All crimes and misprisions forgotten, on condition we disperse.’ He saw Cade begin to frown and went on quickly before the obstinate man could start arguing. ‘It’s victory, Jack! We knocked ’em bloody and they want no more of it! God , Jack. We’ve done it!’

‘Does it say they’ll dismiss the judges, then?’ Jack asked softly. ‘Does it say they’ll repeal the poacher’s laws or lower the taxes on working men? Can you read those words in your little scroll, Tom?’

Thomas shook his head in disbelief.

‘The messenger read it to me downstairs — and don’t start that, Jack, not now. It’s a pardon — for all crimes up to this day. The men can go home with gold and their freedom — and no one will come chasing us, after. You’ll be the hero who took on London and won. Isn’t that what you wanted? Come on , Jack. This is good . The ink still smudges, Jack, and it has the queen’s signature on it. They’ve put this together in a morning.’

Cade raised his hand to his neck and cracked it left and right, easing the stiffness there. Half of him wanted to whoop and holler, to respond with the same wild pleasure he saw in Woodchurch. With a grunt, he throttled that part to silence while he thought it over.

‘We frightened them last night,’ he said, after a time. ‘That’s the root of it.’

‘We did, Jack,’ Thomas replied immediately. ‘We showed them what happens if they ride too hard over men like us. We put the fear of God and Jack Cade into them and this is the result.’

Cade crossed to the door and yelled for Ecclestone and Paddy to come up. Both men were sound asleep on the ground floor of the inn. It took a while to rouse them, but they came at last up the steps, bleary-eyed and blinking. Paddy had found a stoppered jug of spirits and cradled it like a favourite child.

‘Tell them, Tom,’ Jack said, turning back to sit on the low bed. ‘Tell the lads what you told me.’

He waited as Thomas repeated himself, watching the faces of his friends closely as they began to understand. Not that Ecclestone gave anything away. The man’s expression didn’t change a whit, even when he sensed the silent scrutiny and glanced at Jack. Paddy was shaking his head in amazement.

‘My whole life and I never thought I’d live to see something like this,’ Paddy said. ‘The bailiffs and sheriffs and landowning bastards, all quaking in fear of us. They’ve been on my back since I was a boy. I never saw them turn away, Jack, not once.’