Conn Iggulden - Stormbird

In the White Tower, she walked down a corridor to where a smaller group had spent the night. Her arrival was heralded by the stamp and clatter of armoured men standing to attention. If those men had slept, it didn’t show as they stood and then knelt for the young queen. Margaret swept by them, taking her seat on a throne at the far end of the room and hiding the relief it brought to her knees and hips.

‘Approach, Alexander Iden,’ she said.

The largest of the men rose from his kneeling position, walking to within a few paces of her before dipping down again. Like her guards, he had spent the night waiting for her, but he looked fresh enough, warmed by the fire burning in the grate. Margaret looked him over, seeing a hard man, with strong features and a trimmed beard.

‘You were recommended to me, Master Iden,’ she began. ‘I have been told you are a man of honour and good character.’

‘With God’s grace, Your Highness,’ he said, his voice deep and loud in the room, though he kept his head bowed.

‘Derihew Brewer speaks well of your talents, Master Iden. I am of a mind to trust his opinions.’

‘I am grateful, Your Highness,’ he said, visibly pleased.

Margaret thought for a moment longer, then decided.

‘You are hereby appointed as sheriff of Kent. My clerks have the papers for you to seal.’

To her surprise, the big man kneeling at her feet blushed with pleasure, still apparently unable to look up.

‘Thank you, Your Highness. Your … My … Your Highness does me great honour.’

Margaret found herself wanting to smile and repressed the desire.

‘Master Brewer has assembled sixty men who will accompany you to your new home in Maidstone. In the light of recent troubles, you must be kept safe. The authority of the Crown must not be flouted again in Kent. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Your Highness.’

‘By the Lord’s grace, the rebellion of Kentish men is at an end. Pardons have been granted and they are going back to their farms and villages with the wealth they have wrenched from London. What crimes they have committed are all forgiven and may not be brought before the courts.’ She paused, her eyes glittering over the man’s bowed head. ‘But you have been appointed by my hand, mine alone, Master Iden. What I have given, I can as easily take away. When I send you orders, you will carry them out swiftly, as the king’s law, as the king’s sword in Kent. Do you understand?’

‘I do, Your Highness,’ Iden replied immediately. ‘I pledge my honour and my obedience to you.’ He blessed Derry Brewer for putting his name forward. It was a reward for a lifetime in service and war and Iden could still hardly comprehend what he had been given.

‘Go with God then, Sheriff Iden. You will hear from me again.’

Iden blushed with pleasure at hearing his new title. He rose and bowed deeply once more.

‘I am your loyal servant, Your Highness.’

Margaret smiled.

‘That is all I ask.’

Thomas Woodchurch walked in silence through the echoing streets of London with his son, keeping a close eye out for anyone who might mark or recognize them. They’d stripped themselves of the green bows, keeping only a decent knife each to protect the pouches of gold they both carried. Jack Cade had been more than generous with the spoils, allowing triple shares for those who’d led the Kentish men. With the smaller pouch Rowan had hidden under his belt and tunic, they had enough to lease a decent-sized farm, if the right one could be found.

They’d crossed the Thames by ferryboat, rather than test the strength of the queen’s pardon on those defending London Bridge. Thomas and Rowan had reached a landing place further down the river and then Thomas led his son through the dense and winding streets. Little by little, they grew more familiar in memory, until they reached the rookeries themselves, the slums Thomas had first known when his father had uprooted their little family from Kent and settled in the city to seek a living.

For Rowan, it was his first view of London in the daylight. He stayed close to his father as the crowds bustled around them, out to trade and talk as the sun rose. Already, the signs of fighting and destruction were fading, swallowed up by a city that always went on, regardless of the suffering of individuals. There were funeral processions blocking some of the streets, but the two archers worked their way around and through the maze, until Thomas came to a small black door, deep in the rookeries. That part of London was one of the poorest, but the two men did not look as if they had anything to steal and Thomas made sure his hand stayed close by his knife. He took a deep breath and hammered on the wood, stepping back into the muck underfoot as he waited.

Both of them smiled as Joan Woodchurch opened the door and stood there, looking up suspiciously at the hulking great figures of her husband and son.

‘I thought you were both dead,’ she said flatly.

Thomas beamed at her. ‘It’s good to see you too, my dearest angel.’

She snorted at that, but when he embraced his wife, some of the hardness melted out of her.

‘Come in, then,’ she said. ‘You’ll be wanting breakfast.’

Father and son went into the tiny house, followed shortly by the excited squeals of the daughters as they welcomed the Woodchurch men home.

Jack stepped back, squinting at the line of mortar he’d pressed against the brick. With a steady hand, he ran his pointed trowel along the line, taking satisfaction from the way the walls were growing. As the long summer days began to shorten, he’d persuaded Paddy and Ecclestone to join him on the job. Neither of them had needed the work, but it had given him pleasure that they’d still come. Paddy was up on the roof, banging nails through the slates with more enthusiasm than skill. Jack knew his friend had sent some of his coins home to Ireland, to a family he hadn’t seen for many years. Paddy had drunk away a heavy portion of the rest in every inn and tavern for miles around. It was a blessing that the Irishman was a reasonable drunk, given to singing and sometimes weeping, rather than breaking the tables. Jack knew his old friend was uncomfortable with having wealth of any kind. For reasons he could not completely explain, Paddy seemed determined to burn through his fortune and be penniless once again. It showed in the weight he’d put on and the sagging skin around his bloodshot eyes. Jack shook his head sadly at the thought. Some men could not be happy, that was all there was to it. There would come a day when Paddy had lost it all and was reduced to beggary, that much was certain. Jack hadn’t said anything to him, but there would be a bed for Paddy then in the house they were building, or perhaps a warm barn on the land where the big man could sleep. It was better to plan for that, rather than see his friend freeze to death in a gutter.

Ecclestone was mixing more of the lime, horsehair, sand and water, with a cloth wrapped around his face to counter the acrid fumes. He’d bought a tallow shop in town, learning the trade of candles and rough soap with a small staff of two local lasses and one old man. By all accounts Ecclestone was doing well with it. Jack knew he used his famous razor to cut the blocks of flecked white soap, while the girls looked on with horrified expressions. At times, a crowd would gather at the shop doorway, men and women who knew his exploits, come just to watch the terrible neatness of his cuts.

The work might have gone faster if they hadn’t spent so much time laughing and talking together, but Jack didn’t mind that. He’d employed three local men to raise the timber structure, cutting joints and pegs with the skill and speed of long experience. Another local man had supplied the bricks, each with the maker’s thumbprint pressed into the clay as it dried. Jack thought he and his two friends would have the rest finished before winter, with the house as snug as a drum.