Stormbird

  Warwick understood he was being dismissed, but could find no words, no line of argument to continue. He breathed out slowly, his mouth tight. As he and Clarence bowed, King Louis held up his wagging finger once again.

  ‘I thought … no. My lords, I had intended to make a final gift to this fine young man, a suit of armour made by the best master of Paris. Master Auguste has brought all his best designs. He wishes only to take your lengths and then … ah well. No, it is such a waste! Perhaps I could still have it sent to you even so, as a token of my respect and friendship.’

  The sullen mood that darkened Clarence’s brow cleared completely at hearing this. He glanced at Warwick, trying to see if he dared to accept.

  ‘With my lord Warwick’s permission, I would be very pleased to see such a thing. Why, only yesterday, I was describing the armour I had seen in your training grounds. I was envious … Your Majesty, it is a princely offer. I am overwhelmed!’

  Louis beamed at the pleasure in the young man.

  ‘Go, go then, before I change my mind or count the cost. Follow this gentleman here and he will show you to Master Auguste. You will not be disappointed.’

  Warwick gave a slight nod when Clarence turned to him questioningly.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Warwick said. ‘I will discover the fault in this business.’ He found himself smiling as he spoke. The young man’s enthusiasm was infectious, the gift truly a royal one.

  As the door closed behind the Duke of Clarence, Louis settled himself in the high-backed chair once again. Warwick turned to him with one eyebrow raised and the king chuckled.

  ‘Yes, my lord, I thought it might be better to distract the young fellow for the next hour. Oh, he will have his armour – and Master Auguste is a genius – but this is not about your king using you so poorly, just to get better terms. There is another matter, one I wished to witness.’

  As Warwick frowned in confusion, King Louis gave a signal to Chancellor Lalonde, who gestured in turn at another set of doors on the opposite side of the room. Warwick had the strong impression of standing at the heart of a hive, with each door opening on to whatever Louis wanted shown, or closed on what he would keep private. For all the king’s goodwill, Warwick had seen the fury and the sharp intelligence of the man. He would not treat him lightly …

  Warwick froze, his hand dropping to where his sword would usually rest on his hip. The blade had been taken from him as he entered, of course, a matter of simple courtesy in a foreign court. His fingers twitched for it, recalling the slender dagger he had under his waistband. It could be reached in a moment if need be.

  Derry Brewer limped through the doors. He walked with the aid of a heavy cane that spread into a carbuncle under his clutching hands and bore more resemblance to a mace than a cripple’s stick. Warwick felt some of the tension go out of his frame as he noted the man’s trailing leg and missing eye. He tried not to show discomfort as the lurching figure crossed the polished floor and came right to his side. The spymaster was dressed in a brown leather coat over jerkin and cream hose, good, thick wool that would keep the chill from his bones.

  Warwick drew himself up unconsciously, determined not to show fear or to be intimidated. He realized he was afraid, even as he struggled to hide it. The man was his enemy, and Warwick could feel the burning gaze of the French king on the side of his face, watching the meeting with unashamed fascination.

  ‘Good morning, my lord Warwick,’ Derry said, ‘You will excuse me if I do not bow, with this old leg o’ mine. It took a battering. A few years ago now, but the scars are tight, still.’

  ‘What you do want, Brewer? What could you possibly believe you could have to say to me?’

  ‘King Louis has been very kind, Richard. I asked to meet you first, in case you were likely to take out that little dagger against your ribs and start waving it. Before I risk my mistress in your presence, you see.’

  Warwick grew cold and still, overwhelmed. He could feel the knife pressed against his skin under his arm, the leather sheath damp with sweat.

  ‘Queen Margaret?’ he asked, giving her the title from long use, though it made Derry smile to hear it.

  ‘I do not think you will run mad, will you, Richard? All she wants is to ask after her husband. Is that too much? It is said you walked Henry to his cell, and that you have visited him there. Will you let a man’s wife ask you about him, my lord?’

  Warwick knew Derry understood his every twisting thought. Margaret had been responsible for the death of his father. She had watched while York and Salisbury had been executed, their heads taken to be spiked on city walls. If he agreed to speak to her, he would look into eyes that had seen his father’s head cut free to roll on the earth. It was a hard thing to ask.

  ‘It would honour me, my lord Warwick,’ King Louis said behind him. Warwick half-turned, trying to keep Derry Brewer in sight. ‘Margaret is my cousin,’ the French king went on, ‘and, well, you were here in Paris. She is, of course, under my protection. It seemed churlish not to grant her request, you understand?’

  Warwick wondered. To be informed of another humiliation by King Edward – and then to meet his enemy in the space of moments. He wondered how many hours of planning he had missed to be brought to that place at that very instant of time. He shrugged to Derry Brewer.

  ‘Bring her in, then. You can have my dagger, if you’d like. I don’t seek revenge on women, Master Brewer, though I would be willing to take that staff of yours and give you a new set of lumps with it.’

  ‘I would be delighted, my lord Warwick, if you wish to try,’ Derry replied with a grin that showed half his teeth had gone. He had clearly been beaten with extraordinary violence. Still, he seemed strong, his hand on the staff thick with corded veins. Only the twisted leg and empty eye showed what he had suffered.

  Margaret entered without fanfare or servants, sweeping into the room in a dark-blue dress that trailed over the ground behind her. She was not the broken figure Warwick had imagined, instead standing straight-backed and bright of eye. The greater surprise was the young man at her side, dark-haired and slim at the waist under wide shoulders. Edward of Westminster raised his head in greeting and Warwick decided her son was around fourteen, perhaps fifteen years of age. The boy was already taller than his mother and had the look of a swordsman about him. Warwick realized he was fascinated.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing, Richard,’ Margaret said.

  ‘It was a courtesy to my host, no more,’ Warwick replied. Despite himself, he bowed slightly, making her smile.

  ‘I regret the loss of your father, Richard. I give you my word. I stood against York and he stood with his friend, but I was never an enemy to your house.’

  ‘I cannot believe you, my lady.’

  To his surprise, Margaret turned her head as if he had hurt her.

  ‘I still remember when you and I were on the same side, Richard, against Jack Cade and his rebels. Do you recall? We have served enemies, it is true. I do not believe we must always be enemies ourselves.’

  ‘Ah, gentlemen, my lady,’ King Louis said, rising. ‘My steward, who is gesturing at me like a child, has prepared a little lunch.’ The king strolled down the hall past them. ‘If you are brave, I suspect we can find some dish to please even that wonder of the world, the famous English palate. Follow on!’

  ‘Where would I be without you?’ Edward murmured. He buried his face between his wife’s breasts. ‘Without these!’

  His hot breath tickled her and she shrieked, pushing him off the rounded curve of her belly.

  ‘You would be dressed an hour ago,’ she replied. She rolled over in the bed and gasped at the sight of her mastiff waiting patiently, the great black-and-white dog tall enough for his entire head to appear over the edge of the bed and stare at her.

  ‘How long have you been there, Bedey? Away now, outside.’

  She turned to her husband as he sat on the side of the bed, reaching up to his shoulder and curling around him.

  ‘Witho
ut me you would not have seen the hold those Nevilles had on you. I saw it from the first, as fresh eyes. In every house, in every single noble line.’

  ‘As you have pressed your Woodvilles forward,’ Edward teased her.

  She blew air from her lips, making a coarse sound that made him chuckle.

  ‘We have but trimmed the vine before it choked you, that is all! Either way, it is not the same. My family are solid country stock, not these devious cutpurses and conspirators! We know cattle and we know men, whereas these Nevilles, well, they are even more cunning than I understood at first. I think, in time, they would have had you fenced around like a bull in a pen, unable to see over to the next field.’

  Elizabeth ran her hands across the expanse of his shoulders, wondering again at the power in them, after an entire life wielding sword and mace. The muscles writhed as he moved, each one shifting under her hand until he squirmed at her attention and reached for his shirt.

  ‘I am not sure about John Neville, Elizabeth. He has not harmed me and it is a low thing to consider taking away what he prizes most in the world.’

  Elizabeth sat up straight, one hand across her breasts as she drew up her knees.

  ‘It is not harm, Edward, but a balance, as we discussed. The Nevilles are still too strong, so that the policies of the throne are always what benefits the Nevilles, more than you or England! I did not ask for a Woodville as your chancellor, only that you should deny that vital role to the archbishop, with his loyalties to his family and to Rome.’

  ‘He did not fight, as you said he might,’ Edward murmured. ‘He went like a lamb.’

  ‘I’m sure it was because you brought strong men and found him with just a few servants. What choice did he have, Edward, but to meekly hand over your seal? No, it was well done, a redress. You are the York line. If you prune them back now, your daughters and your sons will not have to face another war in thirty years, or your grandchildren after that. We will find the balance once again, with no single family too strong for all the rest – unless it is your own!’

  ‘The Percy family supported King Henry, you know. If I brought their heir out of the Tower and put him in Northumberland, I could make an enemy of John Neville for nothing.’

  ‘The “King of the North”? That is what they call him. From Northumberland, that Neville controls the entire north – with his brother George, the Archbishop of York – from the border of Scotland to the River Trent. Do you see it now? You cannot rule but half a country, Edward! The Percys and the Nevilles fought for a generation. There are some who say this entire struggle was caused by their feud. And you gave Northumberland to the Nevilles. My love, you have a great heart. You are generous and trusting – more than a man should be, more than a king should be. Northumberland is too big a prize.’

  ‘I could make him a marquess, perhaps,’ Edward said, in thought. ‘It is not oft used, but it is a grand title. It would be small recompense for losing Northumberland.’

  ‘England cannot have two kings,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Of all men, you should feel that in your bones. I fear for the future if you let a Neville tree take root in the north.’

  Edward waved a hand, tired of her arguments.

  ‘Enough, enough. I will consider it, for peace from you. I just … The Nevilles have served me well.’

  ‘They have served their own cause,’ Elizabeth murmured. Her pregnancy made her groan as she rolled away. ‘Oof! You will have to use the maids tonight, my love. I am too heavy with this child.’

  Edward nodded, deep in thought, with his chin resting on his hand.

  27

  ‘What would you have me do, Brother?’ Warwick said. ‘Demand King Edward stop granting permission for Woodvilles to marry? Return to us our lost honours? Edward has not taken so many blows to the head that he would choose my goodwill over that of his wife!’

  Summer had aged into autumn, with Warwick’s return from France two months past. From the windows of Middleham Castle, both he and John could see the golden fields of wheat being scythed down, sweep by sweep, baled and collected by hundreds of local men and women, entire villages come to gather the harvest and then celebrate with drink, music, bonfires and stolen kisses out in the stubbled fields.

  John Neville was once again Lord Montagu, made a marquess and told that it was somewhere between an earl and a duke. He had raged about it for a time in private, to his brothers, though thankfully not in the hearing of those who might have wished him harm. Warwick understood his brother’s anger, of course. John had been given his heart’s greatest desire and they had taken it from him. Once more, a Percy ruled in Northumberland, as had so many generations before him. It had been a little odd returning Henry Percy to the Tower of London just so he could be walked out again, but King Edward had been pleased to find the young man in good health, as he might not have been after years in a cell. Warwick knew Henry Percy felt a loyalty to him for his treatment. Their parting had not been too far from father and son. Middleham was a good deal quieter with just the king’s brother living there as his ward. Richard of Gloucester still suffered some pain from a twist in his back, but they had pushed him through so many hours with axe and sword that entire new sets of armour had had to be made for a shape that had become lean and strong. Warwick no longer faced him in the training yards, at least. He had grown too slow, while the younger Richard was quick and sure.

  John Neville, Marquess Montagu, had not responded to his questions, preferring instead to pull a chicken leg from a carcass on the table and accept a cup of wine. When he felt Warwick’s gaze still on him, he gestured irritably. John Neville had personally executed a dozen men for King Edward. His loyalty had been absolute, unquestioning. His reward for it had been to have his title taken away and given to a Percy son. When he dwelled on the unfairness for too long, he dared not speak his thoughts aloud, even to Warwick. His brother Richard seemed prepared to suffer any humiliation rather than do what they all knew would come, in time.

  Edward and his wife would have them all out with the pigs and geese before they were finished, John was certain. He burned too for his brothers, aghast at the unfairness of their treatment. Warwick sent to France, only to be humiliated and used as a pawn. George with the Great Seal taken from him over a sword’s length – and John’s precious title stolen and given to a boy. It was a campaign, far beyond a grudge. The architect was Elizabeth Woodville, that was the only certain heart of it. It was a shame that Warwick had known two women prepared to go to the ends of the world to damage his family. If their interests had ever coincided, John suspected they could have had a Neville on the throne of England.

  George Neville entered, alone, crossing the room to grip hands with both of his brothers.

  ‘Uncle Fauconberg has arrived,’ he told them. ‘Shall I have him brought in?’

  ‘He did not send word he was coming,’ Warwick responded, frowning. He looked from one to the other of his brothers. ‘Ah. What is this?’

  ‘Mother,’ George replied. ‘She thought perhaps it would be wise to gather Nevilles in one place. God knows we are not what we once were. Six cousins wait on your pleasure, Richard. A pitiful number, though they do hold some good land. We are diminished. We are rags made from fine banners, but you are still the head of the family.’

  ‘Mother thought we should at least discuss the years ahead,’ John Neville added, ‘perhaps before King Edward fathers a son and heir. Three daughters now, but then that fertile little mare has had boys before. Another will surely come. Will the Neville men be banished entirely then, do you think? I do not imagine we could survive one more season of her ill will.’

  There was no need to explain whom he meant, not in that company.

  ‘I will not discuss treason with you,’ Warwick hissed furiously to his brothers. ‘I would be pleased to see my cousins and Uncle Fauconberg, but not to talk of plots or anything that might give King Edward cause to call our loyalty into question. Would you have me set this house on fire? That is what you ri
sk. My God, the king’s brother lives here!’

  ‘I am not a fool, Richard,’ John Neville spoke up. ‘He was sent to the market to buy brandy, hours ago. If he’d spy for the king, he won’t have a chance until this evening or tomorrow. Either way, he’s not a boy any longer. I would send him home to his mother. You’ve filled your obligations there and more.’ He shook his head, anger simmering. ‘I don’t understand why you would hold back now, after what we have suffered.’

  ‘He waits on the petition,’ George Neville said.

  ‘Ah, of course,’ John Neville said sourly. ‘You have the right of it. Our brother still hopes for it to be granted, to have his Isabel wedded to a Plantagenet. I tell you, she will never allow it – and King Edward has shown he puts more weight in her word than all his council of lords who have served him so well. The man was made a weakling in her bed, that is the truth of it.’

  ‘I do hope, yes, that my daughter will find her husband in George, Duke of Clarence,’ Warwick retorted. ‘Isabel is pleased at the match. He is but a year older than her and they … are well suited. She will be a duchess and Clarence will gain her estates, in the fullness of time.’

  ‘How long is it now since you asked the king?’ John muttered.

  Warwick shook his head.

  ‘No, you will not make me worry. It has been a few months; what of it? Such a joining of houses is not to be decided on a whim, but slowly, studiously, with care and an eye for each way the wind might change.’

  John looked at his older brother, knowing that Warwick was blind, or chose not to see. He shrugged.

  ‘You are the head of the family, Richard. Wait until winter, then, or next spring if you wish. It will not make any difference, not with Elizabeth Woodville guiding the king’s hand. She’ll want your estates for her sons.’

  Edward watched his baby daughter suckle at Elizabeth’s breast. The fire was crackling, piled on with enough logs to make a man sweat in that Westminster room. The mastiff, Bede, lay stretched out on the tiles across the heat, so close that Edward had to prod him back with his foot before the old dog burned himself. Beyond the crackle of flames and the fussing of the child as it warbled and fastened on, there was no other sound, with even the personal servants dismissed.