Stormbird (33 page)

‘We made ’em dance a bit, didn’t we? That was the best night of my life, Tom Woodchurch. I’ve a mind to come back tomorrow and have another one just the same.’

Woodchurch laughed, a dry sound from a throat made sore by shouting. He would have replied, but Paddy came jogging up at that moment, embracing Jack and almost lifting him off his feet. Woodchurch heard the jingle of coins and laughed, seeing how the Irishman bulged all over. He was big enough to carry the weight.

‘It’s good to see you among the living, Jack!’ Paddy said. ‘There’s more gold here than I can believe. I have gathered a share for you, but I’m thinking we should perhaps take ourselves away now, before the king’s men come back with blood in their eyes.’

Jack sighed, satisfaction and disappointment mingling in him in equal measures. It had been a grand night, with some moments of wonder, but he knew better than to push his luck.

‘All right, lads. Pass the word. Head back to the bridge.’

The sun was up by the time Jack’s men were bullied and shoved away from their search for a few last coins at the Tower. Paddy had found a sewer-cleaner’s cart a few streets away, with a stench so strong it made the eyes water. Even so, they’d draped it in an embroidered cloth and piled it high with sacks and chests and anything else that could be lifted. There was no ox to pull it, so a dozen men grasped the shafts with great good humour, heaving it along the roads towards the river.

Hundreds more emerged from every side road they passed, some exulting at the haul or with looted items they still carried, others looking guilty or shame-faced, or just blank with horror at the things they’d seen and done. Still more were carrying jugs of spirits and roaring or singing in twos and threes, still splashed with drying blood.

The people of London had slept little, if at all. As they removed furniture from behind doors and pulled out nails from shutters, they discovered a thousand scenes of destruction, from smashed houses to piles of dead men all over the city. There was no cheering then for Jack Cade’s army of Freemen. With no single voice or signal, the men of the city came out with staffs and blades, gathering in dozens and then hundreds to block the streets leading back into the city. Those of Cade’s men who had not already reached the river were woken by hard wooden clogs or enraged householders battering at them or cutting their throats. They had suffered through a night of terror and there was no mercy to be had.

A few of the drunken Kentish men scrambled up and ran like rabbits before hounds, dragged down by the furious Londoners as they saw more and more of what Cade’s invasion had cost the city. As the sun rose, groups of Cade’s men came together, holding people at bay with swords and axes
while they backed away. Some of those groups were trapped with crowds before and behind and were quickly disarmed and bound for hanging, or beaten to death in the sort of wild frenzy they knew from just hours before.

The sense of an enraged city reached even those who’d made it to London Bridge. Jack found himself glancing back over his shoulder at lines of staring Londoners, calling insults and shouting after him. Some of them even beckoned for him to come back and he could only gape at the sheer numbers the city was capable of fielding against him. He did not look at Thomas, though he knew the man would be thinking back to his warning about rape and looting. London had been late to rouse, but the idea of just strolling back in the next night was looking less and less likely.

Jack kept his head high as he walked back across the bridge. Close to the midpoint, he saw the pole with the head and the white-horse shield still bound to it. It was mud-spattered and the sight of it brought a shudder down Jack’s spine as he recalled the mad dash under pouring rain and crossbow bolts the night before. Even so, he stopped and picked it up, handing his axe to Ecclestone at his side. Nearby lay the body of the boy, Jonas, who’d carried it for a time. Jack shook his head in sorrow, feeling exhaustion hit him like a hammer blow.

With a heave, he raised the banner pole. The men around him and on the bridge behind all cheered the sight of it as they marched away from the city and the dark memories they had made.

Richard Neville felt blood squish in his armoured boot with every step. He thought the gash under his thigh plate wasn’t too bad, but being forced to keep walking on it meant the blood still dribbled, making his leggings sodden and staining the oily metal red and black. He’d taken the wound as his men stormed across the open square by the Guildhall, slaughtering the drunken revellers. Warwick had seen the lack of resistance and cursed himself for dropping his guard long enough for one of the prone figures to jam a knife between his plates as he stood over him. Cade had gone by then, of course. Warwick had seen the results of the man’s ‘trial’ in the purple features of Lord Say, left sprawled under the beam where they’d hanged him.

He felt as if he’d been fighting for ever in the rain and dark, and as the sun rose, he was tempted to find a place to sleep. His men were staggering with exhaustion and he couldn’t remember feeling so tired in all his young life. He just couldn’t make a good pace, even to follow the host of Cade’s men as they used the grey light before true dawn to push once more across the city.

Warwick cursed to himself as he came to the mouth of another silent road. After the rain, the damp coming off the river had filled some of the streets with thick mist. He relied only on his hearing to tell him the street was empty, but if there were men waiting in another silent ambush, he knew he’d walk right into it.

His soldiers were still among the largest forces of king’s
men in the city. Their armour and iron mail had saved many of them. Even so, Warwick shuddered at dark memories, of Kentish madmen rushing them from three or four directions at once. He’d lost a hundred and eighty killed outright and another dozen too badly wounded to go on with him. He’d allowed the most seriously injured men to enter houses, calling his rank and the king’s name and then just kicking doors in when no one dared to answer.

London was terrified; he could feel it like the mist seeping beneath his armour and mingling with the blood and sweat of a night on his feet. He’d seen so many dead bodies, it was almost odd to pass a street without its complement of corpses. Far too many of them were liveried soldiers, wearing a lord’s colours on their shields or on tunics plastered over bloody mail. The night dew had frozen on some of them, so that they sparkled and gleamed as if encased in ice.

As he trudged on, Warwick was coldly furious: with himself and with King Henry for not staying to organize the defence. God, it looked as if York was right, after all. The king’s warrior father would have shown himself early and hit hard. Henry of Agincourt would have had Cade strung up by dawn, if the rebels had managed to get into the city at all. The old king would have made London a fortress.

The thought made Warwick stop in the middle of a street of butchers. The foulness underfoot was mostly red, thick with hog bristles as well as scraps of rotting flesh and bone. His nose had become used to treading in such things, but this particular lane had an acrid tang that almost helped to clear his head.

Cade’s men were streaming east and south. It was true the bridge lay in that direction, but so did the Tower and the young queen sheltering within its walls. Warwick closed his eyes for a brief moment, aching to find a place to sit. He
could imagine all too easily the relief that would flood his wrists and knees if he allowed himself to stop. The thought made his legs buckle, so that he had to lock his knees with an effort.

In the growing light, his closest men were looking back at him, eyes swollen, wounds bound in grubby cloths. More than a few had strapped their hands where they had broken small bones in wrists or fingers. They looked bedraggled and miserable, but they were still his, loyal to his house and his name. Warwick straightened, summoning his will with a massive effort.

‘The queen is in the Tower, gentlemen. I’ll want to see her safe before we can rest. The day is come. There’ll be reinforcements this morning, bringing fire and the sword for all those who took part. There will be justice then.’

The heads of his soldiers drooped as they understood that their young lord would not let them stop. None of them dared to raise a voice in complaint and they pushed on through the mist, staring with bloodshot eyes as it swirled about them.

Margaret shuddered in the cold, staring out of the entrance door to the White Tower. Her field of vision was blocked by the outer walls, so that she couldn’t see much more than the results of the night’s battles around her stone fastness. Mist had begun to creep across the bodies lying on the ground below, moving on fitful breezes. It would burn off in the day, but for a time, the paleness crawled over the dead, touching them intimately and making them mere humps and hills in the white.

It had been a night of terrors, waiting for Cade’s rough men to smash their way inside. She’d done her best to show courage and keep her dignity, but the soldiers in the tower
had been just as nervous as they peered out and down into blackness, straining to understand every sound.

Margaret dipped her head, saying a prayer for Captain Brown, now lying sightless and still where he’d fallen in her defence. Her view of the fighting had been in spots and gleams of moonlight, a frozen witness to rushing, bawling shadows and a constant clash of metal that was like a whispering voice.

That voice had fallen silent as the hours passed, replaced by the loud talk and hard laughter of Cade’s men. As the sun rose, she saw his followers running riot, breaking into the mint and staggering out under the weight of anything they could carry. She’d heard the mob hooting in delight and seen gold and silver coins spilled as carelessly as lives, to roll and spin untended on the stones.

There had been a moment when one of them stood and looked up at the tower, as if he could see her standing back in the shadows of the door. Whoever he was, the man stood head and shoulders above those around him. She’d wondered then if it was Cade himself, but the name she spat in her thoughts was called from the walls and the big man trotted away to meet his master. The sun was up and the tower had held. She gave thanks for that much.

Others came past the outer walls then, to stare up at the White Tower. Margaret could feel their gaze creeping over it and her, making her want to scratch. If she’d had crossbows, it would have been the time to order their use, but such weapons as they’d had lay in dead hands on the ground below. It was strange to look down on the enemies who’d assaulted the city and be unable to do anything, though they stood within reach and walked as if they owned the land around them.

By the time the sun cleared the outer walls, flooding gold light across the White Tower, they were marching away, carrying their spoils and leaving their dead behind for the Tower ravens to pluck and snag. The mist was thinning and Margaret slumped against the frozen doorway, making one of the guards reach nervously out to her in case she fell. He caught himself before he laid hands on the queen and she never noticed the movement, her attention captured by the jingling sound of armoured men coming through the broken gate.

It was with an odd sensation of relief that she recognized Derry Brewer walking at the head of a small group. As he spotted the bodies and broke into a lurching run, she saw how filthy he was, spattered to the thighs with all manner of foul muck. He came right to the foot of the tower, standing in the smashed wood of the stairs and looking up at the doorway.

Margaret came forward into the sunlight and she could have blessed him for the look of relief on his face as he caught sight of her.

‘Thank God,’ he said softly. ‘Cade’s men are on their way out of the city, my lady. I am pleased to see you well.’ Derry looked around. ‘It’s difficult to think of a safer place in London at this moment, but I imagine you are sick of this tower, at least for today. If you’ll allow me, I’ll have men sent to find ladders, or to build them.’

‘Let down a rope to him,’ Margaret ordered the soldiers clustering behind her. ‘While they find me a way down, Derry, you can climb up.’

He didn’t question the command and only groaned quietly to himself, wondering if he had the strength. In the end, it took three men pulling on the rope above before he reached
the lip and they were able to heave him over. Derry lay gasping on the stone floor, quite unable to rise until the guards helped him. He attempted a bow and almost fell.

‘You are exhausted,’ Margaret said, reaching out to take his arm. ‘Come in further. There is food enough and wine.’

‘Ah, that would be very welcome, my lady. I am not quite at my best, I admit.’

Half an hour later, he was seated in a room within the tower, wrapped in a blanket by the fire and chewing fat slices of cured ham as he fought against the desire to sleep. Outside, the noise of hammers told him Lord Scales was busying himself constructing rough steps. Some of the men inside had already climbed down to help with the work. Derry was left alone with the young queen, watching him with large brown eyes that missed nothing.

Margaret bit her lip with impatience, forcing herself to wait until he had satisfied his hunger and belched into his fist, the platter of ham polished clean. She needed to know what Derry had witnessed in the night. Perhaps first, she needed him to know what had been done for her.

‘Captain Brown was a good, brave man,’ she said.

Derry looked up sharply, seeing the unnatural paleness of her face, the fear and exhaustion still showing in her.

‘I knew him well, my lady. I was sorry to see he hadn’t come through. It was a hard night for all of us.’

‘It was. Good men have died in my defence, Derry. And I live still. We have both survived – and the sun has risen.’

Her voice firmed as she spoke, as she put her grief and weariness away for another time.

‘How good is your information today, Master Brewer?’ she asked.

He straightened in the chair, struck by the formality and understanding that it was a recall to duty. He was hard-pressed
not to groan as every bone and muscle sent sharp warnings at the movement.

‘Not as good as I would like, my lady. I know Cade has marched back to the bridge and over it. I have men watching him, ready to run back to me if something changes. For today, I would imagine he’ll stay in Southwark to rest and count his spoils.’ His voice became bitter as he spoke. ‘But he’ll be back tonight, I don’t doubt. That is the burr, my lady. That is the thorn. I don’t have the count of men lost, but from what I’ve seen and heard, there are precious few soldiers left in London. We have no more than a few hundred, perhaps a thousand men at most, from here to the west wall. With your permission, I will send riders out today to summon every knight and man-at-arms within range for tonight.’

‘Will it be enough?’ she asked, looking into the flames of the fire.

He considered lying to raise her spirits, but there was no point. He shook his head.

‘The lords of the north have armies to crush Cade and half a dozen like him, but we can’t reach them in time. Those we can … well, there are not enough, not if he comes back tonight.’

Margaret felt her fears surface at the despair she saw in him. Derry was never down for long, she knew that. He always bounced up when he was knocked on to his back. Seeing his hopelessness was almost more frightening than the dark murders of the night before.

‘How is it possible?’ she said in a whisper. It might have been a question she did not mean to ask aloud, but Derry shrugged.

‘We were spread too thin, or the unrest was too wide to contain. My lady, it doesn’t matter what has gone before. We are here today and we will defend London tonight. I think
you should get out of the city, either to Kenilworth or the palace in Greenwich. I can have boats brought before noon to take you. I will know then that you are safe, no matter what follows.’

Margaret hesitated a beat before she shook her head.

‘No. It has not yet come to that. If I flee the city, this man Cade will be calling himself king before tomorrow – or perhaps Lord York the day after, if he is behind this.’

Derry looked sharply at the young queen, wondering how much she understood of the threats arrayed against her family.

‘If York’s hand is anywhere in this attack, he’s been more subtle than before, my lady. I would not be surprised if there are agents working in his name, but I know for a fact that the man himself is still in Ireland.’

Her voice was low and urgent as she replied, leaning closer in case they could be overheard.

‘I am aware of the threat, Derry. York is the royal “heir” after all.’ Unconsciously, her hand dipped to run over her womb as she went on. ‘He
is
a subtle man, Derry. It would not surprise me if he were taking care to stay clear and untainted, while his loyal followers bring down my husband.’

Derry blinked slowly at her, struggling against the weariness and warmth that threatened sleep, just when he needed to be sharp. He saw her thinking, sitting close enough to watch the pupils of her eyes contract and then widen.

‘I saw them take the fresh-minted gold,’ she said, staring at nothing, ‘last night and this morning. Cade’s men have found loot beyond their wildest dreams. They will be counting and gloating over it today, aware that they will never see such wealth again.’

‘My lady?’ Derry said in confusion. He sat up and rubbed his face, feeling the calluses on his hands.

‘They do not know how weak we are, how feeble the defence has become. They
must
not know.’ She took a sharp breath, making the decision. ‘I will send them a pardon for all their crimes, on condition they disperse.’

‘A
what
?’ Derry said in shock.

He began to rise from his chair, but the queen pressed a hand on his shoulder. Derry looked at her in disbelief. He had fought Cade’s men through a night that had lasted for an eternity and now she would pardon them all, let them all walk home with royal gold in their pockets? It was madness, and he searched for the least offensive way of telling her so.

‘A pardon, Derry,’ she repeated, her voice firm. ‘In full, in writing, delivered to Jack Cade in his camp at Southwark. A chance for them to take what they have won and leave. Tell me of another choice that would achieve the same result. Can they be held back?’