London in the spring brought fresh breezes that were quite unable to carry away the stink of the city. Even where Roman sewers had survived, heavy rains summoned ancient filth to the surface, flowing as a tide of slurry down every hill. On most streets, pots of urine and faeces were thrown out into a deep slop of animal and human dung, trodden down with the rotting guts of animals and the congealed blood of slaughtered pigs. The smell was indescribable and Margaret had seen the wooden shoes Londoners wore over their boots, raising them up high so they could go about their business.
She had been told that if the planets were aligned in some way she did not understand, poisonous vapours arose and summer plagues would rip through the population. William said there had been even more people when his father was a child, with war and pestilence taking a terrible toll. Outside the city, whole villages had been left to grass and weeds, with their inhabitants all fled or boarded into their houses to die and be forgotten. Yet London survived. It was said that the people there were hardened to it, so they could breathe and eat almost anything and live.
Margaret shuddered delicately at the thought. On that spring day at the Tower, she could see pale blue skies and white clouds hanging like a painting above her head. Birds flew and the air seemed sweet enough up where she walked the crown of the walls, speaking to blushing soldiers as they
found themselves under the scrutiny of a fifteen-year-old queen.
She stared south, imagining Saumur Castle across the sea. Her mother’s letter had made their financial situation clear, but that was one thing Margaret had been able to put right. With just a word from her, Henry had agreed to send twelve hundred pounds in silver coins, enough to run the estate for two years or more. Margaret frowned to herself at the thought. Her husband was most amenable. He agreed to anything she wanted, but there was something wrong; she could sense that much. Yolande had returned to her husband’s estate and she dared not confide in anyone else. Margaret considered writing a letter, but she suspected they would be read, at least for the first few years. She wondered if she could find a way to ask questions about men that would not be understood by Derry Brewer. She shook her head as she stood there, doubting her ability to get anything past that infuriating man.
The subject of her thoughts broke in on them at that moment, clambering up to the highest point of the walls and smiling as he saw her.
‘Your Royal Highness!’ he cried. ‘I heard you were up here. I tell you my heart’s in my mouth at the thought of you falling to your death. I think it would mean war within the year, all from a loose stone or a single slip. I’d be happier if you’d accompany me back to the ground. I think the guards would be as well.’
He came up to her and took her arm gently, trying to steer her back to the closest set of steps heading down. Margaret felt a spike of irritation and refused to move.
‘My lady?’ Derry asked, looking wounded.
‘I won’t fall, Master Brewer. And I’m not a child to be shepherded to safety.’
‘I
don’t think the king would be happy at the thought of his new wife on these walls, my lady.’
‘Really? I think he would be perfectly happy. I think he would say “If Margaret wishes it, Derry, I am content,” don’t you think?’
For a moment, they both glared at each other, then Derry dropped his hand from her arm with a shrug.
‘As you say, then. We are all in God’s hands, my lady. I did see your husband this morning, to discuss matters of state that cannot be ignored. I hesitate to suggest he misunderstood something you said to him, but he told me to seek you out. Is there something you would like to say to me?’
Margaret looked at the man, wishing William were there and wondering how far she could trust Derry Brewer.
‘I am pleased he remembered, Master Brewer. It gives me hope.’
‘I have documents that he must seal, my lady, today if possible. I cannot answer for the consequences if there is another delay.’
Margaret controlled her anger with some difficulty.
‘Master Brewer, I want you to listen. Do you understand? I want you to stop talking and just hear me.’
Derry’s eyes widened in surprise.
‘Of course, my lady. I understand. I just …’
She held up a hand and he fell silent.
‘I have sat with my husband as he met noble lords and men from his council, this Parliament of yours. I have watched them present their petitions and discuss his finances in great detail. I have seen you come and go, Master Brewer, with your armfuls of documents. I have witnessed you guiding Henry’s hand to place the wax and the royal seal.’
‘I don’t understand, my lady. I was there when we arranged to send a fortune to your mother. Is that the source of your
concern? The king and I …’ Once more Derry halted the torrent of words as she raised her hand.
‘Yes, Master Brewer. I too have called on the king’s purse. You do not need to bring it up. He is my husband, after all.’
‘And he is my king,’ Derry replied, his voice hardening subtly. ‘I have dealt with him and aided him for as long as you have lived.’
Margaret felt her nerve begin to fail under the cold stare. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat and her heart pounded. Yet it was too important to let go.
‘Henry is a good man,’ she said. ‘He has no suspicions, no evil in him. Will you deny it? He does not read the petitions, or the laws he must sign, or if he does, he only glances at them. He
trusts
, Master Brewer. He wants to please those who come to him with their tales of woe or terrible urgency. Men like you.’
The words had been said and for the first time Derry looked embarrassed, breaking her gaze and staring across the walls and moat to the Thames meandering past. Beyond the water gate under St Thomas’s Tower, there were boats out there, dredging the bottom with long hooked poles. Derry knew that another pregnant girl had drowned herself off London Bridge the night before. A crowd had seen her holding a swollen belly as she climbed over the edge. They’d cheered her on, of course, until she dropped and was swallowed by the dark waters. The boatmen were looking out for her corpse, so they could sell it to the Guild of Surgeons. Those men paid particularly well for the pregnant ones.
‘Your Highness, there is some truth in what you’ve said. The king is a trusting man, which is all the more reason to have good men around him! Believe me when I say I am a careful judge of those who are allowed into his presence.’
‘A guardian, then? Is that how you see yourself, Master
Brewer?’ Margaret found her nervousness disappearing and her voice strengthened. ‘If that is the case,
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes
? Do you know your Latin, Master Brewer? Who guards the guards?’
Derry closed his eyes for a moment, letting the breeze dry the sweat that had broken out on his forehead.
‘I didn’t hear much Latin round my way, my lady, not when I was a boy. Your Highness, you are just fifteen years old, whereas I have kept the kingdom safe for more than a decade. Do you not think I have proved my honour by now?’
‘Perhaps,’ Margaret said, refusing to give way. ‘Though it would be a rare man who took
no
advantage from a king who trusts him so completely.’
‘I am that man, my lady, on my honour I am. I have not sought titles or wealth. I have given all my strength to him, for his glory and the glory of his father.’
The words seemed to have been dragged out of Derry as he stood with his hands splayed, resting on the stone wall. Margaret felt suddenly ashamed, though there was still a whisper of suspicion that Derry Brewer was not above manipulating her as easily as he did the king. She gathered her resolve.
‘If what you say is true, you will not object to my reading the documents that come before Henry, will you, Master Brewer? If you have the honour you claim, there can be no harm in that. I asked Henry for his permission and he granted it to me.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course he did,’ Derry said sourly. ‘You’ll read it all? You’ll submit the fate of a kingdom to the judgement of a fifteen-year-old girl with no training in the law and no experience of ruling more than a single castle, if even that? Do you understand what you are asking and the certain consequences of it?’
‘I
did not say I was asking, Master Brewer!’ Margaret snapped. ‘I told you what the king of England said. Now you may disobey his command or not, depending on whether you wish to continue in your role – or not! Either way, yes, I will read it all. I will see every document,
every
law that comes for my husband to seal in wax. I
will
read them all.’
Derry turned to her and she saw fury in his eyes. He had been reeling ever since King Henry had refused his request that morning. Refused! He had asked the king to look over a sheaf of documents and the man had shaken his head in what seemed like genuine regret, directing him to ask his wife. Derry could still hardly believe it. It seemed there had been no mistake, he thought grimly.
Margaret stared back, daring him to refuse her. After a time, Derry bowed his head.
‘Very well, my lady. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you what this means.’
They went down the steps together to the main grounds, as busy with soldiers and staff as a market day in any large town. Derry led the way across the crowded sward and Margaret followed, determined not to give up the least part of what she had won, whatever it turned out to be.
The White Tower was the oldest part of the fortress, built in pale Caen stone from France by William the Conqueror almost four centuries before. It loomed above them as Derry waved her up the wooden stairs that led to the only entrance. In time of war, the stairs could be removed, making the tower practically impregnable to assault. Inside the massive outer walls, she and Derry passed sentries and went up more stairs and through a dozen chambers and corridors before he halted at a thick oak door and turned the handle.
The room beyond was filled with scribes. High above the rest of the fortress, under the beams of a pitched roof
marked in centuries of soot, they sat and scratched on vellum or bound scrolls in ribbons of different colours, passing them onwards and downwards to their superiors. Margaret’s eyes widened as she saw piles of parchment stacked to the ceiling in a few places, or waiting to be moved on upright wooden trolleys.
‘All of this amounts to just a few days, my lady,’ Derry said softly. ‘It is parchment that rules the kingdom, coming in and out of here to all the nobles and merchants and leaseholds and crofts – hundreds of ancient disputes and rents, my lady. Everything from the pay for a maid, to petitions for soldiers, to the debts on a great castle – it all comes through here. And this is just one room. There are others in the palaces of Westminster and Windsor that are at least as busy.’
He turned to her, aware that all movement had ceased as the scribes understood the queen herself had come into their cramped and stuffy domain.
‘No one man can possibly read it all, my lady,’ Derry went on complacently. ‘No woman either, if you’ll forgive me. What small part reaches the king has already been checked and handed on to the most senior scribes, then passed again to the king’s chamberlain and stewards. Men like Lord Suffolk will read some of it, as steward of the king’s household. He will answer a few himself, or rule on them, but he too will pass on a part. Would you have it all stop, my lady? Would you clog the pipe that flows through this room with just your hands and eyes? You would not see daylight again for years. That would not be a fate I’d choose for myself, I’ll tell you that much.’
Margaret hesitated, awed by the room and the deathly silence her presence had created. She could feel the eyes of the scribes wandering over her like beetles on her skin and she shuddered. She could sense Derry’s triumph at the
mountain he’d shown her, the impossibility of reading it all. Just the documents in that room alone would take a lifetime, and he said all that was the fruit of a few days? She was reluctant to give up the advantage she had won just by being up there and she did not answer at first. The solution was clearly to read only the most important demands and petitions, the ones that found their way into Henry’s own hands. Yet if she did that, Derry Brewer would still control the vast mass of communication in the king’s purview. He was telling her as much, with the tableau of scribes to make his point. She began to appreciate what a dangerously powerful man he actually was.
She smiled, more for the benefit of the scribes than Derry himself. With a hand laid on his arm, she spoke sweetly and calmly.
‘I will see and read the parchments my husband must sign, Master Brewer. I will ask William, Lord Suffolk, to describe the rest, if he sees so many in his new role. I’m certain he can tell me which ones are important and which can be safely left to the king’s chamberlain and others. Does that not sound like a fine solution to this mountain of work? I am grateful to be shown this room and those who labour here without reward. I will mention them to my husband, to their honour.’
She sensed the scribes beaming at the words of praise, while Derry only cleared his throat.
‘As you say, then, my lady.’
He kept his smile in place, though he seethed inwardly. With anyone else, he knew he could persuade Henry to change his mind, but the king’s own wife? The young woman who had him alone each evening in the royal rooms? He wondered if she was still a virgin, which might perhaps explain why she felt she needed to fill her time in such a way. Unfortunately, that was one subject he dared not raise.
Derry
led her back down through the White Tower. At the final set of steps leading outside, he raised his hand to the small of her back to guide her, then thought better of it, so that she gathered her skirts and walked down without his aid.
Jack Cade stumbled as he tried to dance a jig on the fine lawn. There was no moon and the only light for miles was the house he had set on fire. As he waved his arms, he dropped the jug he was carrying and almost wept when it cracked into two neat pieces and its precious contents drained away. One half of the broken clay contained a mouthful of the fiery spirit and he tipped it up and drank the last of it, never noticing how he cut his lips on the sharp edges.
Leaning back, he roared red-faced up at the windows already reflecting the flames creeping up to the roof.
‘I
am
a drunken, Kentish man, you Welsh milk-liver! I am everything you said I was the last time you striped my back! I
am
a violent man and a whoreson! And now I’ve set your house on fire! Come out and see what I have for you! Are you in there, magistrate? Can you see me out here, waiting for you? Is it getting hot, you sheep-bothering craven?’
Jack threw his shard of pottery at the flames and staggered with the effort. Tears were running freely down his face and when two men came running up behind him, he turned with a snarl, his fists bunching and his head dropping from a fighter’s instinct.
The first man to reach him was around the same burly size, with pale, freckled skin and a mass of wild red hair and beard.
‘Easy there, Jack!’ he said, trying to take hold of an arm as it whirled by his head in a great missed blow. ‘It’s Patrick – Paddy. I’m your friend, remember? For Christ’s sake, come away now. You’ll be hanged yourself, if you don’t.’
With
a roar, Jack shook him off, turning back to the house.
‘I’ll be here when the craven is forced to come out.’ His voice rose to an almost incoherent bellow. ‘You
hear
me, you little Welsh prick? I’m out here, waiting for you.’
The third man was thin, all knuckles and elbows, with hollow cheeks and long, bare arms. Robert Ecclestone was as ragged and pale as the other two, with black chemical stains marking the skin of his hands that looked like shifting shadows in the flamelight.
‘You’ve shown him now, Jack,’ Ecclestone said. ‘By God, you’ve shown him well enough. This will burn all night. Paddy’s right, though. You should take yourself away, before the bailiffs come.’
Jack rounded on Ecclestone before he’d finished speaking, taking a bunched hand of his jerkin and lifting him. In response, Ecclestone’s hand blurred, so that a long razor appeared at Jack’s throat. Drunk as he was, the cold touch was enough to hold him still.
‘You’d draw a knife on me, Rob Ecclestone? On your own mate?’
‘You laid hands on me first, Jack. Let me down slow and I’ll make it disappear. We’re
friends
, Jack. Friends don’t fight.’
Jack unclenched the fist holding him and, good as his word, Ecclestone folded the blade and slid it under his belt behind him. As Jack began to speak again, they all heard the same sound and turned as one to the house. Above the crackle and whoosh of the flames, they could hear the voices of children crying out.
‘Ah shit, Jack. His boys are in there,’ Paddy said, rubbing his jaw. He took a more serious look at the house, seeing how the entire ground floor was in flames. The windows above were still whole, but no one could live who went in.
‘I
had a son yesterday,’ Jack growled, his eyes glittering. ‘Before he was hung by Alwyn bloody Judgment. Before the Welsh magistrate, who ain’t even a Kentish man, hung him for practically nothing. If I’d been here, I’d have got him out.’
Paddy shook his head at Robert Ecclestone.
‘Time to go, Rob. Take one of his arms. We’ll have to run now. They’ll come looking tomorrow, if they aren’t on the way here already.’
Ecclestone rubbed his chin.
‘If it were my lads in there, I’d have broken the windows by now and tossed ’em out. Why hasn’t he done that?’
‘Maybe because of the three of us standing here with knives, Rob,’ Paddy replied. ‘Maybe the magistrate would rather they died in the fire than see his little lads cut up; I don’t know. Take an arm now. He won’t come else.’
Once again, Paddy grabbed Jack Cade by the arm and almost fell as the other man wrenched himself away. New tears were running through the soot and muck that covered his skin.
A window exploded above their heads, making them all duck away and cover themselves against flying glass. All three men could see the magistrate, dressed in a grubby sleeping shift with his hair wild. The window was too small to escape, but he pushed his head out.
‘I have three boys here,’ Alwyn Judgment called down to them. ‘They’re innocents. Will you take them if I have them jump to you?’
None of them replied. Paddy looked away to the road, wishing he was already on it and running. Ecclestone watched Jack, who was breathing hard, a great bull of a man with his mind befuddled in drink. He glowered at the sight of his enemy above his head.
‘Why
don’t you come down, you Welsh bastard?’ Jack demanded, swaying as he stood there.
‘Because my stairs are on fire, man! Now will you take my boys, in mercy?’
‘They’ll tell the bailiffs, Jack,’ Paddy muttered half under his breath. ‘If those boys live, they’ll see us all hang.’
Jack was almost panting as he stood with his fists clenched in rage.
‘Throw them down!’ he bellowed. ‘I’ll give them more mercy than you showed my son, Alwyn bleeding Judgment.’
‘Your word on it?’
‘You’ll just have to trust a Kentish man, won’t you, you Welsh pisspot.’
Whatever doubts the magistrate may have had were overcome by the torrent of black smoke that was already pouring out of the window around his head. He ducked back into the room and they could hear him coughing.
‘Are you sure, Jack?’ Ecclestone said softly. ‘They’re old enough to pick us out. Maybe Paddy and me should vanish.’
‘I didn’t know there was bloody kids in there. The man lives alone, I was told, rattling around in that big house while better men have to poach a little just to eat. Men like my lad, my boy Stephen. God, my
boy
!’
Jack bent right over as a surge of grief hit him. He groaned at his boots and a long tendril of spit laced the grass from his lips. He only looked up when the first frightened child was shoved roughly out above his head, clinging to the broken window and crying.
‘Jump, brat!’ he shouted up. ‘Jack Cade will catch you.’
‘Christ, Jack!’ Paddy swore. ‘
Names
, man. Stop using your bloody name!’
Above their heads, the little boy leaped out as far as he could, sailing through the air as a moving shadow with the
light all behind him. Drunk as he was, Jack Cade caught him easily and set him down on the grass.
‘Wait there,’ Jack said gruffly. ‘Don’t move an inch, or I will rip your bleeding ears off.’
Paddy caught the second boy, smaller than the first. He put him still snivelling by the first and together they all stared up.
The eldest brother cried out in agony as he was forced past the broken glass. The window was almost too small for him and his father was pushing him from inside, leaving skin and blood behind as he blocked the hole. With a lurch, the boy came out, tumbling down with a wail. Jack snatched him from the air as if his weight was nothing at all.
Once again, the three men saw the magistrate’s head appear, looking down with an expression of mingled hope and rage.
‘I thank you, Jack Cade, though you’ll burn in hell for tonight’s work, you drunken ass.’
‘What’s that? What’s that you say to me, you poxed Welsh …’
With a bellow like a dying bullock, Jack rushed towards the house. Both Paddy and Robert Ecclestone reached for him, but he slipped their clutching hands and threw his weight against the door, falling in on top of it. Flame gusted out above his head, driving his friends back. The two men looked at each other, then at the children sitting in wide-eyed misery on the grass.
‘I ain’t going in there,’ Paddy said. ‘Not for a pass to heaven and a bleeding fortune.’
He and Rob backed away from the heat, staring into the inferno.
‘Nothing’s coming out of that,’ Paddy said. ‘By God, he always said he wanted a grand ending and he found it, didn’t
he? He saved the boys and went back in to kill the magistrate.’
They could hear Jack crashing about inside the house, lost to sight in the flames. After a time, the sounds grew quiet and Ecclestone shook his head.
‘I’ve heard they’re looking for workers up in Lincoln, to build some bridge. It’ll be too hot for us around here now.’ He paused, knowing the words were the wrong choice as his friend died in the burning house.
‘I might just walk north with you, at that,’ Paddy replied. He turned to the three boys staring at the fire consuming their home. ‘You three will tell the bailiffs about us, won’t you? It won’t matter a whit that we saved your lives, will it, lads?’
Two of them shook their heads in terrified confusion, but the oldest boy glared up at him and came to his feet.
‘I’ll tell them,’ he said. His eyes were bright with tears and a sort of madness as he heard his father crying out in terror above their heads. ‘I’ll see you hanged for what you’ve done.’
‘Ah, Jesus, is that the way of it?’ Paddy said, shaking his head. ‘If I was a harder man, lad, I’d cut your throat for a foolish threat like that. I’ve done worse, believe me. Oh, sit down, son. I’m not going to kill you, not tonight. Not with my friend dying with his grief on him. Do you know why he came here, boy? Because your father hanged his son this morning. Did you know that? For stealing a couple of lambs from a herd six hundred strong. How does that sit with your fine righteous anger, eh? His boy is dead, but he still caught you when you came falling.’
The oldest boy looked away, unable to meet the fierce gaze of the Irishman any longer. A thumping crash sounded above them and they all looked up as an entire section of
burning wall fell out. Paddy lunged to protect the children, knocking the eldest to the ground in the impact. Ecclestone just stepped away, letting the section of brick and lime and ancient straw fall without him under it. He looked round to where the big Irishman’s body was sheltering the magistrate’s sons.
‘You’re soft, Paddy, that’s your trouble. Jesus, you couldn’t …’
He broke off, his jaw dropping as Jack Cade threw himself out of the hole above them, a body in his arms.
The pair landed hard, with a great shout of pain coming from Jack. He rolled as soon as he struck and, in the light of the fire, they could all see smoke rising from his hair and clothes. The magistrate lay like a broken doll, completely senseless, while Jack turned on to his back and bellowed up at the stars.
Robert Ecclestone walked over to him, staring down in wonder. He could see his friend’s hands were seared raw and marked in soot. Every exposed part of him seemed to have blistered or been torn. Cade coughed and wheezed and spat weakly as he lay there.
‘Christ, it
hurts
!’ he said. ‘My throat …’
He tried to sit up and gasped at the pain of his burned skin. His eyes turned as he remembered the pond across the garden and he dragged himself up and wandered away.
Paddy stood and looked at the three children, though they only had eyes for their father.
‘Is he … ?’ the oldest boy whispered.
‘You can see him breathing, though he might not wake after all that smoke. I’ve seen a few go like that in my time.’
In the distance, they all heard the great splash as Jack Cade either fell or flung himself into the cold waters of the pond.
The boys clustered around their father, pinching his cheeks and slapping his hands. The two youngest began to weep again as he groaned and opened his eyes.
‘What?’ he said.
The magistrate began to cough before he could speak again, a violent paroxysm that went on and on until he was close to passing out again and his face had gone purple. He could only whisper at his sons, rubbing his throat with a blistered hand that oozed blood over the soot.
‘How … ?’
He became aware that there were still two men standing over his sons. With a massive effort, Alwyn Judgment heaved himself to his feet. He could not stand fully and rested with his hands on his knees.
‘Where’s Jack Cade?’ he wheezed at them.
‘In your pond,’ Ecclestone replied. ‘He saved you, your honour. And he caught your sons and kept his word. And it won’t matter a damn, will it? You’ll send your bailiffs and we’ll all be taken and have our heads on a spike.’
The burning house still huffed and spat, but they all heard the noise of hooves on the road, drifting to them on the night air. Alwyn Judgment heard it at the same time as Jack Cade heaved himself out of the pond with a moaning sound that carried almost as far.
‘Take the boys away, Paddy,’ Rob Ecclestone said suddenly. ‘Take them towards the road and leave them there for his men to find.’
‘We should run now, Rob. Only chance is to run like buggery.’
Ecclestone turned to his old friend and shook his head.
‘Just take them away.’
The big Irishman chose not to argue with that look. He gathered them all up, taking the oldest by the scruff of the
neck when he began to struggle and shout. Paddy cuffed him hard to keep him silent and half-carried, half-dragged them away across the garden.
The magistrate watched him uneasily.
‘I could promise to let you go,’ he said.
Ecclestone shook his head, his eyes glittering in the light of the flames.
‘I wouldn’t believe a word, your honour. I’ve met too many of you, you see? My mates and me will hang anyway, so I might as well do some good first.’
Alwyn Judgment was opening his mouth to reply when Ecclestone stepped forward with a razor held just right in his hand. With one slash, he opened a gushing line in the man’s throat and waited only a heartbeat to be sure before he walked away.
Jack Cade was staggering across the garden when he saw his friend kill the magistrate. He tried to shout, but his throat was so raw and swollen that only a hiss of breath came out. Ecclestone reached him then and Jack was able to rest some of his sodden weight on the man as they headed away from the burning house.