Margaret of Anjou (20 page)

1459

The realm of England was out of all governance . . . for the king was simple . . . held no household, maintained no wars.

A
NON.

[15
TH-CENTURY
E
NGLISH CHRONICLER
]

D
erry Brewer stood in sheeting rain and watched the column of armed soldiers ride the great avenue toward the castle of Kenilworth. On the open land, there was no protection from the downpour that hissed over them. They rode with their heads bowed, seven score of men in full plate armor, carrying banners so drenched that they had wrapped around the poles. Even so, they were alert, ready for an attack. Despite four years of peace, the entire country seethed, jangling and clashing like a pot-lid on a fire.

Derry stepped into the path of the men, taking up a position in the middle of the drive. He had chosen six big lads to stand with him, just to form a decent-looking group. Two white plow horses went some way to block the avenue, enormous animals with twice the muscle and weight even of a warhorse. The way things were, Derry doubted any of the visitors would stop for just one man. The foul weather didn’t help, nor the fact that the castle was in sight, with all its promise of warmth and safety. He raised his hand, palm out, standing tall and with as much confidence as he could muster while the rain stung his skin. At his side, his friend Wilfred Tanner raised the royal banner, a splash of red and gold that could be seen from far away. The bony little smuggler stood with quivering pride at being allowed to hold the king’s colors.

It was barely an hour past noon, though the clouds overhead had reduced the great drive to a dark gray. Derry stared ahead at the approaching riders, observing the moment when they spotted him and called back to the duke they protected. Derry could not see beyond the first couple of ranks, but somewhere in the mass of soldiers was the man he needed to reach.

“In the name of the king, hold!” Derry bellowed over the wind. He muttered swear words at the lack of response.

The column trotted closer, jingling toward him with no sign of slowing. If the man who led them gave no order, Derry knew they would ride straight through his miserable group, scattering them. God knew, there was suspicion enough in England that year. Every minor baron, every knight and his neighbors seemed to be gathering men and buying weapons. The cauldron was likely to spill, with so much heat under it.

When the front rank was just paces from him, Derry heard another voice snap an order. It rippled down the line, though they had at least expected it and halted before he was knocked off his feet. When they stopped at last, Derry could have reached out and touched the damp muzzle of the closest mounts, though he decided not to do so. No rider liked to see another man reaching for his reins.

The downpour increased without thunder, just the heavens ripping open and pouring out a month’s worth of rain in a single day. The ground ran with a thousand streams and great sheets of shining water stretched all around them. Rain drummed on the armored column, a tinny roar that rose and fell in volume with each gust.

“Who are you, to stand in the road?” a knight in the second rank called out. “You are in the path of the Duke of Somerset. Step aside.”

Derry could sense the readiness for violence in the knights watching him. They had come armed for war and they were twitchy and nervous. As no one had raised a visor, it was hard to see who had spoken. They might as well have been silver statues, half hidden in sodden blue cloaks, drenched almost to black.

“I would speak with Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset,” Derry said loudly and clearly, “whose father I knew well and whom I once called a friend. I speak for King Henry and Queen Margaret. You see I have no men to threaten you, but on orders of the king, I must speak to Somerset before you enter the castle.”

The men in the front rank stared down at him through the slots in their visors. Those behind turned their heads, and Derry craned to see one among them who wore the colors of Somerset beneath his cloak, a sodden tabard banded in blue and white, with gold fleur-de-lis quartered with the lions of England. Derry fixed his gaze on that slim figure, feeling a pang in his heart at the memory of the man’s father. One of the knights leaned in to their master and murmured something Derry could not hear. To his relief, he saw the young duke shake his head and dig in his heels, forcing his armored warhorse through to the front. Like its owner, the enormous animal was girded in iron plates across the chest and head, segments that moved with the horse’s gait and could withstand almost any blow. Against an unarmed man, the armor itself was a weapon and Derry swallowed, knowing a wrong step would see him gashed.

As Derry stared, the new Duke of Somerset raised his visor, revealing his eyes and squinting as the rain reached them.

“Your Grace, my name is Derry Brewer. I knew your father.”

“He spoke of you,” Henry Beaufort replied grudgingly. “He said you were a man to trust, though I will make my own judgment. What would you have of me?”

“A word in private, my lord, on my name, my oath of fealty, and my position as servant of the king.”

Derry waited under the young man’s cool gaze, but another of the knights spoke before Somerset could reply.

“My lord, this smells wrong. To be stopped on the road in the pissing rain? Let us move on to the queen’s castle. We will hear the right of it there.”

“It
is
urgent, my lord,” Derry added in reply, waiting. “I am unarmed.”

The suggestion that Somerset held back from anything like fear or caution was enough to prick him to immediate anger. He dismounted, striding up to Derry and deliberately standing over him, threateningly close. In response, Derry turned away and led the young man a dozen paces clear of his men. They bristled at every step that took their master away from them, ready to kick their horses into murderous action at the first wrong move.

“What do you want?” Somerset hissed at Derry, leaning in close. “I am summoned here with nothing more than a Royal Seal demanding my presence. What must you say to me that keeps me out in the rain?”

Derry breathed in relief.

“There is a man in your company, my lord, a man who passed papers to Earl Salisbury not a month ago. My people watched him do it and then followed the one he met.”

“A traitor?” Somerset said in surprise. “Why then did you not bring me the news before?”

Derry found his cheeks growing hot, despite the freezing rain.

“It has sometimes been of use to know which men are false, my lord, without rounding them all up. In such a way, they can be made to feed the wrong path to their masters, if you follow me.”

“Yet you stop me now,” Somerset prompted, glaring at the bedraggled spymaster before him.

“You will hear plans in Kenilworth that are not for his ears, my lord. I thought it would be easier and quieter to make the problem vanish on the road, instead of in the queen’s presence.”

“I see. What is this man’s name, to be damned on your word alone?”

Derry winced at the young lord’s tone of suspicion.

“Sir Hugh Sarrow, my lord. And there is no doubt in this, none at all. Send him back, if you wish, though he will know and disappear to your enemies if you do.”

Somerset cast a glance back at his glowering men.

“Sir Hugh? He was one of my father’s men! I have known him since I was a child!”

“Even so, my lord. He cannot enter the castle and be allowed to hear what is for your ears alone. Your father trusted me, my lord. King Henry and Queen Margaret trust me still. This is my work—to find traitors and use them, or to break them.”

“My father may have known you, Master Brewer. I do not. If I refuse?”

“I regret to say you will be turned back from the castle gate.” Derry had to struggle to breathe easily, aware that men like Henry Beaufort were used to absolute obedience to their slightest whim. “You may not enter with that man free, my lord. On your order, he could be trussed and bound, taken to a cell while you speak to the queen. I would welcome the chance to question him, but he is your man. And it is your choice.”

Derry started as Somerset turned and roared at his men.

“Sir Hugh Sarrow! To me, here.”

The ranks shifted and clattered, as one man came to the front and dismounted, walking stiffly toward his master and Derry Brewer.

“Remove your helmet, Sir Hugh,” Somerset said.

The knight revealed a narrow, worried face, part-obscured by mustaches as his brown eyes flickered back and forth between the two men.

Somerset leaned close enough for Derry to feel the warmth of his breath.

“I am loyal to the king, Master Brewer. My father’s death cries out for vengeance still and I will not be denied it. If this is a test of my loyalty, you have my answer.” With no warning, he drew his sword and swung, turning from the hip and putting all his strength into a strike against the knight’s bared neck.

The blade caught the edge of the man’s gorget before cutting into flesh, striking a spark that was washed away in blood and rain. Sir Hugh staggered at the force of the blow. His face drained death-white and he raised a hand to his throat in wide-eyed shock, then fell with a crash into the mud.

Derry stared at the young man before him, seeing a rage that had been completely hidden before.

“There is an end to it,” Somerset said. “If you have nothing else for me, Master Brewer? I am wet and cold and I would yet hear what awaits me at Kenilworth.”

“Thank you for your trust, my lord,” Derry said, shaken. He made a gesture to his companions and they removed themselves from the path of the column, pitiful obstacle as they had been. Somerset stalked back and mounted his horse once again. The column rode past Derry with dozens of armored helmets turning to fix him with suspicion and dislike. He stood carefully back from their path, his work done.

When they had passed, Derry signaled to his men. They tied the armored corpse to the plow horses and dragged it behind them through the mud, heading back into the castle.

—

M
ARGARET
’
S
EXPRESSION WAS INTE
NT
as she watched Derry Brewer and another man enter and bow. The spymaster’s hair was rain-slick, though he had changed into dry clothes before coming into her presence. Whatever warning Derry may have given, his companion was clearly terrified at finding himself under the scrutiny of a queen of England. The man at Derry’s side was stick thin, with a brush of unkempt brown hair that looked as if he’d tried to smooth it with spit and a palm. He trembled as he tried to copy Derry’s action, pressing one leg out before him and dropping low over it. To Margaret’s hidden amusement, Derry had to reach out and steady the man before he toppled over.

Despite the storm that battered the castle walls that day, the long summer of ’59 had baked Kenilworth, cracking the plaster and turning green pastures to dry, brown fields as far as the eye could see. Margaret loved the place.

Three years before, twenty-six great serpentine guns had been winched up to the stone walls and towers, enough to fill a quarter mile with iron roundshot—and broken flesh and metal, if an enemy dared approach. Margaret had given no warning to York or Salisbury of her intentions, no sign that she was not utterly content with her lot. She had taken only Derry Brewer into her confidence, the one man she trusted. Together, they had arranged for Henry to come out of his rooms in the Palace of Westminster, suborning his doctors with the need for fresh, country air. As soon as they were clear of London, Margaret had rushed him north before anyone else knew what they were planning. She had received a hundred indignant letters and heralds over the three years that followed, but what could York do? There could be no new parliaments called without the king. Law and order in the country began to fail and crumble, yet Kenilworth was a fortress. Even York would not dare summon an army to take King Henry from his own wife.

“Approach, Master Brewer,” Margaret said. “And bring your . . . companion with you, that I may judge the quality of men you employ in my husband’s name.”

Derry straightened up, seeing the hint of mischief in his queen’s eyes. A smile came easily to him.

“This wondrous fine specimen is Wilfred Tanner, Your Highness. He has been useful to me this last year. He was a smuggler, once, though not a good one—”

“Derry!” Tanner hissed at him, horrified to have his previous profession spoken aloud.

“—but he is now in royal service,” Derry went on smoothly, “traveling with me around the country to collect your indentures.” He held up a leather satchel, stuffed full of parchment. “Another fifty-odd in here, Your Highness. Signed statements of men who will join the Gallants, on their oaths and honor.”

“I am well served in you, Master Brewer. My husband has spoken often of your loyalty. If he were present, I know he would express his gratitude for all you have done these past years.”

Mentioning King Henry brought a crease between her eyes, Derry noticed. Margaret was not yet thirty years of age and had grown extraordinarily beautiful in the years since her marriage. Her hair was dark, a shining braid that hung almost to her waist. As he stared at her, Derry wondered idly if Margaret knew the effect she had on men. He suspected she did, to the last pennyworth. She sat on a carved wooden chair, wearing a dress of dark blue silk that subtly emphasized her figure. No second child had come to strain those seams, not in the six years since the birth of Prince Edward. Derry tilted his head a fraction to observe the queen, experiencing no flutter of passion, but simply the pleasure, almost awe, that comes from a man gazing upon a fine woman. Light from one of the large windows ran across the queen, making her eyes shine and filling the air around her with golden motes.