London was simply overwhelming, too much to take in. Margaret had ridden with her new husband from the abbey at Titchfield to Blackheath, where she had seen the Thames for the first time and, in that moment, her first bloated body floating past on the surface.
The king’s party had been blessed with a clear day, with the sky a washed-out blue and the air very cold. The mayor and his aldermen had met her there, dressed in blue gowns with scarlet hoods. There was an air of gaiety and festival to the procession as Margaret was led by hand to a large wheeled litter, pulled by horses in white satin cloth. From that point, she went where they took her, though she looked down at
her new husband riding at her side at every spare moment. The procession choked the road to a standstill as they reached the single massive bridge that spanned the river, joining the capital city to the southern counties and the coast. Margaret tried not to gape like a country girl, but London Bridge was incredible, almost a town in its own right that stretched across the water on whitewashed brick arches. Her litter passed dozens of shops and homes built on to the bridge itself. There were even public toilets and she blushed as she glimpsed boards hanging above the river, set with circular seats. Her litter moved on, revealing strangeness after strangeness, then halting on the centre of the bridge. Three-storey buildings pressed in on both sides, but a small area had been set as a stage and the filth underfoot had been covered over with clean rushes. Two women waited there, painted and dressed as Greek goddesses. Margaret stared as they approached and pressed garlands of flowers over her shoulders.
One of them began to declaim lines of verse over the noise of the crowd and Margaret had gathered only that it was in praise of peace before whips cracked and the scene was left behind. She craned round to see Yolande riding side-saddle with her husband Frederick. As their eyes met, both women were hard-pressed not to laugh in delight and wonder.
The mayor’s men marched on with them through the streets, accompanied by more people than Margaret had even known existed. The entire city seemed to have come to a halt to see her. Surely there could not be any men and women beyond those she saw. The crowds struggled against each other, climbing up buildings and sitting on the shoulders of friends to catch a glimpse of Margaret of England.
The noise of their cheering could be felt on her skin, and her ears ached.
Margaret had not eaten for hours, that small detail forgotten in the vast organization of her trip through her husband’s capital city. The smell of the streets went some way to steal her appetite, but by the time she reached Westminster Abbey she was weak with hunger. The litter-horses were allowed to rest and Henry himself took her hand to guide her inside.
It was strange to feel the warmth of his hand on hers. She hadn’t been sure what to expect after the wedding in Titchfield, but in the days that followed she had never been left alone with the young king. William and Lord Somerset in particular seemed determined to whisk the king away from her at every opportunity. At night, she slept alone and when she had asked and then demanded to know where the king was, she was told by sheepish servants that he had ridden to the nearest chapel to spend the night in prayer. She was beginning to wonder if what her father said about the English was true. Not many Frenchwomen remained virgins a full week after marriage. Margaret gripped Henry’s hand tightly, so that he looked at her. She saw only happiness in his eyes as he walked her over the white stones into one of the oldest abbeys in England.
Margaret suppressed a gasp at an interior far grander even than the cathedral at Tours, with a vaulted ceiling stretching far above in spars of stone. Sparrows wheeled overhead in the cold air and she thought she could surely feel the presence of God in the open space.
There were wooden benches filled with people stretching the length of the ancient church. At the sight of so many, her steps faltered, so that Henry had to put an arm around her waist.
‘There
isn’t much more,’ he said, smiling.
A psalter of bishops carrying curled staffs of gold went before her and Margaret let herself be guided to twin thrones, where she and Henry prostrated themselves before the altar and were blessed before seating themselves and facing thousands of strange faces. Margaret’s sweeping gaze was arrested by the sight of her father in the front row, looking smugly self-satisfied. The day lost some of its glory then, but Margaret forced herself to nod primly to the slug. She supposed any father would want to see his daughter made a queen, but he had not been at the wedding, nor bothered to inform her he would interrupt his travels to cross to England.
Some of the congregation were eating and drinking, enjoying the holiday atmosphere. Margaret’s stomach groaned at the sight of a cold roasted chicken being passed along a row. A great cloak of white and gold was placed around her shoulder and the archbishop began the Latin ceremony.
An age passed as she sat there, trying not to fidget. At least she had no vow to remember, as a wife and queen. The safety of the realm was not her responsibility to protect. The archbishop rolled his words on and on, filling the space.
Margaret felt the weight of a crown pressed on to her head. Instinctively, she reached up and touched the chilled metal, just as the congregation began a crashing wave of applause and cheering. She bit her lip as her senses swam, refusing to faint. She was queen of England and Henry took her arm as he led her back down the aisle.
‘I am so very pleased,’ he said over the noise of the clapping and calling voices. ‘We needed a truce, Margaret. I cannot spend every night in prayer. Sometimes I must sleep, and without a truce I feared the worst. Now you are queen, I can stop my vigil.’
Margaret glanced at her husband in confusion, but he was
smiling, so she merely bowed her head and continued out into the sunshine of London to be seen by the crowds.
There were green spring buds on the trees, swept back and forth in gusts as cold as midwinter. Thomas longed for warmer days, though he knew they would bring the French into Maine. It had been a month since he and his men had killed the French knights and their baron. Even Strange had been forced to admit their first taste of vengeance had worked well for recruitment. That single act had brought men into their group who had been ready to leave all France behind. They’d coalesced around his little force, doubling their numbers.
Thomas looked sideways at his son, lying on his stomach in the gorse. He felt pride for the man Rowan had become, before the thought soured in him. He didn’t want to see the boy killed, but he could not send him away, not then. Too many others looked to Thomas for a slender reed of faith in what they had started. If he kept Rowan safe by sending him to England to join his mother and sisters, he knew how they would see it. Half of them would drift away again, choosing to save themselves.
Thomas saw movement in the distance and he sat up, knowing his raised head would be all but invisible to whoever it was. He saw horsemen, walking their mounts at an easy pace so as not to leave behind the trudging men at their side.
‘See them, Rowan? God smiles on us today, lad. I tell you that. God bloody smiles.’
Rowan chuckled quietly, still hidden in the dark green scrub. Together, they watched the group moving slowly along the road. There were perhaps forty horsemen, but
Thomas looked most closely at the walking men. They were the ones he had come to see and they carried bows very much like his own. Twice as many as the men-at-arms they accompanied, the archers were worth their weight in gold as far as Thomas was concerned.
When the group was just a few hundred yards away, Thomas rose up and stood to wait for them. He made sure his bow was visible but unstrung, knowing they would be wary of an ambush so deep into Maine. He saw a ripple go through them as they noticed the pair of strangers by the road and it was not hard for Thomas to spot the man giving orders to the rest. He’d left Baron Strange behind, but part of him wished he were there. Nobles had their own style and manners and this one would be suspicious enough of strangers as it was.
‘If this is a trap,’ Thomas murmured, ‘you’re to run, Rowan, like a rabbit through the gorse. Understand?’
‘I understand,’ Rowan said.
‘Good lad. Stay here then – and run if I’m taken.’
Thomas strode closer to the group, which had halted on first sight of him. He felt the pressure of more than a hundred men staring his way and he ignored them all, focusing on the one who led.
‘Woodchurch?’ the man called while he was still twenty paces away.
‘I am,’ Thomas replied.
The lord looked relieved.
‘Baron Highbury. These are my men. I was told you’d arrange a little hunting trip if I met you here.’
‘You were told correctly, my lord.’
Thomas reached the man and took the gauntleted hand lowered to him in a firm grip. Highbury wore a huge black
beard that ended in a flat line, cut wide like the blade of a shovel.
‘The Duke of York was quite insistent there should be no private excursions into Maine, Master Woodchurch. My men and I are not here, if you follow me. However, if we are out hunting deer and we come across some French rapists and murderers, I cannot answer for the conduct of my men, not in those circumstances.’
There was anger behind the man’s smile and Thomas wondered if he was one of those whose friends or family had suffered. He nodded, accepting the rules.
‘Have you come far, my lord?’ he said.
Highbury sniffed.
‘From Normandy these last few weeks. Before that, my family had a little country place in Anjou. I hope perhaps to see it again one day.’
‘I cannot say as to that, my lord. But there will be good hunting in Maine, that much I can promise you.’
‘That will have to do for the moment, won’t it? Lead on then, Woodchurch. I presume you have a camp of some kind? My men need their rest.’
Thomas chuckled, liking the man on instinct.
‘I do, my lord. Let me show you.’
He dogtrotted along the road with the English archers, noting the way they ran without sign of weariness. Rowan reached his side and he introduced his son to the men around them. They had eyes more for Rowan’s bow than the man himself, making Thomas chuckle.
‘You can try your hand against my son at the archery butts, lads. I’ll put a gold noble on him.’
The dour archers looked more cheerful at that prospect as they jogged along.
‘A
betting man, is it?’ Highbury called from behind them. ‘I’ll wager two nobles on my men.’
Thomas touched his forehead in acceptance. The day had started well and it would get better. He tried to forget the French army marching across the fields and valleys into Maine.
Surprise was a strange thing, Thomas thought to himself. He could feel it like coins in his hand: heavy and valuable, but something he could spend only once. He’d seen French armies before, but nothing like the neat ranks marching along a main road in southern Maine. The ones he’d known in his youth had been miserable beggars, half-starved and dressed in whatever ragged coats they could steal. In the still air, he could hear French voices singing and he shook his head in irritation. The sound offended some deep part of him.
The English found their soldiers from the poorest parts of cities like Newcastle, York, Liverpool and London, from mines and fields and apprentices who had fallen out with their masters and had nowhere else to go. He’d been a volunteer himself, but there were many more who were too drunk to resist a tap on the head when the recruiters came through their villages. It didn’t matter how it happened. Once you were in, you were in for good, no matter what you’d planned for your life. It was too much for some, of course, with terrible punishments meted out to those who tried to run. Even if a deserter made it clear on some moonless night, he’d be denounced at home by his own relatives, out for the reward for returning a king’s man.
Thomas’s thoughts were dark as he remembered his first months of training. He’d volunteered after giving his father a beating that was long overdue. It was either join up or risk the magistrates when the old sod woke up without his front
teeth. So many years later, Thomas was only sorry he hadn’t killed him. His father had died since, leaving him nothing beyond the same violent temper simmering beneath the surface.
He’d met Derry Brewer on his first day, when four hundred young men were being taught to march in time with each other. They hadn’t even seen a weapon that month, just endless drills for fitness and wind. Derry had been able to run the legs off them all and still knock a man down with his fists at the end. Thomas shook his head, distressed at memories that had soured for him. He and Derry had been friends once, but it was Derry who’d given away the Woodchurch land, Derry who was responsible for the diabolical deal for Anjou and Maine. Whatever happened from that point, they weren’t friends any longer.
Thomas looked over at his men waiting at the treeline. He’d laughed at the dyed green wool they’d used, saying it hadn’t helped old Rob Hood. It had taken time away from archery practice to combine blue woad with a yellow dye that produced the rich colour. Even so, Thomas had to admit Strange had been right about that, at least. Even when a man knew where they were, the bowmen were damned hard to see as they crouched and waited. Thomas tried to find Rowan among them. He’d seen no sign of his family anger in his son, perhaps the result of mother’s milk compared to the vinegar and spit of his own line. Or perhaps he would see it come out in the killing as it had with him. That was another thing he and Derry had shared. They both had an anger that only grew with violence. No matter how hard they hit, it was still there behind the eyes, clawing away in a red room, scratching to be let out. It just had to be woken.
Slowly, Thomas turned back to the lines of fighting men striding or riding along the road as if they were heading to
a saint’s day celebration or a feast. The French had no scouts out and he saw they were dressed warm and snug and carried decent pikes and swords. There was even a band of crossbowmen, strolling along with their weapons uncocked and resting on their shoulders. Thomas clenched his jaw, disgusted with all of them.
Further back, he could just make out the French royal party, trotting on fine grey horses with bright headpieces of red or blue. It was spring and Anjou was behind them. Every man there had spent months getting drunk and slow on stolen wine. Thomas showed his teeth, knowing they could not see him. His two dozen arrows were ready and he’d spent part of the gold he’d made from wool and mutton on having as many fletched as he could over the long winter. One thing was certain – his men wouldn’t be able to get their arrows back afterwards.
For a moment, he considered letting the French king come abreast of him before the attack. It could only help their cause if they slotted an arrow down a royal throat and it would sound across France like a struck bell, telling men everywhere that Maine would fight. Yet the king’s personal guard could afford breastplates of thicker iron. Many of them wore extra layers of leather and padded cloth under their armour. It made a crushing weight, but then they were all big, powerful men, easily strong enough to fight under the added burden.
Thomas hesitated, feeling the responsibility and the advantage of surprise once more. When it was gone, when it was spent, he and his men would be facing an enraged army torn out of their comfort and ease. An army with hundreds of horsemen to run them down like foxes in the trees and fields. He’d seen it happen before and he knew the bitter reality of seeing archers caught in the open, unable to defend
themselves before they were cut down. He could not let that happen to Rowan, or Strange, or Highbury, or any of the others who depended on him. Thomas wasn’t exactly certain when he’d become the leader of their motley group, but even Highbury accepted his right, especially after he and Strange had almost come to blows in a discussion of their mutual ancestors.
Thomas smiled to himself. That had been a good evening, with his men singing and laughing around a huge bonfire in the woods. Perhaps Robin of the Hood had known nights just like it, with his men dressed in Lincoln green.
He made his decision. The king had to be a target. Just one lucky arrow could end it as it began, and he could not give up the chance. The French army strolled on, just two hundred yards away across bushes and scrubland before the trees opened out on to a vast forest. At Agincourt, England had fielded six thousand men who could hit a target the size of a man’s head at that distance and then do it again, ten or even twelve times a minute. He’d had Highbury’s archers and his own veterans practising each day until they could pass his personal test – when their right arms were strong enough and large enough to crack two walnuts held in the crook of their elbows.
Thomas stood up slowly in the dappled shade, breathing long and slow. For a quarter-mile, men rose with him, tapping nervous fingers on their bows and shafts for luck. He raised a hunting horn to his lips and blew a harsh note, then let it fall on the thong around his neck and sighted on his first man.
The closest French soldiers looked round in surprise as they heard the horn sound. Thomas stared down the shaft as a knight in armour rode up along the host of slanted pikes to see what was happening. Some of them pointed in the
direction of the trees and the man wheeled his horse, raising his visor and staring into the green.
Thomas could not read, even if he’d had the knowledge of it. Books blurred to his eyes up close, but at a distance he still had an archer’s sight. He saw the knight jerk as he spotted or sensed something.
‘Surprise,’ Thomas whispered. He loosed and the knight took the arrow in the centre of his face as he tried to shout, sending him backwards over the haunches of his mount and falling into the pikemen around him.
All along the line, arrows punched out from the trees, then again in a rhythm Thomas knew as well as breathing. This was why he’d drilled and drilled them until their fingertips were swollen to fat grapes. His bowmen reached down to shafts they’d stuck into the black earth and pulled them free, slotting them on and drawing smoothly. The snap of bows was a clatter he loved to hear. A quarter of a mile and two hundred men loosing again and again into the crowded lines.
The French soldiers bunched up in their panic, yelling and helpless as shafts ripped into them. Hundreds fell or dropped to the ground and Thomas shouted a wordless challenge as he saw the king’s own guards reel as they were struck.
The knights around the king were battered and thumped as they raised shields over King Charles and yelled commands. Horns blew across the valley floor and Thomas could see a thousand men or more come charging in. French knights and mounted men-at-arms spurred and kicked their horses hard, drawing swords and galloping towards the strip that had been torn out of their army, the bloody slash that looked as if a giant had crushed a footstep into them.
Thomas sent three of his precious bodkin arrows towards the king before he focused again on the men in front of him. The destruction was greater than even he had hoped, but it
meant fewer targets and he saw dozens of shafts pass through scrambling men and miss completely.
‘Aim for knights and horses!’ he roared along the line.
He saw a hundred archers turn almost together, seeking out the same targets. More than one knight galloping to the rescue was struck by a dozen shafts, to fall broken and dead before he hit the ground. Thomas cursed to see the king flailing in his saddle, visibly alive though the noblemen around him showed red blood on their armour. They began to move the king back through the press of men riding in and still the archers shot and shot, until they reached down and their fingers closed on empty air.
Thomas checked his own quiver as he always did, though he knew it was empty. Twenty-four arrows had gone in what seemed like a heartbeat and by then the French army looked like some fool had knocked over a beehive. They formed up over the heaps of dead as the arrow storm began to falter.
It was time to run. Thomas had been staring in delight at the chaos, fixing the scene in his mind. Yet it was time and he dragged his attention away from the enemy. A last glance confirmed the French king was still alive, being hustled back by his men. Thomas found he was panting and he struggled to take a deep enough breath to sound the horn.
At the signal, his line of archers broke instantly, turning their backs on the French and racing off through the trees. More horns sounded behind them and once again Thomas knew the sick terror of being hunted.
His breath was harsh and loud as he crashed through bushes and around trees, jarring his shoulder on a branch as he tried to duck under it and falling, only to scramble up again at full speed. He could hear the snorting of horses pounding the earth as armoured knights reached the treeline and forced their way through.
Over
on his left, he saw one of his men fall and from nowhere a French knight appeared, aiming a lance into the man’s back as he staggered to his feet. Thomas put on another burst of speed, appalled at how fast the French had gathered themselves. He hoped desperately that it was just one knight ahead of the rest. If they were that quick on the counter, he’d lose half his men before they reached the meadows beyond.
He heard hooves close behind him, with a jingle of harness. Thomas jinked from instinct, hearing a French voice curse as a knight missed his strike. The man’s lance point dropped and wedged in the earth, though the knight was too canny to hold on to it. Thomas didn’t dare look back, though he heard a sword drawn over the noise of his own racing steps. He cringed, expecting the strike as the forest brightened ahead of him and he realized he’d covered half a mile as fast as he’d ever run in his life.
Thomas broke out into spring sunshine, finding himself facing a line of archers with bows raised towards him. He threw himself down and they sent quick shots over his head. He heard a horse scream and, as he lay gasping, he looked back for the first time, seeing his pursuer crash to the ground at full speed as his horse collapsed with its lungs pierced.
Thomas forced himself up and on, red-faced and gasping as he staggered to the line and the second set of quivers they’d prepared. He thanked God the younger men had been faster than he was over rough ground. The fallen knight was beginning to rise when Thomas drew a new arrow and sent it through the man’s neck.
The meadow was wider than it was deep, an open strip of ferns and heavy thorn bushes, with a few stubborn oaks around a pond. It had been the obvious place for his men to fall back to, the fruit of local knowledge from boys who used to play and fish for newts there when they were young.
Thomas looked along the line for Rowan and breathed in relief when he saw him standing with the others. They’d lost a few men in the mad dash through the woods, but before he could call to his son, the trees erupted, mounted knights scattering small branches and leaves as they rode hard into the sunlight.
They died just as hard, hammered and battered as they entered the open space. The last of Thomas’s archers staggered among them, some dying from their wounds. One or two of those were killed by their friends as they shot at anything they saw moving.
Thomas waited, trying to control his racing heart. He could hear crashing and horns blowing in the forest, but the numbers breaking through to them dwindled to nothing and he stood there, waiting. Surprise. He had used it all. The French knew they were in a fight for Maine. He cursed aloud at the thought of the French king still among the living. Just one arrow in the right place and they would have won it all in a day, perhaps even saved his farm and his family.
He waited for a time, but no more knights came through and Thomas reached for his horn, only to find it gone, with a painful stripe along his neck to show where it had lain. He could not remember it being torn free and he rubbed in confusion at the red welt before raising his fingers to his lips and blowing a sharp tone.
‘Away!’ he called, gesturing with his aching right arm.
They turned immediately, trotting as fast as they could into the trees beyond. Thomas saw a couple of men bearing a friend, while others were left behind to bleed and cry out in vain. He closed his ears to the voices calling after him.
Margaret loved the Tower of London. It wasn’t just the way it made Saumur Castle look like a charcoal-burner’s shack in
comparison. The Tower was a complex of buildings as big as a village in its own right, girdled in huge walls and gatehouses. It was an ancient fortress protecting the most powerful city in England, and Margaret had begun to explore every part of it, making it hers in her mind as she had done with the Crow Room and the secret passages at Saumur.