‘Richard! What a wonderful day we have for it. Have you news of the king?’
York looked sourly at the older man.
‘I was coming to ask just that, William. I have no word from the ports that he is even on his way. Have you seen Derry Brewer?’
‘Not yet. Perhaps he is with the king. I think they were coming over together.’
York scowled to himself, staring over the crowd of French and English noble families, all enjoying the sunshine.
‘I can’t understand it. Unless he’s grown wings, he should be well on the road by now. My men would hardly have missed a royal party passing through Calais, but I’ve heard nothing.’
‘They could be outrunning the messengers, Richard. Have you thought of that? I’m sure they’ll be here in time.’
‘This has Brewer’s hands all over it,’ York said angrily. ‘Secret routes and subterfuge, as if even the king’s own lords cannot be trusted. Your friend Brewer will look a fool if the king’s party is ambushed and taken while we stand here in our finery.’
‘I’m sure that won’t happen. Derry merely seeks to keep the king from harm, as do we all.’
‘I won’t be happy until he’s safely married and on the road home. You’ve seen the soldiers they have camped all around us? Thank God I brought so many with me! This is a dangerous situation, William. I have too few men to hold them if they make a surprise attack.’
‘I’m sure they are only here to protect King Charles and his lords,’ Suffolk lied nervously. He dreaded the moment when the full details of the marriage agreement would be revealed. He had to hope the French king would not make too much of a show as he took command of his new territories. Knowing the French as he did, William de la Pole suspected that was a very vain hope indeed.
‘The town is like an armed camp and the French king isn’t even here yet,’ York said. ‘I’m missing something, William. On your honour, will you tell me I’m worrying over nothing?’
‘I … I can’t say, Richard.’ He saw the duke’s eyes narrow.
‘Can’t? There is something then, something I haven’t been told. I need to know, William, if I’m to protect the king of England on French soil. Do you understand? I cannot be caught asleep if there are plans afoot of which I know absolutely nothing. Damn that Derry! Tell me, Lord Suffolk. What have I not been told?’
A great roar went up along the road west. Suffolk looked towards it in relief, taking out his handkerchief to mop his brow.
‘Who is that?’ he said. ‘Surely not the bride yet. Is it the French king?’
‘Or King Henry,’ York replied, watching him closely.
‘Yes, yes of course,’ Suffolk said, sweating heavily. ‘It could be Henry arriving. I had better go and see, if you will excuse me.’
York watched the older man walk stiffly away. He shook his head in disgust, summoning a guard to his side with a sharp gesture.
‘Check the outskirts once more. I want Derry Brewer to be taken quietly. Bring word to me as soon as you have him.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
The guard saluted smartly and trotted away. York’s expression soured as he heard the crowd’s shout and understood that the French king had arrived at Tours. The sun was at noon and there was still no sign of the bridegroom or the bride.
Derry did his best to stroll as he walked through the field of French soldiers, all resting and eating lunch in the sun. The last time he’d seen that many together in one place had been a battlefield and the memories were unpleasant. He knew very well why they were there. The cheerful groups gossiping and chewing hard bread would become a military force again when orders came to take back the vast territories of Maine and Anjou.
Derry had expected to be challenged, but on instinct he’d lifted a heavy tureen of soup at the outskirts and staggered on with it. That simple prop had brought him right through the heart of the encampment. There were dozens of other servants fetching and carrying for the troops and whenever he felt a suspicious gaze, he stopped and allowed men to fill their bowls, smiling and bowing to them like a simple-minded mute.
By noon, he was through the camp and able at last to give the now-empty cauldron to a group of elderly women and walk on. The French king’s carriages had been sighted on the road and no one was watching the bedraggled figure wandering away from the camp.
Derry walked as far as he dared down the road, until he saw clusters of soldiers by the cathedral itself. It was just a short sprint away, but he knew he wouldn’t make it. Derry looked around to see if anyone had eyes on him, then dropped suddenly into a ditch by an ancient wooden gate, where the grasses grew thick.
Smug with satisfaction at having walked through a French army, Derry watched soldiers stop and search two carts that trundled past them. York’s men seemed to be everywhere. Derry made a face as he felt ditchwater seeping through his clothes, but he held his sack out of it and kept well down, using the gatepost as cover and waiting for his moment. The men-at-arms stayed clear of the actual cathedral, he noted. The church building had its own gardens, with a wall and gate. If he could just get through that outer boundary, he’d be in the clear. Cathedrals in France or England were all built along the same lines, he told himself. He’d be familiar enough with the layout if he could get inside.
Peering through fronds of dead grass, Derry could see the pretty birds of the wedding party, out in the sunshine of the churchyard. They were so close! He could almost see individual faces. For a moment, he was tempted simply to stand up and call to one of his allies, like Suffolk. York would surely not have him taken in public. Derry looked down at his sodden breeches and black fingers. He was as filthy as only days on the road could make him. If a peasant looking as rough as he did approached the wedding group, soldiers would grab him and bear him off before half the nobles even knew what was happening. Either way, it did not suit his sense of style to be manhandled by guards while he yelled for Suffolk. Derry was still determined to walk up to Richard of York in his best clothes and act as if it had all been easy. Old Bertle had always enjoyed his sense of style. In memory of the spymaster, he’d do it with a flourish.
Derry raised his head a fraction, watching a pair of guards who had taken a position solidly in front of the cathedral gate in the wall. They were sharing a pie and standing close together as they broke it apart with their fingers and chewed.
Beyond that wall lay the bishop’s own residence, with kitchens and pantries and drawing rooms fit for any lord. Derry widened his eyes, trying to keep watch for the other groups of soldiers on their rounds. Inch by inch, he reached into his sack for his heavy club. It couldn’t be the razor, not against English soldiers — and not on church ground. The sort of murky world he usually inhabited would only get him hanged in the bright light of a French day. Yet the thought of trying to go through two armed soldiers with just a slab of wood was more than daunting. One, yes, he could always surprise one with a rap behind the ear, but he couldn’t allow the alarm to go up or he was finished.
The sun moved into the afternoon as Derry lay there, growing frantic. Three times, half a dozen soldiers in English tabards of gold and red came marching round the cathedral boundary. They carried the sort of bows they’d made famous at Agincourt and Derry knew they could spit a rabbit at a hundred paces, never mind a full-grown man. He was almost invisible in his tattered brown cloth, but he still held his breath as they passed just twenty yards from him, knowing the hunters among them would spot even a twitch in the long grass.
Time crept by with aching slowness. Something large crawled across Derry’s face and he ignored it as it bit him on the neck and stayed there to suck his blood. There was only one thing that could distract the guards around the cathedral and he was waiting for it before he could move.