It came at two hours past noon, as far as he could judge from the sun. Men and women from the local villages began to swirl along the road and he could hear distant cheering. In a few moments, there was movement everywhere, with excited people running to get the best position to see the bridal carriages arrive. Derry stood up as a group of them went past him, using them to block the sight of England’s spymaster rising red-faced from a stinking ditch. He strode towards the guards at the gate and silently blessed the bride as he saw both men were looking west themselves. They had never seen a princess before and this one would be queen of England.
Derry stepped around a running child and brought his wooden club across the ear of one of the guards. The man slumped as if his legs had been cut and the other one was just turning in dawning surprise when Derry brought his stick back and smacked it across the man’s temple. The guard let out a grunt as he fell and Derry was certain he heard an English voice exclaim in shock nearby. He kicked open the gate and rushed inside, already pulling the grubby hat from his head and tossing it into a neatly trimmed bush.
The bishop’s apartments were separate from the cathedral and he ignored the path leading to them, heading instead to the vestry. Derry was willing to kick any door down by then, but it opened easily as he worked the latch and he was inside. He looked up slowly to see the enormous pink bulk of a French bishop, standing in what looked like white undergarments. Another cleric stood gaping, a long white robe in his hands.
‘My lord bishop, I apologize for disturbing you. I am late for the wedding, but Lord Suffolk will vouch for me.’
As he spoke, Derry yanked fine clothing from his sack and it was only the sight of fur-trim that stopped the bishop calling for help.
Derry felt a thump against the door at his back and turned swiftly to drop a locking bar across.
‘May I trouble you further for a jug of water? The bride is here and I fear I am too travel-stained to be seen.’
The two stunned clergymen looked at him, then the bishop gestured weakly to another room. Derry charged through to where a wide bowl waited on a marble dresser. He turned the water and a washcloth black as he rubbed himself down and stripped as fast as he could.
When he came out, the bishop was alone, his servant presumably gone out to check the bona fides of the stranger who had burst in on them. The bishop looked even bigger in his formal robes, a great tent of a man who watched with interest as Derry smoothed down his hair with a wet hand and shoved his crumpled sack in a corner.
‘God bless you, Your Excellency,’ Derry said. ‘I thought I wasn’t going to make it for a time.’
He walked out into the church.
‘There he is!’ a voice shouted in English.
Without looking back for the source of the call, Derry broke into a full sprint down the long nave, towards the sunlit door at the far end.
7
Margaret’s carriage pulled up in front of the cathedral, turning a wide circle. The crowd cheered and Margaret blushed as she and Yolande were helped down. The gossamer veil covered her face, but she could see them all clearly through it. They had come to that place for her. Her nervousness increased as she saw King Charles beaming to one side with her aunt Marie.
Her own smile grew strained under the veil as she caught sight of her father standing at the king’s shoulder, wearing a blood-red coat over cream breeches and polished black boots. The cloth was layered in patterns of gold thread and he bulged both over and under the stiff material. Yet René of Anjou looked smugly happy at the presence of so many fine nobles at his daughter’s wedding. As she curtsied to both men, Margaret wondered if her father cared at all about the ceremony, or whether he thought only of the lands he had won back to his family estate.
As Margaret rose, another man came through the crowd and bowed deeply. He was tall and wide-shouldered, his hair the colour of iron. His clothes were less gaudy than those of her father or the king, and somehow Margaret knew him as English even before he kissed her hand and spoke.
‘Princess Margaret, it is a great honour,’ he said. ‘I am Suffolk, but it would be my honour if you would call me William.’ To her surprise, he bowed again and she realized the big English lord was almost as nervous as she was.
As he was about to speak once more, her sister Yolande extended her hand, palm downwards, then giggled as Suffolk tried to kiss it and bow for a third time.
‘You must be Princess Yolande, my dear. I am at your service, of course,’ he said. His eyes came back to Margaret and he bit his lower lip.
‘I wonder if you would be so good as to grant me a word in private, my lady? I have some news you must hear before the ceremony.’
Margaret looked up to see her father and King Charles exchanging a confused glance.
‘What is this, Lord Suffolk?’ René said, bustling forward. ‘It is not seemly to delay the ceremony. Where is the bridegroom? Is he close by?’
Margaret’s heart sank as her father spoke. The English king was not there? She had visions of returning unwed to Saumur Castle, the subject of mockery and sly whispers for the rest of her life. She suddenly wanted to cry and felt Yolande’s hand take hers and squeeze it in silent support.
‘Your Majesty, my lord Anjou, I have some distressing news. Would you please escort your daughter out of the sun, into the church? It is not for all ears.’
Suffolk had grown red-faced as he spoke, looking as if he was about to burst with all the public attention focused on him. He was the first to look up when there was a clamour and a crash from the direction of the cathedral main door. Margaret saw an expression of deep relief come to Suffolk’s face when Derry Brewer came out of the gloom and skidded to a stop. There were servants passing through the crowd with jugs and precious glasses of white wine. Derry snatched one as he passed and strolled on towards the carriages in their half-circle.
‘Master Brewer!’ Suffolk said, wiping sweat from his brow with a cloth.
Margaret caught a glimpse of another tall lord turning sharply at the name and striding through the crowd towards them.
‘What a beautiful day for a wedding,’ Derry said in English, emptying his glass in one long draught. He bowed to the French nobles watching him with suspicion. ‘Your Majesties, Lord Suffolk. And these flowers of France must be princesses Margaret and Yolande.’
Derry bowed even deeper for them and kissed both hands with a smile that never left his face. He was sweating madly and looked as if he was trying to control his breathing, Margaret realized. Was he that excited to see them? It looked almost as if he had just been running. The nobles swirling around them were already whispering questions to each other.
Suffolk reached out and took Derry by the arm, growing even more flushed with strain and the heat.
‘I was just explaining, Master Brewer, that we should move to a private place for a moment before the ceremony.’
‘Excellent,’ Derry replied. As a servant passed, he exchanged his empty glass for another and sank that as well in three gulps. ‘It’s far too hot out here. Ah, Lord York! What a pleasure it is to see you so hale and hearty on such a day.’
To Margaret’s eyes, Lord York was much more the way she expected an English lord to look. He was tall and lithe, with a stern, square face and black hair cut short. His dark eyes flashed as he approached and all around them fell silent, sensing a threat like heat coming off the English nobleman. Once again, her father exchanged a glance with King Charles, growing more and more worried by the moment.
‘Your Majesty, Lord René, Lord Suffolk,’ York said, bowing. ‘I am very pleased to see you here, Brewer. I would enjoy a chance to continue our last conversation later on.’
‘Oh, as you wish, my lord. But today is not about our grubby little concerns, now is it? It is a day of celebration, with two great cultures joined in the promise of youth.’