Derry turned to the guard who held him. The man was trying to bow in the king’s presence without removing his grip from the felon he’d been charged with capturing.
‘There are no cardinals on a chessboard, but a king takes your bishop, if you follow me. Now then. I’m on the king’s business, so take your hand off my arm.’
The guard stood back, unnerved by the presence of the king and simply wanting to remain unnoticed by so many men of power. Derry cracked his neck and stretched his back, the only one standing up straight. Other men were beginning to rise, Tresham and Cardinal Beaufort among them.
‘Your Royal Highness, it is a great honour to see you well,’ Tresham said.
Henry blinked in his direction and Derry was sure he saw Margaret tighten her grip.
‘Where is William de la Pole, Lord Suffolk?’ Henry said clearly.
Derry could have kissed him as a ripple went around the group. Some of them were clearly puzzled, but the expressions of Beaufort, York and Tresham told Derry all he needed to know.
‘Your Grace!’ Derry called.
Dozens of men turned to see who was speaking and Derry used the opportunity to walk through the crowd. His guards were left grasping air behind him, furious that he had brought such attention on them.
‘Your Grace, Lord Suffolk has been accused of treason against the Crown,’ Derry said.
Tresham was hissing instructions to another man and Derry went on quickly before the Speaker could regain the initiative. In his mind, he could see how it had to go, if he could find the words.
‘Lord Suffolk has thrown himself on your mercy, Your Grace. He submits to the king’s will, in this and all things.’ Derry saw only blankness in Henry’s face and had the sickening sense that the man hadn’t heard him. He looked desperately to Margaret, silently pleading for her help as he kept speaking. ‘If you summoned his peers, Your Grace, you could decide his fate yourself.’
Cardinal Beaufort raised himself up then, his voice ringing out.
‘Lord Suffolk will be brought to trial, Your Grace. It is a matter for the courts of Parliament.’
As he spoke, Derry saw a grubby young man come racing through the crowd from the back. He carried a tube tied with a black ribbon and whispered to Tresham before bowing and backing away. Tresham shot a triumphant glance in Derry’s direction, raising what he had been given.
‘Lord Suffolk has confessed, Your Grace. He must …’
‘He has thrown himself on your mercy! He submits to the royal will!’ Derry said firmly and clearly, his voice ringing out across them all.
The phrases he used were as old as the building around them, a call for the king himself to rule on the fate of one of his lords. Derry was desperate, but he could not let Tresham and Beaufort assert their authority. The king was on the board. The queen was on the board as well, he realized, as Margaret began to speak.
Margaret shook with the effort of holding back tears. She had never been so terrified in her life as she was facing that array of powerful men. She’d seen the light fade in her husband’s eyes. The river trip had exhausted him, his body and mind as weak as a child. He had struggled against it, with thin muscles twisting in his arms and back as he left the barge and walked into the palace. He had called for William with the last whispers of his will and she could feel him stagger against her as the men shouted and gamed for position. She listened closely to Derry’s words, knowing that at least he would be protecting William.
For an age, Margaret waited for Henry to speak again. He said nothing, just blinking slowly. Her throat was dry, her heart hammering against her dress, but she could feel his coldness through the cloth and there was no one else.
‘My husband …’ she began. Her voice came out like a creaking door and she stopped and cleared her throat to try again. At one time or another, half the men there had tried to manipulate her husband. God forgive her, but she had to do the same.
‘King Henry will retire to his chambers now,’ she said clearly. ‘It is his command that William, Lord Suffolk, be brought to him. Lord Suffolk has submitted to the king’s will. The king alone bears the responsibility.’
She waited while the men stared at her, unsure how to take such a statement from the young Frenchwoman. No one seemed able to respond and her patience wore thin.
‘Steward! His Royal Highness is still recovering from his illness. Help him.’
The king’s servants were more used to her authority and they bustled around on the instant, leading Henry away from the chamber in the direction of the king’s personal rooms in the palace. A great tension left the group of men and Derry released a held breath in a long sigh. He winked at Tresham. The horse-faced lawyer could only glower as Derry strolled after the royal party. No one dared to stop him. The king’s presence had changed the entire game and they were still reeling.
23
Through a narrow window, Derry stared out over a cloister in the Palace of Westminster. It was cold outside, dark beyond the glass. He could see little except his bulging reflection staring back at him in gold and shadow. He sniffed and rubbed his nose, suspecting he had a cold coming on. Giving orders on behalf of the king, it had taken him two days to bring every lord in reach of London to Henry’s royal chambers. At Derry’s back, even the largest of the private rooms was uncomfortably crowded and warm. Fat white candles lit the stateroom from the walls, adding oily smoke to the fug of heat and sweat. In all, twenty-four men of great estate had come to witness the king’s judgment on one of their own. Derry had slept for just a few hours while they rode in and he hurt with tiredness. He had done all he could. When he’d finally seen William’s broken hand, he’d vowed to keep going until his heart gave out.
Lord York was there, of course, standing with six other noblemen with connections to the Neville family. Richard, Earl of Salisbury, stood at York’s right shoulder, wearing a thick Scots twill that may have suited the far north, but was making him sweat profusely in the cramped confines of that room. Derry found he could watch the group in the reflection of the glass and he studied the man’s son, Richard of Warwick. The young earl seemed to sense his scrutiny and suddenly looked over at him, pointing and muttering something to York. Derry didn’t move, or reveal his awareness of them. Those six men continued to talk quietly among themselves and Derry continued to watch them. Together, they represented a faction at least as powerful as the king himself. Three of them were Richards, he thought wryly: York, Salisbury and Warwick. Married to a Neville, son and grandson of old Ralph Neville. It was a powerful little triumvirate, though the Neville clan had married its daughters and sons into every line from King Edward the Third. Derry smiled at the thought that York had given his youngest son the same name, with a shocking lack of imagination.
Against them — and he was no longer in doubt that he stood against them — Derry had Somerset among the king’s allies, along with the lords Scales, Grey, Oxford, Dudley and a dozen other men of power and influence. All who could be called in time were present that evening, some of them still travel-stained and tired from a breakneck ride to reach London. It was more than the fate of a duke that had brought them. The king’s own powers had been called into question and the country was still going up in flames away from the streets around the capital.
Derry rubbed his eyes, thinking of the reports stacking up in the Tower for him to read. He recalled Margaret’s promise that she would cast an eye over every vital document. It made him smile wearily. There were too many for him — and he knew how to sift the wheat from the chaff.