He turned to the room, wanting it to be over. The life of his friend was at stake, but while fine lords played at justice and vengeance, the country they ruled was falling into banditry and chaos. It galled Derry that he had known Jack Cade during his time in the army. If he could go back to that time and put a knife in the man’s ribs, it would have eased his mind considerably.
‘Bloody Jack Cade,’ he murmured to himself.
The man he remembered had been a weeping drunk, a terror with an axe and a natural bully, though he’d held no rank of note. Cade’s tendency to thump his sergeants put paid to any chances of promotion from within, and as far as Derry recalled, the man had served his term and gone home with just a lattice of stripes on his back to show for it. It beggared belief to hear Cade had assembled an army for himself, roaring through hamlets and villages around London as they grew wild on success. They’d taken the head of the king’s own sheriff and Derry knew it had to be answered, hard and fast. It was almost sinful to have the king and his lords distracted at such a time. Derry vowed his own vengeance on all the men responsible, bringing calm to his disordered thoughts. Cade, York, Beaufort, the Nevilles and bloody Tresham. He’d have them all for daring to attack the lamb.
The room fell silent as William, Lord Suffolk, was brought in. He walked upright, though his arms were manacled behind his back. Derry had been able to see him only once in the Jewel Tower and he still felt rage at the cruel injuries and indignities his friend had suffered. Suffolk was an innocent in many ways. He did not deserve the spite levelled against him. Much of the responsibility lay with Derry himself and the guilt was a heavy burden as he saw William suffer the scrutiny of the Neville lords. William’s left forearm was like a leg of pork, fat and pink with splints on the fingers and all wrapped around in bandages. They’d had to find leg irons to get a set big enough to enclose his swollen flesh. Derry knew the sleeve of William’s jacket had been cut along the seam just to pull it on.
The king’s chancellor entered behind the prisoner, a short man with a wide forehead made larger by his receding hair. The chancellor looked around the room and pursed his lips in satisfaction as to how the lords were arrayed.
A lonely little space at the centre of the room had been left for William to face his peers. As he took his place, they murmured, staring and commenting in fascination. Suffolk waited with dignity for the king, though his eyes rested briefly on Derry as they passed over the room. William’s hair had been brushed by some anonymous maid. That small touch of kindness brought Derry a twinge of pain for some reason. In the midst of enemies and plots, some pot-girl had thought to take a cloth to the duke’s stained clothes and a brush to his head.
There was no fanfare to announce the king, not in his private chambers. No horns sounded. Derry saw a servant come like a mouse into a cage of lions, whispering to the king’s chancellor and then retire at speed. The chancellor cleared his throat to announce the royal presence and Derry closed his eyes briefly, sending up a prayer. He’d seen King Henry often over the previous two days and found him just as vague and blank as he had the morning Derry had rushed off to find William. The surprise had been to see Margaret bear up so well under the strain. For William’s sake, to save him, she’d put aside her fears. She’d given orders in her husband’s name as Derry instructed, trusting him. For the task of keeping William off the executioner’s block, they were allies to the end. He was only sorry Margaret could not attend the summoning. With the Neville lords and York watching, it would have been a sign of weakness to have the queen guide her husband. Yet the alternative was as bad, or worse. Derry bit his lip at the thought of Henry speaking to them. He’d risked treason himself in telling the king that he could not speak, not that night. Henry had agreed, of course, smiling and not seeming to understand a word. Yet there had been moments over the previous days when the king’s eyes sharpened, as if some part of his soul still struggled to rise above the seas that swamped him. Derry crossed his fingers as the king came in, new sweat breaking out over the old.
A padded chair had been placed a few paces away from the right side of William, Lord Suffolk, so that Henry looked down the length of the room, seeing all those who had come at his royal command. Derry watched with his heart in his mouth as the king seated and settled himself, then looked up with amiable interest. The muttering and whispering lords fell silent at last and the king’s chancellor made his voice ring out.
‘His Excellent Grace: King Henry; by descent, title and grace of God, King of England and France, King of Ireland, Duke of Cornwall and Duke of Lancaster.’
Henry nodded peaceably to the man and the chancellor swelled like a bladder as he opened a scroll with a flourish and read.
‘ “My lords, you have gathered at the king’s command to hear charges of high treason against William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk.” ’
He paused as William knelt on the stone floor with difficulty, bowing his head. Derry saw York smother a smile and would have given his eye teeth to have that man alone to himself for an hour.
The chancellor read the list. Half the charges related to the failed truce and the responsibility for the loss of English possessions in France. Derry had tried to strike some of the wilder accusations from the record, but that was one area where he had little influence. The scroll had been prepared by Tresham and Beaufort, no doubt with York looking over their shoulders and making suggestions. It was a damning list, even before the chancellor recited charges of secret meetings with the French king and lords, with the intention of usurping the English throne.
Only the slow flush spreading across William’s face as he knelt showed he was listening intently to every word. Derry clenched his jaw as the chancellor read amounts in gold that William had apparently taken in return for his support. Anyone who knew him would have scoffed at Suffolk taking bribes of any kind. Even the idea that such amounts would have become part of the record was ludicrous. Yet as Derry looked around the chamber, serious men were shaking their heads as each article, each vile calumny, was read.
‘ “Be it known that on the twentieth of July, in the year of our Lord fourteen hundred and forty-seven, the accused conspired in the parish of Saint Sepulchre, in the ward of Farringdon, to facilitate a French invasion of these shores, with an aim to usurping the rightful throne of England. Be it also known …” ’
It was not a trial. That was the only ray of light in the gloom, as far as Derry was concerned. He’d spent hours in argument with lawyers for Parliament and the Crown, but the king had the right to rule on a member of the peerage if the lord submitted to the king’s mercy. Yet William’s confession would stand, even when every man there knew how it had been obtained. The charges could not be completely revoked — that had been the deal hammered out in the small hours. To a degree, Derry had to accept Tresham’s claim that the country would rise in rebellion without a scapegoat for the loss of France.
Cade’s rough army was poised to enter London, no doubt waiting to hear Suffolk’s fate with as much interest as any others in the kingdom. Many of Cade’s recruits had known William in France. It grated like sand between Derry’s teeth that none of them seemed to blame York for losing Maine and Anjou, though he had been in command at the time. Richard of York had been quick to accuse the king’s supporters and, in doing so, had escaped criticism himself.
‘Lord Suffolk has confessed to all charges,’ the chancellor finished, clearly enjoying his position at the heart of the drama that evening. He held up a scroll with a black ribbon in his other hand. Derry was only surprised the thing wasn’t spotted with blood after the injuries he’d seen.
‘I deny all charges, all treason!’ William growled suddenly.