On his left, he could see the little Scot, Tanter, on the enormous beast of a plough horse he’d been given. Jack thought the man looked like a fly sitting on an ox, with his legs tucked up under him. Tanter was watching a pair of mistle thrushes, darting and soaring in an empty evening sky. The air was already thick and a bank of dark clouds was massing to the west. Cade suddenly remembered his mother telling him the thrushes were the last birds in the air before a great storm. Country folk would see them flying alone on the wind and know a tempest was on its way. Jack smiled at the memory. He was bringing the storm to the city that night, walking with it all around him, in the faces and cold iron of angry men.
A dozen of the biggest Kent lads stood close to Cade, grinning wolfishly in the light of the torches held high in their hands. It made a ring of light around him, so that they could all see their leader, as well as the Kentish banner they followed. Jack looked down at the boy carrying the pole, just one of a hundred keen lads they’d picked up along the way. Some of them were sons of the men, others just homeless urchins who’d followed in their wake, fighting over scraps and staring with wide eyes at adults who looked so fierce with their blades and tools.
Jack saw the boy was watching him and he winked.
‘What’s your name, lad?’
‘Jonas, captain,’ the boy replied, awed at having Cade speak to him.
‘Well, raise it up, Jonas,’ Jack said. ‘Both hands and steady, lad. It’s a good Kentish sign — and a warning.’
Jonas straightened, lifting the pole like a banner. The boy lacked the strength to hold it steady and it swayed in the golden light under the weight of the white-horse shield and the sheriff’s head.
‘You keep that high while we march. The men need to see it and know where I am, all right?’
‘Yes, captain,’ Jonas said proudly, staring in concentration at the wavering point above him.
‘Ready, captain!’ Paddy bellowed from over on his right.
‘Ready, Jack!’ Woodchurch shouted, further back.
Cade smiled as the calls were echoed all around him, until there were hundreds, then thousands repeating it in a growl of sound. They were ready.
Jack inflated his chest to give the order to march, but he saw a fellow pushing through the ranks towards him and waited to see what he was after. Heads turned to follow as the man grunted and slipped through, arriving panting at Jack’s side. He was a small man, with the sallow skin, thin arms and hollow cheeks that only decades of poverty could produce. Jack beckoned him closer.
‘What is it? Lost your nerve?’ he said, making his voice kind as he saw the man’s worry and fear written into every line of him.
‘I … I’m sorry, Jack,’ the man said, almost stammering. He looked around him at the glowering axemen and briefly up to the Kentish banner. To Jack’s surprise, he crossed himself as if he saw a holy relic.
‘Do I know you, son?’ Jack said, confused. ‘What brings you to me?’
Cade was leaning close to hear the reply when the man lunged towards his neck, a dagger in his hand. With a curse, Jack smacked it away with a raised arm, hissing in pain as the blade cut the back of his hand. The knife flew out of the man’s grip, clattering against metal and vanishing. Jack clenched his jaw and reached out with both hands, grabbing the man’s head and twisting hard. The man screeched and struggled until a snap sounded and he went limp. Jack let the body fall bonelessly to the ground.
‘Fuck you, boy, whoever the hell you were,’ he said to the corpse. He found he was breathing hard as he looked up into the shocked faces of the men around him.
‘Well? Did you think we didn’t have enemies? London’s sly, and don’t you forget it. Whatever they promised him, I’m still standing and he’s done.’
At a sudden flurry of movement, Cade spun round, convinced he was about to be attacked again. He saw Ecclestone barge through the crowd, with his razor held high, ready to kill. Jack faced him, raising his shoulders bullishly as rage filled him with strength.
‘You too?’ he growled, readying himself.
Ecclestone looked down at the body, then up into Jack’s eyes.
‘What? Christ, no, Jack. I was following him. He looked nervous and he kept creeping closer to you.’
Jack watched as his friend folded the narrow blade and made it vanish.
‘You were a bit late then, weren’t you?’ he said.
Ecclestone gestured uncomfortably to where blood dripped from Jack’s hands.
‘He cut you?’ he asked.
‘It’s not bad.’
‘I’ll stay close, Jack, if you don’t mind. We don’t know half of the men now. There could be others.’
Jack waved away the idea, his good mood already returning.
‘They’ve shot their bolt, but stay if it makes you happy. Are you ready, lads?’
The men around him were still pale and shocked at what they had witnessed, but they mumbled assent.
‘Watch my back while we march then, if it pleases you,’ Jack said. ‘I’m for London. They know we’re coming and they’re frightened. So they should be. Raise that pole high, Jonas! I bloody told you once! Let them see us coming.’
They cheered him as he set off, thousands of men walking in the darkness towards the capital. Fat drops of warm, summer rain began to fall, making the torches sizzle and spit. The men talked and laughed as they went, as if they were strolling to a market day or a county fair.
Cripplegate remained open, lit by braziers on iron poles. The king’s carriage was enclosed against the cold, with Henry well wrapped inside. Around the king, sixty mounted knights were his escort north, taking him away from the capital city. Henry looked out at the lighted gate, trying to turn in his seat to see it shut behind him. The ancient Roman wall stretched away in both directions, enclosing his city and his wife. His hands trembled and he shook his head in confusion, reaching for the door and opening it part of the way. The movement brought the instant attention of Lord Grey, who turned his horse towards the king’s carriage.
Henry gathered his thoughts, feeling the process like grasping threads. He recalled speaking to Margaret, asking her to come with him to Kenilworth, where she would be safe. Yet she was not there. She’d said Master Brewer had asked her to stay.
‘Where is my wife, Lord Grey?’ he asked. ‘Is she coming soon?’
To Henry’s surprise, the man did not respond. Lord Grey coloured as he dismounted and came to the carriage side. Henry blinked at him in confusion.
‘Lord Grey? Did you hear me? Where is my wife, Margaret …?’
He broke off, suddenly sensing it was a question he had asked many times before. He knew he’d been dreaming for a time. The physician’s draughts made false things seem real and dreams as vivid as reality. He could no longer tell the difference. Henry felt a gentle pressure on the carriage door as Lord Grey pushed on it, looking away at the same time so he would not have to see his king’s wide eyes and grief-stricken expression.
The door shut with a soft click, leaving Henry peering out of the small square of glass. When it misted with his breath he rubbed at it, in time to see Grey shake his head at one of the knights.
‘I’m afraid the king is unwell, Sir Rolfe, not quite in his right mind.’
The knight looked uncomfortable as he glanced back at the pale face watching him. His head dipped.
‘I understand, my lord.’
‘I hope so. It would be unwise of you to suggest I ever closed a door on my sovereign, Sir Rolfe. If we understand each other …?’