Margaret of Anjou by Conn Iggulden Page B

Brewer made himself invaluable as each household arrived. He wore a simple dark tunic and hose, standing unremarked among the royal staff. He smiled vaguely at everything he saw, but his eyes were sharp and he missed nothing.
    From just after dawn, servants in the colors of great houses would come running along the road, announcing their masters and mistresses long before they were in sight. Some would send stewards to prepare the way still further. By the time the heads of noble houses actually rode through the great gates, Derry had delivered a stream of whispered information to the queen’s ear. He carried no ledger, merely tapping his head when Margaret expressed surprise or even blushed at what he knew.
    Baron Gray was one she would remember. He had sent no one ahead, arriving up from the town with his rather thin wife on horseback beside him and two fresh-faced lads struggling along in matched tunics, carrying a heavy box. Margaret warmed to the man instinctively, her expression freezing as Derry whispered, “Sodomite and pederast, like the Greeks. Fond of his wife, but I’m told he preys on poor lads. Discreet enough. Proud as the devil and about as cruel.” Margaret glanced at her spymaster as Baron Gray approached. Derry had described a number of peculiarities in the noble guests, from suspicions of an old theft to a broken marriage promise and a ruined girl paid to keep silence. She had heard a tinge of humor in his voice more than once, but no sense of judgment, just a dry recital of old sins and weaknesses. Yet there was something unpleasant in Derry’s eyes as Lord Gray approached. Margaret caught a glimpse of it before it was shuttered away, something dull and flat and murderous.
    Baron Gray bowed deeply to her. His eyes suited his name, rather small and hard in a fleshy, pink face. His wife curtseyed deeply, her entire head hidden by an elaborate bonnet. Words failed Margaret and she only stared, extending her hand to the man. Before that day, she could not honestly have said she knew what a pederast actually was. Derry’s brief description had filled her mind with unpleasant images that made it very hard not to shudder as Gray touched the back of her hand with moist lips. The moment passed and the baron moved on, his wife looking back with thin-lipped pride as they were ushered away. Margaret forced herself to breathe, focusing on Derry saying something about tin mines and an elderly baron bowing like a dancing master, though he was twice her age.
    By nightfall, Margaret retired at last, her feet sore from standing. She had rested for brief periods during the day, called away from food or a welcome chair to greet another arrival. She had seen their pleasure that she had done so and, though she was weary, she did not regret the time lost. For the twelve nights following, she would know every man and woman in the castle.
    With Derry’s aid, she had been able to place old enemies far apart. She had even ensured the prickly sensibilities of one senior countess were not inflamed by the view of a pretty young cousin as she rose each morning. On Derry’s suggestion, Margaret had made a great fuss of Baron Audley, a white-bearded old soldier who flushed delightedly at her attention. Yet when Baron Clifford arrived, her spymaster grew stern as he leaned close, facing Margaret so that his back was to the man coming toward them both.
    “Give him an inch and he will take it as weakness, my lady,” Derry muttered. “Lord Clifford sees either wolves or deer—nothing in between. Needless to say, he does not respect the deer.”
    Margaret had raised her head at that, determined not to wilt. Her expression had been chilly as she welcomed Baron Clifford. The man matched her for stiffness, following the servants to rooms far from the main halls.
    The absence of one name was a source of enduring bitterness. Margaret counted Somerset as a friend and she hated to think of him being held prisoner. The earl’s rank