Stormbird by Conn Iggulden

was in, with Yolande fussing around to arrange the train in such a way that it would not wrinkle too badly. Another carriage was already waiting to enter the courtyard and it felt as if the entire staff were coming out to wave her off. Margaret concentrated on breathing shallowly, feeling dizzy from the constriction. She could not have slouched if she’d wanted to: the panels of the dress held her upright. She raised a hand to the lines of maids and footmen and they cheered her dutifully. Her gaze fell on one she did know, from running into her during the king’s visit. That young woman was smiling and waving a handkerchief with tears in her eyes. Margaret felt like a painted doll compared to the little girl she had been then.
    Bright-eyed and panting, Yolande clambered in to sit at her side.
    ‘This is incredible,’ she said, looking all around. ‘It’s all for you! Are you excited?’
    Margaret searched inside herself and found only nervousness. She made a rueful face in reply. Perhaps she would beexcited on the road, but she was about to marry a young man she had never seen. Would this English Henry be as nervous? She doubted it. Her future husband was a king and used to grand occasions.
    Two more footmen in black, polished boots and spotless livery took their positions on either side of the carriage. In theory they would repel any thieves or bandits on the road, but there was no real danger. The carriage driver was a large florid man who bowed elaborately to the two girls before taking his seat and arranging a long whip with a dangling cord at the tip.
    Somehow the carriages began moving before Margaret was ready. She saw the walls of Saumur passing and leaned as far over as she could to wave goodbye to her mother. Her father and brothers had gone ahead the previous day. This morning was for the women of the household, but it had come and gone so quickly she could not comprehend it. All the hours since waking seemed to have been compressed into moments and she wanted to call out for the driver to stop, her mind flitting through a thousand things she was meant to remember.
    She saw her mother signalling to the next carriage, her mind already on the gaggle of cousins and the vast labour going on to prepare Saumur for a wedding feast that evening. Margaret sat back, seeing two more of the carriages waiting patiently to take guests to Tours. As she and her sister trundled out on to the road, Margaret listened to the driver clicking his tongue and making the whip snap, so that the horses lurched into a trot in perfect unison. She gasped with pleasure at the breath of wind on her face. It would be hours yet till she saw the cathedral. For the first time, she felt a pleasurable tingle of anticipation.
    As the carriage left Saumur land through the northerngate, the road widened. Both girls were awed at the crowd lining the verges. No one had bothered to tell Margaret of the numbers who had travelled just to see her. English and French alike stood waving their caps and cheering, calling her name. Margaret blushed prettily and they craned their necks and laughed in the sunshine.
    ‘Bloody hell,’ Yolande muttered in delight. ‘This is wonderful.’
    Suffolk did his best to hide his worry as he stood in front of the cathedral. He stared up at the double tower as if he found it interesting, doing anything he could to seem relaxed and untroubled. His new trousers and tunic itched, though he fancied he looked slimmer than usual in the cut. He was forced to mop his face as the weight of his cloak seemed to grow heavier with every passing hour, the fur trim tickling his throat. The English style of layered cloth was out of place in a French summer, but he noticed the French were dressed just as warmly, so that they were almost as red-faced as the English nobles already drunk on fortified wine.
    Suffolk envied York his trim frame as he caught sight of the man striding through the crowd and stopping to give orders to one of his