Destiny's Tide

by Destiny's Tide (retail) (epub)

  ‘You have been well, I trust?’

  ‘Most well, thank you, sir. And you have been busy, I trust?’

  ‘Most busy, mistress. The k-k-k-k-k-king’s Navy Royal is a busy affair – well, that is to say…’

  Will hoped to heaven that he was not blushing, but rather suspected that he was. A loquacious sort of fellow in spite of his stammer – Jack Stannard certainly thought him so, at any rate – Will was invariably rendered tongue-tied by the young lady before him, even though (or perhaps because) he had only spoken to her on a half-dozen or so occasions, and then but briefly.

  He essayed a recovery.

  ‘Most excellent weather for the time of year, m-m-mistress.’

  She nodded, her expression still bearing more than a hint of amusement.

  ‘Most excellent indeed, Master Halliday.’ She fell silent, and there was an awkward silence. Will knew it was his task to further the conversation, but he could not think of a single topic.

  ‘But hark,’ Marion cried excitedly, ‘the procession comes!’

  The sound of distant singing reached them, but so, too, did the unexpected response to it. People were not bowing and crossing themselves in silent devotion; instead, there was murmuring, frowns, sideways glances, and something else, too. Will, though, the sometime choirboy of Cardinal College, was intent upon the music. Not plainchant, but five-part polyphony – ambitious, whoever had set it – yet something was not right.

  Realisation came to him by way of Marion Bartleby, who was quietly mouthing the words.

  ‘English,’ said Will, unable to believe what he was hearing. ‘The l-liturgy is in English.’

  ‘A great day, is it not?’ said Marion. ‘So very right. So very due.’

  For many months, there had been rumours that Archbishop Cranmer wished to change the entire language of faith, not just small elements like the Lord’s Prayer, from Latin to English. But the king, who favoured many of the old ways of Rome, except naturally for its bishop, was said to have set his face against it.

  Until now.

  They could see the procession now, the priests in their copes, albs and chasubles, the choristers in their white gowns, the acolytes swinging great censers of incense. But none, Will included, paid any attention to the spectacle. Instead, everyone in the crowd was concentrating on the words, intelligible for the first time in the whole span of English history. Some faces were red with rage, and not a few turned away in disgust. Will saw one man risk arrest by spitting upon the ground in front of the procession. But others, Marion Bartleby among them, were enraptured.

  ‘My father has many dealings with the court,’ said Marion. Her voice was so delicate that Will had difficulty concentrating on her words. ‘With the royal purveyors, and so forth. He heard that last year, the king witnessed how the people made nearly no response to the services calling for God’s blessing upon the Scottish war. So this year, with a greater war, the king wants folk to take part – to understand what they are praying for. Ah, and listen! This must be the part that the queen has written.’

  ‘The queen? C-Catherine Parr?’

  ‘Queen Catherine herself, yes, indeed. The regent of this realm, Master Halliday, while the king goes off to war. Had you not heard? A woman in command of the kingdom.’ She smiled, and he was smitten once again. ‘That is a thought indeed, is it not?’

  Oh, it was a thought. As the processional cross went past and onward, up into the cathedral, followed by the ranks of brightly-garbed clergy and singers, Will lost all sense of Marion Bartleby, standing at his side. His thoughts raged. Some of them were singing the glorious, seductive bass line along with the choir. Others were turning over the enormity of this new innovation, the simplest but most profound of all the changes the king had yet brought to religion: the liturgy in English. And yet another part of his mind was wrestling with the notion of a woman ruling the realm. A woman, moreover, who could write the kind of words that were being sung there, in front of the great cathedral.

  ‘Bring down the power of the wicked, that they may perish together with their wickedness. Let thy zeal suddenly come upon them: the fiery thunderbolts and the spirit of the whirlwind be portion of their part.’

  The spirit of the whirlwind did, indeed, seem to be abroad in England that day.

  * * *

  Halesworth was far enough from the Suffolk coast for both men to be as certain as it was possible to be that no-one from their respective towns would stumble across them by chance. By the same token, though, it was a prosperous market town, at the junction of major highways, and therefore a place where it was perfectly plausible for both men to have business. The Angel was a large inn, close to the church and the market square, where the bustle of travellers and tradesmen made it possible for the two men to be utterly anonymous.

  ‘They are very generous terms,’ said the younger man, dressed more innocuously than was his usual wont.

  ‘Generous,’ said the older, who had an air of sadness and regret about him. ‘Yes, very generous.’

  ‘And you’d be protected. For the service you’d be rendering us… You’d be the best guarded man in Suffolk, my friend. Not even the old duke over at Westhorpe would be so safe.’

  ‘A reassurance. If I do what you ask, I’ll make many enemies. Some of them men I now call my friends. More than friends, too.’

  ‘If these men are truly your friends, then why do you not prosper more? Have you asked yourself that, my friend? Why do they possess land and gold, in a way that you do not?’ The younger man was relentless. ‘I’ll tell you why. They exploit you, and others, to enrich themselves.’

  The older man smiled.

  ‘And you do not? No bailiff, no merchant, in your town, does not?’

  It was the younger man’s turn to smile.

  ‘Men are men, my friend. And I see in you a man who craves greater recognition for his work. Greater reward.’

  The older man nodded. He looked away, through the unshuttered, open window of the inn, toward the east. Toward the sea.

  ‘Greater reward indeed,’ he said at length, ‘but still not great enough.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘There is one thing more,’ said the older man.

  The younger man, Stephen Raker of Southwold, listened to the demand, and granted it with a simple nod of his head. Fulfilling this one last term might involve certain difficulties, although probably not insuperable ones; but it would involve no cost, and given the gold he and his family had already committed to this cause, that was only to be welcomed. When all was said and done, it would be a small price to pay for bringing down the Stannards, those cursed and murderous whoremasters, and if God willed it, for obtaining a far greater prize, too.

  Delenda est Carthago; and just as Rome had risen in place of the fallen Carthage, so Southwold would rise to take its rightful place. To it, instead of to its rival, would come all the revenues, all the privileges, and, if God and the king smiled upon it, the two seats in Parliament also. Perhaps Southwold could do to its fallen enemy as Rome had done to Carthage, ploughing salt into the soil so nothing would ever grow there again.

  Stephen Raker smiled. Ultimately, the price he would have to pay the weak creature before him was well worth paying for the prize that might ensue.

  The downfall of Dunwich.

  FOURTEEN

  ‘This Bullen, Father,’ said Meg Stannard, standing by Jack’s side upon the Dain Quay. ‘Is that where the Bullen whore came from?’

  Jack turned, and frowned sharply at her. The quay was busy, and many Godfearing, respectable folk were within earshot, including a brace of Cuddon brothers standing just outside the door of their warehouse. Ever jealous of the greater prosperity of the Stannards, the Cuddons, long displaced from the rank of the richest family in Dunwich, would think nothing of turning the words of a child against their rivals.

  Jack stooped down and whispered sharply, ‘Where did you learn such a word, child? You must never, ever say that word again, or I sh
all have to belt you.’

  ‘But it’s what everyone in the town calls her,’ said Meg, stubbornly. ‘Anyway, Father, just what is a whore?’

  The sea washed noisily over the shingle of the Kingsholme behind them, the breeze whistled, and Jack Stannard imagined it bore the sound of Alice’s laughter, unrestrained in Purgatory. To stop himself following suit, he turned toward the charred, badly damaged hull of the Alice. By a miracle, the main body of the ship had been saved, but much of it would have to be taken apart and made new. Southwold’s attack had set back completion by months; but completed she would be.

  Finally certain that he was in control of himself, Jack turned to his daughter again. She was still looking up at him, serious-faced, awaiting a proper answer.

  ‘No, Meg,’ he said, ‘the late queen was named Anne Boleyn, which most men render as Bullen. Whereas we are setting out the Osprey, yonder, for the campaign against Boulogne, which, again, Englishmen render as Bullen.’

  ‘So are there whores in Boulogne, Father?’

  Jack turned right and left in desperation. Providentially, rescue came in the form of his cousin Simon Bulbrooke, master of the Stannard ship Osprey of Dunwich, who had, indeed, brought her home in time to be the replacement for the shattered Blessing, as Jack had prayed he would. Moreover, Jed Nolloth had insisted that he should remain ashore to work on the repairs to the badly damaged hull of the Alice, an opinion immediately and enthusiastically accepted by the Stannards. But with Nolloth ashore and Christopher Eagle dead, it meant that there were precious few shipmasters in Dunwich willing enough, or whom the Stannards trusted enough, to go with Jack upon the latest campaign. Indeed, only one man fitted both criteria: and that man was Simon Bulbrooke.

  Meg ran over to Bulbrooke, who gathered her up easily in his arms. He was a big man, clad in a favourite but now shrunken doublet that had become too small for him, his face framed by an unkempt, greying bush of a beard. He was nearly twenty years older than Jack, but he had always been as much a good friend as blood kin. Of late, though, there had been something of a distance between him and his cousin. Bulbrooke had moved to Ipswich and tried to set himself up as an independent merchant and shipowner, but as Peter Stannard observed, he lacked the quick wits, application and connections essential to success in those capacities. Consequently, the only outcomes of his venture into independence were that he had returned to Dunwich and become even more indebted to the Stannards. Simon Bulbrooke also had a renowned fondness for the bottle, even more so since he returned from Ipswich, and ashore or afloat, his gait was never entirely steady.

  For the moment, though, his disposition was sunny enough; it was too early in the day for him to have taken very much ale.

  ‘Well, Mistress Stannard,’ said Simon, smiling at the girl, ‘why are you not about a young lady’s proper business, learning how to be a good wife and mother?’

  Meg pulled a face.

  ‘Eugh! I’d rather sail with you to the wars, Uncle Simon!’

  Bulbrooke laughed, and turned to his cousin.

  ‘God in Heaven, Jack, what sort of a creature are you bringing up?’

  ‘I have tried to have masses said for me, that I may know the answer,’ said Jack, merrily. ‘But, Meg, be off home with you now. Uncle Simon and I have much to attend to.’

  Meg pouted as Simon Bulbrooke set her down on the ground.

  ‘Only Tom’s at home, with Joan,’ she said, ‘and he’s asleep.’

  ‘Well, then, you may go to see your Aunt Agatha, or your grandfather at Saint James’s, as you choose, but only after you’ve lit a candle for your mother at John’s church.’

  Meg grinned.

  ‘Of course, Father. As you say, Father.’

  With that, she ran off. Jack Stannard and Simon Bulbrooke looked at each other, and as one, the cousins burst into laughter.

  ‘Would that my own daughters had lived to be like your Meg,’ said Simon.

  ‘If you had five Megs, Si, you would truly regret those words,’ said Jack.

  Simon Bulbrooke’s wife had borne him no sons, but rather, five daughters, all of whom seemed to be healthy and flourishing, all of whom died before their tenth birthdays, followed swiftly by their broken-hearted mother. The failure of his family, and then, shortly afterwards, the failure of his mercantile dreams, meant that there was always an air of discontent about Bulbrooke, even when he was in relatively good humour.

  They turned to inspect the work on the Osprey, which was proceeding apace. Many in Dunwich, notably the Cuddons, said it was impossible for the town to provide a ship for the Boulogne campaign, so soon after it had sent one against Scotland. But Jack Stannard was determined to impress his betters by providing a ship for Boulogne from Dunwich, and those betters, in turn, had points to prove of their own. The king wanted England to demonstrate to its rivals that it could fight two wars in such short order, and Lord Lisle, the Lord High Admiral, was a mightily ambitious man, who knew it could only resound to his honour if he brought his ships from the north down in time to join those already assembling in the south. Jack, though, knew the truth of it from Will Halliday’s letters, namely that it was William Gonson, not the elegant Lord Admiral, who was making it happen. Thus the largest possible English fleet would sail against France, and against the king’s principal target, the city of Boulogne. It would carry a colossal army, which would be commanded by England’s mightiest generals. War with Scotland had been a business for earls and lords: war with France was the preserve of dukes, with both Norfolk and Suffolk in command of the army. But not the overall command. That would rest with the man who was to cross with the fleet from Dover.

  King Henry the Eighth was going to the wars, for what every man in England knew would be the last time.

  * * *

  ‘…and that, granddaughter, is why Dunwich must have a ship in this fleet,’ said Peter Stannard, sitting on a stool in the small herb garden of the lazar house. He could no longer tend to the herbs, for his hands were useless, but he claimed that their aromas soothed him. ‘The king himself will be present. Imagine it, Meg! Great Harry, in person. That’s why your father and I have set Nolloth and his men to work on the Osprey every hour that God sends.’

  Meg, sitting on the ground at his side, was thoughtful. This was her habitual state, for she thought much. For instance, she thought it unfair that her younger brother would one day inherit all the Stannards had, for he was a tedious little dolt with a runny nose. She thought it puzzling that, in recent weeks, she had several times overheard her father mention the name of a Mistress Barne to Joan Cowper. (At first, she thought he was speaking of a mistress who had a barn, but this seemed not to be the case.) Above all, Meg thought it strange that her aunt Agatha would be so very angry if she knew that her niece was again visiting her grandfather alone. She had heard her father and aunt arguing when they thought she was asleep, and although she could hear only a few of the words, and that only when one or other of them shouted particularly loudly, she knew that her grandfather was the cause of the quarrel. So Meg no longer told her aunt about her visits to the leper hospital.

  There was only one way to get to the bottom of the mystery, Meg decided.

  ‘Grandfather,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, child?’

  ‘Why does Aunt Agatha hate you? Why does she say I shouldn’t visit you alone?’

  Meg was good at reading expressions – Joan and her aunt told her so, and that it was a gift she had inherited from her mother – but she usually had no idea of how to read her grandfather’s disfigured face. Now, though, she could see emotions, but she could not tell what they were. He was trying to form words, but none would come. There was anger, and for a moment Meg thought he might hit her – her playmates in Dunwich, especially Miriam Day, said that her grandfather was a monster who had killed countless men, including one of his own brothers, but she had never believed such stories.

  There was something else, too. Pain? Grief? Were those tears in his eyes?

 
; ‘You are like her,’ murmured Peter Stannard, so quietly that Meg barely heard. ‘As she was when she was your age. Vade retro, Satana.’

  Why was Grandfather calling her Satan, and telling her to get behind him? But he was silent again, his eyes averted from her, and Meg knew better than to voice the countless questions in her mind.

  ‘I’m sorry, grandfather,’ she whispered.

  ‘I too, child. The Doom awaits me, you know. It awaits me.’

  He fell silent, and they sat, wordless, for some minutes. Meg thought of leaving, but then she thought of something Grandfather had said earlier, and brightened.

  ‘Have you ever seen the king, grandfather?’ she asked, with genuine interest.

  Peter Stannard looked steadily at her over the remains of his nose. His thoughts still seemed to be far away, perhaps still on the reasons for his daughter’s hatred of him. Slowly, though, he began to register what Meg had said.

  ‘What was that, child?’

  ‘Have you ever seen the king?’

  ‘Have I not told you the story? No? Well, then.’ Peter Stannard sat a little more upright. ‘Yes, child, I saw the king just the once, in the year ’twenty-six, when I took the Gift of God up London river, after coming back from the Iceland voyage. The king was jousting in the tournament at Greenwich for the birthday of Catherine, who was his queen then. December, it was, but a mild one, thanks be to God.’

  Meg sat up excitedly.

  ‘What was he like, grandfather? What did the king look like?’

  ‘A giant of a man, taller than any in Dunwich. Red hair that looked as though it was aflame in the winter sun. He moved with grace, and power, and looked with such love upon his queen. But love is a fragile thing, child, as you’ll find, in your time. Even then, the seed of doubt from Leviticus must have been in his heart. But he was noble, Meg, so very noble – every inch the epitome of a great king.’ Peter Stannard shook his head. ‘England’s last winter of harmony and good content, that was.’