Destiny's Tide

by Destiny's Tide (retail) (epub)

  There was no acknowledgement of any sort. Indeed, it was impossible to tell whether the king had even registered his presence, such was the flow of sweat into the already narrowed eyes.

  Great Harry rode on, into the Lower Town, and was gone from sight.

  Jack straightened, and despite the summer heat, he shivered. Even his father, the leper of Dunwich, seemed set fair to live longer than the mountain of flesh which had just ridden over the bridge, barely yards away from him. But only the appallingly frail body of King Henry stood between England and the accession of a seven-year-old boy, not very much older than his own Tom.

  Ecclesiastes Ten, verse sixteen: both Seaward at Saint John’s and Overfield at All Saints had preached upon it often enough.

  Woe unto thee, oh land where a child is king.

  * * *

  The capture of the lower town meant that Jack, Bulbrooke and almost all of the crew of the Osprey could attend mass, having been unable to do so since Calais. The church they chose for the purpose had been badly damaged in the bombardment, with its west window shattered and a large hole, presumably from a mortar ball, high up in the north wall, but it was still useable. Of course, its French priest had fled, but a few particularly devout, if nervous, members of his regular congregation joined the fringes of the throng of English soldiers and sailors, queueing to take the Holy Sacrament from a bumptious young chaplain of the army. Simon Bulbrooke still kept his distance from Jack, but the very fact that he had chosen to attend mass as part of the company of the Osprey suggested at least a slight thawing of his hostility. He was relatively sober, too, but it was an early service, and there was no guarantee that this condition would endure beyond noon-tide.

  Jack swallowed the wafer, crossed himself, and was getting back to his feet, when he first heard the commotion outside the church: the sounds of women screaming, of glass breaking, of drunken men laughing and jeering.

  The congregation spilled out of the church to see what was amiss. Jack realised his cousin was at his side, and that Simon was shaking his head.

  ‘Fuckwits,’ he said. ‘Bringing dishonour on England.’

  Some of the soldiers from the congregation evidently thought differently, and were already running to join their drunken fellows on the rampage. Men were breaking into shops and houses, stealing whatever they could carry. Just across the road, three soldiers were kicking a Frenchman who had fallen to the ground. A little further along, a woman, of no more than Jack’s age, had her arms pinned back by two drunken soldiers, while a third clawed at the front of her dress.

  A girl child of eight or nine years, presumably this woman’s daughter, was kicking at the legs of the third man.

  Jack felt his muscles tighten, sensed his hair bristling.

  ‘Not your battle, John Stannard,’ said Simon Bulbrooke, echoing the words he had spoken at sea.

  Jack barely heard him.

  ‘The girl,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘She puts me in mind mightily of my Meg.’

  He made to run forward, but his arm was gripped by a powerful, unrelenting hand.

  ‘No, Jack,’ said Bulbrooke urgently. ‘No. She looks nothing like your Meg. Nothing like at all.’

  Jack Stannard turned, his face a mask of fury. But his cousin’s expression was not what he had expected to see: not the face of the drunken coward, the craven determined to avoid a fight at all costs, that he now knew Simon Bulbrooke to be.

  ‘Si?’

  ‘No, cuz. She looks nothing like your Meg. But she reminds me of my youngest. She puts me greatly in mind of my Cicely.’

  Jack gave a nod, then shouted, ‘Men of Dunwich! To us!’

  The cousins, with the men of the Osprey at their backs, charged the soldiers. Jack took hold of the one in front of the woman, swung him round, and struck him hard on the jaw. The man fell back, feeling for the injury, looking in astonishment and fury at the man who had hit him. Meanwhile, Simon punched the man on the woman’s left in his stomach, while two of the Osprey’s men pulled away the man on her right. A gaggle of half-a-dozen friends of the would-be rapists ran to their aid, but there were more than enough men of Dunwich to give them a warm greeting; and unlike their assailants, the crewmen of the Osprey were sober.

  Jack’s target regained his wits, roared, and ran forward, drawing a knife from his belt as he did so. But the attack was clumsy, driven by rage rather than strategy. Jack sidestepped to his left, grabbed hold of the extended knife arm, and pulled it hard toward him. The man’s drunken momentum snapped his arm like a dry twig on Dunwich heath. The fellow screamed, dropped the knife, and grabbed at the broken right arm with his left.

  ‘Fuck you,’ he gasped between sobs.

  The other looters were already turning in flight, Simon Bulbrooke waving his fist and screaming obscenities after them as they ran. The man with the broken arm looked around, spat blood onto the road, and staggered after his friends.

  Jack turned to the woman. The little girl was clinging to her skirts, tears streaming down her small face, looking up uncertainly at her saviours.

  ‘Merci, monsieur,’ said the woman. ‘Vierge Marie, merci, merci.’

  ‘Not all Englishmen are alike, mistress,’ said Jack, even though he knew she would not be able to understand him.

  Her face was not unattractive, he thought. With a little attention to her appearance, she might even make something of a beauty. Jack was aware, then, of how long it had been since he was with a woman. Perhaps he could escort her to wherever her home might be.

  Simon Bulbrooke came over.

  ‘We’d best away, cuz. If their officers take their word over ours.’

  Jack nodded, the aching in his loins dissipating. The sounds of damage and shouting from all quarters of the lower town suggested that the looting was endemic and ongoing, and if officers were doing anything at all, they would surely be struggling to regain control. More likely was the prospect of the men they had faced returning with an even larger crowd of their friends, and if they had time to collect their weapons from their billets, the men of Dunwich would be in dire straits indeed. Either way, it was time for a retreat to the harbour, where they would simply be one anonymous ship’s company among many, and under the indisputable authority of the Lord High Admiral, not of those allegedly now responsible for law and order within Boulogne. It was no time for Jack Stannard to make a chivalrous offer to a French woman he did not know, in the almost certainly forlorn hope of a less than chivalrous sequel.

  ‘Aye, true, let’s away,’ said Jack. ‘And Si – thank you.’

  The older man nodded. The two cousins bowed to the woman they had saved, then, as one, both of them laid their hands on the head of the young girl, as if in benediction.

  TWENTY

  Simon Bullbrooke was entirely right about the progress of the siege. The rapid capture of the lower town lulled the English army into a complacent belief that the fall of the rest would be accomplished easily and swiftly, but nothing was further from the truth. All sallies against the walls of the upper town proved fruitless, and those same walls continued stubbornly to resist the limited bombardment of the few mortars that could be brought to bear against them. Countless parleys, where the king’s representatives sought to persuade the French commanders that no relief was coming and that further defiance was hopeless, ended in failure. The white fleur-de-lis standards still flew proudly from the walls of Boulogne, mocking King Henry in his vast palace of a tent on the plain outside the lower town, and on most nights, the French sent out raiding parties to strike directly at their besiegers, killing any Englishmen foolish enough or unfortunate enough to be in their path.

  For Jack, Simon Bullbrooke and the repaired, refloated Osprey, there was nought but the tedious routine of patrolling the river mouth, always taking their bearings on the astonishing edifice of Caligula’s Tower. But nothing remotely hostile attempted to come in or out of the harbour. There were supply ships from Calais or Portsmouth, the occasional royal man-of-war putting in from
cruising in the Channel, and that was all. Simon Bullbrooke was much less sullen than before, but even so, he still spent most of his time ashore.

  On a fine July morning, the Osprey was alongside the wharf of the lower town as two heavily laden ships came alongside the empty berth astern of her. Dozens of men, most of them small and dark-haired, disembarked, many carrying pickaxes or shovels, all talking rapidly to each other in unfamiliar tongues.

  ‘Welsh and Cornish,’ said Bullbrooke, standing alongside Jack at the stern of the Osprey. ‘Sailed to those parts, picked up a few words. Obvious what they’re about.’

  Jack nodded. Yes, it was obvious. The great, steep-sided hill upon which the upper town stood made it nearly invulnerable to artillery fire, but it also made it ideal ground for mining; and in that art, the Welsh and Cornish had few equals. From the wharf, and later from their berth in the harbour, they could clearly see the small parties of miners, picks and shovels over their shoulders, moving up the slopes, to the point where they were just beyond the limit of the range of the French archers and hackbutters. True, the English artillery, with the exception of the mortars, could not be elevated sufficiently to fire upward against the walls; but by the same token, the French cannon could not be depressed far enough to fire against the besiegers. So, apart from the occasional shot from one of the few mortars that the French in the upper town seemed to possess, the miners from the west could work with impunity, digging their tunnels into the hillside, edging closer and closer to the foundations of the great walls. At times, by both night and day, the French sent out sallies to try and disrupt the works and destroy the tunnels; and word carried down to the harbour of countermines, and vicious hand-to-hand battles far below ground. But the English had more than enough troops available to defend the mines and beat back any attack, and after some days, the French stopped making the effort, although they still mounted occasional nocturnal raids into the easier target of the lower town. That meant they accepted there could now be only one outcome, the sole remaining question being how long it would take their commanders to feel that their honour had been satisfied.

  * * *

  To Jack’s surprise, Simon proposed one evening that his cousin join him for wine and good fellowship in a tavern ashore, quite close to the bridge into the lower town. It proved a poor choice of date, for after long weeks of sun, the heavens chose that day to open. Heavy rain hammered down on the roofs of Boulogne, forming large puddles on the rock-hard streets and drenching the decks of the ships in the harbour. But Si Bulbrooke was determined, and the two cousins made their way to a small, low building from which hung the sign of the cross keys.

  As soon as they entered, it was clear that Simon was well known in the establishment. The host, an old, stoutly-built Frenchman, even greeted him with a little of his own tongue: ‘Ah, mon ami, the best of the godons! A jug of claret again, monsieur? Two jugs? Mais oui!’

  Jack knew little French, but godon was familiar. It was the Frenchmen’s half-friendly, half-hostile nickname for the English, derived from their neighbours’ supposed propensity for swearing. Over the years, ‘God damn’ had become corrupted into godon, which, Jack reckoned, was considerably milder than the habitual English characterisation of the French as ‘frogs’.

  The tavern had one large room, like so many of its equivalents in England. Fortunately, it seemed to be favoured by sailors, rather than soldiers; Jack was concerned that they might encounter the looting party again, but the Duke of Suffolk had apparently executed a dozen men as an example, and the wilder elements among the army seemed cowed, for the moment at least. Others may have been deterred by the suddenly inclement weather. As it was, Jack recognised a few familiar faces from other ships in the harbour. Indeed, it was almost like drinking in one of the inns of Dunwich, but then, sailors’ drinking dens were the same, wherever they were. He thought of Ottavio Valente, and wondered if the same held true of sailors’ taverns in Genoa, or on the far shores of the Levant, or in the Americas. One day, perhaps, John Stannard of Dunwich might find out.

  Simon Bullbrooke was swiftly into his cups. Jack could hold his drink – few men of Dunwich could not – but he could not hope to keep up with his cousin, who took two cups of wine to his one, as he always had.

  ‘I owe you an apology, Jack Stannard,’ he said, slurring on the surname. ‘Seems you were right and I had it arselins, cuz. I know the amount we’ve made in extra tonnage hire, all these days we’ve been here, for no risk. None at all. Your father will be a happy man. As happy as he ever is. Deo gratias indeed.’

  ‘We still have to get back safe to England, Si.’

  ‘Pah. An easy sail, Jack, nought but an easy sail. No, you were right, I was wrong. I’ve been wrong about so much, cuz.’

  Jack sighed inwardly. He had encountered his cousin in this mood many times, and wondered how many hours of pathetic self-pity lay between him and his bed.

  ‘All now water under the bridge, surely, Si? Come, let’s toast continuing good success to the voyage of the Osprey, and to victory in the siege.’

  Bulbrooke shook his head in the ponderous manner of the very drunk.

  ‘No. No, I must needs confess to you, Jack. I have confessed to a priest. I have received absolution. But I must confess to you, cousin. I have wronged you. I nearly wronged you greatly, and your father, too – so very greatly, Jack.’

  Jack Stannard said nothing. Simon would either tell him in his own time, or he would fall into a drunken slumber. In any event, the amount of middling French wine that he had consumed made it likely Simon Bulbrooke’s confession would be a thing of little consequence, perhaps no more than yet another apology for quarrelling with his cousin over the voyage of the Osprey.

  ‘I was nearly seduced by the devil, Jack. The devil tempted me, as he tempted Jesus in the desert.’

  ‘You compare yourself to the Christ now, cuz?’

  Simon narrowed his eyes, as though trying to examine Jack Stannard for any sign of insolence. Then he sat back on his stool, so far that he overbalanced and very nearly fell off.

  ‘I must confess to you, I say. I nearly betrayed you, y’see. Nearly betrayed Dunwich.’ He belched, then looked up as though seeing his cousin for the first time, then looked for the door, then belched again. ‘But first, young Jack, I must piss before I burst. And bezzle your wine, lad, you’re as abstemious as a nun in Lent.’

  He got to his feet, found an uncertain balance, and weaved his way to the door. Jack took a sip of his wine, and smiled. It was good that he and Si were on terms again: his cousin was a good man, at bottom, and the family had to.

  Jack heard distant shouting and screams, along with the hooves of many galloping horses, the sound getting nearer by the moment.

  He ran to the door of the tavern, but he already knew what he would see beyond it. Fifty or sixty horsemen galloped past, the beasts’ hooves splashing through the puddles, swords slashing and spears thrusting right and left. Far from preparing to surrender, as every man on the English side had expected them to do, the French were getting bolder with their night-time raids, bursting out of one or other of the posterns of the upper town, riding hard through the streets, or else attacking the trenches where the mines began. Their aim was simple and obvious: cause fear among the English, bring hope to those French in the lower town who privately detested their new masters, wear down their enemy, attempt to make more time for the Dauphin’s army, which was said confidently to be on the march, to come to the relief of Boulogne.

  ‘Si!’

  Jack watched in horror as his cousin emerged from the alley across the road, where he had presumably gone to piss. One of the last horsemen in the French raiding party swung his sword, and Simon Bulbrooke sank to his knees, a large dark gash opening from his shoulder to his belly.

  Jack ran to him, but it was obvious that nothing could be done for his cousin. Rainwater poured down his face and chest, where it mingled with the free-flowing blood.

  ‘Must confess—’

&nb
sp; ‘No, cuz. No need to make any sort of peace with me. Make it with God, now.’

  But Simon Bulbrooke was already dead.

  * * *

  The world did not stop to mourn. Jack’s cousin was one of a dozen Englishmen who fell victim to French swords that night, and although half the raiding party had been cut down, nothing was more certain than that the enemy would send out more, night after night. Still there was no sign of the upper town falling, nor yet of the Dauphin’s great army coming to its aid. Mortars kept up their bombardment, the miners continued to do their work, and the Osprey and her consorts in the harbour continued to patrol, or else just lay at anchor, awaiting orders.

  It was during one such lull that Jack decided he had better go through Simon’s sea chest. Better to occupy himself thus, he reckoned, than to think further upon the seemingly senseless manner of his kinsman’s dying, or to dwell upon his grief for the good man that Simon Bulbrooke had once been. No: the opening of the sea chest, and the sifting of its contents, was the last service that Jack could perform. True, there was no wife or children to receive any personal effects, but it may be that his cousin had papers or other materials that pertained to the business affairs of the Stannards, and Jack presumed that he and his father had to be the dead man’s only heirs.

  Two of the crewmen carried the chest from the fo’c’s’le to Jack’s cabin, and placed it upon the small oak table. It was a battered affair, much like Jack’s own, and contained very similar things: the familiar, expected possessions of a seafarer, such as spare shirts and breeches, Si’s best doublet, several combs, thimbles, dice, and his favourite pewter tankard, from which he would never quaff ale again. There were, as expected, bills of lading, inventories, letters from factors and from Jack himself, and similar items of business, all of which Jack assembled into one package, to be deposited in due course in the Stannard’s counting office in Dunwich. There were weapons, too: three large, well-polished knives and a handgun, any one of which might have saved Si’s life had he carried them on the night of his death. And, very nearly at the last, there was a locket of gold, upon a chain. Jack opened it, and saw five locks of hair, the last relics and keepsakes of Simon Bulbrooke’s five daughters.