Destiny's Tide

by Destiny's Tide (retail) (epub)

  The Alice would never make the safety of Langstone harbour. The galley was closing rapidly, the eagerness and bloodlust all too visible on the faces of the Frenchmen in the bow.

  Thomas Ryman drew his sword, and kissed its blade: better to meet death at the hands of a dozen seasoned French soldiers than lying in his own piss ten years hence in a bed in Dunwich, he reckoned. For his part, Jack Stannard drew out his own blade. It seemed wrong that he should die here, so far from Dunwich, so far from Alice or Meg or Tom. But if God so willed it…

  There was a strange sound, like the roaring of a monster from the deep. In the blinking of an eye, the headway came off the galley. Its bow reared up for a moment, then fell back. Oars crossed, clashed, and snapped. The drumbeat ceased. The serried ranks of French warriors dispersed in confusion.

  Aboard the Alice, in contrast, cheering broke out as her men realised what had happened.

  ‘Te deum laudamus,’ murmured Ryman. ‘Te—’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Jack, who moved swiftly to take the whipstaff himself.

  The helm felt wrong. Even for such an unresponsive slug as the Alice, something was—

  The hull shuddered and slowed, as though it were a child trying to close a door against a gale. Jack beckoned over Chever and three other men, and together, they tried to work the whipstaff both ways. But the ship did not respond.

  ‘Jack?’ said Ryman.

  ‘Both fast,’ said Jack. ‘A bar not marked on Nolloth’s portolans – not that any of them are. The Frenchman grounded first, that’s all. All galleys have a great draught, and hers would be far greater than ours.’

  ‘We’ll come off, though?’

  ‘They may,’ said Jack, his voice tense with urgency, ‘if they’re on the edge of the bank and reverse their oars. But the flood must have been running a good six hours at least, and must be nearly at the turn. If there’s a double tide, there may only be a brief ebb, but we’ve no certainty the next flood will rise higher and float us off. And we won’t have the time to wait.’

  He pointed toward the galley, where men were already hauling in the two longboats towed behind their hull. Ryman made a swift, imaginary headcount based on the size of the boats, envisioned that many dozen Frenchmen were rowing for the Alice, and knew the truth of Jack Stannard’s speech.

  ‘Haul in the boats!’ cried Jack. ‘We’ll throw the guns overboard – God willing, it’ll be possible to salvage them.’ That, at least, would be what he would tell his father, whose greatly prized, and very considerable, investment the demi-culverins had been. Rather, it would be what he would tell his father if he survived the day. ‘Then we’ll burn the ship and make for the shore in the longboat. Will you take the skiff, Master Ryman, and report what’s occurred here to the admiral in that flagship, yonder?’

  Ryman smiled.

  ‘Report how a ship of Dunwich valiantly fought off a French galley, you mean, Master Stannard?’

  ‘Aye, Master Ryman. Something very like.’

  ‘Then I shall, and gladly. God be with you, John Stannard.’

  The old man extended his hand, and Jack took it.

  ‘And with you, Master Ryman.’

  ‘I’ll see you in a Portsmouth alehouse in a day or two, Jack, and we can raise our tankards to the king’s great victory over the French, to our part in it, and to the glory and honour that will accrue to Dunwich.’

  ‘Amen to that, old man.’

  Ryman looked across toward the great flagship, a brilliantly adorned and beflagged carrack.

  ‘Time to revisit an old friend, then,’ he said, cheerily. ‘I was last on her deck in ’twenty-two, when we invaded France. She’s the old Mary Rose, God bless her.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Two men of the Alice rowed Thomas Ryman toward the flagship. The water was still calm, but a few more ripples were now crossing its surface, and Ryman could feel the tentative beginnings of a firmer breeze on his face. He sat looking astern, toward the flames beginning to rise from the stranded ship. The crowded, heavily armed crews of the French longboats from the galley abandoned all thought of seizing the burning hull, turned away and began a pursuit of Jack Stannard’s longboat instead, firing off the occasional hackbutt. But the men of Dunwich had too great a head start, and the Frenchmen soon turned and began to row back toward their own vessel. Ryman saw the Alice’s boat ground on the beach of the island, and offered up a prayer of thanks for the safety of young Jack and his men. That done, he turned and looked toward the glorious spectacle rising from the water before him.

  The Mary Rose was an old ship, but she still made a brave sight. A four masted carrack, standing tall, she carried castles fore and aft. Her wales were painted brightly in red and gold. She bristled with guns, over a dozen of them protruding from ports along the larboard side which Ryman’s skiff was approaching. Smaller swivel guns were mounted every few feet along the ship’s rails. Flags of Saint George, royal standards, the personal banners of her admiral, and streaming green and white pennants, the same show that adorned the entire fleet, gave an appearance of a floating carnival. Men swarmed upon her deck. Soldiers manned the sides, the blades of their swords, bills and halberds catching the sun. The Mary Rose was nothing less than a vast floating fortress, mounting ordnance which outdid even the greatest artillery trains Ryman had ever seen ashore, and carrying a small army to sea to repel England’s enemies.

  However, Ryman’s reception at the larboard port left much to be desired.

  ‘An’ what in the name of Jesu be ye?’ said a stout, barefooted, dark skinned fellow with a rasping voice.

  ‘Thomas Ryman,’ he said, ‘sometime tutor-in-arms to the grandson of His Grace the Duke of Norfolk. Sometime sergeant under His Grace the Duke of Suffolk.’

  ‘Bless me, but ye’ve got a full surfeit of dukes and sometimes, haven’t ye, Goodman Thomas Rhymer? An’ yer business?’

  ‘To report to your admiral. And I answer to Master Ryman. Or Sergeant Ryman.’

  A small dog sniffed warily at Ryman’s heels, perhaps wondering if his shoes contained concealed rats, then wandered away, seemingly satisfied.

  ‘And report what, sirrah? How a dirty merchant’s hulk got itself stranded and had to be burned? Sir George don’t need a report on that. Saw it with his own eyes, and laughed himself hoarse. We all did.’

  Ryman endeavoured to maintain the patience and calmness that had been inculcated into him in his earliest days in the Greyfriars.

  ‘That ship was the Alice of Dunwich, man-of-war under the king’s commission, trying to run the gauntlet of the French fleet to join the navy royal here assembled.’

  ‘Dunwich? That right? Some of it still above water, then?’

  ‘Aye, Dunwich.’ The patience of the friary was wearing thin. ‘A borough of Parliament, that enjoys the favour of the Duke of Suffolk. The ship’s master, a good, loyal man who enjoys the favour of Lord Admiral Lisle. D’you want to answer to either of them, sirrah?’

  The stout man’s distaste for Ryman struggled against the suspicion that perhaps, just perhaps, this strange old man really could call down the wrath of the mighty names he deployed like regiments. With bad grace, the man turned and beckoned to Ryman to follow him.

  Despite the gunports being open, the principal gun deck of the Mary Rose was a low, dark and stinking space. Ryman had nearly forgotten what an apparent hellish chaos such places could be: ropes, netting, breech blocks, a thousand other kinds of tackle, men of the off-duty watch crammed into whatever space remained between and behind the great guns of bronze or iron, and the huge timber knees and beams that supported the deck above. Some men looked at him curiously, but most ignored him, and continued with games of dice, sewing their garments, or trying to snatch a few moments’ precious sleep on their jealously guarded few square feet of deck. The accents of a hundred men or more talking at the same time made the deck a Babel, but Ryman, who had fought with men from all parts of the British Isles and far beyond them, recognised the voices of Londoners, men o
f Devon, Kentish men, Yorkshiremen, and Welshmen. Whatever their origin, they all seemed impossibly young, Jack Stannard’s age and even younger.

  Your last campaign for certain, Thomas, he thought. Time to leave war to the young men.

  Just then, whistles blew, and somewhere high above them, trumpets sounded, drums began to beat, and the ship’s bell clanged repeatedly, as all hands were summoned to their quarters. Men thrust aside their games, and donned their jerkins and woollen caps. There was a flurry of shouts and activity as mess tables and sea-chests were packed away, and clutter cleared from around the great guns. Boys began to arrive from below with armfuls of small stone shot and bags of powder.

  ‘What’s afoot?’ said Ryman.

  ‘That much of a lubber, are ye?’ said the stout man. ‘Can ye not feel and hear the hull straining, man? Wind’s getting up, at last. Getting up just enough, at any rate. We’re going to teach them fucking frogs a lesson, that’s what’s afoot.’

  They emerged onto the upper deck, into a great crush of men. Sailors were running to the shrouds, swinging themselves outboard, and climbing up to the yards, their movements dictated by the shrill piping of officers’ whistles. Soldiers were securing their breastplates and helmets, then checking their weapons. The unfamiliar shouts of the seamen mingled with the all too familiar cries and commands of longbowmen, pikemen, billmen, and hackbutters. Gun crews were preparing to run out the cannon, while others attended to the swivel guns. Everywhere, Ryman saw smiles and heard cheerful cries. Every man on the deck knew that the calm which favoured the French galleys was gone, and it was now time for England’s great ships to do their work.

  A shout went up – ‘Remember Agincourt, lads!’

  The scores of men within earshot cheered lustily, and Thomas Ryman felt a surge of pride. This would indeed be the new Agincourt, an Agincourt at sea, and he would be a part of it. He felt as though he were thirty years younger.

  He glanced upward. Large nets, intended to hinder boarders, stretched across the entire deck. Above the nets, the canvas courses and topsails were filling with the ever-freshening breeze.

  Ryman looked out to sea through gaps in the blinds, the protective fencing erected on the rails. The Great Harry already had all sail set, and was beginning to edge her way to larboard, easterly into the heart of the Solent. Behind came four score of sturdy English men-of-war, the Saint George Crosses flying ever bolder in the breeze as it strengthened by the minute. Out to the east, well ahead of the Mary Rose, the French galleys were advancing steadily, the enemy sailing ships behind them finally getting under way.

  Ryman was taken up and onto the sterncastle. As was the modern fashion, the Mary Rose had her fore- and sterncastles built integrally into the hull, and the ship’s commander, the vice-admiral of His Majesty’s fleet defending England against invasion, stood by the starboard rail, close to the highest part of the sterncastle, above the level of the final net. He was attended by a small retinue of young men clad in gleaming new breastplates, virgin swords dangling at their sides. Ryman knew their kind.

  The stout man went forward and whispered to one of the youths, who frowned at Ryman, then turned and spoke quietly to the tall man of forty years or thereabouts who stood at the centre of the group. The tall man wore no armour; in his simple buff-jerkin, he might have been taken for a plain seaman, but for the immaculate grooming of his brown beard and the splendid gold whistle which he wore upon a chain around his neck.

  Sir George Carew beckoned for Ryman to approach.

  ‘A Sergeant Ryman, you say. Known to the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, you say. And the ship ablaze yonder, you say, a man-of-war from Dunwich. Would that be the strength of it, Master Ryman?’

  Carew’s accent was clearly that of Devon, tempered a little by years of courtly discourse.

  ‘It would, Sir George, begging your excellency’s most humble pardon. Despite a heinous and treasonable conspiracy by the shipwright, also her master’s mate, and a gaggle of malcontents from the towns of Southwold and Walberswick, Master John Stannard of Dunwich brought the ship Alice to the muster, as commanded by My Lord Admiral. He and his crew bravely fought off an attack by a French galley, and would have brought the ship safe into harbour, were it not for an uncharted sandbank.’

  Carew sniffed, and looked steadily at Ryman.

  ‘I assure you, Sergeant, that the bank in question is most certainly marked upon our charts. The knowing men amongst my sea-officers, the ones who know the Solent like the backs of their hands, could not believe their eyes when they saw a ship taking such a course – and, indeed, taking it in such a manner! “What sort of ship is that,” they said, “that labours in such a fashion, and upon such a course? Is it a true ship at all, or some ugly sea-elephant?”’

  The young men around the admiral laughed loudly, as though it were the funniest jest they had ever heard.

  ‘Sir George, as I say, the ship’s sailing was caused by a plot of Southwold.’

  Carew’s face creased into a ferocious frown.

  ‘What, man? You say one English town conspires against another, as if they were at war with each other, rather than with the French, yonder? Sergeant, I was born and raised in Devon. So I know too well of the rivalry that one place can have for another – of Plymouth for Exeter, or Totnes for Dartmouth. But none of them – I say, none of them – would aim deliberately to render useless a ship intended for the king’s service. We are all Englishmen in Devon, and know our duty. Yet you say matters are managed differently in Suffolk?’

  ‘Sir George—’

  The admiral raised an impatient hand.

  ‘Enough, Sergeant Ryman! This ship is England! We, here, are all England! We are sailing to crush the French, so we have more pressing matters to concern us!’ Yet Carew seemed still to be studying the old man’s face, noting the scars, observing the way he held himself, judging his claimed connection with England’s two greatest dukes, and reached a decision. ‘But if you are as experienced a soldier as you claim to be, you might prove to be of use to the king. Aye, mayhap you can yet redeem the name of this Master Stennett of yours. Several companies have lost captains, sergeants and corporals to the bloody flux and the sweating sickness while we lay at Portsmouth. Go down into the waist with my commission, Sergeant Ryman. Prepare to draw your sword for England once again.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  On the beach of Hayling Island, Jack Stannard and the exhausted crew of the Alice slumped upon the sand, drinking ale and eating the bread and cheese that local villagers had brought them, once they were certain those who had come ashore were not French. Offshore, the Alice was burned almost to the waterline, while the French galley remained firmly upon the sandbank, despite the best efforts of the men in her longboats to tow her off.

  Jack knew Ryman would be doing his best on his behalf aboard the Mary Rose, but a bold, glorious scheme to do even better was already in his mind. The harbour mouth between Hayling and the island upon which Portsmouth stood was narrow, there were boats further down the beach, and once on the other side, it would be an easy walk to the fort where the royal standard flew. What might Dunwich and the Stannards reap, if Jack could go before the king himself! And if the king was in a jubilant mood following the inevitable victory of his fleet, then who knew what he might order? The hanging, drawing and quartering of Jed Nolloth and Stephen Raker, perhaps. The destruction of Southwold, or at least, the withdrawal of all its pretended privileges. Even the deployment of the royal ordnance to blow apart the Kingsholme, reopen Dunwich’s ancient harbour, and restore the town to its rightful greatness. Jack Stannard’s ambitions now looked in a different direction, too. He still thought much upon the words of the Genoese Ottavio Valente, and had begun to dream of voyaging further afield than any Stannard – any man of Dunwich – had ever done. Who knew what riches might lie that way? There was talk of a Southampton skipper, one Reneger, who, in the spring, had taken a great treasure ship belonging to the Emperor, the first time an Englishman had ever d
one such a thing. If Jack Stannard could stand before the king, and have royal bounty bestowed upon him, might not such commands follow, and might not the rewards be boundless?

  Please God, such an outcome might even impress his bride-to-be, Jennet Barne, who otherwise seemed to be impressed by precious little.

  With such happy thoughts in his mind, Jack sat contentedly upon the sand, ate a piece of bread, washed it down with a mouthful of ale, and settled down to watch the mighty scene unfolding before him. The Navy Royal of England was putting on sail and advancing against the French, the Mary Rose to the fore. He could imagine Ryman’s joy at being in the forefront of a battle once again. Nor was it a mere skirmish, nor even a Flodden, nor a Pavia. This would be the battle to save England from invasion, fought directly in front of her great and mighty King Harry.

  There would be glory in abundance this day.

  * * *

  ‘Bowse hoa!’ cried the master gunner of the Mary Rose.

  The cry was repeated by every gun captain on the upper deck, and muffled echoes of the same order came up from below.

  The gun crews hauled on their tackle, and ran out the bronze and iron guns of the great carrack. Their shouts re-echoed around the entire hull.

  From off the starboard bow, the foremost three or four of the French galleys fired. Standing at his new station in the ship’s waist, Ryman saw one shot tear through the Mary Rose’s main course, while the others fell short. The great ship was turning rapidly to starboard, bringing her entire larboard battery to bear against the French. Each of the galleys, like the one that had attacked the Alice, had just one great gun, mounted forward. But the Mary Rose mounted over thirty on this one side alone, from little hail shot pieces to vast demi-cannon firing thirty-two-pound shot; and now, the master gunner gave his command.