Will Conyers, captain of the Norwich Lass, was exasperated. It was all very well for the king to say he and his tiny band of followers were ready to fight the appallingly obvious might of the Hanseatic League, but that wouldn’t help much when the vessels came together. This contest was idiotically unequal. They were doomed.
The king, however, was apparently indifferent to their impending fate, as were his men. Obediently they shuffled themselves into a compact group on the slimy deck—a party of twenty or so, including no more than ten archers. None of them found it easy to catch the rhythm of the bucking ship but they drew their swords anyway and nocked their arrows, the archers praying the strings had not been slackened by the flying sea.
Will shook his head and turned away from their folly. He could only muster a hasty “My thanks, sire” before roaring for his men to haul on the yards harder, harder, and abusing the tillerman: “Bring her round, round, you nun’s bastard. I said bring her round!” Made furious by terrified ineptitude, Will grasped the tiller himself and began to haul with all his considerable strength.
Slowly, so laboriously, the Norwich Lass finally answered, began to turn as she caught the wind. Sail suddenly taut, she leapt as if alive and bit down into the running sea, more nimble than Will Conyers had ever seen her. Perhaps she knew what faced them all and was trying to escape in her own way. But the captain had no time for gratitude. “Guns! They’ve opened the ports!” came the cry.
Indeed they had. The Danneborg, immediately to starboard and four times the cog’s size, had bronze bombards poking out in a line along her mighty flank.
“Down, all. Down!” Will roared.
Edward ignored the captain. “Archers?” The men stood straighter, trying to brace themselves against the lurching deck. “On my mark, high and fast and… loose!”
A good archer fires fifteen arrows in the space of one minute, and these were good. The last of Edward’s own Welsh guard, they’d made the mad dash from Nottingham across Lincolnshire beside him, in company with his most loyal friends and supporters: his brother, Richard of Gloucester; William, Lord Hastings, high chamberlain of England; and his brother-in-law, Lord Rivers. Now here they were, facing death once more, even so close to the coast of the Low Countries and safety. The English arrows hit the deckmen of the Hanseatic carrack with a sighing, lethal whine, proving what Edward already knew: his archers themselves were the true weapons, not their bows. At one with the yew as it bent and sang, they fired as regularly, as rhythmically, as the workings of one of his mechanical clocks. And they did enough damage for their opponents to falter, for some of the cannon crew to misfire. And then, when the helmsman was hit on the castellated deck and the captain winged where he stood bellowing orders, the carrack lurched and lost the wind.
It was enough, just enough, and not a moment too soon, for the archers had loosed nearly all their arrows.
Will Conyers crossed himself, astonished, and for a moment thought of his wife waiting at home back in Lynn. She’d be none too pleased by this adventure. Even as he bellowed at the crew to trim the sail again and swung the tiller hard to port, he made himself a promise. He’d sell the Lass, go in with Nan’s dad on the alehouse. He’d had enough of the sea. Yes, there was a message in this mad adventure with Edward Plantagenet. Be damned if he’d lose his ship or his life for a man who’d gambled his throne in this gathering disaster of his own making!
All the while, as Will hauled the Lass about and more surely into the wind, he talked to her as if she were a horse or a woman. She was a tricky thing and might be offended by his traitorous thoughts. “Come up, my girl, that’s the way. Now bite down, bite down harder and… take the wind!”
And as she did, the men on board cheered and stomped, hoarse with relief as the little cog left the carrack wallowing in her modest wake, their shouts drowned in the slap of the sea, the howl of rushing air in the belly of the sail. There, less than a league away, was the little Dutch port of Alkmaar, and never was a sight more welcome. Edward cheered with the rest of them and felt the fear leach away as his heartbeat slowed. Their luck would turn now, please God. Charles of Burgundy, his brother-in-law, held the Low Countries as part of his dukedom. Soon they would be among friends and have time to think their way through the puzzle that England had become now that Edward had fled the country. He would need money, men, and arms to restore his patrimony, restore his throne.
And for all of these, he needed help. Someone to intercede with Charles on his behalf, to make his case for assistance. A messenger had been dispatched from York more than ten nights since. Had he found her? Dear Lady in Heaven, had the man found Anne de Bohun?
CHAPTER THREE
“I will not go. No! Not until I know where the king is and if he is safe.”
The scene in the queen’s rooms at Westminster Palace was chaotic. Elizabeth Wydeville’s chamber women and her lady companions stumbled over each other, cursing, as they shoved clothes, veils, linen, and jewels into coffers and boxes, terror making fingers clumsy and tempers short. The queen herself sat immovable on her chair of state, her straight back rigid with defiance.
“But, Your Majesty, we have word that the army is outside the wall. The Londoners and the city will not hold them for long. Earl Warwick and—” The queen’s personal chamberlain, John Ascot, gulped and, swallowing air, choked into a fit of coughing. It was the stress of this terrible day—and the fact that he must tell the queen the truth.
“Clarence? Go on, man, say his name. My husband’s brother, that traitor, Clarence, is with him, isn’t he? Isn’t he?”
John Ascot was pale with the effort of persuading his pregnant mistress to leave the palace. For her sake, and his, one of them had to stay calm, though it was hard.
“Your Majesty, I understand that the duke does accompany the earl. This may be a good thing—”
“A good thing, Master Chamberlain? A good thing!”
The chamberlain winced at the queen’s tone but forced himself to meet her frigid glance. He bowed as deeply as he could and spoke the shocking truth; there was no time for niceties now.
“The duke is popular with the London commons, Your Majesty. That may buy us a little time. But you must come with me immediately. For the sake and safety of the prince still to be born. And his father.”
Elizabeth Wydeville closed her eyes so the chamberlain would not see the sudden tears. Unconsciously, her hands clenched around her greatly swollen belly. The child kicked vigorously beneath her fingers. “There is no other place?”
She spoke so low, John Ascot had to lean forward to hear her words. His mistress was a difficult woman, little loved by those who served her, but unexpectedly he was touched by more than duty. There was despair in that whisper.
He shook his head. “I dearly wish I could offer you another refuge, but you and the prince to come will be safe there. The holy abbot, Dr. Milling, has offered his own personal quarters to Your Majesty and”—he looked around at the women in the chamber, all of whom were now listening breathlessly—“some of your women.”
Elizabeth opened her eyes at that and skewered him with her glance. “How many?”
“Five, Your Majesty.”
There was an instant of stricken silence, then a low agitated tide of noise rose higher, and higher.
“Five? That is impossible!” The queen was implacable.
John Ascot turned to face the queen’s women. “It must be so. There is no room for more.” He caught the eye of the queen’s mother, Jacquetta of Luxembourg, with a pleading glance. Help me!
The duchess, who had been supervising the queen’s women as they packed, was not the daughter of a great nobleman for nothing. She clapped her hands for silence, and was rewarded. Her, they respected. “Very well. You, you, and you. And you—and you, there, holding the green veil.” Jacquetta pointed around the room at individual women. “You five will accompany the queen and myself.” A bright glance stopped John Ascot, who had been about to protest. Jacquetta made six. “Hurr
y now, we must finish packing for the queen and leave immediately for sanctuary in the abbey.”
The train of the duchess’s black velvet gown was encrusted with silver embroidery and very heavy; normally at least two ladies were required to hold it up as she walked. Now, she swept the material up in one hand, as if it had been silk sarcenet, and held out the other to the queen.
“Come, my daughter. It is time. Let me help you; lean on my arm.”
The queen exhaled a deep breath; the sigh became a sob between clenched teeth. “I can’t. I can’t stand.”
“Chamberlain?”
One on each side of her, Elizabeth Wydeville’s bulky body was levered out of her Presence chair by her mother and John Ascot. As they helped her walk slowly from the bed chamber, past rows of kneeling, crying women, Elizabeth cast a glance back toward the massively carved chair. Who would sit in it next?
And would she ever see the king, her husband, again?
CHAPTER FOUR
“Master Conyers, I thank you for the service you have given. But I am embarrassed. We left Lynn so quickly that I have no coin.”
Edward looked at the small band of men clustered around him on the sturdy wharf at Alkmaar. The land still tipped and swung; it made no difference that the earth lay quietly beneath their feet. The king didn’t want to beg money from his friends; they’d need every groat, penny, and angel in the next little while.
“Which would you rather have? This?” Edward pulled a ring from his right hand, a heavy gold band set with a beveled jasper in which had been carved his crest, a rayed sun in splendor. “Or this?” The king swung his riding cloak from his shoulders. Cut from expensive broadcloth dyed a rare, lively blue, the garment was lined with winter marten, with the same fur forming a deep band at the hem. It was joined at the throat by a chain of silver gilt studded with emeralds.
Will Conyers hadn’t wanted to come on this voyage, but what did a man say to a bunch of lords who stepped onto his boat one blustery autumn morning, slung around with weapons, and demanded, “Take us to the Low Countries”? Nothing, unless he was a fool.
And now here they were and they couldn’t pay him; not properly. Yet gold was gold—that seal ring would be worth some sort of price to the Jews—and the king’s cloak was a very fine thing also. Certainly he could sell it, if he chose. And if he didn’t, what a fine sight he’d make at home on market day. If Nan, his wife, allowed him to keep it.
He laughed suddenly and Edward, trying not to shiver in the brisk wind from the sea, laughed with him. “Well, master, which is it to be?” The captain of the Norwich Lass found himself bowing and was surprised. He’d never felt any real allegiance to this king in faraway London, even though the queen’s family had connections in Lynn. Maybe, in the end, that slender thread of affinity counted for something.
“I’ll take the cloak, liege. I’ve a mind to dress like a king when I get home.”
There was a moment’s shocked silence and then they found themselves laughing, the whole of Edward’s party, at the man’s audacity. Laughing, almost sobbing, after the tension, the fear, the fury of the last weeks. It was good to laugh, for now the future must be faced. A future as exiles.
“I count it a fair bargain since you have brought us to this place. Alkmaar, you called it?”
The captain bowed. Then, as the king dumped the cloak into his hands, the man nearly dropped it with sudden knowledge of his own temerity.
“And what do the people of Alkmaar do?”
The king was determined to sound cheerful as he cast his eyes around the little town. It was set among dunes that stretched away north and south.
Master Conyers spoke cautiously as he measured the weight of the cloak. “I believe they make cheese, sire.”
The king glimmered a brief smile. “Ah, well then, that would explain the smell. And I had thought it was rotting fish!”
His men laughed again, giddily. Their ribs ached. Edward, too, guffawed and clapped a few on the shoulders as if he’d made the best joke in the world.
A girl, a servant out early to collect bread for her family, also giggled as she passed the group. They looked so odd: filthy, and yet well dressed at the same time. But their weapons made her nervous.
Her laughter triggered the image of another girl’s face for Edward Plantagenet. Anne. It was a sigh that found a name before the king could prevent it. Could she see him now, if he sent his thoughts to her?
“Did you say something, Your Majesty?” William Hastings, lord high chamberlain of England, suppressed a grimace. Already it sounded false, calling Edward a king.
His master, alert to the quickly disguised uncertainty, smiled brightly. “I must be tired, William, when thoughts speak aloud.” Edward inspected his sword and wiped the blade against his surcoat; he could not allow seawater to linger on the steel and damage its edge. “Form them up, William. But first, has anyone a spare cloak? This wind is cutting.”
“A cloak for the king?”
The party of men rummaged among their few remaining possessions. Richard of Gloucester, Edward’s youngest brother, hauled out a spare riding cloak. He’d managed to hang on to his saddlebags when they’d boarded the cog in Lynn; the whole party would be grateful for their contents in the days to come.
“Have this, brother. It’s sadly creased, of course, but serviceable. Not up to your usual standards, though.”
The brothers shared a look and a laugh. Edward was famous for loving clothes.
“Oh, I don’t know, Richard. Green has always suited me, so I’m told.” As Edward swirled the heavy garment around his shoulders, the softness of the cloth, the waxed silk of its lining and, most of all, the deep forest green brought more pictures into his mind—Anne dressed in green. Anne reaching out to him. Anne kissing him. Anne lying with him as he…
“The party is ready, sire.” Ready for the future, said Richard of Gloucester’s confident tone. Ready for you to lead us, brother.
Edward smiled just as confidently and turned to face his companions. “Well now, here’s a pass.”
Men raised their heads to catch the king’s words and those who’d been sitting on the dock scrambled to their feet.
“And I’m very annoyed.”
One or two laughed at the ironic sally.
“Yes, very annoyed. Mortally annoyed.”
The king’s tone was savage and his sword hissed out of its scabbard in a flashing wheel of light, startling the seabirds, crying, into the bright air.
“We will take our country back, hand over hand.”
Less than twenty men to regain England? Edward’s spell was strong; not one of his companions looked around in doubt.
“We have friends, good friends. And we have been driven here by traitors. Traitors do not prosper. But in the future, you who are here with me today will want for nothing; neither shall your families.”
The king turned back to Will Conyers. “Captain, I thank you for your help and for your courage. And for your fine crew.” Edward raised his voice so the men on the Norwich Lass could hear what he said. “You too, all of you, will have cause to be thankful for this voyage. Return home. And spread the news of our imminent return.”
Edward slid the sword back into its sheath and stalked off toward the town, his men falling in behind him, a compact and purposeful group. Will Conyers shrugged as he watched Edward Plantagenet stride away. Lynn, where he came from, was a quiet place and the people of the small, prosperous town were unused to the tide of politics, but it was lapping high now, right to their very doors.
The captain crossed himself and turned back to face the sea. Perhaps he’d let folks know where he’d been, perhaps not, though it would be harder to stop the crew talking. He was troubled. Would the new masters of England let him and his men lie safe in their beds if they heard he’d helped the former king?
He stroked the precious cloak. Perhaps he could sell the knowledge he had? Then he discarded the thought. Dangerous to play both sides. Best lie low.
>
Will shaded his eyes against the sun rising in the east and turned for one last glimpse of Edward Plantagenet. The king and his party had almost reached the town square, where they were attracting astonished glances from the townsfolk for their fine clothing and their grim looks.
Where would they go? And who would aid them? Brave words were all very well, but this king would need his friends, and plenty of them. Twenty men couldn’t take back a kingdom. Could they?
CHAPTER FIVE
Duchess Margaret of Burgundy was missing her husband, away on campaign again against the French, always the French. She was doing her very best to appear calm and happy, which was hard. Her flowers had appeared again this morning.
Married for more than two years and still no pregnancy. This month she’d been so hopeful, for she’d been nearly three weeks late, but bloody sheets this morning had withered those hopes. It must be that she was barren. Charles had already proved himself capable of children, with a daughter, Mary, from one of his previous marriages. Swallowing hard to prevent self-pitying tears, the duchess tried to concentrate on what her friend, Lady Anne de Bohun, was saying.
“…he died. There was nothing we could do. But he had a message for me from the king, your brother, Duchess. Have you heard anything more?”
The Uncrowned Queen Page 3