by Paul Doherty
‘Let us wait and see, Christopher. Let us wait and see what the redoubtable Bray will do. Listening carefully to the information he sent you, I have a strong suspicion that the Flemish carrack The Sea Hawk will have one passenger its master did not expect and, on that roll of Fortune’s dice, we pin our hopes.’
Urswicke left the chamber. He met Edith outside and smiled at her but she glanced shyly away. Once back in his own narrow closet, Urswicke sat wondering about the possibilities. He fell into a fitful sleep and woke long before dawn. He swiftly washed, changed, put on his warbelt and cloak and went down to the hall. The servants had cleared all the remains of the grand supper held the night before and were laying out whatever food remained. Sir Thomas was there, swathed in his cloak, eager to be gone. He clasped Christopher’s hand and wished him good morrow. He declared that he’d sent out three of his retinue, ‘Men with keen sight,’ as he grandly described them. They were to ride the short distance to the Naze above Walton cove to seek out The Galicia. Urswicke nodded, forcing himself to smile before eating some bread and drinking a stoup of morning ale. Afterwards he went out to check on the countess’s carriage as well as his own horse. Everything was in order, the three carters, members of the countess’s household, assured him all was well. Satisfied, Christopher walked around the manor and through its overgrown, derelict garden. The morning was bitterly cold, one of those hard November days with a clear sky, thanks to the constant winds which swept the heavens clean.
‘A good day for sailing,’ Urswicke murmured. ‘God help us and …’ He broke off at the sound of horsemen thundering into the nearby courtyard. He returned to the hall where Sir Thomas was jubilantly listening to his outriders. He glimpsed Christopher and raised his arms in celebration.
‘The Galicia has been sighted. Soon it will make a landfall at Walton cove.’
‘And you, dearest father?’
‘I am, we are finished here, are we not, Parson Austin?’ He turned to the priest who also seemed pleased at the news.
‘Yes, Sir Thomas. Perhaps an escort for the short distance to the beach so I can inform Archdeacon Blackthorne that we have faithfully executed our task?’
‘Two horsemen only,’ the Recorder snapped, his good humour fading fast. ‘Two horsemen, but once they reach the sand hills, they must turn back and join us in our swift return to London.’ The Recorder clapped his gauntleted hands. ‘Let us assemble everyone and share the good news.’
The prisoners, now freed of their chains and swathed in tattered, dirty robes with whatever footwear had been available, were brought up and herded into the hall, a gaggle of dirty, unkempt men desperate to get this ordeal over. The murder of Conwar was now common knowledge and this made the prisoners only more subdued as they were pushed and shoved by Sir Thomas’s guard into a corner of the hall. The countess, escorted by Edith, her head and face almost concealed by the veil and wimple she wore, also came down and sat on a chair just within the doorway. Sir Thomas stood on the dais whilst his captain of guard bellowed for silence. The Recorder spoke in clipped tones. He proclaimed how The Galicia was now fast approaching Walton. The sanctuary men would make the brief walk down to the beach and wait for the ship’s bum-boat to be despatched.
‘You will go down to the beach,’ Sir Thomas announced. ‘You will not leave the procession.’ The Recorder jabbed a finger in the direction of the sanctuary men. ‘Try to flee, try to stay, and you will be regarded as “utlegati” – outlaws beyond the King’s peace, wolfsheads to be killed on sight and nothing or no one can save you. Yes, Parson Austin?’ The priest who’d joined him on the dais nodded his agreement. ‘I will despatch two of my men with you so be ready to leave. This kingdom will soon be rid of you. I bid you a fond farewell.’ The Recorder stepped off the dais. He bowed perfunctorily at the countess and, snapping his fingers, swept out of the hall followed by Parson Austin and the rest of his entourage. The room fell silent. Urswicke stared around, a truly pathetic sight: the sanctuary men stripped of virtually everything except for the rags they wore, and the countess, all cloaked and veiled, with her maid standing deep in the shadows. Urswicke tightened his warbelt and adjusted his cloak.
‘My Lady?’ He walked towards the countess. ‘The die is cast and we must go.’
The sorry procession left Thorpe Manor. The Recorder’s two horsemen led the way, followed by the prisoners who stumbled and faltered, unused to walking after their cramped confinement. The countess’s carriage brought up the rear with Urswicke riding alongside it. He peered in and caught Edith’s stare. She smiled knowingly. Urswicke bowed then pulled back his horse so he could keep the procession in full view. He quietly took comfort from what the countess had told him about Lady Anne Neville. He could just imagine what was happening in London. Richard of Gloucester’s men, together with Clarence’s horde of ruffians, would be scouring the city for her. They would interfere with each other and yet neither would have any success. The animosity between the two brothers would deepen and all for the good. The countess’s plan had been cunning. She’d hid Lady Anne in full sight. Maids and scullions were dismissed without a second glance by the powerful, the Lords and Ladies of the Soil, the great ones of the court. To them Edith was just a plump, black-haired, rather incompetent maid, not worth even a second glance. Urswicke vowed that he would profit from such a lesson, even the lowliest might not be what they pretended to be. Urswicke also wondered about the sanctuary men and realised he and Bray had made a mistake: they had truly believed the Recorder would have his own spies amongst those released from sanctuary. But, so far, there was no evidence for this.
The scream of a gull flying low above them roused Urswicke from his reverie. He glanced up. The sun was now rising in a cloudless sky to thin the sea mist which had curled in. The weather was bracingly cold yet the strong winter sun provided some comfort as they made their way along the rutted trackway which cut through the sea of tough gorse, wild grass, thorny bushes and copses of stunted trees. They passed the occasional cottage or farmstead and caught the smell of wood smoke and the reek of byre, piggery or hog pen. They met the occasional tinker or chapman plodding through the empty countryside to some lonely village or hamlet. These were followed by a few fishermen, their haul sealed in barrels, eager to reach the isolated markets with their fresh catch of the day. The air reeked of brine and the salty tang of the sea. The cold breeze grew stronger. At last they reached the steep sand hills which overlooked the curving beach of Walton cove. The sanctuary men cheered. The Recorder’s two horsemen immediately turned and, without a by-your-leave, cantered back the way they’d come. Urswicke watched them go. He fully understood their haste and that of his father. The Recorder did not want to be anywhere near this lonely beach when those two Flemish carracks closed in. Urswicke closed his eyes and prayed. He then crossed himself, told the countess to stay in her carriage and urged his mount up the highest rise and stared out across the coastline.
The tide was turning, the waves racing in over the pebbled beach. The mist had broken up, shifting and thinning under the strengthening sun. Gulls and other seabirds circled against the light-blue sky, shattering the silence with their strident cawing. A desolate, deserted place, Urswicke reflected, a haunt of lost souls and, unless God or Master Bray intervened, the execution ground for those sanctuary men gathering helplessly on the sand hills beside him. Urswicke stood high in his stirrups and stared out to the sea. He strained his eyes and caught a glimpse of the Breton cog with its high stern and soaring mast, its square sail bulging under the wind as it tacked closer and closer to the shore. Urswicke continued to search the horizon, yet he could detect nothing else. The clerk fought against his darkening mood. The weather was perfect for the Breton cog, whilst the ferrying of the sanctuary men out to it would pose little problem. Nevertheless, this brilliant, clear day was also ideal for the Flemish carracks sailing in for the kill like wolves sloping through the dark. Urswicke dug in his spurs and returned to the countess. She and Edith were now sheltering de
ep in the covered cart. Urswicke peered in and this time Edith smiled fulsomely back.
‘She knows, Christopher,’ the countess whispered, ‘she is happy. Do what you can for the other poor souls.’
The countess’s carriage moved to a dell, the surrounding trees and bushes afforded some protection against the salty, bitterly cold wind. The countess’s three retainers, the carters, swiftly provided canvas cloths so the sanctuary men could gather near the carriage, grouped around the fire Urswicke started with his flint and a little charcoal from the countess’s supplies. Once the flames caught, Urswicke poured on a little oil and a heap of dried bracken. The sanctuary men were still subdued. They had now broken into two distinct groups. The survivors of the Red Dragon Battle Group clustered around Pembroke, the others were just relieved to be so close to escape, moaning and muttering against the cold. The countess’s men distributed the little food they had brought with them: bread, cheese, dried bacon and a skin of surprisingly good wine. Urswicke ate a little; he then had words with the countess, mounted his horse and rode back to his watching post. He sat slouched in the saddle staring out at the fast-approaching Breton merchantman. A crow cawed. Urswicke glanced up, watching the bird soar out to sea. His heart skipped a beat as he glimpsed two dark smudges against the far horizon, the Flemish carracks! It must be. Even as he stared the blotches became more distinct. The wolves had arrived! Urswicke grasped the reins of his horse, closed his eyes and prayed that Reginald Bray was aboard one of those vessels and he would act to avert the deadly threat.
PART FIVE
‘Wondrous Sound the Trumpets Ringeth!’
Christopher Urswicke would have hardly recognised his comrade-in-arms, Reginald Bray. The skilful ministrations of Fleetfoot had transformed the dour-faced, soberly garbed household steward into a foul-mouthed freebooter, a mercenary harnessed for war and all the mayhem, mischief and murder it provided. Fleetfoot had shorn Bray of all hair so his head was bald as a goose egg and his face all marked and bruised from the edge of a rough razor. Bray was now dressed in the garish motley garb of a true mercenary: loose trousers, good sturdy boots and a mailed jerkin, with one warbelt strapped across his chest and a broad, heavier one clasped around his waist. Bray’s teeth had been blackened, his breath stank of ale and he had a patch across his left eye. Bray had served in the Middle Sea where he sold his sword to the hospitallers who organised a fleet of galleys and carracks to protect Christians and Christian ships as they carried cargo to Outremer and even beyond. Bray had frequented most of the ports, be they in North Africa, Greece or the kingdom of the two Sicilys. He had lived, slept, fed and fought with the men he was now imitating. He had even adopted the rolling walk of the professional seafarer, that swagger and slight sway, a warrior who didn’t give a fig for God or man.
Once Fleetfoot had finished his ministrations, as well as providing him with the most recent news from the countess and Urswicke, Bray had packed a battered pannier and made his way down to Queenhithe quayside where The Sea Hawk and The Gryphon lay berthed and ready for sea. Bray strolled along, deeply relieved that the master of The Sea Hawk Johann Keysler was still recruiting. Bray approached. Keysler and his henchmen called him over. Bray introduced himself as John Sturmy, seaman and soldier. Keysler asked a few questions about Bray’s previous experience and the ships he had served on. Bray, in a harsh guttural accent, answered all the questions easily enough and, when Keysler insisted, Bray drew both dagger and sword, skilfully twirling them in swift arcs of light in the true fashion of the born street fighter. Keysler nodded his approval. Bray sheathed his weapons and the ship’s clerk, a veritable mouse of a man, opened the book of indentures resting on a nearby barrel. He copied Bray’s false name and Bray made his mark beside it. Keysler then thrust a coin into his hand and slapped him hard on the shoulder.
‘John Sturmy,’ he declared, ‘or whatever your real name is, welcome aboard The Sea Hawk. You will regard me as God almighty and, aboard this ship, that’s what I am. If you refuse an order, or act the coward, we will cut your throat and toss you overboard with the rest of the slops. You do understand?’
‘And my rewards?’
‘I take a quarter of everything, my henchmen receive the same and the rest is fairly shared out amongst the crew. Do you accept that?’
‘I have made my mark.’
‘Good, then welcome aboard.’
The Sea Hawk sailed on the evening tide followed closely by The Gryphon. Both these powerful carracks, copied from the ships of the Middle Sea, had a raised castellated stern and jutting bowsprit. The deck was even-planked and smoothed. The stern housed a master cabin beneath it; everything else was stored in the cavernous hold below decks. The Sea Hawk was a powerful fighting ship, with three masts, foremost, main and lateen; it could, with the right wind, run down any cog, hulke or fishing smack. The carrack was certainly well-armed not only with a fighting crew, it also possessed culverin, cannon, bombard and even hand-held hackbuts; these – along with the barrels of precious black fire powder and crates of shots – were stored beneath deck. The Sea Hawk boasted gun ports in prow and stern. However, as was common with this type of warship, such armament was raised and used on deck because of the danger of fire, the carrack’s one great weakness. Bray made careful note of this. He had seen the most powerful carracks sweep down on their opponent; one good shot from a cannon could rip the cog apart. He had also seen how a skilful, sly enemy would use on-board catapults to loose bundles of fire at a carrack. All it would take would be for one of these to reach some of the black powder and the carrack would simply cease to exist.
Bray studied the ship and its escort closely as both carracks made good sailing down the Thames before turning east, keeping as close to the coast as possible. They passed into the Narrow Seas and tacked further out where they were hit by a furious winter storm. The gales swept in, threatening mast, bowsprit and sail. Cords were snapped, ropes pulled loose. Bray worked along with the rest, clearing bilges and ensuring the hold remained sealed against the water and pebble-drenched seaweed which washed over the deck. The gales were so ferocious that Keysler brought down the lookouts from their falcon nests on the mastheads. Bray took great care as the deck turned slippery and treacherous. Two men were swept overboard, they weren’t given a second thought or even the briefest of prayers. Someone shouted that the sky above them was black with demons who winged around the ship waiting to drag them down to Hell. Another seaman retorted that they were in Hell already, so why worry? At last the storm faded, the air remaining freezing cold, though sea and sky were now clear and calm. Once the winds subsided, both carracks slipped out into open sea. Bray, reckoning the days, realised both vessels were simply waiting, anticipating the arrival of the Breton cog and, until then, the carracks would withdraw, watch the sea lanes and plot their course.
Bray was relieved: he’d soon found his sea legs, whilst the different duties he was assigned were light enough; adjusting sails, clearing rubbish and carrying out minor repairs. The crew were all veteran seamen, former soldiers who fought for a share of the profits. A few were English but the rest were Flemings, Hainaulters, some French and a group of surly Easterlings. Bray kept to himself, though when possible he closely scrutinised Zeigler, who had now changed his earth-coloured Franciscan robe for the leggings, boots and mailed jerkin of a fighting man. Listening carefully to the gossip amongst the crew, Bray learnt that Zeigler was more of a guest than a member of the ship’s company. Keysler and his henchmen paid him considerable attention, whilst Zeigler was included in all the discussions which took place at the foot of the great mast or in the master’s cabin. Keysler did his best to placate Zeigler when they first cast off from Queenhithe. Zeigler, in a thick, growling accent, loudly demanded that they wait for ‘his good friend Joachim’. Keysler, however, was insistent that they didn’t know where Joachim was or when he might return. Meanwhile, the master pointed at Bray standing nearby, they had a good replacement. Zeigler turned and glared hard at Bray who held t
he man’s stare. Zeigler was a truly ugly man with his shiny bald head, fleshy jowls, piggy eyes and thick slobbering lips. Heavy in build with a short, bulging neck, Zeigler reminded Bray of a bull preparing to charge. Bray, mouth dry, took a step forward, hand extended for Zeigler to clasp: his opponent simply looked at him from head to toe and promptly walked away. ‘I shall certainly remember that,’ Bray whispered to himself. After that he kept his distance from a man he was determined to kill.
Bray tried to discover as much as he could about what was being planned in the days ahead. He’d already learnt how both carracks would take up position off the Essex coast, though he was intrigued to discover that, after what happened there, both carracks were to return to Queenhithe. For the rest, Bray busied himself winning the approval of the crew when he went fishing with a small net and caught a number of bright-sided, thick, slippery fish, the only real source of fresh food the crew could eat. Bray cheerfully shared this with the ship’s company and helped the ship’s cook set up a grill close to the taffrail. Once the cog hoved to, the cook roasted the filleted red fish over trays of glowing charcoal. During the feast which followed, a wineskin being shared, Bray made his plan. If the carracks tried to attack The Galicia, he would strike fast and ferocious. The Sea Hawk was a formidable fighting ship but, as Bray had already discerned, it had one great weakness, its armaments. Bray had already been down to the hold and glimpsed the barrels of black powder heaped in one corner. He had also found a coil of fine rope, cut a portion off, and kept this secreted beneath his jerkin along with the sharp tinder he always carried with him. The carrack was a floating fortress yet Bray knew only too well that the capture and fall of many a castle, fortress or tower was usually achieved by the enemy within. The same applied to The Sea Hawk: its crew were united, as close as any wolf pack, they regarded themselves as hunters of the sea and would never dream that their lair housed a trap to catch them all.