by Paul Doherty
Bray reckoned the days carefully and on the morning of the feast of Saints Simon and Jude he woke early on his rough, sack-covered palliasse under the shelter of the forecastle. Bray washed his hands and face in a bucket of seawater and crossed to where the ship’s cook had brewed hot broth which soaked the hard bread it contained. Bray was given a bowl of this pottage, a stoup of ale and ordered to join the watchers along the taffrail. Darkness still hung as thick and heavy as an arras. Nevertheless, the sliver of moon was beginning to fade and the stars now dulled under the strengthening glow from the east as the sun began to rise. The ship was roused. Fresh lookouts despatched up the rigging to the falcon nests on the mastheads. The deck was prepared for battle: fighting platforms laid out, sand shaken against the slippery surface and barrels of water prepared lest the enemy possessed a catapult to loose fiery bundles. The weapon chests were opened, though most of the crew had their own harness and armaments at the ready. The Sea Hawk thrust on, cutting through the swelling of the waves, shuddering and creaking as the ship tacked to catch the strong southerly breeze which bulged all its sails. Keysler the master, along with his henchmen, took up position on the stern deck close to the rudder crew. The carrack was now a surging ship of war. Keysler kept shouting at the lookouts, Bray watched and listened intently and his heart lurched as one of the lookouts bellowed that he could glimpse the top of a sail due west. Keysler ordered the ship cleared for battle. A drum began to beat, a dull, hollow sound though full of threat and menace. The carrack cut through the waves, catching the force of the tide now sweeping backwards and forwards towards the land. The lookout kept up his chant.
‘Nothing to the north, nothing to the south, nothing to the east but a sail due west.’
Only then did Keysler order the culverins and cannon to be brought up along with barrels of black powder. The crew hurried to obey. Boxes of shot were placed on the deck and Keysler himself took possession of a hand-held hackbut. The crew now waited and raised a cheer as The Galicia came into full view, tacking towards the coastline which was becoming more distinct and clear as the early morning sun burnt through the mist. Bray, climbing up on to the taffrail, stared to the left and right trying to discover if The Galicia had lowered its ship’s boat. He heaved a sigh of relief, it hadn’t, so the Breton cog was free to try and escape the trap about to close. Bray realised the situation was truly desperate. The two carracks now swept towards the Breton, blocking any escape back to sea. The Galicia would be left with little choice but to stand and fight a battle it would certainly lose. The alternative was equally bleak: the Breton ship could keep sailing towards the coast to beach in shallow waters, but this would leave it vulnerable to attack by the carracks, which would pour in hotshot followed by a direct assault from both ships. Bray climbed down from his perch. The Sea Hawk was shuddering and shaking in a chorus of creaking wood, flapping sails and the clatter of cords. Bray stared around, it was time. Zeigler and Keysler were shouting at each other, the master ordering the burly assassin to shelter in the cabin beneath the stern.
‘So Zeigler is valuable?’ Bray whispered to himself. ‘Well, of course, he has a task to perform in Brittany.’
Eventually the master had his way and Zeigler, like some chastened scholar, slouched across to the cabin and went in, slamming the door behind him. Nobody gave this a second glance; the crew were now watching The Galicia, eager to bring it to battle.
‘Cometh the hour,’ Bray murmured, ‘cometh the judgement.’ He drew his dagger and crossed the slippery deck, grasping the sail ropes and other rigging to steady himself. No one was watching, all eyes on the sea and their intended prey. Bray opened the cabin door and closed it behind him. Zeigler was standing with his back to him. Gulping noisily from a tankard. He turned, lips all slobbery, and glared at Bray.
‘What do you want, you one-eyed bastard?’
‘The countess sent me. I bring greetings from her.’
Zeigler, mouth gaping, lowered the tankard. ‘Who?’ he spluttered. ‘What greetings?’
‘This,’ Bray retorted. He darted forward, thrust his dagger deep into Zeigler’s belly, then sliced to the left. His opponent, face all shocked, dropped the tankard as he slumped to his knees. Bray moved closer. He withdrew his dagger and thrust again, opening a deep wound across his opponent’s throat. Zeigler, blood gushing out like wine from a cracked jug, collapsed on to his face. Bray leaned over as the dying man gargled something about a cage floating on water, shuddered and lay still. Bray left the cabin and hurried back to his post. The carrack was now closing the distance between itself and the merchantman, its sister ship likewise. Cannon and culverins were being primed, those skilled in such armament preparing to loose a shower of fire. Bray moved to the open hatch and, muttering about searching for something, slipped down the ladder into the inky darkness. For a few heartbeats he simply stood steadying himself, letting his eyes become used to the shifting light. He stared around. The bulwark was protected by thick canvas cloth nailed to the planking on all sides. Bray relaxed as the soft, eerie darkness enveloped him, the sounds of the ship echoing dully, though the turbulent pitch and rise of The Sea Hawk made him stumble. Nevertheless, he knew exactly where the barrels were. He staggered across, grasping the canvas cloths to steady himself as he crouched, pulling a barrel forward. He carefully broke the seals on this and laid out the piece of fuse. He placed one end in the barrel, positioning it carefully. Bray then unravelled the rest. He took his tinder and struck a flame to light the other end. He carefully cupped the flickering tongue of fire with his hands until he was convinced it was strong enough, then he left.
Bray reckoned the explosion would take place mid-ship, so he went up into the poop, clinging to the tangle of ropes around the bowsprit as if fascinated by the way The Sea Hawk was lancing through the seas. He stared to his left, The Gryphon was also closing fast, the Breton now turning to confront this dreadful threat. Bray closed his eyes and murmured a prayer. He just hoped he would damage The Sea Hawk and remove it from the fight. He’d hardly finished when the roar from below erupted like a clap of thunder. The Sea Hawk shuddered from poop to stern, part of the deck – and those crew clustered there – simply disappeared as further roars ripped through the vessel and orange tongues of flame leapt up like a horde of deadly dancers. The Sea Hawk immediately began to list and the water pouring in did little to lessen the force of the fire below. Panic set in. Some of the crew immediately jumped into the sea, others tried to lower the ship’s two bum-boats. Thick black smoke seeped across the deck like a shroud being pulled up over a corpse. The smoke obscured view, stung eyes and deepened the confusion. Bray, still standing high in the poop, glanced across at the other carrack and, despite the danger, he exulted with joy. The Gryphon now ignored its Breton quarry, turning against the wind to go to the assistance of its sister ship. Shading his eyes, Bray watched intently. He sensed that The Gryphon’s master was not as experienced and skilled as Keysler or Savereaux, captain of The Galicia.
Bray had seen similar battles in the Middle Sea and witnessed the confusion which could so easily spread. Ships became damaged, sails and rudders destroyed so they drifted. Other vessels closed in only to become entangled. Savereaux, the Breton captain and a veteran of battles in the Narrow Seas, saw the possibilities to turn the tables. One carrack was burning and the other more intent on reaching it than anything else. The hunted became the hunter, the prey the predator. The Breton ship was now shadowing The Gryphon. If the latter turned to flee or fight, the sailors on board would have to abandon their comrades whilst the Breton could block their passage. A more seasoned captain would simply try to break free, but The Gryphon chose to ignore the real danger of entanglement and drew in even closer to its sister ship. In fact there was little that could be done. The Sea Hawk was now doomed, fire and smoke billowed backwards and forwards. Bray glanced across at the stern; one of the rudder men was still trying to direct the ship, another had cut the cords so the sails could flap freely and not be so quickly
engulfed by the leaping flames. Bray made his decision. He left the poop and hurried across the deck, keeping to the taffrail where it still existed, avoiding the men stumbling around the gaping rents in the deck. He climbed the ladder on to the stern and hurried towards the solitary rudder man.
‘Save yourself,’ Bray screamed, ‘there is nothing more to be done.’ The sailor needed no second bidding. He staggered off into a cloud of smoke. Bray waited until this had cleared. The Gryphon was now very close. The Sea Hawk lurched sickeningly. Bray grasped the rudder and pushed with all his strength to starboard. The carrack, damaged as it was, responded, putting it on a direct collision with The Gryphon. Bray readied himself. Battles at sea were particularly fickle. Fortune’s Wheel could spin rather than slowly turn and the Flemish pirates would soon realise this. The Sea Hawk lurched on. The Gryphon tried to tack to port. Its sails were already lowered, its rudder men, clustered on the stern, were frantically trying to turn it but the sea decided the battle. The swift running waters pushed both ships closer. The Gryphon struck The Sea Hawk, its prow cutting into its bowsprit, a veritable tangle of ropes which meshed with those of its sister ship. Again The Gryphon turned, only to crash into the side of The Sea Hawk. The flames from the burning ship seemed to leap like deadly dancers, running up the ropes and coursing along the slats of wood. The Gryphon was now on fire: its crew were frenetically trying to throw barrels of black powder overboard but another dull explosion sealed the fate of both carracks. Bray readied to leave. He stared through the murk and glimpsed The Galicia, the hunter was closing in. The law of the sea was vicious. The Bretons would show no mercy. Prisoners would not be taken so he had no choice but to trust himself to the sea. Bray shouldered his way through the panic-stricken sailors trying to escape the disaster which had so swiftly engulfed them, as if some demon had emerged to set fire to their ships and claw them all down to destruction. Bray reached the damaged taffrail. He gazed around and glimpsed a pallet used to store rope. Bray drew his dagger and cut some of the rope, using it to create grips, a hold which would make the pallet into a makeshift raft. He knocked aside those milling about him, dragged the pallet up and threw it down into the waves where it bobbed and turned. Bray drew a deep breath, crossed himself, climbed over the rail and dropped into the sea.
On the headland above Walton cove Christopher Urswicke could only stare and marvel at what was happening out at sea. On either side of him clustered the sanctuary men and the countess sitting deep in her canopied carriage. Everyone watched the ferocious battle being played out below them. The Galicia had made no attempt to lower its bum-boat. The abrupt arrival of the two Flemish carracks had put an end to such a plan. At first sight, The Galicia simply wanted to turn and escape, then the real drama began. Urswicke witnessed the sudden explosion of fire and smoke on one carrack and immediately suspected that this must be the work of Bray. He had then watched the deadly dance which ensued. The Sea Hawk had been transformed into a floating, flaring fire full of threats. Naturally its sister ship had also tacked and turned to provide assistance. It was drawing as close as it safely could but then The Sea Hawk abruptly veered and collided with The Gryphon, both ships becoming closely entangled. The battle had turned. The Breton ship was now the aggressor, eager to deal out death and destruction; no quarter would be given, no mercy shown. The crews of both carracks were pirates who had openly sailed under the red and black banners of anarchy, a real and deadly threat to any other vessel they encountered. Along this coast and in the Narrow Seas the Flemings were especially feared. They would run down the smallest fishing smack as well as pillage craft of any kind sailing under any flag. They had played the part so now they would pay the price. The Galicia stood off, its master Savereaux and its crew mere spectators to the fiery destruction of their opponents. At last the Breton ship intervened. Bum-boats were lowered, all of them thronged with armed men. The rowers moved their craft amongst those still floundering in the sea. Even from where he stood, Urswicke caught the flash of steel as the boat crews dealt out death. One of the Breton bum-boats cut its way through to beach on the waterline. Its crew hastily disembarked and pulled the boat up across the pebble-strewn sand.
‘Bray!’ Urswicke exclaimed. He stretched out and grasped the edge of the canopy of the countess’s carriage. ‘We must look out for Bray.’ He declared. ‘The Bretons are going to wait for any Fleming who staggers ashore. They will kill them out of hand. Bray will survive, I know he will …’
Margaret now pushed aside the fur-trimmed rugs and covers, nodded in agreement. ‘You have my seal?’
‘I certainly have.’ Urswicke mounted his horse and skilfully guided it down the sand hills on to the beach. He rode leisurely, not wishing to alarm the Bretons gathered around their boat. Once he was close, Urswicke reined in and raised a hand shouting ‘Pax et bonum.’ One of the sailors beckoned him closer. Christopher rode on. The Bretons gathered about him. Christopher noticed how they were splattered with blood, he tried not to look at the corpses now shifting on the surge of the incoming tide. He glanced down as one of the sailors seized the reins of his horse. Urswicke pulled back his hood and handed him a copy of the countess’s seal, explaining in French who he was and what he wanted. The man glanced up and smiled.
‘I speak English. We shall look for the man you describe.’ The Breton squinted against the light. ‘Rest assured my friend,’ he continued, ‘as soon as that carrack caught fire, we realised there was an enemy within. As for The Gryphon,’ the man turned away and spat, ‘its master made the most dire mistake. Mind you, I’ve seen the same before.’
‘Where?’ Christopher demanded, his curiosity pricked.
‘Oh, not so much the black powder, but the galleys the Turks use in the Middle Sea. They are rowed by slaves. God help the crew if those slaves break free during any battle or storm. Anyway, rest assured, Master Reginald Bray will be regarded as our saviour.’ He let go of the reins. Urswicke turned his horse, quietly praying that Reginald Bray would stumble ashore.
He turned and rode further up the beach where he could watch the dire drama unfold. The sea continued to wash up bodies and the Bretons carefully scrutinised each one. Survivors stumbled ashore to be immediately despatched by sword or dagger thrust. No mercy was shown, no quarter provided, no survivors to babble tales and invoke the blood feud. The destruction of two Flemish carracks would be greeted with utter disbelief but the weeks would pass and the truth would emerge and vengeful Flemish captains would go hunting. However, if Savereaux had his way, there would be no one left to describe this gruesome masque off Walton cove. Urswicke wondered if his father had left some spy or lookout but, there again, what had happened was so unexpected. Urswicke smiled grimly, it would come as a total surprise! He glanced up at the sky, daylight was strengthening. Out at sea the two carracks were smouldering, smoke-shrouded wrecks, their burnt timbers pounded and tossed by the waves. Now and again a crack would echo across the water as wood split and toppled.
Urswicke grasped the reins of his horse as he heard shouting. The Bretons had surrounded a survivor who was freeing himself from ropes attached to a pallet. Urswicke shouted his delight and spurred his horse to canter back along the beach. Bray! He was sure that most remarkable man had survived.
By midday the killing had ended. Bray and Urswicke sat closeted with the countess in some ancient ruins surrounded by a copse of stunted trees, a short walk from the beach. A fire had been lit, some food and wine distributed. Bray was relieved to be ashore: he cheerfully accepted the teasing over his appearance by Urswicke and the countess. Bray had also delivered a pithy description of what had happened since they parted. Urswicke already knew some of this but he listened carefully as Bray described the different incidents: his visit to Newgate, the murder of the two women at the Minoresses’, the attacks on him and, above all, what he’d learnt from the city, finishing his account with a description of his good fortune on board The Sea Hawk. The countess heard him out then informed him about the true identity of her ma
id Edith and what she planned to do about it on her return to London. Bray chuckled, rubbing his hands and praising his mistress’s cunning at hiding Lady Anne in full view. He and Urswicke also agreed on how the countess had decided to return the young woman to the bosom of those who cared for her, or at least for her rich estates.
‘I was always kind to Lady Anne,’ the countess declared, ‘and I do admire her. She acts like a little mouse and, of course, people regard her as such. However little mice have the courage to stand at doors or beneath windows and hear all sorts of conversations.’
‘Mistress?’
‘Well, as we suspected, our present troubles do not originate from Clarence and certainly not Richard of Gloucester. Your father, the noble Recorder, is the fount and source of all this present mischief. However, Anne warned me against Clarence and Mauclerc. The only restraint on the murderous duke is that the King has made it very clear that I am not to be physically harmed. Nonetheless, I suspect our Yorkist King wouldn’t really weep if Lord Jasper, my son and, of course, myself simply disappeared like smoke on the breeze.’
‘And of course you will not,’ Urswicke declared, getting to his feet. ‘But mistress, Master Reginald, please wait for a while.’ Urswicke then left to give instructions to Savereaux, who had now come ashore, about the transporting of the sanctuary men. These now sheltered further up the beach in a makeshift, tattered bothy constructed out of pieces of wood and other flotsam brought in by the tide or found amongst the gorse along the fringes of the sand hills. The Breton agreed to furnish the sanctuary men with a little wine and whatever victuals they could. Urswicke pronounced himself satisfied, pointing back to where the countess had taken shelter, reminding Savereaux that any decision about leaving must be agreed by her.