They were barely an hour out of harbour before storm clouds began to gather in the north. Despite the desperate prayers sent up by every soul aboard, the clouds rolled south at terrifying speed, painting the sky black and driving squalls of wind and rain before them.
The grey seas were quickly torn up into a raging, surging mass, flinging the fragile timber vessels about like corks in a barrel. The crews fought desperately to keep their ships afloat while the soldiers packed aboard the open deck – hard, imperturbable men when on dry land – wept and puked and babbled prayers. Horses whinnied in terror and skidded on the wet, uneven floor of their crude stalls, hoofs scrabbling for purchase as the ships pitched and rolled in the violent swell.
There were no private cabins aboard a cog, but Mortimer had made one by commandeering the space below the castle at the stern, and hanging a tarpaulin between it and the main deck. Inside he clung to a bulkhead and watched the seawater leaking through the timbers just above his head.
Unlike most who suffered in the storm, Mortimer’s mind didn’t turn to God. He was devout enough, in his way, but had already made his peace with his maker before leaving Hainault. Nor was he fearful for his own safety. Instead his thoughts were dominated by Isabella, and he cursed his decision to sail aboard a separate vessel. He was still wary of flouting their affair to the world and wanted to maintain some pretence of distance between them, at least until they had set foot on English soil and gained some real support.
Prince Edward was aboard the flagship with her, and Mortimer imagined them clasped in each other’s arms, mother and son, comforting each other beseeching God for salvation.
Lucky little bastard, he thought, grinning, as his ship gave yet another stomach-churning heave and was flung wildly to port. For a few moments the ship’s fate was on a knife-edge, men and beasts toppling overboard as she threatened to capsize. The rudder attached to the stern-post was lifted well out of the water, and the ship was unable to steer.
Mortimer’s arms screamed with tension as he dangled almost horizontally on the tilting deck, laughing and daring Neptune to do his worst. After all the years of planning and scheming, all the treachery, fighting, and hair-raising escapes, all the secret negotiations and tortuous diplomacy, his plans were about to be shattered by a storm. Irony, delicious irony, and he could not help but chuckle.
Then, with a creak of straining timbers and the snap of her sail, the ship righted herself and slammed back onto an even keel in the choppy, seething waters.
After two days of this torment, by which time the fleet was widely scattered, the terrible storm blew itself out to a sudden flat calm. Many of the more superstitious sailors remarked that the witch who raised it must have got bored and emptied the water out of her bran-tub.
Mortimer shared their superstition, and was as grateful as anyone else that the fleet had survived. It seemed that God had weighed him and Isabella in the balance, and grudgingly decided to spare them for the time being.
Soon land was visible, a thin grey line to the north-west. It had to be England, probably somewhere on the Essex or East Anglian coast, but no-one aboard could judge exactly where. A handful of other ships were visible, ghostly shapes in the damp, clinging sea mists. Mortimer ordered the Flemish captain to have his men hoist all their flags and make as much noise as possible, beating drums and shouting until they were hoarse to attract the attention of the other vessels.
“Make for the coast,” he ordered. The captain looked doubtful but did as he was told. The tough little cog, battered and harried by the storm but still very much seaworthy, adjusted its course and cut nimbly through the chill North Sea waters, heading north-west. Mortimer stood at the prow and shaded his eyes to see through the murk, until the grey line thickened into a desolate shore. Flat grey sands and a wide estuary opened out before him.
Mortimer and Isabella had planned to land somewhere in East Anglia, where they felt confident of meeting the least resistance. The storm had scattered their fleet and blown many ships off course, but not wildly so, and Mortimer reckoned that they were within sight of the desired stretch of coast.
“I know that river,” said the captain of his ship, pointing at the wide, brown waters of the estuary. “It is called the Orwell.”
Mortimer glared suspiciously at the little Fleming. “You know this part of the English coast, do you?” he said. “From smuggling goods and plundering English fishing vessels, no doubt. There will be no more of that once the Queen is back on her throne. Be warned, and keep to your own waters.”
The captain gave him a dark look and shuffled away to organize the landing boats, but Mortimer was secretly glad of the information. The River Orwell was on the Essex coast, near Ipswich, and should be a safe enough place to land. King Edward would have men watching the south and south-east coasts, but watching and fighting were two different matters.
Orwell and the Essex coast were in the keeping of Thomas of Brotherton, Earl of Norfolk and brother to the Earl of Kent. Edward harboured doubts about Brotherton’s loyalty, but had taken the risk of entrusting him with the defence of this part of the country.
Mortimer shook his head at King Edward’s inability to see into men’s hearts. The Earl had been in secret communication with the French court for months, and repeatedly promised to turn his coat as soon as they landed.
For romantic and practical reasons, Mortimer made a point of landing in the first of the boats. William the Conqueror, he recalled, had been the first Norman to set foot on English soil, as encouragement to his men prior to the Battle of Hastings. Like the famous Conqueror, Mortimer appreciated the importance of leading by example.
The Conqueror had also slipped when jumping from his boat and fallen flat on his face. Mortimer took care to avoid that fate as he stepped into the knee-deep surf. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep lungfuls of English air as he waded ashore. Home, home at last after over two years of enforced exile.
“I will never leave again,” he shouted, to the bemusement of the Flemish oarsmen.
Mortimer cared nothing for what anyone thought. England lay before him, his land, ripe to be shaped and exploited as he liked.