In the Narrow Seas, April 1388
As soon as the lines were thrown off, the bows of the little hock boat disappeared under a storm of foam. Shrugging off the rolling surf she reappeared and began to force a zigzag furrow away from the shore. Hildegard braced herself for the rattling assault as the small vessel plunged into the trough of the next wave.
‘It’s a wild ride, master!’ she shouted above the thump of the seas against the hull. Gusts of rain slanted across the canted deck. A jagged flash of lightning was followed by a rumble of thunder.
‘It’ll be wilder yet, domina,’ the ship master shouted back. ‘Wait until we poke our snout from behind yon cliffs!’ He pointed to the Isle of Wight visible as a wall of rock behind the rain.
‘Your boatswain tells me you were chased by the French down the Narrow Seas all the way from Sluys?’ she shouted.
‘They caused us no problem. Fast little craft this’n. She could easily outsail them fellas. Trust her!’ The shipmaster slapped the tiller affectionately. Despite the storm he was as reassuringly calm as a farmer inspecting his crops. ‘I’d sooner face a bit of weather than a French sailor wielding a cross-bow.’ Chuckling to himself he guided the ship round the headland into the teeth of the storm and gazed undaunted towards the invisible coast of England on the other side of the seething cauldron of water. On hearing voices from below deck, he raised his voice into the wind again, saying, ‘Your holy brother fares ill, poor soul.’
‘Yes. I’d best go down to have another look at him.’
The ship master flashed her a smile. ‘Wait a minute, now.’ At once he was bawling orders to his crew and the ship became a mass of bodies as the boom of the cog swung over.
A wall of water as high as the top of the mast ran like fate towards them before picking up the flimsy craft, balancing her on its tip, then slamming her down the dark slide of its back. As soon as they were on an even keel again Hildegard slithered down the ladder into the hold. Barrels of hock from the Rhine were lashed together filling most of the space.
In the gloom she could just make out the long shape of Brother Gregory, sprawled as if felled in a brawl. He was groaning and holding himself as if to stop his body from flying in pieces about the ship. Beside him, their abbot, Hubert de Courcy, was murmuring words of consolation while Brother Egbert, wedged comfortably between two wine casks, looked on with a bemused expression.
Just then the cog seemed to turn onto her side. Everyone grappled for a handhold and articles of this and that too small to be tied down flew round their ears to the other side. As the cog righted herself, Hildegard walked unsteadily towards the group.
‘How’s he faring?’ she gasped.
Abbot Hubert de Courcy gave her a quick smile. ‘As you see.’ He shook his head.
In the half-light she saw that Gregory’s face was green. His eyes were closed. Every now and then he moaned feebly as if scarcely conscious.
Hubert said, ‘I’d trust Brother Gregory in any circumstances except on the water.’
‘I’m mystified.’ Brother Egbert frowned. ‘He must be bewitched by devils. A storm’s blowing up, I grant you, but he was sick at the mere sight of the sea. You know when it started? It was as soon as we reached the quay at Ouistrehem! It’s a mystery! He’s certainly no more buffeted than on horseback surrounded by a horde of yelling Saracens. He was more than well enough then!’
‘We’ll have to watch him,’ Hubert warned. ‘I’ve seen fellows taken like this before. Their minds are so destroyed by mal de mer they try to climb overboard, under the illusion that fair meads and fields of corn surround the ship.’
‘We’ll guard him,’ Egbert agreed. He wedged himself more firmly between the barrels and folded his arms. ‘Trust me, abbot. I’m undaunted by the sea.’
As the ship master had warned when they paid him to take them off the Isle of Wight on the last leg of their journey from Avignon, it was a rough crossing but they had been lucky to find any ship at all willing and able to take them back to England. The one they had boarded in Ouistrehem ran for Wight but before they could make the final leg back to England the weather worsened and the ship’s master refused to raise anchor again until it improved.
So urgent was their need for speed and secrecy Hubert had paid over the odds to the master of another ship, asking him to cast off as soon as he could. This more intrepid shipman told them he’d be putting to sea anyway but Abbot de Courcy’s gold coin was judged to have been the final persuader.
Their need for secrecy came from the danger that faced them in the shape of Thomas Woodstock, recently elevated to the dukedom of Gloucester. With his war lord ally, the earl of Arundel, Admiral of the southern fleet, they made formidable enemies of the young king. During the current Lent parliament Woodstock had ordered men with powers of arrest to be posted at all major ports. Many people had fled the realm over the previous months as Woodstock and Arundel tried to impose their rule but even more were trying to make their escape now, during what was being called the Merciless Parliament. This included the king’s Chancellor, Michael de la Pole, and the Archbishop of York, Alexander Neville. With the threat of execution hanging over them, as over the heads of many others who supported King Richard, the only safe course was to get out. The result of Woodstock’s purge of the king’s supporters, leading to the escape of prized victims, had sent him into an apoplexy of rage. The extent of his malice could not yet be gauged.
It so happened that after recent events in Avignon Hildegard and abbot de Courcy also feared arrest when they tried to re-enter England. Hubert warned that if they headed to Calais they risked being picked up by Woodstock’s militia even before they reached the safety of the fort. As it was it had been cat and mouse with his militia all the way up France until they reached the English territory of Aquitaine which was strong for King Richard. From there, rather than take the obvious route out of Bordeaux, they decided to elude their pursuers by travelling through the Duchy of Normandy and, after leaving Bayeux, to take ship at one of the less important Channel ports where there was less likelihood of being seized.
The last leg of their journey was this, the turbulent barrier of the Narrow Seas, the great moat separating the kingdoms of England and France.
‘So near and yet so far,’ Brother Gregory had observed when they reached Oustrehem. He had stared, pale-faced with misgivings across the stretch of water that separated them from home. Hildegard noticed he turned a paler shade of grey even then.
‘I reckon I could swim that puddle,’ Brother Egbert brooded, gazing through the rain towards the invisible shore. He turned away. ‘I shan’t tease Lord Neptune. We’ll find a ship at once, shall we, Abbot?’
The turbulent waters of the Solent seemed to mingle with the clouds that lay like a bruise along the horizon where the coast of England could only be surmised while behind them France was a dark threat as night began to fall, the storm gathered force and they took ship.
It had been a rough ride as the ship master had warned. The last few sea miles were a hard fought battle. The hours passed in a state of fear and fatalism.
‘As god wills the storm, so he wills us,’ muttered Egbert.
To attempt landfall on the now looming Hampshire coast seemed like the utmost folly. The wind dragged and scourged the small vessel and threatened to pitch her broken-backed onto the shore, drowning all on board, but eventually the storm passed over leaving only the wind whining in the rigging and the black waves bunching monotonously under the keel. Even so the little cog was being thrown down so hard into the trenches between each swelling wave it was a wonder her planks did not spring asunder. Those on board stared into a black void where neither sea nor land seemed separated. The ship master, steady as ever, assured them they were close to shore.
‘I see no land,’ Brother Egbert objected.
‘Patience, brother.’
‘Mea culpa,’muttered Egbert, unconvinced.
Hopefully they watched for lights to starboard. The darkness was so thick they could almost touch it.
Eventually, for no discernible reason, the boatswain began bellowing for the triefs to be dropped and after they crashed down and were lashed in place he followed up with the shout, ‘All hands to the sweeps!’
A low gravel bank appeared almost on top of them. Suddenly the cog was sluicing past a flickering lantern at the entrance to a small harbour. She entered with the roar and racket of the tide sweeping her in.
Menacingly close,the shore loomed large out of the darkness. Small figures on a wooden jetty began to appear in the flickering light of storm lanterns. Shouted instructions carried on the wind as the hock boat emerged from the darkness. In the brightening flares a crowd could be seen jostling at the water’s edge.
‘Wreckers!’ Brother Egbert shouted in alarm.
‘Friends,’ corrected the ship master with comfortable grace.
‘God bless those English voices!’ Gregory had dragged himself from below and now clutched the rail. ‘Beloved earth, this blessed isle!’ He reached out a hand towards it. ‘Praise God in his goodness. We are home!!’
Hildegard watched the black waters between the ship and the quay diminish alarmingly and then, when it seemed that Egbert’s prophecy would be fulfilled and they would be wrecked, the tiller man proved his skill and the cog slid as neatly as a pin into a hole alongside the jetty. Lines were rapidly thrown ashore. With a deal of shouting she was made fast.
The sea released its prey.
With something like his old vigour, Gregory shook himself free from the restraint of his brother monks and scrambled over the rail. He took his first tottering steps ashore. They watched him stumble a few paces then fall to his knees.
‘He’s kissing the ground!’ Egbert laughed out loud then he put one leg over the side. ‘The old sot-wit! But I think I’ll join him!’
Hubert, handsome face streaked with rain, turned to Hildegard. ‘Sweet homeland? But what lies in wait? We are not free from danger. Now we face enemies who will go undetected among our compatriots.’ He put a hand on her sleeve. ‘It behoves us to act with the utmost caution, beloved.’
‘Do you believe Sir John Fitzjohn’s couriers will have arrived from Avignon before us?’
‘If our messengers have reached the Abbey at Beaulieu, Fitzjohn’s will most certainly have reached Woodstock’s ally at Arundel Castle. We should expect trouble.’
‘That’s if they guess we’ve crossed the Narrow Seas by our rather devious route. And at night. In a storm.’
‘Indeed, we may have the element of surprise. I must say, I did not expect such a large and noisy reception.’ He glanced disparagingly at the crowd on the jetty. ‘I wonder if they treat all arrivals like this?’
It was impossible to go ashore unnoticed as they had hoped. By the look of it every inhabitant of the small port had come down to the shore to inspect what the sea had thrown up.
They soon learned that they were out in such large numbers because they believed the hock boat to be full of marauding French. Talk was of the recent invasion of the nearby Isle of Wight by a fleet of French ships. No-one believed the French had simply fled after burning a few cottages and driving off some animals.
‘They’ll be back!’ was the general opinion.
As soon as Gregory spoke in their own tongue and the shipmaster stepped ashore to confirm their Englishness, there was a rousing cheer followed by a chaos of congratulations on surviving the tempest.
From out of a crowd of onlookers, holding cloaks of russet, grey and ochre over their heads against the pelting rain, a spokesman pushed his way forward. He informed them of wrecks further along the coast. Of the winds that had already taken off the roofs of houses. Of floods inland. Trees uprooted. Animals lost. Carts overturned and crops ruined.
‘We need horses at once,’ Hubert told the two monks, pushing some coins into Brother Egbert’s hand. ‘See to it. We can’t hang about until Woodstock and Arundel send a welcoming party. As it is we might as well announce our arrival with pipes and sackbuts.’
‘I’ll see if I can rustle up some bread and ale from somewhere.’ Hildegard pulled up her hood and strode off into the crowd.
The shipmaster took charge when his boat was berthed to his satisfaction in the safe haven of Lepe.
By the time Hildegard came back with a promise of bread and ale he had explained where they could hire horses and Egbert had gone off, returning almost at once with the promise of three sound mounts and the good news that a stable lad had been instructed to guide them through the Royal Forest and bring the horses back next day.
The shipmaster nodded. ‘It’s dangerous to ride through the Forest in the thick of night. Even in daylight it’s treacherous, even for them forest folk. There are quagmires where great stags are swallowed up without trace, where a man and a horse can disappear forever. As well as that you’ll need proper sustenance and to dry out before you set off. Come with me.’
While Hubert demurred, wanting to leave at once, the shipman insisted. ‘I like you Cistercians, you do a lot of good round here, so come, be my guests.’
He led them along the beach to a wind-blasted cottage with a brush swaying on its pole outside to show that ale was fresh-brewed. Wet and tired they followed him in the company of a group of men returning to their half-finished stoups of ale who had come out to see what the tumult was about. Soon they were settled in a back room, close to a roaring fire, with bowls of good broth placed before them. The ship master said he would exact payment with a yarn he had to tell.
‘It’s my guess you know nothing about the brutal events of the last few months,’ he began, having had a good look at their travel bags and worn-out boots.
‘We’ve been in France since the beginning of Lent,’ explained Hubert with some caution.
‘And now you’re eager to reach your destination, though not to what awaits you, I’ll be bound.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘I expect you’re riding on to Beaulieu Abbey. No questions asked, no answers needed. Those monks there are Cistercians like yourselves. Very fair to their conversi, all things considered.’
He took a deep drink from his stoup of ale, set it down, then fixed them with a considering stare. ‘I expect you’ve heard the rumours?’
‘We heard they’d beheaded the mayor of London, Nick Brembre,’ Hildegard interrupted. ‘Is it true?’
The ship master crossed himself. ‘And not only him, domina. Since Parliament first sat at Candlemas they’ve done just as brutally for many others besides him. The one thing their victims have in common is that they are all men close to the young king. That’s been their only crime as far as the country can see. To be supporters of King Richard, bless him, this is now deigned to be the act of traitors.’
‘Traitors to whom? That’s what I’d like to know,’ Brother Egbert tugged at his stubbly beard in anger.
Gregory was listening intently. Tall and athletic, his strong face tanned and his hair bleached by years in Outremer as a soldier monk, he reminded Hildegard of Ulf, lord Roger’s steward back in Yorkshire. Gregory was a practical man too and, despite his recent bout of sea-sickness, as tough as steel. But he also enjoyed disputing far into the night on points of law, like Hubert.
Now he asked, ‘By what interpretation of the law could such accusations be made and so violent a retribution exacted?’
‘Yes,’ added Hubert. ‘How can they get away with it? Have we returned to a realm where the rule of law means nothing?’
The ship master finished his ale and slapped the stoup down hard on the trestle boards. ‘That’s right, my lord abbot. The law means nothing. Nobody, neither high nor low, is safe.’
A woman bustled up, one they took to be his wife by the way she greeted him. ‘There’s been more since you put to sea, my lovely.’
‘More?’ he demanded.
Blinking with emotion she turned to attend to one of her customers. ‘In a moment, heart. I’ll be back.’
‘Except for the fate of Mayor Brembre, rest his soul, everything is news to us,’ Brother Egbert told the shipman to encourage him to continue.
He was not to be hurried, however. With a backward glance at his woman he asked, ‘So were you in France long, the three of you?’
‘On church matters since the Lent parliament went into session,’ Brother Egbert confirmed his abbot’s reply, withholding enough of the truth to ensure their safety.
None of them knew anything about the shipmaster beyond the fact that he was at home on water. And had rights in a usefully placed little ale house by the quay. He could be one of Arundel’s spies for all they knew and about to hand them over to the militia. His warning that no-one was safe applied to all of them. Although it seemed unlikely that the harbour here was busy enough to have spies nosing about, watching shipping in and out, nothing was certain at a time like this.
The shipman was fingering his neck as if already aware of the axe, but eventually he began. ‘This parliament, the one they’re now calling the Merciless, was forced by Woodstock, Arundel, Warwick and their paid shire knights in the Commons. The king was made to preside as is his duty. He must have got wind of something ill coming up though.’ He lowered his voice. ‘One of my customers up in London on business said young Dickon was as white as a sheet when he processed into Westminster Hall to open parliament that day. This was on the second of February just past. He was forced to walk between the massed ranks of the barons’ men-at-arms. Full armour, mark you. You can imagine how he felt about that. Then five of ‘em, the Appellants as they call themselves, marched in together, arms linked, dressed up in their cloth of gold, and put it to him: get rid of these men on our list and keep your throne. Fail to do as we demand and you’re out. What else they threatened him with nobody knows. We can guess, mebbe?’
He drew down the corners of his mouth and glanced from one to the other. ‘Happen they reminded him of his grandfather King Edward II and the rumoured manner of his murder at Berkeley Castle?’
Round the table the men shuffled uneasily. Hildegard felt her heart lurch at the terror young Richard must have felt at the sight of his implacable warlord uncle, Woodstock, the new duke of Gloucester, arm in arm with the equally warlike earl of Arundel.
‘And the others?’ she asked, ‘You said, five. Who were the other two Appellants?’
‘Harry Bolingbroke, earl of Derby, Gaunt’s joust-mad son.’
Brother Egbert groaned.
‘And his fellow jouster, Mowbray.’
‘Where Bolingbroke goes, so goes Mowbray.’ Hubert gave a disgusted shrug.
‘Arm-in-arm, the lot of ‘em,’ continued the ship master. ‘All against the lone figure of the king.’
‘It was his twenty-first birthday only three weeks earlier,’ Hildegard remarked half to herself.
‘Did no-one speak up for him?’ demanded Hubert.
‘Several spoke up. Now they’re either inside the Tower of London - or on spikes outside it, ruing the loss of their heads.’
‘How dare Woodstock move against the King! Isn’t it treason to threaten him?’ Gregory frowned. ‘Edward, the old king, had his justices define it so there could be no confusion.’
The shipmaster gave a hoarse laugh. ‘Treason is the word they’re defining anew. Now it’s treason to support the rightful King of England, treason not to agree to everything the council and his uncle Woodstock demand. Yes, my friends, treason is the word. We are hearing a new meaning for it. The devil will twist a word to his own ends. And now we’re re-learning it to our shame.’
He lowered his voice again. ‘I’ll be blunt. We’re loyal to the king here, obviously we are, but there are spies coming out from Arundel’s castle scouring the countryside for so-called traitors. That is, they’re hunting down the true Commons, supporters of King Richard.’
He called over his shoulder, ‘Now, mistress, what’s this new alarm you’re scaring us with?’
Wiping her hands on a cloth, the ale wife came over. ‘I don’t know where to start, I honestly don’t. It makes you weep. Take young Thomas Usk. He’s nothing more than a clerk caught up in the rivalries of his betters.’
‘What about him?’
She folded her arms and announced, ‘Beheaded.’
‘Usk?’ Hildegard felt a shiver run through her.
The ale wife nodded. ‘They say his head has been stuck outside Newgate prison.’
‘The debtors’ prison?’ Abbot de Courcy queried.
‘Aye, as a warning to anybody who takes payment from the king’s supporters for information.’
‘I knew Thomas of Usk,’ muttered Brother Egbert. He fell silent.
The ale wife was relentless with her news. ‘He’s not the only one. In these last few weeks there’s been the Chief Justiciar’s clerk, John Blake: beheaded. Chamber knights, lords Beauchamp and Berners: beheaded. Sir John Salisbury for negotiating a peace treaty with the French - hung, drawn and quartered. Worse still,’ she gave a wail and put her cloth to her face for a moment.
‘Go on, wife, what can be worse?’ urged the ship master in a gruff voice.
‘This.’ She hesitated. ‘Listen and weep. Sir Simon Burley - ’
‘What about him?’ Hildegard leaned forward.
‘They put him on trial at Westminster,’ the ale wife lowered her voice, ‘but even their paid judges refused to condemn him.’ She glanced from one to the other. They were hanging on her every word. ‘So they have no choice, they send him back to the Tower. Next they recall him to stand before the justices again. Same story. So back he goes to the Tower. I ask you, who could condemn such a saintly knight as Sir Simon?’
‘A war hero,’ her man agreed.
She nodded. ‘Beloved by everybody. The king’s own tutor.’
‘This is truly the End Days,’ muttered Hubert.
‘So what happened?’ Egbert urged.
Gregory was frowning. ‘Have they released him?’
‘They sent him back to the Tower to wait for a retrial. And there he remains.’
Despite having heard rumours, everyone, even Hubert, looked shocked.
The ale wife dabbed her eyes on a corner of her apron. ‘Old Sir Simon, the king’s guardian. Ever faithful to the poor lad since he was nine and his father departed this vale of tears.’
‘Burley’s alleged crime?’ Gregory asked, ‘if it’s not a superfluous question?’
‘Treason against the king. Can you believe it, my lords!’
Egbert was scathing. ‘How could that be?’
‘No man alive has a closer care for King Richard’s interests than Burley.’ Hubert was clearly shaken.
‘They’re saying he gave the king bad advice and that now it’s treason to do so.’ The ale wife was unimpressed, ‘If every man was accounted a traitor for bad advice the city walls would be bristling with heads.’
She put one hand briefly on her man’s shoulder before reluctantly turning away to attend to her customers.
‘I hope that’s all you’ve got to say, mistress?’ the ship man called after her.
‘Isn’t it enough?’ she replied as she filled more flagons from the barrel.
‘Enough. Certainly enough,’ muttered Gregory with a glance at Hubert. ‘Sir Simon Burley, a hero of Poitiers. Staunch right hand of our great and doomed Prince Edward, young Richard’s father. A man venerable with age. Who can feel safe if this is what treason means?’
‘We must move on.’ Hubert stood up. They had finished their broth and he said he was eager to be in a bed as soon as possible, preferably at Beaulieu Abbey no matter how hard the mattress. Hildegard could see how appalled he was by the ale mistress’s news. It made it obvious he was right to advise caution now they were back in England.
Before they could leave, however, a commotion in the crowd round the barrels thrust a protesting old man into their midst.
‘Here he is, the soothsayer!’ somebody announced.
‘He’ll tell your fortune if you don’t already know it,’ said another voice.
Grizzled and stooped, the old man leaned heavily on an ash wand.
A coin was clapped onto the trestle in front of him by a fellow in a hooded grey cloak. ‘See the king’s head, old man? You can have it if you’ll tell us something: will he keep it or will he not?’
‘Leave me be. I know nothing that common sense won’t tell you.’
‘Will he keep his crown on his fair head or not? It’s simple enough. They say you have powers to see the truth.’
The old man stared at the coin. ‘I don’t want the head of the king. And I never shall. You keep it. You’ll be needing a head yourself before long.’
‘Why you old devil – I’ll – ’ the betting man made a lunge towards the old fellow but half a dozen others held him back.
He shook them off. ‘I just want to know,’ insisted the owner of the coin, ‘will they behead him like they’re beheading all his allies? Is that where this is going to end?’
‘Am I the devil to know of such evil? Ask Arundel if he’s your master.’
Jeering followed this remark and the owner of the coin scowled as the onlookers made a respectful path for the reluctant soothsayer as he swept a tattered cloak round his shoulders and pushed through them towards the door.
When he reached it he stopped, aware that all eyes were still on him. He turned and his sharp gaze swept round the tap room. ‘Remember this, all you living. Death sleeps in the hollow of the crown. Let King Dickon remember that - and all kings after him to the end of time!’
As he flung open the door rain gusted inside. Then he was gone.
A silence fell. While everybody registered his words the man in the grey cloak began to snigger. He raised his flagon. ‘To Death, then! Greetings! What have we to loose but the chains of mortality!’
Abbot de Courcy and his two monks started to gather their things. Hildegard lingered for a moment. The old seer had hinted that the man who had offered the coin was a follower of Arundel. She glanced across but he had his back to the rest of them now and was already laughing and joshing with some cronies. He seemed more interested in using the coin to make another wager than anything else. Hildegard frowned as she picked up her leather bag. Was this one of the ways Arundel flushed out the supporters of the king? By provoking supporters to betray themselves?
The ale wife bustled over with the abbot’s still damp riding cloak then helped the others into theirs. She refused any payment for this small service but instead murmured to Hildegard, ‘Dangerous times, my lady. Praise God we remain outside the glaring eye of fame.’
Followed by the shipmaster and some of his crew all four went outside into the pelting rain to be guided along a dark lane to the stables by several lads carrying flares.
The horses were brought out and a crowd from the ale house followed them a short way down the lane with shouted instructions to the stable lad to watch out for floods, fallen trees, wild boar, swamps, outlaws, and armed gangs.
‘They’ll soon be in their warm beds,’ observed Brother Gregory as the men, with cloaks over their heads, hurried back to the warmth of the ale house.
‘Then God save us, we have miles to go - and to what destiny?’ Brother Egbert added with a dry smile.
‘Let’s spur our horses,’ urged Hubert. ‘We’ll make short work of the next leg of our journey and face what is to come with stout hearts. Onwards! To Beaulieu!’