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 the 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.
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 maid 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.
Urswicke then rode back to his mistress. Bray had made their encampment more comfortable. The three carters sheltered behind the carriage whilst Edith was warm enough inside with blankets and a finger-warmer, a small chaffing dish crammed with scraps of glowing charcoal. Urswicke, Bray and the countess crouched before the fire as Urswicke, pleading with them to be silent, described the conclusions he’d reached during his journey from London which, he toasted Bray with his cup, had only been corroborated and supplemented by what he’d been told. Urswicke had prepared his bill of indictment, as he called it, and delivered it as skilfully as any lawyer would before King’s Bench at Westminster. Once he had finished, both the countess and Bray questioned him closely but then accepted that both the indictment and the conclusions Urswicke had listed were logical and based on reasonable evidence. The assassin, the traitor had lurked in full view, yet he was, in all logic and truth, the one common factor in all that had occurred.
‘I believe you, Christopher,’ the countess murmured. ‘As you know I nursed my own suspicions. I beg pardon if I seemed to lack trust in you but, of course, Christopher, that’s what your father worked so hard to achieve. The Tudor tree grows strong and supple and your father has tried to slash its roots. However, in all truth, what you say echoes with what I now suspect.’
‘But are you sure, certain, because sentence must follow swiftly?’ Bray declared.
Urswicke was repeating his arguments when one of the carters shouted for him. Urswicke rose, walked out of the shelter, and raised a hand in greeting at the Breton sailor who had first accosted him on the beach.
‘Monsieur Christopher,’ the man pushed his way carefully through the gorse, ‘monsieur, our master says we must go. It is time. The news about what happened here will spread. We need to lose ourselves out at sea.’ He grinned. ‘Monsieur Savereaux believes the sun will create a thick mist and we shall be most grateful for that. Monsieur Christopher, please inform the countess we have now finished all our business and fair stands the wind …’
Urswicke beckoned him closer and spoke pointedly about what the countess wanted. The Breton looked surprised but he pulled a face, shrugged and said they would do what was asked.
‘Nevertheless, monsieur,’ he added, ‘we must go. You must bring your lady down to the beach as soon as possible.’
Within the hour, Urswicke and Bray, both carrying an arbalest already primed, with a quiver of bolts attached to their warbelts, escorted the countess down to the water’s edge where the ship’s boats stood ready. Once she had left the sand hills, the countess paused and stared back along the beach. She glimpsed the gallows, turned and walked slowly towards it. She stood, whispering the Jesus prayer as she stared at the soaring three-branched scaffold standing gauntly on a hillock, a sinister shadow against the light-blue sky.
‘Is that the gibbet?’ she asked over her shoulder. ‘Is that where the corpses of my two poor retainers were hanged?’
‘Yes, my Lady, but don’t distress yourself with such memories, or what you see now.’
‘So ghastly, so ghastly,’ the countess breathed.
‘Mistress, do not concern yourself,’ Urswicke repeated, standing behind the countess. He glanced around. The signs of the recent conflict had been cleared from the beach. Only blackened spars and splinters from the carracks floated on the incoming tide. The corpses of those pirates who’d reached the shore had been stripped and dragged across to the gibbet, now decorated with at least a dozen cadavers, ropes lashed about their necks, their dirty-white flesh exhibiting the death wounds inflicted. A macabre, chilling sight. The dead men just hung, swaying slightly. Nothing more than hunks of flesh, bereft of all dignity.
‘Truly a place of violent death,’ Margaret declared. ‘In this lonely place, ghosts must ride the winds, carried back and forth on the tide until reparation is made. Reginald, Christopher,’ she beckoned both henchmen closer, ‘when this is finished and we return to London, despatch a cohort of men to take these corpses down. Bury them honourably in the poor man’s plot of the nearest church. Give the priest a purse of coins to cover the cost of the death pit, as well as to sing requiem masses for the repose of the souls of all those killed here. Yes?’
‘It will be done,’ Bray replied.
‘My Lady!’ a voice shouted.
Margaret lifted her head, smiled and hastened to greet Savereaux, the captain of The Galicia, who went down on one knee, kissed her beringed fingers and rose, his bearded face wreathed in a smile. For a while they exchanged pleasantries, discussing what had happened. The Breton master clasped hands with both Bray and Urswicke, thanking them for all they had done. He turned back to the countess. ‘My Lady, we must be gone. I assure you,’ he declared, ‘as long as I have breath and a ship, I will be at your disposal and take you safely wherever you want. You have my word on that. But first I have a prisoner for you, you might find him interesting.’ Savereaux stumbled over the English. ‘Come, come, my Lady.’ He led them across to the bum-boat, now riding on the strengthening tide at the water’s edge. He rattled out orders to the two seamen on guard. These went round the bum-boat and dragged out a red-haired prisoner, thin and white as a willow wand, with blinking green eyes and a pock-marked face. He was brought to kneel before Savereaux, who promptly slapped him on the face and poked him in the chest.
‘Tell the countess,’ Savereaux leaned down, ‘tell the lady what you told my henchmen when the sea tossed you ashore and you begged for your life. We recognised you were English so we gave you a hearing. So come, come, I haven’t time to waste. Speak the truth or I will cut your throat.’
‘My name is Norreys,’ the prisoner gabbled, ‘a seaman who hails from Hunstanton in Norfolk. I know this coastline like the back of my hand. I drifted into London some weeks ago where Keysler, master of The Sea Hawk recruited me.’
Bray, now intrigued, crouched down to face the prisoner. ‘So you claim not to be a pirate?’ he taunted.
‘I am a navigator,’ Norreys retorted, ‘hired because of my knowledge of this kingdom’s eastern coast. I am being honest. I brought in The Sea Hawk against The Glory of Lancaster. It was easy to track. That cog escaped but not due to me. I did the same today when we closed on The Galicia. Sir, I do what I am paid to do, nothing more.’
Bray stared hard at Norreys as he wracked his memory and recalled Keysler and the others clustered at the foot of the great mast. ‘Yes, yes,’ Bray murmured. ‘I saw you with the rest gathered by Keysler to plan your journey. Your fiery-red hair caught my eye.’ Bray grinned. ‘Indeed, it may secure your life. What do you have to tell the countess?’
‘Sir Thomas Urswicke hired the Flemings.’
‘We know that.’
‘He is set,’ Norreys squinted up, ‘he is set on your total destruction.’
‘We also know that,’ Urswicke snapped, crouching beside Bray. Norreys peered at Christopher, smiled and pointed a finger.
‘You are young Urswicke, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘He said, Keysler did, that you were really your father’s minion, his spy on the countess and, in the end, you would strike at her as he would. Keysler claimed to have heard this direct from Sir Thomas’s mouth.’
‘I am sure he did,’ Christopher retorted, hiding his unease at Bray’s sharp intake of breath. Urswicke tapped the pommel of his dagger, wondering what his father really knew. Christopher played the game of being a professional spy who would sell anyone and anything for the right price. He fed his father juicy morsels but nothing significant. Did his father genuinely believe that his son would one day join him, or was he trying to force a deadly breach between himself and the countess?
‘That’s what he said,’ Norreys exclaimed.
‘Peace, peace,’ the countess murmured. ‘Norreys,’ she continued, ‘why should Keysler tell you this?’
‘We gathered for discussion. Keysler’s henchmen were very wary about entering English waters and attacking a Breton ship.’
‘Of course, they would be,’ the countess replied. ‘If Keysler sank a Breton vessel, a host of troubles would descend. Duke Francis would not take it kindly, especially the loss of a cog like The Galicia along with its most experienced captain.’
‘There’s more,’ Norreys stammered. ‘Keysler informed us that once this business was finished, we would return to London to collect certain individuals, then go through the Narrow Seas and stand off the coast of Wales. This was to be a new task. We were to land assassins there, but that’s all I know. Keysler described it as a great enterprise supported by Sir Thomas Urswicke,’ Norreys looked meaningfully at Christopher, ‘and his son.’
‘And who were these assassins?’ Bray demanded.
‘Sir, I don’t know, but apparently they would do great damage to the Tudor cause in Wales. Keysler was very happy with this. He said the task would take months and we would all be well paid. And that is it. Mistress,’ Norreys looked pleadingly at the countess, ‘what will happen to me now?’
‘We cannot let him go,’ Urswicke declared, trying to hide his own disquiet. ‘He cannot be allowed …’
‘I could join the Bretons,’ Norreys retorted. ‘I am a veteran seaman, a plotter of courses.’ He fell silent as the countess raised her hand and turned to Savereaux.
‘I am always searching for good mariners, my Lady. We will take him. He is a navigator and he has been of use to you.’
‘He certainly has,’ Margaret replied, ‘and if you take him, he will not be able to tell anyone else what he has witnessed.’
‘And if he does,’ Savereaux bent down and glared into Norreys’s face, ‘if he breaks his word or the indenture he is about to seal, God help him because I won’t.’
Norreys was bundled away and the countess then moved to clasp hands with the sanctuary men, distributing coins and thanking them for their work. Urswicke watched her as he reflected on what Norreys had told them. He was sure that both the countess and Bray trusted him fully but, there again, there was always that deep unease when it came to his father. He and the Recorder were locked in a deadly shadow fight and Christopher put his hopes in his father’s one profound miscalculation: Sir Thomas could never really believe or accept that his son was a fervent adherent of the House of Lancaster and Tudor in particular. As long as his father continued in that delusion, Christopher felt he was safe. Nevertheless, he quietly promised himself that he would do all in his power to continue this deception of the honourable Recorder. Meanwhile, he turned to Bray standing beside him.
‘Soon,’ Urswicke whispered, ‘we will strike soon.’