Loyalty

THE WHITE HAWK

(II): LOYALTY

Copyright 2015 David Pilling

More Books by David Pilling

Leader of Battles (I): Ambrosius

Leader of Battles (II): Artorius

Leader of Battles (III): Gwenhwyfar

King’s Knight (I)

The White Hawk (I): Revenge

Folville’s Law (I): Invasion

Caesar’s Sword (I): The Red Death

Caesar’s Sword (II): Siege of Rome

Caesar’s Sword (III): Flame of the West

Robin Hood (I)

Robin Hood (II): The Wrath of God

Robin Hood (III): The Hooded Man

Robin Hood (IV): The King’s Pardon

Nowhere Was There Peace

The Half-Hanged Man

Co-written with Martin Bolton

The Best Weapon

Sorrow

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Chapter 1

The Channel, April 1470

The Earl of Warwick stood on the stern castle of his ship, the
Swan,
and watched in silent horror as his men were tortured to death.

   His battered fleet, a ragbag of caravels, carracks and pinnaces, as well as a few old-fashioned cogs, had regrouped on the open seas south of Southampton. Warwick’s attack on the docks, to try and capture his flagship,
Trinity
, and a number of other vessels, had been beaten off with heavy loss by the royal fleet.

   About forty of his men were captured during the failed assault. The life of their leader, Sir Geoffrey Gate, was spared, but the common soldiers made an example of.

   Stripped naked, they were marched onto the wharf by their captors and beheaded. The axe-men then set about hacking the bodies into quarters. Silence reigned aboard the
Swan
as this butcher’s work was carried out. Worse was to come.

   Soldiers carrying long stakes sharpened at both ends marched onto the wharf. Under the direction of a richly-dressed nobleman on a white destrier, they picked up the severed heads and impaled them on the stakes. Laughing as they went about their business, red to the elbows with blood, they rammed the other end of the stakes into the buttocks of the headless, twitching bodies.

   Warwick was a good sailor. The pitch and roll of a ship under his feet had never caused him any problems, but now his gorge threatened to rise. Clapping a hand over his mouth, he turned away from the ghastly piece of theatre being played out on land, and sucked in breaths of clean sea air.

   “Tiptoft is a fell brute,” croaked the Duke of Clarence, “one should never trust men of learning.”

   He referred to the nobleman who oversaw the grisly executions. John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester and Constable of England, enjoyed a brilliant reputation as a traveller and scholar of Latin. He had spent much time studying in Italy, where it seemed he had also picked up some drastic notions of crime and punishment.

   Clarence was leaning heavily against the side and clinging to a ratline for support. His plump face was a sickly greenish pallor, for he did not share Warwick’s aptitude for sailing. Since leaving Dartmouth, he had spent most of the voyage curled up on his bunk below, retching into a bucket and praying for death.

   The prospect of witnessing Worcester’s style of justice had dragged him onto deck. Clarence was of a cruel and sensual disposition, and enjoyed watching others in pain. Not for the first time, Warwick regretted picking such a man for an ally.

   “Worcester will pay for what he is doing,” he vowed, “I shall live to see his head pierced on the end of a stake.”

   Unable to save his men on shore, and unwilling to witness any more of the cruelties being inflicted on them, he gave orders for his fleet to set sail for Calais.

   Calais was his bolt-hole, a convenient refuge he had often used to escape his enemies in England. From there he could spin new webs of conspiracy against the King of England and his one-time friend, Edward IV, and send messages to his scattered supporters.

   He was still technically the Constable of Calais, though Edward would doubtless strip him of the title. The city was held by Warwick’s old deputy, Lord Wenlock.

   His ships approached the harbour on a grey, blustery morning, with strong winds whipping the sea into turmoil and flinging tides of spray across the foredeck of the
Swan.
Ignoring the salt water that soaked through his warm cloak and layers of clothing, Warwick stood on deck and anxiously scanned the sea-walls.

   They were lined with cannon, enough bombards, serpentines and culverins to reduce his forty-odd vessels to so much floating matchwood. The royal arms flew proudly from the battlements. For appearance’s sake, Warwick hoped.

   He hoped in vain. As soon as the foremost squadron of pinnaces came within range of the walls, Wenlock’s guns thundered into life. Half a dozen round-shot ploughed into the sea, throwing up great explosions of spray. They flew well wide of the ships, but the warning was clear enough.

   “Damn Wenlock!” Warwick screamed, smacking his fist against the rail, “has he gone mad?”

   The pinnaces were tacking about, unwilling to hazard another volley from the walls. Warwick turned angrily to the slender, red-haired man standing next to him.

   “I want you to take a message into the city,” he snapped. “Tell Lord Wenlock to stop buggering about and permit us to enter the harbour. Remind him that I am the Constable of Calais, and that he is my deputy. Understand?”

   James Bolton nodded. Always a solemn, grim-looking character, he had recently shed weight, and lost any trace of humour or warmth. Warwick dimly recalled that the man had just lost his brother, slaughtered in the catastrophe at Empingham.

   “God go with you,” he said in a more gentle tone. Bolton’s loyalty was without question, and Warwick was throwing him into the unknown. If Lord Wenlock had decided to abandon his fealty to Warwick and cleave to the King, Bolton’s head might soon be mounted on a pole above the city gates.

   “Lord,” Bolton said hesitantly, “I have a favour to ask of you.”

   “What is it?” Warwick asked distractedly, shading his eyes to peer at the walls. The guns had fallen silent.

   “I know that your daughter is heavy with child, and likely to give birth any time now. Permit my sister Mary to attend her. She has some skill as a midwife.”

   Warwick looked at him in astonishment. “Have a care, priest,” he said pointedly, “my daughter’s condition is no affair of yours.”

   “My apologies, lord. I understand that Lady Isabel has few ladies in attendance on her, and the ship’s surgeon is a drunk and of little use. My sister can help ease her pain.”

   Warwick swallowed his outrage. Bolton’s presumption was startling, but he was merely offering to aid his daughter. God knew she was in dire need of it. Isabel, Clarence’s wife, was due to go into labour very soon, and in the haste to flee England there had been no time to acquire stores of medicinal herbs or wine. 

   “Your family’s service in my cause is boundless,” he said, exercising his common touch by clapping James on the shoulder, “you will be well rewarded, I promise. Go and fetch your sister. She may attend on Isabel.”  

   James ducked his head and hurried away, stumbling slightly as the deck heaved underneath him. Warwick turned his attention back to Calais.

   “What game are you playing, Wenlock?” he muttered to himself, “which side have you chosen?”   

  He got his answer less than an hour later, after Bolton had ventured into the harbour in a rowboat, and returned unscathed with a letter from Lord Wenlock.

   Warwick thanked him, took the letter and eagerly read the contents.

   “Well?” demanded Clarence, who had struggled out of his bunk to hear Wenlock’s answer. He was still ravaged by sea-sickness, and looked pinched and ill as he stood unsteadily on the swaying deck.

   Warwick gave a wry smile. “A polite refusal,” he said, handing Clarence the letter, “Wenlock says that he is still on our side, but his hands are tied. It seems he received a message from King Edward, just hours before we appeared, ordering him to refuse us access. The whole of the Calais garrison, including the Marshal, have sided with Edward.”

   Clarence clutched at his belly as the ship gave another unexpected heave. “He describes Calais as a mousetrap,” he said, holding onto the side and squinting at the letter, “there is a Burgundian army camped at St Omer, and the royal fleet under Lord Howard is heading here.”

   His flabby face drained of what little colour it possessed. “We’re trapped. If Howard doesn’t snare us at sea, the Duke of Burgundy will on land. What do we do?”

   “Show some courage, man,” Warwick snapped. “Morale is low enough already without you whining like a kicked puppy. We will have to forget Calais and sail on to a French port. The French are no friends to Edward and won’t prevent us landing.”

   Clarence was in no state to contest Warwick’s decisions. He staggered back below, complaining that the mere effort of standing upright caused his guts to perform a jig.

   The departure of the fleet was delayed by Isabel, who went into labour shortly afterwards. In a panic, Warwick forgot his pride and sent Bolton back into Calais with another message, begging Wenlock to show compassion for his daughter.

   Wenlock sent back two casks of herbal wine, but nothing more. For the rest of the day Warwick paced the length of his foredeck, consumed with anxiety for his daughter and her child. The ship’s only cabin was given over to the lying-in, and Mary Bolton and the ship’s surgeon, for all the use he was, were in attendance.

   Wracked with sickness and fear for his wife, Clarence stayed below deck and punished one of the casks of wine sent by Wenlock. The drink only made him worse, and his groans mingled with those of his wife in the agony of labour drifted around the ship like the cries of tormented spirits.

   Warwick could not bear it. He clapped his hands over his ears against the dreadful noise, and prayed for the ordeal to end.

   Dark purple clouds were massing in the west when the door to the cabin opened, and Mary Bolton emerged. A thin woman of indeterminate age, with thick strands of grey in her black hair, she looked wan and exhausted, and wiped her hands with a cloth as she nervously approached the foredeck.

   Aware of the eyes of his men upon him, Warwick steeled himself for the worst. “What news?” he asked, folding his arms.

   Mary swallowed hard before replying. “Your daughter lives, lord,” she said, “but we could not save her daughter. The child was stillborn.”

   Warwick was surprised by how much this affected him. “Do you have any children, madam?” he asked, once he could trust himself to speak.

   “Yes, lord. A young daughter. She is aboard this ship.”

   “That skinny little black-haired waif is yours? It seems your brother brought his entire family to keep me company in exile.”

   Mary smiled. It completely altered her appearance, summoning up the ghosts of youth and beauty. “Both my brothers, lord. Martin is here, as well as James. We had to flee England after Empingham. It was too dangerous to remain.”

   Warwick understood. Now King Edward reigned supreme again, anyone who had supported his enemies would find themselves attainted and their lands made forfeit to the crown.

   “I thank you for your service today,” he said, smiling in return, “in time, you and your kin shall receive your just rewards.”

   Isabel’s stillborn daughter was buried at sea. It was a grim ceremony, with Warwick’s confessor muttering the last rites while the entire ship’s company stood in silence with bowed heads. Isabel was too weak to attend, but her sobs were audible from the cabin.

   Her husband found the strength to come on deck and watch the tiny body being consigned to the deep. Savagely flawed though Clarence was, Warwick could not help but feel sympathy for him.

   Once the ceremony was over, Warwick gave orders for the fleet to sail west.

   Clarence ignored the commotion. He stood and gazed bleakly at the wine-dark waters, as though he could see his daughter’s body, wrapped in its little shroud, slowly sinking to the bottom.