Loyalty (2 page)

Chapter 2

The men of the boarding party clung on tightly to the rail, or handy sections of rigging, as the
Saint George
knifed through the sea towards her prey.

   Like many of the ships in Warwick’s fleet, she was a caravel, a small and manoeuvrable vessel of Portuguese design, with scarcely enough room for twenty people aboard. Her triangular lateen sails allowed her to beat into the wind, but now she had the wind behind her.

   Martin Bolton crouched under the foresail, chewing his bottom lip until it bled. He didn’t notice the blood. His first sea-fight loomed, and his heart skipped under his padded linen jack. He had fought in one land battle, at Edgecote, and had felt sick with terror beforehand. This time his fear was mingled with excitement and a pulsing sense of anticipation.

   The broad expanse of grey sea to the east was covered by a host of Flemish merchant ships, three or four-masted carracks for the most part, larger than the caravels and pinnaces of Warwick’s fleet.

   There were over a hundred Flemish ships, but the disparity in size and numbers was deceptive. Warwick’s vessels were stuffed with fighting men, armed retainers who had followed him into exile and French and English sailors who made their living through piracy. Badly in need of funds after his recent misfortunes, Warwick had ordered his fleet to attack and plunder the Flemings without mercy.

   The captain of the
Saint George
had picked out a particularly choice plum, a fat-bottomed carrack that wallowed clumsily in the wake of its peers as they tried to flee. She had four masts and a high rounded stern, and the
Saint George
was flying like an arrow straight towards the centre of her hull as she struggled to turn about into the wind.

   “Look at that great fat sow, lads!” roared Captain Philippé in heavily-accented English, “she’s heavy with wines and silks, depend upon it. Every one of us can get drunk as a lord and dress like a king!”

   Philippé was a scrawny, long-nosed Gascon, a superb sailor and ruthless pirate who commanded the respect of his men with fists and curses. Martin was secretly terrified of him, and preferred not to meet his eye.

   The air filled with the noise of screeching trumpets and clashing cymbals. Warwick’s crews were making as much noise as possible, hoping to intimidate the Flemings into surrender. Cheers drifted across the sea as two of the merchant ships struck their colours.

   The
Saint George’s
target showed no sign of doing the same. Its main deck and aftcastle were crowded with men. Here and there the sun glinted off a steel helm.

   “They want a fight!” cried Philippé, “thank God. I need to get some blood on my hands.”

   His ship closed in rapidly. The wooden bulk of the carrack loomed above the
Saint George
, a floating timber fortress to be stormed and ransacked.

   Martin’s mouth dried as he stared up at the hull of the opposing ship. The men on the foredeck of the
Saint George
were preparing to throw their grappling irons. With luck and judgment, the iron claws would fasten onto the carrack, seizing and holding her close enough for the pirates to board.

   He saw men with crossbows on the aftcastle of the carrack, sighting carefully downwards, and threw himself flat. A man behind him cried out in pain.

   “Bastards!” he heard Philippé shout. “Someone get that dart out of Jean’s leg. Here, I’ll do it myself.”

   Jean’s cries redoubled as the Gascon went to work with his knife.

   Martin got up and touched the pommel of the short sword stuck into his belt for luck. It was a heavy, broad-bladed weapon, more like a butcher’s cleaver than a sword. He also carried a long dagger, and his only protection was his jack and a light iron helmet with no visor.

   The
Saint George
swiftly turned about and came alongside the Flemish ship. Just fifteen feet of water lay between them. The grappling irons bit deep, and the pirates cheered as they heaved on the ropes and dragged the ships together.

   Seven of Philippé’s men were armed with longbows. They drew and shot, forcing the Flemings to scatter or keep their heads down. Two of the goose-feathered shafts found their marks and felled a couple of crossbowmen as they fumbled to reload their clumsy weapons.

   “Boarding party!” screamed Philippé. Six of the men chosen to storm the carrack hurried to swarm up the rigging of the mainmast. The remaining five, Martin among them, took up their places by the starboard rail. They were landsmen, esquires and men-at-arms who had fled England with Warwick, and unused to life at sea. The men in the rigging were lifelong sailors, and jeered at the lubbers below as they clambered aloft with ape-like strength and athleticism. 

   Martin tensed as the ships drew together. The two men in front of him held a rope ladder with iron hooks on one end. Their job was to hurl it across to the carrack, allowing the landsmen to clamber aboard while their mates in the rigging swung across.    

   The ships ground together with a crunching of timbers and an impact that almost knocked Martin off his feet. Cursing, he managed to right himself as the rope ladder flew across and hooked onto the port side of the carrack. A Flemish sailor with an axe ran to sever it, but an arrow pierced his throat and hurled him backwards.

   Martin was the last man up the ladder. He crawled up the slippery, knotted rungs, trying not to imagine his body being crushed between the two ships if he fell. Shouts and the clash of steel erupted above his head as Captain Phillipé and his crew swung across from the rigging and dropped onto the deck of the carrack. There was a brief crackle of gunfire – the Flemings must have had arquebuses, dangerous and new-fangled gunpowder weapons, slow to load and difficult to master.

   A powerful brown hand seized Martin’s wrist and heaved him up the last few rungs onto the maindeck. He gasped out his thanks to the pirate who had helped him, a giant Breton with a glistening bald pate and a red beard twisted into plaits, and dragged out his sword.

   Hell had broken loose aboard the carrack. The Flemish crewmen, a motley assortment of sailors armed with clubs, knotted ropes, hatchets, marlinspikes and anything else they could snatch up in a hurry, outnumbered the pirates and fought back savagely.  

   Most of the fighting was on the maindeck and the aftcastle. Martin spied a group of men dressed in costly furs and silks huddled together on the forecastle, looking like a pack of frightened and rather wealthy sheep: merchants, no doubt, unable or unwilling to lift a hand to defend their investment.

   Martin had just seconds to take in the scene before three men sprang at him, wild-eyed and snarling like wolves. The Breton threw himself at one and buried the wickedly sharp steel of his hatchet in the man’s skull, splattering the deck with blood and brains. 

   That left two for Martin to cope with. He dodged aside as the first man whipped a length of chain at his face.

   Martin was barefoot, the better for keeping his balance on the lurching deck of a ship. Still, fighting at sea was new to him, and he lacked the ease of movement he enjoyed on land. His feet skidded on wet timber and he tumbled backwards, scraping his back painfully against the side.

   Yellow teeth bared in triumph, the Flemings closed in. The second man stabbed his broad-bladed knife at Martin’s belly. Martin caught the blade on his sword-hilt and turned it away.

   It was now he realised his advantage. Tough and brutal as they might be, neither of the Flemings was a trained fighting man. Like any gentleman, Martin had been drilled in the use of weapons since childhood.

   The carrack gave another unexpected lurch. Even the Flemings were taken unawares, and staggered slightly as the deck shuddered and righted itself. Martin seized the opportunity and threw himself at them.

   “A Bolton!” he roared, hacking at the one who carried the chain, “the White Hawk!”

   For the first time in his life he screamed his family’s battle-cry. All the raw emotion, the sorrow and guilt that had curdled inside him since James had galloped into the yard at Heydon Court and gasped out the news of Richard’s death, was expelled in a furious killing rage.

   Furious, but controlled. The heavy cutting edge of his sword bit deep into the Fleming’s neck, chopping through sinew and artery. Hot blood pumped from the fatal wound and splashed his comrade’s face, who failed to see Martin’s foot lash out and kick him in the balls.

   The dying Fleming crumpled to his knees with Martin’s sword still lodged in his neck. Martin left him, drew his long dagger and thrust it into back of the other man’s head as he lay curled about his private agony. Pulling out the bloodied weapon, he thrust it back into his belt and picked up the length of chain.

   He saw Philippé, fighting with the grace and poise of a dancer on the heaving deck. Two Flemings lay at his feet, one dead and the other whimpering and clutching at his guts as they oozed from a sword-slash in his belly. The Gascon fought with sword and dagger, humming tunelessly between his broken teeth as he held off two men at once.

   Martin advanced on them, breathing hard as he stepped over the bodies of the men he had already disposed of. He wrapped one end of the chain around his left hand and swung the other in a circle above his head.

   The men fighting Philippé had their backs to Martin. He brought the heavy iron chain down with all his considerable strength on the back of the nearest Fleming’s skull. It shattered like a rotten egg. His victim collapsed, axe dropping from nerveless fingers.

   “The White Hawk!” Martin howled again. He sprang at the other Fleming and looped the chain over his head and around his throat before the latter had a chance to react.

   Snarling, he drew the chain tight and started to throttle the man, whose face turned purple, eyeballs bulging from their sockets.

   The Fleming’s struggles ceased when Philippé’s sword thrust smoothly into his heart. He opened his mouth in a soundless scream, puked up a stream of blood, shuddered violently, and went limp.

   Martin let the body drop and dumped the chain top of it. He was trembling from so much death and violence, his nostrils full of the stench of blood, his heart pounding.

   He bent to pick up the dropped axe, but Philippé laid a calming hand on his shoulder.

   “No need, my boy,” he said, “they’ve had enough.”

   Martin slowly rose to his full height and looked around. He had inherited his father’s great size and strength, and towered a clear foot over the Gascon.

   The fighting was petering out. He counted thirteen dead or dying men strewn about the deck. Most of them were Flemings, though the pirates had also suffered. The giant Breton who had helped Martin aboard was down, his chest transfixed by two crossbow bolts.

   Those Flemings still on their feet had laid down their weapons and surrendered.

   “Tie their hands and take them below,” ordered Philippé, before turning his attention to the merchants. They, babbling scared and with complexions the colour of fresh milk, were forcibly escorted from the forecastle by a group of grinning pirates.

   “Now, gentlemen,” he said, rubbing his hands, “my lord Warwick wishes to discuss business with you.”

   Martin left them to their haggling and trudged back to the port side. The brief fight had drained him of energy. Reaction swept through him, and his legs shook as he leaned on the side for support.

   The rest of Warwick’s fleet had closed for battle. Some of the merchant vessels showed fight, others simply hauled down their flags and surrendered. Either way, the result was the same.

   Martin glimpsed the
Swan
, Warwick’s flagship, lashed to the side of another Flemish carrack. The Fleming had submitted without a fight, and its captain was being lowered aboard the
Swan
on a rope to hand over his sword. Warwick himself, with his ally Clarence by his side, stood waiting to receive him on the forecastle.

   All that remained of Martin’s family was aboard the
Swan.
He picked out his brother James, with his shock of red hair, among the men gathered behind Warwick. Mary and her little daughter Elizabeth were probably below, trying to keep out of the way of the men.

   For a moment, during the fight, Martin had been able to forget about his responsibilities. Now they weighed heavy on him again. He was the sole living male heir to the Bolton estates – James was a priest, so he didn’t count – and the survival of the family depended on him.

   Perhaps that was why, Martin reflected, he kept putting himself in the way of danger. He had volunteered to go aboard the
Saint George
and join the boarding party.

   He didn’t want the responsibility, or feel entitled to it. The civil wars in England had robbed him of his father, his eldest brother, and his freedom. Now it was his duty to avenge their deaths and do all he could to bring down the House of York.

   “The White Hawk,” he murmured, staring at the palms of his hands. They were spotted with the blood of the men he had helped to kill.

   The White Hawk. He had inherited that burden too. His brother Richard had used it as a title, during his years of outlawry in Lancashire and the Welsh marches. Ballads had been composed to celebrate his exploits.