Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) (32 page)

‘I have,’ his brother retorted, ‘and I was not suggesting you leave Isabel or Anne. Send a rider to Clarence now, on a fresh horse. I have been hammered black by this saddle and I could not ride another thirty miles – a day on the road and the same back again? Lord, Richard, Edward’s men will be here by then.’

Warwick cursed, trying to think.

‘The quickest way would be to sail down the coast and then ride in to fetch them. I’ll send a messenger on a fast horse even so, in the hope of gaining them a few hours of
warning before I’m there to take them off. What about you, George? Are you coming?’

His brother glanced at the young Duke of Gloucester and shrugged.

‘Neither Richard nor I have been named. My amnesty still holds. I don’t think Edward cares much about me, though I dare say his wife still takes an interest. She is the Eve in this English garden, Richard. You should be wary of her.’

‘I have had she-wolves snapping at my throat my whole life,’ Warwick said. ‘Good luck then, George. I would take it kindly if you would look after Mother. She is half-blind now and I do not know how much she still understands. She would appreciate your kindness, I am certain.’

The two brothers looked at each other, very aware that once they moved they might not see each other again for years, if ever again. George opened his arms and they embraced, gripping tightly. Warwick winced at the rasp of stubble over his cheek.

Richard, Duke of Gloucester, was standing nervously, an outsider with a deep colour to his cheeks. Warwick extended his hand and gripped his arm.

‘For your part in bringing me this warning, you have my thanks. I will not forget it.’

‘I know you for a good man,’ Gloucester replied, looking at his feet.

Warwick blew air out in a great sigh.

‘Not good enough, I think.’ He smiled at the bishop for the last time. ‘Your prayers would be very welcome, Brother.’

George Neville cut the sign of the cross into the air and Warwick bowed his head, then raced away back into the estate house.

For all the endless hours he had spent planning for the catastrophe of Edward hunting them, the result was nowhere near as smooth as Warwick had imagined. His boat crew had mysteriously been away from the craft and had to be roused out of a local tavern, half-drunk and sheepish. It seemed that so many weeks of readiness without actual duties had been too much for their discipline.

Once they were out at sea, Warwick’s nerves had settled a little. No one knew where he was and he had only to reach his great ship
Trinity
in berth at Southampton to have a crew and soldiers, supplies and coin. It was no hardship to collect his daughter and her husband and then spend two days at sea in fine weather.

Isabel and Clarence had been waiting on the docks when the yacht dropped anchor. Warwick could only gape at the sheer size of Isabel as she was handed up from a tiny rowing boat over the side. His wife made her a place on the open bench, though there was no shade or protection from the spray. Isabel gripped her mother’s hands and looked about her with dark, bruised-looking eyes, clearly terrified of the boat. Her husband had brought two great bags and not a single servant with them in his panic to get away. The young Duke of Clarence fussed around his wife and mother-in-law with blankets, making Isabel as comfortable as it was possible for her to be, so close to the end.

The crew of four were still abashed by their lack of readiness, though they’d had the sails rigged and bellied out in the wind in no time at all. The little boat left the shore behind once more and tacked back and forth down the coast. They were out and safe, with gulls screeching overhead and Isabel huddled against the breeze and spray, looking pale. Warwick tried to relax, but he found himself
staring ahead as the crew settled down in turns to sleep. The sun dropped beyond the hills on his right side and he watched the moon rise and the stars turn for a long time. He had planned for it all and yet, as it unfolded before him, he dared not allow himself to feel the despair and anger it brought. Whether it was his own fault, or King Edward’s or the Woodvilles’, or his brother John’s spite, it meant a breach. It meant an ending. Whatever else happened, he had lost more than he dared to dwell upon.

He had not sat still since the first news had reached him. Yet on the boat there was nowhere to go and nothing to do except wait for the sun to rise again. He could hear someone leaning over the stern and vomiting helplessly. In the darkness, unseen, Warwick closed his eyes and felt tears come.

In the morning, the little boat rounded the eastern edge of England and tacked against westerly winds down the coast to Southampton, to what was perhaps the best harbour and river mouth in the world for great ships. The Channel was busy as soon as there was light enough to see, with merchant cogs crossing from the continent and coming from as far off as the coasts of Africa. To gain entrance into the deep ports, they had to negotiate frightening shoals that required the services of an expert pilot. Small boats came out under sail to every merchant cog, ready to guide them in to the markets of England.

Warwick felt his spirits lift at the clusters of white sails, tight triangles and squares on a thousand different vessels. His own small yacht would surely go unremarked amongst so many, and he waited for the crew to tack in past the Isle of Wight.

The most senior of his men came clambering back to Warwick, moving easily with the roll of the yacht as the wind freshened. The sailor had the accent of Cornwall, one of that breed who knew the ways of the sea better than the land. He raised his voice to be heard, leaning close to Warwick and pointing into the body of water between the Isle and the mainland.

‘Those ships at anchor there, sir, I know them. The black one is
Vanguard
; other is the
Norfolk
.’

Warwick’s heart sank. He had heard the names before.

‘Are you certain?’ he said.

The sailor nodded. ‘I am, sir. Before this jaunt, I was in
Trinity
at Southampton for six months. I know every ship on this coast, and those two are under the command of Anthony Woodville, king’s admiral.’

‘Can’t we slip past them? This yacht could show them her heels.’

‘See those boats in the water, my lord? They have the whole Solent blocked there. It’s my feeling they know we might try to get in. They haven’t picked us out from the other boats and ships, not yet. I believe they have men up in the yards looking, my lord.’

Warwick swallowed drily. It took no great imagination to see Anthony Woodville would move heaven and earth to capture them. With a better understanding, Warwick could see then how the smaller boats were rowed or sailed across the mouth of the Solent. Nothing afloat could pass through to the port of Southampton without being challenged and stopped, then boarded.

As he stood there, with a hand on the mast, staring across the blue, Isabel gave a great cry. Warwick jerked round, but his wife was there before him, pressing a cup of water to her lips and resting a hand on the swell of her womb under the cloth. As Warwick stared in dismay, he saw his wife snatch her hand away, as if something had bitten her.

‘What was it? Did the child kick?’ Warwick asked.

His wife Anne had gone ashen and shook her head.

‘No, it was a tightening,’ she said.

Isabel groaned, opening her eyes.

‘Is it the child? Is it coming?’ she asked plaintively.

Warwick forced himself to chuckle.

‘Not at all! There are pangs sometimes, long before the
birth. I remember your mother was just the same. Isn’t that so, Anne? For weeks before the day of birth.’

‘Y-yes, yes, of course,’ Isabel’s mother said. She pressed her palm against Isabel’s forehead and turned to Warwick where the daughter could not see, her eyes wide with alarm.

Warwick drew the crewman as far away as he could, right to the bowsprit, where they could see foaming waters rushing past.

‘I need to get to a safe port,’ Warwick murmured through clenched teeth.

‘Not here, sir. The admiral’s men will give chase the moment they know who we are.’

Warwick turned, looking over his shoulder. It was a clear day, but the coast of France was too far off to be seen.

‘The wind is fresh enough. Can you reach Calais?’

As if to spur them on, Isabel gave another great cry then, her voice rising to a shriek like the gulls overhead. It seemed to make the crewman’s mind up for him.

‘If the westerly holds, I’ll get you there, my lord. Twelve hours, no more.’

‘Twelve!’ Warwick said, loud enough to make his wife and Clarence look up questioningly. He dropped his voice, leaning in very close. ‘The child could be here by then.’

The sailor shook his head in regret.

‘At our best speed, we are as fast as anything afloat, but I cannot put on more sail than she can bear. Twelve hours would be a fine run, my lord – and that’s if the wind blows steady. If I can better it, I will.’

‘Are we going back to land, Richard?’ Warwick’s wife called. ‘Isabel needs a safe, warm place.’

‘There is none, not in England, not now, not with the
king’s hand turned against us!’ Warwick snapped, overcome with the demands on him. ‘We will sail for Calais.’

The steering oar was pressed hard over and the sails flapped as the prow swung, until they bellied out once more on to the new tack.

Warwick took a turn steering, feeling the life in the craft as it strained under his hand. Isabel’s cries had grown more pitiful with every passing hour, the effort of the contractions exhausting her. There was no longer any doubt as to what they were. The baby was coming and the green coast of France loomed ahead. The crew had been busy for the entire day, tightening ropes and adjusting the twin sails by the tiniest fraction to gain a little more speed. They cast nervous glances at the red-faced young woman as they passed, having never seen anything like it.

Ahead of him, Warwick saw the dark mass he knew as well as his own estates. Indeed, Calais had been his home for years before, when King Edward had been just a boy. He could look over the fortress and the town with something like nostalgia. The day had remained clear and the Channel had narrowed as they’d headed back up the coast from Southampton, so that he could see the white cliffs of Dover on one side, with France and freedom on the other. Every passing moment took him closer to safety and yet further from everything he loved and valued.

He was shaken from his reverie by his daughter as she cried out, the sound sharper than before and longer. The sailors did their best not to stare, but there was nowhere truly private on that open boat. Isabel sat on the boards with her legs apart, panting and holding her mother’s hand on one side and her husband’s on the other. She was mortally afraid.

‘It will not be long now,’ Warwick said. ‘Get in as close as you dare and drop anchor. Put my banner up high on the mast, so we are not delayed.’

‘There is no deep keel on this craft, my lord,’ the Cornishman replied. ‘I could take her all the way in to the quays.’

Warwick looked across the crowded waters in desperation. Beyond them, the fortress rose in stone walls. He knew the exact number and weight of cannon shot they could fire. The fortress could not be besieged from the land side, because they could be supplied from the sea. They could not be attacked from the sea, because of the great cannon. Calais was the best-fortified English possession in the world and any craft daring to scorn her defences would be smashed into firewood. Even so, he considered it, wondering if he could shelter their approach behind other vessels and then dart for the docks before anyone guessed their intention.

‘See those wisps of smoke?’ he said bitterly. ‘They have iron shot, heated to dull red in braziers, ready to be heaved out with tongs and dropped down the barrel on to a wet plug. They can strike a mile out to sea, and whatever they strike burns. We must wait for the harbourmaster.’

As he spoke, one of the crewmen hoisted his colours. The wind was growing stronger and the banner snapped out as the waves began to crown with white. The yacht rocked and dipped, snubbing the small anchor and wrenching at them all. Warwick held on to a rope that was like a piece of iron and stood on the railing, waving one arm back and forth to the shore to convey the urgency. Behind him, Isabel wept and cried out, biting her lip until blood showed and her cheeks were speckled with broken spots under the skin.

‘The child is
coming
, Richard!’ his wife called. ‘Can’t you
land? Sweet Jesus and Mary preserve us. Can’t you take us in?’

‘They are coming out! Hold fast, Isabel. The master can signal the fortress guns and the wind is still in the right quarter. I’ll call for a doctor to attend you …’

He turned to give new orders to the crew, but they were ready to cut the anchor rope and drop the sails once more. It would be crude work, but they were ready for his signal.

The yacht gave a great lurch and the wind howled, rising every moment and sending spray across them all. Dark clouds went scudding overhead and Isabel screamed. Warwick looked down to see his daughter’s bare legs splayed wide. He caught a glimpse of the baby’s head crowning and swallowed. His wife had given up all pretence of privacy and knelt on the boards, shivering in the sea spray, but determined and ready to take the tiny scrap of life into her hands.

Warwick watched the harbourmaster’s boat making its slow way towards him. He imagined they could hear Isabel’s cries, though they seemed in no hurry at all. Surely the sounds would carry across the water. They seemed so piercing to Warwick’s ear that he thought the entire garrison would know there was a child being born.

When the harbourmaster’s boat came within hailing distance, Warwick roared at the top of his lungs. He pointed up to the bear and staff at the tip of the mast, then called through cupped hands for a doctor to attend a birth. It was done and he sagged, panting and seeing white spots flash before his eyes from the effort. The wind was gusting like a mad thing, sending the ropes shivering and the tethered yacht surging up and down in great lurches, so that the horizon seemed to plunge and rise sickeningly.

Warwick started in confusion as the harbourmaster’s skiff
kept coming, with no sign of a signal flag raised to the watchers in the fortress. He shouted again, pointing and waving, while the little boat came on under a scrap of sail, great sheets of salt water breaking over her prow. Warwick could see a man standing just as he was, holding on to a rope and swinging dangerously as he gestured in turn. The wind had risen still further and Warwick could not make out all the words. Rather than wait, he called again for a doctor, saying over and over that he was Warwick and there was a child being born. In the midst of his fury, he heard a high wail, stuttering and shrill. The wind dropped for a moment, fluky and gusting. He looked back and saw one of the sailors standing abashed, holding out a horn-handled knife for Isabel’s mother to cut the cord and throw the caul into the sea.

Warwick stood swaying, his mouth open and his mind blank. There was blood on the deck, spreading with the spray that hammered at them, so that it ran into the cracks of the old wood and raced down the planks. Isabel had been covered up again under blankets. He watched as Anne pushed the tiny child under Isabel’s shirt, not to feed, but just to feel the warmth and get out of the biting wind and damp air.

‘A girl, Richard!’ his wife called back. ‘A daughter!’

It was a moment of wonder and when he turned once more to the port, he saw the harbourmaster’s skiff had come dangerously close. There were only four men on board and he recognized the fellow who had welcomed Clarence and Isabel once before, when they had come to be married. The man had been all smiles and gentle laughter then. In the cold, his stare was hard.

Warwick called to him even so, now that they were close enough to speak over the wind.

‘A child has been born, sir. I will need a doctor to tend
my daughter. And an inn with a good fire and hot mulled wine as well.’

‘I’m sorry, my lord. I have orders from the new Captain of Calais, Sir Anthony Woodville. You may not land, my lord. If it were up to me, I would allow it, but my orders were sealed by King Edward. I cannot go against them.’

‘Where
would
you have me land?’ Warwick demanded in despair. Wherever he turned, it seemed the queen’s brother had been there before him. Warwick was close enough to see the Calais man hunch his shoulders at the pain in his voice. He filled his lungs and howled again across the waves and spray. ‘Listen to me! We have a child born on deck not minutes past, my grandchild! No, King Edward’s
niece
! Born at sea – your orders be damned, sir! We are coming in. Cut that damned anchor!’

His sailors sliced the line and the yacht turned immediately, going from a bobbing piece of flotsam on an anchor rope to a live thing the instant it parted. Warwick could see the harbourmaster gesturing, waving him off, but he nodded to his men and they heaved out enough sail to give them steering way. The yacht’s motion steadied as she sliced through the waters.

A double crack sounded from the dark mass of the fortress on the shore, for all the world like a crow crouched over a corpse. Warwick could not see the flight of the heated shot, but he saw where they fell. Both smacked into the sea around them, aimed no doubt when they had made such a fine target at anchor. He knew the cannon crews practised on anchored boats bought as hulks. He had overseen such work himself.

The second ball came close enough to make Anne shriek and Clarence clutch his pale wife to him in fear. The
ball missed the yacht but they could hear a furious bubbling as it gave up its heat. Around them came a strong smell of hot iron, rising from the depths.

‘
Richard!
’ his wife called. ‘Take us away, please! They will not let us land. We cannot force our way to the dock.
Please!
’

Warwick stared out, knowing the next shots could smash the yacht to pieces and kill everyone on board. He could still not believe they had fired upon him, with his banner on the mast. His men were waiting on his word, their eyes wild. He raised his hand and they moved, the yacht swinging round and the sails going slack. It might have saved them as the cannon sounded again, the report cracking across the sea. The dull red balls fell short, with plumes of steam hissing upwards while Warwick’s crew heaved them back and the yacht steadied once more.

‘What course, my lord?’ the Cornish sailor called.

Warwick walked the length of the boat, looking back as Calais began to dwindle behind them.