A Queen's Champion, page 3
The storm had rolled inland, yet fine rain continued to fall from a lead grey sky. Running down the ropes high above him, it gathered, then fell in irregular droplets to the deck. A sudden gust of wind shook more free, the sound of them thrumming on the deck increasing. The wind pressed the damp clothing against his skin and another involuntary shiver shook his body. Rarely had he been this cold, the feeling in his feet and hands was lost to him.
Suddenly a hand clamped down solidly on his shoulder and Richard winced at the sudden shock to his aching muscles.
“She did well,” Jerome announced, coming to stand beside him, “And you fought well for her last night, and what a bloody fight it was!”
“It is one I would rather not face again,” Richard’s voice was hoarse after a night of shouting against the wind.
On the quayside two men drawing a hand cart had slowed to stare at the tattered remains of the Santa Luciana. She was sitting low in the water, her keel full over the top of the ballast with sea water. Broken rigging was still strewn across the deck, snagged round rails and masts where it had been forced by powerful waves. Part of a guard rail, ripped from its fixings, hung over the side of the ship suspended from the guide ropes that had run along its length, the break in the wood ugly and splintered.
“What are you two gawping at? Get your arses gone before I come down there and kick them for you,” Jerome’s loud voice threatened, his eyes blazing with anger.
The hand cart was jolted into motion again, rusted iron-rimmed wheels rattling over the cobbled quay.
Jerome turned to Richard, his voice serious. “She deserves respect.”
“I think it’s the men who brought her safely here that deserve that,” Richard replied.
Jerome’s eyes narrowed. “I thought the keel would split, or she would capsize. I had no right to bring a ship through that storm in her state and claim it was skill that brought her into harbour.”
“I’m glad you shared that with me after the event,” Richard replied dryly.
Jerome turned his back on the quay, in the centre of the deck his crew had set up a brazier, procured dry coals and were huddled around it. On top of the glowing embers wood had been added and orange flames danced through the iron sides reaching out to sear skin and scorch hair - but the men were too cold to care.
“Leave a watch crew on her, the rest can come ashore with us. Lizbet will find us accommodation soon enough,” Richard’s eyes were also resting on the bedraggled group of sailors who had pitched their hopes of survival in with that of the Santa Luciana.
Jerome nodded his approval. “We’ll need them over the next few days, they might not be loyal to you, but they are loyal to her.”
“Loyal to my silver more like,” Richard replied quickly.
“You don’t understand them. Not all men are motivated by greed. When the steel in your hand has saved your life, do you stand back and think of worldly wealth? Or do you tighten your grip on the hilt and thank God you can still take a breath? When David stood before Goliath, laid dead at his feet, did he think about stripping the rings from his fingers?”
“You don't know, you weren’t there,” Richard replied sarcastically.
Jerome landed another unwanted hand on his shoulder, squeezing it just a little too hard. “You're a Godless wretch sometimes, Fitzwarren.”
“I have Nevarra to remind me of that already,” Richard said as they made their way towards the brazier.
“Last night he was fearless in the face of hopelessness,” Jerome’s voice held a note of approval.
“And I thought you didn’t like him,” Richard said bluntly.
Jerome grinned and addressed one of the man standing on the opposite side of the brazier, “It’s the other way around, isn’t it?”
Richard had not realised that one of the men huddling closely to the burning coals was Emilio. Wearing only a linen shirt, his shoulders draped in sack cloth, he looked little different from the rest of Jerome’s men.
“I have been caught in storms before, but nothing like this,” Emilio said to them in greeting, pulling the coarse fabric tighter around his body.
“I had a battle with Poseidon, South of Corsica, that was as bad,” Jerome said, smiling towards Emilio through the smoke of the brazier.
“You can win battles it seems faultlessly against the weather, but it is a little different when faced with a real enemy,” Emilio replied, not returning Jerome’s smile.
Jerome shrugged, then matching Emilio’s cold stare, he said. “As I have just been advised by Fitzwarren, you weren’t there.” Switching his attention back to Richard he asked, “The customs lads will be down here soon enough wanting to know where we came from and where we are bound, what shall I tell them?”
“The truth, that she belongs to the Ellario Company,” Richard replied.
“Her hold is empty, she is hardly a merchant ship, and I don’t suppose the Ellario Company have offices in Newcastle,” Jerome answered quickly.
“This is too far North for the Ellario’s - tell them she was blown off course,” Richard supplied, his hands held before him welcoming the warmth from the coals.
“Off course!” Jerome spluttered.
“Yes, off course. Tell them we were bound for Den Helder,” Richard suggested.
“Den Helder!” Jerome’s cheeks flushed with colour. “That’s not off course! That would be a navigational blunder no-one would believe.”
“I am sure you can convince them, spin them a tale of poor seamanship,” Richard regarded Jerome with a cold smile.
If Jerome had been about to answer he was stopped by the sound of a door crashing open behind them, heralding a diatribe of complaint that seemed to be aimed at no-one in particular.
Emilio’s eyebrows rose, and in his native Italian he announced. “It seems not everything below decks has suffered as much as it should have.”
“Christ, even I had forgotten about Scranton,” Pierre said from where he stood next to Emilio.
It was warning enough. Richard, a delighted smile on his face, turned to greet the sodden form of the munitions manufacturer. “Master Scranton, it is good to see you hearty and well. Come and rejoice with us, we have delivered you safely to England.”
“England!” Scranton exclaimed. His eyes still adjusting from the gloom below decks, squinted towards the town beyond the quay.
“Only just,” Pierre said under his breath.
Scranton, not a man to ever miss very much, heard the words. “What does he mean, only just?”
“Captain Jerome has brought us safely into harbour in Newcastle,” Richard supplied.
“Newcastle!” Scranton exclaimed, and then when no-one replied he repeated the word at a higher pitch. “Newcastle!”
“Yes, Master Scranton, Newcastle,” Richard said, still smiling.
Master Scranton pushed his way through the circle of men to Richard’s side.
“You said you were taking me to London,” Scranton complained, elbowing the man on his left out of the way to claim a closer position to the brazier.
“You are in England, Master Scranton, whereabouts surely doesn’t matter?” Richard clapped Scranton on the back forcing him to take a step forward and he yelped as his outstretched hands, eager for the warmth of the fire, suddenly found themselves a little too close to the flames.
†
Lizbet had secured a room at the back of the Nevyll Inn at the top of Westgate Road. It was some distance from the quay where the Santa Luciana rode at anchor, but quick enquiry had found that it was the only establishment likely to be able to accommodate them with any degree of comfort, and Jack had little interest in the leaky thatched buildings closer to the river. They had found a ride on the back of a hay wagon bound North and that had delivered them to the front of the Inn, then for a few small coins the owner had happily turned it around and headed back to the quay with Froggy to collect Richard.
When Richard arrived Lizbet was standing waiting for them outside the door, skirts tucked into her belt to keep them from the mire in the street, hands on her hips, a picture of expectant efficiency.
“Master, we’ve a room for our use,” Lizbet said, beaming happily.
“Does it have a fire?” Richard said, groaning as he dropped down from the back of the cart.
“It does, and it’s lit. Come on, get yourself inside,” Lizbet assured before turning to lead the way inside.
†
“Shift your backside over,” Lizbet announced as she entered the back room of the Inn.
Jack grinned up at her from where he was sitting with his knees drawn up on the floor in front of the fire. A heap of dried cut logs were set next to the hearth, and already the room was warm and welcoming. Richard took hold of one end of a bench and hauled it across the floor, Jerome quickly taking the other end until it sat close to the fire.
“Come on, Jack, shift, you’re not having all of that to yourself,” Lizbet said nudging his leg with her foot.
“Good God, woman! Can you not leave me be for a moment!” Jack replied, hauling himself slowly from the floor and dropping in the middle of the bench in the closest seat to the flames.
“You’ve had a good warm already, shift along and let the Master in, and behave until I get back,” Lizbet scolded.
“Yes, Jack, shift along …” Richard gave his brother a shove in the shoulder to move him before settling down in the space where Jack had been sat.
Soon the room was filled with men in various states of undress trying to dry clothing where they could. It hung from the fire mantle and dangled dripping from nails in the ceiling beams. Lined up in front of the hearth, leaking water, were a dozen sagging leather boots, and around them every inch of spare stone was smothered in sodden material.
“Bloody Hell! You’ve made it look like Lucy Lockett’s wash room in here,” Lizbet announced as she arrived back in the room. Behind her followed a dumpy woman. Her head tied with a pristine linen scarf and her dress front covered by an equally white apron, and behind her three boys hovered, baskets held before them.
Lizbet scooped his boots from the floor. Turning to one of the boys she held them up. “Come on, I’ve not got all day.”
The boy quickly came forward and Lizbet dropped the boots into the basket, and pointed towards another pair set by the fire. “Get those too.”
“Take those as well,” Richard said pointing, “Nevarra is a guest, let it not be said that we did not extend the hospitality of England towards him.”
Lizbet busied herself collecting the sodden clothes and dropping them into a second basket held by another of the boys, the plump women watching each addition with close attention. Lizbet delivering instructions as each item was added.
“Washed three times, mind you, that’s the only way to get the salt out …”
“Lass, I was washing salt out of cloth before you were born,” the woman replied.
Lizbet ignored her comment, turning around a drenched pair of hose to find the holes in the knees. “These need re-stitching, and the seams along here need closing back up, can you see…” Lizbet held them up, the woman narrowed her eyes and nodded, Lizbet dropped them into the basket before prodding Jack in the back. “Come on, shirt off.”
Lizbet took a blanket from the basket the third boy held and dropped it on Jack’s head. His leather jacket was draped over the end of the bench and Lizbet retrieved it, holding it out so the damage could be seen, “That needs cleaning and the shoulder needs re-stitching.”
“I can see that lass,” The woman took it from Lizbet and dropped it into the basket.
Lizbet handed coarse blankets to Richard and Emilio while the boys, their baskets full of sorry-looking clothing, were herded from the room by the washer woman.
“I hope someone is going to keep an eye on them, given half a chance those lads are just a likely to scarper with my clothes,” Jack said watching the boys retreat from the room.
“Jack, there are better dressed beggars in the gutter than you, I don’t think your clothes are worth risking a flogging over, do you?” Lizbet said.
“For once the woman has a very good point,” Emilio said grinning and leaning a little closer to Jack.
Jack cast a disparaging glance towards Emilio.
†
It was the following day before they were finally reunited with their clothing.
“Lizbet?”
Lizbet pulled a shirt from the basket, white, folded and looking very unlike the soaked one Richard had taken off the previous day. “I’ve the rest of your clothes in here, they’ve all got mixed together. Here we go … no, they are Jerome’s.”
“Lizbet!” Richard tried again as his head emerged through the neck of the still warm linen.
“Here they are!” Lizbet triumphantly produced the hose she had been looking for and immediately began examining the knees. “She’s not done too bad a job of repairing them either.”
“Lizbet! Will you listen to me?” Richard said, taking the hose from her hands and regaining her attention.
“I am!” Lizbet replied defensively, hoisting the laundry basket back to her hip.
“When you choose to!” Richard found himself saying, exasperation creeping into his voice. “Just put that down.”
Lizbet didn’t, but instead swung the basket in front of her so it was between them. “What do you need?”
“What I need is for you to watch your tongue,” Richard said.
“Why? What have I said, who’s said something to you?” Lizbet’s voice was suddenly accusatory.
Richard took the basket from her hands and banged it down noisily on a trestle table.
“No-one has said anything, Lizbet. I just want you to stop calling me master,” Richard said quickly before Lizbet had a chance to say more.
Lizbet reddened.
“I’m just trying to protect the lie,” Richard said his voice adopting its usual reasoned tone again.
Lizbet dropped her eyes to the floor, her hands twisting in the folds of her dress. “I’m sorry. What do you want me to call you?”
“Anything you like, you manage to call Jack a lazy bastard, a useless clod, an idiot - perhaps none of those,” Richard replied smiling.
“But that’s Jack, it’s different,” Lizbet protested.
“True, how about brother, or just Richard, both of those I could tolerate, don’t forget we still have Nevarra with us,”
“I’ll try,” Lizbet made a hasty bid to regain a hold on the laundry basket.
“Please go and reunite Jack with his clothes, Emilio is enjoying the situation far too much,” Richard said, changing the subject.
Lizbet grinned. “I don’t think it’s just Emilio.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Newcastle-Upon-Tyne – November 16th 1558
†
“Will you hurry up!” Jack complained as he watched Lizbet take another item from the basket. Turning it over in her hands, keen eyes inspecting it, she passed the white linen shirt to Emilio.
“Where’s mine?” Jack, having had enough of waiting, a blanket draped over his shoulders, he stooped over the willow basket. Identifying what he thought was his shirt, he reached for it.
“Just leave it be, Jack Fitzwarren, that’s not yours!” Lizbet scolded, snatching the shirt from the basket before Jack’s hands could close on it. “I’ve just had this washed, so keep your filthy hands off it.”
Jack, groaning, sat down again, watching the shirt he had been trying to claim being handed to Froggy. Finally Lizbet produced another one and passed it over to him. Jack dropped it over his head, one arm navigating its way through a sleeve, the other holding the blanket around his waist.
“So graceful, Jack,” Emilio said, laughing.
Jack ignoring him, switched hands and pulled his other sleeve on over his arm, the material of the shirt rucked up behind his neck.
“For God’s sake! It’s like dressing children,” Lizbet tugged the shirt down over Jack’s back.
Richard had received his clothes back first and Jack threw his brother, who was dressed and now pulling on his clean dry boots, a sour look.
“What’s that for?” Richard said, his voice amused. “If there was ever a word of thanks on your lips you might not have to wait so long.”
Jack winced at the accuracy of the statement, and smiled lopsidedly at Lizbet when she held out a doublet. For a moment he didn’t recognise it, travel and grime had robbed it of its original colour and matted the fibres, now the dirt was removed it was returned to a lightened chestnut brown he didn’t remember.
Fastening the front Jack inspected the inside of the right sleeve. Where a ragged flap of ripped cloth had been there was now a neat and efficient repair, and on the left cuff where the threads had become worn and frayed a thin strip of dark leather had been stitched over the top to hold the sagging fabric together. A pleased expression wandered onto his face, and Lizbet said, “See if you can keep it like that.”
“I’d be delighted to, just make sure I’m not called on to haul his arse to the top of a ship’s mast,” Jack pointed to Emilio, “or follow him to the other end of the world and I will be sure to become less of a burden on your repair skills.”
Lizbet handed a neat folded pile of clothes to Jerome. “There were quite a few buttons missing, but I had some spare, they don’t match too well, just bone ones, but better than nothing.”
