Roseblood

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Mistress Eleanor!’ she called. ‘Mistress Eleanor!’

  ‘Fast asleep,’ Father Roger murmured, swaying dangerously. ‘As I should be!’

  ‘Mistress Eleanor, it’s Katherine.’

  ‘Come!’

  She followed the direction of the voice towards the darkness of the transept, beckoned on by the light glowing through the anchorhold squint. She reached the cell door, its hatch pulled back, and smiled at Eleanor. Shrouded by a starched white wimple and a dark blue woollen veil, her aunt’s face was more beautiful than ever.

  ‘Mistress Eleanor, you sent for me, an urgent message?’

  ‘I did not, oh sweet Lord! I saw figures slip in here. I thought—’

  Katherine whirled round. Dorcas screamed. Father Roger staggered over to a pillar, where he leaned, staring in disbelief at the figures who had slipped out of the shadowy recesses. They wore pointed hoods, cloaks fanning out like the wings of some malevolent bird. They moved soundlessly yet menacingly through the gloom. Father Roger tottered towards them, hands raised. Katherine could only stand in abject fear. A trap was being sprung and she could do nothing about it. The church was empty. These nightmare figures could do what they wished. The corpse door would certainly be guarded; if anyone entered, they would be cruelly dealt with.

  ‘Who are you?’ she blurted out.

  ‘Bitter memories,’ a voice called back. ‘The past’s dark dreams. Mistress Katherine, you are to come with us. Do not cry out. Toadflax is gone.’

  Katherine started forward but was surrounded and roughly seized. A sack was thrown over her head, hands and feet tightly bound. From the cries and shouts around her, she gathered that Father Roger and Dorcas had also been seized, whilst a crack of splintering wood showed that the anchorhold was being forced and Eleanor dragged out. For a while the nave echoed with cries and shouts; then there was silence as gags were fastened and the sacking tightened around their heads.

  Katherine tried to control the sheer panic seething within her. She strained to listen; her abductors were now whispering in French. She heard weapons being sheathed. She was lifted, the hands that grasped her paying little respect to modesty as they clutched and turned her body. She tried to struggle. Someone cruelly squeezed her breast; another hand went up her skirt and petticoats. She hung limp. A man laughed and the hand was withdrawn. She was carried roughly up through the church. She suspected they were going through the sanctuary and into the sacristy. Voices muttered; a door opened.

  Katherine felt a gust of the cool evening breeze before she was dropped roughly into a cart. She could hear the others being thrust in alongside her, the clink of the tailboard, the snap of reins and the clop of hooves. The cart shook and rattled forward. Tightly bound and gagged, she could only close her eyes at the brutal jolting, which seemed to bruise every part of her body. Shooting pains coursed up her legs, her belly pitched and she fought against the nausea. She bit on the gag, then spluttered as her head banged against the cart’s wooden floor. She struggled against the bonds, but it was useless. She realised that they had been taken out of the sacristy to where carts stood to unload supplies for the church. They would soon be out of the cemetery and in the tangle of narrow lanes around All Hallows. But where were they going?

  A deep frustration swept through Katherine. Only a short distance away were men who would give their lives to free her, but there was nothing she could do. She heard the groans and stifled cries of her companions and wondered who her abductors were and where were they going. She summoned up memories of Sevigny walking alongside her. If only he were here! She calmed herself. She was being abducted for a reason. She had been summoned to All Hallows at a time when it would be deserted, between the blowing of the market horn and the Vespers bell. Her captors were certainly French. She recalled the stories about someone or something called LeCorbeil, rumours about some hideous massacre during the war in France. And weren’t LeCorbeil connected with Uncle Edmund’s mysterious death and the recent attack on the Roseblood? She must be their prisoner, for what, a ransom?

  The iron wheels of the cart hit a rut and the boards bucked beneath her. Katherine jarred her head even as she caught a salty freshness in the air. Foreign voices shouted. The cart abruptly stopped; men clamoured in. She was released from her bonds and dragged out. Blinded by the light and stupefied by the sudden violence, she could not protest. She was hurried with the others up the gangplank of a large ship and thrust down narrow steps into the first underdeck, which reeked of horse dung, urine, straw and the pervasive stench of tar and pitch. They were left there, the trapdoor pulled shut above them.

  Shouts and cries echoed. Footsteps pattered along the main deck. The ship creaked and swayed, sending all four of them staggering around the stinking hold. Father Roger crouched in a corner and began to sob. Eleanor hurried to comfort him. Dorcas clung to her mistress, her sheet-white face marked and bruised, her lower lip bloodied where she had bitten herself. They all nursed bruises and bumps, especially to the head, face and knees. Katherine embraced her maid, holding her close even as she realised that the pain in her leg had not appeared. The ship swayed again; still clutching Dorcas, Katherine crouched down. The vessel was under way, creaking and straining, voices shouting, ropes whining, sails clattering. It lurched clumsily, and Katherine heard the whinny of horses in the stable holds below. She stifled her despair. They must be leaving Queenhithe. Only a short distance away from them stood the Roseblood and everything she loved. Comforting the sobbing Dorcas, she wondered if Sevigny was there, sheltering in that old Roman lighthouse.

  The trapdoor was abruptly opened, a rope ladder was lowered and a voice ordered them to climb. Katherine was first out on to the slippery, swaying deck. Her arrival provoked catcalls and jeers from the dark-skinned, black-bearded crew, who, half naked, clambered swift as squirrels, fighting to unfurl the main sail on the central mast. A voice crackling with temper ordered them to remain silent. Still blinded by the glow of the setting sun, the four prisoners, staggering and slipping, were led across to a canvas sheet spread out beneath the taffrail. They were ordered to sit, shown where they could relieve themselves and told to be silent.

  Katherine leaned against the bulwark, shading her eyes. She stared around the broad deck, noting the three masts, the high stern, the prow castle and the jutting bowsprit, glancing up as the great scarlet banner of Venice with its four golden lions was unfurled to greet the evening breeze. She realised this was a Venetian carrack, The Golden Horn, from an inscription she could make out on the mainmast. The vessel was the latest of its kind, a fighting ship but also a merchantman capable of carrying stores, horses, armed men and all the impedimenta of war. She had seen and studied such ships before. It might sail under the banner of Venice, but, like many of its kind, it was a mercenary ship for hire to the highest bidder.

  She forgot her pain and scrutinised the men milling about. There were two groups: the half-naked dark-skinned sailors; and others, about a dozen in all, fair- or olive-skinned, dressed alike in dark murrey sleeveless jerkins over white shirts, black hose pushed into boots, war belts strapped around their waists. Each jerkin bore the insignia of a crow in full flight clutching a dagger between its claws. These men kept to themselves near the cabin built beneath the sterncastle; they seemed to be in deep discussion, now and again turning to stare across at the prisoners. Katherine glanced away. The ship pitched. Gulls swooped and screamed. The carrack’s mainsail billowed vigorously whilst the one on its mizzen mast also unfurled to catch the strong westerly breeze.

  The ship raced forward, but bucked and twisted in the powerful currents that marked their course down to the estuary. Father Roger, followed by Dorcas, clambered to his feet to vomit over the taffrail, provoking fresh jeers from the crew. Katherine rose to help him. Dorcas was shivering with fright; Father Roger was no better. Eleanor, ivory-pale face all bruised down one side, came to assist. Once they had emptied their stomachs, she helped them sit down. Katherine remained standing, staring
out across the river. They had left the city of Westminster, the distant northern shoreline being marked by fields, copses and the occasional solitary dwelling. They were approaching the estuary, the setting sun gleaming on the fast-running water. The sky was clear except for wispy white clouds, though the sun had a strange reddish glow, which, sailors had informed Katherine when they gossiped at the Roseblood, always presaged a storm.

  ‘Sit down. Eat.’ Katherine turned. One of LeCorbeil – she reckoned him to be their captain – had walked across. Beside him, one of his retinue carried a battered wooden tray with bowls of dried bread and fruit. ‘Sit,’ he repeated.

  Katherine obeyed. A bowl was thrust into each of their hands and a small water skin was thrown down at their feet. The man then crouched, staring at Katherine. In some ways he reminded her of Sevigny. He was olive-skinned, his raven-black hair tied in a queue behind him. A handsome clean-shaven face with a firm chin and full lips, though his grey eyes frightened her. They were dead, as if no soul lived behind their stare, a cold, calculating, empty gaze.

  ‘My name is Bertrand LeCorbeil. These,’ the man indicated with his head, ‘are my companions. We all bear the same surname, bound together by the fire of revenge.’

  ‘Against me?’

  The steel-grey eyes did not flicker. ‘Against you and your kind.’ His English was precise and clear.

  ‘Why?’

  Bertrand gestured at Eleanor. ‘Perhaps she can say; I will not. I am here to warn you.’ He edged closer, remaining steady against the pitch and shudder as the carrack hit the swift-flowing currents of the estuary. ‘If you try to escape,’ he pointed to the other three, ‘I will deny them a swift death. This is a Venetian ship. It does business with the Moors of North Africa. The two women will be raped and raped again before being sold to the slave markets of Tripoli and Alexandria. The priest will be castrated and offered as a eunuch. Believe me,’ Bertrand smiled, but only with his lips, ‘a living death that could last longer than a score of years.’

  ‘I would die first.’ Eleanor leaned forward, face full of fury. ‘I know who you are,’ she spat out. ‘Five years ago you lured my husband to his death.’ She lunged towards the Frenchman, but Katherine restrained her. Bertrand did not move a muscle.

  ‘Your husband,’ his voice was almost a drawl, ‘paid for his crimes.’

  ‘And me?’ Katherine asked, swallowing hard against the fear in her belly; the sheer ferocity of the man’s gaze was chilling.

  ‘Enough of the past,’ he snapped. ‘Your father, the criminal, the felon Simon Roseblood, has something we need. We have left messages. Once we have it, you will be returned.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry.’ Again that humourless smile. ‘Master Roseblood knows full well.’

  ‘I am a priest,’ wailed Father Roger, edging along the bulwark, ‘a cleric.’

  Bertrand’s hand flailed out, slapping the priest’s face so hard that his head jerked back against the wood. ‘I couldn’t give a fig if you are the Pope of Rome. You, sir,’ the Frenchman edged closer, ‘are a Judas priest. My spies along the alleyways have kept me informed about your filthy doings.’ He punched the cleric again, this time in the mouth, splitting his lip, enjoying his moans.

  Something in Father Roger’s pleas seemed to provoke Bertrand further. He sprang to his feet, kicking the priest, knocking Katherine and Eleanor aside as they tried to intervene, shouting orders at his men. One of these hurried across with a coil of tarred rope. Others joined him. Bertrand, white foam flecking his lips, pointed at Father Roger, screaming his orders. The priest, nose and mouth bubbling blood, was dragged to his feet. The ship rocked and swayed. The master on the sterncastle shouted a question; Bertrand replied in a tongue Katherine could not understand. The master shrugged and waved a hand, as if what was plotted had nothing to do with him.

  Roger was seized, the rope lashed around his waist, a knot secured, then he was lifted and tossed overboard. Katherine stared in horror; this was a nightmare, the ship juddering, the gulls screaming like lost souls. Eleanor and Dorcas were sobbing with terror. LeCorbeil gathered closer, jeering and mocking. Katherine peered over the side. The priest had sunk beneath the swirling water. Bertrand shouted. The rope was pulled back and the priest emerged from the sea, hands flailing, mouth open in a silent scream.

  ‘Again!’ Bertrand yelled. The rope was loosed and the priest disappeared beneath the frothing water.

  ‘Please!’ Katherine pleaded.

  ‘Please!’ Bertrand mimicked with a lopsided grin, which quickly faded as Katherine hoisted herself up to lean dangerously over the side. She did not care. All she wanted was for this nightmare to end. She thrust out a hand as Bertrand took a step closer.

  ‘I will!’ She held that ice-cold stare. ‘I am no use to you dead,’ she jibed. ‘No use at all!’

  Bertrand nodded imperceptibly. He raised a hand; the rope was pulled back even as the captain began to curse, gesturing at the threatening sky. Father Roger was dragged up over the side, his face a mask of bloody bruises, and thrown down to the deck, a moaning, sodden bundle of cloth all slimed with green. Dorcas and Eleanor went to help him; the priest whimpered like a child, waving his hands before his face.

  ‘Some clothes.’ Katherine confronted Bertrand. ‘He will die of cold. Some clothes, food, and I promise…’

  ‘Promise what?’ Bertrand frowned in puzzlement.

  ‘I will say a prayer for you just after my father takes your head.’

  Bertrand stared at her, then threw back his head and roared with laughter, slapping his thigh and sharing the joke with his companions. They grinned and, shaking their heads, turned away to help the crew.

  Katherine leaned against the side and stared up at the sky. The Golden Horn was almost through the estuary. Darkness was falling. A mist now curled, hiding the tapering coastline, but the real threat was the dark, lowering mass of cloud coming in off the North Sea. Already the master was alarmed. He’d made his decision, brushing aside Bertrand’s objections: they would turn, shelter in the estuary and ride out the storm.

  Katherine and her companions were ordered down into the hold, cold and black as pitch, where they spent a miserable night as the carrack swung at anchor, buffeted by the waves. Dry clothes were brought for Father Roger, but he was almost out of his wits, teeth chattering against the cold, demanding that they fetch another priest to shrive him. Now and again the hatch would open and they were dragged from the stinking darkness on to the windswept deck to relieve themselves before being driven back to their dungeon. Fresh water was served, along with a cracked bowl of hard bread, dried salted meat and slices of unripe apple. They had little time or inclination to talk to each other; instead they huddled closer for warmth and waited for dawn.

  By first light the storm had swept away and they were brought up on to the deck. A grey day with a shifting blanket of mist. They were herded on to the canvas sheet; Bertrand, grinning at Katherine, fetched a small fire urn stocked with fiery charcoal so that they could warm themselves. Bowls of steaming oatmeal were brought from the makeshift grill set up over another brazier, with a wine skin of the richest claret. Katherine ate and drank greedily, persuading the others to do the same. Eleanor was strangely quiet; not frightened, but lost in her own thoughts. Dorcas, shivering and moaning, just stared around, whilst Father Roger ate and drank, spluttering mouthfuls as he continued to insist that he be shriven. Once finished, they were allowed to stay on deck while The Golden Horn made ready for the open sea.

  Eventually the mist lifted, a weak sun emerged and the carrack, so Katherine learned from the shouts and cries, turned north, with the Essex coast to port. She tried to draw Bertrand and those who served them food into conversation, but they remained coldly deaf to her questions. The sun strengthened, and the mild weather returned as the wind shifted, coming out of the south-west.

  Katherine recalled all she’d learnt from the smugglers and contraband sailors who used these sea roads past th
e lonely inlets and deserted coves along the Essex coastline. Why were they sailing north? she wondered. She asked her companions, but it was futile. Father Roger had fallen fast asleep. Dorcas was no better, whilst Eleanor simply crouched, lips moving soundlessly. Katherine rose to her feet. She sensed a change. The ship’s crew were extra vigilant. More braziers were brought up from between decks, their charcoal fired; next to these were small catapults and rounded bundles of rags tied tightly with twine and reeking of oil and tar. Lookouts took turns in the small cradle high on the mainmast. The master constantly watched both sea and sky.

  A bell fixed just under the small forecastle marked the passing hours. It had just finished tolling what Katherine reckoned to be midday when the lookout cried a warning. For a few heartbeats, all activity ceased; there was a brooding silence except for the creak of the carrack as it rose and fell, breasting the swell. The master and his crew now thronged on the other side of the ship. Again the lookout shouted. Katherine staggered across the deck, clutching at ropes and whatever else kept her balance. No one objected, everyone answering the lookout’s warning. Again the cry. Katherine peered across the running swell and, at the same time as the others, glimpsed two dark smudges against the bright horizon. The entire ship waited in silence, listening to the lookout chant like any monastic cantor singing the opening verses of Divine Office.

  ‘Two cogs, hulks, closing fast!’

  Curses greeted this, a chorus of alarm and threats.

  ‘Two hulks, fighting ships, closing fast. I see fires lit!’

  The lookout’s description deepened the tension. The approaching warships intended to attack; their companies had already prepared fire balls for catapults and arrows.

  ‘What banners?’ the master called.

  ‘Red crosses on a white field,’ the lookout eventually chanted back. ‘I see more: blue, gold and red, lions and lilies.’

  This was greeted with roars of dismay from the Venetian crew. Bertrand and his comitatus remained grimly quiet.