Roseblood

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Yes, I see banners fully hoist,’ the sharp-eyed lookout called. ‘Royal cogs, probably out of Ipswich…’

  The rest of his declaration was drowned by the master bellowing orders and the rush of feet that followed. Somewhere a tambour began to sound its heavy beat. The carrack swiftly transformed itself into a powerful ship of war. The small catapults were primed, missiles soaked in tar and oil moved closer to the braziers or large copper fire bowls. Sand was strewn across the deck. Great buckets and vats of seawater were hastily filled; bows and arrows, swords, maces and other weapons were collected from the war chest. The Venetians armed themselves as the carrack turned into the mist that curled between itself and the distant shore. Katherine and the rest were ignored. The crew was summoned to battle stations. Flames fed by bellows flared up in their baskets and bowls. Acrid smoke curled and shifted. LeCorbeil also prepared, putting on helmets, brigandines and coats of mail. Each man was armed with sword and dagger as well as a powerful Brabantine crossbow, leather quivers containing feathered barbed bolts strapped on to their war belts.

  Katherine staggered back across the deck. The ship pitched. She slipped and blundered into sailors hurrying to their stations; these roughly pushed her aside. She reached the other prisoners, sheltering beneath the taffrail. Father Roger still slept, Dorcas crouching close beside him. Eleanor was alert, lips moving in silent prayer.

  ‘Rescue?’ she asked. Despite the circumstances, Katherine laughed sharply.

  ‘Father has influence, but not for this. It is too soon after our disappearance. These cogs are not from London. Raphael has told me about them: privateers with letters of marque. A Venetian carrack would be a splendid prize. They must be surprised at seeing one here in the northern seas rather than the Channel Narrows.’ Katherine drew a deep breath, surprised at how calm she felt, pleased that she could recall the knowledge she had acquired from sailors and merchants along Queenhithe. She closed her eyes and, murmuring a prayer, rose to her feet. ‘Now,’ she mocked herself quietly, ‘I am about to learn a little more.’

  The two cogs were closing fast, their names recognised and spread amongst the company. They were ships of war well known in these waters, The Kyrie and The Calix, massive fighting craft with a central mast and high bows and stern; menacing and dark-shaped, they were using the shifting wind to close with the Venetian. Bertrand and two of his lieutenants came striding across, fearsome in their sallets, mail coifs and armour.

  ‘You may go down into the hold.’ Bertrand shrugged. ‘However, if our ship is fired or breached, you will,’ he grinned, ‘either burn, drown or probably both. I advise you to stay on deck.’ He bowed mockingly and turned away.

  ‘He has left us to the terrors!’ Eleanor remarked clambering to her feet. ‘Either way we will experience all the horrors of battle. To think…’ She paused, biting salt-caked lips. ‘To think that I once trusted my life, my beloved, our future to such a man.’ She lifted her face, all drawn. ‘Now you know why I do penance, why—’

  Eleanor’s words were cut off by shouts, followed by the whoosh of flaming materials from the carrack’s deck. The Calix and The Kyrie responded, scoring the greyish-blue sky with streaks of fire. The carrack’s aim was more true, and the keen-eyed reported fires aboard The Calix. The Kyrie, however, closed, more flame-fed bundles whistling through the air. One hit a sailor, engulfing him in flames; he collapsed screaming to the deck, as comrades tried to smother the fire with vinegar-soaked cloths.

  As the air became riven with fire, arrows and barbs, Katherine rose gingerly to her feet. Oil-soaked plumes of blackness hung over the carrack. The Kyrie was now almost on them, turning to take them on the port side whilst The Calix attacked the starboard side. For a brief, heart-chilling moment, all three ships became locked together. An ominous silence descended. The fog of war thinned to reveal Bertrand and his comitatus lined up in two rows facing The Kyrie, whose crew, eager to board, were throwing out nets, planks and hooked ropes. The Venetians resisted. LeCorbeil remained as a phalanx; the first rank knelt, the second stayed standing. The crew of The Kyrie were now massing ready to board.

  ‘Loose!’ Bertrand’s voice thrilled. The kneeling crossbowmen released their barbs, each finding their victim. Bodies from The Kyrie toppled into the narrow gap between the two ships. LeCorbeil’s second rank moved forward and knelt, even as the first prepared their crossbows. The enemy were caught unawares, thronging along the side of the ship armed only with hand weapons. Their archers could not loose, whilst LeCorbeil moved in a well-practised formation, their rain of squat barbed shafts devastating the enemy. Katherine reckoned they had received at least thirty bolts, each finding its mark.

  The Kyrie’s crew retreated, cutting ropes and nets in a desperate bid to escape. LeCorbeil turned, hurrying across the deck to inflict similar damage on The Calix, which hastily swung away. Now free of his adversaries, the master of The Golden Horn took advantage of the strong breezes. The carrack turned, aiming directly for the mist-shrouded coastline of Essex.

  Katherine crouched down. Dorcas sat petrified, swaddled in a cloak. Eleanor had found her Ave beads and was threading them through her fingers. Father Roger knelt, face pressed against the bulwark, hands clasped in prayer. Katherine moved over and put an arm around his shoulder. He turned, eyes glaring madly in his bruised, unshaven face.

  ‘They have come to take me,’ he whispered. ‘The ghosts. I am being punished, yet what I did was just. I saved their souls. I consigned their filthy, smelly bodies—’ He broke off as Katherine withdrew her arm and stared in shock. She recalled what Bertrand had said about this priest.

  ‘Who, Father?’ she hissed, ignoring the tumult of battle. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I suspected as much.’ Eleanor had drawn closer. ‘I saw him once with Margot, one of the slaughtered whores. I have also seen him after he has locked and bolted the church. Dressed in a hair shirt, he prostrates himself. I have heard the whip slashing his back. I did wonder. I wanted to talk to your father, but…’ She shrugged, wiping the spray from her face.

  Katherine, despite everything that was going on around her, could only crouch and reflect on what she was seeing and hearing. Father Roger had blessed her as a child, shriven her at the mercy pew, given her the Eucharist, exchanged the singing bread; could he be the barbarous killer of those poor streetwalkers? Here was a man who had danced on her name day, who had sat at their family table and blessed the feasts they’d shared.

  ‘Why? Why?’ She turned back angrily, but Father Roger, eyes closed, was now banging his head against the bulwark, bloody lips chattering nonsense. Katherine comforted Dorcas and got up.

  The battle was over. The Golden Horn had broken free, and was heading due west towards the treacherous Essex coastline. The two royal cogs, which had sustained dire punishment, were reluctant to follow. A sailor, elated by their escape and relieved to be alive, chattered amicably to Katherine in the lingua franca of the port, a mixture of English, French and doggerel Latin, until Bertrand intervened, grasping her shoulder and pushing her back towards the other prisoners.

  ‘Mistress, the danger has passed. I will send you meat, bread and wine.’ He gestured at her companions. ‘They seem to need it. Both the crew and my men have remarked on your courage and fortitude.’ He paused. ‘Believe me, you will need both if your father does not respond.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To my demands. A blood feud exists between him and me. Simon Roseblood should be careful which path he chooses.’

  ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘Information.’

  ‘About what?’ Katherine steadied herself against the pitch of the deck.

  ‘He will know.’

  ‘And this blood feud?’

  Bertrand gestured at Eleanor, who crouched watching, eyes large and black. ‘Ask her. Now,’ he pointed into the mist, ‘we have escaped the hulks; soon we will be off the Colvasse peninsula and the Orwell estuary, where we will land and meet the rest of our compan
y.’

  ‘And then?’

  Bertrand shrugged.

  ‘What did you mean about our priest here?’

  ‘Ask him yourself. He certainly can’t judge us. We have kept Queenhithe under very close watch. Murder stalks its filthy streets. We were surprised to discover it wore a cowl and boasted a tonsure.’

  Bertrand walked away. Katherine watched him go. She was pleased that he had recognised her courage; she would hate for a man like Bertrand to hold her in fear. But what did he want from her father? Was it connected with Simon’s mysterious disappearance over the last few days, then his sudden return, his appearance all changed, just before she was abducted? She also resolved to question Eleanor about the so-called blood feud. As for Father Roger… Katherine repressed a shiver as she glanced at the now demented priest, still banging his head against the wood, mumbling incoherently to himself. She drew a deep breath, smiled at Dorcas and persuaded the maid to stand and walk with her, albeit stumbling and slipping, along the deck. Again she was surprised to find that the pain in her right leg had not appeared. Encouraged, she urged Dorcas not to be frightened, though the young woman seemed to be broken, clinging like a frightened bairn to its mother.

  Over the next few days, Katherine strove to compose herself, and to impose some order on her little group. She demanded and obtained better food and water, a brazier to drive off the chill and a more private place to relieve themselves, away from the catcalls of the watching men. Bertrand seemed amused by her forcefulness. Katherine, however, recognised that the man was very dangerous and would have no scruples about carrying out his threats. She also distracted herself by speculating about the carrack and its journey north.

  The Golden Horn had come through the battle relatively unscathed, whatever damage it had sustained soon repaired. As the days passed, Katherine walked around the ship whenever she could. The weather remained dull and misty, the sea fast-running but relatively smooth. She realised that the carrack was not only a means to elude and mystify any pursuer; LeCorbeil had hired it for more sinister and secret reasons. Horses had been brought aboard, undoubtedly mounts for Bertrand and his company, whilst the massive holds were packed with purveyance. She had glimpsed some of the contents as she passed open trapdoors with ladders down to the cavernous storerooms. She also stood close to the ship’s clerks with their indentures of goods and long lists of items spread out over the tops of barrels. The carrack was carrying everything a fighting force would need: weapons, dried meat, horse fodder and harness, armour and medical stores, vats of wine, barrels of gunpowder, two small cannon and a trebuchet. The clerks and crew talked easily amongst themselves, as if they were unaware of her presence or how knowledgeable she was about what was happening.

  She also noticed that The Golden Horn was brought in as close as possible to the long black line of the Essex coast, whilst Bertrand and two of his henchmen closely studied the charts and maps the master spread out in front of them. The more Katherine watched, and the more she recalled her father’s talk of war and the chatter of soldiers in the tavern taproom, the more certain she became that Bertrand had hired the carrack and planned this journey for other reasons apart from herself. LeCorbeil, mounted and armed, would prove to be excellent scouts; they were undoubtedly preparing for the day when York and Lancaster clashed. They were waiting for civil strife. If they sheltered in Essex, they would be free of the Beauforts in London and find it easy to ride north to join York. Katherine was certain that was the real reason for their journey. She had been abducted as an act of revenge but also as a bargaining counter, which was part of a greater strategy. She decided to keep her thoughts to herself and not even discuss her suspicions with Eleanor. She comforted herself that Bertrand had made a serious mistake. He thought she would be terrified, like Eleanor, Dorcas and Father Roger. She would resist, watch and wait for her opportunity.

  The following day, late in the evening, The Golden Horn slipped into the lonely Orwell estuary. Katherine and her companions, legs shaking, faces and clothing coated in salty spray, were bundled ashore and taken to a prepared campsite, where they were given food and left to their own devices. Eleanor was now more alert, full of questions. Dorcas just relaxed and slept, quivering in her dreams, whilst Father Roger, once he was ashore, regained his wits and sat brooding, staring down at the ground. Now and again he would lift his head and gaze around. Katherine flinched at the sly malevolence of his gaze and realised that the priest’s madness had turned into a chilling cunning. She decided to ignore him and instead watch the carrack being unloaded of stores and horses. After dark, a troop of horsemen dressed in LeCorbeil livery, crossbows hanging from their saddle horns, entered the camp. Katherine reckoned the entire force was now about fifty, well armed and amply provisioned.

  They stayed in the campsite for two days and nights. Once the carrack had unloaded its cargo, it put back to sea, whilst LeCorbeil organised the transportation of stores to hidden places between Orwell and Walton. Katherine and her companions were largely ignored. She welcomed this, as she was growing more concerned. Father Roger kept to himself, constantly conversing with some invisible presence. Dorcas, her clothes dried and belly now full, whispered about escape, whilst Eleanor became increasingly lost in her prayers.

  On the third day after disembarkation, they moved deeper into the Essex countryside, travelling south back towards London. That night, Katherine gathered her companions around the campfire, sharing out a rabbit that had been snared, skinned, gibbeted and roasted. Bertrand had sent them another wineskin; Katherine filled the battered pewter cups to the brim, and they celebrated their return to dry land, away from the dangers of the sea. Eleanor and Dorcas fell quiet as Father Roger began to chatter. His eyes were too bright, his gaunt whiskered face twitching as he blithely described his visit to Colchester to attend his mother’s funeral. He chattered like a squirrel on a branch, clasping his cup close as he explained how he had discovered that his mother had been a courtesan, well known for conferring her favours on all who would buy them. During her life she had maintained the mask and disguise of a seamstress, but once dead, the truth had emerged.

  Katherine sat growing more anxious as the priest, now in his shriving time, as he described it, launched into a filthy diatribe about whores, prostitutes and streetwalkers. She could only watch that tormented soul unburden itself of all its guilt and nightmares. A man, she concluded, who had done hideous wrong and now regarded his present troubles as punishment from God. Dorcas could only blink like an owl at the priest’s stream of invective. Eleanor tried to intervene, but he ignored her, chanting out his litany of hate-filled obsessions. Katherine did not know what to do except let him rant. When at last he finished, his face coated with sweat, chest heaving, he sketched a cross in the air.

  ‘I absolve myself!’ he shouted, eyes gleaming, tongue wetting chapped lips. ‘I absolve myself from all my sins!’ He broke off his manic chant and rose to his knees. ‘And for my penance,’ he slurred, ‘a visit to the latrine.’ He stumbled to his feet, cloak over one arm, and staggered into the darkness.

  ‘He is mad, moonstruck,’ Dorcas wailed. ‘Mistress, he is a killer, he has become lunatic.’ Katherine tried to comfort her, then squatted, heaping small handfuls of bracken on the fire, attempting to soothe her own panic. Dorcas was correct: their world was fractured. Eleanor seemed lost in her own dark memories. What was frustrating was that they were so close and yet so far from home.

  Katherine stared around in the light of the dancing flames. The campfires of LeCorbeil surrounded them; beyond these were picket lines and sentries. There could be no escape, not from here. It would be impossible to steal horses, whilst on foot they would be caught within the hour. Moreover, Bertrand had warned them how the surrounding moorland thickets and copses concealed deep morasses, treacherous marshes that could drag both horse and rider down.

  ‘No need to warn me,’ Eleanor had retorted. ‘My mother’s people hailed from Walton.’

  Katherine studied E
leanor’s peaked face. Her aunt troubled her. This was the first time in years that Katherine had been in close company with her. She had noticed how Eleanor, when relieving or washing herself, made sure that Dorcas and Katherine were never close; at other times she would clutch her stomach, face strained with pain.

  ‘They are hoarding supplies.’ Eleanor spoke up, gesturing with her head. ‘You know that, don’t you, Katherine? French galleys sailed up the Thames recently. I am sure that one day soon, a similar fleet will appear off Walton to land an invading force.’

  ‘But they will be resisted.’ Katherine’s voice faltered.

  ‘This is a wilderness,’ Eleanor replied. ‘The French have chosen well. Villages and hamlets disappeared during the Great Plague; there are derelict farms, houses and cottages where supplies and provisions can be secretly stored.

  ‘You may not know the story, but many, many years ago, Isabella the She-Wolf, another French queen,’ she laughed drily, ‘landed at Walton with her lover Mortimer and a host of Hainaulters. She came to topple her husband, and so she did.’ Eleanor gestured into the darkness. ‘They say her ghost still haunts this place.’ She threw more bracken on the flames. ‘The French have not forgotten. They will watch and wait. When this kingdom slips into civil war, they will land here.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Then the concealed pits, the secret barbicans and the disguised storage holds will be opened. They will draw out weapons, harness, dried fodder and food. They will have maps of the coastline and the countryside. But you suspect that already, Katherine, don’t you? Our abduction is only a small part of a greater plan.’ She stretched across and gently caressed Katherine’s cheek, then withdrew hastily to rub her own stomach. ‘I saw you watching them.’

  ‘They think we are stupid women,’ Katherine replied, ‘who do not realise what is happening.’

  ‘Wrong!’ Eleanor countered fiercely, ‘Oh so wrong! Watch them, Katherine; Bertrand is certainly studying you.’ She paused. ‘By the way, where is our priest? What is he doing?’