The Rose of York (4 page)

As men at the clew lines battled to drop the thundering canvas to the yards, one wrestled with the rope ladder, fighting for every step. The sudden tempest had given them no time to prepare the ship, and now the wind battered the sails with ear-shattering force, threatening to shred the sails of Neville scarlet. Every man’s gaze, like Richard’s own, was fixed on the man climbing the ladder. Up, up he went, the small unsteady figure, inching his way along the weaving ratlines like an ant on a too-slender reed.

He lost his foothold. A gasp went around the ship. For an agonising moment he dangled by one hand. Then he plunged to his death with a bone-chilling scream. His body thudded on the deck.

A silence fell that even the storm seemed to respect, for the winds quieted and the ship steadied. A second man appeared on the ratlines. With the same heart-stopping anguish, Richard and the ship’s crew watched his every laboured move. Smiles eased their taut faces when he reached the topsail, but as he struggled with a stay, a corner of the canvas came loose and struck his chest. He lost his balance, then fell headlong into the black void, his shriek of terror reverberating in the night.

Another wave submerged the ship. The stern rose with a queer lurch and the bow plunged into a chasm, sending men sprawling. Richard saw the white sea looming above them high as a castle wall, then the tip curled like some monstrous tongue and hung there as if to savour the taste before devouring them. It broke over the ship. A hideous groan rumbled through the vessel and it shuddered. The mizzenmast crashed down.

Warwick’s frantic orders to the helmsman drifted through the roar. “Helm hard a’ port! More hands! He cannot put up the helm!”

No one answered his call. “It’s no use!” someone cried. “We’re going to die!” Voices rose in prayer. “God the Father of all mercies…”

Warwick ran down the poop ladder, grabbed a kneeling man by his collar and pulled him from the rail to which he clung. “Is that what you want? To die?” he shouted. “By the fiend, you will, unless you do as I say!” He flung him back, grasped another by a fistful of shirt. “You have a wife and children, Summers. They’ll starve without you! Do you not care?” He thrust him aside and seized the next. Richard’s heart gave a twist. The lanky fair-haired boy reminded him of his dead brother, Edmund. “And you, Bankston, what about that bonnie lass you claim to love? Is she not worth living for?” He looked around at the eyes fixed on him. “Where’s your courage, you gutless milksops? Do you see me wailing and sobbing? We’ve survived worse! Follow my orders and live! Each man to his place. We haven’t failed until we give up.”

“But two are dead!” a mate cried. “Unless we shorten sail, we’ll sink, sure as fish swim!”

“I’ll not ask you to do what I won’t do myself!” yelled Warwick, tearing off his cloak.

Before men could stop him, he was climbing the ratlines. The wind whipped him. He lost his footing once, but he recovered. Lightning flashed, thunder shook the skies, and still he climbed. Some crossed themselves and said prayers while clutching rope lines and cables; others stood hugging the rails, slack-jawed with awe as he undid the stays, first one, then another. He gathered up the wildly beating scarlet canvas and furled it tightly together.

It was done.

A mad cheer went up. The men ran to their stations; buckets were passed down into the hold, filled, brought up, and emptied. Another struggling line of men tripped and stumbled as they secured the rope, staggering across the rolling deck, but now smiles lit their gaunt, hollow-eyed faces.

Richard left his wedge, crawled to Galahad, and received a welcoming whinny for his troubles. Now that the ship had eased its savage lurching and it was steadier below, Galahad’s belly wasn’t heaving as much. Richard reached between the wood fencing of the stall and stroked his neck.

“We’re going to be all right, Galahad,” he whispered, scratching the white blaze around his forehead that gave him a look of wonderment before moving to one of his honey brown ears in the way Galahad loved. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore. Cousin Warwick has saved us.” Galahad batted long gold eyelashes and nuzzled him. Richard could smell the steamy warmth of his body. He rested his head on Galahad’s cheek, remembering the many times he’d stolen into the castle stables seeking his friend’s companionship during the civil war between his father and the wicked queen. He was glad now to give Galahad back some of the comfort Galahad had so often given him. “You’re a brave horse,” Richard said, “and if Edward wins the throne, I promise I’ll have his archbishop bless you.”

“What good will that do?” demanded George, who had sat down to rest now that the great excitement was over.

Richard flushed. He had forgotten to keep his voice down. “He’ll be a better horse. And he’ll get into Heaven when he dies.” He hoped that was a good reason. The truth was, he didn’t really have one. He just thought it would be nice for Galahad to be blessed by an archbishop.

“You witless dunce, a horse can’t…”

The seas broke over the ship again and the vessel gave a violent roll. Frantic with fright, Galahad reared. He kicked at the wood of his stall. A sharp snapping sound ripped through the small cabin as it cracked. He charged again and it gave way. He bolted out. The long leather strap that leashed him to a timber post yanked him back momentarily, but he reared again and the strap unravelled. He plunged out across the gangway onto the main deck.

“No, Galahad!” Richard screamed, running after him. “Come back, come back!”

With all his might, Richard jumped for the leather strap dragging behind Galahad. He landed on the gangplank with a bruising thump, caught the end of it, and pulled hard to slow Galahad, but he might as well have been a plume in the wind, for Galahad, oblivious, dragged him out onto the deck.

A gigantic wall of water crashed over the ship. Galahad lost his footing, went sliding across the deck, shrieking fiercely, and Richard followed, clinging to his strap, screaming “
Galahad!
” but his cries were blown from his lips by the wind that bore Galahad’s shrieks to him. He felt its icy blast in his face, the sting of the water like hot stones against his flesh, then water gushed into his nose, knocking the breath from his lungs and sweeping him away. He surfaced once, caught sight of the foaming sea, and knew he was going overboard. As he headed at breakneck speed for the side, something slammed into him. The stunning pain in his body forced his fists open and Galahad’s strap slipped out of his hand. It was something solid, curving, with a waist like an hourglass. He closed his arms around it and clung for his life as the ship pitched again.

The water receded and he saw that it was the capstan that had broken his fall. There was no sign of Galahad. The icy water lashed at him, loosening his grip as the ship heaved. He stared at the white-streaked seas yawning below, and screamed, loud and long. The ship rolled again, threatening to shake him into the depths, and he would have been swept away in the next wave, had it not been for Warwick.

Warwick was descending the ratlines when Galahad burst from below. He saw what was happening, understood there was only a slim chance to save Richard from certain death, and knew that if he took that chance, it might well cost him his own life. In the span of a single falling grain of sand, he made his decision. He grabbed the end of a dangling rope, swung from the ratlines to the capstan, reached down and snatched Richard up by the arm. The ship rolled again and the rope swung out over the sea. With the great lantern on the ship’s stern burning fiercely in the darkness, they hung over the surging waves while the wind whipped at them and the rain hammered. Then the ship rolled back on another wave and they moved over the planking of the aftercastle. Hands reached up, seized them, and pulled them down.

As if Galahad’s life had appeased the dragons of the sea, the storm then subsided and the ship steadied. Warwick himself carried Richard below into the cabin and made sure he was secure.

“That was a damn foolhardy thing you did, Dickon,” he said, not unkindly.

Richard bowed his head so Warwick wouldn’t see how his lip trembled. For, all at once, he felt overcome with grief and despair. His father and Edmund were gone. Now, Galahad, too. He would never hear his whinny of greeting again; never feel his warm breath on his cheek. A choking sensation tightened his throat. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t. He had to be strong, as his father would have wished.

“May I play my lute?” he asked, not looking up lest brave Warwick should see the cowardly tears in his eyes.

Warwick snapped back the heavy brass locks on the coffer behind him, opened the lid, and took out the lute.

“The men would like that,” Warwick said.

Hugging his lute to his breast, Richard strummed the chords, sending a soft ripple of song into the harsh night, for Galahad.

~*~

Bruges was an alien place. Richard wanted to go home more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Sometimes the longing was so acute, it churned in his stomach like a hunk of sour cheese. He felt guilty. He didn’t mean to be ungrateful. A rich English merchant with ink-stained fingers by the name of William Caxton had taken them into his home, and Duke Philip the Good of Burgundy had shown them around his palace, which was filled with wondrous marvels. George had enjoyed it greatly, but a bare castle in England would have made Richard happier. He was lonely in Bruges. He missed his sister Meg, and Nurse, and his mother, but most of all, his brother Edward, who had stayed behind to fight Henry of Lancaster’s fearful queen, Marguerite. He didn’t think he could bear it if Edward died, too.

Richard pushed his Latin assignment away, leaned his chin on his arm, and gazed out the window. Snow was falling, and along the canals that ran through the city by the score, people were rushing by, bent against the wind. He yearned for the curving Thames, which was wide, and blue, and lined with shiny pebbles that could be collected by wading in a short distance when the tide went out. Canals didn’t have tides.

Twit-whoo, twit-whoo!

Richard gave a shiver. “George,” he whispered. “George, an owl just whooped.”

“I know,” replied George, who was busy examining his outfit in the mirror, a gift from Philip the Good.

“But it’s only noon. Does that mean woe? Does it mean Marguerite has killed Edward?”

George arranged his green velvet hat on his golden curls at a jaunty angle, adjusted the black feather, and looked at him. “Dickon, you worry too much. Remember last night, when you saw a star fall from the sky? You thought it meant the death of one we loved, but you were wrong, weren’t you?”

“Aye,” Richard said with relief. “You said it means a foe falls, not a loved one.”

“And this owl in daytime comes to bring us tidings of joy.” He came to Richard’s side, rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, and leaned close. “I daresay, Dickon, victory bells are about to peal for us.”

“Victory?” Richard’s heart almost leapt out of his breast. “That means we’re going home, doesn’t it, George?”

“Aye. How about a game of butts?” George said, picking up his archery set, a Yuletide gift from Caxton.

Richard regarded him uncertainly. How could George be so casual about such wonderful news? It didn’t make sense, unless he had just made it up. George sometimes did that, thinking to cheer him. He felt suddenly wretched. He shook his head and watched George leave for the courtyard, his bow slung over his shoulder. A moment later, there was a shout of glee. An arrow must have hit its mark.

How he wished he had George’s light heart. Nothing ever seemed to bother him, when all he himself could do was worry. How went the war for the Yorkists? Was his brother Edward safe or had he been killed like Edmund? Warwick—how did he fare? What would become of him and George if Edward and Warwick were dead? They’d be alone in the world then, without money or means. Would Caxton keep them, or would they be thrown into the streets to fend for themselves like the ragged orphans he saw begging their bread in the depth of winter? Worse, would he and George be handed over to Henry of Lancaster’s savage queen?

His breath caught in his throat. Without Edward, they were lost. Edward was everything, all that stood between them and the horrors of Lancaster. Edward was their last hope. O, Edward…

Pray God his brother still lived!

With a trembling hand, he drew his Latin book close and bent his head to memorise the Latin verse his tutor had assigned for the afternoon.

~*~

Easter came and went. Richard found solace in his lute and the missives that came from England. His mother had written that Edward had won a battle at Mortimer’s Cross early in February, but his sister Meg wrote days later that Warwick had lost one near St. Alban’s. Warwick’s own captain, Trollope, who had turned traitor at Ludlow, had led the Lancastrians against him and, in defiance of both honour and convention, had attacked at night, catching Warwick by surprise and routing his army. The Queen’s seven-year-old son, Edouard, in a suit of golden armour covered with purple velvet, had judged the captives and watched their executions.

Thankfully, better news followed. Before the month of February was out, Edward had entered London to cheering crowds and was proclaimed King. The last Richard had heard, in early March, both York and Lancaster were recruiting large numbers of men. Edward himself had written this time. There would soon be another battle, he said, and Richard should pray for him. Edward had added a postscript. He’d put a high price on Trollope’s head, and no doubt the ravens would be dining well shortly.