Dover, Autumn 1424
Dover, Autumn
OBEDIENT TO THE stars, defying the stormy weather, at last, we are on our way.
Abbot Wheathampstead draws up the mathematical chart that predicts the positions of the stars favourable to our adventure; Margery Jourdemayne sends lapis lazuli blue ink and gold dust for illuminating the horoscope scroll.
Perhaps she casts a spell on the English lords, for the temptation of the wealth of Hainault, the Hollands, and Zeeland is too great for them to resist, and they order the duke to reclaim the lands of his wife and make them his own: English lands, open to English merchants and English profiteering.
His loyal supporters – the men of London – lend him money, and their wives send their quarter and half nobles to Jacqueline, and even their little treasures: gold rings and silver mugs for her war chest. London women, shopkeepers and artisans want to believe in a fairy-tale romance between the good duke and the beautiful countess.
She is popular – they like her easy friendliness at their cheers; they like that she defied the false husband who robbed her.
They think she is a woman like them: active, determined, self-willed.
They like that she chose the good duke as her husband and that he married her for chivalry.
Even the duke’s uncle, the two-faced Bishop Beaufort, promises his support to the campaign.
He foresees – without any help from astrology – that once his nephew Duke Humphrey is out of the way, his own command of the widow queen, the baby king, and the parliament will be unchallenged.
The Earl Marshal, John de Mowbray, expert on chivalry and an experienced soldier, is to lead the troops, and now I see the duke in his element as a commander of men.
He amasses a huge army, equips them, organises food supplies and weapons and has them mustered at Dover, waiting for his private navy of forty-two ships.
His royal brother, the victor of Agincourt, could not have done better.
We are to sail in the first of the ships.
The captain’s cabin has been beautifully transformed for the comfort of my lady.
As we stand on the Dover quayside, I can look down into the ship, moored below us, and see the warm cabin: the tapestries on the walls, the door to her bedroom standing open, and a beautiful four-poster bed inside, with silk curtains.
The sight should be reassuring, but the pretty interior rises and falls as the ship nudges against the stone wall of the harbour, and I feel a scud of rain against my face.
‘Come,’ my lady says to me. She is not at all fearful; she leads the way up the unsteady wooden gangplank, as if we are boarding a barge on the River Thames and not a warship rising and falling on deep waters.
I would give a small fortune not to have to obey her, but she does not even glance over her shoulder to see if I am following.
I trail behind her, staggering a little as the gangplank shifts, hating how everything creaks all the time, with every slap of every wave, how the ropes rattle against the mast, how the mooring ropes strain on the wooden capstans, how everything is in constant movement, and everything feels unsafe.
Unwillingly, I climb the stern ladders to join my lady at the top level of the three storeys.
She is leaning on the wooden rail, watching the cavalry lead their horses up the wide gangplank to their stalls in the hold, and the cannon hauled on wooden cranes in the air and lowered on deck.
Surely, they are overloading us – the ship will sink, so heavily laden?
Sailors rush around; the master of the ship bellows orders.
The soldiers of Jacqueline’s army muster on the quay and then march on board, told off by their sergeants to go left or right while we look down on them from the rail above.
Jacqueline is radiant, like a young commander.
Her quick step down the rocking wooden stair is light and sure; she oversees everything, running down to speak to the men, back up again so she can see what is left to load on the quayside.
They are calling the army ‘Duchess Jacqueline’s Men’.
This is her army. This is her triumph. This is her invasion. It will be her victory.
Just as he promised, Owen ap Maredudd is not here.
He has got himself far away, in a new place as keeper of the queen’s household.
I wish to God he had come with us. I would feel safer if he was here, and I desire him – even more now that I don’t see him and won’t see him for who knows how long.
I think he is wrong to choose nursery service; I am irritated that he can escape while I cannot.
I try to think of him as a coward. I try not to think of him at all.
I smile at Jacqueline. ‘This is better than singing lullabies.’
‘This is better than anything in the world!’ she says exultantly.
We cast off to catch the ebbing tide as it turns towards France; the wind is with us, and the sails spread and make a terrible cracking noise as they strain against the mast. A scud of rain sluices the sea and the deck, but Jacqueline will not go into the cabin that the duke has so richly decorated and prepared for her.
She climbs down to the deck as if she were a common soldier, for’ard to look over the prow, to the side to scan the horizon for the coming storm.
Cold and queasy, I have to go with her and look through the rolling waves which come on and onwards, white-capped and green-bodied, straining my eyes for the first sign of Calais Castle.
The wind gets up, and it rains harder; the ship climbs each wave and then drops down with a thud on the other side. Sometimes, I cannot even see the way ahead for the towering water. ‘My lady, let’s go inside.’ I pull at her cloak.
She turns. Her eyes are blazing with excitement, her cheeks whipped red with the wind blowing into her face. Her hood falls back, and her hair streams out from her headdress, she looks like an – a woman set on war.
The duke comes up behind us and beams at her. ‘I should have known you’d be at the prow like a beautiful figurehead!’ He has to raise his voice to be heard over the noise of the ship and the running sea.
‘She should be in her cabin,’ I say miserably. ‘We should all be in the cabin, and God save us.’
She suddenly realises that I am not sharing her fierce joy. ‘Oh, Nell! Are you seasick?’ she yells over the noise of the wind and the creak of the ship, incredulous that I am cold and wet, miserable and terrified in a ship sailing into a storm. ‘Oh, go to my cabin!’
I cling to the wooden rail and shake my head.
‘Poor child,’ the duke says, and he stretches out his cape and puts it around my shoulders. I give a little sob of gratitude as his arm holds me steady on the heavy deck. ‘Jacqueline, I must take this girl into your cabin; she’s icy cold.’
She nods, her eyes not leaving the heaving horizon. ‘Yes, do,’ she dismisses us. ‘Lie down, Nell, and get warm. We’ll soon be at Calais.’
The deck heaves up and then falls away beneath our feet; the duke has to push me up the companionway to the upper floor.
The swaying is even worse here, but he helps me into the beautiful cabin, and I give a sob of relief to be out of the wind as he struggles to close the door.
The cabin moves and creaks, but the terrible howl of the storm is shut out.
‘I swear she’s afraid of nothing,’ he says, giving me a linen sheet for my wet face and my drenched hair. He shakes out my light cape and spreads it out to dry over a stool. ‘She’s a heroine.’
‘Yes,’ I say miserably.
‘I’ll leave you,’ he says kindly. ‘Get out of your wet clothes and try to sleep.’
The wind howls and the rain pours in as he opens the door and goes.
I fall into the rich bed and shiver with cold.
Everything is damp; everything is dark. The ship rolls from wave to wave.
I swear: if I survive this, I will be an obedient woman; I will lower my sights; I will make do with an ordinary destiny and a modest life.
The ship heels in the wind and crashes into the trough of a wave as I sob with fear.
I swear: if God will spare me a watery death, I will go back to Sterborough Abbey and become a nun.
IN THE AFTERNOON, the dark smudge on the horizon takes shape: it is the great English fort of Calais. The storm has died down. I wake from a half-sleep in the great bed in the cabin, wash my face and hands, and put on my dry cloak to come out on deck.
Jacqueline is peering towards the coast; she gives me a short word of greeting, asks me if I am well again.
At last, I can see journey’s end: the port of Calais.
As we come closer to the great sea walls, Jacqueline’s standard flying at our stern is dipped in greeting.
I can hear the grinding clank as they drop the chain which bars the mouth of the port to enemy ships.
The people waiting on the quay let out a cheer.
They have seen many expeditions from England coming into the fort, but always before, they have been on their way to join the unending struggle to hold English lands in France.
This time, the ships are bringing soldiers who will not face the French army, will not fight for dis-puted lands.
This time, there will be next to no opposition; we are claiming lands that are undoubtedly our own.