Anne O'Brien - Virgin Widow

A fist hammered on the door.

‘Who is it?’ The Countess’s attention remained fixed on Isabel’s flushed face.

A disembodied voice. ‘My lord says to tell you, my lady, the heavy cloud has lifted and Calais is in sight. We are approaching the harbour, to disembark within the hour.’

‘Do you hear that, Isabel?’ The Countess gripped Isabel’s hand hard as Margery wiped the sweat from my sister’s forehead. ‘You’ll soon be in your own room, in the comfort of your own bed in Calais.’ Heart-warming words, but I did not think the Countess’s expression matched them as she helped Isabel to lie down on the narrow bed.

Isabel snatched her hand away. ‘How can I bear this pain, no matter where I am?’

At that exact moment, bringing a deathly silence to the cabin, there came the easily recognisable crack of distant cannon fire. One! Two! And then another. Shouts erupted on deck, the rush of running feet. The ship reeled and huffed against the wind as sails were hauled in and she swung round with head-spinning speed. The scrape of metal on wood rumbled as the anchor chain was dropped overboard.

We all froze, even Isabel’s attention dragged from her woes.

‘Heaven preserve us!’ Margery promptly fell to her knees, hands clasped on her ample bosom.

‘Cannon fire!’ I whispered.

‘Are they firing at us?’ Isabel croaked.

‘No.’ The Countess stood, voice strong with conviction. ‘Get up, Margery. Of course they are not firing at us. Lord Wenlock would never refuse us entry to Calais.’

But again the crash of cannon. We all tensed, expecting a broadside hit at any moment. Then Isabel groaned. Clutched the bed with talon-like fingers. Her once-flushed face was suddenly grey, her lips ashen. The groan became a scream.

Our mother approached the bed, barely turned her head towards me, but fired off her own instructions, as terse as any cannon. ‘Anne! Go and see what’s amiss. Tell your father we need to get to land immediately.’

I made it through the crash and bang of activity to my father’s side. There ahead, emerging from the cloudbank, was the familiar harbour of Calais. Temptingly close. But equally we were close enough that I could see the battery of cannon ranged against us, just make out their black mouths, and a pall of smoke hanging over them in the heavy air. They had been aimed at us, to prevent our landing if not to sink us outright. Now in the lull, across the water and making heavy weather of it, came a small boat rowed by four oarsmen with one man standing in the bows. His face, expressionless with distance, was raised to us.

‘Who is it?’ Clarence asked the Earl.

‘I don’t recognise him.’ But I recognised my father’s heavy mood of anger. ‘One of Wenlock’s men. What in God’s name is he about?’

The boat drew alongside and the visitor clambered on deck. Clothes brushed down, sword straightened, he marched across to where we stood and bowed smartly before the Earl. ‘A message from Lord Wenlock, my lord. To be delivered to your ears only. He would not write it.’

‘And you are?’

‘Captain Jessop, my lord. In my lord Wenlock’s confidence. ‘His expression was blandly impossible to read.

‘In his confidence, are you?’ Temper snapped in the Earl’s voice. ‘Then tell me—why in God’s name would you fire on me? I am Captain of Calais, man. Would you stop me putting into port?’

‘Too late for that, my lord.’ Captain Jessop might be apologetic, but gave no quarter. ‘Twelve hours ago we received our orders from the King. And most explicit they were too, on pain of death. With respect, my lord, we’re forbidden to allow the great rebel—yourself, my lord—to land on English soil in Calais.’

‘And LordWenlock would follow the orders to the letter?’ My father was frankly incredulous.

‘He must, my lord. He is sympathetic to your plight, but his loyalty and duty to the King must be paramount.’ A weighty pause. ‘You’ll not land here.’

The Earl’s crack of laughter startled me. ‘And I thought he was a loyal friend, a trustworthy ally.’ I could see the Earl struggle with his emotions at this blow to all his plans. Lord Wenlock, a man who had figured in Neville campaigns without number over as many years as my life. He had been a guest in our home and I knew there had never been any question over his allegiance.

‘He is both ally and friend,’ Captain Jessop assured, ‘but I must tell you as he instructed. There are many here within the fortress who are neither loyal nor trustworthy in the face of your—ah, estrangement from the Yorkist cause.’

‘Look, man.’ The Earl grasped the captain’s arm with a force that made the man wince. ‘I need to get my daughter ashore. She is with child. Her time has come.’

‘I regret, my lord. Lord Wenlock’s advice is that Calais has become in the way of a mousetrap. You must beware that you are not the mouse that comes to grief here with its neck snapped. He says to sail further along the coast and land in Normandy. If you can set up a base there, from where you can attract support, then he and most of the Calais garrison will back you in an invasion of England. But land in Calais you may not.’

‘Then I must be grateful for the counsel, mustn’t I?’ Releasing Captain Jessop’s arm, the Earl clasped his hand, but with little warmth and much bitterness. ‘Give my thanks to Wenlock. I see that I must do as he advises.’

I moved quickly aside as the captain made his farewells. So we were not to be welcomed into the familiar walls of Calais. A little trip of panic fluttered in my belly, even as I tried to reassure myself that I should not worry. My father would know what to do. He would not allow us to come to harm. A sharp wail of anguish rose above the sound of shipboard action. My instincts were to hide, but my sense of duty, well-honed at my mother’s knee, insisted otherwise. It took me back to the cabin with the bad news.

The activity in the small dark space brought me up short. My elegant mother, a great heiress in her own right who had experienced nothing but a life of high-born privilege and luxury, had folded back the wide cuffs of her over-sleeves and was engaged with Margery in pulling Isabel from the narrow bed. Ignoring Isabel’s fractious complaints, she ordered affairs to her liking, dragging the pallet to the floor and pushing my sister to lie down where there was marginally more space. Margery added her strength with a strange mix of proud competence at my mother’s side and sharp concern imprinting her broad face. But Margery had her own skills. She had been with my mother since well before the Countess’s marriage, tending her through her difficult pregnancies, as I had heard from her frequent telling of how Margery had caught both Isabel and myself when we slid into this world. So, as she informed us, what she didn’t know about such matters as bearing children, although having none of her own, was not worth the knowing.

‘Hush, child. Margery is with you. Sit there for Margery, now, and don’t weep so…’ As if Isabel were still a small girl to be cosseted for a grazed knee.

The Countess was made of sterner stuff. Seeing me hesitate in the doorway, she pounced with impressive speed and pulled me into the cabin. ‘No, you don’t. I shall have need of you.’

‘There’s no room—’

‘Anne. Be still. Your sister needs you.’

I feared that I would be the last person to soothe my pain-racked sister. Isabel merely tolerated me. We had always fought—I suspected we always would. But pity moved me at her wretched plight. ‘We cannot land.’ Adopting a martyred expression, I recounted to the Countess the gist of the conversation as I stepped over to replace Margery at Isabel’s side.