Virgin Widow. Anne O'Brien

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      ‘What’s amiss? Have we made landfall at last?’

      Tall, golden haired, striking of face. George, Duke of Clarence, brother to King Edward and male heir apparent to the English throne. My sister’s husband of less than a year. His eyes shone brilliantly blue, his fair skin glowed in the murk. So beautiful, as Isabel frequently crowed her victory in becoming his wife, a maiden’s dream.

      I loathed him.

      ‘No. It’s Isabel,’ I told him with barely a glance. The Countess would reprimand me for my ill manners, but nothing she could say would ever reconcile me to my brother by marriage. Not that it mattered to him. He rarely deigned to notice me.

      ‘Is she sick?’

      The Countess interrupted my pert reply. ‘She is distressed. The child is imminent…’

      Clarence scowled. ‘A pity we had not made landfall. Will the child be safe?’

      I felt my lip curl and made no attempt to disguise it, even when my mother saw and stared warningly at me. She thought my hostility was a younger sister’s jealousy of Isabel’s good fortune, but I knew differently. Not, Will my wife suffer? Or, Can we do anything to ease her distress? Just, Will the child be safe? I hated him from the depths of my heart. How Richard, my own Richard, who was now separated from me and would remain so for ever as far as I could see, could be brother to this arrogant prince I could never fathom.

      The Countess swept Clarence’s inopportune query aside, but found time and compassion to smile at me. ‘Don’t look so worried, Anne. She’s young and healthy. She’ll forget all her pain and discomfort when she holds her child in her arms.’

      ‘The child must be saved! At all costs.’ Clarence’s face was handsome no longer.

      ‘I shall bear your instructions in mind, your Grace. But my first concern is for my daughter.’ The Countess was already striding across the deck.

      With relish at the curt reprimand, I also turned my back on the Duke of Clarence and scuttled after my mother. When I arrived in the cabin she had already taken charge. Her cloak dropped on to a stool, she had replaced Margery at Isabel’s side and was dispensing advice and soothing words in a forthright manner that would brook no refusal. In our northern home in Middleham where I had spent the years of my childhood, my mother, despite her high-born status, had a reputation for knowledge and skill in the affairs of childbirth. I feared that we would need all of it before the night was out.

      My mother was right in one thing. With Isabel as far on as she was, we should never have put to sea when we did. Not that we had much choice in the matter, with the King and his army breathing down our traitorous necks and out for blood. A disastrous mix of ill luck, poor weather and royal Yorkist cunning—and we were reduced to this voyage on this mean little vessel in unreliable April weather. Here we were in this hot, dark, confined space, lurching on a sulky sea, with Isabel’s screams echoing off the rough walls to make me feel a need to cover my ears—except that my mother was watching—and reject any notion of motherhood for myself.

      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.’

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