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  A QUEEN’S CHAMPION

  by Sam Burnell

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  First published in eBook and paperback 2020

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  © Sam Burnell 2020

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  The right of Sam Burnell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the writer. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Please note, this book is written in British English, so some spellings will vary from US English.

  Character Li st

  Fitzwarren Household

  William Fitzwarren – Father of Richard and Robert

  Eleanor Fitzwarren – his wife

  Robert Fitzwarren – Richard’s brother

  Jack Fitzwarren – William’s son

  Richard Fitzwarren – William’s son

  Harry – Richard’s cousin

  Edwin – Servant of William

  Lawyers

  Master Clement – Robert Fitzwarren’s Lawyer

  Master Luterell – William Fitzwarren’s Lawyer

  Threadmill – Luterell’s assistant

  Marcus Drover – Clement’s assistant

  The English Court

  William Cecil – Secretary of State

  Somer – Crown Servant

  Christopher Morley – Cecil’s man

  Other Characters

  Catherine de Bernay – A Knight’s daughter

  Myles Devereux – London Merchant

  Matthew – Servant of Devereux

  Garrison Bennett – London Merchant

  Alun Hanwyn – Steward

  Knights of St John

  Emilio de Nevarra – Nephew of Philip of Spain

  Jerome Sinclair – Knight of St John, expelled from the Order

  Christian Carter’s Household

  Christian Carter – Wine Merchant

  Harry – Christian’s illegitimate son

  Coleman – Christian’s servant

  Anne – Christian’s wife

  Richard’s Men

  Froggy Tate

  Marc

  Pierre

  For

  Jennifer Burnell

  PROLOGUE

  November 17th 1553 – St James’s Palace – London

  †

  Gilded bed hangings were drawn back, tied to the four corner posts with thick red cords, heavily tasselled and bound with gold thread. The coverlet, bearing in its centre the entwined emblems of Mary Tudor and Philip of Spain had been smoothed free of creases though it was little disturbed by the body beneath it.

  Opposite the bed the window rose from floor to ceiling, the heavy curtains were open leaving only a thin linen veil between the room and the glass. Dawn light, grey and indistinct, struggled through thick clouds into the room and fell upon a long solid oak table with thick barley twist legs, each one topped with a plump-cheeked cherubim. Upon it lay a white altar cloth and upon that the instruments of Mass.

  Incense leaked from the thurible as it was swung on the chain, thin grey wisps as pale as the morning light filling the room with the aroma of incense. The slight breeze from the movement set the linen hanging across the windows to tremble in the draught.

  Propped on pillows, and as pale as the altar cloth, lay Mary; her lips moving as she followed the service. Her eyes, unfocussed, turned in the direction of the gold crucifix set between the candles on the table. A hand, plump and swollen like rising dough lay on the cover, two rings her ladies had been unable to remove embedded tightly in the flesh of her fingers. Her thinning grey hair was pulled back from her face, secured in a tight neat plait, exposing a brow that glistened with sweat. Pain still wracked her body, but she was beyond vocal response, and it registered now only as a sudden tightening of her features, her lips for a moment drawing back to bare her teeth in a silent exclamation. The spasm would pass and Mary would continue with her silent prayer.

  Her ladies knelt during the service, turned towards the makeshift altar. The only sound was the words of the priest and the tiny chinks from the chain on the thurible. When the service was completed, one of Mary’s ladies rising from her knees turned towards her mistress. Mary’s rosary had slipped from her grasp, her eyes were closed and her face at last was absent of pain. A twist of hair had escaped from the nightcap, and tender fingers gently stroked it away from Mary’s eyes, the lady whispering to another at her shoulder that at last the Lord had blessed their mistress with some peace. Her ladies had thought that she slept, but their mistress had died quietly, her last breath sliding unnoticed from her lips while their faces were turned towards the priest as he raised the Host before them. It was Mary’s physician who knew that the stilled face, no longer tortured with pain, told of a soul now beyond mortal suffering.

  A little after midnight Mary had received the last rites. Still coherent, she had made the responses, and prepared herself to leave the world behind. News slipped quickly and quietly from the room as it must, and like fire in the night spread across London. Soon after, the Secretary of State, William Cecil, resident at St James’ Palace, was woken from a poor night’s slumber in a bed that was not his own.. Dressing quickly he began to set in motion a plan that would ensure the smooth appointment of Mary’s successor, her sister, Elizabeth.

  CHAPTER ONE

  North East Coast of England November 15th 1558

  †

  The passage to England had not been easy for the Santa Luciana. Calm seas had delivered her to France where Jerome oversaw repairs he insisted were necessary before he took her into the Channel and the rougher seas of the island's eastern coast. Much of her rigging was repaired and new canvas added but the missing mast could not be replaced. The work delayed the journey by longer than his brother would have wished and the summer months were long gone before the ship left her berth and headed North. Jerome had warned them that the journey would be a perilous one, but Jack was unprepared for just how bad a sea journey could actually become.

  “For God’s sake!” Jack cursed, the floor beneath him tilting alarmingly, the Santa Luciana heeling hard over to one side. An arm wrapped around the wooden upright that secured the bed to the wall, he hung on until the deck began to level again. Suddenly the whole ship shuddered as if it had slammed into the side of a quay, ramming Jack hard back against the cabin wall.

  “Jerome! What the Hell are you doing?” Jack growled, a moment before he lost his grip on the wooden upright. Rolling over twice he fetched up heavily against the opposite wall of the cabin, cursing loudly. If he’d thought he had suffered rough sea crossings before, he knew now he was wrong.

  The Santa Luciana, in the grip of an intense storm and unable to fight the wind was being pressed further and further towards the waves. Jack was well aware that his survival was currently in Jerome’s hands. The Santa Luciana bucked back again towards the vertical and Jack found himself on all fours in the middle of the cabin. Another thunderous crash shook the ship. Jack reached for the security of the upright but before he could fasten his hand around it the uncertain floor robbed him of his balance and he landed hard on one shoulder. He was sure that below him the ship was being torn apart timber by timber.

  Cold air rushed into the cabin as Lizbet flung the door open. “Jack, we need you! Jerome’s lost two men to the waves!” Her voice was edged with panic as she clung to the door fram
e.

  Jack made a successful lunge for the wooden support and hauled himself upright. “What can I do?”

  “For God’s sake Jack, just come and help before someone else is washed over the side. Emilio is trying to bring one of the sails down, if he doesn’t it’s going to tip her over,” Lizbet’s quick words tumbled from her mouth.

  “Are you sure that’s not already happened?” Jack growled, lurching sideways as the cabin floor fell away beneath his feet again.

  “Come on!” Lizbet wailed.

  She was gone before he had a chance to answer; the door was still open and it smashed heavily against the wall as the ship rolled over the top of yet another wave crest. Scrambling to his feet, banging against the wall, Jack made a grab for the door frame and followed Lizbet. Taking three steps along the narrow passage he found her soon enough, blocking the steep steps leading to the deck.

  “Stay inside, woman!” It was his brother’s voice, and a moment later Lizbet was roughly shoved, yelping, back down the passageway, cannoning off Jack’s shoulder. Ignoring her, Jack pushed past her to his brother’s side and into the cold embrace of the storm.

  A vicious wind drove spray and rain into his face as he took in their situation. Although it was day, broiling clouds had blocked the sun, but the dim light was still enough to see the peril the Santa Luciana was in – Jack’s eyes widened as he saw the seas swelling higher than the top of her remaining masts. The ship was in the bottom of the valley, her prow angled towards the top of the rising mountain of water.

  Jack froze at the top of the steps.

  “Is she sinking?” Jack yelled, his eyes fixed on the towering wave.

  “Probably!” Richard replied. “Emilio is trying to bring down that top gallant, the stay lines have failed, help him – go Jack!” Richard’s voice was hoarse as he shouted over the wind.

  A hand bit into Jack’s arm, and Richard pulled him fully out onto the deck, a push in the back a moment later sending him stumbling across a deck sluiced with water.

  Emilio, his feet bare, a rope around his back and the agony of a desperate fight he was losing written on his face, was braced against a capstan. Above him one of Jerome’s men hung from a rope looped over the yardarm after the impact of the last wave had dislodged him. Jack didn’t hesitate, an arm wound in the soaked hemp he lent his strength to haul the man back to safety. The weight on the rope lessened as the sailor kicked one of his legs over the oak beam, transferring his weight back to the yardarm.

  “He needs to cut the topgallant sail free, it’s pulling her sideways,” Emilio shouted against the wind as he began efficiently taking in the slack on the rope.

  Jack, looking beyond the mast and the dripping sailor, could see the prow of the ship climbing the steep black mountain of the wave. Her path, though, was not a clean one as the top gallant sail, angled badly, was making her crab up the swelling curve of the water. The man was now fully back on the yardarm, thirty feet above them, a knife held between his teeth, legs wrapped around the wooden beam, he was pulling himself towards the securing ropes. Emilio hauled in the slack rope, keeping it taut should the man lose his grip again. Jack did the same, planting his booted feet next to Emilio’s on the capstan.

  A rogue wave hit the Santa Luciana hard, crashing into the aft-castle. The water rolled across the deck robbing them of their balance and sending them across the deck in a tangle of arms, legs and hemp. Above him Jack heard the scream as the man began to lose his hold on the yardarm.

  Both men made a desperate bid to haul the rope tight. On their hands and knees both scrambled on the deck, water swilling around their legs. They pulled it taut a moment before the ship was hit by another wave and the man was shaken from the yardarm. His fall was a short one, hanging on the rope just below the yardarm. The Santa Luciana listed heavily to one side and the sailor swung away from the side of the ship and out over the black grasping waves.

  Jack was back on his feet, his right foot had found solid purchase against the capstan again and his left joined it. Every muscle in his body screaming, he hauled on the rope, as by degrees the man rose from the waves, climbing back up the rope towards the security of the mast. Emilio lent his strength to Jack’s and the man’s right hand was almost within reach of the rigging along the yardarm when another careless wave righted the ship.

  His body swung on the rope, smashing into the mast.

  If there was a scream, it was one stolen by the wind, but Jack was sure he heard the sickening crunch as the man was flung against the mast, before hanging lifeless at the end of the rope. Jack, still holding the rope taut, looked on aghast.

  “Drop him,” Emilio commanded.

  Jack obeyed, the body falling to the deck. Emilio ran, a knife in his hand, he sliced the rope that had been around the dead man, looped it around his own body and tied the ends in a quick knot.

  “No!” Jack yelled.

  Emilio grinned at him before gripping his knife between his teeth and starting to climb the mast. Jack, swearing, rapidly pulled the rope tight, braced his feet again and fastened his whole attention on the Italian as he began his ascent. The climb up the mast under normal conditions would have been an easy one, the wood wrapped with iron bands and the stays close enough to provide solid hand-holds, but the ship’s erratic passage was exaggerated the higher Emilio climbed, like a wounded animal trying to shake him from its back.

  Jack hauled the rope tight, his right arm wrapped around the length before it passed around his back to where he had it anchored around his other arm. He knew if Emilio fell he was unlikely to be able to hold him. To his right, jutting from the deck was a hefty wooden deadeye, fastening the mast stays to the deck. If he could make his way to it, it would offer a secure anchor for the rope. Jack readied himself and when Emilio transferred his weight on to the yardarm and Jack judged him safe he moved and looped the rope around the wooden boss, hauling it tight once more.

  Above him Emilio, his legs wrapped around the beam, was crawling towards the first of the ropes that held the canvas tight. Along the bottom length of the sail the boltrope holding it fast against the arm looped through a series of five clews, the sail cloth was held hard against the wind. Jack watched as Emilio began to apply the knife to the first one.

  “Come on, quickly!” Jack spoke through gritted teeth as he watched Emilio above him through the haze of rain and spray.

  The rope was cut and the corner of the canvas whipped through the air inches from Emilio’s face.

  “Jesus!” Jack realised the danger Emilio was in. He needed to make his away along the yardarm to the next clew and above him the heavy soaked canvas was flapping violently in the gale. If it caught him when he crawled beneath it could easily send him falling to the deck. Emilio continued along the beam and Jack let out the slack as he went. Emilio’s knife sliced through the next straining hemp loop and the canvas whipped wildly above his head.

  Half the sail was now free.

  Jack risked a glance towards the black wave the Santa Luciana was heading up, already the prow had turned and her passage was a straighter one now the sail had been stopped from pulling her sideways. The third clew line was cut and the heavy drenched canvas flapped above Emilio. Jack held his breath as he watched him duck beneath it and continue along the yardarm.

  Keep low, keep your bloody head down.

  The canvas caught in the whirling gale continued to whip threateningly above Emilio’s head.

  When the fourth rope was cut the sail cloth no longer held the pull of the wind.

  “Leave it, Emilio, come down!” Jack yelled uselessly into the wind.

  There was no way the Italian could have heard him, his words were stolen and hidden by the wind. As Jack watched Emilio, arms and legs wrapped around the yardarm was continuing along to the last rope.

  Jack cursed.

  As Emilio’s knife edge began to cut through the rope strands on the final clew the freed sailcloth, caught in the wind, was lifted high above his head to be brought
back down by the force of the next gust. Jack saw the flash of silver as the knife was ripped from his grip and disappeared, Emilio lost his hold on the yardarm as the sail hit him, sending him to hang by one hand from the wooden beam. A second later he fell. The force of the fall pulled the flesh from Jack’s hands as he tried to stop the rope. Emilio’s fall came to an abrupt halt between the two yardarms when the slack was taken and the dead-eye stopped his descent.

  Jack hauled on the rope, dragging Emilio roughly by degrees back towards the yard arm. The wood beam within his reach, he wrapped his arms around it and pulled himself back on top.

  The last hemp fixing, weakened already by Emilio’s knife and taking the strain of the whole sailcloth, snapped. Like a massive white flag the sail surged free, fastened now only at the top. Emilio, arms wrapped around the yardarm, ducked beneath the freed canvas.

  “Get down quickly!” Jack yelled.

  The sail was held in the grip of the wind like a pennant, but if the wind twisted back it would bring it crashing back down on Emilio. The Italian could never have heard him, but the danger he was in was apparent, and he made it as quickly as care would allow back to the safety of the mast.

  Jack’s felt the deck beneath his feet level. Shifting his gaze beyond the mast that Emilio was descending he could see the Santa Luciana was rising over the crest of the wave, her prow now leading the way. Jack prayed that Jerome now had some control over her.

  †

  Emilio, his eyes closed and head tipped back, rested against the ships gunwale. Next to him was Jack, with a rope still wound around his arm that he had hitched over the dead-eye, it had only been this that had stopped both men from being washed over the edge of the canting deck of the Santa Luciana as the vicious waves of the North Sea tried time and again to send them over her side. Once the topgallant sail was cut down, Jerome, and what little surviving crew he had, coaxed the injured ship into the leeward side of a large rocky promontory and there dropped anchor. In the dark of the night the ship pitched and rolled as she rode out the storm on the heaving waters. As every fresh wave hit her Jack expected the anchor to drag free or the cables attached to it to break and for the Santa Luciana to be splintered on the rocks behind them. But by some miracle a pale dawn, the freezing air still wet with rain and sea spray, found them still afloat.