our trade routes by capturing English ships under the pretext that they are in possession of Portuguese goods. Barton’s case is peculiar. His motives are based on an old family grudge: His father, John Barton, was captured by a Portuguese ship, and the King of Portugal never made amends. Thus the King of Scots permitted him to take any Portuguese ship that crossed his path, along with their goods. In truth I do not think he was permitted to take Portuguese goods off ships that weren’t from Portugal and this is certainly something that could have been smoothed over had Henry VIII only asked James IV. But my father is so eager to dissuade the king from supporting favoured councillor Thomas Wolsey’s encouragement of a French campaign that he urges His Majesty to engage Barton in the hopes of rousing a war with Scotland. Hence the Scottish king is not consulted.
I am not about to make suggestions. If the king is prompted by my father, so be it. My father’s interests are my own; his gain is my gain. If the king asks me to take Barton, I take Barton.
And so in August, I trade land for sea and, from the very first, know that I was born to it—the rolling waves, the salty spray, the eternal motion of the ship, all this coupled with the anticipation of impending battle.
We encounter Barton’s ships, the Lion and the Jenny Pirwin, on the Downs, that narrow roadstead off the eastern coast of Kent where warships patrol the gateway to the North Sea.
“Raise the willow wand!” I cry, indicating the symbol of merchant ships, so that we might lure him in. The Lion, which is being guided by a captain whose ship they looted the day before, comes about.
I stand on deck, gripping the ledge. I am tingling; power surges through my arms straight to my fingertips. My knuckles are white. The wind whips against my cheeks. I lick my salty lips. We lurch into a wave; the spray splashes me and I laugh out loud. There is nothing like this, not the love of a woman nor the cry of a newborn guaranteed to be stolen away—no, this kind of satisfaction is not given by another human being; it is achieved from within and I savour every moment.
The Lion is gaining. She is ready to take us. I stand firm, making certain that Barton sees the man who is fated to kill him.
“Cut the flags!” I order.
The flags are cut and we reveal ourselves to be the Enemy.
“Fire a volley—hit her broadside!” I shout. I am trembling as I watch the other ship closing in. We hit her with the cannons; the damage is not extensive but enough to rock her off balance and send the crew scrambling.
Barton is on deck, a formidable figure in his fine armour. About his neck is a golden whistle. He is shouting orders, indicating the strange apparatus his ship is outfitted with: weights suspended on large beams. They are peculiar and I imagine in the right circumstances quite effective. When someone climbs up the masts to release the lines on which the weights are connected, they can drop onto other ships. This is a machination I cannot help but admire, but only for a moment, as I realise Barton is hoping to utilise them against us.
I look to my archer, a Yorkshire man called Hustler. “Kill any who try to go aloft,” I tell him.
He offers a nervous nod, readying his bow. He aims. My body tenses, but there is even a thrill in the anxiety as I watch the arrow cut through the air to hit its mark, a young crewman attempting to scuttle up the mast, in the shoulder. He falls to the deck to be immediately replaced by another brave sailor attempting the same thing.
“Get him!” I cry.
Hustler draws back his next arrow and releases, again hitting his target.
After this is reduced to a monotony of death, Barton himself begins to climb the mast.
“Kill him,” I tell Hustler.
Hustler’s glance is unsure as he returns his eyes to the pirate.
“Kill him or die,” I say with urgency.
Hustler flinches. “I’ve but two arrows….”
“Use them well,” I urge.
Hustler draws. The first assault bounces off Barton’s armour like a twig against a stone wall. Trembling, Hustler reaches for his last arrow.
“Do it, man!” I command.
Hustler pulls back. Barton reaches up to assure himself better grip on the mast.
“Now!” I shout.
Hustler releases. The arrow slices through the air. I can hear it even over the shouts of the men. It pierces through Barton’s armpit, that soft bit of flesh left vulnerable to attack.
He falls; it seems too slow to be real. I watch him hit deck. Crewmen rush to his side.
“Fight on!” he orders in his brogue, loud enough for me to hear. “I am a little wounded but not slain. I will but rest a while and then rise and fight once more. Meantime, stand fast by St. Andrew’s Cross!” He raises his eyes to the Scots’ flag.
I shake my head in admiration. As my eyes travel to the sailors on board the Lion, I note how stricken they are. He is not only a good commander, he is also loved; it is not an easy combination to attain.
When Barton can no longer shout orders, he resorts to blowing his golden whistle.
And then the whistle is heard no more.
Barton is dead.
We bring in the Lion, where it is added to the royal fleet, and we are toasted as heroes.
I have won!
Elizabeth Stafford, Spring 1512
King Henry has joined the Holy League in an allegiance against France’s King Louis, who was hoping to conquer Italy. Everyone is drunk with war; even the masques and pageants all feature weapons and armour, and the themes are not at all as pleasant as they used to be. I must say, I blame the Howards. They are so hungry for conquest, any kind of conquest, that they started the whole thing with the slaying of the pirate Barton, giving the king his first taste of victory. If Lord Thomas Howard is any indication, once a man tastes victory, there is created in him an insatiable thirst for more. When the king sent him off with the Marquess of Dorset to engage the French army near Bayonne in early June, I thought the stern-faced man would break into a jig of excitement.
Now it is the king who is parched. He does not want to send others to fight his battles; he needs to be a part of them. He wants to be a warrior-king like his father before him and drink in a long draught of Tudor triumph.
Ralph Neville, a young courtier newly arrived, is quick to correct me as we walk in the gardens of Greenwich in late June. “The Howards are all about the Scots,” he tells me. “It is Wolsey who prompts action against the French, to reclaim our lost holdings there for the glory of King Henry!”
Whenever Ralph speaks to me, I am far too beside myself to think of war or anything disagreeable. Ralph will be the fourth Earl of Westmorland and was made a ward of my father in 1510. He was the lankiest, gawkiest, and most thoroughly awkward lad I had ever seen back then. But now! Now he is the handsomest man at court, tall and lean and self-assured, with honey-blonde hair and clear blue eyes that are so light they are almost silver. His smile is easy and he is quick to laugh. He has sought me out a number of times now for walks in the gardens and I relish every encounter.
“I don’t care who prompts what,” I tell him. “Whether it’s the Earl of Surrey or Wolsey or whoever; I just don’t want a war.”
“You’re not even the least bit excited to see the knights leave? It’s going to be quite a spectacle. I think the king will even make war an entertainment,” he adds with a laugh.
“It’s all a pretty spectacle till they return fewer in numbers,” I say in haughty tones. I lower my eyes, swallowing a painful lump in my throat. “My father is accompanying the king, you know.”
Humbled, Ralph reaches for my hand. It is our first touch. We are fifteen years old, two trembling youths wondering what lies beyond this brief contact of skin against skin. His eyes seek mine. They are soft and calm as the afternoon