The French Falcon

Out of Calais, 1618

The sea tossed the toy merchant ship, and dropped, and flung again; long enough that their destination of Dover was now uncertain. Tied mast-trees strained under the effort of clenching wind, though the sails were lashed tight. Charlotte flicked wet hair out of her eyes, clung to the foredeck, stopped her sliding. Her world swayed and rose, and fell again, while she tasted sour remains of breakfast in her throat, and salt on her lips.

Charlotte heard the sailors; voices mingled with complaints of ship, groans of wood, whines of rope. From human growls she understood fluttering fragments in Dutch, French and English, those Latin-Romance languages she’d grown with. Other words she’d never heard in guttural accents, in tones of urgency, pleas for help, calls to Our Father, Sweet Jesus ... Perhaps other, unknown, Gods?

Charlotte prayed for mercy to Our Holy Mother and Saint Anne, and to Saint Scholastica to intercede with these inhuman winds. Her rosary beads under her clothes, strapped to her torso with her jewels, as safe as she could make herself in the hands of this great power. Charlotte witnessed pounding forces, out of control, and cowered back to the tarry boards. Sea water dripped into her nostrils and dribbled her mouth.

She looked to Maynard, hair whipped around his head as he clung to the handrail. He turned to look at her, his expression of concern. Through the whirling grey-mist, Charlotte smiled and raised a hand.

He smiled back, reassured. He looked as if he, too, felt this drive of excitement through the discomfort. The pale oval of his face nodded encouragement. Then he looked away, out to the future, to the hazy horizon, and plunging deep water.

Charlotte watched, full of gratitude for Maynard. He was bringing her to safety. Or, given the roiling waves, might it be less than life, to the bottom of the deep, grey void below?

Over the thrash of sea and sail, she became aware of voices, tones lowered. Not sailors with work orders. These had different purpose; she felt their masculine chuckles, their weighing of possibilities. At first, she made no sense of them; they didn’t speak her mother tongue of French. They spoke too fast and heavily accented for comprehension in the wind. They came at her, examining her face, drawing close to either side of her and crouching. She saw, too late, the suspicion in their looks, saw the decision, and felt the man’s hand as he reached for her breast and squeezed.

As she pushed back from the invasion, she heard him laugh and say, ‘Oh yea!’

‘Told you so,’ the other snorted.

The first grunted, ‘More than one layer to peel from this little onion!’

She understood then, even though she didn’t understand their foreign sounds. Both laughed when she came alive, raised her hand, and slapped at the closest.

The men grabbed at her, now more determined.

She saw Maynard turn to witness her scrabbling on the slippery deck with her attackers. She rose to her feet as the second man flicked her cap away into the wind.

Maynard moved forward. He shouted.

The men glanced at him, and shrugged, finding Charlotte more intriguing. Their hands rummaged her body, under her doublet, towards her cummerbund, a place of lumps and bumps that were her hidden valuables, of far more interest than her breasts should they discover them.

Harnessing her fear, Charlotte fought. She kicked and punched but couldn’t land a strike.

The men brushed her aside, used to fighting, quick to smack her head and face.

Maynard didn’t hesitate to come en guarde beside Charlotte.

The men needed no encouragement. They went at him.

Charlotte watched them attack, hunched and foul, one to either side of Maynard, more like rats than human beings. Their woollen caps pulled over their heads accentuated their look of conniving creatures.

Charlotte sought the knife at her calf and pulled it from its scabbard. It looked flimsy and pathetic in the tumult of spray and three men fighting for their lives. She came forward and thrust where she saw an opening.

One of the rat men grabbed her and tapped her arm across the railing at the side of the ship forcing her to let loose the blade. It dropped from her hand. She struggled and, due to her wet arm, slid from his grasp. If her arm was not broken it was sorely bruised. With no time to contemplate pain, she turned to find the knife, seeking an opening, to hurt, stop them, bring them to their knees.

One of the rat men punched her temple. Swinging into the wrong place, Maynard’s elbow met her jaw with force. She fell back amongst people on board, some crouching with their backs turned to the weather, some attracted to the disturbance.

Her head swam. In desperation, Charlotte saw a bystander. She didn’t really see him, focused on the blade beside his leg. She made a move for the poniard, grabbing it from its scabbard. But the tall man, not prepared to let his weapon taste blood, seized her hand, and held it fast. Then he began to turn her away from the fight. He wouldn’t let go.

Charlotte tried to step back, towards Maynard, her protector, his hair lashing around his head, as he punched a rat man hard, but quick, the other rat had him by the arm, controlling his ability to manoeuvre. She opened her mouth to call but found her air closed off by a gloved hand. She bit damp leather. His other arm closed across the front of her shoulders as he pulled her out, distanced from Maynard, ambushed, hauled away.

She saw a third man, a straight man in better dress, close in behind Maynard. He muttered to the rat men. He wore a black eyepatch. He made small movements with his arms.

She fought but the smooth glove stayed across her face. His breath came close to her ear, ‘Save yourself.’ The strong body against hers stayed too close to kick. She was trapped. Charlotte could do nothing except watch, yet still she tried escape.

He enveloped her backwards into his own body that smelled of flowers and talcum powder, red wine, and garlic, sweat and shit.

She wrestled. Tried to bite him. Arched her body.

He whispered into her ear even as he pulled her further away, ‘He must fight for himself.’

She saw Maynard slump, saw practiced hands going through his clothes, cutting off his pockets and belt and then, Dear Lord God Almighty Father in Heaven, the three of them heaved that limp body, once strong and capable Maynard, and rolled him overboard.

Charlotte lurched forward and opened her jaw into a scream - a scream - a scream - but the glove blocked her. She choked on her shock and his glove. The wet leather stench stayed across her face and his forearm braced her across her chest. She couldn’t move.

The tall man issued some order, torn from his mouth by the wind. One of the rat men picked up Maynard’s travelling bag and turned to look, presumably for her, but found nothing as she stood, hidden against the man in black.

The man with the eyepatch gestured for all three to leave the deck.

The handrail stood empty where once Maynard had looked out towards her future, his silent query as to the state of her health blown away into the turbulence. The blood on the deck puddled, then dissolved, dissipated by the haze rain that flew around them. Sea spray tossed into the aggressive mist horizon. Maynard’s reassuring face, gone.

Maynard. Gone.

The man behind her was strong. He held her and whispered, ‘Walk.’

Charlotte stopped her struggles. Could not think. Could barely breathe.

When he realised the fight had gone out of her, he loosened his hold. ‘It was quick.’ His mouth came close to her ear. ‘And you are alive. Come.’

He led her to the ladder and encouraged her down, step by step, to the next deck and then inside a cave. A dark place. She resisted. She didn’t want to leave air. She was breathing. Maynard was not.

‘Here.’ He was stronger. ‘We’ll be quiet, you and I.’

He had access to a storeroom, a space housing stacks of rolls of fabric tightly wound with waxed material. He pushed her inside, found a grimy hessian blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Gave her a small bottle, open. She couldn’t stop shaking. He held her hand and lifted the bottle toward her lips.

She smelled brandy and bent to it. Sweet fire flooded her mouth and wound down into empty trauma, into her guts. Maynard didn’t deserve to die because of her. His body rolling over the rail. And again, she saw him sink into space. Fall into a wall of moving water. And there against the rail, he was not. There was the side rail. And she couldn’t help herself. She opened her mouth and wailed.

The man crouching beside her stood. ‘No.’ He came to sit next to her on the stack of fabric tubes and put his arm around her, pulled her open face into his front, her cheek pressed into his wet fabric, his buttons and doublet hem and cape edge. ‘Ssssh.’ He silenced her, edged the bottle back to her mouth.

Her brain empty, clouded, and leaden. Her eyes heavy. She drank again. She heard him speaking to her, but no sense.

His voice, ‘What’s your name? Tell me.’

What did that matter? She would not. She stayed silent. Shocked.

‘Who was he?’ He persisted. ‘His name? Speak, don’t scream.’

Against her instincts, she whispered his name. ‘Maynard.’

‘Maynard? Husband?’

Absurd. She could hardly bear it. ‘No.’

‘Brother, then?’

Of course not. He was wrong. He couldn’t know.

‘No. Yes.’ She had to speak. ‘No.’

‘Yes? No? What?’ He was impossible. ‘Who was he to you?’ She breathed deeply but he kept talking as though they had all the time in the world.

How could she tell him? She remembered where she’d been. Long ago. ‘I was … ’ Back then. ‘Fighting.’

Did he laugh? He pressed on, ‘Go on … ’

‘He stopped them. Rescued me.’

‘When was this?’ He waited. ‘When?’ There was a pause, and she remembered, and was overwhelmed again. ‘Tell me.’ He broke in quickly. ‘Explain. How old were you?’

She wanted to scream again but brought herself under control. She'd been a child. She managed a whisper, ‘Nine? Ten?’

‘What was he like?’ He was relentless. ‘Talk. Why did you fight?’

None of this mattered to Charlotte but she forced herself to speak, to be alive if she must. She remembered. ‘It was the King.’ Her head hurt in the same places. ‘The King of France. Dead. Stabbed.’

‘That was … when? Back in … 1610? What had you to do with Henri?’

‘Eavesdropped.’

They sat in silence. She knew he looked at her but couldn’t look back. He stopped her from saving Maynard. She hated him. But she also knew she could not have saved Maynard. She would have died.

Now away from the outside turmoil she began to feel lifeless, like fish too long stored. She was rotten, better if she too went over the rail. She should have died with Maynard.

He pressed the bottle to her mouth again. ‘Drink.’

She did and the heat took to her heart, and she rose. Didn’t look at him. Stood and moved towards the door. She’d go to the rail and fall into the sea. She’d betrayed Maynard. She had no value. Hated by her husband. Her family dead and gone. She was worthless. She could live no longer. She left the man sitting on the waxed rolls and went to the door.

But he was there with hand outstretched. Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? He barred her way and asked, ‘Where do you go?’

She looked at him, already dead in her mind, puzzled that he bothered with her. She didn’t speak, what for? She reached past him to the door latch.

He blocked her. ‘You can’t do anything.’

‘Let me out.’ She looked at him.

He was much older than her, perhaps as much as five and thirty. That made him old enough to be her father. He had black hair, and a black beard tinged with grey. He said, ‘I want you alive.’ He didn’t smile. A serious man. ‘Don’t you?’

Charlotte could barely think. She summoned up some understanding. She spoke slowly, ‘You’d keep me prisoner.’

‘It was you who chose me.’ It was not a smile but there was some quiet assurance, some warmth there. ‘Remember that. You chose me.’

Hearing the warmth, she looked at him again but saw flint in his eye. She had no strength. She let him lead her back to her seat. She put her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands, her heart-fire dimmed. The smell of brandy on her breath rose into her brain. Charlotte tried to come to terms, found herself looking for Maynard. Where was he? She was still shaking. Cold. She was cold to her soul.

‘Tell me what happened. You were beaten? And Maynard? What did he do? He rescued you?’

Yes. He had. She owed him everything and she’d never told him. And now she never could. She was flooded with Maynard’s loss. Sunk.

Then, his voice interrupted. She heard him speaking, here in this dank hole of a hold. He was casual. Conversational. What was he talking about? How did it make sense? ‘They’re not called pirates, these English. They take what they want and if they’re born high, or pretty, or the right sort of lord, they’re rewarded for thievery. It’s the English way. The Law.’

She found it hard to grasp his meaning.

‘You’ve heard of their old sea wolf, John Hawkins?’ He continued, ‘Or that demon, El Drago? Or foul Raleigh, or Sir fancy Francis Verney?’ He spat the names with venom. ‘They’re pirates, murderers no less, and this man, their leader, Le Cyclope, is the worst marauder of them all.’

‘Le Cyclope,’ she echoed in a whisper. She felt the full force of her ignorance. She was on her way across the English Channel, dressed in the doublet and breeches of a younger brother. She was the embodiment of a working apprentice, helping wood carver, Maynard. Now, not an hour later, she was but a chit in fool’s garb with no friend on Earth. Her breathing matched the up and down of the ship. The ship was no longer leaping, and she was as vulnerable as she’d ever been.

The man let her stand alone. Even though she had already emptied her stomach, she turned to vomit brandy dribbles over his embroidered jacket. He didn’t flinch but took a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed at his doublet and offered her the fine cambric square before continuing, ‘You understand? You’re French?’

She nodded.

‘Maynard? French?

She shook her head.

‘Dutch? Flemish?’

She nodded again.

‘You’ll come with me.’

Charlotte hated this rogue. She’d love to kill him. The red-hot burst of resentment threatened to overwhelm her. Lethargy rose to cloud her mind. She couldn’t do anything. A little voice in deep, perhaps logic or common-sense, whispered, ‘Think. What else can you do? Maynard’s gone. I’m alone. Wolves everywhere. I did not go overboard. I’m alive. Wait. Breathe.’

She looked at him, trying to gauge what might happen next. Was he a wolf? She could see he might think he was handsome. His face was pale skin stretched over fine bones with a thin nose and determined mouth. His dark hair, streaked with grey, was tied back; his moustache pointed, and his beard sharp. His steady gaze seemed to observe her carefully. ‘Your name? He waited. ‘Well?’

He said, ‘What is it?’

She shook her head. She couldn’t bring herself to speak to him. She felt helpless and without purpose. What did it matter? What did anything matter?

He waited before speaking again, ‘Who are you?’ He reached to touch her arm, ‘Tell me.’

Charlotte surrendered to her fate. He would have her for now, for as long as it had to be. She muttered, ‘Charles.’

He shook his head. ‘You continue your pretence.’

She could barely muster the strength to reply, ‘No pretence.’

He nodded. He looked to his luggage and prepared to leave the small enclosure where they stood. ‘Remember, “Charles”, men know what you are. Stay close, keep your head down. Here.’ He handed her a leather tie for her hair.

She couldn’t do it herself. She was shaking, cold hands useless.

He took back the tie. He wasn’t unkind. Rough glove hands scraped her hair over her face. ‘That’s better, perhaps.’ He seemed dissatisfied and turned away, saying, ‘No, wait … ‘ He took his large travelling cloak and swung it around her shoulders. He lifted the hood. ‘Keep covered and stay close.’

She didn’t fight. She surrendered. He knew what to do. She knew nothing. She had no curiosity.

They went out and up the ladders, across the decks, and to the bridge. He muttered to her, ‘Take care.’

She saw heavenly pearly cloud, slit through revealing blue background. Sun slices tipped tied masts and edges of sails with gold. She heard sailors as they went about their work, calling and chanting as they lowered and made fast canvas, heaved on ropes, coiled, and mopped.

The waters around them slapped and chopped at their white frills. The waves were no longer wild, no longer life-eaters. And there was land.

Charlotte looked over the water to dirty chalk cliffs rising out of the blue sea. Their straight sides marked the edge of their world. She stared at them. Her eyes hurt. What place was this?