for me. They will protect me . . .’
Another pain takes her and she screams and grips my hands. The door behind me bursts open and a wash of water and a blast of hail comes in with my mother.
‘Lady Mother! Lady Mother!’
‘I can see,’ my mother says coldly. She turns to me. ‘Go to the galley and tell them they must get a fire lit, that we need hot water and then mulled ale. Tell them it is my
command. And ask them for something for her to bite on, a wooden spoon if nothing else. And tell my women to bring all the linen we have.’
A great wave tosses the boat upwards and sends us staggering from one side of the cabin to the other. My mother grabs the edge of the bed. ‘Go,’ she says to me. ‘And get a man
to hold you on the ship. Don’t get washed overboard.’
At the warning I find I dare not open the door to the storm and the heaving sea outside.
‘Go,’ my mother says sternly.
Helplessly, I nod and step out of the cabin. The deck is knee-deep in water, washing over the ship; as soon as it drains away another wave crashes on us, the prow climbs and then crashes,
shuddering, as it falls into the sea. For sure, the ship cannot take this pounding for much longer, it must break up. A figure, shrouded in water, staggers past me. I grab his arm. ‘Take me
to the ladies’ cabin and then the galley,’ I shriek against the shrieking of the wind.
‘God save us, God save us, we are lost!’ He pulls away from me.
‘You take me to the ladies’ cabin and then to the galley!’ I scream at him. ‘I command you. My mother commands you.’
‘This is a witch’s wind,’ he says horrifyingly. ‘It sprung up as soon as the women came on board. Women on board, one of them dying, they bring a witch’s
wind.’ He pulls away from me and a sudden heave of the ship throws me onto the rail. I cling to it as a mighty wall of water stands before the stern and then washes down on us. It takes me,
lifting me clear off my feet, only my hands snatching at the ropes and my gown caught on a cleat save me, but it takes him. I see his white face in the green water as it plucks him over the rail
and he goes past me, turning over and over in the wave, his arms and legs flailing, his white mouth opening and closing like a cursing fish. He is out of sight in a moment, and the ship shudders
under the hammer blow from the sea.
‘Man overboard!’ I shout. My voice is a little pipe against the pounding drums of the storm. I look round. The crew are lashed to their stations; nobody is going to help him. The
water drains off the deck past my knees. I cling to the railing and look over the side, but he is gone into the darkness of the black waters. The sea has swallowed him up and left no trace. The
ship wallows in the trough of the waves but there is another towering wave coming. A sudden crack of lightning shows me the door to the galley, and I tear my gown from the cleat that saved me and
make a dash for the doors.
The fires have been washed out, the room is filled with smoke and steam, the pans are clashing on their hooks as they lurch one way and then the other, the cook is wedged behind his table.
‘You have to light the fire,’ I gasp. ‘And get us mulled ale, and hot water.’
He laughs in my face. ‘We’re going down!’ he says with mad humour. ‘We’re going down and you come in here wanting mulled ale!’
‘My sister is in labour! We have to have hot water!’
‘To do what?’ he demands of me, as if it is an entertainment of question and answer. ‘To save her, so that she can give birth to fishes’ meat? For without a doubt her
baby will drown and her with it, and all of us with them.’
‘I command you to help me!’ I say through clenched teeth. ‘I, Anne Neville, the kingmaker’s daughter, command you!’
‘Ach, she’ll have to do without,’ he says, as if he has lost interest. As he speaks the boat yaws violently and the door bursts open. A wave of water sweeps down the stairs
Another pain takes her and she screams and grips my hands. The door behind me bursts open and a wash of water and a blast of hail comes in with my mother.
‘Lady Mother! Lady Mother!’
‘I can see,’ my mother says coldly. She turns to me. ‘Go to the galley and tell them they must get a fire lit, that we need hot water and then mulled ale. Tell them it is my
command. And ask them for something for her to bite on, a wooden spoon if nothing else. And tell my women to bring all the linen we have.’
A great wave tosses the boat upwards and sends us staggering from one side of the cabin to the other. My mother grabs the edge of the bed. ‘Go,’ she says to me. ‘And get a man
to hold you on the ship. Don’t get washed overboard.’
At the warning I find I dare not open the door to the storm and the heaving sea outside.
‘Go,’ my mother says sternly.
Helplessly, I nod and step out of the cabin. The deck is knee-deep in water, washing over the ship; as soon as it drains away another wave crashes on us, the prow climbs and then crashes,
shuddering, as it falls into the sea. For sure, the ship cannot take this pounding for much longer, it must break up. A figure, shrouded in water, staggers past me. I grab his arm. ‘Take me
to the ladies’ cabin and then the galley,’ I shriek against the shrieking of the wind.
‘God save us, God save us, we are lost!’ He pulls away from me.
‘You take me to the ladies’ cabin and then to the galley!’ I scream at him. ‘I command you. My mother commands you.’
‘This is a witch’s wind,’ he says horrifyingly. ‘It sprung up as soon as the women came on board. Women on board, one of them dying, they bring a witch’s
wind.’ He pulls away from me and a sudden heave of the ship throws me onto the rail. I cling to it as a mighty wall of water stands before the stern and then washes down on us. It takes me,
lifting me clear off my feet, only my hands snatching at the ropes and my gown caught on a cleat save me, but it takes him. I see his white face in the green water as it plucks him over the rail
and he goes past me, turning over and over in the wave, his arms and legs flailing, his white mouth opening and closing like a cursing fish. He is out of sight in a moment, and the ship shudders
under the hammer blow from the sea.
‘Man overboard!’ I shout. My voice is a little pipe against the pounding drums of the storm. I look round. The crew are lashed to their stations; nobody is going to help him. The
water drains off the deck past my knees. I cling to the railing and look over the side, but he is gone into the darkness of the black waters. The sea has swallowed him up and left no trace. The
ship wallows in the trough of the waves but there is another towering wave coming. A sudden crack of lightning shows me the door to the galley, and I tear my gown from the cleat that saved me and
make a dash for the doors.
The fires have been washed out, the room is filled with smoke and steam, the pans are clashing on their hooks as they lurch one way and then the other, the cook is wedged behind his table.
‘You have to light the fire,’ I gasp. ‘And get us mulled ale, and hot water.’
He laughs in my face. ‘We’re going down!’ he says with mad humour. ‘We’re going down and you come in here wanting mulled ale!’
‘My sister is in labour! We have to have hot water!’
‘To do what?’ he demands of me, as if it is an entertainment of question and answer. ‘To save her, so that she can give birth to fishes’ meat? For without a doubt her
baby will drown and her with it, and all of us with them.’
‘I command you to help me!’ I say through clenched teeth. ‘I, Anne Neville, the kingmaker’s daughter, command you!’
‘Ach, she’ll have to do without,’ he says, as if he has lost interest. As he speaks the boat yaws violently and the door bursts open. A wave of water sweeps down the stairs
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