Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors by Conn Iggulden

will not discuss the order. He will
go
, like the fires of hell are after him – which they will be.’
    ‘You said I should walk,’ Henry replied.
    ‘I have changed my mind. If you walk, I think you will start arguing again. I don’t think I can bear it.’ His eyes sparkled, but there was no answering humour in the frowning young man studying him.
    ‘You should go first. You are tired. If we are seen, you’ll be too slow.’
    ‘Thank you for your concern,’ Jasper began. Henry shook his head firmly.
    ‘It is not concern. I do not know if your men in the boat will take me without you. You should go first.’
    Jasper looked at him in astonishment, his head moving left and right as if he could not believe what he was hearing. In the end he clamped his mouth into a thin line.
    ‘Just go, lad. Now.
Run
, or by God I’ll kill you myself.’ With an effort, he shoved Henry out into the sunlight and they were off. It did Jasper’s temper no good to see how quickly the boy opened a gap between them, going like a hare heading for gorse. Jasper dared not look back at the guards along the quayside. One glance at the noise of running steps was all it would take. There. A shout behind him.
    ‘Cast off!’ he shouted ahead to his men. He saw the first mate sawing through a tarred rope holding them to an iron stanchion, the boat almost pitching over as the small crew of six men raced to set the oars. The ship’s cutter was narrow in the beam, built for speed.
    Ten paces ahead, Jasper saw Henry leap, clearing his own body length in the air before waiting hands caught him in a great tangle. He’d been lucky not to smash straight through the ribs of the boat and sink them all, Jasper thought, his mind working in fear and manic exhilaration. His breath was rasping and his legs were clumsy and slow. He could sense the clatter of boots on stone at his back and he expected a bolt at any moment. When he reached the dock edge, Jasper followed his nephew’s example, throwing himself headlong at the boat. He could not swim and it seemed an age in the air.
    The rail struck Jasper a cruel blow under the ribs. His legs trailed in choppy cold water as his men cheered and pulled at him. They could not row with his weight hanging over the side. Jasper rolled in against the inner planking, panting and laughing in reaction as he looked up at white clouds scudding overhead.
    ‘Row! And keep your heads down!’ he shouted. As he did, he heard the dull clack of crossbows and one of the French rowers gave a sharp cry, clutching at his chest. That oar fell out of time and fouled the next. Jasper felt the boat turn and swore, knowing that they would present a perfect target to the soldiers on the quayside as the bows swung round.
    He heaved himself up as his nephew grabbed the dying man and put him over the side, taking the loose oar. Henry settled himself with quick, neat movements and an expression of utter calm, dipping the oar with the others.
    The sailor behind shouted in shock and fury, though Jasper noted the man did not stop rowing. They had been friends, clearly. The French sailor seemed caught between outrage and weeping as he heaved with the others, all the while cursing Henry Tudor.
    The boat’s swinging prow lurched back round and Jasper saw a bolt streak into the water in a bright trail of bubbles, missing them completely. The rowers knew very well the agony and fevers that would await them if they were hit. They bent their wooden oars in huge sweeps, their faces swollen purple as they surged away from the docks.
    Jasper Tudor lay wearily back once more, propped on an elbow and a thwart, craning his neck to look ahead to his ship, as she grew before them.
Pembroke
had been named in his honour. Crewed and paid for by the king of France as she was, he had grown fond of her. She was ninety feet and six inches prow to stern, twenty and four in the beam, with a great triangle sail and rowing benches for when there was no wind. The