She tilted her head in the direction of three serving men standing beside packhorses. They bowed at her gaze and, thought Shakespeare, looked mighty disconsolate.
‘You are not practised in the art of war. Look around you at the damage being wrought. At least one man has already been killed. Others are fleeing for their lives.’
‘I know how to shoot a pistol as well as any man. And you must know that when I return to court, the first thing Her Royal Majesty will demand of me is a full account of this day’s events. How, I beseech you, will I provide her with the detail she requires, unless I witness whatever befalls? I would not miss it, sir. Come, allow me some courage. Does not Elizabeth herself have the heart of a king?’
Shakespeare sighed. He looked to Godolphin for support, but he was preoccupied with sending messengers to collect arms and men. Well, so be it. For the moment, he had other things to do, the first of which was to move the English militia to a better defensive position. He rode to Godolphin’s side and interrupted him.
‘We have little time, Sir Francis. The Spanish army will soon be upon us and we will be overwhelmed. We must make a tactical retreat, for we have no hope of defending this flat green against insuperable odds.’
‘How many men do they have?’
‘Four hundred, as Mr Keigwin suggested. Possibly more than that, and they are true soldiers whereas your men-’
‘-are a rabble. Yes, I know that, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘I merely meant to say that they are untried in battle.’
A cannonball ripped into the earth just a few feet from them. Shakespeare’s horse reared up and nearly threw him. Godolphin reached over and grabbed the reins to steady him. ‘Be careful, Mr Shakespeare. We need you alive.’
Shakespeare patted the spooked animal down the neck to soothe it.
‘Come, let us head for the market square in Penzance,’ Godolphin said. ‘It is higher ground and we will have cover among the houses. Give the order, sir.’
As Shakespeare looked around the green, it became clear that an orderly retreat was already out of the question; the men were deserting eastwards like a stampede of terrified cattle. And then he realised why: Newlyn was on fire and the Spanish troops were advancing from the west.
By the time they reached the market square, Godolphin’s force was reduced to twenty men — mostly his own retainers and colleagues — and Lady Lucia Trevail. For half an hour, they fought a battle of musketfire. Shakespeare’s arquebus became so hot with firing that he feared it would explode.
A Spaniard raced forward, a pistol in hand, his head encased in a steel morion. Shakespeare took aim and shot him in the apex of the collarbone. The man crumpled, blood shooting before him into the dusty road.
It was a small victory, for there were hundreds of Spaniards behind him, all heavily armed and advancing steadily.
‘This is hopeless, Mr Shakespeare,’ Godolphin said. ‘We cannot defend this position. We must retreat to Marazion and the fortress of St Michael’s Mount.’
Shakespeare well understood why the commander’s expression was so grim. ‘We must hope reinforcements arrive very soon or I fear the worst.’
He knew that if the enemy was not thrown back from the beaches in short order, they would entrench and set up defensive works of their own. If that happened, they could use Mount’s Bay as a haven for their fleets, while landing troops at will for a full-scale invasion.
Godolphin gave the order. ‘Collect up your arms and follow me. I want a fighting retreat.’
The trek to Marazion was dogged every step by the Spanish advance guard. At the causeway to St Michael’s Mount, the tide was encroaching, but they managed to cross before the path was lost to the waves. Exhausted, they climbed the steep, rocky footpath to the ramparts of the fort that topped the Mount.
Godolphin shook his head in something akin to despair. ‘Cowardly dogs,’ he muttered to no one in particular, though Shakespeare understood that it was not the Spaniards he was talking about, but his own countrymen.
Across the bay, Penzance had been taken and was in flames. The evening was darkening and the fires lit the sky with a hellish red glow all around the shoreline. The boom and crack of cannon fire and gunshot filled the air over the fishing town.
Godolphin summoned a castle servant and ordered brandy. The only thing that gave him any hope was that small boats had begun pulling into the harbour at the base of the Mount, discharging men from villages and towns throughout the south-west. Many were armed with ancient weapons; all were volunteering to fight.
There was news, too, from a messenger who had arrived after a gruelling ride from St Mawes fort, at the entrance to Falmouth Harbour. He blurted out his message before catching his breath.
‘I bring word from Captain Hannibal Vyvyan, sir. He has sent a company of men. He believes they will be here by morning.’
‘Good man. But be pleased to tell Mr Vyvyan that one company is not likely to be enough.’
‘Word has gone post to Drake and Hawkins at Plymouth. They have been asked to send ships-of-war, sir, and soldiers by land.’
Shakespeare stood at Lucia Trevail’s side. Night had almost come, but her face and eyes were alive with the reflected light of the fires.
‘Have you seen enough of war now, my lady?’
‘Why, it is like a display of fireworks, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘It is not so pretty for those who have lost their homes, livelihoods or lives.’
‘Indeed not. I had not meant to make light of their misery.’
She moved closer to him, so that he could smell her soft scent, mingled strangely with the smoke of gunpowder.
‘Sir Francis tells me you were quite the hero today. That you scouted the enemy positions on your own. Will you not tell me about it?’
‘There is little to tell. I managed to make an estimate of their numbers and armaments, and I saw the body of a man who had had the temerity to resist them.’
‘And that is all?’
Yes, except that I also saw an Englishman among their number; but I will keep that information to myself until I see Sir Robert Cecil.
‘That is all, my lady.’
She looked deeper into his eyes, as though searching for something. ‘You are a strange, mysterious man, Mr Shakespeare. I think you keep much to yourself. Do you trust anyone?’
‘Experience has taught me caution.’
She kissed him quickly. It was a chaste kiss, the sort of kiss that men and women at court gave to each other in greeting. And yet it wasn’t chaste at all.
‘War and death, Mr Shakespeare. Whatever your misgivings, you must own that they stir the passions. They do something to a man, do they not?’
He looked out at the distant flames. He knew that what she said was true. He knew, too, that the same effect could be wrought in a woman at war.
‘Do you think me forward, sir? I seek no pardon for that, for I do not have time to wait on wooing. I tell you, the Queen’s Privy Chamber is a very nunnery of virgins, so I have not time enough nor do I care for the good opinion of the world when I am away from her presence. Come to me tonight, Mr Shakespeare.’
Lucia looped her arm into Shakespeare’s. Her fingers touched his side like a feather.
Inside the fortress hall, more than a hundred candles blazed on the orders of Godolphin.
‘We shall light up the night as well as they,’ he said, as they entered.
This island, rising so dramatically from the sea, had once housed a Benedictine monastery. Now it was home to a Cornish family called Morston and, though ill defended, it dominated the bay. Shakespeare hoped its presence would make the Spaniards think hard about the wisdom of moving against it.
A castle servant approached and bowed low. ‘There is a man to see you, sir.’
‘Indeed. And who is he?’
The servant grimaced as though he had put something foul-tasting in his mouth. ‘He says he is Boltfoot Cooper and that he is known to you.’
Shakespeare smiled. ‘Thank God.’ He turned to Lucia. ‘My lady, Mr Cooper is my manservant. Forgive me. I must go to him.’
Lucia released her grip on his arm. ‘Mr Shakespeare, you do not escape from me that easily. I shall reserve a place for you, next to mine.’
Chapter 27
Shakespeare clasped Boltfoot to his breast, then stood back and looked him up and down. He looked like some nameless creature that had crawled out of the Fenland mud and slime.
‘Good God, Boltfoot. It is a fine thing to see you. Is Wisbech secured?’
‘I believe so, master. The squadron arrived and straightway set about bringing military order to the prison. I was less happy about leaving London, though, sir.’
‘You found Jane at Sir Robert Cecil’s residence?’
‘Yes. But I am most fearful about this threat that has been laid against your girls. I wished to protect them myself, but Sir Robert said that all would be well in his house and that I was to follow you.’
‘You did the correct thing. We need every man we can lay hands on. But first, have you eaten? You must need sleep.’
Boltfoot took out his pipe from his mud-encrusted jerkin pocket. ‘This will do me for the present, master.’ He knocked it against the wall and dirt and ashes fell to the floor. He tamped in the last few strands of his tobacco and lit it from a candle, sucked deeply, then exhaled smoke. ‘But I do bring other news. You recall the old nun, Sister Michael?’
‘I could not forget the hag.’
‘She came to Dowgate, looking for you.’
‘Now that is interesting. What did she have to say for herself?’
‘She said she had information for you, that word had reached her that you should be trusted in the matter of Thomasyn Jade.’
And how did she learn that, when he had not yet managed to pass on to her Father Weston’s letter? He recalled what the old nun had said when they were at Denham: We know everything that goes on in this realm of sin and heresy. We have friends everywhere, in the palaces and the courts of law. It was a disturbing thought, but maybe she spoke true; she had clearly learnt somehow of his meeting with Weston.
‘Did she tell you what the intelligence was?’
‘No, master.’
‘Is she in safe keeping for me on my return?’
‘She is still at the Swan Inn. I think she will stay there and come to you. She asked me to thank you for ordering her release from Bridewell, which she said had surprised her greatly.’
Shakespeare sighed. The whole matter of Thomasyn Jade and the exorcisms seemed unimportant in present circumstances.
‘Master,’ Boltfoot said tentatively, ‘there is something we might do this night. It was something Drake planned once, when we were off the coast of Peru back in the days of our voyage around the world.’
‘Yes?’
‘There are many boats hereabouts, and many fishers. They must know all the shoals and rocks in this bay as though it were their own backyard, and so are able to traverse the waters by night, unseen. I do believe that sometime between midnight and dawn, on the middle watch when most aboard the galleys sleep, we might approach them in silence, by cockboat or skiff, and shoot arrows of fire into them.’
‘Did this work for Drake?’
Boltfoot’s mouth creased. ‘I had hoped you would not ask me that, master, for in the end he decided not to attempt it. And yet he did lay plans of this nature and I could see no reason then why it would not have worked. Nor can I see any reason not to try it now.’
Shakespeare computed the possible gains and risks. Everything would depend on utter silence and surprise. The fishing boats would be vulnerable to counter-attack, for it would not take long for the galleasses to turn their guns on them. Oar-driven vessels could lift anchor and mount an attack very quickly. For the plan to work and the men to survive, they would have to launch dozens of fire arrows in a minute or so and then row like the devil for shore.
Finally, he nodded. ‘Come, Boltfoot, let us put your scheme to Sir Francis Godolphin. I will speak for it.’
For the first time that day, Godolphin’s florid face lightened a shade. ‘Yes, let us do it. I shall order it organised straightway. Thank you, Mr Shakespeare, and please convey my gratitude to your man for devising the plan.’
‘Let us pray something comes of it.’
Godolphin waved his finger like a stern minister in the pulpit. ‘Nothing can be worse than has already occurred, sir. I tell you, this has been the most shameful day in the proud history of Cornwall. Never did I expect to see Cornishmen turn tail in the face of an enemy, however great their numbers. All honour is lost. We can but hope that this attack upon their ships will enable us to atone in some small way for the disgrace of our men’s cowardice.’
‘Sir Francis, I shall go on this foray.’
Godolphin shook his head. ‘No, sir. You are no seafarer and you have done quite enough with your scouting. I will not allow you to hazard your life. I need men with your experience at my side. You are a vital member of my council of war.’
‘Sir Francis-’
‘I say again, no. This mission requires seamen and archers, not intelligencers. You would be a hindrance, not a help, sir. I would, however, desire your Mr Cooper to command the expedition. As a former Drake man, he has experienced sea warfare, has he not.’
‘He has.’
‘Good. Then he is the man.’
Two boats slipped their moorings and slid away on the still water, each containing six men. Two per boat would row on the way out; all would row on the way back. As the boats had to remain silent, the oars were dipped in the water with exquisite care to avoid splashing. They had to remain invisible, too, so there were no lanterns.
The only light was a burning match, held beneath a canvas so its glow could not be seen. The light of the moon came and went with the swirls of the mist.
‘God go with you.’
Shakespeare mouthed the words rather than spoke them, watching from the rocky shore on St Michael’s Mount. After a few minutes the boats had vanished into the sea fret. He could see nothing, hear nothing. Just as it should be. The mist had come as a blessing. There was no light from shore, for the blazing houses of Penzance and the other villages had been reduced to blackened, lightless husks.
Somehow, the boats carrying the archers had to get almost within touching distance of the enemy ships. Though the killing range of a longbow might be two hundred yards or more, these arrows would be shot from an insecure platform, the rocking belly of a small rowing boat, at the mercy of the sea’s swell and the archers’ own unsteadiness. They would have to be as close as fifty yards if they were to hit their targets. But was fifty yards also far enough away for them to have a chance of escape?
Every sinew in Shakespeare’s body was stretched taut and his teeth were clenched so tightly he feared they could crack. He turned and made his way back up the long climb of rocky steps to the fortress at the top of the Mount; there would be no rest this night until Boltfoot and his eleven companions were back safe.
Boltfoot was gratified by the skill of the oarsmen, but their care meant that the going was extremely slow, especially as they were moving against the incoming tide. They had timed the assault thus, so that the currents would add speed to their escape.
The galleass lights glimmered in the distance, through the thin mist. The vessels were far out where the bay met the open sea and where the water would not be so calm. At this rate, Boltfoot reckoned it would take them half an hour to get there. The question was: how quickly would they able to return to shore afterwards?
Lucia Trevail was garbed in a long gown of white silk that shimmered in the whispery breeze at the top of the Mount. ‘I thought I might find you here, Mr Shakespeare.’
Shakespeare was gazing into the shifting fog. He had lost track of how long he had spent here, on the battlements, waiting. Sometimes the mist lifted and then he could see the Spanish vessels clearly, sparkling with a mass of lanterns like four golden
carriages. And then the mist came down again, as a theatre curtain closes, shutting out all but the faintest glow. How close were the fishers with their puny boats and their arrows of wood?
He turned and gazed at her.
‘You are shivering, my lady.’
‘I could not sleep. A strange bed. And I was thinking of you. Our paths have crossed in a rare fashion, sir. War and death. .’
Shakespeare was unsettled by her in more ways than he cared to admit. He pulled her to him. She was slender and warm against him. He kissed her and she responded with soft, sweet lips. He held her closer, and his fingers slid through her tumbling hair.
In her eye, he saw a sudden reflected light. Gently, he pulled back from her and held her in his arm as, together, they looked across the sea into a rain of fire.
Boltfoot was manning the flaming taper and the half-keg of pitch. The archers dipped their arrowheads into the black tar, touched them to the flame, then drew back their longbows of yew and shot. One every ten seconds. Ten archers in all — five per boat with one man holding the fire and pitch.
They were attacking just one of the four Spanish vessels. Some of the arrows hit their target, but more fell woefully short, hissing into the waves. They weren’t close enough and there was too much movement in the boats. Within a few seconds, there was shouting aboard the galleass. Then came the first retaliatory musketfire.
‘Two more arrows each!’ Boltfoot shouted. ‘Then we go.’
Half a dozen fires had started aboard the galleass, but it was already clear to him that they would easily be put out.
More arrows flew through the night, but more fire was now coming back their way. And then Boltfoot saw the saker cannon being rolled out. He gave the order to man the oars. ‘Row for your lives, boys! Row for your lives!’
Shot from muskets peppered the water around them. The man beside Boltfoot gasped in pain and shock, and fell back into the water. Boltfoot leant over the side and grasped the shoulder of his woollen smock. ‘Help me, lads.’
Two of the other men dropped their oars and assisted Boltfoot to drag the wounded man aboard while the remaining two continued to row. The injured fisher clutched his shattered left arm but did not groan. Boltfoot tossed the pitch keg overboard, extinguished the flame and laid the injured man down as gently as he could in the floor of the boat. He cursed beneath his breath; one man less to row.
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