Don Hugo looked down at them both from a great height of pure blood, and rock-solid unimpeachable nobility. He had dark brown eyes, very fine, very intelligent. He would have his answers.
Almighty, you brought me here. Was it to betray the English?
The answer came to him, clear as a bell, wrapped in the kind of ineffable smile a faceless God might smile. Yes, entertain them.
Simon put his face in his hands, his shoulders shook. But he hid his face because he was laughing hysterically. Because it had come to him what he could do loyally to serve the land wherein he dwelled as all good Jews were enjoined to do. Hysterical was right, there were tears as well. He was so twisted up in trapped fear and disgust, he could hardly speak.
He sat down on the bench and let himself weep, moaned, cried. Padron and Don Hugo stared at him, lips curling. Snake stared as well, sweating with fear. To be blind and at the oar, nothing could possibly be worse and death would be much better. If Snake lost even one eye, he could never be king in his country.
Padron’s hand was heavy on his shoulder again. ‘Tell Don Hugo about the English guns.’
‘The English have an enchantment for their guns, called a flail. It is an arrangement of ropes,’ said Simon breathlessly, who had seen the recoil-control for the stern-chaser on his own ship, ‘it controls the way the gun rolls back. So you fire the gun, it jerks back by itself on its carriage—’
‘The English guns are not bolted to the deck?’ demanded Don Hugo, speaking directly to him for the first time.
‘No, my lord, they are on wheeled carriages. When they fire, they jerk back a way, but the ropes stop them. Then the gunners reload and haul on the ropes to bring the guns back up to the gun ports. It is very quick – the sailors who sail with El Draco can fire many shots in an hour, I believe.’
Don Hugo stroked his pointed beard and nodded. ‘Tell me about how the English can sail so close to the wind.’
‘I am not a sailor, my lord,’ said Simon. ‘I believe they can make their yards move further round but I don’t know how.’
Padron had the stiletto in his fist. He jabbed it at Snake’s eye, where he squatted, still bent over the draughts board, too afraid to move.
‘It … it’s true, my lord, I don’t know. Perhaps their yards are kept loose, not lashed tight to the masts. I truly do not know any more about it. I am a merchant not a sailor and—’
Don Hugo nodded again, gestured at the Padron to wait. ‘Will the English use fireships?’
‘Yes, most certainly,’ gabbled Simon, at last in an area of questioning where he could use his imagination. ‘As soon as they can, or as soon as you are outside Calais, they will use their special fireships, which have been prepared. They are bigger than usual, they are filled with guns and gunpowder and if you thought what happened on San Salvador was ugly, wait until you see the English hellburners go off. My father-in-law lost a cousin at Antwerp when the hellburners were used there. You will lose many more ships and men. The English are crazy and El Draco craziest of all, they have men who will sail them right into the middle of your line and then set them off and take their chances by jumping in the sea…’
‘They have hellburners?’ said Don Hugo.
Inspiration seemed to be picking Simon up and cuffing him along like a kitten. ‘Oh yes, my lord, it is their secret weapon to stop you entering Calais.’
Don Hugo stood perfectly still, face of cold ivory.
Now Simon was well aware that Hugo de Moncada and Medina Sidonia must be the only two men in the fleet who knew about the Miracle of Calais. In fact, since Don Hugo had been in Santa Cruz’s confidence, had been instrumental in ordering the galleases, he might even be the only other man in the fleet who knew about Calais, apart from Simon, if Medina Sidonia had sealed orders and had not yet opened them. The Spanish understood security: to keep a thing secret, you must not tell anyone.
‘Calais?’ repeated Don Hugo, as if he was having trouble getting the words out. ‘What about Calais?’
‘I was sent to find out about it,’ said Simon recklessly. ‘All about your plans to enter Calais harbour with the galleases and force the citadel.’
Hugo de Moncada’s pursed lips and intent face was all the confirmation he needed that his guess was right.
‘Who sent you?’
They would hang him as a spy, but so what?
‘The Queen of England, Walsingham, Sir Francis Drake.’
‘They speak about Calais?’
‘Of course they do, my lord,’ lied Simon with as much servile eagerness as he could muster. ‘There are many traitors at the Spanish court and Parma has a few as well. They are like worms in a ship, they get everywhere. It is common knowledge at the English court that the Spanish are sailing in the expectation of the Miracle of Calais.’
Don Hugo sucked breath through his teeth, turned away briefly to stare out the oarport, as if he was afraid an English spy might be listening there.
Internally Simon could almost laugh at the expressions warring away on Don Hugo’s face, at his own madness, at the daft simplicity of it. Only inside himself. The outside of his face he kept twisted up with fear and obsequiousness.
‘The English know that we plan to take Calais?’ It was not in fact a question, it was Hugo de Moncada repeating to himself the thing that, had it been true, would have made all his efforts, all the security of the password, all the careful control of who had the knowledge, a waste of time. It was heartwarming to hear him.
‘Yes, my lord.’ It seemed to Simon that Don Hugo was inexperienced as an interrogator. Simon himself would never have given such easy confirmation to anybody.
‘What have they done about it?’
‘They sent me to find out more about it, but I was unable to do so before the Holy Office captured me. They have the hellburners, of course. What else they might have done I do not know because I have been a prisoner of the Inquisition for so long.’
Don Hugo was twiddling a ring on his gloved hand. ‘What does El Draco plan?’
‘I’m sorry, my lord. I am not a wizard or a warlock. How could I know what El Draco plans?’ Padron jabbed at him with the stiletto and Simon made himself stare coldly at Padron. ‘Blind, I will still know nothing more. You would do better to ask yourself what El Draco plans because experienced sailors are more like each other than they are like other men and so more apt to know each other’s minds.’ It was a compliment, smoothly done, Simon thought to himself, comparing the great El Draco with Don Hugo.
Don Hugo stared down at Simon for a long time. Aware that he was sitting in front of the Admiral, Simon slipped down to his knees. His chest was burning again with his trapped anger, watching Padron with his stiletto, the casual threat to Snake who had done nothing but be his friend.
‘My lord,’ he said timidly, ‘I told you everything you asked.’
Don Hugo blinked his eyes. Lost in thought, he had been staring at Simon but not seeing him.
‘Whatever else you ask me about the English, if I know the answer, I will tell you, but—’
‘Yes?’ said Don Hugo.
Simon took a deep breath, and dived forwards, clasped Don Hugo’s polished boots. ‘Please, please, my lord, do not leave me here, don’t abandon me here to the Padron’s hatred.’
Don Hugo tried to step back but was trapped by Simon’s grip round his ankles.
‘The Padron hates me, he starves me, he beats me and my friend, he only brought you here because he thought I would be punished … Don’t leave me here where the Padron can kill me.’
There were blows, a whole hornet’s nest biting at Simon’s back. They stopped. He peeked up from where he had been protecting his head under his arms, saw Padron standing back, bewildered, Don Hugo’s arm put up to stop the beating.
‘Why does the Padron hate you?’ asked Don Hugo.
Simon looked up, surprised to find quite genuine tears in his eyes. He must be even more frightened and weary than he thought, and was surprised again by the pri
ckling all up his face and the way his throat locked. He had wanted to tell Don Hugo that the Padron was laying siege to his arse and found he was as blushful and tongue-tied as a maid about it.
‘Padron want lie with him,’ came Snake’s rumbling voice. ‘Padron lie with all the white men on his benches, here is clerk, he say, no, it a sin. Padron not like that.’
Snake looked suddenly stricken and dropped to his knees as well. ‘Padron kill me for say that.’
Oh, that was artful of Snake, thought Simon, and one look at Padron’s face will convince Don Hugo that what we accuse him of is true. Besides, he’s an experienced captain of galleys, he must know what goes on. What will he say?
Simon started to pray again. If I can get off the oardeck, if I can be on the upper deck, please Almighty, if I have done your will here, please let me get away from the oar, please let me have some freedom of movement … Let me get away from Padron, let me be a man again and not part of the ship … I will serve you, I will … I don’t know what I’ll do. Almighty, help me anyway, please.
‘He’s lying,’ said Padron, his face still telling the truth, ‘he is a very disobedient slave, for this I punish him…’
Don Hugo looked down the bench at the other rowers. The other slaves on the bench who had been watching the drama with de Moncada like an audience at a theatre, began a chorus of agreement, even the peasant spoke up, ‘Yes, your lordship, he does this, he is worse than my cousin…’
Don Hugo was looking less than shocked, but very angry. ‘There can be no place for such impurity on the Holy Enterprise of England,’ he said sternly to Padron, beckoning the Captain of the Oardeck.
Simon and Snake stayed hunkered on their knees while Don Hugo issued cold orders, and Padron seemed to wilt where he stood. The blacksmith came hurrying down the steps with his hammer and little anvil and Simon watched nervously as his ankle chain was taken off one anklet, unthreaded from the now-loose ringbolt. The blacksmith had brought a bag with him, handed over a pair of canvas breeches, tied with rope at the waist and Simon made himself decent. It felt most peculiar and quite constricting and uncomfortable. Then the chain was riveted back in place on the anklet. The same happened to Snake. Don Hugo jerked his head and Simon and Snake jumped to their feet and for the first time in weeks took more than a couple of steps away from the oarbench.
The blacksmith had brought an extra set of chains. Padron had to give up his whip and his striped breeches and, his face utterly blank with shock found himself back at the oar where he had started, fifteen years ago, in Simon’s place. They left one space between him and the next man in case anyone should want to take revenge. The peasant was grinning and rubbing himself again, which showed that the peasant was not thinking too clearly at all.
Privately Simon thought it was a foolish decision because the obvious place to put a man of Padron’s strength and experience was at the other end of the oar, but never mind. It was balm to his heart to watch. The whole oardeck was watching the fall of their Padron, his demotion to the bench, and some of the other Padrons cheered and clapped.
And then he and Snake passed along between the rowers, most of them watching him enviously, but some smiling and patting his back. He felt very lightheaded at the change, the sudden parting from the bench. Besides, he thought they would now go down into the hold for safekeeping and he was afraid of it, of the helplessness and darkness and certain death if the ship sank. Except that had always been true, the only difference between being in the hold and at the oar was that in the hold he was protected from English fire and did not have to sweat his guts out wrestling with an oar in a fog of gunpowder smoke.
It was difficult to climb the ladder behind Don Hugo because his chains were heavy and, as he was not used to different kinds of movement than rowing, sitting and standing, his knees were stiff. They came out on the deck Simon had last seen in the brilliant light of Lisbon harbour, then clean and newscraped, but now distinctly stained by the boots of the sailors and by blood. It made him gasp to see the sun with its courtly attendance of clouds, to see the sky, to feel wind on his face, to be away from the stink of the oardeck. The air smelled extraordinary, as if newly made. He passed the cannon, sakers and falconets mostly, all bolted securely to the deck, saw the way the soldiers and sailors drew back from him and Snake. They had last been shaved by the barber a few days before and were bristly enough to look as ugly as they smelled.
They passed the rail and Simon looked down on the sparkling waters, peered out at the vast curve of Spanish ships and into the haze where the English lay in wait.
He was giddy, lightheaded with happiness, he even had Rebecca’s knife securely hidden in the lower gate of his body, and he did not at all care about the way the soldiers and sailors stared at him. De Moncada called over a young soldier, spoke to him and the young soldier looked resentful, beckoned Simon and Snake towards a pump that served to flush out the oardeck. They stood over the grating and while sailors pumped, Simon and Snake washed for the first time in months and months, in fact Simon had forgotten how long. The cold salt stung and burned in his various cuts and weals and rashes and sores but when it was over Simon felt he had been born anew, become a fresh creature. Snake laughed in pure delight at it, shook his head like a dog so the droplets spun.
When they had dried off on bits of tarpaulin, they were both led aft to the Great Cabin where another soldier put manacles on their wrists and told them curtly to wait.
‘You are not yet pardoned,’ said Don Hugo as he stalked into the cabin and stood by the desk. ‘But this might be achieved for both of you if you cooperate now. You, black, if your friend does not do as he is bid, you go back to the oar, to your old place. If you annoy me in any way, you go back to the oar.’
Right next to Padron, who would no doubt be very vengeful. Snake nodded and salaamed like an Arab.
‘As for you, Jew, if you do as you’re told and help me as I require, it might be possible for you to be pardoned or at least given leave to depart for Constantinople, since England will no longer be sloppy and heretical enough to offer your kind a safe haven. If you give me any reason to doubt you or annoy me in any way, I will hang you from the yard by your hands and bring your ex-Padron up to do as he will with you.’
Simon nodded and bowed.
‘So we understand each other?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ whispered Simon.
Don Hugo narrowed his eyes. ‘You may speak up.’
Simon gave back a cold stare. ‘My lord, since the Inquisition used the jugs on me, I cannot do more than whisper.’ He was still full of the recklessness that had taken hold of him when he pretended to break down in front of de Moncada.
Moncada put his hand flat on paper and a pen and ink. ‘The Padron called you the clerk. Can you write?’
Simon blinked and lifted up his right hand. It had swollen and stiffened over the weeks and was so hardened with calluses and the deep scar across the palm that it was hard for him to make a fist. ‘I used to be able to, my lord. Secretary or Italic, whichever you please.’
‘Write down what you told me.’
Still floating in a dream of release, Simon moved to where Moncada had pointed to a stool, sat himself down with the little automatic tuck of his elbows that had kept the long hanging sleeves of his robe from being sat upon when he went to work in his study. He drew up the paper, picked up the pen between fingers that could hardly feel it, and checked the nib, which was adequate enough. He dipped it in the ink and began to write but then stopped.
‘How shall I begin?’
‘With the date?’
‘I don’t know the date.’
Moncada told him, which was according to the Spanish system not the English. But Simon didn’t care. He watched his clumsy fingers and the nib as the pen travelled its dancing path on the white floor of paper and out came a month and a number, quite well penned in fact. Wednesday, 24 July in the English system, he thought. To be writing again. It was almost as wonderful as the smell
of fresh air and the sight of the sky had been. He couldn’t help it, he smiled.
He wrote the appropriate salutation to the Grand Admiral of the Fleet, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, then paused to think.
‘My lord, I would not want to write anything that might be offensive,’ he said humbly. ‘Can you advise me?’
Two officers were beside de Moncada, making reports, receiving orders. They stared at the two half-naked galley-slaves. In his own good time, de Moncada turned his attention to Simon.
‘Write about the hellburners and whatever the Queen’s court knows or believes about Calais,’ said Don Hugo.
Simon nodded and began with some flowery sentiments full of humility and requests for favour, mentioned that he knew that a Monsignor Giambelli had been engaged by the Queen as an advisor and that hellburners full of gunpowder were in preparation to send against the Armada. This would be done if they looked likely to proceed against Calais, or to take any safe harbour where the Spanish fleet could resupply and wait for Parma to embark his troops. Or at any time they were anchored in the right place, in fact. He finished with some more flowery phrases, signed himself Simon the Clerk and after sanding and shaking, handed the sheet to de Moncada. Snake was watching him with fascination.
Don Hugo read and nodded. ‘One alteration,’ he said. ‘You must sign in your own name.’
Obediently Simon put Simon Anriques under his first signature.
‘And you swear that you have written only what you know to be true.
‘I swear it by Jesus Christ and every saint in heaven,’ said Simon with great piety.
It seemed that Don Hugo had not the imagination to ask Simon to swear by Torah and Talmud. Instead he went to the corner of the Great Cabin where there was a glorious silver-gilt altar, painted with St. Lawrence being burnt to death on a gridiron and lit with two wax candles. Don Hugo genuflected and brought out a little chased silver box. He put it on the desk very reverently.
‘It is a sacred relic, a toe of San Lorenzo, the patron saint of this ship,’ said Don Hugo. ‘Put your hand on it and swear that what you have written is the truth.’
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