Reaphook’s breathing was shallow and laboured, but he opened his eyes at the touch of Andrew’s hand on his arm. He was burning up. Andrew handed him a mess-tin of rainwater that he had caught in his cap and Reaphook drank greedily, then clutched at Andrew’s dripping cassock with his wasted, claw-like fingers.
‘I saw you do that thing with your hand over them Frenchies you killed.’
‘The sign of the cross?’
‘Aye. What does it do?’
‘It’s a prayer for their spirit, seeking forgiveness. The extirpation of sins. A blessing.’
‘I done a lot of bad things, Private Woode.’
‘I know you have, Mr Reaphook.’
‘Is it too late for me?’
‘God tells us it is never too late. I no longer know if I believe it.’
‘But it’s got to be worth a try, though.’
‘Would you like me to pray for you? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Aye.’
‘You should repent your sins.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Say you’re sorry for all you’ve done wrong, all those you have harmed and robbed and … murdered.’
He wanted to say raped, too, but could not bring himself to utter the word, for it brought back memories of Ursula Dancer.
‘Well, then, I’m sorry.’
‘And for what you did to Ursula.’
‘For everything. I was born bad. My slut of a mother was bad and I never knew no father.’ Reaphook smiled slyly at Andrew. ‘You liked her, didn’t you? Wouldn’t have minded yourself, eh? Ursula pigging Dancer.’
Andrew felt the heat rise to his face. ‘You should not have treated her like that. She is a good woman.’
‘Like you. High-born. Never fitted in with the likes of us. A haggard, she was – a wild she-hawk that would not be tamed. I used to be copesmates with Staffy, you know. There wasn’t always bad blood between us. Used to go sharking, wenching and drinking together when he wasn’t so soft. He was sweet on her, but wouldn’t touch her. That was the problem – wouldn’t let no other man touch her neither. Went against the natural order. Anyone would have thought she was the virgin bloody queen. But once when he was cup-shotten, he told me stuff. I know where she came from. Gentry, her mother was. Squires or lords or somesuch from Grantley Brook. Rich as lions with land and gold. I’d cut all their throats. I’d have cut yours, too, just for being better than us. I wanted Spindle to do it, wanted to watch it and see her face as you died.’
‘Is she still alive?’
‘Well, she was when bloody Pinkney came back for me. That bastard Spindle had run away in the night, so I was taken in his place. And here I am.’
‘Say, “Father forgive me, for I have sinned.” That should be enough.’
‘Father forgive me, for I have sinned. And you can have my sickle. I bequeath it to you.’
Andrew made the sign of the cross over him and tried not to look past him at the approaching Pinkney, sword in hand.
Reaphook didn’t look either. He closed his eyes tight shut in anticipation of impending death. Pinkney pulled back the sword with both arms, then swung it at Reaphook’s neck. First strike did it. The head fell away, three-quarters severed, and blood gushed like a fountain.
They buried the body in the muddy earth, along with his sickle; no one wanted it. Then they resumed marching.
Two hours later, just before dark, they reached the English garrison at the port of Paimpol. All they found was the rump of the army; Norreys was long gone westward to Morlaix and, perhaps, to Crozon. Pinkney took on fresh food, munitions and boots, commandeered wagons – and took to the road again. He had no intention of missing this fight.
Captain Paredes paced up and down the battlements, looking out across the grey waters of Brest Harbour and beyond to the open sea. He stopped and gazed through a bevelled shooting slit at the English and Dutch ships. They were all stood off, outside Le Goulet – the rock-strewn narrows that led into the harbour – and out of range of the fort’s guns, but every so often Frobisher drove one or more of his ships forward. A half-hearted puff of smoke came from a single cannon, followed by the sound of gunpowder exploding and the dull thud of the ball taking a chunk of rock and earth out of the cliff-face below. The Spanish gunners wanted to reply in kind, but Paredes insisted they conserve powder and ball.
‘Why does he do this, Mr Shakespeare?’ Paredes demanded. ‘You must be acquainted with Martin Frobisher – why does he waste gunpowder and cannonballs in this way? He cannot possibly elevate his guns sufficiently to harm us. Nor can he be resupplied easily.’
‘It is probably as much to keep his own men occupied as to worry you.’
‘It makes no sense. I had thought the English good seafarers and fighting men. But this …’
‘I cannot argue with you. It makes no sense.’
But if it is intended to get under your skin, Captain Paredes, it seems mighty effective.
‘How long is it now? How long has Frobisher been here? How long have Norreys and his army been here? How many days has this rain fallen?’
Time was dragging. Days on end of gales and rain, broken only by the stilllness of dense fogs that seemed to suffocate the rocky headlands. To be enclosed in this impenetrable fort for days and weeks without number was taking its toll. The citadel of El Léon was starting to feel like a cold damp tomb.
In the evenings Shakespeare and Eliska dined with Captain Paredes and his officers, and played cards in a genteel fashion, to the sound of mandolins, as though they were not surrounded by an enemy that wanted their blood. Only the sporadic sound of gunshot and cannon boom intruded on the elegance of the setting.
Shakespeare would have liked time alone with Eliska, but they were closely watched. As a result they always met each other in the company of Paredes or one of his senior officers.
Shakespeare had, however, discovered a great deal more about the fort’s structure. Paredes enjoyed his company and took him on his daily rounds. The high, solidly built ramparts and bastions were to be found only on the landward approaches. Its designer, Rojas, must have decided that no army could scale the cliffs to attack, so the seaward defences were less robust. They were lower, too, following the falling-away contours of the clifftop. This was just as Sir Roger Williams had described the fort in his report to the Privy Council. Four culverins faced northwards from these lower ramparts, covering the narrows. Frobisher was in no position to seriously challenge such might; his fleet would merely take a severe battering to which it could not respond. All the English and Dutch ships could do was ensure that no Spanish galleons approached to break the siege.
As far as Shakespeare was concerned, the culverins did not matter. What was crucial was the height of the ramparts on which they were mounted. The walls were visible from the sea to the west of the harbour. Such a view would be impossible to landward.
The siege was not going well. The armies of Norreys and Aumont were bogged down, their tents dripping and drenched in mud.
Each day, more soldiers reported sick with the bloody flux. Pioneers had been unable to dig into rock, and so they had built up the thin muddy topsoil into entrenchments above ground, and these were beginning to stink of ordure. The siege train had arrived and had been reinforced by some of Frobisher’s ship cannon, hauled ashore at a nearby fishing village and mounted on spars. Keeping powder dry was a major problem, but the fourteen siege guns at last opened up with a brutal onslaught. Ball after ball smashed into the counterscarp. The Spanish merely laughed from the ramparts. Their fort could withstand ten thousand such barrages.
The soldiers passed the time drinking foul ale and apple brandy, staking their non-existent wages on a throw of the dice and trying to keep rust from seizing up the mechanisms of their weapons. They also hurled insults across no-man’s-land in broken Spanish and coarse English.
‘I fucked your mother last night!’
‘I wouldn’t fuck yours – I don’t fuck dogs!’
The worst of the horrors came on the English side: a company of foot, led by enthusiastic but inexperienced gentlemen volunteers, overran the counterscarp and threw ladders up against the bastions. They were easily hurled back and took casualties. Then a careless gunner sent a spark into a barrel of gunpowder, killing or wounding more than fifty English artillerymen and other soldiers. Gloom descended on the English tents.
The next morning one of Norreys’s messengers carried a parley flag aloft and marched to the fort’s gates to offer safe passage to all within if they surrendered. Captain Paredes did not hesitate: no surrender, no talks, no quarter asked or given.
And then the weather grew yet worse.
A howling gale roared in and the siege settled into a hopeless stand-off. If Norreys and Frobisher did not launch an all-out attack soon, the siege would be lost to winter.
Chapter 44
THE DAY WAS dark. The rain had gone, but a sharp wind chilled their faces. Everyone knew that it had to be this day. There would be no other chance. Águila would soon be snapping at their rear. And sickness was worming its way through the camp at alarming speed.
Provost Marshal Pinkney addressed his company.
‘You will be pleased to know,’ he said, ‘that Captain-General Norreys has affforded us the signal honour of being part of the main attack, with Frobisher’s marines. So say your prayers.’
He told them to have valour, to stay alive and to make the Spanish die. Then he ordered brandy to be given to each man, for courage. Every soldier listened with his own thoughts, then, when their captain was done, returned to honing his blade.
Pinkney called Andrew over to him. ‘Come, walk with me to the field kitchen. I fight better on a full stomach.’
They walked through the tents and damp, fluttering pennants of the camp. Everywhere, men were forming up, preparing for battle, checking weapons and packs.
‘You have shown yourself to be a man of courage, Private Woode,’ Pinkney said.
‘Thank you, sir.’
It seemed to Andrew now that he had been a soldier all his life. Oxford had receded into a distant dream. Obeying orders, eating porridge and peas, foraging for berries and roots, shitting at the roadside, carrying a halberd and pack as his constant companions, living in a cassock and coat stained with other men’s blood, had become his world.
Now, at last, they were in the main camp at Crozon. They had been here two weeks and were rested and better fed. But they had discovered a sense of ill-ease and ominous anticipation in the air. There was a miasma of disease; men had to be kicked from their field-beds to get moving in the mornings. The bodily sickness of some was made worse by the despondency of others. Rumours abounded that the main Spanish army was but ten miles to the rear and would advance to trap and crush Norreys between them and the troops in the fort.
‘You know what marines are, do you, lad?’
‘I think so, sir.’
‘They are seaborne soldiers. Some men say they should stick to seafaring activities like tying knots and hauling anchors, but Norreys seems to think well of them, so we’ll have to make the most of it. If you ask me, we’ll be like a Forlorn Hope. You know what the Forlorn Hope is, do you?’
‘No, Provost Pinkney, sir.’
‘They are those that are sent in first to test the enemy fire. When none of them comes back alive, the captain-general knows the fire’s hot. Is that well with you, Private Woode?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good man. And I’ll take that bloody useless halberd off you. There’ll be no cavalry against us today. This is all about foot soldiers – pike and shot. I’ll find you a proper weapon, a petronel. When you’re in the mêlée, use your short sword. One chop to the neck, then stab them in the belly. That’s all it takes. Then move on to the next. The word is that today is the day. Fine weather for it: grey and dark as hell. Rockets will fly, then the trumpet will sound – and we go in.’ They arrived at the field kitchen. ‘Ah, mutton broth. Just the thing to stir the loins to action.’
A furlong to the east, the first musket-shot of the day rang out from the fort’s ramparts. A cloud of crows flew up from the bushes all around, to join the wheeling seabirds. Pinkney pointed to them.
‘Bastards,’ he said. ‘Gulls to laugh at the dying men, crows to pick out their eyes.’
‘Well, Mr Cooper,’ Frobisher said, ‘do you have the precious tube about your person?’
‘Yes, admiral.’
‘And is Mr Ivory fit? Can he climb to the mast-top?’
Boltfoot hesitated. They were in Frobisher’s cabin at the stern of the royal ship Vanguard. Ivory was far from recovered. His left side was palsied. He could not walk, let alone climb up the rigging.
‘No, admiral,’ Boltfoot said at last. ‘Mr Ivory will not be able to climb. He cannot yet walk. I doubt he will ever walk again for the surgeon believes him to have suffered a stroke of God’s hand.’
‘Then you must know what is to be done. You will have to use the perspective glass, Mr Cooper. Your eyesight is sufficient, I trust?’
‘Admiral, I …’
He looked down at his club-foot. Drake had always excused him topman duties. He had fought alongside the best of the crew, and crafted barrels and spars to a high degree, but he could not bear to climb.
‘Yes, Mr Cooper?’
‘Is it really necessary to go to the mast-top? Might the instrument not be used here on deck?’
‘God’s blood, no. You will always have a better view from on high. I say again, is your eyesight sufficient?’
Boltfoot sighed. ‘Yes, admiral. My eyesight will suffice.’
Lieutenant Morgan Millwater watched Frobisher being rowed for shore in the cockboat and knew he would have to act soon. There had been feverish activity aboard all the ships. Two thousand marines were already on land, out of range of the fort’s guns. Something would happen today, something that would involve the perspective glass. He was certain of it.
Millwater gazed out across the choppy grey water to the cliffs. He was tall and slender with soft, well-bred features, one of the Vanguard’s senior officers, just the sort of man that Frobisher liked, for he was a professional and had been at sea with him before, chasing Spanish treasure fleets. What Frobisher did not realise was that Millwater cared nothing for the admiral’s opinion of him. His thoughts were all on the perspective glass.
It had all seemed so simple. Have Trayne lure Ivory to a game of chance, then club him and relieve him of the spyglass. And so it had proved – except that the glass in his possession was a fake.
Trayne had not noticed the deception. The device he took looked as it should. It was cylindrical, made of stiff hide and had a roundel of glass at either end. Without further ado, he had hidden it deep in a keg of gunpowder. No one would look for it there. No one except Morgan Millwater.
But then came the incident at Paimpol. The plan had been for Trayne to take the glass ashore, ride to the Spanish garrison at Blavet and hand it over to General del Águila. But bloody Cooper had foiled that idea with his inspection of every man’s forearm, and his seizing of Trayne. Millwater only discovered all this when he rejoined the Vanguard at Morlaix.
With Trayne under guard, he had gone at night to the marked powder keg to remove the perspective glass. That was when he discovered that it was merely a fake, a worthless replica of the perspective glass containing blank roundels where complex lenses should be. In a rage, Millwater tossed it from the ship’s stern into the foaming sea. As for Trayne, he was a base hireling, a mere assassin. When he was tossed into the sea, Millwater shed no tears. No one would miss him: food for lobsters and crabs.
But where was the perspective glass?
If Ivory did not have it, someone else must. Who, though? The obvious answer was Boltfoot Cooper, for had he not been assigned to protect both Ivory and the glass? It must be in his possession. Well, today was the day he would find out. And it would be Boltfoot Coope
r’s last day on earth.
‘Do you hear that, John?’
He nodded. Yes, he had heard. Two English cannons shot in quick succession, a count of ten, then three cannon rounds, another count of ten, two more reports, another count of ten, then four more booms. It was the signal. The first three salvoes were the code; the fourth, added to the other three, gave the hour. Eleven. If all went well, the attack would commence at eleven o’clock – forty minutes from now.
Eliska and Shakespeare were on the seaward ramparts. Her voice was a whisper and she smiled as though she was commenting on the weather. They had only one guard now, Gomez, an old veteran who had fought in the Low Countries and in Portugal under Alba. He was white-haired and hunched, but Shakespeare did not underestimate him. He might be slow and ponderous, but if he had survived this long in the bloodiest wars of the century, then he knew how to fight. He would not be an easy man to overpower.
Paredes was striding around the ramparts issuing orders. He had seen ships’ boats carrying men and supplies from Frobisher’s fleet and he had observed the hugely increased levels of activity among the land forces of Norreys and Aumont. As he approached Shakespeare and Eliska he bowed his head.
‘Well, Lady Eliska, Mr Shakespeare,’ he said, smiling. ‘This is a day the English will rue.’
‘I am sure God will look down favourably, captain, for you will be fighting in His name.’
‘Indeed, but I must require you to take shelter, for your own safety. Sergeant Gomez will take you to the guardhouse.’
Shakespeare saw that Paredes had a fine pistol in his hand.
Paredes followed his eyes. ‘A beautiful pistol, yes? Sir John Norreys must miss it. Today I will discover if it is as good as it looks. It would be appropriate to shoot Norreys dead with his own pistol, I think. Now, if you please, you must make haste.’
The fort was in uproar. Men moved in all directions, hauling kegs of powder on their shoulders; dragging cannonballs up from the arsenal; frantically cleaning muskets and honing swords; hefting spare muskets, crossbows, blades and pikes up to the ramparts; priming, loading and firing cannon; heating cauldrons of oil to tip over any enemy who got close enough to scale the bastion walls. Every man had his task and knew it well. No one was looking at Shakespeare and Eliska. No one but Sergeant Gomez, who plodded behind the captain’s guests as they made their way towards the guardhouse, deep beneath the inner wall of the curtain rampart.
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