by C. J. Sansom
‘This is the only link between Portsea Island and the mainland,’ Hobbey said. ‘If the French were to take it the island would be cut off.’
‘Our guns will sink their fleet before they land,’ David said confidently. Absorbed in the view, he seemed to have forgotten about Lamkin, and his mother’s attack on him. Yet there was something haunted in his face.
A soldier came up and asked our business. ‘Legal matters, in Portsmouth,’ Hobbey answered briefly. The soldier glanced at Dyrick’s and my robes and waved us on. We clattered over the bridge.
We rode across the island, along a dusty lane between an avenue of trees. Hugh turned to Hobbey, unaccustomed deference in his voice. ‘Sir, may we ride across and get a closer look at the ships in the Haven?’
‘Yes, please, Father,’ David added eagerly.
Hobbey looked at him indulgently. ‘Very well.’
We turned along a side lane and rode towards the water. We passed close to a large dockyard where dozens of men were labouring. There were several wooden derricks and a number of low structures including a long, narrow one which I recognized as a rope-walk, where lengths of rope would be coiled together to form thicker ones, dozens of feet long if necessary. Piles of large tree trunks lay around, and carpenters were busy sawing wood into different shapes and sizes. A small ship stood on a bed of mud carved into the shore, supported by thick poles. Men were working hard repairing it. There was a constant sound of hammering.
A little to the south of the dock we turned aside from the lane and halted the horses by a mudflat next to the sea, from which a welcome breeze came. There was a smell of salt and rot, the mud spattered with green seaweed. Here we had a clear view of the ships across the water. Eight of the galleasses, sixty feet long and each with an iron-tipped battering ram in front and several cannon protruding from gun ports at the side, moved across the calm, blue-green water, smooth and fast despite their boxy shape. They were using both sails and long lines of oars. I heard the regular beat of drums marking time for the oarsmen. They made impressive speed. We jumped as one fired its guns, puffs of black smoke rising from their mouths followed by loud reverberating cracks. Then it turned round, astonishingly fast.
Dyrick gave it an anxious look. Hugh gave a little mocking laugh. ‘Do not worry, sir, they are only practising. There are no gunballs in the cannon. No need to be afraid.’ Dyrick glared at him.
‘It is their manoeuvrability that makes them so dangerous to an enemy,’ Hugh said with pride.
My attention was focused on the four great warships, anchored at some distance from each other in the harbour. Their sails were reefed now and they rode gently on the calm water. They were enormous, like castles on the sea, dwarfing the galleasses. A big rowing boat was tied to the stern of each, no doubt for transporting men and supplies from shore. It was an extraordinary sight, one I realized few would ever witness. The warships were beautiful, with their clean lines and perfect balance on the water. The sides of the soaring fore- and aftercastles, and the waists in the middle, were brightly painted, the Tudor colours of green and white predominating. Each had four enormous masts, the largest rising a hundred and fifty feet into the air, flags of England and the Tudor dynasty flying at the top. The largest warship made my head spin to look at it; I guessed it was the Great Harry, the King’s flagship. A massive flag bearing the royal arms flew from the aftercastle. I saw tiny figures moving to and fro along the decks, and other ant-like figures clambering in the mesh of rigging. High in the masts I made out more men standing in little circular nests.
David said, ‘Those are the fighting tops. Your archers may go there.’
Even at this distance and on horseback I had to look up to see the topmasts. Hundreds of seagulls wheeled and swooped among the ships, uttering their loud sad cries.
‘That men can make such things,’ Hugh said wonderingly.
Two of the galleasses approached the Great Harry. With remarkable speed they turned side on, the oars almost ceasing to swing. The drums stopped. They held position as though about to fire a broadside at the great warship, then the drum sounded again; the galleasses wheeled round and shot down towards the mouth of the harbour. Other galleasses were making the same quick manoeuvres with the other ships. Practice, I thought, for when the French warships come.
David pointed eagerly at the second largest ship. It was the nearest, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. It had a long, high aftercastle and an even higher forecastle from which a long bowsprit, supporting meshed lines of rigging, stretched out fifty feet. At the bottom of the bowsprit a large circular object was fixed, brightly coloured in concentric circles of red and white. ‘A rose,’ David said. ‘That is the Mary Rose.’
‘The King’s most favoured ship,’ Hugh said. ‘If only we could see them move. That must be astounding.’
On top of the aftercastle of the Mary Rose I saw a cage of what looked like netting, held in place by wooden struts. I wondered what it was.
Dyrick pointed to what looked like the ribs of some giant beast protruding from the mudflats near us. ‘What’s that?’ he asked Hobbey.
‘The ribs of some ship that foundered there. Those sandbanks are treacherous, the big warships have to be careful in the Haven. That is why most are outside, at Spitbank.’ He shook his head. ‘If the French come it will be difficult, perhaps impossible, to get all our ships in the Haven. At anchor they need two hundred yards to turn, I am told.’
‘Just within bowshot of each other,’ Hugh observed.
‘There may be more dead ribs rising from the sea in a few weeks,’ Feaveryear said sombrely.
‘You’re cheerful,’ Barak told him.
‘You joke,’ Feaveryear said angrily, ‘but war is ungodly and God will punish ungodly things.’
‘No,’ Hugh said. ‘Our ships will deal with the French as Harry the Fifth did. Look at them – they are wonders, marvels. If the French come close we will board and destroy them. I wish I could be there.’
‘Can you swim?’ I asked.
‘I can,’ David answered proudly.
But Hugh shook his head. ‘I never learned. But I am told few sailors can. Most would be carried down by the weight of their clothing.’
I looked at him. ‘Do you feel no fear at the thought?’
He stared back with his usual blank expression. ‘None.’
‘The heartstone he wears protects him.’ David said, a touch of mockery in his voice.
‘How so?’
‘It’s supposed to prevent a stag from dying of fear,’ Hobbey said wearily.
‘Perhaps it does,’ Hugh said.
I looked across the boys’ close-shaven heads to Hobbey, who raised his eyebrows. On this matter we were on the same side.
WE RODE up to the town walls, joining the end of a queue of carts waiting to get in. I noticed a gallows a little way outside the walls, a body dangling from it. On a patch of slightly higher ground between the road and one of the large ponds flanking the city was another soldiers’ camp, near a hundred conical tents. Men sat outside. I saw one man repairing a brigandyne; he knelt, sewing the heavy armoured jacket, which lay on the ground. Away from the shore the air was muggy again: most of the men had cast off their jerkins and were in their shirts. One small group, though, wore short white coats, each with two red crosses stitched on the back; some village had evidently put together a home-made version of the official costume.
Hugh and David’s attention had been caught by a sight familiar enough to me now; a couple of hundred yards away mounds of earth had been thrown up to make butts and some soldiers were practising with their longbows, shooting at oyster shells.
‘Come along,’ Hobbey said warningly and reluctantly the boys looked away.
We approached the city walls. They were thirty feet high, surrounded by a moat-like ditch and to my surprise built not of stone but of packed mud. Only the small crenellated battlements on top and the large bastions set at intervals were of stone. Men were still working on the wal
ls, some hanging by ropes from the top, piling up new layers of mud and stabilizing them with hurdles and wooden planks. The stone bastion enclosing the main gate was massive, its circular top bristling with cannon. Soldiers patrolled the fighting platform running along the top. Close to, Portsmouth seemed more like a hurriedly erected castle than a town.
We joined the end of a long queue of carts waiting to enter the gate, which stood on a little rise, approached by a bridge across the moat. This town was, indeed, a fortress.
‘This earth wall is a far cry from the walls of York,’ I said to Barak.
‘It’s part of the fortifications Lord Cromwell built everywhere along the coasts in ’39, when it seemed the French and Spanish might attack together to bring us back under the Pope. They were cobbled together in a hurry. I know that it kept him awake at nights,’ he added sadly.
‘By heaven, this place stinks,’ Hobbey said. He was right, a cesspit smell hung heavy in the air. He looked across to the tents. ‘It’s the soldiers, using the mill pond as a sewer. Pigs.’
‘Where the fuck else are they supposed to go?’ Barak muttered under his breath. I thought, he is right; the ordure had nowhere to go in the flat marshy land around the city. The foul odours would only get worse as time passed, threatening disease.
We all turned at the sound of a loud, angry animal bellow. Behind us a heavy wagon drawn by four great horses had pulled up. The sound came from an enormous, muscular bull in a heavy iron cage.
‘There’s going to be a bull-baiting,’ I said to Barak.
‘With dogs probably, for the soldiers.’
Looking ahead, we saw that inside the gate was a complicated enclosed barbican, and that a cart loaded with barrels had got itself stuck. More carts pulled up behind us.
‘We’ll be here for ever,’ Dyrick said impatiently.
‘Master Shardlake!’ I turned as I heard my name called. A young man was running across from the tents. I smiled as I recognized Carswell, the recruit in Leacon’s company who hoped to be a playwright. His mobile, humorous face was as tanned as leather now. He bowed to our company. ‘You have come to Portsmouth then, sir?’
‘Ay, on business. We have just seen the ships in the harbour. We wondered if you might be on one of them.’
Carswell shook his head. ‘We haven’t been out on a ship yet. We’ve been stuck in camp. Captain Leacon’s around. I can take you to him, I am sure he would be glad to see you. You’ll be a while here,’ he added, casting an experienced eye at the men struggling with the cart inside the gate.
The bull gave another angry bellow, rocking its cage. One of our servant’s horses reared and plunged, the man desperately trying to control it. People in the crowd laughed. ‘Your horses will be happier if they wait beside the road till that bull is past,’ Carswell observed.
Hobbey nodded, dismounted, and led his horse out of the queue. The rest of us followed, leaving a servant to keep our place. ‘I think Carswell here is right,’ I told Hobbey. ‘I will go and see my friend, just for a few minutes. We are still in good time for our meeting with Sir Quintin.’
‘A few minutes only, sir, please.’
Barak and I walked over to the tents with Carswell. This was a chance to see Leacon, ask him about Philip West. I had decided I was going to talk to him if I could.
‘This place stinks, doesn’t it?’ Carswell observed.
‘Worse than the Thames banks,’ Barak agreed.
Carswell looked at me. ‘You’ll remember what you said about helping me, sir? When you get back to London?’
I smiled. ‘I had not forgotten.’
‘I yearn to be home – I hate this waiting, sitting amid this stench like pigs in a sty. We’re not allowed into town without passes, and I hear the sailors must stay on the ships. They fear we might fight, or disturb all those merchants negotiating with each other to get the best price for our poor rations. But I am told much of a soldier’s life is spent in waiting.’
‘So you haven’t been on a ship yet?’ Barak asked.
‘No.’ For once Carswell’s tone was serious. ‘One of our men near fainted when he saw the ships close to – many of us had never seen the sea.’ He laughed uneasily. ‘Imagine trying to stage that sight in a play. The warships and those galleasses. They’re manned by criminals and beggars, not strong enough for such work. Some collapse and die, bodies are brought ashore in the evenings.’ His voice took on its jesting note again. ‘Do you think, sir, if I brought you before our commander the Earl of Suffolk in your lawyer’s robes, you might argue a case for me to leave the army? Say the prospect of danger does not agree with me?’
I laughed. ‘Alas, Carswell, the powers of lawyers do not extend so far.’
We were in among the tents now, stepping over guy ropes. Some of the soldiers from the company waved or shouted greetings. Sulyard, sitting outside his tent carving something on his knife handle, gave me a nasty stare. Carswell halted before a large tent, the cross of St George on a little pole at the top. Leacon had just stepped out. ‘Captain, sir,’ Carswell called. ‘A visitor.’
Leacon wore a round helmet, half-armour over his surcoat, his sword at his waist. The tent flap opened and I saw the Welsh boy Tom Llewellyn carrying a document case. Leacon’s expression had been anxious, but his face relaxed into a smile as he saw us.
‘Master Shardlake! Jack Barak!’
‘We have come to Portsmouth on business. There is a hold-up at the gates, young Carswell saw us and brought us over.’
‘Good! How is your wife, Jack?’
‘Very well, according to her last letter.’
‘George,’ I said, ‘there is something I would speak with you about.’
‘About your steward who said he was at Flodden? I have some news there.’
‘Have you? I would like to hear it. And George, there is someone else I seek, who may be in Portsmouth. It is important. A man called Philip West, who I believe is an officer on the King’s ships.’
‘Then he’ll be here. Did you hear Lord Lisle’s ships had just arrived? There was a skirmish near the Channel Islands. But listen, I must leave now, there is a meeting of the captains in the town: I have to join Sir Franklin Giffard there.’ He turned to Llewellyn. ‘I am taking young Tom here with me: many of the captains are from Wales and he knows some Welsh from his father.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Diplomacy.’ The boy smiled nervously. ‘Could you meet me in town later?’ Leacon asked. ‘Perhaps this afternoon.’
‘Certainly. We have a meeting at ten, but after that will be free.’
‘The Red Lion tavern for lunch then, say at twelve?’
‘I should be pleased.’
‘I will arrange for one of the officers I am meeting to stay behind to talk to you. He has an interesting tale to tell about good Master Coldiron.’
‘What news of your company? How fare you, Llewellyn?’
‘Well, sir. Though those ships fair affrighted us when we saw them.’
‘Ay,’ Leacon agreed. ‘If the men are to go on them, they need to accustom themselves to being at sea. But those in charge keep arguing how best to use us, and nothing is done, for all they tell me how they value us as principal archers.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Come, will you walk with me back to the road?’
We made our way through the rows of tents. ‘What news of the French?’ I asked quietly.
He drew a little ahead of Llewellyn. ‘Bad. Over two hundred ships gathering at the French ports, packed with thirty thousand soldiers. Lord Lisle encountered a host of their galleys off the Channel Islands last week. The weather turned bad, though, and there was no real action. We are going to need every man if they land here.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘Those galleys of theirs are large and fast, much superior to our galleasses, and rowed by slaves experienced in Mediterranean warfare. They have two dozen.’ He gave me a sombre look. ‘You know how many such galleys we have?’ I shook my head. ‘One.’
‘When might they come?’
‘A week, perhaps tw
o. Much will depend on the weather, as always at sea.’
I was eager to talk about Coldiron, but saw Leacon was keen to move on. We were beyond the tents now. Then Barak pointed to where the men were practising at the butts and laughed. ‘Look at that!’
Hugh and David, in defiance of Hobbey’s orders, had dismounted and joined the archers. Hugh was bending to a longbow which he must have borrowed, and as I watched he sent an arrow flying. It hit the oyster shell, shattering it into a dozen pieces. The soldiers clapped. I saw Sulyard in the group, his enemy Pygeon standing at a little distance. A man at the other end of the range hurried up to the butts and fixed another oyster shell to the centre.
‘Look at that fellow, sir,’ Llewellyn said admiringly to Leacon.
Hugh handed the bow to David. David’s arrow just missed the oyster shell and he scowled.
‘Who are those lads?’ Leacon asked curiously.
‘My host’s son and his ward.’ I saw Hobbey and Dyrick talking agitatedly to Snodin the whiffler, who stood with hands on hips, an aggressive expression on his red face. Hugh bent to the bow again as we walked across to Hobbey and Dyrick.
‘Get them away from there!’ Hobbey was shouting to Snodin, more angry and agitated than I had ever seen him. ‘Tell your men to stop their practice now.’
‘But they have been ordered to practise,’ Snodin replied in his deep voice, ‘by Sir Franklin Giffard himself.’ He waved a meaty hand at Leacon as we came up. ‘Here, talk to Master Petty-Captain if you like.’
Leacon gave Hobbey and Dyrick a curt nod, then watched as Hugh sent another arrow flying to the oyster shell. Again he broke it. Hobbey grabbed Leacon’s arm. ‘Are you the captain of this rabble? Get my boys away from those butts. They are defying my explicit orders—’
Leacon pushed Hobbey’s arm away. ‘I do not care for your manners, sir,’ he said sharply. ‘Boys they may be, but few enough adults could pull a longbow like that, let alone shoot so well. They must be very well practised.’
