'More than this bloody ship!' muttered Mannion. 'She knows where she has to be and when. Her passage's booked on the vessel, and it's a good one. She's got money. She knows where to go and who to go to when she gets to Calais.'
He had hated telling her the truth, before they left for Flanders. 'You'll be compromised when I'm revealed as a Spanish spy,' he had said to her.
'But why do people need to know? Why can you not continue in hidings?' Anna had said, looking round almost in desperation at the newly-won world and lifestyle about to be wrenched from her, lost in this world of double and treble betrayal.
'If I'm to do my duty I must get close to Medina Sidonia, be allowed to advise him. After that I'll never be able to hide as a Spanish agent again.'
'First you ask me to betray Spain, then you ask me to betray England! Is this fair?' She was close to tears.
'No,' he had said, 'not fair. Not fair at all. But I have a duty. I gave my word. I want you to survive. That's all.' He could not remember ever having had a heavier heart. In all probability he would never see London again, never dive into Excalibur's pool. The Fellowship of Granville College would gloat over his disgrace. He had made Mannion arrange for Anna to take ship to Calais, booked lodgings, appointed an agent for her before embarking with Cecil to the Netherlands. He had given her enough money to buy a small estate in France, set herself up as an independent person. It would only be a matter of time before someone as beautiful as her found a good husband, he reasoned to himself. They would be panting at her door.
They had left the party in Flanders, saying they were following a lead to the increasingly mythical Jacques Henri. They had boarded the ship for Spain and fought vicious, wintery contrary winds. Gresham had become frantic with worry at the delay forced upon them, and it had taken a second ship to get them into Lisbon in the face of even more foul weather, arriving the day before the Armada sailed.
'This is a bit different’ Mannion had said, on their arrival in Lisbon. Medina Sidonia had worked a miracle. The sense of purpose, of efficiency was in stark contrast to their earlier visit. The greatest fleet the world had ever seen lay out there in the harbour, weighing down the ocean with its power.
The final irony was that it had been almost impossible to get on board one of the Armada's ships. The vessels were ringed by guard-boats, to stop desertion. They had finally begged and bribed passage on the only available boat, taking a parcel of fruit and additional wine out to the Captain of the San Salvador from his wife, and then bribing their way to a place on her decks. The passport Gresham carried from the Duke of Parma was a potent weapon on board one of the Spanish ships. It had been useless with the illiterate and ignorant guards. So it was they had sailed with the Armada.
If God was smiling on King Philip's Enterprise of England it was at best an ironic gesture. Within hours the fleet was facing weather that would not have disgraced a December storm. Then, when more and more stores were opened the water was found to be nothing more than green slime, and the cheese and dried meat infested with rot whose stench made men gag. Drake's rampaging on the Spanish coast had borne a dividend, but so had a fleet kept too long in harbour. Soon the seas were dotted with discarded, rotting foodstuffs, the trail left by the Armada, such sea birds as were brave enough to venture out feeding frenziedly. Three weeks out of Lisbon several ships had been battered to such an extent that they could not dream of entering a battle, sickness was soaring and the fleet had hardly reached Corunna, still just off Spanish land.
"E'll 'ave to take us into Corunna,' said Mannion, continuing his uncanny ability to predict the actions of the Spanish. It was inevitable: Sidonia ordered the fleet into Corunna for repairs and to take on new supplies, sending the sick ashore so as not to infect the healthy. As if in final revenge, a savage gale scattered two-thirds of the ships through the length and breadth of the Bay of Biscay.
'Bugger this for a lark!' said Mannion, with religious intensity, gazing longingly at the shore line as they were blasted by the ferocious wind out to sea, every rope and spar complaining, water cascading along the length of the deck, jagged splinters where the top tier of the after-castle had once been.
He was more cheerful when the San Salvador finally made it into Corunna and for the first time in weeks he could set foot not only on shore but in a tavern. "Bout bloody time!' he muttered darkly. 'Thought you wanted to get on the flagship?' he asked Gresham, back against a rock as they looked out at the mass of shipping. A full wineskin was clutched firmly in both hands, like a mother hanging on to its newborn baby.
'I've got to meet Sidonia first,' said Gresham. 'Spanish nobility make the English look like democrats. He's a proud man, and he won't like speaking to an Englishman of no real birth, and I don't imagine he's much time for spies either. Yet I've got to persuade him to let me advise him, use my special knowledge.'
'So what if he doesn't want to come out to play?' asked Mannion, who was starting to let the wine talk for him.
'Then I've risked losing everything I love for nothing,' said Gresham bleakly.
'Spaniards could give you a bit more help in all this,' said Mannion, eyelids starting to droop in the welcome sun. 'After all you're meant to have done for them.'
'I get about as much help from them as I did when I was meant to be working for England,' replied Gresham. 'No one loves a spy.'
Yet meeting Medina Sidonia was easier than expected. Gresham presented the Duke of Parma's warrant to the servants guarding the door of the villa the Duke had taken ashore. A day later the summons came.
The room was cool and dark, the wine excellent, and the Duke courteous. Of medium build, the Duke's compact figure exuded authority, and a sense of calm. Gresham imagined that people would instinctively lower their voices when talking to him. A secretary sat in a corner before a small lectern, ready to record or write as instructed. A sallow, thin-faced man in a cheap doublet waited respectfully at the Duke's side.
'I am His Grace's English translator,' the man said proudly.
'The Duke of Parma writes well of you,' said Sidonia, his voice low. The man had an aura of dignity, in part due to his having come from a long line of men for whom the obedience of others was automatic, no doubt, but also emanating from his personality. 'He states that you have been fighting our cause with courage and guile these three years past, at great risk to yourself. As is confirmed by letters from the Escorial. You have met with the Duke of Parma? Recently?’ The Duke was speaking in Spanish, the translator speaking fluently and with almost no accent.
'As recently as March, my Lord,' answered Gresham.
'And his view of matters?'
How strange and worrying for Spain, thought Gresham, that in the tangled hierarchy of King Philip's Spain the Commander of the Armada and the Commander of Philip's army had not corresponded directly, but only indirectly through the person of the King.
'It is as you gathered, my Lord. He has assembled boats and transports in the canals. He has no deep-water port, but expects to be able to slip his troops out from the canals through Dunkirk under cover of darkness and with a feint to the north. There are two key issues. Firstly, the Dutch fly-boats are heavily armed and can navigate the shallowest of waters. Yet they are relatively few in number and the Dutch are disaffected. Also there is a faction among the Dutch that wishes him to invade England, believing the rebels' chance of victory is greater if the Duke is away in England. The Duke believes he can deceive the Dutch, that indeed they may wish to be deceived, particularly if Your Lordship would agree to detach some of your lighter and smaller craft to assist him.'
'That would seem hopeful’ said Sidonia. 'And the second key issue?'
'If you can place yourself between his transports and the English fleet for the crossing, the Duke of Parma believes all that's necessary is for your ships to block the English from his ships, not even to sink or defeat them.'
The Duke paused for thought, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. 'And you say that you sailed with Drake
to Cadiz?'
Gresham gave a brief summary of his part in the raid.*No one knows the English fleet, its commanders and its operating procedures better than I,' said Gresham. 'I offer that knowledge to your Lordship, as and when you may care to use it.'
'Should I trust a man who betrays the land of his birth?' asked Sidonia. There was sudden steel in the voice, a sharp snap of authority. This was a man who lived his life by a strict moral as well as religious code, Gresham realised.
'No,' said Gresham, honestly. 'Probably not. Yet I've never done what I do for money, of which. I have no need. I've done it in part for my faith, which I've carried as a secret for many years, a secret that could have burned my flesh and ruined me at any time.'
'And why else have you done it? Why else have you served Spain?'
Gresham paused. This man would accept no easy answers. There were no easy answers for Gresham to give. 'Because the land of my birth has never accepted me, the bastard son of a rich man. For years it reviled me as a cast-off. Now it pays me lip service because of my wealth yet reviles me still. The land of my birth is defended by pirates who plead patriotism, led by a Queen who preaches service to England but is incapable of serving any except herself, a woman so selfish as to deny her country an heir and therefore condemn it to civil war on her death. Taking their colour from her, its ^leaders are men such as Robert Cecil, whose God and morality revolve around his own self-interest. Cecil, the Queen, Walsingham, Burghley… these people expect me to die for them. They would never live for me.'
‘You are very young,' said Sidonia, 'to harbour such bitterness. And when you find in your adopted country of Spain that leaders are not selfless, that the true faith has men observing and sometimes leading its worship who are truly corrupt, then will you become as bitter towards Spain as you are to England?'
'I didn't choose England,' said Gresham. 'It was a choice made for me. I chose Spain.'
There was a long silence, Sidonia's eyes resting on Gresham's, Gresham's startling blue eyes returning the gaze without flinching.
'I may call on your advice,' said Sidonia, 'but not yet. God willing, it will be a week or more before we sight England, and the San Martin is grievously overcrowded.'
That was true. Apart from the sailors and soldiers crammed on board, there were the forty men of Sidonia's retinue and the hordes of young Spanish noblemen desperate for glory.
'1 may call for you nearer the time of our conflict. Or I may not. Yet there is a tension, a conflict in you I sense but do not understand.'
There was a splutter from Mannion, understanding the Spanish before translation. *You are impertinent!' said Sidonia, the colour rising in his face.
'I apologise, my Lord,' said Mannion in Spanish. 'I've known him since he was this high.' Mannion held out a hand halfway down his own body. 'He was tense then, and at war with himself. That won't ever change. Asking your pardon for my impertinence.'
'I suspect he is not lucky in life,' said Sidonia, 'but may have been lucky in you. You are dismissed. Both of you.'
'Was that helpful?' hissed Gresham as they left.
'It was bloody true,' said Mannion.
They left Corunna on 21st July and made their first sighting of English soil, the Lizard, eight days later. An aching sense of regret drove through Gresham as he saw England again.
"What d'you think they're discussing?' asked Mannion.
The flagship had hoisted a huge flag bearing the image of the
Virgin Mary and a cross, and called the various commanders aboard. Gresham and Mannion had just heard Mass with the rest of the crew of the San Salvador. They did not consecrate the Host, of course, in case the rolling of the ship caused the body and blood of Christ to be swept or knocked overboard.
'I know what I would do,' said Gresham, eyes clenched in worry, his whole body showing the tension inside him. *What?' said Mannion, 'Sign up as a spy for France and Holland, so every country in Europe hates you instead of just half of 'em?'
'No,' said Gresham, hardly listening. 'I'd head straight for Plymouth. With this wind the English fleet is bottled up, can't get out. The advantage the English have is their speed. If Sidonia sailed pell-mell into Plymouth harbour the English couldn't manoeuvre, and he could board and take half the English fleet, maybe more.' Gresham waved a hand around. The huge wooden castles at the bow and stern of the San Salvador were there to contain soldiers who could pour down fire on an enemy deck from a great height, grapple and sweep a mass of men down.
'Might lose some ships,' said Mannion. 'Difficult entrance, Plymouth.'
'What would a few ships matter if you sank or boarded half the English fleet?' asked Gresham. What would Sidonia decide?
Gathered in the great cabin of the San Martin, Medina Sidonia's commanders were pressing him hard.
'We must detach a portion of our fleet and attack Plymouth! We have the chance to halve the numbers facing us and take this campaign by the throat! It is our golden opportunity!'
Sidonia sat impassively, his mind racing beneath the quiet and dignified face he presented to his senior commanders. Who was he, a land-locked noble, to take decisions on behalf of these men with their infinite knowledge of the sea? Why had Parma not responded to his increasingly urgent letters? It was two months since he had received his last communication. The fast pinnaces could take and return messages within days. Soon he would have no option but to halt the Armada, perhaps off the Isle of Wight, until he could ensure that Parma's army was ready and waiting to embark.
It was not the risk that scared him. Warfare was all about risk. It was the fear that a simple change of wind, or finding that Plymouth was better defended than they believed, could mean he had thrown some of his best ships away almost before the campaign had started.
'The entrance to Plymouth is narrow and dangerous,' he said finally. 'We have the strictest orders from the King to sail to meet the Duke's army and not simply to seek a sea battle. Our prime task, our only task, is to rendezvous with the Duke of Parma's army.'
True, except he was already proposing to disobey the King's orders by stopping off the Isle of Wight.
'We will proceed in defensive formation to the Isle of Wight and, if needs be, await communication with the Duke of Parma.' He turned to one of his admirals, who bore the scars of sixty years of fighting, with a half smile, if we have to halt our fleet there, then you will have your sea battle. With that possibility in mind, I cannot risk depleting our strength so early on in our campaign.'
The Admiral grunted his agreement, grudgingly recognising the logic. Others were tight-lipped, edgy. Yet they were good men, thought Sidonia, good and brave men who had proved themselves as soldiers and as patriots time and time again. Surely God in whose name they fought would recognise what they were? Surely He would recognise the justice of their cause?
From half a mile away, Gresham's eyes strained to see through the rain squalls that sent needles of spray into his eyes. There! The boats were leaving the San Martin. Slowly the bobbing dots crept across the sea, back to their own ships, and slowly the Armada began to adopt a new formation. A half-moon shape, the best fighting ships on each wing, and in the centre guarding the pathetically slow urcas and a vanguard of the swiftest and most heavily-armed vessels, ready to race in support of any endangered vessel. A defensive formation! Sidonia had decided not to take the gamble on Plymouth but to keep the Armada together.
'Are you rememberin' Cadiz?' asked Mannion drily. The mad-cap dash into a harbour Drake had hardly scouted, the throwing of caution to the winds, captains huffing and puffing and desperately trying to catch up with their commander. 'Bit different, innit? Maybe the Duke does need your advice after all. Or maybe the Spanish need Drake on their side.'
The captain of the barque Golden Hinde did not know whether his excitement at sighting the vast fleet of Spanish ships was greater than his terror at the sheer size of their enemy. Flushed and badly out of breath, he poured out his news to Drake. He had finally tracked him down on the b
owling green.
Drake turned away, looking out to sea. From land there was no sight of the Spanish as yet. Shit! Shit! The wind was pinning the English in harbour, the tide pushing them further in. What if the Spanish were even now sending ten or fifteen of their best galleons to crush the English fleet before it could move? Shit! They would have to start warping as many vessels as possible out of harbour, a laborious, back-breaking job of cables and longboats. And a job that took time. Time they didn't have. He turned, ready to give the orders, run down to the quayside to supervise the business himself, praying every minute that the horizon would not darken with Spanish sails.
His Secretary came up beside him, whispered in his ear. 'My Lord, they will act as quickly without your presence.' Even quicker, thought the Secretary privately, without you yelling and bawling at everyone. 'You have the chance to go down in history, to establish the morale of your men, if you show you have time to finish the game and beat the Spaniards. Because, in truth, there is nothing you can usefully do.'
Drake's brow darkened. He turned to the gathering crowd of men. 'Warp the ships out of harbour. Pull in every able-bodied man on shore if you have to. As for myself,' he raised the volume of his voice to a near-shout, 'There's time enough to finish the game and beat the Spaniards!'
The roar of approval was the first good thing he had heard all day.
'Good God!' said the young English sailor as the mist and driving spray parted for a moment and he saw a sight that took his breath away. A hundred, two hundred sails, spread out across the ocean as if they owned every single drop of water. 'Holy Mary Mother of God!' He crossed himself, the unsure cockiness he had professed to his mates replaced by a sick feeling of fear.
The explosion was the most terrible thing Gresham had ever seen. They had sighted the Lizard through heavy squalls and scudding cloud, the Armada's desperately slow pace set by the unwieldy freighters. Then they saw the English sails, a: small squadron to their left, between the Armada and the shore, the main fleet behind them. Damn! The English had the wind-gauge. There was a gasp from a Spanish seaman as an English ship skidded across the waves, appearing to be sailing almost directly into the wind. A tiny English boat was sent to within extreme range, fired a popgun and turned away.
The galleon's grave hg-3 Page 26
