by J. D. Davies
‘Grandfather’s papers,’ I said. ‘We found them just now, in the collapsed—’
‘Silence, child!’ cried Fensom. ‘Your grandfather’s papers, you say. A likely excuse for treasonable correspondence, I say.’
Fensom looked at Tristram, as though for approbation, but my uncle said nothing, seemingly waiting for the Roundhead officer to make a decision.
‘Well, Captain,’ said my grandmother, ‘you seek proof of treason. You seek proof of my elder grandson’s whereabouts. Do you expect him to appear miraculously before you, surrendering abjectly to the omniscient Captain Fensom, or are you willing to make even the slightest effort to achieve that end? Look there, Captain. If my other grandson, here, is correct, you see before you private papers of a family of renowned Cavaliers, or malignants as you term them, who have had to endure compounding, sequestration and all the other exactions of this Rump Parliament. Go to it, man. Go through the papers. Prove my grandson right, or disprove him. Or, perchance, is it that you cannot read?’
Fensom’s face seemed drained of blood. He no longer appeared a proud Parliamentarian officer, but the very image of a scapegrace village miller being upbraided by a great lady for the poor quality of his bread.
Finally, he took the half-dozen steps to the table and picked up two or three scraps of paper, then the same number again.
‘Ancient scribbling,’ he said. ‘Unless it is in code, and the paper discoloured to make it seem old. I have heard of such things.’
‘If it please you, Captain—’
One of Fensom’s men: his voice unmistakeably that of Hertfordshire.
‘Yes, Dunkley?’
‘Have a look at that piece, sir. It was the one on top of the pile I carried down. The one with what looks like a wine stain.’
‘A literate trooper of the New Model,’ said grandmaman. ‘Truly, we live in a new age of manifold wonders.’
Fensom took the paper, raised it to the light coming in through what had once been one of the ancient monastery’s transept windows, and read aloud again; which, I suddenly realised, was the only way he could read. I, who was but eleven, was already a long way beyond that.
‘Francis Drake,’ he read. ‘Sir fucking –Y– your pardon, my lady!’
My grandmother gave him one of the thin smiles she usually reserved for the Reverend Jermy, our ancient vicar, or else for Goodwife Barcock whenever she undercooked the fish.
‘You have it, Captain. I am entirely familiar with my late husband’s opinion of Sir Francis Drake, and of the language in which he chose to express it. Indeed, the sentence you hold in your hand seems distinctly mild compared to some of the things the late Earl said about the late Sir Francis in my presence. And obscenity is the solitary field in which the English tongue might be regarded as superior to my native French.’
‘Captain Fensom,’ said Tristram, ‘my father has been dead for over six years. I would respectfully suggest that you are unlikely to find proof of the current Earl’s whereabouts, or of this family’s treason, among these ancient papers of his.’
I almost felt pity for Ezekiel Fensom: he had to contend with those inexorable forces, my uncle and my grandmother, and even with the spirit of my dead grandfather. I thought I could almost detect the ghost of a smile on the visage in the Van Dyck portrait. Yet the sometime miller of Willington still rallied, perhaps remembering that he wore the uniform of an officer of the New Model Army and of the fledgling English republic.
‘But still, Doctor Quinton, I have orders to—’
‘I think it is time we spoke privately, Captain.’
Without waiting for a response, Tristram led Fensom away, out into the courtyard that had once been the abbey cloister. The New Model captain could have shot him, or arrested him, or simply said ‘no’; but he did none of these things. He went with my uncle as meekly as a lamb. I went over to the window. The Roundhead soldiers looked at each other, perhaps wondering whether they should order me not to move, but grandmaman glowered at them, and I ignored them. Through the window, I could see the two men disappear into what had once been the undercroft of the monks’ refectory: disappear with Tristram Quinton’s arm upon Ezekiel Fensom’s shoulder.
Long minutes passed. Herry sat upon the arm of grandmaman’s wheeled chariot, chattering to her in French, at which my twin was considerably more proficient than I. For my part, I went to the head of the table and sat in the Earl’s chair, affecting to study my grandfather’s papers.
At length, Fensom and Tristram Quinton returned. The former seemed at once abashed and furious, the latter merely inscrutable.
‘Get the others,’ Fensom barked at his men. Then he turned to my grandmother. ‘My Lady Ravensden,’ he said. ‘My apologies for inconveniencing you.’
He bowed his head, albeit so little and so quickly that one could have blinked and missed it entirely. Then he turned on his heel and left. After a minute or so more, we heard hooves upon cobbles. Herry ran out to see them off, but I stayed where I was. I turned, and saw grandmaman staring up at my uncle, her head tilted slightly to the left.
‘Ah, Tristram,’ she said softly, ‘qu’es-tu devenu?’
‘Votre fils, maman. Your son, and a Quinton. Nothing more matters.’ Then Tristram Quinton turned to me. ‘Well done, Matt. You were brave, if obstinate. You could have had your head blown off, and then where would we be, if your brother succumbs to his wounds at Quinton Hall?’
‘Then you would be Earl of Ravensden, uncle.’
‘Which I have no desire whatever to be, so if only to assure my own comfort, I shall have to teach you the arts of compromise and bending with the wind, methinks.’
‘Is that what they are called these days, my son?’ said grandmaman. ‘We had other words for them, once. Your father certainly had words for them.’
‘Ah yes, my father’s words,’ said Tristram. ‘Let us look at them, shall we, rather than trying to put them into his dead mouth? Show us these papers you have discovered, Matthew.’
I arranged the papers upon the table. My grandmother picked up a few pieces, Tristram rather more. For a few minutes, they studied them intently, an act which ensured that they did not need to look at or talk to each other.
‘The Earl’s handwriting,’ said grandmaman at length. ‘There is no mistaking it. He had écriture diabolique, my husband. A mighty heart, but atrocious handwriting. This second hand, though – this must be Iles, I think.’
‘Iles?’ said Tristram. ‘Who is Iles?’
The old Countess smiled. ‘Ah, young Tris—’ Her son was over forty years old at this time – ‘I had forgotten that he was before your day, or that you would have been very young when he—’Her mind seemed to drift away, and she was silent for a time; something that occurred with increasing frequency. But then she was with us again, and all was well. ‘Who was Nicholas Iles? Ah, now. That is a question, indeed.’
‘And one that you do not intend to answer, Maman?’
‘The old should not be asked questions, Tristram. But if they are, they should not be expected to give answers. Beyond a certain age, we have done with all of that. You will find that in your time, my son, and you too in yours, young Matthew. This third hand, though – this is difficult.’
‘He writes in English, but I do not think it was his native language,’ said Tris, staring at one of the torn pieces of paper.
‘In which case it is probably the Hungarian.’
‘Hungarian, Maman?’
‘Laszlo Horvath. Or at least, that was the name he chose to call himself. For a time, at least. His, too, is a story.’ Tristram stared at her intently, willing her to say more, but she was deep in thought, screwing up her eyes to study the difficult writing on the fragments. ‘These pieces all seem to be from the time just before Queen Elizabeth died. The time when I met and married the Earl.’ Grandmaman smiled, and closed her eyes. It was though she were transporting herself back fifty years, to the time when she was young, to the time when – ‘And, of course, th
ere was the conspiracy of Gowrie, and the rebellion of Essex. And the affair of the Invisible Armada—’
‘Invincible, Maman,’ said Tristram. ‘The Invincible Armada.’
‘When I say Invisible, mon fils, I mean Invisible. Do not assume that the old have lost their wits entirely. But look, here are papers about my husband’s battle in the Merhonour, which brought him to me. And the battles at Kinsale and Sesimbra Bay. And the great fight with the Spanish galleys, that seems to be in these papers, too. And all the time, the certain knowledge that the old Queen would soon be dead, and the greatest question of the day – who was to succeed her?’ She studied the pieces of paper in her hand. ‘I wonder if any of them, even my husband, dared to write down the truth of all of that?’
In my eleven years of life, I had never seen my uncle Tristram shocked. But now, the rational, pragmatic man of science was clearly shocked beyond all measure.
‘And you knew that truth, Maman?’
The old lady seemed offended that her son could even consider asking her such a thing.
‘Mais oui – of course I did, mon cher Tristram—’
Herry ran into the hall, bounding like an excited hound.
‘The Roundheads have gone! They’re beyond the mill leet, riding down the Bedford road!’
‘Très, très bon,’ said the Dowager Countess, arching her hands and fingers in the eternal gesture of prayer.
‘I did not blink!’ cried Herry, triumphantly. ‘You saw that, Maggot? When that vile captain said I must be a good actress, when I pretended it was the first time I’d heard that our brother was wounded? And I was! I was a good actress!’
‘The best, sis,’ I said, grinning.
Indeed she was. Perhaps my dear twin might have had a glorious career on the stage after the King returned, when women were permitted to tread the boards: might have, had she not been a noblewoman, the daughter and sister of earls, for whom such a vocation was inconceivable, and had she not been dead a little over two years later, just as she was blooming into the woman she was destined never to be.
Tristram rose from the table.
‘Then it is time for me to return to the patient,’ he said.
‘When can I come and see him?’ I demanded.
‘Patience, Matthew,’ said grandmaman. ‘Your brother is still very weak, and must not be overly taxed. It is a miracle that Musk brought him back to us alive, after the wounds he took in the Worcester fight.’
‘But I’m bored!’ I cried. Herry rolled her eyes, as though, once again, her twin brother was behaving so immaturely. ‘Although this, today, has been exciting – finding grandfather’s papers, and pulling the wool over the eyes of that idiot Fensom—’
‘Well, then,’ said Tris, ‘we must find something for you to do, young Matthew, to keep you out of mischief. For some weeks, at least, I will be too busy tending your brother to teach you, and you claim to have outgrown the school in Bedford—’
‘They are dolts, Uncle! The master is a Welsh oaf, while apart from good Dick Norris, the rest of the students are lumpen simpletons. And what need does the heir to an earldom have of school?’
‘We shall have that argument another time, nephew. Yet again.’ Tristram shook his head. ‘But in the meantime, it seems to me that there is something useful that you can do – indeed, something I’m sure you will enjoy. All these papers of your grandfather’s, and of these other two men, Iles and Horvath – read them, Matt. Put them into order.’
‘Oui,’ said grandmaman emphatically. ‘I would like that very much, Matthew. I would like to read of those times once more. I was young and beautiful then, and your grandfather and I had such glorious adventures. And if there are gaps, I shall do my best to fill them. Yes, you can write down my part in the story – I shall tell it to you in French, to improve your skill in my language. Your French will need to be very fine by the time the King comes into his own again. So go it, mon cher. Put our adventures into order, dear grandson.’
*
That I did.
So even as I despatch a footman to bring to my London house the old oak chest containing the papers, I remember the astonishing story that I learned from them. Determined to honour a promise made to a ghost, and ignoring my doctors’ dire imprecations, I leave my bed and walk slowly, unsteadily upon sticks, to my desk by the window. There, I take up a quill, dip it in the ink, and put it to a virgin sheet of paper.
The Voyages, Battles, and Travails, of Matthew Quinton, eighth Earl of Ravensden, in the years between 1598 and 1603, during the Reign of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth of Blessed Memory.
Down in the street, a drunken Jacobite is crying out for the Pretender, calling tipsily upon God to preserve His Majesty King James and his son Charles Edward, rightful Prince of Wales. He is set upon at once by a Hanoverian mob bawling ‘God save King George!’ I observe the forced departure of teeth from a bloodied mouth, and hear the crack of an arm being broken.
I smile.
‘A plague on both your houses,’ I mutter. ‘King James. King George. If only you knew, you ale-sodden shit-for-brains simpletons. If only you knew.’
And then I begin to write.
‘Sir Francis Drake. Sir—’
CHAPTER TWO
1598
Torn fragment from the Diurnal of Nicholas Iles, 23 November 1598
…just as I stabbed upward with my dagger and sliced open the balls of the Spaniard who was charging me, sword raised, yelling ‘Para el rey Felipe y Santiago!’
The man fell to the deck, screaming piteously as he tried to stop his life-blood pouring out of his sack. I heard a familiar growl behind me.
‘Not a bad thrust. For a poet, at any rate.’
I turned, and there he was.
A tall, broad man of middle years, brown beard tinged with grey, clad in breastplate and morrion helmet. His face, clean shaven, weather-tanned and scarred: yet still possessing a youthfulness about the eyes, and a beauteous smile, that belied his warlike appearance. In his hand, a wide-bladed sword of middling length. The kind that was unfashionable at court, where the long, thin rapier now held sway. The kind that could still seem like a razor-edged feather as it lightly severed the neck of the unfortunate enemy pikeman who opposed Matthew Quinton, Earl of Ravensden, captain of Her Majesty’s ship the Merhonour.
Truly, here was England’s Hercules, her Agamemnon, her Alexander!
No.
I have sworn to eschew hyperbole, to eschew poetry itself, in this account. This is not a history: that low, cursed form which distorts and exaggerates to suit the malicious whims of the writer.
Away with fictions, short of our stout man,
The Poet must now turn Historian –
His fights, his fights, his fights, his victories
His conquests, his trophies, and yet no lies!
No. No lies, Nicholas.
What I write here is but the raw bone, the stuff from which those who come after me can write their lauded dramas and high-flown verses exalting the legend that is Matthew of Ravensden. Or perhaps it is the source I will use myself, if ever I return to writing for the stage; that is, if mountebanks like Dekker, Chettle and Shakespeare do not still monopolise all on the Southwark shore. And if I can obtain a pardon. But that is another matter, for another day.
So, then: facts, and facts alone.
The Spaniard that I had split open continued to convulse and scream, his blood spurting over the deck to form an ugly puddle around the Earl’s feet. In that moment our great guns below decks bellowed again. I heard the solid balls smash into the sides of the galley that opposed us. The galley that had managed to manoeuvre close enough in light winds to pound us mercilessly with her vast bow cannon, and to get boarders across onto our forecastle. Scores of boarders.
‘Write this, poet,’ shouted the Earl, as he stabbed through the heart of another Spaniard who had managed to reach the quarterdeck. ‘Write what you see here. Over yonder, in their disciplined ranks and gleaming armour, stand the
invincible tercios of Castile. Look how they level their pikes and prime their muskets. They are veterans. They are the best, and they know it. These are the men that have conquered half the world, Master Iles. And look what stands before them.’
Merhonour’s crew were in a great mass in the after half of the ship’s waist, forward of the quarterdeck. Roughly clad, some bare chested or bare footed, all dirty, carrying a fantastical assortment of weapons, they resembled no more than a mob playing a particularly violent game of village football. They bunched together for protection, but cowered visibly as the mighty Spanish phalanx began to advance along the deck.
My Lord took hold of the rigging and hauled himself up onto the quarterdeck rail, defying the musket fire of the Spaniards and waving his sword boldly about his head. Lo here, Great Ravensden, in whom do dwell both Mars and Mercury, gods stout and fell –
No, Nicholas. His words. Only his words.
‘Englishmen!’ he cried. The sailors’ eyes turned to him. ‘Be not afeared, my brave English lads! Are we not Harry the Fifth’s men reborn, the few facing down the massed thousands of the enemy? Are we not one with Dick Grenville’s lads on Revenge?’ Still the Spanish advanced, barely deigning to fire their muskets, confident that their pikes would finish us off. ‘Aye, my lads, Master Iles, here, will write your legend into the history books! You have the words, do you not, Master Iles?’
‘That I do, My Lord!’
‘Then be ready with them, poet! Englishmen! Merhonours! On my command! Ready – ready—’ Still the Spanish came on. Their first rank was now at the mainmast, the pike-points already stabbing toward the front rows of our men, who shrank back before them. ‘Ready – now!’
Upon Lord Ravensden’s command, the entire body of our men flung themselves flat upon the deck, like plague-corpses falling mown down by a summer pestilence.
And now it was time for my part to be played, as I had played it so often upon the boards of Southwark’s shore.
