by J. D. Davies
‘The second plausible candidate, my lord?’ I asked.
‘The second plausible candidate,’ said my husband. ‘Well, for many, that would be King James’ cousin, the Lady Arbella Stuart. The same bloodline, so as close a relation to the present Queen. But born in England, which many see as an advantage. After all, if an alien cannot own land in the realm, how can an alien possibly be its greatest landowner? Her weaknesses – well, she is yet another woman, and said to be a remarkably stupid one, which of course her present Majesty most certainly is not. So many of those who dislike the succession of King James precisely because he is seen to be a mature and experienced king, and chafe under Queen Elizabeth because she can outwit them at every turn, favour the Lady Arbella because she is seen to be weak and malleable. That is, malleable by those who promote her succession, naturally.’
‘And the third candidate, Matthew?’
‘The Archduchess Isabella, Infanta of Spain, ruler of Flanders along with her husband. King Philip’s sister. Descended from our King Edward the Third.’
‘A woman, a Catholic, and a Spaniard, the country with whom you English are at war? Forgive me if I am naïve in this, husband, but those sound to me like quite significant disqualifications.’
‘Ah, my dear, that is where we enter the infernal realm of politics. For you see, the two most important men in England, both favourites of our present Queen, are mortal enemies, so whichever candidate the one favours, the other will naturally support his or her arch-rival.’
‘Milord Essex and the hunchback, Cecil. Their hatred is notorious even here in France. The one a dashing soldier, the other a spider spinning web after web of schemes and plots.’
‘You may say that. Others may say that one is an incompetent mountebank, the other a devious timeserver. I have no time for either of them, Louise. Essex nearly cost me my life in the Cadiz expedition, and has stymied my hopes of commanding every fleet set out these last few years. And I would not trust Cecil beyond using his hump to strike matches on.’
‘But whom do they wish to see upon the throne?’
‘Essex seeks to act the kingmaker for James of Scotland, Cecil the same for the Infanta Isabella. Do not look so surprised, dearest, she has many advantages. Cecil seeks peace with Spain, and there are many in England who favour that after nearly fifteen years of war. The country is sick of endless taxation, and of the war-cripples, war-widows and war-orphans that burden all our purses. But the Infanta succeeding to our throne would bring us into a union with Flanders. England joined to the Spanish Netherlands – what a prospect that would be, with the two most flourishing economies in Europe joined as one! A more promising united kingdom than one between England and poor, frozen Scotland, that much is certain.’
‘Then you favour Cecil, and the Infanta?’
He smiled: that winning, boyish smile which had conquered my heart.
‘Oh, I did not say that, Louise. I did not say that at all.’
And with that, he went off to inspect his accursed cordage. An hour later, I was put into the ship’s boat, given three huzzahs by the crew, and rowed ashore. From the headland of the Pointe de Chemoulin, I watched the Merhonour weigh anchor. I saw her sails fill, and her hull dip to meet the Atlantic breakers, the spray breaking over the part I now knew to call the beakhead. I saw the ensign of England spill out at her stern. And I saw my lord, standing at the very highest point of the poop, waving at me until he was but a speck in the distance, then out of sight altogether. I turned and boarded the coach that would take me back to my father’s estate, where my child would be born, using the journey to try (and fail) to deduce exactly which candidate for the English throne my husband favoured.
And in the weeks that followed, while I did little but eat, read, miss my husband terribly, and grow ever larger, My Lord ventured out once again against the might of the Spanish empire.
CHAPTER FOUR
From the Earl of Ravensden’s Journal, July 1599
‘Fog so thick, you can’t see a whore’s tit through it,’ I said.
I felt the godly Carver, by my side, bridle at that. But he was a dutiful man, and said merely, ‘At least it’ll keep any Spanish scouts in port, My Lord.’
‘And any prizes, too’, I said. ‘As if the news I’m off their coast isn’t enough to keep the Dons skulking in their harbours. Nothing off Bilbao, Santander or Gijon. The men are getting restive, Mister Carver. To keep them in good humour, they need Spanish gold and Spanish throats to slit.’
A bell sounded somewhere across the water. That was Dreadnought, our fellow galleon. Somewhere further inshore would be the Swiftsure, which I had ordered to look into The Groyne, as we English call it: the port that the Dons call Coruna.
‘With respect, My Lord, the men are restive enough about not being paid for a year.’
‘They have cause to complain? I haven’t had a penny off the Queen in five years, and I have craven arse-crawling courtier children promoted over my head. Our illustrious admiral, Sir Richard Fuckwit Leveson, for one. Why, if it wasn’t for the need to provide for a new wife and child, I’d – ‘
A gun fired, very close by. There was a grey, indistinct shape looming out of the fog. Within a moment, it had become the hull, masts and sails of a ship.
‘God’s death!’ I cried, and drew my sword. ‘Master Gunner! Make ready to fire larboard guns! Muskets! Pikes! Swords! Man the wales!’
Our men were already at the guns, which had been run out since the fog came down, and Gunner Skipworth set about his business at once. I was determined that we would not be caught napping by a galley or two sneaking out of The Groyne. Our bronze culverins and demi-culverins were loaded and primed, gun captains standing over the touch-holes with lighted linstocks at the ready. I needed only to give my word of command –
‘Sir, it’s the Swiftsure!’ cried Carver. Now I could make her out too, as her captain brought her up abeam of us.
What in God’s name was Bredgate doing, running in so fast? He could easily have collided with us, or we could have blown him to oblivion in the belief he was a Spaniard, as we very nearly did.
‘Ho, the Merhonour!’ Bredgate bellowed through his speaking-trumpet.
‘Ho, Matt Bredgate! What ails you, man?’ I replied by means of my own.
‘What ails England, rather, My Lord! The fog’s lifting inshore, but before it did, I took a fishing boat fresh out of Sada. You’ll want to hear what her skipper has to say, and see the proof of it for yourself.’
A half-turn of the glass later, after my discomfiting interview with Bredgate’s captured fisherman, the Merhonour and Dreadnought weighed and began to sail south with the Swiftsure, under courses alone until we were clear of the fog. We were a fine sight, three proud galleons of England in company in the Spanish king’s own waters. The few fishing boats at sea scattered at our approach. Oh, they knew us well now, from Galicia all the way down the coast of Old Castile and Portugal to Cadiz, for we had been plaguing their coast for weeks. They knew what Englishmen had done, and could do, upon their shores.
The rocky, heavily forested coast of Galicia lay ahead, King Philip’s arsenal at Ferrol away to larboard, beyond the horizon. My officers and my gentlemen volunteers, Iles and Horvath, were massing in the forecastle, but I sought a better view. Taking hold of the mainmast shrouds, I hauled myself up into the rigging, finally swinging out to pull myself into the crow’s nest. I felt my forty-year-old bones protest. Too fucking old for this, Ravensden, I chided myself. You’ll soon be for the lubber’s hole, and then in short order for the grave.
The lookout, a bright Dorset lad named Walbridge, nearly jumped from his perch, such was his shock at seeing his captain, an Earl of England, joining him. But in truth, I loved being in the tops, looking out to the horizon, feeling the rocking of the ship upon the sea and the freshness of the wind upon my face, leaving all the world’s cares far below.
‘Well, Walbridge, have we sight of The Groyne yet?’
‘Coming toward the
eastern arm of the bay now, My Lord.’ He pointed at the shore, some three or four miles away. ‘Yonder, the Tower of Hercules.’
I screwed up my eyes, and could just make out the tall old Roman light-tower upon its headland, on the western side of the bay…
The Dowager Countess
No, Matthew, there were as yet no telescopes, although it can have been barely ten years before they were invented. Your grandfather, being of an inquisitive and mathematical bent, learned of the new device in its very earliest days, and spent a fortune to acquire an example from one of the Dutchmen who first made them. He claimed to be the first man in England to own one, and always said he wished they had existed sooner, for days such as this in the year Ninety-Nine. One day, you will inherit his telescope, although I cannot imagine you will follow him and become a seaman. You lack the devil that drove him, and are much too bright ever to contemplate such a strange life. But it is a fine object, and will impress curious visitors if you place it on display in your house.
The Earl of Ravensden
…and, beyond it, the Saint Anthony Castle. I could see the waves crashing onto the shore of the enemy’s kingdom, beneath the castle walls. Now we were coming round, south by west, aided by a westerly breeze that would allow us to run back north for Biscay if the Dons sent anything out after us. Besides, we were race-built, lacking the cumbersome old-fashioned fore- and stern-castles, and could outrun anything they might send to sea. We were the ships that had defeated the Invincible Armada, and we feared nought.
More and more of the bay of The Groyne came into view –
‘Jesus, Mary and the fucking saints in Heaven!’ I cried, although the Quintons had not been Papist for forty years. ‘Tell me what you see, Walbridge. Tell me I am not dreaming.’
‘My Lord, I see a great fleet – countless masts—’
‘How many ships, Walbridge? How many masts? Come on, man, has not Master Carver spent hours training you for this very task?’
Of course, I was unwilling to admit that my own eyesight was no longer good enough to enable me to make such a count myself. I could see distant blurs, but did their number match the alarming intelligence from the captured fisherman?
‘At least forty ships, My Lord. The same of galleys, I think.’
‘The fisherman made it seventy ships and a hundred galleys. Could he be right, lad?’
‘He – he could be, My Lord – the harbour is so densely packed, it’s impossible to count them accurately – and perhaps they have more at Ferrol—’
‘Which we couldn’t look into, because of the fog. You know what else the fisherman said, Walbridge, so terrified was he that he was going to be tortured and executed by El Diablo Blanco – you know that’s what the Dons call me, lad, the White Devil, from my days out in the Carib Sea?’
‘No, My Lord. Yes, My Lord. The White Devil. As you say.’
‘The fisherman said the Adelantado himself was in command – the Count of Santa Gadea, their equivalent of our Lord High Admiral. A veteran commander, Santa Gadea is. Captured some of the Turks’ galleys at Lepanto, near thirty years ago. So he’s a proven fighting admiral. A very different proposition to the addled arse-brain Medina Sidonia who came against us in Eighty Eight, that’s for certain. But our fisherman said still more than that, lad. He said the King of Spain himself, the new King Philip, was coming aboard to command his army in person. So tell me what we’re looking at, Walbridge, and tell me what I must report to the Queen.’
The boy looked out toward the distant masts, and the vast profusion of gold-and-scarlet banners flying from the walls of The Groyne. He shook his head, still not wanting to believe what he was seeing. But he was a good lad, bright and brave. When he spoke, his voice was clear, with only the slightest hint of trembling.
‘We are looking at a new Spanish Armada, My Lord. You must report to the Queen that England is about to be invaded.’
‘Too fucking right, lad. And just be thankful you or I won’t be in the room when Her Majesty gets that joyous piece of news.’
Nicholas Iles
We saluted the squat round walls of Pendennis Castle, high on its headland to our left – to larboard, as the seamen insist on saying – and the nearly identical Saint Mawes, lower down, off to the right, the Cross of Saint George flying proudly from the ramparts of both. They replied in turn, filling the great bay of Falmouth with gunsmoke. It was a splendid sight, one worthy of an artist’s brush or a poet’s pen. But the only poet witnessing it had other matters in hand.
We had barely come to an anchor before the ship’s longboat was hauled alongside and a boat crew assigned to row me ashore. My Lord handed me the papers that he had just completed, reminded me of the verbal instructions he had given me in his cabin as we entered the bay, and then did something that shook me to the core. He extended his hand, something he had never done before.
‘God go with you, Master Iles,’ he said. I took the proffered hand, and endeavoured not to cry out as the powerful fingers very nearly crushed my own. ‘In the year Eighty-Eight, when the Invincible Armada approached, we lit a chain of beacons to warn that the enemy was approaching. You, and you alone, are England’s beacon-chain now, poet.’
‘I shall do my utmost, My Lord,’ I said.
‘Good lad.’
As I stepped ashore onto Penryn wharf, and then mounted the first of the many horses that awaited me, I felt both the burden and the thrill of my responsibility. There was not a moment to be lost, My Lord had said. For all we knew, this second Armada might be but a few days behind us. The favourable winds and benign weather that had brought us home from the north coast of Spain could well be aiding the enemy equally. So there was no time for me to ride to London, deliver the news, wait for the realm’s governors to debate, and then for orders to come back down, oh so tardily, to the outlying counties. Hence, acting in the name of the Earl of Ravensden alone and praying that the note he had written to that effect would indemnify me against ill consequences, I, Nicholas Iles, was to warn the kingdom. I was to begin England’s defence against invasion.
In practice, this proved not to be as great a mission as it may sound. In the first few towns and villages that I rode through without stopping, I bellowed the sort of noble phrases that I would have wanted one of my characters to declaim upon the stage: ‘The Spanish are coming! The Inquisition and Popery are upon the wave! A new Armada sails! Call out the militia! To arms, Englishmen! For God and Queen Elizabeth!’
These words provoked one of two reactions. In the more timorous places, my message was greeted by the terrified screams of women and children, with the men abandoning both as they ran for the hills. In the more sceptical towns and villages, mocking boys and the legions of beggars who infested the land pelted me with stones and shit, crying the likes of ‘Fuck off, you lying whoreson!’ The consequence was that my canters down high streets turned into gallops, and my shouted warnings became shorter and more abrupt: ‘Spaniards! Shift your arses or die!’
It was a similar tale in the towns where I stopped to eat, to change horses or to sleep. In Bodmin, a hundred men sat around me in an inn as I told them my story, then moved off, grim-faced and silent, to open the county armoury and distribute weapons. But in Yeovil, I was thrown into the town gaol as a vagrant and a madman, only securing release thanks to the fortunate intervention of a one-legged old soldier who had served under My Lord in the Cadiz expedition and recognised his signature.
Somehow, though, I got the message across. Indeed, the nearer I got to London, the more I tended to find that my message had outrun me, and was galloping well ahead. Thus when I requested ale, cheese and herring in a tavern at Hounslow while a new horse was prepared for me, a brazen wench took one look at me and said, ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, spreading such lies. Every man knows the King of Spain, the Holy Roman Emperor and the Pope have already landed in Ireland in person with two hundred ships and fifty thousand men. Lord Ravensden himself rode through here three days ago, bearing the ne
ws. Yellow Sally, yonder, saw him, she did. Eight foot tall he is.’
Thus I was mightily relieved when I rode through Chiswick and saw and smelled ahead of me the familiar cloud of coal-smoke that rose from the city of London.
Laszlo Horvath:
I write for two reasons. First, it is a means of improving my English. I have need of improvement, if I am to become what I seek to become. Second, it may be that I will have need of a written record. I am still unsure of English law, which seems a strange and impenetrable business. For instance, there is this notion that twelve ignorant peasants, plucked from the street or the plough, are qualified to judge whether or not a man should hang. Curious. It will be best, I think, for me to write as much as possible. If the twelve men set to judge me cannot read, and I lay before them an abundance of writing, how then can they condemn me?
Conversely – a word that I have learned today, and of which I am proud – conversely, writing provides me with the evidence I shall require in due course. It is clear to me now that my task will not be accomplished in a matter of days, or even weeks. This will be a business of many months, perhaps years. But I am a patient man. A very patient man. Yet even my patience is dependent on one thing: that there remains a kingdom called England. I saw with my own eyes the multitude of masts in the Spanish harbour. So for the moment, there is no doubt of what I must do. My sword must be drawn, and it must be at the service of Queen Elizabeth and of Matthew Quinton, captain of the Merhonour.
So be it.
Nicholas Iles:
‘Master Secretary,’ said the functionary to the hunchback, ‘this is the man sent from My Lord of Ravensden, at anchor in the harbour of Penryn.’
