by J. D. Davies
‘Eastward, Captain!’
‘Thanks be unto God,’ said Rugg, a man whose religion usually consisted chiefly of charms and suspiciously pagan oaths.
During the next hours, the hulls became clearer through the rain.
‘The Merhonour!’ I cried.
‘Aye, and flying a vice-admiral’s flag at the fore, too,’ said Rugg. ‘It seems My Lord Ravensden has prospered. And I expect he’ll want you back, to chronicle his mighty deeds.’
‘I shall base a character upon you, Captain Rugg,’ I said, smiling.
In truth, I had no intention of returning to the Merhonour, at any rate in the immediate term; too many aboard her knew me by my true name, and several of them were bound to know that a fat reward could be obtained by reporting my presence to Secretary Cecil. But my light-hearted aside had a strange effect upon Griffin Rugg.
‘Sakes, no, lad!’ he cried, his face ashen. It was the first time I had ever seen the old warrior seem genuinely afraid. ‘There’s a wise woman outside Barnstaple who swears that if you have your portrait painted, or your name appears in a book or a play, then the devil steals your soul.’
‘My Lord has had his portrait painted,’ I said through my shock. ‘His name has appeared in many books, and I am writing a play about him. Does that mean the devil has stolen his soul, Captain?’
The old man did not answer. Instead, he looked away, toward the approaching fleet.
The Earl of Ravensden:
Trumpets blew, pikes, halberds and muskets were brought smartly to attention, and the crew of the Warspite gave three huzzahs as her distinguished visitor stepped aboard. He was a little younger than me: a tall, extravagantly dressed fellow, clad in dark satin and cloth of gold, with an open face, a grave expression and arched eyebrows. But the two features that distinguished him most were the astonishing bush of curling black hair adorning his head and the thick cloud of smoke that always surrounded him, pouring forth from the clay pipe that hardly ever left his mouth.
He acknowledged my admiral perfunctorily.
‘Sir Richard,’ he said. ‘Your fleet’s arrival is timely.’
‘Thank you, My Lord. We will do our utmost to support—’
‘My Lord of Ravensden! Damn me, Matt Quinton in the very flesh.’ He grasped me by the shoulders. ‘You won me a fair purse, Matt – I’d wagered you’d leave the Tower a free man, rather than having your head cut off! And so you have, man. So you have.’
Although his intent was light-hearted, he spoke the words as gravely as an Archbishop delivering a sermon.
I bowed my head, smiling as I did so.
‘I am always content if I can improve your lordship’s condition,’ I said merrily, as sycophantic as a Cecil.
I looked up, and caught the look of utter discomfiture on the face of Sir Richard Leveson. Admiral he might have been, but he knew full well that in the council of war we were about to embark upon, he would have to defer to this new arrival, Charles Blount, eighth Baron Mountjoy, the Lord Deputy of Ireland: to all intents and purposes, Her Majesty’s viceroy upon that benighted isle.
A little later, as we pored over the maps and charts in the great cabin of the Warspite, the shift in power became ever more apparent.
‘I have sent Sir George Carew west to try and intercept Lord Tyrconnell’s army,’ said Mountjoy, still drawing vigorously upon his pipe, ‘but I cannot depend upon the success of his venture. I must base my calculations on the assumption that both of the Irish armies will be here before Christmas, after their march from the north. So time is of the essence, gentlemen. Now, Ringcurran Castle, here—’ Mountjoy stabbed at the map before us – ‘will fall within a day or two. It is too isolated from the main Spanish garrison. Del Aguila knows that, and has only been putting up a show of resistance there for appearance’ sake. But Castlenipark fort, here, on the other side of the estuary, is a different matter. If we reduce that, we have free passage up to Kinsale town itself, and del Aguila knows that too. So I would have you assault Castlenipark, gentlemen. And then I would have you attack the Spanish fleet, which sits within the harbour of Castlehaven, here, to the west.’
‘A sound strategy, My Lord,’ said Leveson, trying hard to sound as though he knew what he was talking about. ‘If the general knows that he will not be relieved by sea, and has no means of escape, then he may be more inclined to treat for terms.’
‘Unless, of course, the Spanish are preparing to send another, larger fleet to relieve or reinforce the garrison in Kinsale,’ I said.
‘Quite so, My Lord,’ said Mountjoy, approvingly. Another noxious cloud billowed from the bowl of his pipe. ‘Thus as I say, time is of the essence. We have to capture Kinsale before the Spanish can reinforce it, and to do that, we must do everything in our power to convince General del Aguila that his position is hopeless. Hence the attacks on Castlenipark and Castlehaven. God willing, the Spanish will surrender before the rebel armies get here.’
Neither Leveson nor I needed to utter the obvious caveat to Mountjoy’s assessment: that if the Spanish did not surrender by the time the Irish arrived, Mountjoy would have to face their three conjoined armies in the field, and there would be precious little our fleet could do to help him.
‘Very well, My Lords,’ said Leveson, stroking the brick. ‘I shall lead the ships up to Castlenipark, and then take them west into Castlehaven, while Lord Ravensden, as vice-admiral, blockades the mouth of Kinsale harbour in the meantime—’
‘Sir Richard,’ said Mountjoy, suddenly and unexpectedly abrupt in his tone, ‘you are Admiral here, and of course, the question of your dispositions at sea is for you, and for you alone. With one exception, naturally.’ Leveson frowned; and, I must confess, so did I. An admiral at sea was, in almost all senses, a god afloat, his authority unchallengeable, even if the admiral in question was Sir Richard Shit-for-Brains Leveson. ‘I have here a letter,’ said Mountjoy, handing the item in question to Leveson, ‘from the palace of Greenwich, which came by way of Milford Haven and the Cove of Cork, arriving in my camp only yesterday. Both of you will recognise the seal, and the signature.’
Leveson studied the document, his mouth opening and closing, but no words came. He handed it to me. Oh yes, I recognised the seal. And the signature. And the intent behind the peroration.
Thus we have determined that any close and direct action against the enemy should be commanded in person by our most loyal and trusty servant Matthew, Earl of Ravensden, this being in no way a diminution of our trust in, nor a derogation of the honour of, our most worthy admiral, Sir Richard Leveson.
Elizabeth R.
I looked once again at the letter, then at Mountjoy, then at Leveson. In the former’s face, I found sympathy; in the latter’s, something that manifested itself as an unsubtle blend of shock, disgust, hatred, and hurt pride. Both reactions were entirely understandable. For all three of us in that cabin were thinking that the Queen’s message could have only one meaning. For reasons of her own, Elizabeth Tudor wished me to go into harm’s way. And if her reasons were what I suspected them to be, Her Majesty would not be displeased if the Earl of Ravensden returned from harm’s way clad in a shroud.
Nicholas Iles:
When I went to him, in a private room he had secured in an alehouse of Rathmore, around the headland from Kinsale, he was already third-bottle morose.
‘My Lord,’ I said, when the flow of self-pity ebbed briefly and I was able finally to say my piece, ‘it cannot be as you imagine it.’
‘No, fuck and damnation, Iles—’ he had forgotten my false name, the one he chose for me – ‘it’s every bit as I imagine it. She wants me dead, but not in any way that reflects on her. No trial, no execution, but Matthew Quinton dead, all the same. So why would she want me dead so soon after seeming to forgive me?’
‘Because she is a woman, My Lord?’
His eyes narrowed as he attempted to focus on me with a little more steadiness than the third bottle provided.
‘For one so young, Ile
s, you have a fucking jaundiced view of womankind. I don’t think I had such thoughts until at least my second wife.’ He waved a hand, in the vague way that sots favour. ‘No, something, or someone, has turned the Queen against me – even more against me – since I last had audience of her. You’re the poet, man. You invent motives for your characters with every stroke of your pen. So tell me what her motive is in this, if you say it is not what I think it is?’
‘My Lord, even if the Queen put Secretary Cecil’s finest onto the task of examining the letter, they would never have discovered it was a forgery. Monsieur Dehaene is a legend among our frat – that is, among those with whom I formerly consorted. That is why you paid him so much, upon my recommendation. If Dehaene had forged the Donation of Constantine, it would still be accepted by all of Christendom, and Martin Luther would have died in obscurity, just some disgruntled former monk that no man had ever heard of.’
‘And if Dehaene himself betrayed us?’ The Earl was eyeing a fourth bottle. ‘We took the mightiest of risks, my friend, to deceive a crowned monarch so. I might not have been guilty of treason before, but I am certainly guilty of it now.’
‘But My Lord, if the Queen suspected you of treason – of giving her a forgery – why would she not order your immediate arrest? Why would she insist that you, and not Sir Richard, should lead attacks that are so important to her realm’s very existence?’
He seemed not to hear me. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘it might be Horvath – you know, Iles, I still cannot bring myself to call him by his true name? Perhaps he has wheedled his way back into Cecil’s good graces. Perhaps…’ He reached for the fourth bottle, and uncorked it. ‘Ah, fuck and damnation, it’s no longer worth the candle, my friend. If Gloriana herself wants me dead, then dead I shall be, soon enough. So come, let us drink, and you can tell me a cheery story. No, not a tale of classical heroes. I am done with heroism, I think. Tell me one of your stories of the stage, of a time when something went amiss. That one you told of scenery falling on top of Shakespeare made me laugh for weeks. And the story of the stage in Lincoln going up in flames and setting fire to the inn where you were performing – fuck me, I nearly wet myself over that one.’
So I told him the story of the performance of the second half of Marlowe’s Tamburlaine in Chester, where one of the actors had slipped, fallen to the stage, somehow lashed out with the very real dagger he was carrying – the company’s manager was a tyrant for authenticity – and managed to slice off the right foot of Tamburlaine at the ankle.
‘Thanks be to God,’ I said, ‘I was playing Bajazeth that afternoon. If it had been the next day, when I was meant to be Tamburlaine again, I would now be upon a crutch in the gutter, begging for alms like so many thousands.’
My Lord laughed, and took another long draught of wine. Quite suddenly, though, he frowned, as though trying and failing to remember something very important. Then he looked at me. It was as though he was seeing me for the first time. His eyes widened, and he said, slurring his words, ‘What did you say? Just now, about the attacks, and the Queen?’
By now, I, too, had drunk enough wine to be not entirely certain what he meant. But then I remembered, and essayed to look as serious as I could.
‘The Queen insists on you leading them, My Lord, not Sir Richard. Nothing is more important to England at this moment than expelling the Spanish and defeating the Irish armies. So why would Her Majesty order you to lead the attacks, if she truly had no faith in you? If she suspected you had deceived her, and were guilty of treason? Surely, My Lord, it is more likely that this is a mark of the Queen’s confidence in you?’
He thought upon it as hard as a three-bottle mind would permit, then poured himself a large measure from the fourth. Just before he raised the glass to his lips, he smiled.
‘The Queen having confidence in me? Truly, that is a strange notion. A very strange notion. Perhaps, though – aye, just perhaps – you might be right, my friend. But when the last trump sounds, it really does not matter, does it? Whether she wants me alive or dead, tomorrow I lead the fleet upriver to attack Castlenipark Fort, and that is all that matters. So tonight, before they row me back to the Merhonour, let us drink, and you can tell me the old tales of Achilles and Hector again, friend Iles – ah, no, that is not your name now, is it? Remind me what I decided to call you, so I do not betray you in public.’
‘Musk, My Lord. Nicholas Musk.’
‘So be it, Nicholas Musk. Raise a glass with me, for tomorrow, with God’s providence to help us, we’ll remind the Spanish why they should never venture into the Queen of England’s lands and seas. Just as we reminded them in 1588, by Christ.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Nicholas Musk.
Musk.
Now, of course, Musk is a name that has loomed large in the history of the house of Quinton – in my history. Phineas Musk was nominally steward of Ravensden House in my brother’s time, but somehow arranged to be in almost constant attendance upon me during my campaigns at sea. Phineas Musk: the most impertinent rascal who ever lived, and yet a man who would have given his life for the Quintons a hundred times over, and who saved my own more than once.
So when I read that name in Iles’ papers, on a storm-lashed October day in the year 1651, I ran at once to grandmaman, who was reading a collection of Lovelace’s poems, and demanded to know if Nicholas Iles – Nicholas Musk – was related to our Phineas. Was the poet the father of the steward, or had my grandfather chosen the false name by taking it from another Musk he already knew?
And this is what grandmaman said.
‘What is that you say, grandson? Musk? The same name as that impudent rogue at Ravensden House? The impudent rogue who brought your brother back to us from the Worcester fight? That Musk? Related, you ask? Coincidence, you ask? Believe me, grandson, there is more to this world than relationships and coincidences. But not a great deal more, if truth be told.’
And with that, she returned to her reading and never uttered another word upon the subject, no matter how much I pressed her. The same was true of Phineas Musk, the three or four times that I posed the same question to him before abandoning the effort as a forlorn hope.
‘Asking a man who his father is,’ he said, the last time I raised it with him. ‘Always dangerous, that. Always problematic. As members of your family should know better than most, Sir Matthew.’
The Earl of Ravensden:
‘A shore battery of eight guns,’ I said, ‘and large ones, at that. Admiral Zubiaur has been busy.’
The distant Spanish guns, on the shore right at the entrance to Castlehaven harbour, fired occasional warning shots, but we were anchored too far off for them to come anywhere near us. The masts of the Spanish ships were clearly visible, further up the harbour: five big galleons, several lesser ships.
Brick-Beard and I stood upon the quarterdeck of the Warspite, surrounded by the captains of our little fleet. Our illustrious admiral was still in a rage at the Queen’s orders, but was doing his utmost to conceal the fact. Regrettably, though, concealment of his true feelings was not Sir Richard Leveson’s strong suit.
‘Your proposal, then, My Lord?’ said Brick-Beard in a sullen, peevish tone.
‘There are only two things we can do,’ I said. ‘We can sit here at anchor and blockade the Dons all winter, but that will never serve – storms are bound to blow us off station, and we will have to send ships off to Cork harbour or Milford to revictual, weakening our strength. Zubiaur will choose his moment, then come out, and at all costs we must prevent him joining the defenders of Kinsale.’
Several heads nodded. All captains knew this: close blockade, especially in winter, was a fool’s game.
‘That leaves attack,’ I said. ‘We force the harbour. We send in a smaller ship to clear a channel for the Merhonour and whatever ships you choose to allot to my wake, Sir Richard. Fortunately, I have much experience of forcing harbours, although this Castlehaven seems to me no Cadiz or Lisbon.’
Leve
son scowled at my boast of greater experience, but he knew that it was simply the truth. In that regard, at least, the Queen’s orders made perfect sense: Matthew Quinton was the ideal man for this task. As was another.
‘Begging pardon, My Lord, Sir Richard,’ said Griffin Rugg, stepping forward, ‘I volunteer to lead the Earl’s flagship into the harbour. My Halcyon is the ideal size, and I know the haven, having taken her in there many times. And like My Lord, I have forced a few Spanish harbours in my day.’
Leveson waved a hand.
‘So be it,’ he said. ‘Make your dispositions, Lord Ravensden.’
Nicholas Iles:
In one sense, the campaign seemed to be prospering. Ringcurran Castle fell before our attack on Castlenipark Fort began, and the latter proved an unqualified success. The Earl angled our guns high, so that they could reach the ramparts upon their hilltop, and then kept up a ferocious bombardment, joined by Lord Mountjoy’s great culverins in their batteries ashore. The Dons held out, though – held out, that is, until a mighty explosion signified the blowing up of their magazine. We learned later that our assault brought an even greater disaster the way of the Spanish General del Aguila: the explosion of the magazine destroyed his personal stock of fine wines.
With the outlying forts taken, Lord Mountjoy could concentrate on the siege of the town itself. But that was the end of the promising news, for in every other sense, disaster seemed about to befall the Queen’s forces. Lord Tyrconnell and the western Irish army had given Sir George Carew the slip and were coming through the mountains. Tyrone’s eastern army could not be far away. There was nothing to stop the Irish joining forces with the troops from the outlying Spanish garrisons, and advancing to combine with their friends in Kinsale itself. And all the while, the relentless rain and cold formed a fourth army, perhaps the deadliest of all. Sentries were being brought in dead from their outposts. Trenches were filling with water as soon as they were dug. There was too little food, the horses were dying, and disease was ravaging the army. So we needed a victory, and it fell to My Lord to provide it. At Castlehaven.
