25
Sylvie felt sick when she thought about the Spanish invasion. She imagined another St Bartholomew’s Day Massacre. In her mind she saw again the piles of naked corpses showing their hideous wounds on the streets of Paris. She had thought she had escaped from all that. Surely it could not happen again?
Queen Elizabeth’s enemies had changed tactics. Instead of secret conspiracies they now favoured open action. King Felipe of Spain was assembling an armada. Felipe had long mooted this plan, but the beheading of Mary Stuart gave the invasion total legitimacy in the eyes of European leaders. The miserly Pope Sixtus had been so shocked by the execution that he had promised a million gold ducats towards the cost of the war.
Ned had known about the armada early, but by now it was the worst-kept secret in Europe. Sylvie had heard it discussed in the French Protestant church in London. King Felipe could not conceal the gathering of hundreds of ships and thousands of soldiers in and around the jump-off point of Lisbon. Felipe’s navy was buying millions of tons of provisions – food, gunpowder, cannonballs, and the all-important barrels in which to store everything – and Felipe’s purchasing agents were forced to scour Europe for supplies. They had even bought stores in England, Sylvie knew, because a Kingsbridge merchant called Elijah Cordwainer had been hanged for selling to them.
Ned was desperate to learn the Spanish king’s battle plan. Sylvie had asked her contacts in Paris to be alert for any clues. Meanwhile, they heard from Barney. His ship, the Alice, had anchored briefly at Dover on its way to Combe Harbour, and Barney had taken the opportunity to write to his brother to say that he would be in Kingsbridge within a few days, and he had a special reason to hope that he might see Ned there.
Sylvie had a competent assistant who was able to run the bookshop in her absence. Ned, too, was able to leave London for a few days. They reached Kingsbridge ahead of Barney. Not knowing exactly when he would arrive, they went to the waterfront every day to meet the morning barge from Combe Harbour. Barney’s son, Alfo, now twenty-three, went with them. So did Valerie Forneron.
Alfo and Valerie were a couple. Valerie was the attractive daughter of the immigrant Huguenot cambric maker, Guillaume Forneron. She was one of numerous Kingsbridge girls who had been attracted to Alfo’s Barney-like charm and exotic good looks. Sylvie wondered whether Guillaume had any misgivings about a suitor who looked so different from everyone else. However, it seemed that all Guillaume cared about was that Alfo was a Protestant. If Valerie had fallen for a Catholic boy, there would have been an explosion.
Alfo confided in Sylvie that he and Valerie were unofficially engaged to be married. ‘Do you think the Captain will mind?’ Alfo asked anxiously. ‘I haven’t been able to ask him.’
Sylvie thought for a minute. ‘Tell him that you’re sorry you haven’t been able to ask for his approval, because you haven’t seen him for three years, but you know he’s going to like her. I don’t think he’ll mind.’
Barney arrived on the third morning, and he had a surprise for them. He got off the barge with a rosy-cheeked woman of about forty with a mass of curly fair hair and a big smile. ‘This is Helga,’ he said, looking pleased with himself. ‘My wife.’
Helga immediately homed in on Alfo. She took his hand in both of hers and spoke in a German accent. ‘Your father has told me all about your mother, and I know I will never replace her. But I hope you and I will learn to love each other. And I will try not to be like the wicked stepmother in the stories.’
It was just the right thing to say, Sylvie thought.
The story came out in fits and starts. Helga was a childless widow from Hamburg. She had been a prosperous dealer in the golden German wine the English called Rhenish. Barney had been first a customer, then a lover, then a fiancé. She had sold her business to marry him, but she planned to start a new enterprise here in Kingsbridge, importing the same wine.
Alfo introduced Valerie and, as he fumbled for the right words to say they were engaged, Barney forestalled him by saying: ‘She’s marvellous, Alfo – marry her, quick.’
Everyone laughed, and Alfo was able to say: ‘That’s what I’m planning, Captain.’
Sylvie enjoyed the occasion hugely: everyone hugging and shaking hands, news pouring out, several people talking at the same time, laughter and delight. As always on such occasions, she could not help contrasting Ned’s family with her own. They had been just three, her parents and herself, and then two. At first she had been bewildered by Ned’s crowd, but she loved it now, and it made her original family seem limited.
At last they all began the short walk uphill along the main street. When they reached the house, Barney looked across the market square and said: ‘Hullo! What’s happened to the monastery ruins?’
Alfo said: ‘Come and see.’
He led the party through the new entrance in the west wall of the cloisters. He had paved the quadrangle, so that the crowds would not make it muddy. He had repaired the arcades and the vaulting, and now there was a market stall in each bay of the cloisters. The whole place was busy with shoppers.
Barney said: ‘Why, this is my mother’s dream! Who did it?’
‘You did, Captain,’ said Alfo.
Ned explained. ‘I bought the place with your money, and Alfo turned it into the indoor market that mother planned nearly thirty years ago.’
‘It’s wonderful,’ Barney said.
Alfo said proudly: ‘And it’s making you a lot of money.’
Sylvie, who knew a great deal about the needs of shopkeepers, had given Alfo much advice on the indoor market. In the manner of young men, Alfo was not saying a lot about the help he had received; and, in the manner of kindly aunts, she did not remind him.
In fairness, Alfo had good commercial instincts. Sylvie assumed he had inherited them from his enterprising mother, who had apparently made the best rum in New Spain.
‘The place is packed,’ Barney said.
‘I want to expand into the monks’ old refectory,’ Alfo said. Hastily he added: ‘That is, if you approve, Captain.’
‘It sounds like a good idea,’ Barney said. ‘We’ll have a look at the numbers together later. There’s plenty of time.’
They returned across the square and at last entered the house. The family gathered around the dining table for the midday meal, and inevitably the talk turned to the coming Spanish invasion.
‘After all we’ve done,’ Ned said with a gloom that tugged painfully at the strings of Sylvie’s heart. ‘We just wanted to have a country where a man could make his own peace with God, instead of mouthing prayers like a parrot. But they won’t let us.’
Alfo said to Barney: ‘Do they have slavery in Spain, Captain?’
Now where did that come from? Sylvie wondered. She recalled the moment when Alfo had become aware of slavery. He had been around thirteen or fourteen. His mother had told him that his grandmother had been a slave, and that many slaves were dark-skinned, as he was. He had been reassured to learn that slavery was not legally enforceable in England. He had not mentioned the subject since then, but Sylvie now realized that it had never left his mind. To him, England meant freedom; and the prospect of a Spanish invasion had renewed his fears.
‘Yes,’ Barney said. ‘Spain has slavery. In Seville, where I used to live, every wealthy family had slaves.’
‘And are the slaves dark-skinned?’
Barney sighed. ‘Yes. A few are European prisoners-of-war, usually oarsmen in the galleys, but most are African or Turkish.’
‘If the Spanish invade us, will they change our laws?’
‘Most certainly. They will make us all Catholic. That’s the point.’
‘And will they permit slavery?’
‘They might.’
Alfo nodded grimly, and Sylvie wondered if he would have the possibility of slavery hanging over him all his life. She said: ‘Can’t we do something to prevent the invasion?’
‘Yes,’ said Barney. ‘We shouldn’t just wait for them to arrive – we should hit them first.’
Ned said: ‘We’ve already put this proposal to the queen: a pre-emptive strike.’
‘Stop them before they start.’
Ned was more moderate. ‘Attack them before they set sail, aiming to do at least enough damage to make King Felipe think again.’
Barney said eagerly: ‘Has Queen Elizabeth agreed to this?’
‘She has decided to send six vessels: four warships and two pinnaces.’ Pinnaces were smaller, faster craft, often used for reconnaissance and messages, not much use in a fight.
‘Four warships – against the richest and most powerful country in the world?’ Barney protested. ‘It’s not enough!’
‘We can’t risk our entire navy! That would leave England defenceless. But we’re inviting armed merchant ships to join the fleet. There will be plunder, if the mission is successful.’
‘I’ll go,’ Barney said immediately.
‘Oh,’ said Helga, who had hardly spoken until now. She looked dismayed. ‘So soon?’
Sylvie felt sorry for her. But she had married a sailor. They led dangerous lives.
‘I’ll take both ships,’ Barney went on. He now had two, the Alice and the Bella. ‘Who’s in charge?’
‘Sir Francis Drake,’ Ned told him.
Alfo said enthusiastically: ‘He’s the man for it!’ Drake was a hero to young Englishmen: he had circumnavigated the Earth, only the second captain to do so in the history of the human race. It was just the daring kind of exploit to capture youthful imaginations, Sylvie thought. ‘You’ll be all right if Drake is with you,’ Alfo said.
‘Perhaps,’ said Sylvie, ‘but I’m going to pray that God goes with you too.’
‘Amen,’ said Helga.
*
NO ONE SHOULD love the sea, but Barney did. He was exhilarated by the sensation of sailing, the wind snapping the canvas and the waves glittering in the sunshine.
There was something mad about this feeling. The sea was dangerous. Although the English fleet had not yet sighted the enemy, they had already lost one ship, the Marengo, during a violent storm in the Bay of Biscay. Even in good weather there was constant risk of attack by vessels of unfriendly countries – or even by pirates pretending, until the last minute, to be friendly. Few sailors lived to be old.
Barney’s son had wanted to come on this voyage. Alfo wanted to be in the front line, defending his country. He loved England and especially Kingsbridge. But Barney had firmly refused. Alfo’s real passion was commerce. In that he was different to his father, who had always hated ledgers. Besides, it was one thing for Barney to risk his own life; quite another to endanger his beloved child.
The treacherous Atlantic seas had become calmer as the fleet drew nearer to the warm Mediterranean. By Barney’s reckoning the fleet was about ten miles from Cádiz, near Gibraltar on the south-western tip of Spain, when a signal gun was fired, and a conference pennant was raised on the flagship Elizabeth Bonaventure, summoning all captains to a council of war with vice-admiral Sir Francis Drake.
It was four o’clock on a fine afternoon, Wednesday 29 April 1587, and a good south-westerly breeze was blowing the twenty-six ships directly towards their destination at a brisk five knots. With reluctance Barney dropped the sails of the Alice and the ship slowed until it was becalmed, rising and falling on the swell in the way that made landlubbers feel so ill.
Only six in the convoy were fighting ships belonging to the queen. The other twenty, including Barney’s two, were armed trading vessels. No doubt King Felipe would accuse them of being little better than pirates, and, Barney thought, he had a point. But Elizabeth, unlike Felipe, did not have the bottomless silver mines of New Spain to finance her navy, and this was the only way she could muster an attacking fleet.
Barney ordered his crew to lower a boat and row him across to the Elizabeth Bonaventure. He could see the other captains doing the same. A few minutes later, the boat bumped the side of the flagship and Barney climbed the rope ladder to the deck.
It was a big ship, a hundred feet long with massive armament – forty-seven guns, including two full-size cannons firing sixty-pound balls – but there was no stateroom anywhere near large enough to hold all the captains. They stood on deck, around a single carved chair that no one dared sit on.
Some of the fleet were straggling a mile or more behind, and not all the captains had arrived when the impatient Drake appeared.
He was a heavy-set man in his forties with curly red hair, green eyes and the pink-and-white complexion people sometimes called ‘fresh’. His head seemed small for his body.
Barney took off his hat, and the other captains followed suit. Drake was famously proud, perhaps because he had risen to great heights from a humble farm in Devon. But the captains’ respect for him was heartfelt. They all knew every detail of his three-year voyage around the world.
He sat on the carved chair, glanced up at the sky, and said: ‘We could be in Cádiz before sunset.’
Cádiz was his target, rather than Lisbon where the Spanish fleet was gathering. Drake was like Barney’s late mother in his obsession with news, and he had questioned the captains of two Dutch merchant ships encountered off Lisbon. From them he had learned that the supply vessels for the invasion were loading in Cádiz, and he had seized on this information. Supply ships would be easier to defeat, and – perhaps more important to the always greedy Drake – their cargoes would make more valuable plunder.
Drake’s deputy was William Borough, a famous navigator who had written a book about the compass. He now said: ‘But we don’t even have our full numbers – several ships are miles behind us.’
Barney reflected that two men could hardly be more opposite than Drake and Borough. The deputy was learned, scholarly and cautious, a man for records and documents and charts. Drake was impulsive, scornful of timidity, a man of action. ‘We have the wind and the weather on our side,’ he said. ‘We must seize the chance.’
‘Cádiz is a large harbour, but the entrance to the bay is treacherous,’ Borough argued. He flourished a chart which Drake did not condescend to look at. Borough pressed on. ‘There is only one deep-water passage, and that goes close by the tip of the peninsula – where there is a fortress bristling with cannons.’
‘We’ll fly no flags as we enter,’ Drake said. ‘They won’t know who we are until it’s too late.’
‘We have no idea what ships may be in the harbour,’ Borough countered.
‘Merchantmen, according to those Dutch captains.’
‘There may be warships too.’
‘They’re all in Lisbon – which is why we’re going to Cádiz.’
Borough found Drake’s insouciance maddening. ‘Then what is our battle plan?’ he demanded angrily.
‘Battle plan?’ said Drake heedlessly. ‘Follow me!’
He immediately began shouting orders to his crew. Barney and the rest of the captains hastily scrambled over the side to their boats, laughing with pleasure at Drake’s boldness, eager for action themselves. An imp of anxiety in the back of Barney’s mind whispered that Borough was right to be wary, but Drake’s fighting spirit was infectious.
As soon as Barney was back aboard the Alice, he ordered the crew to set the sails. There were six, two on each mast, all of them square-shaped. The sailors climbed the masts like monkeys, and in less than a minute the breeze was filling canvas, the ship’s prow was ploughing the waves, and Barney was happy.
He gazed forward. A smudge appeared on the horizon and gradually revealed itself to be a fortress.
Barney knew Cádiz. It was near the mouth of the Guadalquivir river eighty miles downstream from Seville, where he had lived with Carlos and Ebrima almost thirty years ago. A few miles inland was Jerez, source of the strong wine the English called sherry sack. The city of Cádiz, with its fort, stood at the end of a long peninsula that enclosed a large natural harbour. Two rivers emptied into a wide bay fringed with waterfront villages and settlements.
The ships of the fleet deftly eased into line behind Drake’s flagship, warships first and merchantmen after. Without orders, they adopted the formation known as ‘line ahead’, or single file, so that an enemy directly in front – which was where the Spanish were for the moment – could fire at only one of them at a time. It also meant that if Drake found the correct passage through the shallows, they all would.
Barney was scared, but his fear had an odd effect: it excited him. It was better than sherry sack. In danger he felt more alive than at any other time. He was no fool: he knew the agony of wounds and he had seen the terrified panic of drowning men as a ship went down. But somehow none of that diminished the thrill he felt going into battle, getting ready to kill or be killed.
There was an hour left before sunset, he reckoned, when the Elizabeth Bonaventure entered the harbour of Cádiz.
Barney studied the fortress. He could see no movement around the guns, no hefting of cannonballs into muzzles, no scurrying to fetch gunpowder and swabbing buckets and the long screw-shaped cleaning tools called gun-worms. All he could make out was a handful of soldiers leaning on the battlements, gazing at the unidentified approaching fleet with mild curiosity. Clearly no alarm had sounded.
As the Alice entered the harbour behind the leading ships, Barney switched his gaze to the town. He could see what looked like a main square crowded with people. There were no guns there, for the obvious reason that they would have hit the close-packed ships moored side by side along the waterfront.
He was puzzled to notice that some of the ships had had their sails removed, leaving their masts naked. Why would that have been done? Sails needed repair now and again, but not all at the same time. He recalled Ned’s saying that King Felipe had commandeered dozens of foreign ships for his armada, regardless of the wishes of their owners. Perhaps, Barney speculated, those vessels had to be prevented from sneaking away to freedom. But now they were immobilized, unable to flee from the English guns. They were doubly unlucky.
Peering in the evening light, Barney thought he could see that most of the people in the square had their backs to the water. They were in two groups and, as the fleet drew nearer, he saw that one crowd seemed to be watching a play being performed on a stage, and the other surrounded a troupe of acrobats. Cádiz had not seen battle in Barney’s lifetime, nor for many years before, as far as he knew, and he guessed the people here felt safe. They were not going to turn around to look at the everyday event of ships arriving.
In the next few minutes they would suffer a horrible shock.
He looked around the bay. There were about sixty craft in harbour altogether, he reckoned. About half were large cargo ships; the rest were an assortment of smaller vessels, all moored at the quayside or at anchor offshore. Most of their crews would be ashore, eating fresh food and drinking in the taverns and enjoying female company. No doubt many of them were among the crowd in the main square. The English ships were foxes in a henhouse, about to pounce. Barney felt a leap of elation: what a devastating blow it would be to King Felipe’s invasion plan if the English fleet could destroy them all!
He had turned almost a full circle, and was looking north, when he saw the galleys.
There were two of them, coming out of Port St Mary at the mouth of the Guadalete river. He knew what they were by their narrow profile and the lines of oars slanting from their sides, dipping into the water and out in perfect unison. Galleys would capsize in an Atlantic storm, but they were much used in the calmer Mediterranean. Manned by slaves, they were fast and manoeuvrable, and were independent of the wind, a big advantage over sailing ships.
Barney watched them speed across the bay. Their cannons were mounted at the front, so they could only fire ahead. They usually had a pointed iron or brass prow for ramming, after which their complement of pikemen and arquebusiers would board the crippled enemy ship to finish off the crew. But no one would send two galleys to attack twenty-six ships, so Barney concluded that these had an investigative mission. They intended to question the leader of the incoming fleet.
They never got the chance.
Drake turned the Elizabeth Bonaventure towards the galleys in a perfectly executed manoeuvre. He might have been in trouble if there had been little or no wind in the bay, for sailing ships were helpless when becalmed, whereas galleys did not need wind. But Drake was lucky.
The other warships followed Drake with precision.
The merchantmen stayed on course, filing through the deep-water passage past the fort, then fanning out across the harbour.
Barney watched the galleys. Each had about twenty-four oars, he reckoned. One oar was manned by five slaves. Such men did not live long: chained to their benches, scorched by the sun, wallowing in their own filth, they were constantly afflicted by infectious diseases. The frail lasted a few weeks, the strong a year or two, and when they died, their bodies were unceremoniously thrown into the sea.
As the galleys approached the Elizabeth Bonaventure, Barney waited for Drake to act. Just as he began to fear that the vice-admiral might be holding his fire a little too long, a puff of smoke arose from the flagship, and a moment later the sound of a cannon boomed across the bay. The first ball splashed harmlessly into the water, as the gunner measured his range; artillery was an inexact art, as gunner Barney knew well. But the second and third missed, too, so perhaps Drake’s man was incompetent.
The galleys did not return fire: their smaller guns were still out of range.
Drake’s gunner was not incompetent. His fourth ball smashed into a galley amidships, and a fifth struck its prow.
They were deadly shots with heavy ammunition, and the galley began to founder right away. Barney could hear the screams of the wounded and the panicky shouts of those fortunate enough to remain unhurt. The soldiers threw their weapons away, jumped into the water, and made for the second galley, those who could not swim grasping pieces of floating timber. Within moments the crew were doing the same. A chorus of cries and pleas arose from the ranks of oarsmen as they begged to be unchained, but no one had time for them, and they were left, screaming piteously, to sink with the wreckage.
The second galley slowed and began to pick up survivors. Drake ceased firing, perhaps out of gentlemanly consideration for the helpless men in the water, but more likely to conserve ammunition.
Almost immediately more galleys appeared from Port St Mary, their oars dipping and rising with the repetitive grace of racehorses’ legs. Barney counted six speeding across the calm harbour water. He gave credit to whoever was in command: it took a brave man to send six ships against twenty-six.
They came on line abreast – side by side – as was their normal tactic, for that way each protected the vulnerable sides of the two adjacent vessels.
The warships turned again, and all four began to fire as soon as the galleys were in range.
As battle was joined, Barney saw that a few of the ships in the bay were weighing anchor and setting their sails. Their crews had not yet gone ashore, Barney presumed, and their quick-thinking captains had realized Cádiz was under attack and decided to make a run for it. But most of the ships were stuck: they did not have time to round up their crews from the taverns and brothels, and a ship could not sail without a crew.
In the town square the people were panicking, some heading away from the waterfront to their homes, most running to the fortress for protection.
Barney was interested in the ships that did not move from their anchorages in the bay. They were probably guarded by only one or two nightwatchmen. He began to study them, and fixed his gaze on a smallish round-ended three-masted ship that looked built for freight rather than battle. He could see no activity on deck.
He directed his crew to reduce sail, slowing the Alice, and steer for the freighter. As they did so, Barney saw two men abandon the freighter: they scrambled down a rope to a boat, untied it, and rowed energetically for the shore. That confirmed his instinct. The ship would now be deserted.
He looked again across the bay to the warships, and saw that they had forced the galleys to retreat.
A few minutes later, the Alice was close enough to the freighter to drop its sails, becoming almost motionless. Barney’s crew drew the two vessels together with boathooks and ropes. Finally, they were able to leap from one ship to the other.
There was no one aboard the freighter.
Barney’s first mate, Jonathan Greenland, went down into the hold to investigate the cargo.
He came back looking woebegone, carrying strips of wood in one arm and metal hoops in the other. ‘Barrel staves,’ he explained disgustedly. ‘And iron reinforcement rings.’
Barney was disappointed. As plunder this was not worth much. On the other hand, destroying this cargo would impair the invasion by creating a shortage of barrels for the armada’s provisions. ‘Fire the ship,’ he said.
The crew brought turpentine from the Alice and splashed the inflammable liquid over the freighter’s deck and below. Then they set fire to it in several places and hastily jumped back to their own vessel.
It was dark, but the blazing freighter lit up the ships nearby, and Barney chose a second target. Once again the Alice approached to find that the watchmen had fled. The crew of the Alice boarded, and this time Jonathan Greenland came up from the hold looking happy. ‘Wine,’ he said. ‘From Jerez. Lakes and oceans of sack.’
English sailors were given beer to drink, but the lucky Spaniards got wine, and the invasion fleet would need thousands of gallons of it. But here was a cargo the armada would never receive. ‘Take it all,’ Barney said.
The crew lit torches and began the heavy work of bringing the barrels up from the hold and transferring them across to the Alice. They worked cheerfully, knowing that each of them would get a share from the sale of this costly cargo.
The enemy ship was fully stocked for a voyage, and Barney’s crew also took all its salted meat, cheese, and ship’s biscuit for the stores of the Alice. It was armed, and Barney took its gunpowder. The shot was the wrong size for his guns, so he had the crew throw the cannonballs into the water, so that they would never be fired at English sailors.
When the hold was empty, he set fire to the ship.
Looking around the harbour, he could see another five or six vessels blazing. On shore, torches had been lit along the waterfront, and he saw guns from the fortress being towed, by teams of horses, to the dockside. The English raiders would still be out of range, but Barney figured the purpose was to discourage the attackers from coming ashore. He thought he could see troops being mustered in the square. He guessed that the townspeople presumed the attack on ships was only a prelude to an invasion, and had shrewdly decided to look to their landside defences. They could not know that Drake’s orders were to destroy Spanish shipping, not to conquer Spanish cities.
But the upshot was that there was almost no resistance. Barney could see a massive ship firing back at several attacking English vessels, but it was exceptional: there was otherwise little gunfire, and mostly the raiders were able to loot and burn unhindered.
Barney looked around for another ship to destroy.
*
ENGLAND REJOICED at the news of Drake’s sneak attack on Cádiz, but Margery’s husband, Earl Bart, did not join in the celebrations.
Reports varied, but all said that around twenty-five major ships had been destroyed, and thousands of tons of supplies stolen or sent to the bottom. The Spanish armada had been crippled before it had even set out. No English sailors had been killed and only one wounded, by a lucky shot from a galley. Queen Elizabeth had even made a profit on the expedition.
‘It was a day of infamy,’ Bart raged at the dinner table in New Castle. ‘No warning, no declaration of war, just outright murder and theft by a group of barefaced pirates.’
Bart at fifty reminded Margery painfully of the father-in-law who had raped her, except only that Bart was more red-faced and even fatter than his father had been. Now she said waspishly: ‘Those ships were on their way here to kill us all – including both my sons. I’m glad they were sunk.’
Young Bartlet took his father’s side, as usual. At twenty-three, Bartlet bore a resemblance to Margery’s father, being tall and freckled, but he had all Bart’s attitudes, unfortunately. She loved him, but he was hard to like, and that made her feel guilty. ‘King Felipe only wants to return England to Catholicism,’ Bartlet said. ‘Most English people would welcome that.’
‘Many would, but not at the price of being conquered by a foreign country,’ Margery countered.
Stephen Lincoln was shocked. ‘My lady, how can you say such a thing? The Pope approved the plan of the Spanish king.’
Stephen had proved a poor friend to Margery, but all the same she had some sympathy for him. He had spent thirty years as a secret priest, holding furtive services after dark and keeping the sacramentals in undignified hidey-holes as if they were shameful. He had dedicated his life to God but had spent it as a criminal, and that had left his face lined and gaunt and his soul bitter. But he was wrong about this, and so was the Pope. ‘I think it’s a mistake,’ she said crisply. ‘An invasion would actually turn people away from Catholicism, by linking it with foreign domination.’
‘How can you know that?’ Stephen meant you, a mere woman, but he did not dare to say it.
Margery replied: ‘I know because it’s what has happened in the Netherlands. Patriotic Dutch people fight for Protestantism, not because they care about doctrine, but because they want independence from Spain.’
Roger joined in. He had been such a pretty baby, Margery thought, but now he was seventeen, with a rapidly growing curly dark beard. Margery’s impish look was reinterpreted, in her son, as a lively bantam confidence that made people smile. He had the golden-brown eyes of his biological father, Ned. It was fortunate that Bart, like most men of his type, never noticed the colour of people’s eyes, and that anyone else who suspected Roger’s parentage would never say it for fear of being run through by Bart’s sword. Roger said: ‘So, Mother, how do you think we could return our country to Catholicism?’
She was proud to have a son who could ask such a thoughtful and challenging question. He had a lively intellect, and was planning to go to Kingsbridge College, Oxford. Roger was a staunch Catholic and took an active part in the smuggling of the priests. All the same, Stephen, who was his tutor, had been unable to suppress the independence the boy had inherited from Ned.
She answered him: ‘Left alone, English people will slowly and quietly make their way back to the old faith.’
However, the English were not destined to be left alone.
There was no Spanish armada in 1587 but, as summer turned to autumn, Margery and everyone else realized that they had celebrated too soon. They had imagined that Drake had prevented the invasion. But the raid on Cádiz had only postponed it. King Felipe was so rich that, to the consternation of the English, he simply started building new ships and buying replacement supplies.
Queen Elizabeth and her government began to prepare for a fight to the death.
All along the coast, defences were repaired that winter. Castles were reinforced, and new earth ramparts were thrown up around towns that had not seen battle for centuries. The walls of Kingsbridge were rebuilt, the old ones having long ago disappeared into a suburban sprawl. The rusting old cannons at Combe Harbour were cleaned and test-fired. Chains of hilltop beacons were built, from the coast to London, ready to transmit the dreadful news that the galleons had been sighted.
Margery was aghast. Catholics were going to slaughter Protestants, and vice versa. But being a follower of Jesus Christ was not supposed to be about cannons and swords, killing and maiming. In the gospel story only the enemies of Jesus shed blood.
Margery could not help brooding over the fact that Ned believed as she did, that Christians should not kill one another over doctrine. He claimed that Queen Elizabeth believed it too, even though he admitted that she had not always been true to her ideals.
Margery suffered agonies in the early months of 1588, as details trickled through of the size and strength of the new armada. It was rumoured to have more than one hundred ships, a figure that terrified the English, whose entire navy consisted of thirty-eight vessels.
The Government began interning notorious Catholics as a precaution. Margery hoped the men of her family would be put in prison where they would be safe. However, Bart was not considered dangerous. He had never been part of any conspiracy. It was Margery who had been the secret agent in New Castle, and she had been so careful that no one suspected her.
Then the weapons arrived.
Two carts loaded with hay trundled into the castle, but when the hay was forked off, it was found to conceal half a dozen battleaxes, forty or so swords, ten arquebuses, a sack of bullets and a small barrel of gunpowder. Margery watched the ordnance being carried into the house and stashed in the old bread oven, then said to Bart: ‘What are these for?’
She genuinely did not know. Would her husband fight for his queen and country, or for the Catholic Church?
He quickly set her straight. ‘I will muster an army of loyal Catholic gentry and peasants, and divide them in two. I will lead half of them to Combe Harbour to greet the Spanish liberators, and Bartlet will lead the other half to Kingsbridge where they will take over the town and celebrate Mass in the cathedral – in Latin.’
A horrified protest sprang to her lips, but she suppressed it. If she let Bart know how she felt, he would stop giving her information.
Bart believed she was merely squeamish about bloodshed. But she was more serious than that. She was not content merely to look away. She had to do something to prevent this.
Instead of protesting, she probed. ‘You can’t do all that on your own.’
‘I won’t be on my own. Catholic noblemen all over the country will be doing the same.’
‘How can you know?’
‘Your brother is in charge of it.’
‘Rollo?’ This was news to Margery. ‘He’s in France.’
‘Not any more. He’s organizing the Catholic nobility.’
‘But how does he know whom to organize?’ As she asked the question, Margery realized, with horror, what the answer would be.
Bart confirmed her fear. ‘Every nobleman who has risked his life by harbouring a secret priest is willing to fight against Elizabeth Tudor.’
Margery found herself short of breath, as if she had been punched in the stomach. She struggled to hide her feelings from Bart – who, fortunately, was not observant. ‘So . . .’ She swallowed, took a deep breath, and started again. ‘So Rollo has used my network of secret priests to organize an armed insurrection against Queen Elizabeth.’
‘Yes,’ said Bart. ‘We thought it best not to tell you.’
Of course you did, Margery thought bitterly.
‘Women dislike talk of bloodshed,’ Bart went on, as if he were an expert on feminine feelings. ‘But you were sure to find out eventually.’
Margery was angry and sick at heart, but she did not want Bart to know it. She asked a mundane question. ‘Where will you keep the weapons?’
‘In the old bread oven.’
‘These aren’t enough for an army.’
‘There are more to come. And there’s plenty of room behind the oven.’ Bart turned to give instructions to the servants, and Margery took the opportunity to walk away.
Had she been stupid? She knew perfectly well that Rollo would not hesitate to lie to her, nor would Bart. But she had thought that Rollo, like her, wanted no more than to help loyal Catholics receive the sacraments. Should she have guessed at his real intentions?
Perhaps she would have seen through Rollo if she had been able to talk to him. But for years now she had only waved to him across the beach when he brought a new group of priests from the English College. The lack of contact had made it easier for him to fool her.
She felt certain of one thing: she would no longer smuggle priests from Rollo’s college into England. She had done so in ignorance of their double role, but now that she knew the truth she would have nothing more to do with the business, nor with anything else her brother wanted. She would send him a coded message to that effect at the first opportunity. He would be furious, and that would give her some small satisfaction.
She lay awake that night and several succeeding nights, then she decided to stop reproaching herself and do something. She was under no obligation to keep Rollo’s secrets, nor Bart’s. Was there anything she could do to prevent bloodshed and keep her sons safe?
She resolved to speak to Ned Willard.
Easter was a few days away, and as usual she would go to Kingsbridge with Bart and the boys for the Easter Fair. They would all attend the special services in the cathedral. Bart could no longer avoid attending Protestant services: it was too dangerous and too expensive – the fine for not going to church was now £20.
She suffered a twinge of conscience as the family group approached Kingsbridge and the cathedral tower came into view over the treetops. Should she not be supporting this Spanish invasion and the associated Catholic rebellion? After all, the result might be that England would be Catholic again, and that had to be God’s will.
Easter had become a dull affair under the Protestants. No longer were the bones of St Adolphus carried through the streets of Kingsbridge in a colourful procession. There was no mystery play in the cathedral. Instead, there was a troupe of actors in the courtyard of the Bell Inn every afternoon, performing a play called Everyman. The Protestants did not understand people’s need for colour and drama in church.
But Margery at forty-five no longer believed that Protestantism was evil and Catholicism perfect. For her the important divide was between tyranny and tolerance; between people who tried to force their views on everyone else, and people who respected the faith of those who disagreed with them. Rollo and Bart belonged to the authoritarian group she despised. Ned was one of the rare people who believed in religious freedom. She would trust him.
She did not run into Ned on her first day in Kingsbridge, nor the second. Perhaps he would not come this Easter. She saw his nephew, Alfo, now proudly married to Valerie Forneron. She also saw Ned’s German sister-in-law, Helga, but not Barney, who had returned from Cádiz with another small fortune in plunder and had gone back to sea after a short furlough. Margery was reluctant to question the family about Ned’s plans. She did not want to give them the impression that she was desperate to talk to him. She was, though.
On Easter Saturday she was at the market in the old cloisters, now roofed over. She fingered a length of cloth in a dark wine-red colour that she thought might suit her now that she was, well, no longer a girl. Then she glanced across the quadrangle and saw the sturdy short figure of Ned’s wife, Sylvie.
Sylvie was like Margery, and both women knew it. Margery did not have to be modest with herself, and she could see that both she and Sylvie were attractive women who were also intelligent and determined – in fact, rather similar to Ned’s formidable mother. Sylvie was a Protestant, of course, and a crusading one; but even there Margery could see a similarity, for they both took terrible risks for the sake of their faith.
Margery wanted to speak to Ned, not Sylvie; but now Sylvie caught her eye, smiled, and came towards her.
It occurred to Margery that she could give Sylvie a message for Ned. In fact, that might even be better, for then no one could cast suspicion on Margery by reporting to Bart that she had been talking to Ned.
‘What a pretty hat,’ Sylvie said in her soft French accent.
‘Thank you.’ Margery was wearing a sky-blue velvet cap. She showed Sylvie the cloth she was contemplating. ‘Do you like this colour?’
‘You’re too young to wear burgundy,’ Sylvie said with a smile.
‘That’s kind.’
‘I saw your two sons. Roger has a beard now!’
‘They grow up too fast.’
‘I envy you. I have never conceived. I know Ned is disappointed, though he doesn’t complain.’
Sylvie’s intimacy with Ned’s unspoken feelings, so casually revealed, caused Margery to feel a hot wave of jealousy. You have no children, she thought, but you’ve got him.
She said: ‘I’m worried about my boys. If the Spanish invade us, they will have to fight.’
‘Ned says the queen’s ships will try to prevent the Spanish soldiers landing.’
‘I’m not sure we have enough ships.’
‘Perhaps God will be on our side.’
‘I’m not as sure as I used to be about whose side God is on.’
Sylvie smiled ruefully. ‘Nor am I.’
Out of the corner of her eye Margery saw Bart enter the indoor market. She was forced to make a quick decision. ‘Will you give Ned a message from me?’
‘Of course. But he’s here somewhere—’
‘I’m sorry, there’s no time. Ask him to raid New Castle and arrest Bart, Bartlet and Roger. He will find weapons stockpiled in the old oven – they’re to support the invaders.’ Her plan was risky, she knew, but she trusted Ned.
‘I’ll tell him,’ Sylvie said, wide-eyed. ‘But why do you want your sons arrested?’
‘So that they won’t have to fight. Better in prison than in the graveyard.’
Sylvie appeared startled by that thought. Perhaps she had not imagined that children might bring pain as well as joy.
Margery glanced at Bart. He had not yet noticed her. If she parted from Sylvie now he would not know that they had been talking. ‘Thank you,’ Margery said, and she walked away.
She did see Ned the following day, in the cathedral at the Easter service. His familiar slim figure was dear to her still, after all these years. Her heartbeat seemed to slow, and she was suffused by a mixture of love and regret that gave her joy and pain in equal measure. She was glad she had put on a new blue coat this morning. However, she did not speak to him. The temptation was strong: she longed to look into his eyes and see them crinkle at the corners when he said something wry. But she resisted.
She left Kingsbridge and returned to New Castle with her family on the Tuesday after Easter. On the Wednesday, Ned Willard came.
Margery was in the courtyard when a sentry on the battlements called out: ‘Horsemen on the Kingsbridge road! Twelve . . . fifteen . . . maybe twenty!’
She hurried into the house. Bart, Bartlet and Roger were in the great hall, already buckling on their swords. ‘It’s probably the sheriff of Kingsbridge,’ Bart said.
Stephen Lincoln appeared. ‘The hiding place is full of weapons!’ he said in a frightened voice. ‘What am I to do?’
Margery had thought about this in advance. ‘Take the box of sacramentals and leave by the back gate. Go to the tavern in the village and wait until you hear from us that the coast is clear.’ The villagers were all Catholic, and would not betray him.
Stephen hurried away.
Addressing the boys, she said: ‘You two are to say nothing and do nothing, do you hear? Leave it to your father to speak. Sit still.’
Bart said: ‘Unless I tell them otherwise.’
‘Unless your father tells you otherwise,’ she repeated.
Bart was not the father of either boy, but she had kept that secret well.
She realized it was thirty years since she and Ned had met in this hall after he returned from Calais. What was the play they had seen? Mary Magdalene. She had been so excited after kissing him that she had watched the performance without taking any of it in. She had been full of hope for a happy life with Ned. If I had known then how my life was going to turn out, she thought, I might have thrown myself from the battlements.
She heard the horses enter the courtyard, and a minute later the sheriff walked into the great hall. It was Rob Matthewson, the son of old Sheriff Matthewson, who had died. Rob was as big as his father and equally determined not to be ordered around by anyone but the queen.
Matthewson was followed by a large group of men-at-arms, Ned Willard among them. Seeing Ned up close, Margery noticed that his face was beginning to show lines of strain around the nose and mouth, and there was a touch of grey in his dark hair.
He was letting the sheriff take the lead. ‘I must search your house, Earl Bart,’ Matthewson said.
Bart said: ‘What the devil are you looking for, you insolent dog?’
‘I have information that there is a Catholic priest called Stephen Lincoln here. You and your family must stay in this room while I look for him.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Bart said. ‘This is where I live.’
The sheriff went out again, and his entourage followed. Ned paused at the door. ‘I’m very sorry this has happened, Countess Margery,’ he said.
She went along with his act. ‘No, you’re not,’ she said, as if angry with him.
He went on: ‘But with the king of Spain getting ready to invade us, no one’s loyalty can be taken for granted.’
Bart gave a disgusted grunt. Ned said no more and went out.
A few minutes later, they heard shouts of triumph, and Margery guessed that Ned had guided Matthewson to the hidey-hole.
She looked at her husband, who had obviously made the same guess. Consternation and anger appeared on Bart’s face, and Margery knew there was going to be trouble.
The sheriff’s men began to drag the weapons into the great hall. ‘Swords,’ the sheriff said. ‘Dozens of them! Guns and ammunition. Battleaxes. Bows and arrows. All tucked away in a little secret room. Earl Bart, you are under arrest.’
Bart was apoplectic. He had been found out. He stood up and began to rage. ‘How dare you?’ he yelled. ‘I am the earl of Shiring. You cannot do this and expect to live.’ Red in the face, he raised his voice even more. ‘Guards!’ he shouted. ‘In here!’ Then he drew his sword.
Bartlet and Roger followed suit.
Margery screamed: ‘No!’ She had done this to keep her sons safe but instead she had put their lives in danger. ‘Stop!’
The sheriff and his men drew too.
Ned did not draw his sword, but held up his arms and shouted: ‘Hold it, everyone! Nothing will be achieved by a fight, and anyone who attacks the sheriff’s men will hang.’
The two groups faced each other across the hall. Bart’s men-at-arms came in to stand behind their earl, and more of the sheriff’s men appeared. Margery could hardly believe how quickly this had gone wrong. If they fought, there would be terrible slaughter.
Bart yelled: ‘Kill them all!’
Then he fell over.
He went down like a tree, slowly at first then faster, hitting the stone floor with a sickening thud.
Margery had often seen him fall down drunk, but this was grimly different.
Everyone froze.
Margery knelt beside Bart and put her palm on his chest. Then she felt his wrist and his neck. There was no sign of life.
She stared at her husband. He was a self-indulgent man who had done nothing but please himself, heedless of others, during his fifty years on earth.
‘He’s dead,’ she said.
And all she felt was relief.
*
PIERRE AUMANDE went to the apartment where he kept Louise de Nîmes, his mistress for the last four years. He found her richly robed, with her hair in an elaborate coiffure, as if she were going to court, which, of course, she was never permitted to do. He always made her dress formally, for that intensified the pleasure of degrading her. Anyone could humiliate a servant, but Louise was a marchioness.
He had not tired of the game, and he felt he never would. He did not often beat her, because it hurt his hands. He did not even fuck her much. There were more exquisite ways to give her pain. What he liked most was to destroy her dignity.
She had run away from him once. He had laughed: he knew what would happen. Her few friends and relations were terrified that if they took her in they, too, would come under suspicion of heresy, so she had nowhere to go. Born to privilege, she was utterly incapable of making a living on her own. Like so many destitute women, she had ended up prostituting herself to avert starvation. After one night in a brothel she had asked him to take her back.
Just for fun, he had pretended reluctance, forcing her to go down on her knees and beg. But of course she was too good to lose.
Today he was mildly surprised to see his stepson, Alain, at the apartment, sitting close to Louise on a sofa, talking intimately. ‘Alain and Louise!’ he said.
They both sprang up.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked Alain.
Alain pointed to a gown draped over a chair. ‘You told me to bring her that dress.’
That was true, Pierre recalled. He said: ‘I didn’t tell you to spend the afternoon gossiping here. Go back to the palace. Tell Duke Henri that I’m on my way to see him and I have learned the king of Spain’s battle plan for the invasion of England.’
Alain raised his eyebrows. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Never mind. Wait for me outside the duke’s apartment in the palace. You can take notes.’
He went up to Louise and casually fondled her breasts.
Alain left.
Both Alain and Louise were scared of Pierre. In moments of self-awareness he knew that was why he kept them around. It was not because of Alain’s usefulness as a dogsbody, or Louise’s sexual appeal. Those things were secondary. He liked their fear of him. It gave him a boost.
Did he care if they were friends? He saw no harm in it. He could even understand why Alain might sympathize with Louise. She was an older woman, a mother substitute.
He squeezed her breasts harder. ‘These were always your best feature,’ he said.
She made a grimace of distaste. The expression was fleeting, and she suppressed it immediately, but he saw it, and he slapped her. ‘Take that look off your face,’ he said.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said humbly. ‘Would you like me to suck you off?’
‘I don’t have time. I came to tell you that I’ve invited someone to dine here tomorrow. I want to reward the man who told me the Spanish battle plan. You will serve us dinner.’
‘Very well.’
‘In the nude.’
She stared at him. ‘Nude,’ she said. ‘In front of a stranger?’
‘You will act perfectly normally, except that you will have no clothes on. I think it will amuse him.’
Tears came to her eyes. ‘None at all?’
‘You can wear shoes.’
She managed not to cry, but it was a struggle. ‘Do you have any other requirements?’
‘No. Just serve us.’
‘Very well.’
Her distress made him horny, and he was tempted to stay longer, but he wanted to see Duke Henri as soon as possible. He turned away and left the room. As he closed the door he heard her sob, and smiled with pleasure as he went down the stairs.
*
NED WAS ELATED to receive a letter from Alain de Guise in Paris giving the battle plan of the king of Spain.
The Spanish armada would sail through the English Channel and anchor off Dunkirk. There they would rendezvous with the Spanish army in the Netherlands, led by Alessandro Farnese of Parma, the most successful general ever sent to the Netherlands by the king of Spain. Then the reinforced armada would turn around and sail due west, straight into the estuary of the river Thames.
Ned also got a letter from Jerónima Ruiz saying the Spanish armada had one hundred and twenty-nine ships.
Jerónima was in Lisbon, and she had seen the armada with her own eyes and counted the vessels in the harbour. She had gone there with the cardinal, who was one of a large contingent of priests needed to bless the ships and individually absolve each one of the twenty-six thousand sailors and soldiers for the sins they would commit in England.
Queen Elizabeth was devastated. Her entire navy consisted of thirty-eight ships. She did not see how she could defeat the invasion, and nor did Ned. Elizabeth would be destroyed, King Felipe would rule England, and the ultra-Catholics would dominate Europe.
Ned was mortified. He felt it was all his fault, for encouraging the execution of Mary Stuart.
Jerónima’s information was corroborated by other spies. The numbers changed only a little from one message to the next.
Elizabeth wanted to know how many troops the duke of Parma had in the Netherlands, and how he planned to get them across the Channel. Ned had reports from several spies, but they disagreed, so he decided to go and see for himself.
He would be risking his life. If he were caught, and discovered to be an English spy, then hanging would be the best fate he could look forward to. But he had helped to create the catastrophe that loomed, and it was his duty to do what he could to avert it, including risking his life.
He took a ship to Antwerp. He found it a lively, cosmopolitan city: anyone was welcome, he guessed, as long as he paid his debts. ‘And there’s no nonsense about usury being a sin,’ said Carlos Cruz.
Ned was intrigued to meet Carlos, the distant cousin about whom he had heard so much. He was fifty-one and heavy, with a bushy beard going grey. Ned thought he looked like a jolly peasant in one of those Dutch paintings of yokels merrymaking. It was hard to imagine that Carlos and Barney had killed a sergeant in a fight over a card game.
Carlos lived in a large house near the waterfront with a huge ironworks in the backyard. He had a pretty wife, Imke, with a big welcoming smile. A daughter and son-in-law lived with him, plus two grandchildren. The men dressed sombrely but the women were draped in gorgeous colours, bright blue and scarlet, peach and lavender. The house was full of costly objects: framed oil paintings, musical instruments, mirrors, decorative jugs and bowls and glassware, leather-bound books, rugs and curtains. The Netherlands people seemed home-centred, and they showed off their wealth in a curiously domestic way that Ned had not seen elsewhere.
Ned needed Carlos’s help for this mission, but he was not sure of getting it. Carlos was Spanish and Catholic. On the other hand, he had been forced by the Church to flee his homeland. Would he work against the armada? Ned would soon find out.
On the day Ned arrived, Carlos’s long-time business associate, Ebrima Dabo, came to supper with his wife, Evi. Ebrima was seventy, and his curly hair was white. Evi wore a gold necklace with a diamond pendant. Ned remembered Barney saying that when Ebrima was a slave, he had been the lover of Aunt Betsy. What a life that man had led: first a farmer in West Africa, then a soldier, a prisoner of war, a slave in Seville, a soldier again in the Netherlands, and at last a rich Antwerp iron maker.
Carlos poured wine generously and drank a great deal of it himself. As they ate, it emerged that both Carlos and Ebrima were apprehensive about the Spanish armada. ‘It’s partly because of Queen Elizabeth that the Spanish have failed to pacify the Netherlands,’ Carlos said, speaking French, which they all understood. ‘Once the king of Spain has conquered England, he’ll be free from her interference here.’
Ebrima said: ‘When priests get to run the government, it’s bad for business.’
Carlos said: ‘And if our independence movement is defeated, there will be nothing to stop the Holy Inquisition.’
Ned was encouraged. It was good that they were worried. He judged this was the moment to make his proposition.
He had thought hard about it. He would be safer here if he travelled with Carlos, who spoke fluent Dutch, knew the country, and was himself known by hundreds of people in the region. But Carlos would be risking his life.
Ned took a deep breath. ‘If you want to help England, there is something you could do,’ he said.
‘Go on,’ said Carlos.
‘I’m here to assess the strength of the Spanish forces getting ready to embark for England.’
‘Ah,’ said Ebrima in the tone of one who is suddenly enlightened. ‘I wondered.’
Carlos said: ‘The Spanish army is mostly around Dunkirk and Nieuwpoort.’
‘I wonder if you would consider selling the Spanish a consignment of cannonballs. They must need thousands of them for the battle ahead. And if you and I arrived with several cartloads of ammunition, we’d be welcomed instead of suspected.’
Ebrima said: ‘Count me out. I wish you well, but I’m too old for such adventures.’
That was a bad start, Ned thought grimly; it might encourage Carlos to decline.
But Carlos grinned and said: ‘It will be like the old days.’
Ned relaxed and drank some more wine.
Next day Carlos loaded his entire stock of cannonballs onto carts, then scoured Antwerp for more. In the end, he had eight cartloads. He joined the carts in pairs in line, each pair pulled by two oxen. They set out on the third day.
The road to Nieuwpoort ran along the coast, and soon Ned began to see what he had come to look at: the preparations for the invasion. All along the shore were moored new flat-bottomed boats, and every boatyard was busy building more. They were crude, unwieldy craft, and they could have only one purpose: to move large numbers of men. There seemed to be hundreds of them, and Ned reckoned each would carry fifty to a hundred soldiers. How many thousands of troops did the duke of Parma have waiting? The fate of Ned’s country depended on the answer to that question.
Soon Ned began to see the soldiers, camped inland, sitting around cooking fires, playing dice and cards, as bored as armies usually were. A group passed them on the road, saw the loaded carts, and cheered them. Ned was relieved by this confirmation that the cannonballs would be their passport.
He began to estimate numbers, but the camps seemed never to end. Mile after mile, as the plodding oxen pulled the heavy carts along the dirt road, there were more and more troops.
They bypassed Nieuwpoort and went on to Dunkirk, but the picture did not change.
They had no trouble gaining entry to the fortified town of Dunkirk. They made their way to the marketplace on the waterfront. While Carlos argued with an army captain over the price of the cannonballs, Ned went to the beach and looked across the water, thinking.
The number of troops here must more or less match the numbers embarking in Lisbon, he guessed. In total there must be more than fifty thousand men about to invade England. It was a vast army, bigger than anything Europe had seen for decades. The largest battle Ned could remember hearing about had been the siege of Malta, which had involved thirty or forty thousand Turkish attackers. He felt overwhelmed by the sense of an almighty power inexorably bent on the destruction of his home.
But they had to get to England first.
Could the flat-bottomed boats take the troops across the open sea to England? It would be hazardous – they would capsize in anything but calm water. More likely, their purpose must be to transport the soldiers to larger ships anchored near the shore – a process that would take weeks if all the galleons had to dock normally.
Ned stared at the harbour and imagined thousands of men being carried out to the galleons at anchor off the coast – and he realized that this was the weak point in the battle plan of the king of Spain. Once the army was embarked, the invaders would be an unstoppable force.
It was a gloomy prognosis. If the invasion succeeded, the burnings would resume. Ned would never forget the dreadful squealing sound Philbert Cobley had made as he burned alive in front of Kingsbridge Cathedral. Surely England would not go back to that?
The only hope was to stop the armada in the Channel before the troops could embark. Elizabeth’s navy was outnumbered, so the chance was slim. But it was all they had.