The Enterprise of England (18 page)

We were not the only vessel on the water, though by far the largest. We met barges moving both inland and down to the sea, loaded with boxes and barrels. Some had a single sail on a stumpy mast, some were rowed. There were others, flat as punts, which the captain said were called ‘trekschuiten’ and were pulled by men or horses walking along the path which followed the line of the waterway.

‘They call that the “jaagpad
”,’ he said, pointing to the path, where a man and woman were plodding along, heads down, towing a flat barge loaded with piles of huge round cheeses. It had a tiny cabin in the stern, while perched on the very tip of the bow, in front of the cheeses, a small terrier barked encouragement to the labouring couple.

‘Hard work,’ I said.

‘Aye. But they are a strong and independent people, the Hollanders. They will not easily allow themselves to be crushed by Spain, however many victories Parma may win on the battlefield.’

At length we passed a small town, which Captain Thoms said was called
Leiden, and after that the waterway opened out. Our sails were hoisted and we moved ahead with the water foaming under our bows. Ahead lay an area even flatter than the countryside we had already traversed, a wide area of inland lakes interspersed with marshes, half water, half tussocky muddy land.

‘
Is this the Zuiderzee?’ I asked.

Captain Thoms laughed. ‘Not this. No, this is the
Haarlemmermeer, one of the most treacherous areas in the Low Countries.’

‘Treacherous!’

‘More treacherous to the people who dwell round its margins than to us. It is a victim of what they call the “wolfwater”, the water which rises in these low-lying inland lakes – fast, unpredictable – and devours whole villages.’

I shivered. ‘But not treacherous for us?’

‘Treacherous enough. We must pick our way through it, where the water is deep enough. Shifting mudbanks here, not sandbanks. Easy enough for us to become stranded.’

He walked away to supervise the lowering of the sails. We would have to make our way
again under oars. The wide marshland seemed almost deserted, except by birds, for there were flocks of ducks and moorhens, solitary herons standing in the shallows like sentinels, a flight of gulls screaming raucously overhead. The very smell of the place was different, a reek of mud and rotting vegetation. Over on the eastern edge of the deceptively quiet waters I saw a few small fishing boats, and beyond them smoke rising from a cluster of cottages. Otherwise, desolation.

At length we came to the end of the
Haarlemmermeer, passing through a short canal into what the captain said was the Oude Meer. The sails were hoisted again and the ship picked up more speed, heading northeast.

‘We are nearly at the Zuiderzee now,’
Captain Thoms said.

Even as he was speaking I could see the wider waters ahead and soon we had sailed out on to what seemed to be a vast inland lake, though Thoms assured us it was salt. The ship came about and veered to starboard. The foresail was lowered, and then the mainsail, so that we made our way more slowly under staysail alone. Captain Thoms climbed out on to the base of the bowsprit, holding on to the rigging with one hand and leaning far out over the water
, swinging the lead himself. As he checked the lead line, he signalled to the steersman to guide the ship first to port and then to starboard, to avoid the sandbanks.

I was so absorbed in watching him that it was only when Berden tapped my arm that I looked up and saw the buildings of
Amsterdam drawing near. There were ships everywhere, some clearly warships, some merchant vessels, while dodging in amongst them were round-bellied fishing boats, small pinnaces, and open rowing boats. Satisfied that he had found the main channel into the town, Captain Thoms climbed back on to the deck, nodded to us as he passed, then gave the order to lower the staysail and run out the oars.

As the
Silver Swan
was brought neatly in, between the anchored and moored vessels, I could appreciate the captain’s skill. He had found a space beside the quay and himself took over the steering to lay the ship alongside without a bump. While the sailors were busy mooring the ship and running out the ramp, Berden and I saddled the horses and strapped on our luggage. This time I led the way across the ramp on to the quay, Hector following me with blithe unconcern. Berden had not put the blinkers on Redknoll and when the chestnut saw how calmly Hector crossed the ramp, he followed us, after only a slight hesitation. The captain stepped ashore behind us.

‘Our thanks to you, Captain Thoms,’ Berden said, shaking his hand. ‘We will hope to see you here in three weeks’ time.’

‘Aye, unless the canal ices over. If it does, I will meet you where we moored last night.’

‘Thank you, Captain.’ I shook his hand in my turn. ‘It was a rough crossing, as you predicted, but you brought us here safely.’

‘I hope it will not be worse on our return,’ he said with a smile. ‘In three weeks, then.’

He turned to go back on board ship, where the sailors were already dismantling the stable. Then he glanced back over his shoulder.

‘I will see about the scurvy grass while I am back in England, Doctor.’

I raised a hand in acknowledgement, then we led our horses off the quay and into the busy crowds of the port. There was a
Babel of voices around us, in which I could pick out French, Spanish and Italian as well as English, though the majority were speaking an unknown language which I supposed must be Dutch. Although it was unknown to me, somehow I almost felt I could understand it, for its rise and fall closely resembled English and even scattered words sounded like English.

Berden appeared to know where to go, for once we had mounted our horses he headed off confidently along a narrow cobbled street beside a waterway which might have been a river or a canal. I could not be sure. I knew that the town, like Venice, was built on a cluster of small islets of slightly higher ground rising up in the middle of a bog, but thanks to the skill of the Dutch engineers, more and more land was being reclaimed. At the moment the plan of the city was confusing and already dusk was falling.

‘How can you find your way in this place?’ I said.

‘I’ve spent some time here,’ Berden answered, speaking over his shoulder, for it was too narrow for us to ride abreast. ‘There is talk that someday they will rebuild the town, or at least straighten out some of the meandering waterways.’ This as we rode over yet another hump-backed bridge. ‘But the town will need to become a good deal richer, and the Hollanders free of the Spanish, before they can undertake so large a building project.’

We crossed an open square with a public well in the middle and turned into a wider street, so that I was able to bring Hector up beside him.

‘Nicholas, before we see the Earl – is he to be told what our real mission is, here in the
Low Countries, besides carrying despatches?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘Sir Francis has decided we should behave as if we were nothing more than messengers. It is not that he does not trust the Earl, for they have been close friends for many years, but sometimes the Earl is a little careless in his talk. And the loyalty of some of those about him on these foreign shores may be doubtful. Remember, there have been English traitors who have deserted to
Spain. And recently things have become strained between the Earl and the Dutch leaders. Although he is no longer called Governor General, they find many of his actions high-handed. He is a poor diplomat and does not consult them as he should. If there is a traitor close to the Earl’s own person, such a man might catch a whisper of our mission, or even guess from the way the Earl conducts himself towards us. Our wisest course is discretion.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘That seems best to me too. Though knowing that we work for Walsingham, and knowing what he wrote to the Queen in his recent letter, the Earl may himself guess why we have come.’

‘That is a risk, of course,’ Berden conceded, ‘that we must take. Here, this is the house where the Earl and his immediate entourage are lodging.’

I looked where he pointed. The house was built in what I was coming to recognise as a typical Dutch style as we rode through
Amsterdam. It was tall. Four regular storeys with an attic storey above, behind the characteristic fluted gable high above the street. Most of the houses had an opening here, much like the hatch in an English hay barn, through which the hay can pitched down, except that here there was usually a hoist extending out over the street. The houses, I assumed, must also serve as places of business for the merchants of Amsterdam. The house Berden pointed out had the opening in the high gable end, but there was no hoist and the opening was shuttered. Three shallow steps led up to the front door and there was an archway to the left which appeared to lead through to outbuildings or a garden to the rear of the building.

We dismounted and secured our horses to tethering rings set into the front wall of the house. By the time I had slung my satchel over my shoulder and Berden had removed his wallet of papers from his pack, the door was opened by a serving man in the Earl’s livery. Someone must have been watching from a window.

‘Messengers from the Queen’s Principal Secretary,’ Berden said, ‘with private despatches for his Lordship.’ He held out his official pass and jerked his head at me to do the same.

The servant studied them, then nodded and held the door wider. We entered a central hallway with doors leading off on either side and at the far end a graceful curved staircase, up which the servant led us, still without a word. On the first floor he stopped in front of a door and knocked.

‘Enter,’ a voice called from within. The servant opened the door, stood back to allow us to pass, then withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him.

The Earl of Leicester was sitting in a large cushioned chair beside the window, with his legs sprawled out and a flagon of wine at his elbow. Two younger men were sitting with him, one in military uniform, one not. A table in the centre of the room showed where they had recently dined. It still held plates and goblets of silver gilt, an epergne heaped high with exotic fruits, and a solid gold salt the size of a small bucket, shaped like a clam shell held aloft by a Triton. The walls were hung with rich tapestries depicting scenes from classical myth, and a fire burned within a carved marble fireplace. The curtains at the window were of eastern damask. Everything spoke of comfort, the kind of comfort provided by an ample fortune.

I studied the Earl, while trying to appear not to do so. Perhaps two years before this I had seen him ride in procession with the Queen at the celebrations to mark the anniversary of her succession. I had not been very close to him on that occasion, but even so I was sure he had since been marked by age in the intervening years. His hair and beard were grown quite grey, whereas they had been dark brown before. He must be in his middle fifties, but it seemed a rapid change in so short a period, so that I wondered if what I had heard was true, that the courtiers had their hair dyed in order that they might still appear young. It was said that the Queen liked to have young men about her. As her favourite, perhaps the Earl strove to maintain the look of perpetual youth, to please her or to satisfy his own vanity. Here on campaign in the Low Countries it might be that he had given up the practice.

His skin was dry and faded with age and his face was lined. Above all, I noticed his eyes. They looked both anxious and exhausted. Here was a man who knew himself to be out of his depth, risen to a position beyond his abilities, whatever might be the boast to his peers at court. Suddenly I felt a stab of pity for him. For a year I had been despising him, blaming him for
Sidney’s death and most certainly for the disaster at Sluys. Yet I realised with unexpected clarity that this was a man who was expected by the Queen to be a hero, a military champion in the mould of Alexander, though he was in truth a man more suited to the frivolous chatter of the palace or the undemanding exercise of the tennis court or the bowling green than to the rigours of warfare.

These thoughts flashed through my head in the time it took us to cross the room and bow deeply before the Earl.

‘So, Nicholas,’ he said, affably enough, ‘have you brought papers from Sir Francis?’

I had not realised that
Leicester would know Berden by sight, but presumably he had come on similar errands before.

‘We have, my lord. May I present Christoval Alvarez, who is a physician as well as serving Sir Francis?’

I bowed again.

‘Ah, the code-breaker,’ the Earl said, ‘we have heard of your talents, and of the good service you did Her Majesty last year.’

My bow nearly ended in a tumble to the floor. Leicester had heard of me?

‘My lord,’ I said, straightened up and seeing those tired eyes scrutinising me carefully. Perhaps I should not pity him after all.

Berden stepped forward and handed Leicester his wallet of despatches. Leicester took them, but did not open the wallet. He laid it on the table next to the wine flagon.

‘Mine are but duplicates, my lord,’ I said, placing them on the table. ‘Sir Francis sent them in case of accidents on the way.’

‘You must have had a rough crossing of it,’ Leicester said. ‘Yesterday, was it?’

‘It was, my lord.’ Berden looked slightly queasy at the memory. ‘After the worst of the blizzard, but still it was . . . rough.’