The Forest (52 page)

He was drifting into the western mouth of the Solent. For long moments he gazed ahead, awestruck but thinking. Then he slowly nodded his head.

Suddenly he laughed aloud.

For see, he realized, what God’s providence had done. He had just been granted an opportunity far greater than any he had dared to hope for. It was quite beyond his dreams. Truly God granted miracles.

He was still marvelling at his good fortune when the hulk struck a sandbank, lurched and stuck fast.

Nick Pride heard the horse as soon as it entered the place, but he kept his eyes on the distant beacon. There was still only a single pinpoint of light out there in the blackness.

Nick was alone on the wall. His relief was asleep in the hut. He had been on his own since dusk when, after watching the distant Armada on the horizon for an hour or so, Jane had left. This was the critical night. If the Spanish started to make for the coast, the Isle of Wight beacons would certainly go to three. He had not taken his eyes off the signal for even a minute since nightfall.

Yet even so, his mind had several times wandered to other matters.

What was the matter with Jane? Three nights in a row, now, when she had come to see him she had kept him company for a little while but refused to stay. Each time, in some way, there had been a strangeness in her manner. One night she had seemed preoccupied and elusive, on another she had suddenly criticized him and seemed cross for no reason. A third time she had seemed good-humoured, yet almost motherly, kissing him on the forehead as if he were a child. Tonight, when she had said she must go, he had looked at her strangely and asked her what was wrong. She had pointed out towards the ships of the Armada on the horizon and asked him: ‘Isn’t that enough to be worried about, Nick? What is to become of us all?’ Then she had abruptly left him.

He supposed this must be the reason for her agitation. Yet each time he turned the matter over in his mind it still did not seem quite right.

A snort from the horse behind him told him it was almost at the wall. He had not expected Albion, but it was typical of his captain to take the trouble to visit even at this time of night. He awaited the familiar salute.

‘You. Fellow. Watchman.’

A woman’s voice. What could this mean?

Whatever he was supposed to say in challenge he forgot. Instead, like a village rustic he enquired: ‘Who’s that, then?’

There was a brief pause, then the same person called out in a tone of authority: ‘Light your beacon, fellow, summon the muster.’

This was too much.

‘The beacon only gets lit when there be three on the island. Well, two, anyway. Those are my orders from Captain Albion.’ That sounded definitive.

‘But I come from Albion, good fellow. It is he who bids you light the beacon.’

‘And who might you be?’

‘I am the Lady Albion. He sent me.’ Some practical joker, obviously.

‘So you say. I only light this beacon when I see two down there,’ Nick said firmly. ‘And that’s that.’

‘Must I force you?’

‘You can try.’ He drew out his sword.

‘The Spanish are coming, fool.’

For a moment Nick Pride hesitated. Then he had an inspiration. ‘Tell me the password, then.’

There was a pause. ‘He told it me, good fellow, but alas I have forgotten it.’

‘He told you?’

‘Yes. Upon my life.’

‘Was it’ – he searched his mind – ‘Rufus oak?’

‘Yes. Yes, I believe it was.’ The miraculous tree.

‘Well, then, I’ll tell you something.’

‘Yes?’

‘There ain’t no password. Now be off with you, you trollop.’

‘You shall pay for this.’ The voice was furious, but disappointed – you could hear that in the dark.

‘Be off, I say.’ He laughed. And a moment later the strange rider retreated into the shadow again. He wondered who she was. At least it gave him something else to think about as he gazed down, once more, at the single light in the distance.

As for the Lady Albion, she turned her horse southwards. If necessary, she was going to seize the guns at Hurst Castle herself.

The short night was already well advanced by the time Albion came on to the high ground at Lymington. The clouds were still obscuring the stars. Looking out to sea past the faint paleness of the Isle of Wight’s chalk cliffs and the Needles, he could see nothing in the deep gloom. Wherever the Armada was, he did not think it was approaching the shore. In all probability it had vanished behind the Isle of Wight by now. Perhaps, at first light, he thought, he would ride westwards a few miles along the coast to see if he could get a view of the fleets behind the island. For the time being he dismounted and sat on the ground.

He had been there some time when he thought he saw a dark shape out in the water. For a moment he felt he’d imagined it. But no: it was there. A ship was approaching. He stood up, his heart suddenly pounding. Was it possible that the Armada had slipped in unnoticed? Or perhaps a squadron had been sent in under cover of night to seize the Solent? He turned and swung himself into the saddle. He must race to Hurst Castle and alert them.

But then he paused. Must he? Was he going to help Gorges or let the Spanish take him by surprise? Nobody could blame him. Nobody knew he was there. He suddenly realized, with a horrible force, that his moment of decision had come. What side was he on?

He had no idea.

He had spent so much time telling his mother one thing and the world another that he truly couldn’t remember where he stood. He stared helplessly out to sea.

The ship was still approaching, but very slowly. He searched in the darkness, trying to see others, but could not find them. He waited. Still nothing. Then the dark shape seemed to stop. It had. He smiled. It must have hit a sandbank. He continued to watch. It would be perfectly possible for half a dozen Spanish ships to run aground out there. But although he waited no other shapes appeared. Whatever it was, the ship was alone.

He gave a sigh of relief. He needn’t make a decision after all. Not yet.

Another hour later the first hint of light appeared in the east. The clouds were thinning, too. In the greyness the horizon line appeared unbroken. The Armada was no longer in sight.

He could see the hulk clearly, now. He looked for any sign of life upon it, but there didn’t seem to be. The wind had dropped to the lightest of breezes; the water around the ship was calm. There might be survivors. If so, they would probably be on the beaches past Keyhaven.

He wondered whether to go and see. It could be dangerous if there was a boatload of them. On the other hand he was mounted. He had a sword. He considered, then shrugged.

His curiosity had got the better of him.

Don Diego watched cautiously. He was still rather wet, but he counted himself fortunate. The hulk had run aground only a mile or so out from the shore. The sea was calm. It had been quite easy, in the ship’s hold, to find all he needed to make a simple, buoyant raft and fashion a broad-bladed paddle. The tide had helped him reach the sandy beach well before dawn broke. He had concealed the raft, climbed the sandy little cliff and started to walk along the heath. One precaution he had taken. Like most of the gentlemen travelling with the Armada, he wore a long gold chain round his neck. Its links were as good as any currency. For the time being he had concealed this inside his shirt and doublet. He also made himself as presentable as he could. He cleaned his shoes and stockings, brushed his breeches and doublet as far as possible. He understood the English fashions followed the Spanish. He was not sure how well he spoke English. He had gone to great trouble to do so and his wife assured him he did. Perhaps he could pass for an English gentleman who had been robbed rather than a Spaniard who had been shipwrecked. He would find out soon enough.

He walked along cautiously, ready to dive for cover in an instant if necessary. He knew from the maps on the duke’s flagship what the lie of the land was around the mouth of the Solent. He knew where Hurst Castle stood. He wished he knew where Brockenhurst was, but he didn’t.

His mission now, in any case, was wonderfully simple. He had to avoid being robbed, or killed by any overeager musters. He had, as soon as possible, to find one man; then all his troubles would be over.

He saw the lone horseman coming towards him from some way off. He leaped behind a gorse bush and waited, preparing himself carefully.

As he approached the gorse bush Albion slowed his horse to a walk and then stopped. He had seen the lonely figure walking along, apparently by himself, and watched him dart behind the bush. Now, with his hand on his sword, he waited for the next move.

He did not have to wait long.

The dishevelled Spaniard – for it was quite obvious that this was what he was – stepped out and, to his surprise, addressed him, despite his Spanish accent, in passable English. ‘Sir, I ask your help.’

‘Indeed?’

‘I have been waylaid and robbed, Sir, on my journey to a kinsman who lives not far from here, I believe.’

‘I see.’ Clement kept his hand on his sword, but decided to play out this charade to see where it would lead. ‘You come from where, Sir?’

‘From Plymouth.’ It was true, in a way.

‘A long journey. May I know your name?’

‘You may, Sir.’ The Spaniard smiled. ‘My name is David Albion.’

‘Albion?’

‘Yes, Sir.’ Don Diego watched as the Englishman’s face registered complete astonishment. I have impressed him, he thought and, emboldened, continued: ‘My kinsman is no less a person than the great captain, Clement Albion himself.’

To say that this information impressed the Englishman would be an understatement. He looked stupefied. ‘Is he so great a man?’ he asked weakly.

‘Why, I think so, Sir. Is he not captain of all the trained bands and shore defences from here to Portsmouth?’

For several terrible seconds Albion was silent. Was this his reputation with the invading Spanish? Had the entire Spanish Armada heard of him? Would any captured Spaniard cry out his name? How, unless England fell into Spanish hands within days, was he to explain this to the council? Appalled though he was, he collected his wits enough to realize he had better find out more. ‘You are not David Albion, Sir. Firstly, because I perceive that you are Spanish.’ He quietly drew his sword. ‘And secondly because Albion has no such kinsman.’ He looked at him severely. ‘I know this, Sir, because I am Albion.’

For a moment the Spaniard broke into a delighted smile, then checked himself. ‘How do I know that you are Albion?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Clement replied calmly.

But the Spaniard was looking thoughtful. ‘There is a way,’ he said quietly. And then he told Clement his name.

‘But what luck – I should say what a sign of God’s providence – my dear brother, that of all the people in England I might have encountered’ – Don Diego looked so delighted, so touched – ‘I should have come straight upon you.’ He looked at Albion happily but seriously. ‘It’s wonderful, you know.’

They were sitting, at Albion’s suggestion, in a pleasant hollow near the cliff where they would not be disturbed. It had only taken a few moments to verify who they were. Albion had asked tenderly after his sister Catherine and Don Diego had been equally anxious to know the good health of the mother-in-law whom he described as: ‘That wonder, that saint’. When Albion had politely congratulated him on his own high command, however, Don Diego had looked mystified.

‘My command? I have no command at all. I am merely a private gentleman travelling with the Armada. It is you, my dear brother’ – he inclined his head – ‘who have achieved such a high and honourable state. Your mother wrote to us about it long ago.’

Albion nodded slowly. He began to understand. He saw his mother’s fantastic hand in all this now. But this did not seem the moment to disillusion the well-meaning Spaniard. There were so many things he needed to find out. Was the King of Spain himself expecting him to deliver Hurst Castle to the invaders?

‘Ah, my plan!’ Don Diego’s face lit up. ‘Your mother’s plan, of course, I should say. What a woman!’ But then his face fell. ‘I tried, my dear brother. God knows I tried. I wrote a long memorandum to my kinsman the Duke of Medina Sidonia. But …’ His hand indicated a falling motion. ‘Nothing.’

‘I see.’ Things were looking up.

But what exactly, Albion ventured to ask, was the Spanish plan of invasion?

‘Ah. What indeed?’ Don Diego shook his head. ‘We all supposed, all the commanders of the ships supposed, that we should take a port as a base. Plymouth. Southampton. Portsmouth. One of them. From there our ships could be supplied.’

‘That seems wise.’

‘But His Majesty King Philip insisted the Armada go straight to meet Parma. In the Netherlands.’

‘The Armada will transport Parma’s troops across, you mean?’

‘No. It seems the waters by Parma’s army are too shallow for our galleons. The Armada will rest at Calais.’

‘That’s only a day’s sailing away.’

‘And then?’

‘Then Parma will cross to England. He’s a great general, you know. Some say’ – he dropped his voice as though he could be overheard – ‘that it’s Parma who will make himself king of England, instead of King Philip. Not that he would be so disloyal, of course.’ Don Diego still looked doubtful.

‘So how will Parma cross? Has he a fleet?’

‘Flat-bottomed boats only. So he’ll need fine weather.’

‘But the English ships would blast any such transport vessels out of the water,’ Albion objected.

‘No, no, brother you forget. Our Armada will be only a day’s sailing away. And our galleons are bristling with troops. The English won’t dare come near enough to attack them.’

‘Then why are they doing so now?’

As if to underline the question a faint rumble was heard from the sea beyond the Isle of Wight. The English attack on the Armada had just begun again.

Don Diego looked troubled. ‘Actually, my kinsman the Duke of Medina Sidonia did seem to hint that he … thought the king’s plan was imperfect.’ He shook his head. ‘We were told your ships were all rotten and that they’d run away.’