The Forest

by Edward Rutherfurd

  The men looked at him sullenly. They had to obey this gentleman, who knew nothing of ships and who had been foisted upon them; but they didn’t like it.

  ‘What do we do after that?’ one of the men asked, with a hint of insolence in his voice.

  ‘Get into the pinnaces,’ Don Diego replied. ‘No doubt,’ he added coolly, ‘if you row hard we can catch up.’

  The night was dark. Clouds covered the moon. Very slowly, yard by yard, the hulk was falling back through the fleet. To right and left, as the minutes passed, great shapes loomed up at them, hovered, showing lights here and there, then drew mysteriously away. The process of falling back might take half an hour, he guessed.

  He went down into the captain’s big cabin in the stern. There was a large chair there and he sat in it. He was tired, but he felt a sense of satisfaction at what he had done. Well, nearly done. He was exhausted, but he smiled. For a moment, a wave of sleepiness almost overcame him, but he shook his head to drive it off. It would be time, he thought, in a little while, he’d go back on deck again.

  Don Diego’s head sank on to his chest.

  Albion inwardly groaned. It was the middle of the night and still, God help them, his mother had not gone to bed.

  The oak-panelled parlour was brightly lit: she had ordered fresh candles an hour ago. And now, for perhaps the fourth time – he had lost the will to keep count – she had worked herself up to a climax of fervour again.

  ‘Now is the time, Clement. Now. Saddle your horse. The game’s afoot. Summon your men.’

  ‘It is the middle of the night, Mother.’

  ‘Go up to Malwood,’ she cried. ‘Light the beacon. Call the muster.’

  ‘All I have asked, Mother,’ he said patiently, ‘is that we wait until dawn. Then we shall know.’

  ‘Know? Know what?’ Her voice rose now to a pitch that might have pleased any preacher. ‘Have we not seen, Clement? Have we not seen them coming?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Oh!’ She threw up her hands in exasperation. ‘You are weak. Weak. All of you. If only I were a man.’

  If you were a man, thought Albion privately, you would have been locked up long ago.

  It had been late afternoon when the Armada had been sighted. The two of them, with a party of other gentlemen and ladies, had gathered at the top of the ridge by Lymington from which there was a fine view over Pennington Marshes down the English Channel. As soon as the distant ships had come in sight his mother had started to become highly agitated and he had been forced to take her horse’s bridle, pull her to one side and whisper urgently: ‘You must dissemble, Mother. If you cry for the Spanish now, you will ruin everything.’

  ‘Dissemble. Yes. Ha-ha,’ she had cried. Then, in a whisper which, surely, must have reached well beyond Hurst Castle. ‘You are right. We must be wise. We shall be cunning. God save the queen!’ she had suddenly shouted, so that the ladies and gentlemen turned in surprise. ‘The heretic,’ she hissed with delighted venom.

  For three nerve-wracking hours they had continued to watch as the Armada came eastwards. The wind had been dropping and its progress seemed slower and slower. The English fleet, drawn up in tidy squadrons now, was visible not far behind. Before long, several small, swift vessels could be seen detaching themselves from their squadrons and making their way swiftly across the waters towards the Solent entrance. In less than an hour, two had navigated the entrance and anchored in the lee of Hurst Castle, while two more had pressed on towards Southampton. Soon they could see the men from Hurst Castle going out in lighters laden with powder and shot, and as soon as the two vessels had taken on all that could be spared they sped off again towards the fleet, from which tiny puffs of smoke and fire could be seen from time to time, accompanied, after a long pause, by a faint roar like receding thunder.

  The Armada, so far, showed no sign of making towards the English shore. The ships remained in silhouette, a mass of tiny spikes like cut-outs, inching along the horizon line. On the Isle of Wight the garrison still had not lit the second or third beacons. But as darkness began to fall and the distant show resolved itself into a few sporadic flashes, Albion’s mother remained as committed as ever to her former belief. ‘They will turn and approach us under cover of darkness, Clement,’ she assured him confidently. ‘They’ll be in the Solent by morning.’ And so she had been saying ever since.

  Albion glanced across at his wife. She was dressed in her nightclothes, prepared for bed. Her fair hair, only lightly streaked with silver, hung loose. She had gathered a shawl around her and was sitting quietly in a corner, saying nothing. If she took no part in the conversation, however, Albion knew quite well what she was doing. She was watching. As long as he could control his mother, well and good. But if not, she had already warned him she had given the servants their orders, which even he did not dare to countermand.

  ‘We shall lose our inheritance,’ he had cautioned.

  ‘And keep our lives. If she commits us to treason we shall lock her up.’

  He did not blame her. She was probably right; but the thought of losing all that money was very hard for him; which was why even now – for his children’s sake, he told himself – he was temporizing with his mother, playing for time. ‘I sent a servant up to Malwood, Mother,’ he pointed out for the third time. ‘If the beacons signal any approach, I shall be told at once.’

  ‘The beacons.’ She said it with disgust.

  ‘They work very well, Mother,’ he said firmly. ‘Where do you think I should be? Down at the coast with my men already? Ready to silence the guns at Hurst Castle?’ He regretted it even before he finished speaking.

  Her face lit up. ‘Yes, Clement. Yes. Do that, I beg you. Be ready, at least, to strike quickly. Why do you hesitate? Go at once.’

  Albion stared thoughtfully at the gleaming candles. If he went out upon this errand, would it pacify her? Was that the sensible thing to do? Perhaps. But at the same time, another idea was in his mind. He was quite sure the Armada was not heading into the western Solent. They had been too far out to sea. But what if they came in at Portsmouth, just past the Isle of Wight? Or at any of the havens along the southern coast? There was Parma to consider, too. What about his great army in the Netherlands? That could be landing by the Thames even as they spoke. His mother might be dangerous; she might be mad. But was she wrong? It was the calculation he had never shared even with his wife. The time was very close. If the Spanish landed they might win. If they won, shouldn’t he be on their side? How could he discover who was winning? There were probably not a few Englishmen who were thinking such thoughts that night.

  And surely, he considered, when there was a strong chance his mother’s cause might triumph it would be foolish indeed to make of her, his greatest advocate, an enemy.

  ‘Very well, Mother. You may be right.’ He turned to his wife. ‘You and my mother should remain here and tell no one I have gone. There are some good men I can trust.’ This was pure invention. ‘I shall gather them now and we shall go down to the shore. If the Spanish show signs of landing …’ He hadn’t, in truth, any idea what he would do, but his mother was beaming.

  ‘Thank God, Clement. At last. God will reward you.’

  Not long afterwards Albion rode out of his house in the wood and made his way southwards towards Lymington. If he was going to stay out all night, he considered, he might as well be down at the shore. Who knew? Something might happen.

  Behind him his wife and his mother sat quietly in the parlour. Some of the candles had been snuffed. The room was bathed in a soft, pleasant glow.

  After a while the older woman yawned. ‘I think’, she said, ‘I may rest for a little while. Will you promise to wake me as soon as there is any news?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The Lady Albion went over, kissed her daughter-in-law on the forehead and yawned again. ‘Very well, then,’ she said and, taking a candle, left the room. A few moments later Albion’s wife heard her enter her chamber.
Then there was silence. She waited, snuffing out all but one of the candles, after which she went up to her own bed, got in as quickly as she could and laid down her head. As far as she was concerned her mother-in-law could sleep until doomsday.

  And she was fast asleep herself, half an hour later, when the Lady Albion quietly stole out of the house.

  Everything was pitch-black when Don Diego awoke. For a few moments he stared about him, trying to remember where he was. Then, feeling the arms of the chair and dimly seeing the big cabin around him, he remembered. He rose with a start. How long had he been sleeping? He staggered out and went up on to the deck, calling to his men.

  Silence. He ran to the side to look for the pinnace. It had gone. He crossed to the other. That had vanished too. He was alone. He stared forward into the darkness. The sky was cloudy; only a few stars peeped through, but he could see the waters all around. And he saw no ships. He frowned. How was it possible? If so much time had passed the hulk should have sunk. What had happened?

  Had he known the sailors better he might have guessed quite easily. Anxious to lose as little time as possible, they had made only the smallest attempt to scuttle the ship, then taken to the pinnaces as soon as they could. Afterwards the men on each pinnace, having gone to different ships, would claim they thought Don Diego was in the other. As for the hulk, it had continued to sail slowly forward but, one of the departing sailors having thoughtfully turned its rudder, it had peeled off to port. By the time the English boats saw it distantly in the darkness they had mistaken it for a ship of their own. And so for several hours, the hulk had been wallowing gracelessly forward, on an increasingly north-easterly course.

  It was now, peering forward, that Don Diego suddenly realized something else. Ahead of him in the blackness, perhaps two miles off, was a faint, pale shape. At first he had thought it was a cloud, but it wasn’t. He realized it was part of a larger, darker shape. It was a line of white cliffs. He could make them out, now. He looked to port. Yes. There was a low, dark coastline there, running for many miles. His mind was working clearly. He realized where he must be. The dark line must be the south coast of England. The white cliffs must belong to the Isle of Wight.

  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.