‘And did it serve? I recall you beat Cuddon senseless anyway.’ He slapped the younger man on the shoulder. ‘Come, Jack Stannard, let’s find an altar where we can sing Alleluias, then an alehouse where we can raise a mug or three to God’s good grace for freeing you. When we’re drunk enough, we can call down damnation on Southwold and Walberswick, and thank Saint Felix that our friends Raker and Maddox overplayed their hand by throwing every charge they could conjure into the pot. Idiots. Whatever other faults could be laid at the door of our Lord Admiral, the lack of a brain is not one of them.’
‘So is my freedom due only to God’s grace, then, Thomas?’
The old man shrugged.
‘In truth, Jack, the Almighty could have done a little more to expedite my interview with the Lord Admiral – I feared you would be left behind when the fleet sailed, left to rot in prison even without Raker bringing his charges against you. It was only this morning that My Lord agreed to see me, and that only because one of his old corporals served with me in Picardy in ’twenty-three. But once I had the admiral’s ear, it was a children’s game.’
‘A children’s game, Thomas Ryman? With My Lord Lisle? The Lord Admiral himself? One of the greatest men of the kingdom?’
‘Just so, lad, just so. You see, Jack, I reminded him of three facts. One, that he was knighted by the Duke of Suffolk, to whom he owed his early advancement. Two, that this same Duke of Suffolk has always been the patron of Dunwich, had a regard for your father, and approved your command of our expedition. Thus, His Grace would certainly not look kindly upon the hanging of a Stannard of Dunwich upon such patently trumped-up charges. My Lord Lisle is said to be mightily ambitious, having risen so far in such a short time, so methinks offending His Grace, the king’s closest friend and erstwhile good-brother, would be unlikely to further those ambitions.’
‘You said all this to him? I had not thought you such a Machiavel of statecraft, Master Ryman.’
‘Oh, not in so many words, Jack, and not before I had reminded him of my third fact.’
‘Which was?’
‘Remembrance of a day in the Pale of Calais in the winter of ’twenty-three, on the border between Guines and Ardres, when the ground was frozen hard. A sudden French ambush, and a very young, very new knight being thrown from his horse in the snow. A young knight whose life was saved by a certain sergeant.’
‘Lisle? You saved Lisle’s life? Sweet Jesu, Thomas Ryman, is there no end to your secrets?’
‘Sir John Dudley, as he then was. It was my Christian duty to save him from a Calvary that day, and my duty as a soldier, too. But until I had the saving of your life as reason to appeal to him, I wondered whether I did the right thing, that day in the snow.’
‘You spared the life of the future Lord Admiral of England, Master Thomas – a great favourite of the king, they say. How could that not be the right thing?’
Ryman looked around to ensure no others in the room were listening to their conversation.
‘My Lord Lisle, Jack, is one of the most vigorous of the reformers around the king. It’s said he favours the catechism being in English, and denies the Real Presence during the Mass. God alone knows what other heresies may lurk in his bosom.’
‘Do men not say the same of the queen? And the archbishop?’
Ryman glanced behind him once again, then took Jack’s elbow and began to lead him away. In a very low voice, he said, ‘Talk for another place and another time, Jack. You’ve just become a free man again. Don’t, then, tempt a reversal of your fate, or still worse – whatever faith he may hold in his heart, Lisle is a hard man, and a man of his word, so when he speaks of the noose if you, Raker or Maddox offend him again, he means it. So let’s find that alehouse, my young friend, and toast your liberty.’
FIVE
From the sterncastle of the Blessing of Dunwich, Thomas Ryman looked out over the dreadful scene. The sea-legion of England was edging into the Firth of Forth upon the flood and a favourable breeze, the great royal men-of-war to the north, covering the slow advance of the transports, like the hull in which Ryman sailed, and the wafters, the smaller warships, mainly single-masted ballingers, detailed to escort the others. The banners and swallow-tail pennants of Saint George streamed out from the staffs and topmasts of the Swallow, the Great Galley, the Minion, and the rest of the king’s ships. Their guns were run out in case of resistance, the early May sun gleaming on the polished brass barrels of cannon perriers, demi-culverins, sakers and fawcons. There was the vanward, under Lord Lisle; there, the rearward, under the Earl of Shrewsbury. There, over toward one of the islands and at the heart of the middleward, lay the flagship, the carrack Rose Lion, adorned with more flags than any other ship in the fleet. One of them was the red and gold banner of the Seymours, signifying the presence of their general, the Earl of Hertford, Great Chamberlain of England; another, the royal standard of the kingdom, signifying that although the king himself was not present, his authority as supreme commander of England’s forces most surely was, in the form of the man who had been his brother-in-law.
Of their enemies, the Scots, there was no sign. The Blessing was one of the vessels closest inshore, and also one of the most westerly, but no ship was stirring out of any of the creeks or bays. There was no sign of any troops massing on the nearer shore, nor on that of Fife, to the north. Scotland might have been a desert, a land entirely devoid of people, but for the dark mass in the shadow of a great hill, away to the south-west of the approaching English fleet. Ryman could see the wisps of smoke from the city’s chimneys, and the black outline of a castle upon a high, dark cliff.
Edinburgh, then.
Thomas Ryman drew his sword and inspected it. Fifteen years before, when he entered the Dunwich Greyfriars, convinced that this was God’s chosen course for him, he had sheathed it for what he thought was the last time. Then, England was still a part of the Universal Church, still happy under the eternal truths, its people content and prosperous. Fifteen years before, though, the newly-minted Friar Thomas had known nothing of the king’s lust for the Boleyn harpy, nor that Cardinal Wolsey would soon topple, nor that there could be such a thing as a Supreme Head of the Church who was not the Pope, nor that the friary, with its little burying ground where he expected to be laid to rest, would die long before him. So England, lashed by the waves of discord and the gales of war, now faced a future as uncertain as Dunwich. Young Jack and his father both dreamed of it being great again, one of the few matters upon which they agreed, but Ryman knew better. He had fought in Italy, and seen the huge ruins left by the old Romans. Greatness, once lost, never returned; but he could never say that to any man by the name of Stannard.
As he studied the blade, still scrupulously sharpened and polished through all the years between, it also sang to him of their times together. It sang of Flodden, of Marignano, of Pavia, of the half-forgotten skirmishes in the snow-shrouded foothills of the Pyrenees and the scorched plains of Lombardy: fighting alongside Germans and Frenchmen, Spaniards and Italians, all of whom now shunned Englishmen as though they were Satan’s spawn. It sang of the snows in the Pale of Calais, where he had saved the life of the man who was now Lord Admiral of England. It sang, too, of the men it had killed, of the times it had saved his life. And it sang of the basilica in a small town lost in the Umbrian foothills, of the screams and the blood of nuns, women and children, and of the vision of the Blessed Virgin he had experienced that day, which caused him to abandon the wars and return home to the Greyfriars, seeking redemption and absolution. It was strange how, with the sword in his hand, the memories and terrors of war seemed like yesterday, while his more recent time in the monastery seemed like a far-distant, almost lost, recollection of an age long since vanished into the mists.
Thomas Ryman raised the sword and contemplated it. He swung it right and left, swept it up and down, slowly at first, then faster, ever faster.
No, he had not forgotten how to use it.
‘You and me, my angel,’ he mur
mured. A sailor within earshot turned, and looked at him as though he were a Bedlam-man. ‘You and me, once again.’
* * *
The old man’s screams woke Will Halliday once more, as they had done every night that week. The clerk slept on a trestle bed at the far end of the room which William Gonson used as his office in his work as treasurer and storekeeper of the navy, so, abandoning his own, infinitely pleasant, dream of Mistress Marion Bartleby, Will was at his master’s side in a moment. None of the others in the house in Tower Street Ward stirred: the servants had learned long ago to ignore Gonson’s nightmares, while the old man’s wife was as deaf as a statue. His other sons had their own households, partly because they could afford them, partly – as Benjamin, the son who worked alongside Will, had told him – so they did not have to listen to their father’s screams.
‘Sir!’ cried Will, shaking Gonson’s shoulders. ‘Sir!’
‘Mm? Mm? No – no! David! God spare him – David, my boy—’
‘Sir! Master Gonson! Wake, sir, for God’s sake! It’s but a dream, Master. A dream again, sir.’
Gonson’s breathing was very rapid, his words urgent and terrified.
‘I see the knife tearing him open – I see his entrails held up to the crowd – I see it, I see it, I see it still—’
As Gonson’s head turned violently from side to side, Will Halliday continued to shake him. At last, the old man’s eyes opened, and stared at him blankly. Then, finally, a word:
‘Will.’
‘Just a d-dream, sir.’
‘No, Will, not just a dream. Would that it were. Not a dream, but a memory.’ Gonson sighed, rubbed his eyes, and made to rise from his bed. ‘Ah, well, let’s make the best of it, then. Bring my wine, lad, and my pen. Time to prepare the orders for Erith yard.’
‘But Saint Dunstan’s has yet to chime three, sir!’
‘As good a time as any. I’ll not hope to sleep now until the afternoon – you know that, Will, you’ve been with me long enough. Oh, and open a shutter. Let me breathe some London air, and clear my head.’
Will nodded, and went to the window. With the shutter open, the bright moonlight enabled him to see over the rooftops of Thames Street, down to the river, west to London Bridge, east to the black bulk of the Tower, the flaming torches and braziers of the guards upon the wallwalks just visible. Even at that time of night, there was noise everywhere: the sounds of arguments, and fornication, and drunks singing as they rolled their ways homeward, and of the night soil men, laughing and talking as they scooped up Londoners’ dung. Once, Will Halliday had thought Ipswich mighty and the centre of his world, but now, he could not imagine being anywhere other than London. He took a deep breath before turning back to the table, which held a jug of claret.
Yes, he’d been with William Gonson long enough to know his habits: how night could be made day if business was urgent enough, as it always was these days. He’d been with him long enough to know that his master got nothing like enough sleep for a man of his age. He’d been with him long enough to know that in Gonson’s mind, one inventory forgotten, one order not sent, one bill not paid, might be sufficient to destroy the navy of England, perhaps even to bring down the throne of King Henry. And he’d been with him long enough to know that when those waking thoughts gave way to sleep, their place was taken by the even more terrible offspring of the imagination, the recurring nightmare that plagued the old man every night.
Except he was right, of course.
It was not a nightmare: it was a memory.
Three years earlier, David Gonson, knight of the Order of Saint John of Jerusalem, the bravest, finest, and most beloved of William’s six sons, was hanged, drawn and quartered for high treason. He had not plotted against the king’s life, he had not fought for the return of papal authority, and he had not spoken derogatory words against King Henry, whatever the solitary witness against him, a perjured renegade knight named Sir Philip Babington, might have said. David Gonson died both because of the malice of that one inveterate enemy, and because he belonged to an Order respected the length and breadth of Christendom: the Order whose men-of-war, sailing from their invincible base at Malta, David had commanded with skill and success against the Ottoman foe, the common enemy of all Christians, Catholic or Protestant alike. But then, King Henry the Eighth suddenly took against the Knights of Saint John. First, he sent out a new turcopolier, the title given to the lieutenant of each langue, or nationality, of the Order. This fellow, Sir Clement West by name, Gonson had told Will, was an arrogant, charmless puppet of the king, who marked his arrival in Malta by placing the lion of England above the arms of the Order, as well as having an officer march before him, bearing a mace with the English royal crest. After insulting virtually every English knight and belittling the Grand Master, he was arrested and deposed, only to be reinstated at the king’s insistence. Sir David Gonson had been one of the turcopolier’s many opponents in the English langue, his nemesis, Sir Philip Babington, one of West’s very few supporters. In the end, though, the king decided that the Order, which swore loyalty to the Pope, represented a threat to his headship of the Church of England, and outlawed it from his kingdom. But in the taverns and alehouses that Will Halliday frequented, there were a few bold enough to whisper that the true reason for the Order’s downfall was because Henry had set his relentlessly avaricious eyes upon its substantial English properties, notably its great palace at Clerkenwell.
Regardless of the cause, the upshot was that the English knights who remained loyal to the Order, like Sir David Gonson, suddenly found themselves condemned as traitors. By the time-honoured convention of English law, a charge of treason had to have two witnesses to support it. But David Gonson was tried, condemned and executed by a new legal process, attainder, which did not rely on such wearisome and inconvenient matters as witnesses and evidence, judges and juries. Justice was so much more efficient in Great Harry’s new imperial island.
So William Gonson’s son was judicially murdered, and his father had watched; but King Henry, in his infinite mercy, judged that otherwise, the sins of the son should not be visited upon the father. All of this happened before Will Halliday joined William Gonson’s service, but he heard of it soon enough from Benjamin, the penultimate son, who was of an age with Will, and who was the only one of the master’s boys to show an aptitude for naval administration.
Will placed the glass of wine on the one small patch of uncovered wood upon Gonson’s desk. The old man got out of bed, stiffly and slowly, donned an overgown, crossed to the desk, lifted the glass to his lips, supped, and then looked up at his young clerk.
‘How stands the wind, Will?’
‘North-westerly, Master.’
No matter if you never set foot on a ship, William Halliday, Gonson told him, on Will’s first day in his service, always know where stands the wind. It is the alpha and omega of the navy. Besides the wind, all else is but frippery.
‘Nor’-westerly, the seamen would say. Not ideal, not ideal.’ Gonson was fully awake now, alert, and not distracted by wild thoughts and memories, as he so often was. ‘But sufficient. If Lord Lisle and the fleet have the same wind, they will be going into the Forth, perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps they are there already. So we have done all we can for them, Will. Now is the time for the warriors.’
SIX
‘All hands, make the ship predy! Waller, yonder clewline is flapping like a widow’s tit – make it fast, man!’
As he gave his commands, Jack Stannard’s eyes scanned the shore, east to west, then back, searching for any sign of movement, any sign of an attack. Christopher Eagle, that good and consummate seaman, was keeping the Eagle on station on the Blessing’s starboard quarter, two cables or so away, but Raker and Maddox, who had avoided their commander’s company since Tynemouth, were thankfully away in the midst of the fleet. Like all the ships close inshore, the Blessing was struggling to maintain leeway. The conjunction of north-westerly breeze and a fresh flood tide pushe
d her inexorably toward the shore, and Jack was having to relieve his helmsmen every half-glass before they dropped with exhaustion. Not only were the elements challenging: the ship was deep in the water, laden down with her passengers and cargo, her leaks only making matters worse. Many of the passengers in question were on the upper deck, getting in the way of Jack’s men, tripping over ropes, slipping or puking or pointing excitedly at the shore. The eighty soldiers entrusted to the Blessing were dressed simply, in shirts alone or gambesons also. Their breastplates, helmets, bills, halberds and pikes were in the hold until they were ready to disembark, or until an attack developed. But of the latter, there was no sign.
‘An easy victory,’ said the very young man at Jack’s side, the only soldier on the ship already clad in part armour. ‘Truly, the easiest. These Scots are cowards with no stomach for a fight. We’ll burn Edinburgh by nightfall.’
‘Perhaps you will, Captain Daubeney,’ said Ryman, patiently. ‘England has burned it before, and will burn it again, many times, I expect. But it signifies nothing.’
‘How nothing, Sergeant Ryman?’ said Daubeney, insisting on the rank that Thomas had not borne in nearly twenty years. ‘Burning their principal city can hardly be a nothing. If the French burned London, it would not be a nothing.’
‘A city is quite one thing. Houses can be rebuilt, warehouses refilled. But burning Edinburgh means nothing if you don’t take the castle, up there on its rock. Many an English army has tried to do that, and precious few have succeeded. And even if you do take it, Captain, you’ve still got all of Scotland north of the Forth, here – hundreds of miles of empty land, thousands of wild heathen warriors who like nothing better than stirring the bloody guts of Englishmen with their blades.’
Daubeney shook his head very slightly. He was a tall, thin youth from Dorset, with a few wisps of hair, which he deigned to name a beard, protruding from his chin. He wore a splendid red doublet and carried what was evidently a new sword, with which, he proclaimed proudly, he intended to revive the martial reputation of his family, which had provided many great soldiers during the endless French wars of previous centuries. Daubeneys had been at Crécy, and Poitiers, and Agincourt, he said, and he fully intended to honour their memory by adding new glory to his name.
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