by Ken Follett
Among the crowd Alison spotted Sir Ned Willard. He had done more than anyone else to bring about today’s horror. He had outwitted Elizabeth’s enemies at every turn. He did not even appear triumphant. In fact, he looked aghast at the sight of the stage, the axe and the doomed queen. Alison would have preferred him to gloat: she could have hated him more.
Logs blazed in the massive fireplace, but failed to have much effect, and it seemed to Alison that the hall must be colder than the sunlit courtyard visible through the windows.
Mary approached the stage. As she did so, Paulet stood up and gave her his hand to help her up the steps. ‘Thank you,’ she said. But the cruel irony of his courtesy was not lost on her, for she then added bitterly: ‘This is the last trouble I shall ever give you.’
She climbed the three steps with her head held high.
Then she calmly took her place on the execution stool.
While the commission for her execution was read out she sat motionless, her face without expression; but when a clergyman began to pray, loudly and pompously, asking God to convert her to the Protestant faith at the last minute, she protested. ‘I am settled in the ancient Catholic Roman religion,’ she said with queenly decisiveness, ‘and I mean to spend my blood in defence of it.’
The man took no notice, but carried on.
Mary turned sideways on her stool, so that she had her back to him, and opened her Latin prayer book. She began to read aloud in a quiet voice while he ranted on, and Alison thought proudly that Mary was indisputably the more gracious of the two. After a minute, Mary slid off her stool to her knees, and continued to pray facing the execution block, as if it were an altar.
At last the prayers ended. Now Mary had to remove her outer garments. Alison went onto the stage to help her. Mary seemed to want to undress quickly, as if impatient to get this over with, and Alison removed her overmantle and skirt as rapidly as possible, then her headdress with its veil.
Mary stood there in her blood-red underclothes, the very picture of a Catholic martyr, and Alison realized she had chosen the colour for exactly that effect.
Her servants were weeping and praying loudly, but Mary reproved them, saying in French: ‘Don’t cry for me.’
The executioner picked up the axe.
Another of the women brought a white blindfold and covered the queen’s eyes.
Mary knelt down. Unable to see the block, she felt for it with her hands, then lowered her head into position, exposing her bare white neck. In seconds the axe would cut into that soft flesh. Alison was horrified to her soul.
In a loud voice Mary cried in Latin: ‘Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.’
The executioner lifted the axe high and brought it down hard.
He missed his mark. The blow did not sever Mary’s neck, but bit into the bony back of her head. Alison could not contain herself and let out a loud sob. It was the most awful sight she had seen in a long life.
Mary did not move, and Alison could not tell whether she was still conscious. She made no sound.
The executioner lifted the axe and brought it down again, and this time his aim was better. The steel edge entered her neck at just the right place and went through almost all the way. But one sinew remained, and her head did not fall.
Horribly, the executioner took the head of his axe in both hands and sawed through the sinew.
At last Mary’s head fell from the block onto the mat of straw that had been placed to receive it.
The man picked up the head by the hair, held it up for all to see, and said: ‘God save the queen!’
But Mary had been wearing a wig, and now, to Alison’s horror and revulsion, wig and head separated. Mary’s head fell onto the stage, and the executioner was left holding her curly auburn wig. The head on the floor was revealed to be covered with short, grey hair.
It was the final, terrible indignity, and Alison could do nothing but close her eyes.
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.�
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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.’