The Grove of Eagles

by Winston Graham

  I was led into a chapel with savage stained glass in its Gothic windows. At the back of the chapel was a writing table, and seated at the table were three men: a priest I had never seen before—he had been chosen because he spoke English; Señor Prada; and Don Juan de Idiaquez, whom I, had seen once before and whom I knew to be, after the King, the most important member of the Junta de Nocke. Rodez withdrew and left me with the three men. The light from one of the windows threw a bloody streak across the table and across the well-kept hands of Idiaquez.

  “You will sit here, Maugan Killigrew,” said Andres Prada. “Father Vasco will read to you the message you are to learn by heart. When you have learned it he will take your oath, then you will be free to go.”

  Chapter Four

  It was July before I saw Cornwall. I travelled back to Lisbon in the company of two couriers and there waited four weeks. A provision ship carrying supplies for the army in Brittany at length gave me passage, but three days out we were struck with a great storm which after a week drove us back, a battered leaking wreck, into Coruña at the Groyne. More weeks passed in repairs and we did not reach Blavet until early June. Then began the most contrary wait of all, with only 200 miles of sea between myself and home. Great gales blew across the Bay with rain and biting winds. Enormous waves dashed against the mole and damp powdery balls of spume tottered through the narrow streets. I had been given some money but this ran low, and I worked in a shipyard for three weeks unloading planks.

  In the end a man I knew brought me home—in the sort of secrecy in which he always seemed to move and have his life, a secrecy of which his thin whispering nasal voice seemed an essential part. Captain Elliot said:

  “I’ll run you as far as Helford, put you ashore there; Dolphin’s bound for Plymouth but twill be no great way off course. I’m never above doing a favour for an old friend, and your father has long been a well-wisher of mine.”

  “Taken by Burley, was you?” shouted William Love, laughing heartily. “He’s turned his hand to many things, has Richard Burley, but child snatching is a new one and not, you’d ha’ thought, so richly profitable. One day he’ll find his his neck in a loop o’ rope, and then he’ll dance to someone else’s measure.”

  “Seen him?” said Captain Elliot. “No, young man, we have not seen Captain Burley since just before that time we visited you. You remember that time when we came on you late and you roused the house, and we stayed with you four or five days.”

  “Aye,” said William Love, “ and there was some fever in the house among the servants that more’n one of our hearty lads took. I wished we’d never come.”

  “But that—”

  “What,” whispered Captain Elliot, “ what was the name of the one that died of it? We buried him off Gyllyngvase. Mark Jarvis, that was it … Nay, I have not seen Captain Burley since we parted off the Land’s End the day before we made Helford. And then I had no time to bid him good day for I was afraid any minute to feel the Runnelstones under my keel. His prize foundered, you say? I thought we all should have. How long ago is all that, William?”

  “Nigh on two year. September or October ’92. The boy’s grown since then. He’s already taller ’ n his father.”

  “Ye’ve grown since I seen ye last,” said Justinian Kilter, “but I mind you well. You was ever interfering twixt me and that girl, what’s her name, Meg something. But last time we called you wasn’t there to thrust in your oar so I made free with her to my heart’s content.”

  “Dick Stable would see you did not.”

  “Ah, that’s his name, that skim-milk of a man. I never can mind whether he be Dick Harp the stable boy or Dick Stable th’ harpist. Poh, he could not protect a lent lily from a bumble bee. Meg had her fill o’ me last time I was there. I should not wonder if I’ve fathered a brat on her.”

  “Muscle?” said Aristotle Totle. “Why ye’ve no muscle yet, you should be ashamed at 16; why at your age I could lift two grown men. ’Ere, feel my arms—no, not there, ’ere. There’s stren’th for ’ee. I’ve killed twenty men in my time wi’ my bare ’ands. Twenty or twenty-one, I lose the count.”

  “How is her Ladyship your grandmother?” asked Captain Elliot. “I’ll be bound she’ll be glad to see you back. You’re a lucky young man, Maugan Killigrew, being sent home like this. Many will say, how did he accomplish it? What special service did he render to receive such special favour? Like as not, you’ll be asked that, and then what will you say?”

  “The truth. That it was because of an exchange.”

  “Ah, but what exchange? they’ll say. Did we release some Spaniard? Did we?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’ll hold a penny Richard Burley plays some continuing part in this,” shouted William Love. “He’s a deep fish and contrives much to his own profit. We must seek him out.”

  “No,” said Captain Elliot. “ Burley now has truck with the Spaniards, and that is treasonable work. Eh, young man? Who sups with the devil … Let us have no thought for Burley and his evil ways.”

  We sighted the Lizard about four-thirty on a wet and gusty Sunday afternoon. After the towering Sierras the dark coastline looked low and unimposing, but a lump rose in my throat and for a half-hour it would not be swallowed down. Though the sea had little vicious heads on it and the wind was shifting and backing treacherously Dolphin reefed her sails and made scarcely any headway towards the shelter of the land.

  “We’ll slip in as the day wanes,” said Captain Elliot.

  “I would not do to rouse an alarm, for there’s been much nervousness all summer on account of a Spanish attack.”

  I could not wait to get off this ship, and there was more than homesickness to it. For one reason or another they were all lying to me. Whatever element of truth escaped them was by accident and not design. They even contradicted each other. Totle boasted of impossible prowess; Kilter spoke so of Meg to goad me; Elliot untruthfully disowned Burley; Love, perhaps most dangerously of all, twisted his own memory.

  We dropped anchor after dark in the deeper water above Durgan. Two men rowed me to the bank of the river. It was raining still, a Cornish rain, an English rain, different in feel and taste and smell from what fell in Madrid or Lisbon. I thanked the men and scrambled ashore knee wet, pushing aside the branches of an overhanging tree, scarcely looking back. In moments the sound of their rowlocks and the plash of water was blanketed off by the dripping wood.

  I began to run. It is about five miles, through woods, across moorland and along narrow tracks from Durgan to Arwenack. I ran all the way. When within sight of the palisade I lay down under a tree in the long wet grass trying to get back lost breath. The grass smelt sweeter than it had ever smelt before. After seven or eight minutes I went to the gate of the palisade and hammered on it. There was no reply, and I knew that one might knock there all night.

  But you don’t keep a boy out of his own home however carefully you guard it. I followed the palisade down to the river’s edge, then lowered myself carefully into the water and by clinging to the ends of the last poles I swung under the great fence and crawled up the other side on to the grassy sward that led to Arwenack House.

  They were astounded to see me, aghast, frightened. To appear after six months dripping water in the hall, dirty and emaciated, out at elbow and knee, with sores round the mouth, swollen feet and blue marks like bruises on my legs, was perhaps sufficient to startle anyone. They had given me up for dead, so some came near to thinking it was a ghost.

  It is the only time in my life that I remember my father’s eyes lighting up on sight of me—those eyes in which a light so seldom showed. The children were all abed, but the older ones were wakened and came tumbling down clustering round and showering excited questions. In no time I was surrounded by forty-odd people, a mixture of family and servants, while dogs licked my feet and leapt up at my face and others barked and quarrelled and urinated among the rushes.

  The only absentee was Mrs Killigrew who was in bed with another c
hild born a week ago, named Simon and already christened, for they thought him determined to slip away.

  After the first clamour had subsided, the voice of Lady Killigrew could be heard. She had not moved from her chair when I went to kiss her, but now she looked down her long prehensile nose and said, enough of greetings, the boy must be fed and washed, he stinks of bilge water and looks as if he’s lived on nothing else for a week. She set the servants running and continued to stare at me with her cold blue eyes while others did the questioning.

  It was a rich homecoming. I fell on the food when it came and wolfed it, still talking, answering, laughing and half crying, joking, trying to explain.

  Not only were they astounded, they were vastly impressed at the story. Even my father was impressed that I had been received at Court. In among all the happy conversation there was a questioning note. And I had to keep a guard on my tongue and its explanations.

  It was midnight before anyone thought of bed and nearer two before I found myself again in that long narrow room I knew so well with its tall window overlooking the river’s mouth—and the security of it and the constriction. I was back in my mother’s arms, in my mother’s womb, held firm where none could attack, protected, supported, confined. Every board, every panel, every stair, every break of bed and crack of wall and squeak of shutter were familiar and friendly, part of an eternity of childhood which belonged to me for ever.

  But happy as I was there was something to ask my half-brother before his chatter stopped in sleep.

  “John, have you seen the Arundells of Tolverne?”

  “No, scarce anything. Why?”

  “You remember Sue Farnaby? She was staying with them in December when I called there.”

  “Ah … Is that how the wind blows? Well, she’s pretty enough, I grant you, if only she had money. But she has none and you’d do well to think on that. Maybe it’s less important for you; but Father never fails to impress on me the need to marry an heiress. I believe he can scarcely wait until I am old enough.”

  “Have you seen anything of her?”

  “Of Sue Farnaby? No. Of course, being near fifteen, I am now old enough … It’s not pleasant to think one has to wed for duty. Grandmother once told me she saw her first husband only twice before they were betrothed, and she then but thirteen. And Uncle Henry to cap it says that’s nought, he knows of a boy of six who was carried to the altar and coaxed to say his vows so that after he might go and play. D’you think that’s true?”

  “Have you seen Jonathan and Gertrude Arundell? Have they issue yet?”

  “I’ve seen no one but Thomas. Thomas came down the river all on his own one day in May. He has grown so gross, Maugan. But so strong with it. While he was visiting us the tide fell and his boat was caught in the mud. Sawna and Penrudduck went to draw it into the water but the mud was deep and they could not stir it. Down goes Thomas and by himself lifts the boat bodily and thrusts it into the water. I’ll vow you could not knock him down and break his teeth now.”

  “What did he want?”

  “It was some business to do with his father who he says is softening in the head. You know Sir Anthony was a ward of Grandfather, and it was some legal business, I believe.”

  “Then why did Jonathan not come? He is the eldest and next head of the family.”

  “That I don’t know. I don’t think Thomas has much respect for his brother.”

  “I don’t think Thomas has much respect for anyone,” I said, and after I had spoken wished I had not, for it brought old apprehensions to the surface.

  Next morning my father went out early seeing to the shearing of the lambs. Belemus was still away, and I found myself depending on my half-brother for all the news. John said it had been another unnatural summer: the hay had been cut but would not dry, sheep were dying of the murrain, oats and corn were flattened by the rain and wind. This was true throughout the country and there would be great distress. There was also great fear of a Spanish invasion. Uncle Simon and his family were coming next week; there was plague in London though not nearly as bad as last year. Odelia had had a quinsy in May and had been lanced by Glapthorne of Penryn. She had been tedious sick and Mother had saved her by riding into Truro and bringing back some draught. Penn, the falconer, had died in March: he had cut his finger and the poison had run through his body like quicksilver. Stevens was promoted in his place. Oliver Gwyther of Three Farthings House was paying court to Annora Job. Meg Levant was married to Dick Stable these three months. Yes, said John, Dolphin had called in in April, but after the trouble last time only Captain Elliot and William Love had come ashore.

  So he talked on and on about the everyday things of life at Arwenack just as if I had only been away working in Truro; he talked about life as I had known it for sixteen years, while the familiar sounds and smells and sights seeped in. A girl in the laundry was starching and blueing my grandmother’s ruffs; another carried a wooden iron-bound pail full of buttermilk; in the yard Long Peter was tending a sick dog; Parson Merther led the younger children upstairs for an hour’s Greek; seagulls wheeled and cried in a sky of washed blue and broken cloud; the wind blew sweet off the sea; I was home and in a few days it was going to be hard to believe that the six foreign months had ever happened except in a vanishing dream.

  Yet there was one intimidating task still to be undertaken.

  At eleven my father came into the house with Rosewarne and Job and five dogs, and they all went into his study. I hung about outside and after twenty minutes the two servants left.

  The last time I had been in this room was nearly two years ago when fever was rife in the house and Paul Knyvett had died and Mr Knyvett had left all the account books open on the table.

  Mr Killigrew was sharpening one of his quills; he glanced up briefly and nodded me to a seat. His waist had increased this year and his fine complexion had become higher toned and a trifle blotchy. His thick fair hair was losing its colour and becoming an indeterminate shade of pale straw-brown.

  “Well, boy, so you’re home again, by the mercy of Christ. Or by the mercy of King Philip. I thought you were dead. We all gave you up for dead. I’m gravelled at this honour done a son of mine.”

  “It was not exactly honour, father. I spent the first three weeks in a Lisbon jail.”

  “I call it honour not to be sent to the galleys but to be received at Court and well treated, to be later released and sent home in comfort. The Spanish respect the name of Killigrew more than I thought. D’you know who was released on our side by exchange?”

  “No one was, father. That was an excuse to avoid the need to explain.”

  “To explain what?”

  “My coming home.”

  He laid down his pen. “There is more to this than your coming home?”

  “Yes, sir. I was charged with a message.”

  “To whom? God’s face, what sort of a conspiracy is this?”

  “A message to you, father.”

  “What d’you mean, to me? Who could wish to send a message to me?”

  “The Spanish Council of War. Andres Prada, Don Juan de Idiaquez, Estaban de Ibarra—and others.”

  “Well, well, I never thought to hear a cub of mine so pat with Spanish names! You’re telling me they released you in order to carry a message to me?”

  “I was required to learn the message by heart and to repeat it. Then I was required to take an oath on the Bible that I would repeat it to you only and to no other. This I swore.”

  Mr Killigrew unfastened a button of his jerkin and began to scratch inside; his heavy lids came down once or twice as if the light were too strong for him. All the dogs sighed together.

  “And this message? You have written it down?”

  “No, sir. It was a condition that it should not be.” I moistened my lips. “ I am required to—to deliver to my father, John Killigrew Esq., of Arwenack House, Governor of Pendennis Castle, the following message from the Junta de Noche, supreme War Council of his Imperial Majesty Ph
ilip the Second. Render up to Spain, at a time to be later assigned, the Castle of Pendennis, the river mouth and bay and all defences under your charge. Raise no arms, assemble no musters, give all aid to the landing forces as and when required to do so. For reward, on success of the mission, £10,000 in gold, a knighthood, and a grant of the lands and properties of Godolphin, Erisey and Trelowarren, Enys and Trefusis.”

  I stopped speaking. Mr Killigrew still had his belt knife in his hand, and his thumb was absently testing the sharpness of it. He got up and walked to the window. His thick figure was silhouetted against the diamond panes, with the rain trickling crossways down them.

  “Brother of Christ,” he said, “that I should be so insulted!”

  I did not speak, but let out a slow breath.

  “Sometimes I think I’ve slipt low in the respect of my friends. I did not know I was esteemed so low by my enemies!” He laughed lightly. “ For three and a half centuries the Killigrews have served England and her Kings as soldiers, as diplomats, as poets, as courtiers. We fought for the House of Lancaster and have never wavered for the Tudors—except when Mary took to her papist ways, which served her right, shrew that she was. I and my father and my grandfather have beggared ourselves in the service of her sister. And we’re for her reformed church, every one of us—not a backslider in five litters. Yet a half-dozen powdered strutting grandees from Castile suppose they can buy me and my fidelity as if I was a strumpet set up for sale to the highest bidder! No wonder they treated you well, boy! Did you tell them I was in debt?”

  “No, father. They already knew.”

  “Ah, their system’s got its spies. How did you consent to bring this pretty message? Did you think I should be interested?”

  “Oh, no! But I wished to come home!”

  He turned at last from the window. “Well, it was a way of coming. It was a way of coming! A knighthood, indeed! That would not be outside my deserts … They know their geography, too, it seems … Godolphin, Erisey and Trelowarren, Enys and Trefusis. And how much money? £10,000? They knew their finances. But they did not know their man. That was their failing, boy, they did not know John Killigrew of Arwenack!”