At least they got more rations now they were working. Not enough, of course, never enough. Simon had folds of skin on his belly where he had lost the little pot that Rebecca’s care had given him. Inside his stomach seemed permanently in a knot of craving. When he had grinned at the peasant, it had been a feral showing of teeth: take my orange and I’ll kill you, he’d thought, and the peasant had understood.
Instead of being fed at noon, they were fed in the morning and evening. As they sailed north, they rowed, they drank the water, which started tasting strange after only a few days, they ate bread, then bread and worms, then biscuit. The worms had horrified Simon when he first found them in his bread but Snake showed him they were edible and even satisfying. Cold, slimy, but edible. So he ate them. It was almost disappointing when the food changed from bread with worms to hardtack biscuit without worms. He often thought of his orange and he thought of entire meals from the past, some invented, some remembered. His body swung and heaved at the oar, his mouth sang reedily along with Snake’s deep gong of a voice and in his mind he was in the land of Cockayne, where the wells ran with wine and the tables groaned with chicken and game birds and rabbit and bread and sauces sharpened with verjuice, and apple pasties of French bisket bread, and marchpane subtleties, and beer and ale … At night he slept fitfully, woke in the middle watches. Sometimes there were things happening: Padron playing dice with the other Padrons, or a fight or somebody crying out in their sleep. Sometimes it was all quiet and then he would lie curled around the ringbolt, gently sawing away at the wood like a very large ship’s worm. If he got the chance, he sawed away at Snake’s ringbolt as well, which didn’t start off loose as his had been. He was quite artistic in his care to hide the work: not only urine and sawdust, but carefully saved up turds to match the pale scraped wood to the stained old wood.
Padron gave him a heart attack every time he came for a chat. Padron treated him as a favourite, gave him tips on rowing, brought him better food, fish, cooked salt beef, dried fruit. Padron wanted Simon to like him, how ridiculous. Simon would look carefully past Padron or at the deck, just occasionally focusing at the place on Padron’s thick neck where Rebecca’s knife would one day make a hole. He tried not to twitch when Padron put his hands on some part of him; once on his shoulders, supposedly checking to see if he was better from the flogging, another time a rough, calloused caress on his bum. Every time it happened, his skin itched and prickled at the place for hours afterwards.
Snake was sympathetic, the peasant made coarse jokes and further up the bench there was envy at his favourable treatment, occasional snide comments. They had forgotten that he had saved their worthless lives when the cannon broke loose and he hated all of them.
One morning, very early, Padron brought their rations and while they gobbled the food and squatted to shit, he stood on the bench and announced to all the oardeck that the Armada was now in sight of the Lizard, which apparently was some southern part of England.
Simon immediately turned to look out of the oarport but there was nothing but blurred sea. His heart momentarily lifted and then sank deeper than ever. The only good thing was that there would be less time for Padron to come and smile at him from under his moustache, less opportunity for his arse to get squeezed. Only the fact that Simon was starving all the time allowed him to eat the biscuit and olives. The low boiling rage in the pit of his gut would have killed any ordinary appetite. And he was near England. Round and round his heart twisted, tighter and tighter. He was close but not close enough, the tentacles of the Inquisition still held him, the chains were still on his sore ankles, he would likely die in this galleas and the Almighty had brought him so far, so close only to mock him. Miracle of Beauty, Miracle of Beauty. What the hell use was that to anyone? How could anybody riddle it out? Even if he did, what use would it be?
The motion of the ship changed to the rolling that told Simon it was stationary somewhere. Trumpets sounded and there was the clatter and thud of a small boat coming alongside, presumably to take Don Hugo de Moncada for his council of war.
Again there were extra rations. More sausage, pickled onions as well as olives and … another orange. Simon held it in his hands like a grenado, or an orangeado. Memory attacked him: outside the bearpit in London was a woman with wonderful breasts who sold Seville oranges stuffed with broken sugar-loaf and you could suck on the juices and then throw the orange peel on a midden for the rats of London to fight over. He himself had done so quite often, in fact he had not even finished his orangeado when he went with Becket to visit Harry Hunks … The memory of the orangeado laughed at him from its mouth of sugar, sitting on a midden benefiting rats when now he would crunch it all up in one go. Even without sugar, the orange was bitter, sour, but delightful. He peeled it with trembling fingers, dribbling slightly, and ate it all in a few gulps, then chewed the skin he had kept carefully in his lap and then picked up the little flecks of peel and flesh that had dropped and ate them.
Snake smiled at him round his own mouthful of orange.
‘I never saw such fruit,’ he said and Simon told him that they had been unknown in his grandfather’s time but had come out of the furthest east with the silks, little trees that grew and flourished in the heat of Spain.
‘Battle tomorrow,’ said Snake wisely.
Padron said the same thing from the bench. He told them they were in the English Channel, that they would likely be in action the next day when the English infidel would surely attack and with Allah’s help they would ram and board El Draco’s own ship and the soldiers cluttering up the galleas would finally do some of the work for a change. That got a laugh. Simon shook his head. Under no circumstances would Drake permit the Spanish to board.
Luckily Padron either didn’t see or didn’t notice his head shake, continuing with his speech. Now they, the oarsmen, were slaves of His Majesty and as rowers in the galleas, they were the soul of the galleas. Some of them might perhaps be thinking that when the fleets were fighting would be a good opportunity for an escape attempt. Any such thinkers should think again. In action the hatch would be battened down from outside. There would not be the slightest point in trying to overpower him or the other Padrons in the heat of battle because the slaves would still not be able to escape. In any case it was in their interests to row their hearts out to keep the ships afloat and moving because it was harder to hit a moving target and in any case, if the galleas sank, they all died. But if they succeeded and were victorious, there was an excellent chance that all of the slaves who had served His Majesty so well would be released. It had happened after Lepanto. So they could choose foolishness and death or sensible obedience and perhaps, Inshallah, freedom.
It was a good speech, Simon thought, and perfectly reasonable. And probably quite true. Nonetheless that night, in the darkness and quiet, he sawed away at the wood around his ringbolt and Snake’s ringbolt and then hid the damage. He thought one more night’s work would make the bolts come straight out of the wood and after that it was a case of waiting his chance.
He woke to find Padron’s hand caressing his arse, Padron squatting right next to him, right next to the ringbolt that was still a little dusty from being worked on. He lurched up, nearly hitting his head on the bench, heart thudding.
‘Well, clerk,’ said the Padron, ‘today we will fight the English. Who knows: perhaps they’ll board and take us and then you will be freed and I will be the slave?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Simon.
‘What will you do then, clerk?’
Simon smiled. ‘I will eat spit-roasted beef, venison pasties, comfits and bread and butter, and drink wine until my guts ache. And then I will seek out my wife and take her to bed.’
Padron put his head on one side and sighed. ‘What would you do if I kissed you?’
‘I would fight,’ said Simon, trying to hide the fact that his mouth had gone dry. ‘I know I would probably lose, but I would have to fight.’
Padron’s eyes narrowed. Simon found himse
lf sweating. He forced himself to stare steadily back.
‘Unfortunately the noise of our fighting would get us both found out and because they are so hot for purity in this Holy Enterprise, we will both be hanged. Which will suit me but might not suit you.’ Simon was careful to keep his voice light, cold, unafraid, despite the sick terror inside. A thought occurred to him. ‘And … and … since the Inquisition examined me I have been liable to bite anything that goes in my mouth.’
Simon was measuring up the Padron, who balanced easily against the heel of the deck as he squatted. Snake was awake by now, Simon knew it, waiting quietly.
‘I could free you,’ offered Padron.
Simon shook his head, knowing this was a lie, wondering if hitting him first would be worthwhile. ‘You are a man of honour, Padron,’ he said, voice wobbling. He stopped, breathed deeply, so close, to be so close to England and then to die in a sordid scramble, ‘is there no one in all this deck who would desire to be your catamite?’
Padron smiled. ‘Many.’ He dropped his heavy hand on Simon’s shoulder and gripped hard. Then he straightened from his squat and went to fetch the food so that the routine of an oardeck could begin.
After eating too little biscuit and olives for his clenched-up stomach, because Padron only brought him half-rations, alone of all the bench, Simon dutifully swept out the filth as best he could, the stink of his own and other men’s wastes all about him like smoke. Above, in the sunshine and the clean air, the soldiers were singing a Kyrie Eleison, and it sounded like martial angels if you were lightheaded from want of food and heart-sick fear. Death didn’t frighten him at all; pain, another worse flogging, starvation, being raped did. All he had left was himself. His body was the city where his soul lived, and as with any city, the gates were the weak places. The inquisitor of the Holy Office had forced one of Simon’s gates, with his cloth funnel and metal gag and jugs of water, and by so doing had let in the devil that had killed the soldier. Under siege by the Padron, the metaphor extended itself. The army was camped outside, ready to take the city by starvation. If his other gate fell by storm, at least he would have done himself the honour of resistance although he felt that to be raped would reduce him to nothing … But to surrender his city without a fight would make him less than nothing … Almighty, please have mercy on me, give me strength. Simon had no doubt at all that Padron would be back, prayed incoherently to the God of Israel whom he no longer believed to be on his side. May the Almighty have mercy on Simon His servant, whom He has tormented and destroyed and exiled into the galleys for no reason unless it was for being an inquisitor and a slaver … A ridiculous idea.
Above the soldiers’ singing echoed his thoughts: Kyrie Eleison, Lord have mercy; Christe Eleison, Christ have mercy. It was in Greek, which had been the language of the gospels. Like all his family he had been brought up as a linguist: he spoke English, Portuguese, Spanish. He knew Latin and thence could puzzle out Italian. He could read and write some Hebrew, thanks to his father-in-law’s Dutch rabbi. He knew a few words of Greek …
It came to him like a flower opening, like an evening primrose unfolding itself yellow in the dusk. The word for ‘beauty’ in Greek was ‘kalos/kalle’.
He said it to himself under his breath, over and over. Kalos. Could it be that simple? Could it really be so incredibly simple? Could Santa Cruz have hidden the key to his plan for the Enterprise of England behind a simple Greek pun? The Miracle of Beauty, the Miracle of Kalle, the Miracle of Calais …
They were ordered abruptly to put the oars out. Simon fumbled to hang up the sweeper, open the oarport, stood ready to clip on the ring as the oar thundered out on its restraining line.
He stepped up to the great oar and when Padron shouted, ‘Take hold’ he took hold next to Snake, locked his hands and tried to forget about them while he begin the rhythm of sitting and standing, sweeping the huge oar to and fro. They were quite good at it now, they could vary the rhythm and back water and lift the blade out of the waves – the hardest thing because there was no momentum, just the strain of holding the vast double tree balanced on the ring while the ship manoeuvred, muscles burning and quivering, back breaking and then at last to dip it down again on the order.
He swung into the rhythm with one of Snake’s worksongs and his lips were muttering, ‘Calais, Calais.’
It made sense. It was the only thing that made sense. When Medina Sidonia finally got the Armada to the narrow seas off Dover, with the best will in the world, Parma would have to spend at least a week, possibly two, embarking his troops from Sluys. He couldn’t do it before because there was no point until Medina Sidonia was in place in the Channel and when he would get there depended on imponderables like wind, water and the activities of the English fleet.
But Medina Sidonia could not possibly anchor in a place like the Calais Roads where the cross-currents were famously fiendish and the weather as unguessable and explosive as the Queen’s temper. It would be dangerous to do it for a day, let alone for the week that Parma must take. You couldn’t embark that many troops on barges in less time, much less get them down to the Scheldt. And so …
Somewhere in the distance, in the world outside the oardeck there were deep thunderous booms. Then more booms. Shouting. Trumpet calls. More banging. Giants playing the drums very badly.
Padron shouted, the rhythm doubled, they rowed harder and the sweat began to pop, the heat began to build, you had to remember to breathe deeply and not gasp or you would faint. Whistling the ugly-smelling air in and out of his lungs, Simon thought about his discovery.
It was the obvious answer to the impossible temporal conundrum of the Armada. Simply take the town of Calais.
Put four heavily armed galleases full of soldiers into Calais harbour where the lack of wind would do them no harm. Bring them up close to the quay and batter the citadel into submission in a devastating surprise attack. Let the soldiers on board storm the town. Then the Armada could take shelter in the deep-water harbour, could refit, resupply and wait for wind and water and constant patrolling to exhaust the English and Dutch fleets while Parma embarked. And then … hop across the channel when the English fleet was forced to refit and resupply. It only took a couple of days of good weather, once you had the troops loaded, as Duke William of Normandy had proved six centuries ago.
Of course, Calais was supposed to be neutral and the Governor, Gourdan would not go quietly, but France was in thrall to civil war. For such a prize as England, Philip of Spain could plead necessity and pay off the French crown with the spoils of London if need be.
Simon stared ahead at the lash-scarred backs in front of him, heaving and pulling on the oar in front of him while his own scars itched and pulled, his guts gurgled with hunger, his lungs and arms and back burned and his head spun in excitement. How could he tell anybody? Here he was, he had the answer. The riddle his brother Francis had summoned him to Lisbon to pass on, the riddle that had brought him into the jaws of the Inquisition, that had brought him to this oar. But how could he pass it to the English commanders in their fleet? They were so close. On land he could hope to run that far before he was caught. Here, in the galleas … Every time he sat or stood, the bruising ache in his ankles reminded him why escape was impossible.
Perhaps he could wrench out his weakened bolt when the oar was drawn up that night, jump out of the oarport … No, the chain on his ankles would sink him. That was why they made them thick and heavy. He could swim but not that well. Shout? Don’t be ridiculous, the best he could do since the Inquisition was a breathy croak. Write a message. On what? With what? When exactly?
He could have swept with frustration. He growled English curses under his breath and Snake sweating and grunting with effort next to him, looked sideways at him.
‘What?’ asked Snake.
Simon shook his head, talking was strictly forbidden when they were rowing and in any case, he couldn’t possibly spare the breath to explain. Padron had spotted them, though. He reached with his whip
and caught Simon over and over across the shoulders and neck and face, never pausing as he handled the end of the oar, never missing the beat, burying Simon in a deft flurry of cracking leather. You had to admire his skill.
Simon ducked his head between his arms like a turtle and carried on heaving and pulling, waiting for the storm to stop. Padron was angry with him: any excuse would do for a beating until Simon gave up his honour and there was nothing whatever he could do about it. Except let Padron bugger him, of course.
After a while the whip stopped cracking around him and he could put his head up again, catch glimpses of the red weals and bruises all over his shoulders and arms. His face was stiff and sore as well. He kept on, swinging with the oar, singing along with Snake.
The order came to stop, to back water. Their side of the galleas shipped oars for a moment. And that was when the guns boomed on the deck above them, a vast bellowing roar and then another and another, the sound like a blow in the face, making the ears ring. Smoke drifted down. There were two gunners on the oardeck as well, now. They passed down between the benches, a cloth across their faces against the stench, and one after another the enormous fifty-pounder guns roared and belched smoke stinking of eggs.
Whips cracked again, Padron shouting orders. Simon’s body heard before his battered brain caught up, he was still coughing helplessly at the smoke, like all the others, but they backed water, turned the galleas around in nearly its own length and the other broadside roared, the gunners again fired the fifty-pounders on the oardeck and yet more bellows of thunder, more pain in his ears, more grey smoke filling the place like a pall and the sense that it was a hot grey flannel across your mouth and nose, stopping half your breath every time you wanted air. Snake crowed and puked beside him, Simon croaked helplessly and they heaved the oar forwards and back, forwards and back, blind, deaf, muscles on fire, keeping the ship moving, registering the flick of Padron’s whip but not noticing the pain in comparison with the awful hunger for air in his lungs.
Gloriana's Torch Page 41