by Ann Swinfen
She glared at me. She still wasn’t sure whether I might be one of the heretics, despite the fact that we were speaking Spanish.
‘The only name I know is Captain Pita,’ she conceded at last. ‘He has a house in the upper town. Through there.’ She gestured to where the tailors’ row ended and a heavy gate closed the way through the substantial walls. ‘His wife, Señora Maria, orders garments from the tailors here. I know her by sight. I haven’t seen her since the invasion, so I suppose she’s with her husband in the citadel for safety.’
‘Are you a tailor yourself?’ I asked, though I knew most tailors were men.
She snorted and gave a toothless grin. ‘Do I look like a tailor? I clean and cook for two of them, or I did. I’m living in one of their houses here, with my old father, since our house was smashed by our own guns.’
I thanked her, though I was not sure for what. The information that Titus Allanby was probably in the citadel was bad enough news. I had the name of one officer, but I hardly believed that would enable me to find my way in. As I turned and started to make my way back down to the harbour, I thought of how Andrew Joplyn and I had broken into the locked storehouse in Amsterdam last year. That was no more than a child’s game compared with trying to gain access to the citadel of Coruña. I would have been glad of Andrew’s help now, but if he had joined the expedition at Dover, or with the soldiers coming over from the Low Countries, I had seen no sign of him.
I took an indirect route back to the ships, in case the old woman was watching. There was no harm in taking precautions. I might need to come this way again. From here I could explore the perimeter of the walled citadel, where, soon, I would try to bluff my way in.
Chapter Eight
After our first visit to care for the injured soldiers besieging the walled upper town, Dr Nuñez and I went every day. Sometimes I went alone. On those occasions, before I returned to the ship I explored the perimeter of the wall, clambering over fallen masonry and awkward corners of rock where the walls had been built to take advantage of the steep terrain. Although it had now become a citadel for the embattled garrison, it also enclosed the homes of the richest citizens, located up here where the breezes from the ocean would mitigate the heat of a Spanish summer and where the delicate noses of wealthy merchants and their families would not suffer the stench of the fishing fleet and the commercial harbour from which their wealth was drawn.
It was an ordinary town wall which encircled this upper part of Coruña, not very high, not very new, not the wall of a great fortress like the one being erected on the island. Moreover, as the town had grown over the years, forming an outer ring of houses and businesses outside the original settlement, the wall had not always been maintained in perfect condition. The English attack was being concentrated on one of the weaker portions, to one side of the main gate. I found that there were others. Here and there private citizens had knocked through the wall to extend their own properties. And apart from that main gate, which I had seen from the street where the tailors had their shops, there were three postern gates. All of these were guarded, but by only a handful of soldiers, since it was clear that our small attacking force was being deployed in full strength against the weak area of the fortification, where they had already done some damage with their small portable cannon. It was there that all the fighting was taking place.
It would not be possible to gain entry through one of the guarded posterns, but if I could somehow manage to trick my way inside the citadel, it might be possible to leave through one of them, or through one of the private properties. One, in particular, had drawn my attention. The substantial house was three storeys high and thus projected above the top of the wall. At some not very recent time the owners had knocked down a portion of the town wall in order to extend their garden out beyond it another fifty yards or so. The stones salvaged from the town wall, with additions, had been used to build a wall around this extended garden, and the garden wall was a good three feet lower than the original town wall. I reckoned I could climb it. If I could get into the citadel, if Titus Allanby were there, if I could find him, then we might succeed in making our escape that way.
There remained the unlikely prospect of entering the citadel without being killed by either our own forces or the enemy’s. Walsingham’s instructions were always to keep our activities secret unless absolute necessity drove us to take someone into our confidence. In this case, I decided that I must confide in Sir John Norreys. If he agreed that I should make the attempt to reach Titus Allanby, he could order the English troops not to fire on me as I approached the citadel. Everything else would rest with me.
I decided that I must also explain to Dr Nuñez what I planned, for if I did not return, it would be up to him to tell my father. Having made up my mind, I had one of the skiffs row me over to Sir John’s ship, the Nonpareil. Fortunately, he was aboard and agreed to see me at once in his cabin. When I had explained what Walsingham had asked me to do, and how I meant to go about it, he ran his fingers through his beard. He was still wearing his helmet, having just returned from the camp. Taking it off and setting it on a table, he scrubbed at his sweat-stained hair.
‘It is a mad scheme, but it might just work.’ He cast an approving eye at me. ‘I like young men who show some courage and imagination. You have done so before. You say you can pass for Spanish?’
‘I am sure I can. I grew up speaking Spanish as easily as Portuguese.’
‘Hmm. Well, I suppose it is worth a try. But you understand, do you not, that if they suspect that you are a spy you will be tortured, probably killed?’
I swallowed. Of course I understood that, but I had been closing my mind to it, knowing that the knowledge would undermine my resolve.
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘But I shall go in as a doctor, unarmed. And I shall treat their wounded, you may be sure. I cannot forget my calling, even amongst the enemy.’
‘I suppose you must, to maintain your disguise, though I would have you not treat them too well. The more wounded there are, the fewer remain to fight against our men.’
I kept my tongue behind my teeth. I would treat the men because they were in pain, not simply to maintain my disguise. And I would not stint my care of them.
‘When do you want to make the attempt?’
‘Tomorrow,’ I said. Best to act while my courage was fresh. ‘At first light.’
‘I will send the order now. You will not be able to say when or how you will return.’
‘Nay.’
When I reached the Victory again, I sought out Dr Nuñez and told him what I was going to attempt, swearing him to secrecy.
His face had gone very white and he laid his hand on my arm.
‘This is a very dangerous enterprise, Kit.’
‘It may be that the Spanish garrison will not admit me at all. Or if they do, I may not find Titus Allanby. He may not even be there.’
‘And how do you expect to leave, in company with another? They will not allow you to walk out of the gates.’
I explained about the house with the low garden wall. ‘Look, you can almost see it from here.’
As usual we were standing on the foredeck, and I pointed up at the citadel. ‘There, off to the left of the town walls. Can you see where it bulges out a little, just before it turns round to the south? That is the garden.’
He screwed up his eyes and shook his head. ‘Nay, I can’t see it. But I will keep a watch on that part of the wall and send up my prayers for you.’
I rose before dawn the next morning and was taken ashore over the dark waters of the harbour. The birds on land were already awake and singing. On a post at the end of the quay a cormorant watched us come alongside, and only raised itself lazily into flight as I stepped ashore. I wore nothing which would identify me as coming from the English invading force, merely my usual somewhat nondescript doublet, breeches and hose, with my physician’s satchel. Before approaching the fortified main gate of the citadel, I took care to advance in a
roundabout way, having first taken the precaution of checking that the soldiers in our camp had received the order not to shoot me.
While I was exploring the area around the citadel during the previous few days, I had noticed that there was a postern gate at the top of a precipitous path which descended to the sea, not to the main harbour but to a narrow bay on the opposite side of the island on which the new castillo stood. Even as I had watched from the higher ground early yesterday morning, I saw a pinnace pulling away from the end of the path leading down from the postern, where there was a wooden jetty. So it was evident that the garrison was not entirely cut off. Supplies were being brought in by night. Our armaments were inadequate to take the citadel by force and there was clearly no possibility of starving them out while they could be supplied thus clandestinely. The siege was as pointless as I had always supposed.
I had given some thought as to how I could approach the fortress without being shot on sight. It would be obvious to any watchman that I was unarmed, but a nervous sentry might not care to take the risk. Shoot first and ask questions afterwards. Therefore I had provided myself with a large square of white cloth, the universal emblem of peace, and could only hope that the Coruña garrison would interpret it accordingly. I felt physically sick as I stepped on to the broad street leading up to the main gate of the citadel. At that moment my plan did not seem like courage but an act of gross stupidity. My heart was pounding so hard it that it dulled my sense of hearing. I could, I suppose, have abandoned the search for Titus Allanby as impossible and stayed aboard the Victory until Drake and Norreys decided to leave Coruña, but at the back of my mind I was haunted by the memory of Mark Weber.
Last year, Walsingham had sent me in search of one of his agents, Mark Weber, who had gone missing in Amsterdam. I had found Weber, it was true. But he was already dead. Although by all the signs he had probably been killed before ever I reached Amsterdam, yet I could not quite shake off the feeling than somehow, if I had been able to find him sooner, he might still be alive. I did not want the same fate to befall Titus Allanby. He had reported to Walsingham that he feared he might have come under suspicion. Had he still been in the town when we arrived, he would probably have contrived to reach one of the ships. Since he had not, it seemed that what the old woman had said must be true, that he had been summoned to the garrison before we reached Coruña and was still there. That summons might have a quite innocent explanation. Or it might mean that the officers of the garrison were indeed suspicious and wanted him under their eye, where he could not pass information to England.
I took my stand some yards from the gateway, holding up my white cloth. There was no reaction at all from the fortress. No figures appeared on the walkway above the gatehouse. No cannon was swung down to take aim along the street. No musket or crossbow was thrust out from one of the firing positions on the ramparts.
I took a step forward.
Nothing.
Two more steps. Three. Four.
Suddenly there was the twang of a crossbow, and a quarrel, fast and deadly, whined over my head like a monstrous bee. Instinctively, I ducked, but far too late if the bolt had been aimed at me. Whoever was shooting had aimed deliberately over my head. It was a warning.
I stopped. What should I do? If I advanced further, the bowman might aim lower and I would have no chance. I wore no armour. A crossbow bolt at this range would pierce me from breast to back and I could not live more than a few minutes. It was too far away to shout, to explain why I had come. I could turn tail and walk away. Or I could go on.
Holding my white cloth above my head, I went on.
Another bolt shot over me and this time I thought I really would vomit, but I kept walking in a kind of numb trance, until I was near enough to make myself heard.
‘Don’t you see my white flag?’ I shouted. ‘I am a doctor. The English have allowed me to come through.’ This time I was careful to speak in highly educated Spanish, allowing no trace of a Portuguese accent to creep in. ‘I have come to help tend the wounded.’
It was a dangerous ruse, but I was counting on that disorganised and panicked rush to the citadel when they had first seen El Dracque’s standard. There might have been one resident physician in the island fortress before the garrison abandoned it, but had he fled here with the soldiers? There would have been no time to organise adequate medical care. If I was lucky, there might not even be a single physician with the soldiers.
No one answered, but there were no more shots over my head as I covered the rest of the distance to the gate. Confronted by the massive double doors of the gatehouse I stopped and waited, hoping that someone was fetching an officer. At length, a voice called from above. I stepped back and tilted my head. A man leaned over the parapet, wearing the distinctive helmet of a Spanish soldier, with its almond-shaped crown and curled brim.
I repeated what I had said before, holding out my arms on either side, so that he could see that I wore no sword and carried no musket.
Even at this distance his suspicious frown was clear to see, but he did not immediately dismiss me. I could feel the pulse beating in my throat and I had to concentrate hard not to let my hands tremble.
‘Very well, we’ll have a look at you.’
After a moment, the wicket gate opened in one of the heavy doors and I was allowed through. I was inside. It might not be so easy to get out again.
I tucked my white rag into my belt and followed the soldier who gestured to me to cross to the base of a stair which must lead up to the wall-walk. A man was coming down, the man who had spoken to me. He looked me up and down.
‘You are over young for a physician.’
At nineteen I no longer considered myself so very young to be practising medicine, but I suppose my smooth cheeks made me look younger. I laid my hand on the buckles of my satchel. Immediately the other soldier leapt forward and grabbed both of my arms from behind.
‘I was merely going to show you the implements of my calling,’ I said mildly. I must remain calm and pleasant, and show no fear.
The officer – for he was clearly an officer – stepped forward and unbuckled the straps of my satchel himself. He poked about amongst the contents, then stood back and nodded to the soldier.
‘Release him. He is carrying nothing but a physician’s equipment.’
The man let go of my arms and with shaking hands I buckled the straps again.
‘I have been treating the injured in the town,’ I said. ‘Not that there are many people left. And I was told my help might be needed here. A woman who knows Captain and Señora Pita said I should come.’ It was near enough the truth to carry conviction.
The officer relaxed. He nodded to the soldier to leave. ‘Follow me,’ he said.
They did indeed need medical help and my luck was in. There was no other physician with the garrison. If there had been any physicians resident in the upper town, they must have fled with the other deserters. The officer took me to a run-down cluster of buildings which had served as their old quarters before the new fortress was built. There was a central building, a small, squat keep, surrounded with outbuildings – stables, kitchens, an armoury from which could be heard the ring of mallet on iron. Their injured were laid out in the hall of the keep with no one to tend them but a few women – ladies, rather, officers’ wives, I assumed, who were willing enough but had no idea of how to care for men with bullet wounds. Our English attackers might be lightly armed, but they had certainly been able to inflict injuries. I rolled up my sleeves, called for boiled water and raw wine to clean the wounds, and set about my work.
I had no objection to treating these men, even if they were Spaniards and our enemies. A wounded man is a wounded man whatever his nation, and my calling was to care for the sick and wounded. The injuries I treated here were identical to those I had been treating in the English camp, bullet and crossbow wounds for the most part, and the men were suffering the same pain. Some were delirious with the heat and their wounds. As part of my pla
n, I had deliberately carried no bandages with me, so once bullets had been extracted and wounds cleaned and salved, I asked the women to find me cloth for bandages. They seem puzzled, looking about them as if they expected to find cloth ready to hand.
‘Do you have seamstresses?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps your sewing women will have something we can use?’
I knew it would be unlikely. But then one of the women spoke – I had learned by now that she was that very Señora Maria Pita of whom the woman with the onions had spoken.
‘There are no seamstresses here,’ she said. Her voice was contemptuous. A fool of a physician could not be expected to know that ladies would not bring their women servants to the citadel. ‘But there are two tailors who were engaged in making new uniforms before the attack came. They may have something you can use.’
‘Could someone perhaps take me to them?’ I asked humbly. ‘Then I can see for myself whether there is anything suitable.’
‘Come with me.’
She strode ahead of me out of the keep, ignoring the sound of cannon and musket fire which had started up more intensively than ever from somewhere behind us and over to the right, where I knew the weakened area of the wall lay. The woman might be arrogant but she was courageous, marching across the open courtyard where occasional arrows and crossbow bolts from the English besiegers were falling. She led me to one of the outbuildings backed into the town wall and flung open the door.
Two men looked up, startled.
‘You see,’ she said, on a note of pride, ‘even under siege we keep up the work of the garrison. These men are busy making new uniforms for the soldiers to replace those damaged in the fighting.’
‘Indeed,’ I said. I turned to the men. Which of them was Titus? If he was here? ‘I am Dr Christoval Alvarez, physician. I am treating the wounded and I need some light-weight cloth to use for bandages. Such as you might use for shirts.’
I did not look round, but I was aware that the woman had left.