Mistress Leslie shuddered.
‘Do not remind me of that poor dark soul,’ she said. ‘I shall never forgive him for Alec’s fall, nor for the dread we were put to at the time.’
‘Francis will never reach those infamous depths,’ Master Leslie said firmly. ‘He will make a fine soldier. There have been many famous bastards in history. Remember Dunois of Orleans and Belisarius of the East Roman Empire and that still earlier military genius Alexander of Macedonia.’
‘How can I remember when I never heard of them till now?’ she snapped. ‘My education was learned at home until I was married to Master Butters and little enough before and after that event.’
A few days after Richard Ogilvy had left London word came one morning to Gracious Street that Arthur had completed his mission and proposed to return to Holland from Dover on the morrow. If his nephew was still unemployed and would care to join him in Paternoster Row that afternoon and ride with him the next morning he would engage to place him either with the volunteers already serving under Sir Horace Vere in Holland or with Count Mansfeld who was still in Dover recruiting English troops for his private army.
There was a great bustle that morning in Gracious Street to get together young Francis’s possessions, few in number. Also the various equipment generously supplied by the alderman. He still wore his mourning suit of black, but Master Leslie had found for him a stout doublet of leather and breeches of the same material, while Mistress Leslie raided her husband’s personal linen chest and had her sewing maids cut down three good shirts of the youth’s measure. Francis already had a sword he had been given upon his sixteenth birthday by the Laird of Kilessie. Master Leslie added to this weapon an up-to-date pistol with a holster that could be worn at his waist attached to his sword belt, but without ammunition to render it dangerous.
‘Do not look so disgusted,’ the alderman said laughing, when Francis, who had received the pistol with delight, discovered this defect. ‘Bullets and priming will be issued to you, no doubt, by whoever employs you to fight. Also suitable armour for that purpose, I trust.’
Francis showed the weapon to his Uncle Arthur that evening, telling him what Master Leslie had said. The soldier laughed.
‘Ammunition and armour, forsooth! You’ll be lucky to get either if you join the Count. Ammunition maybe, with Vere. I believe he seeks to join King Christian of Denmark’s army when, if ever, it moves to recover the lost Palatinate. But Mansfeld is hard put to it to supply his men even with bread. He is a soldier of fortune, I would have you know. He sells his skill and his men to the highest bidder; so far among the Protestant allies, but I would not put it past him to serve Spain, if the wily Infanta, who rules the southern Netherlands, made it worth his while.’
Francis was shocked. He had scarcely begun to understand the intrigues, the promises, the lies, the betrayals, jealousies, fears, hates and religious bigotry that made up the struggle at present ravaging the unhappy lands and ignorant suffering peoples of the central European states and kingdoms. But he made up his mind to avoid Count Mansfeld at all costs; as well as to ask for and purchase with his own small store of ready money sufficient to transform his beautiful, useless pistol into the deadly weapon it well deserved to be.
The party from Paternoster Row set off on a fine May morning. It was a week since King James had finally been laid to rest in the Abbey and though the Court still wore black the City of London had ended its mourning. Citizens appeared again in the many-coloured suits they had put aside for the month of the lying-in-state. The black clothes were laid up in wardrobes and chests, protected from moth as before, reserved again for family bereavement. With the warmer weather long cloaks were also laid aside in favour of short ones, or else wholly discarded. The boys of Christ’s Hospital school went back to their yellow stockings with the buckled shoes and neat, long-skirted coats of their charity’s uniform.
The way south from the City went by London Bridge to Southwark and from there by way of Greenwich and Black-heath and out into the green fields of Kent, and on to Dover.
Francis was delighted with the countryside, a continuous garden of blossoming fruit trees, neat plots of vegetables, herbs, flowers, shrubs. Gooseberries swelled on low bushes, ready for picking. In open fields sturdy lambs, tight-curled, whisked their stubby tails as they sprang about their solemn grazing dams. Long pink and black sows moved each in a swarm of greedy, nuzzling, squeaking piglets. All was eager growth, prosperous promise expanding in the warm sunshine.
They stopped at Maidstone, again at Canterbury. Colonel Ogilvy had six attendants in all, two grooms and four troopers of his regiment. The grooms attended to the colonel and his nephew, saw to their horses and harness as well as their own. The troopers looked after themselves. Francis noticed they were kept under careful discipline. The colonel gave them his orders sparingly but in a severe voice demanding instant obedience.
‘It is very necessary, boy,’ he explained to Francis, seeing the latter’s indignation, when a short answer from one weather-beaten Flemish giant drew the colonel’s wrath, so that he took his whip to the man and sent him reeling half off his horse. ‘I was not permitted to weaken the Prince’s army by bringing over junior officers to attend me on my mission. These men are used to harsh conditions, long marches in all weathers, a devastated countryside, near starvation where supplies run out. Have you not seen their fierce coveteous eyes as we move through this land of plenty? If I did not control them we might have orchards pillaged and farmers lying in ditches with their throats cut.’
Francis, who had after all made no open criticism, rode on in continuing silence. His Uncle Arthur’s regiment, he decided, seemed to be no better than that of the great soldier of fortune, Mansfeld. So what hope had he of finding better conditions for honourable welfare with Sir Horace Vere? Surely only a set of incompetent hothead volunteers like himself? Not a very pleasing prospect. He wondered, glancing from time to time at the troopers, where they could have been housed during the colonel’s stay in London. Perhaps in the Tower, to keep them in safety. He laughed inwardly at the thought, but did not venture to ask his uncle if he was right.
Soon after leaving Canterbury on the third morning of their journey and with occasional glimpses from high ground of the sea ahead in the distance, a sound behind of galloping horses and jingling harness made Colonel Ogilvy rein in his horse, turn in his saddle and bark out a quick order, instantly obeyed. In a few seconds the troopers wheeled into position about their officer, the grooms closed in at Francis’s side, one of them snatching his rein to bring his horse about beside Colonel Ogilvy. The troopers had their sabres drawn and ready. The colonel’s sword flashed from its scabbard.
Francis was both thrilled and astonished. He really understood now both the meaning and value of military discipline. Those fierce faces, strong bodies and dull minds could not without training have performed so instant and perfect a manoeuvre. He drew his own sword and waited. For the first time since he left Kilessie he accepted authority with respect and pleasure. For the first time he forgot his nagging resentment and acknowledged pride in his family connection.
‘They look to me to wear the livery of a nobleman,’ Colonel Ogilvy muttered to Francis.
‘The King’s?’
‘Nay, that I know well. But I have seen this lately. By God, I know it now! ’Tis the Duke’s, Buckingham’s! Stand!’ he shouted in a loud voice as the troop thundered up. ‘Who is your leader? What do you thus charging on the King’s highway?’
‘Upon the King’s business!’ yelled back the foremost of the strangers, moving his panting horse forward a little. The beast stood with drooping head, its sides heaving, foam collecting about the bit and dripping off on to the road.
‘So am I about His Majesty’s business,’ answered Colonel Ogilvy. ‘So pass by quietly and go on with less clatter and more thought for your mounts.’
The leader of the troop flushed angrily, but answered in a steady voice, ‘I think you be Colonel Arthur
Ogilvy and have with you a certain Master Francis Leslie.’
‘My nephew. Yes. What would you with him?’
‘To deliver this commission, sir, issued by His Majesty, King Charles and signed by His Grace the Duke of Buckingham, whom I have the honour to serve.’
Bows were exchanged as well as could be done from horseback, though Colonel Ogilvy’s took the shape of a mere nod. He waved his hand towards his nephew and ordered with dignity, ‘Deliver your paper to my nephew. Francis, receive and read it. Stand back there, Sergeant.’
The troopers obeyed instantly, forming themselves into a new defensive pattern that equally protected their officer and excluded the boy.
He read with pleasure and renewed excitement. He turned to Colonel Ogilvy.
‘It is my awaited appointment, sir, to the Duke’s forces for the war against Spain,’ he said. ‘My audience with His Gracious Majesty has led to this, may God bless and prosper our endeavour!’
In his astonishment at being remembered and a renewed burst of loyal gratitude for the monarch’s kindness, he lifted the stiff parchment to his lips.
Colonel Ogilvy was not unmoved by this display of youthful enthusiasm, but he showed nothing of this as he said, ‘I take it, Francis, you wish to go with these – gentlemen?’
The boy did not hesitate.
‘I must, as you see,’ he said. ‘It is with no ingratitude for your own kindness and good advice, uncle. In any case it is in a like cause and by a similar means.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ replied his uncle. ‘Put up your blade, boy. You are with friends, are you not?’
He returned his own sword to its sheath but gave no similar order to his men, who sat on their horses motionless, their, naked sabres still sparkling in the sun.
Francis watched as his personal baggage was transferred by one of his uncle’s grooms to the back of his own saddle.
‘Else you’d not keep it long,’ the man muttered, as he made it fast.
Francis disdained to answer the implied insult to his new companions. He took a very affectionate, heart-felt farewell of his uncle.
‘I will report to you my progress, sir,’ he said. ‘I promise that.’
‘My address is never fixed,’ Colonel Ogilvy answered drily. ‘But write your news to your Uncle Richard. Or even to that good old man, Master Leslie.’
Francis was chilled by this reply, but he repeated his leave-taking and turned away.
Colonel Ogilvy sat watching until the dust cloud hid the retreating body of horse and he could no longer distinguish Francis in their midst.
‘God preserve the poor lad,’ he said to himself. ‘He did not even ask them whither they were bound with him.’
The troopers fell into line. The sabres flashed once more as they were sheathed. Colonel Ogilvy wheeled his horse abruptly and rode forward again towards Dover.
Chapter Six
Francis had not been above a hundred yards upon the return direction before he asked for his destination.
‘Portsmouth,’ the leader of Buckingham’s troops told him. ‘His Grace is bound there himself to set a part of his fleet in motion. News of your leaving came, His Grace told me, when your commission was taken to Paternoster Row, mentioned therein as being your address and found you left with the colonel. I was told to find you before you sailed from England. They told me you were bound for Dover to join an army overseas.’
‘I would far rather serve the King through His Grace,’ Francis said fervently.
He meant it. He had not forgotten the royal kindness, the understanding of his position. His uncles had been kind, too, but with a sort of shamefaced effort of indulgence for his mother’s lapse that set up, rather than overcame, the barrier between him and the rest of his family.
Now, as he rode along, turning west and then south through the Sussex weald, he felt he was free at last, free of Colonel Ogilvy’s patronage and free of the embarrassments of that strange London life, with its smirched and sordid atmosphere, the dubious intrigues of the Court and the hard shrewdness of the City.
They crossed the weald, they climbed through a gap in the south downs and came in sight of Chichester Cathedral set in the middle of the small town of that name. Here they would wait a day, the officer in charge said, while one of their number went on to Portsmouth to discover where they should join the rest of the newly recruited officers to whom Francis should be delivered.
It was now that the long delay began. Not one, but three days later, the messenger came back to report very privately, a total confusion in the port. Several naval vessels had been there, having arrived prompt upon their orders. Only one now remained, the rest having sailed on to Plymouth. But those ten thousand soldiers the Duke planned for his invasion of Spain could not have been embarked in so small a fleet. Various merchant ships had been engaged to carry them, some from Southampton, others from ports further west and some even from London. These last had for the most part been held up by easterly winds which prevented them from leaving the estuary of the Thames, with its complicated shoals and sandbanks that must be crossed, not to mention the Goodwin Sands off the southern corner of the coast of Kent. While the captain of the naval vessel still at Portsmouth chafed at the delay in using fine easterly breezes to drive her down Channel, messages came up from Plymouth asking all ships to join the fleet there, while the good winds prevailed.
In the meantime a good number of pressed men had been assembled at Portsmouth, expecting to board the merchantmen and colliers engaged as transports and follow out this sensible plan.
So Portsmouth suffered total confusion, with the invasion of a rough, indisciplined mob waiting to embark, but in view of the lack of ships, quite unable to do so.
‘Should we not join our regiment?’ Francis asked on the third day of their stay in Chichester. ‘I looked to have training from the time of my arrival.’
‘As to that,’ the leader of the troop said, smiling, ‘from what they tell me these volunteers’ armies learn as they fight.’
‘You are not serving with the Duke?’
‘My young friend,’ the man said, with easy insolence, ‘for near a week now you have seen the livery I wear. Do you still look upon me as a soldier?’
‘I look upon you as one who should guide me to the service I was granted by the King,’ Francis answered hotly.
‘Which I will do, young sir, when I am bid,’ the other told him more respectfully.
So Francis found himself with time on his hands and no outlet for his impatience but what he found for himself.
They had moved from the outskirts of Chichester to the village of Bosham that lay on an arm of Chichester harbour, now some six miles from the town. In his boredom Francis soon took to wandering away from the troop, who spent most of their time at cards or dice or in the local ale-house at backgammon or the ancient game of shove-halfpenny. The country was flat since in ancient times the sea had covered most of it. Francis made his way to the edge of the creek where he found men of the village at work on and in their boats.
It took several days before any would speak to him, even to return his polite greeting. But one morning, when an old man slipped and twisted his ankle while pushing his small craft into the water, Francis helped him up, launched the boat and held it for him while he heaved himself, groaning, on board.
‘Will you be safe for your fishing?’ Francis asked.
The old man stared. He had not fully understood the strange youth’s speech and he did not trust his motive in helping him. Francis repeated his question.
‘Come an’ thee wilt,’ the old man growled, still not clear what had been said, but grasping the question note in the other’s words and judging it unwise not to agree.
Francis stepped in, pushing off with a kick backwards. He had been at sea in fishing boats off Fife; he saw no reason why he should not master the local skills in these gentle inland waters.
Seeing his unwanted visitor did not at once fall overboard but took a paddle to
get under way, the old man, by gruff order and sign, directed Francis to raise the rough canvas lug sail and then steer by a short oar over the stern, while he inspected his rapidly swelling ankle and bound it tightly with a filthy rag he took from the bottom of the boat.
From time to time the old man issued an order, but mostly he was silent, fitting bait to the hooks of his lines, getting his tackle ready for when they reached a suitable spot to fish. This unknown lad knew what he was doing; it was almost like the days long since passed when he had his own son with him; long passed, long dead, pressed into the old queen’s navy, washed overboard, they said, in a storm off Ushant.
As for Francis, that day was a delight, a double liberation, from his warders the Duke’s men and from his own gloomy misgivings and memories. The little boat sailed down the straight reach from Bosham to the meeting with the next creek that went back to Itchenor. Soon they were on a broader stretch, flying over small waves, with Hayling Island ahead and the Isle of Wight with Culver Cliff standing up, blue-misted, in the distance.
Neither he nor the old man had spoken a word since he had taken the rough tiller and the ragged sheet and settled down to sail. Nor did they now, but the old man touched his shoulder and pointed to the right.
‘Emsworth!’ he shouted above the wind now blowing briskly up the mouth of the wide harbour.
Francis obeyed the signal. The boat flew on, rocking now as they ran before the wind. Half-way up this third creek the old man clambered painfully towards his mast. With gestures he ordered Francis to go about, whereupon he dropped the sail and in an instant they were bobbing quietly on the water. Francis lifted the tiller inboard and the old man made his way back to his former place, handed the boy a set of baited lines and took another into his own hand.
They fished all that day and got a good catch. The wind dropped in the late afternoon so that they could make some distance under sail in a couple of long tacks at first, towards home. After that they had to paddle but with Francis’s help the work was halved and it was still light when they arrived back at Bosham.
To Serve a Queen Page 6