A frenzy of activity followed. Hawkins had offered one of his own vessels and a group of men were detailed to tow it into line and rope it together with the other seven destined to burn. With another small group, Tom found himself in a longboat, rowing between the doomed ships and the rest of the fleet. Every muscle and sinew in his body ached by the time the stores and fittings to be taken off were removed. The mainmasts, spars and sails were left in place, for the ships would go into Calais under full sail. The guns also remained on board, double shotted with their muzzles crammed with any pieces of metal that could be found.
In the rigging of each ship, sailors clambered about daubing a mixture of pitch and resin on the masts and sails while down below, others coated the decks with the same foul-smelling mess. Small crews were chosen to sail each ship on her final mission. Tom was glad he did not have the skill to be among them. They would have only a few seconds to make their escape after their ships were alight. When everything was ready, the long wait for darkness and the turn of the tide commenced.
Night fell and below the castle walls, the Armada’s lights bobbed like giant glow-worms on the dark sea. The early watches passed quietly on the Victory. It was a calm night and the flags on the mainmast drooped. Midnight approached when, feeling a breath on his cheek, Tom looked up and saw them flutter into life. The wind was rising; the crew’s spirits lifted.
At the stroke of twelve, the fire ships broke loose from the fleet, sailing one behind the other. The tide was at the flood, running towards the land, and the wind was astern. It did not take them long to reach the mouth of the harbour where a defending screen of Spanish pinnaces and ships’ longboats awaited them. Tom saw two fire ships swing out of the line. The Spanish crews must have managed to fling grappling hooks aboard them and pull them aside, but the rest forged on.
Suddenly, deafening roars split the night as their guns exploded and tongues of flame leapt into the sky. Quickly, the flames spread, racing up the masts and engulfing the sails until each fire ship was a floating inferno. A pall of smoke crept across the water. Surely, Tom thought, there would be nothing the Spanish could do to stop the remaining fire ships now. The English were too far away to see clearly what was happening, but as Tom stared into the semi-darkness with the rest of the Victory’s crew, he could not suppress a pang of pity for any victim of such a fearful conflagration.
When the fires dimmed to a glow, however, many on the Victory shook their heads. It was too soon, they said. If the fire ships had succeeded in setting any of the Armada’s ships alight, the blaze in the harbour would have lasted much longer. Perhaps more than two of the fire ships had been diverted and the sacrifice was in vain.
It was only when the sun rose that a roar went up from the decks of the English ships. All that remained of the fire ships were blackened skeletons but they had done their work after all. The Armada had been forced to escape from the harbour into the open water. It was no longer in its impregnable crescent formation and, less manoeuvrable than the English ships, some of the great galleons were already foundering in the heavy seas, vulnerable as sheep to circling wolves.
Officers barked orders and the crew scrambled to hoist the sails and haul up the anchors. In a whirl of flapping canvas, the English ships set off after their quarry. Drake and the Revenge led the charge, but soon in the confusion and smoke, it was hard to tell what was happening. When Tom did catch a glimpse of another ship, it was impossible to be sure whether it belonged to England or Spain.
It was late afternoon before the fury abated. The smoke of the guns cleared and a scene of terrible devastation was revealed. Frantic horses and desperate men thrashed in the churning grey water. The lucky ones clung to shards of smashed masts and hulls as they waited for help. Tom did not want to think of the men who had already sunk into the grim depths.
Many of the Spanish galleons were crippled, their decks a shambles and their guns silent. When they listed, something too dark for water poured from their scuppers. Several were low in the water and before Tom’s eyes one slowly sank beneath the waves. The rest were being driven northwards by a westerly wind towards the treacherous rocks and shallows of the approach to the North Sea.
Like most of the crew of the Victory, Tom was too exhausted to feel jubilant. All he wanted was to sleep, but there was work to be done. The day would not belong to England until the last of the Armada’s ships was broken and defeated.
A thin rain fell and there were patches of fog on the debris-strewn water. Cold to his bones, Tom went about his business, obeying orders to clean the bloodied sawdust and spent powder from the gun decks. He shuddered at the cries of wounded men coming from the surgeon’s quarters. They mingled with the creak of the ship and the jangle of the rigging as the crew turned the Victory to run before the wind, following the stricken Spanish ships.
*
The westerly wind held and at first it seemed that it, and the Gravelines sandbanks off the Flanders coast, would do England’s work for her. The sea off Gravelines was treacherous even for sailors who knew it well and the Dutch rebel pilots had long ago removed the markers indicating the safest channels. The Armada seemed to be drifting and in danger of running out of deep water. The wiser course would be to anchor and wait for high tide but there were rumours that in their haste to escape at Calais many of the Spanish crews had cut their anchor chains, leaving the anchors on the seabed.
There was little doubt in anyone’s mind that if any Spanish ships grounded in the shallows, the Dutch rebels would be swift to exact vengeance for the years of cruelty they had suffered at the hands of the Duke of Parma’s forces. What might be left after they had plundered the ships and killed their crews would soon be smashed to matchwood in the next storm.
Tom’s heart lifted. Soon all this might be over and they would be able to return to a safe port. But the old hands around him sniffed the wind like dogs.
‘I don’t like it,’ one muttered, ‘there’s a squall coming. If the wind changes, we might still lose ’em.’
Just as the sailor predicted, the squall descended – out of nowhere, as it seemed to Tom – and hid the Armada behind an impenetrable curtain of rain. The crew on the Victory raced to trim the sails and for a time, all else was forgotten in the struggle to hold the ship steady, but when the squall roared away to the south, to everyone’s dismay, the Spanish had made good use of the wind to evade the shallows. Stood off to the north, the remnants of the Armada had resumed their crescent formation ready for battle.
Along with the rest of the English fleet, the Victory kept her distance. Her ammunition lockers were bare and in spite of the damage the Spanish had suffered, they were still a formidable foe. Did they have the stomach for a fight? It was impossible to say, but Tom saw the exhaustion on the faces of his fellows and doubted many Englishmen did.
Ten days of brutal battle had left a terrible mark. Rations had almost run out and there was little to assuage the men’s hunger and thirst. Dirty, bloodied bandages covered festering wounds; salt-blistered skin was crusted with grime and pocked with powder burns. Most of the men’s clothes were filthy and scorched. Tom’s own hung from him in tatters. When he lay down to sleep, it was on bedding damp with mildew and blackened with soot.
The Victory herself had suffered. Her sails were patched where shot had ripped them apart and her rigging was scorched and frayed. The stench of blood and brimstone oozed from her very timbers.
Another day came and went. The Armada sailed on northwards before a strengthening wind and the English followed. Then at dawn the next day, they saw the Armada once more in danger of grounding, this time on the Zeeland Banks, but yet again the wind changed– a Catholic wind, the sailors said sourly – and the Armada escaped.
A rumour ran around the Victory that if the Armada passed the Firth of Forth, the Lord Admiral would order his ships to turn back and leave the Spanish to the mercy of the sea. Tom prayed fervently it would come to pass. All he wanted was to be on dry land. After that, he gave n
o thought to the future.
32
London
August, 1588
Lamotte tested the edge of his sword with his thumb; it was not sharp enough yet to slice a Spanish throat. He struck the blade on the whetstone once more and saw the sparks fly. That was better.
The Trained Bands, swelled to ten thousand men, assembled daily in the fields outside the walls and he had joined the company raised by his own ward. He hoped that when the time came he would acquit himself honourably. The thought it might not be long before he found out chilled his blood. The last report had been that the two fleets were in the North Sea but whether Spain or England had the upper hand, no one knew.
Out in the streets that morning he had watched men bring out whatever weapons they could unearth, some of them so rusty they had probably not seen service since the days of the wars of the houses of Lancaster and York. His back ached from working on the neighbouring stretch of the city wall. So much of it had been allowed to fall down in the years of peace. Few of the fallen stones remained and their place had to be filled with anything that came to hand: old timbers, carts, even hides and carcasses from the shambles. The chains that had barred the streets against Wyatt’s rebels fifty years ago had been lugged out from the Tower and stretched across the main roads into the city.
Often his thoughts strayed to the family at Lacey Hall. It was hard to ignore the fact that his life and Beatrice Lacey’s were very different. If she cared enough for him to have him, there was a great deal he would be obliged to hide from her. Was it right then to speak of his feelings? Lamotte was unable to decide. In any case, the lives of everyone in England might soon be turned upside down.
Hurrying footsteps approached and his stomach lurched. If it was news, it was unlikely to be good, but when Jack burst in, his face glowed with excitement. He doubled over gasping as his words tumbled out.
‘Calm down, lad. I can’t understand you. Is there news of the Spanish?’
Jack took a deep breath. ‘I ran all the way, Master Lamotte. It’s the queen. She’s going to Tilbury. She’s going to fight them!’
Lamotte could not suppress a chuckle. ‘What? All alone? Well, we’d better go and see for ourselves, hadn’t we?’
By the time they reached the river, Lamotte’s shoulders ached from the effort of pushing through the hordes waiting to see the queen’s barge sail by. A boatload of trumpeters heralded her arrival with stirring music. They were followed by the yeomen of the guard in a fleet of gaily painted boats, their armour glinting in the sunshine.
The queen herself was resplendent in a gown of pure white velvet, its bodice covered by a silver cuirass. In her right hand she carried a silver sceptre chased with gold; jewels glittered in her auburn hair.
She bears herself like an empress, Lamotte thought admiringly. Who would not fight for such a woman? All around him, men were calling out to her and throwing their hats in the air. More leant from the high windows of the houses on London Bridge, adding their cheers to the clamour. Impulsively, Lamotte grabbed Jack and, forcing his way down to the riverbank, seized a place on one of the small boats setting off to follow the procession.
At Tilbury, the shout that greeted the queen’s arrival rolled down the river like a great wave. Lamotte struggled to look over the jostling heads and shoulders, just catching a glimpse of her as she disembarked at the marshes. A stocky white horse was brought up for her to mount. She bestrode it with her back as straight as an arrow and her head held high, then she set off down the causeway towards her troops.
The thunder of cannon greeting her arrival at the camp seemed to make the earth shake. Lamotte and Jack had come as close as they could but they were still too far away to see more than a small figure passing slowly between the ranks of armoured men. Eventually she stopped. It was clear she was addressing the assembled company. It saddened Lamotte that he was not near enough to hear the speech, but the roars of approval told him it was a magnificent one. He felt his heart lighten. Let the Spanish come. England would fight and prevail.
*
A few days later, the first of the queen’s galleons docked at Chatham. They brought news that the English fleet had left off pursuing the tattered remnants of the Armada and were returning to their home ports. More good news came from the Low Countries. The Duke of Parma had withdrawn his forces from the coast.
A riot of celebration swept London. Taverns and theatres strained at the seams. His days crammed with work, Lamotte snatched a few hours’ rest when he could but he was becoming weary. I am an ungrateful cur to wish it otherwise, he thought, but I shan’t be entirely sorry when London settles back into her old ways.
As he left the Unicorn late one evening, a figure moved in the shadows. Tense, Lamotte reached for his sword then a voice spoke his name. He rubbed his eyes. It was not possible. Or was it?
‘Tom? Is that you?’
*
‘Thank Heaven I’ve found you,’ Lamotte said when he let Tom go. ‘Where have you been? No, tell me when we are back at home. You must eat, you look exhausted and there’s not an ounce of flesh on you. Come on.’
At Throgmorton Street, Tom fell on the cold fowl Lamotte’s cook hastily provided.
‘I’ve found your Meg,’ Lamotte said. ‘Or rather she found me.’
Tom dropped the wing he was eating. A fierce shaking overwhelmed him and tears sprang to his eyes.
‘I’m sorry I shocked you,’ Lamotte said gently. ‘She fled from her husband and ran away from Salisbury, but she is safe and well.’
‘Where is she? Can I go to her?’
‘She’s at Lacey Hall.’
‘What! But why is she there?’
‘So I almost found her,’ he said bitterly when Lamotte had explained.
‘There’s no point dwelling on that.’
‘Do you think Edward Stuckton is looking for her?’
‘I doubt it. According to Meg, he found out about the two of you from Ralph Fiddler. Stuckton put it about that Meg suffered a miscarriage and lost her mind through grief. She became a danger to herself and had to be committed to an asylum.’
Tom’s fists clenched. ‘How dared he—’
Lamotte raised a hand. ‘I understand your anger but let me finish. When I went down to Lacey Hall to tell Meg the news that the charges against you had been dropped, I stayed a few days in Salisbury on my return and made a few enquiries in case more information might be useful one day. I discovered Stuckton has taken up with another woman. It seems he went further in the end and claimed Meg’s illness worsened and she took her own life.’
He looked at Tom intently, unsure how he would react to this further slur on Meg’s name.
Tom was silent for a moment. ‘In truth, it is better for us,’ he said at last. ‘Does Meg know?’
‘I haven’t told her. The whole subject of her past life is distressing for her and I preferred not to remind her of it. Perhaps you should be the one to mention it when you judge the time is right.’
‘Thank you.’
‘There’s more I need to tell you, concerning Ralph Fiddler in particular.’
By the time he had heard Lamotte out, Tom’s head reeled.
‘So, you know the whole story now,’ Lamotte ended. ‘The next thing you must do is sleep. Tomorrow we’ll make plans for your journey to Lacey Hall. Meg will be anxious to see you. I’ll provide you with a horse and some money. You can leave in the morning.’
All at once, Tom felt his courage fail him. ‘So much has changed since we last met. It’s as if I’m a different person. Suppose she doesn’t want me any longer?’
Lamotte raised an eyebrow. ‘Love does not die so easily. Do you still love her?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Then go to her and find out, or you will regret it for the rest of your life.’
*
Lacey Hall glowed in the warm evening light. Late musk roses bloomed around the stone-mullioned windows and the breeze was perfumed with lavender. Tom broug
ht his horse up short at the edge of the lawn and caught his breath. A figure in a kingfisher-blue dress walked along the broad, stone path skirting the front of the house. He would have known her anywhere.
Fear overwhelmed him. It was no use, he should go back to London. He would never be able to offer her a life like this. Then Lamotte’s parting words sounded in his head. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. A few moments later, Meg was in his arms.
33
London
October, 1588
The crisp autumn afternoon drew to an end and the first performance of Tom’s new play was almost over. After a great deal of discussion, he had entitled it The Island. It had been a success, Lamotte thought, even though it was very different from the kind of drama audiences were used to. Tom had every right to be proud.
He glanced over to where he sat with Meg, her arm in his and their heads so close they almost touched. She whispered something in his ear and he smiled. It warmed Lamotte’s heart to see them so happy together.
Beyond them sat Jack and Bel with a wide-eyed Hal squirming in Bel’s lap. Even Janey had made the journey from Angel Lane; Lamotte had hired a carriage to bring her. ‘I feel like a queen,’ she laughed when he handed her down from it.
On stage, the chief player was coming to the end of his final speech. Lamotte let his attention wander. The speech was a good one, but he knew how it went. Would Tom stay in London and write more plays, he mused. Sometimes he talked of going to the New World but there was a great deal to be considered first. Lamotte suspected Meg would have strong views. Her friends were happy at Lacey Hall and her maid, Bess, had found a sweetheart at the farm there. Even with Tom at her side, it would be a radical step to leave all of them and her homeland. For his own sake, Lamotte hoped the idea was no more than a passing fancy.
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