The Enterprise of England

by Ann Swinfen

  ‘Worth trying,’ he said, turning back at once.

  Standing before the half-open door of the cottage, my nerve nearly failed. My reason tells me that ghosts do not exist, but it took every ounce of courage to enter that cottage in the dark, with the memory of that murdered man lying on the floor as vivid as if it were still there.

  ‘Best light that lamp,’ Andrew said.

  I nodded, and fumbled with flint and tinder, for my hands were shaking. I had it alight at last, but shielded it from the street with my cloak as we crossed the threshold. It would be as well to avoid being seen.

  The place was even more forlorn than I remember. The few sticks of furniture were gone, looted by other poor cottagers for their own houses or smashed for fuel during last winter’s cruel weather. There were a few shards of pottery lying beside the cold ashes on the hearthstone, and the floor spat and crunched under our feet with grit blown in from the street. There was a rustling in the battered thatch from nesting birds or mice, but living creatures did not frighten me. Once we were inside and Andrew had dragged the door as closed as possible on its sagging hinges, I raised the lantern and looked around. In front of me a patch of the beaten earth floor was stained a darker colour.

  ‘That was where he was lying,’ I whispered.

  Andrew nodded absently, but this place held no horrors for him. He had walked over to a far dark corner where there was another door that I had not noticed before. He struggled to open it, but it would not move, either warped or blocked by something on the outside. He heaved with his shoulder, but still it would not budge. I joined him, holding the lantern out of harm’s way and together we threw ourselves against the door. It shivered and cracked apart, sending Andrew sprawling half inside and half outside, while I just managed to grab at the splintered frame before I fell on top of him.

  He clambered to his feet, brushing away fragments of rotten wood and rubbing his knee, which had struck a large rock. It had been wedged against the door from the outside, intended to prevent its being opened. He took the lantern from me and held it up beyond the gap where the door had been. The flickering candlelight revealed a small yard enclosed on two sides by this cottage and the adjacent locked shed, and on the remaining two by the blank walls of two other houses. As we had hoped, there was a door into the other building from the yard.

  Without speaking, I pointed across the yard, where a row of barrels stood, like those I had seen on the barge. Andrew nodded. He seemed to be searching the ground for something. There was a clutter of rubbish strewn about and he stepped out into the yard to examine it.

  ‘This might serve,’ he said softly, holding up a piece of bent metal. ‘Near enough to a crowbar.’

  It hardly seemed necessary to keep our voices down. The noise we had made breaking down the cottage door must have been heard as far away as the church. I picked my way around the ruins of the door and walked over to the other building. This back door did not bear a vast lock like the front, but it was almost certainly bolted from the inside. I doubted whether Andrew’s makeshift crowbar would be sufficient to lever it open.

  ‘There is another window here,’ I said, hardly above a breath. ‘The shutters are old. I think we might be able to open them.’

  He came up beside me.

  ‘Too small.’

  ‘I think I could get through.’

  He sized me up with a quick glance. ‘Perhaps you could.’

  It proved easier than we had hoped. Andrew set the lantern on the ground and inserted his metal bar under the bottom edge of the right-hand shutter. Almost at once it swung out, snapping the hook that had held it shut. Then he reached up and grabbed the second shutter, which swung out unresisting. I took off my bulky cloak and laid it on the ground next to the lantern.

  ‘Give me a leg up, then pass me the lantern.’

  When I was sitting on the sill, with a leg on either side, I leaned toward the inside of the building and moved the lantern from side to side. Like Hans’s cottage, it consisted of just one room, but this room showed no sign of being lived in. It was stacked high, all along the wall to my right, with more of those long canvas bundles.

  ‘I’m going to take a closer look,’ I said, and dropped down inside, tripping over my wretched sword and falling flat on my face in the dirt. The lantern tipped crazily sideways, but I managed to right it. The candle flickered wildly, but did not go out.

  The bundle on the top of the nearest stack was just a few feet away. I felt it all over with my left hand, still holding the lantern in my right. The contents seemed to be long tubes of metal, but I could not be sure. In irritation, I put down the lantern and tugged at the end of the canvas. One fold fell open and finally I could see what lay within.

  I stumbled over to the window.

  ‘Aye,’ I hissed. ‘It’s muskets. Dozens of them.’

  ‘Do you think you can lift one of the bundles out of the window?’ I could not see him, but he must be just below the sill. ‘We need evidence.’

  ‘I think so.’

  It was heavier than I thought, but I managed to drag one of the bundles to the outside wall. Raising it to the window was more difficult, but as it teetered on the sill I felt Andrew take the weight.

  ‘Better get out of there now,’ he whispered. ‘I thought I heard someone coming along the canal.’

  I realised that this would be more difficult than climbing in, for there was no one to give me a leg-up. I could heard the approaching footsteps myself now. More than one man. I passed the lantern out of the window.

  ‘Douse it!’ I said. ‘The light may be visible through the cottage.’

  One of the barrels, I thought. I could climb out by one of the barrels. I grabbed the nearest and started to roll it under the window. My hands were slippery with sweat and I kept losing my hold on it, but at last I had it in place. They might notice that it had been moved, but that was a risk I had to take.

  Something troubled me. There had been an unmistakable stench over by the barrels. I realised that I had been half aware of it before, ever since climbing in, but had been too caught up in examining the guns to attend to it. My eyes had grown accustomed to the near dark of the room and while we had been here the quarter moon had climbed a little higher, throwing an oblique shaft of silver light through the window, just catching the edge of something in the corner beside the barrels. Torn between the need to escape and the anxiety to put to rest the fear that stench had awakened, I crossed quickly to the far wall and looked down.

  I had not been wrong. A man lay there, huddled into the corner, where he must have been flung some days before. I crouched down and lifted his flaccid arm, although I already had my answer. He wore a simple signet ring on his hand, which his killers had not troubled to remove. I recognised the design, like the ring I wore on a chain round my neck. I slid it off the unresisting finger and dropped it down the neck of my shirt. Then panic seized me and I scuttled toward the window and escape. As I climbed on to the barrel and threw myself on my stomach over the window ledge, I could hear a key scraping in the lock on the other side of the room.

  Andrew grabbed me by the back of my doublet and dragged me down on the other side. I fell into the yard, scraping the palms of my hands and jabbing my side with the hilt of my sword. As I scrambled to my feet, I could just make him out in the gloom, pushing the shutters back into place.

  Without speaking, we each caught hold of an end of the bundle of muskets and were stepping over the threshold into Hans’s cottage when I remembered.

  ‘My cloak!’ I whispered.

  I darted across to get it, and as I did so a line of light appeared between the shutters. The men had a lantern. Any minute now they might notice that I had moved the barrel.

  I was back at the cottage in a moment and picked up my end of the bundle, tucking my cloak under my arm.

  ‘I have the lantern,’ Andrew said, barely above a breath. ‘Don’t want to leave anything to draw attention.’

  Then we were out of
the cottage and stumbling as fast as we could up the alleyway.

  When we reached the church, Andrew stopped suddenly, so that the muskets hit me smartly in the belly.

  ‘Careful!’ I said. ‘That hurt.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But look, we can’t go through the streets of Amsterdam carrying this. I don’t want to have to stop and explain to the Watch.’

  I sat down suddenly on the church steps. My legs had begun to shake and I realised I was drenched with sweat.

  ‘I found Mark Weber,’ I said. ‘He’s dead.’

  Andrew gasped. ‘He was in there?’

  ‘Aye. Thrown into a corner like a pile of old rags. Dead at least a week, I’d say. Probably longer.’

  He shook his head. ‘They must have found him out,’ he said soberly. ‘So you have done what you came for.’

  ‘Not as I had hoped. What shall we do? Go to Willoughby?’

  ‘From what you’ve said, he isn’t likely to receive us or take any action in the middle of the night, or even tomorrow. Those men are probably planning to ship another load out by barge during the night. Time must be running out for them. No, I think the only thing to do is for me to ride back to the camp and inform my commanding officer. He will listen, I’m sure. We can send out a squadron to round up these men before they get very far, and even if we miss them, we have these as evidence.’

  He poked the canvas with his toe.

  ‘But what shall we do with these,’ I said, ‘if we aren’t to carry them through the streets?’

  I was happy for him to make the decisions now. I felt weak and my heart was still racing.

  ‘We could push them in behind those pillars.’ He indicated the shallow portico between the steps and the door of the church. ‘But I think you should stay here and guard them. You have your sword, haven’t you?’

  I had indeed. All it had done was to hamper me climbing in and out of the window. The thought of standing guard over illegal guns in the dark, in a foreign town, was terrifying, but what could I do? I could hardly reveal my identity to Andrew. I gulped and nodded.

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘But I’m a poor swordsman, if it should come to a fight.’

  ‘Lie hidden and it isn’t likely to.’

  We thrust the bundle of muskets into the narrow space between the pillars of the portico and the front wall of the church, then Andrew was off, running lightly down the street in the direction of the inn.

  I shook out my cloak and wrapped it around me, for, in the stillness after the stealth and fear, I was suddenly cold. There was just room for me behind the pillars next to the guns, if I sat with my back braced against the wall and my knees drawn up. I was cramped and cold, still shivering from the aftermath of our break-in. Mark Weber, a decent man, so I had been told, left to rot in a corner like a dead rat – my fingers still felt the touch of that limp hand, and my nostrils were full of the stench.

  If I had not managed to climb on to the barrel, if I had taken a few more moments to throw myself through the window . . . I felt bile rising in my throat and tried to swallow, but suddenly found myself vomiting. I had eaten little all day and I managed to avoid staining the precious evidence, but my throat burned with the acid of my stomach and I longed for water.

  I am not sure how long I crouched there, cold and miserable, before I heard the footsteps. One person, a heavy man, was coming up the alleyway toward the church. I curled up like a hunted animal, burying my face in my knees and praying that no part of me or my dangerous charge could be seen in this dark corner. The footsteps stopped. I swear I could hear him breathing, just yards from where I was concealed, holding my own breath. The moment seemed to stretch out for ever.

  ‘Nee.’ The man’s voice was as clear as if he stood within arm’s reach. ‘Nee.’ Then a string of Dutch I could not understand. But I knew that ‘nee’ meant ‘no’. They must have realised someone had been in their locked building, either because the barrel was moved or one of the bundles of muskets missing. Or because the hook which secured the shutters was broken. If they had investigated further, they would have found the smashed door at the back of Hans’s cottage.

  My lungs were bursting. I would have to breath soon. Another voice, further away, impatient. The man beside the church called something, then I heard him turn and make his way back down the alleyway. I let my breath out as carefully as if he were still there. Minutes passed. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of oars from the direction of the canal.

  I had no idea how far away the English army camp lay, or how long it would take for Andrew to ride there, rouse an officer, rouse a squadron of soldiers, and return, but there was comfort in the fact that it was a windless night. The men on the barge would not be able to sail, they could travel no faster than they could row. Nor could they turn aside. Sooner or later, the mounted soldiers would overtake them.

  They caught the men in the early hours less than ten miles from Amsterdam. When the men and barges had been secured, an armed guard posted around their storehouse, the town authorities roused from their beds and Cornelius Parker’s house raided, someone remembered me. By then I was so stiff and cramped I could barely stand, but a cheerful young trooper loaned me his horse and walked beside me back to the Prins Willem, where an exultant gathering of English and Dutch soldiers was just sitting down to a huge breakfast prepared by Marta.

  ‘This is Dr Christoval Alvarez,’ Andrew said, presenting me to a saturnine man with a long, clever face, ‘who discovered the treachery of this group of traitors. Kit, this is Sir John Norreys.’

  I bowed deeply, to conceal my surprise. I had not expected Norreys himself to take part in the operation. He bowed in return.

  ‘We are in your debt, Dr Alvarez,’ he said. ‘Through your actions you have prevented a substantial shipment of arms from reaching the enemy.’

  By neither Andrew nor Norreys was Sir Francis’s name mentioned, but it hung in the air between us. I was certain that Norreys knew, or had guessed, why I was in Amsterdam and on whose orders.

  When Andrew and I had drawn aside, I asked, ‘What will happen to Mark’s body?’

  ‘They will send it back to England, to his family. A ship is leaving today and will take him, but the Dutch authorities will not give us leave to go until Parker and van Leyden have been questioned and we have given our evidence.’

  ‘You found van Leyden?’

  ‘Aye, he was in Parker’s house, both of them sleeping the sleep of the just while their men carried out their traitorous business. I expect they would have left soon for the Spanish Netherlands themselves, had we not caught them in time. A good night’s work, Kit.’

  ‘Aye.’

  I was glad they had caught the men and saved the arms from reaching Parma, but I could not rid my mind of the tragedy of Mark Weber, a man I had never known. It was not an uncommon fate for one of Walsingham’s agents, but that did not make it any easier to bear.

  In the event, Andrew and I were kept chafing in Amsterdam for days, while the slow processes of the law ground on. I managed to despatch a coded report to Walsingham, detailing all that had happened, by the good offices of Ettore Añez, who was able to send one last ship across the Channel as the Spanish fleet drew nearer. I also entrusted to Ettore’s courier the signet ring I had taken from Mark Weber’s hand.

  At last we were free to go. All this time the Good Venture had waited in the Amsterdam docks and Andrew’s recruits had kicked their heels in camp. When we were not being questioned or writing out our accounts of what had happened for the Dutch lawyers, Andrew put in a few hours of training with the men. It was hardly enough to turn them into troopers, but they might prove useful as mounted messengers. I also persuaded him to teach me how to mount by vaulting on to a horse from the rear. It was not difficult with one of the quiet pack ponies and I even tried it once or twice with a larger horse, but I was uncertain how Hector would respond to the shock if I ever attempted it with him. Someday I would need to train him, if I ever had the opportunity to ride
him again. It would overcome my need to find a mounting block whenever I rode him.

  On the day we left Amsterdam Andrew marched his men down to the Good Venture, while I followed some way behind, reading a quickly scribbled letter from Ettore Añez, whose ship had just returned from England.

  The two fleets engaged off Plymouth near the Eddystone rocks on the twenty-first, with no great losses on either side. The English ships kept their distance, bombarding the Spanish with their guns and manoeuvring around the larger enemy ships. Medina Sidonia tried and failed to get close enough to grapple and board. Then all was thrown into confusion. Drake, whose ship was meant to be leading the fleet, went off on a raiding expedition for plunder, leaving the English fleet in disarray. There was a further skirmish off Portland two days later. The Armada is now said to be making for Calais, ready to escort the barges of infantry across the Channel. If your ship leaves immediately, you should reach Dover clear of the fighting.

  Ettore, however, was to be proved wrong.

  Chapter Fourteen

  We were somewhat crowded aboard the Good Venture, with the addition of Andrew’s twenty recruits as well as a full ship’s crew, but I cared little for that. I was on my way home to England at last, on the twenty-ninth of July, and that was all that mattered. I smiled to myself at the thought, leaning on the stern rail and watching Amsterdam disappearing as we set off down the waterways that would take us to the German Ocean and the Channel. It was true. I did indeed feel as though I was going home. Although I had lived in England for more than six years now, I had never before thought of it as my home. Amongst my fellow Londoners I was still viewed as one of those they dubbed ‘Strangers’ – foreign immigrants and refugees who were not full-blooded Englishmen. We had fewer rights than true citizens, were restricted in our businesses and ownership of property. Those with wealth enough could, like Ruy Lopez, compound for a form of limited citizenship by making a substantial payment, but I could not envisage such a thing for my father or myself. Nonetheless, as I turned my back on Amsterdam and watched the sailors plying their oars, my heart lifted at the thought of London and even poor, dirty Duck Lane. Soon I would sleep in my own bed and take up my rightful work in the hospital.