The Queen's Bastard

by Robin Maxwell

  I had only just completed it when I heard a commotion outside the door. I extinguished the candle and fell into a heap next to Giorgio, pretending a drunken stupor. When the Pope arrived in the company of a most beautiful courtesan, he found his manservant and a Swiss Guardsman in an appalling condition. We were booted out instantly and poor Odotto, badly disgraced, lost his position, demoted to the Vatican laundry. I was thrown out on my ear altogether for my part in it, and I happily departed, translated letter in pocket.

  My next stop was the Pucci villa. Francesco was extremely pleased with my efforts, for my success in this difficult but crucial assignment had fulfilled Walsinghams imperative to Pucci himself. Now all that was left was personal delivery to the next in line, and to my delight I learnt it was John Dee in Prague. He would take my copy, transpose it into his cyphers and send it along to England.

  But now it was time to leave Italy and hie me to Spain. I chose to avoid yet another sea voyage, even the calm waters of the Mediterranean, and so travelled overland up the leg of Italy and into France, crossing into Spain over the jagged peaks of the Pyrenees. During this rugged journey in the icy rarefied air of the Alps, my horse suffered more than I, and I wondered if I would not have done better with a mule, as so many of my fellow travellers rode. We gratefully descended and crossed a dangerous torrent called the Bidassoa and I finally found my self in the country of my enemy.

  Above all Spain was warm. When I arrived it was March and in England, or the Netherlands, this was the bitterest of months. Here it was spring, and the sun on my skin caressed me like the soft hand of a Mother. I was slowed, found my self taking thought of abandoning the past and all knowledge of my Family. I briefly imagined fleeing into the countryside. Living amongst horses. A beautiful woman. But like a pack of moonlit bandits, these thoughts took me by surprise, then vanished back into the black night. Of course I could never abandon my mission, service to my Country and my Parents. Blood was everything in England, and my blood was England.

  At the border town of Irún I found no one but the agents of the Inquisition interested in my crossing into their country. They asked for no passport or documents, but interrogated me only to find out if I carried any heretical literature in my bags. They seemed to accept my claim to be an Italian spice merchant, and to be on the safe side I gave them cardamom and cloves to take home to their cooks, and the bribe worked very well.

  Twas in Castile that I encountered my first customs house and here, too, there was little interest in who I was, but many customs officers who required me to register not simply my merchandise but every piece of clothing I owned and every penny I possessed …so they could tax it. Here they wished to see my passport, but solely so they could demand to examine my bags, hoping to discover some small article I had failed to declare and wring every last pistole out of me.

  Finally on my way again, I wondered that King Philip was so lax at his borders, arming them with mere tax farmers and heretic hunters, and not agents of his government, there to ferret out spies like my self. But I blessed his greed and religious zeal, for it made my job that much easier.

  My first night at a Spanish inn was a disaster. No one had explained to me that a traveller must bring his own victuals with him — oil, bread, eggs, meat procured from a local butcher — which he then handed over to the inn keeper for cooking. As no other customers were that night amenable to sharing, I went hungry. A filthy wretch looking like a beggar served me wine, not from a bottle but from a goatskin, and the beverage — otherwise reasonable in quality — stank of hide and pitch. I thought my self lucky to get one of the rooms with a bed — others had mere piles of straw — but I slept that night with so many fleas and bedbugs that when I awoke the next day I looked to have a bad case of measles. Wishing to be quickly gone I left just as the sun rose, only to find that my horse had dropped dead with exhaustion.

  I noted that many people of quality in this country rode about in litters drawn by two mules — in deed there were more mules than horses. Tho I had no desire to travel on such an animal, I was forced to bargain with a muleteer for two of his beasts to carry my self and my load of spices until I could find a proper mount. I was unused to the dryness of the air and landscape, the stark sierras and the arid plains. The only vegetation I might see in a whole days travel was thyme, grazed upon by herds of sheep, and not a tree in sight.

  Twas my mission, as it was for every other English spy in Spain, to report on the vessels in Philips fleet — their number, kind, tonnage, munitions and provisions brought aboard, and the number of soldiers and sailors and galley slaves mustered. So I headed west for Portugal — recently annexed to Spain by King Philip — with plans to survey the coastal towns, ports and dockyards for that vital intelligence.

  My patience was running thin with the mules, but I had been having no luck at all finding a good horse. I did not wish just any horse, for this journey required excellence, nay perfection, and the right companion was essential to my success. Besides, Spain was renowned for its Arabs, and I was determined to find the horse of my dreams.

  Still in Spain on the road leading into Pontevedra I chanced upon a sun wrinkled old but sweetfaced Spaniard who was training a still leggy young gelding in a field. I stopped and silently watched him for a long while. He noticed me right away but gave only the barest acknowledgment, a slight tilt of his head in my direction. I could see he treated the horse with a firm but gentle touch, and spoke almost constantly to him in an engaging and flattering tone. When the man was done he gathered in the rope and began to lead the horse away. I called “Señor!” and he indicated I might cross over onto his property and speak with him.

  He was not too grand — a hidalgo perhaps, that is a Spanish gentleman of the lower order — and despite his stoop and rheumy eyes exuded that amazing pride of spirit that the Spanish possess, almost to extreme. Politely, and adhering to all the rules of etiquette I had previously learnt of these people, I told him of my plight and asked if he had any horses for sale. I said that his method of training animals was akin to my own and that I expected any horse he had raised up would be an extraordinary mount.

  As he slowly led the gelding to the stable, allowing me to walk with them, he told me no, that sadly none of his horses were for sale. But he was lonely for company, and would I care to stay for a meal? Truly I was disappointed, but I valued the opportunity to sit with a Spaniard in his home and learn the local gossip. We ate outdoors under the one large tree on the whole of his property, served by an ancient hobbling maidservant. The food was simple and delicious, and he offered me, besides the roast lamb, all manner of fruits in their wholeness — pears, persimmons, apples, and sweet oranges which he peeled, pulling apart the sections and offering them to me.

  The man, Juan, was a great talker and his favorite topic was horses. As a Spaniard, he told me, he of course hated the infidel Moors, but many hundreds of years ago they had brought Arab horses up out of the African continent into Spain, and that was an infinite blessing. He spoke of the perfection of the Arab horse, how it might go at speed for a whole day or more without eating or drinking, that it had, besides endurance, rare intelligence and oftentimes a heroic spirit. He spoke of Al Borah the Lightning, a white winged stallion ridden through the skies by the Arabian prophet Mohammed. And he related with great relish the famous story of El Cids final victorious ride in battle — a dead man propped up by armor and saddle on the back of his valiant Arab, Babieca the Booby.

  My own tongue loosened by the sun and the wine, I repaid Juans stories with my own, changing only the details needed to maintain my imposture. I had been a mercenary in the Battle of the Tulips — for Spain. When I was fourteen, my horse had been stolen by ruffians in the city of Naples, and at age eight I had outsmarted my cruel mother to perform manège for the Duke and Duchess of Milan.

  He laughed and clapped his hands in delight at my stories and finally as the sun began to set he said “Come with me” and I followed him to the stables. He had a boy lea
d a bridled but unsaddled horse from the stalls which, in the golden light, was a sight to behold. She was a beauty — a chestnut with one white foot and a crescent of stark white on her forehead. Her high arched tail and mane had been lovingly oiled and braided, and I suddenly had a vision of a lovely pampered woman in a harem. She was splendid in every point — legs like steel, a fine shoulder, high withers. Her head was magnificent — long and handsome, jawbone clearly marked, nostrils lying flat in repose. Her eyes were large and liquid and the skin round about them was black and lustrous.

  She seemed to be eyeing me even as I was her. I moved to her and she nickered mildly as I approached. I stroked the deep and lean cheek of her, and her ears flicked as tho I was of some interest to her. I looked back at Juan who was smiling, inviting me to have my way with his lady. I took no time in grasping her plaited mane and heaving my self onto her bare back.

  “What is her name?” I asked.

  “Mirage,” he replied, which instantly conjured in my head a vision of the desert upon which her ancestors had once run.

  “Come, Mirage,” I whispered. “Show me who you are.” And she did. I swear I never did give a full command, for the horse anticipated my every thought, every maneuver, and all with a grace and precision I had never before known in a beast — even my beloved Charger. Her gallop was marvellous strong and speedy, and I guessed from the pure joy with which she ran that she had too little of it. When we reluctantly returned, the light almost gone, old Juan was picking his teeth with a piece of straw. As I sat on her back contemplating every argument I could summon for why he must sell Mirage to me he said, “How much will you give me for her?”

  I wanted to shout “Everything I own or will ever own!” but I remained calm, just leaned down and lay upon her warm damp neck feeling a sense of tender happiness that I had found a new friend, and guilt that the man who had so kindly brought her to me was in principle my mortal enemy. I made Juan a generous offer which he accepted with a sly smile saying that she was worth more, but that my stories had counted for something towards her purchase, and he was happy with the sale on all accounts.

  I thought many times that the journey down the coast of Portugal was far too pleasant a one. After all, I was a secret agent gathering intelligence for my country, soon to be besieged by the enemy. But the spring weather was fine, I was joyful in the company of my new horse, and I found the Portuguese a sturdy people who bore no more love for King Philip — the usurper of their rightful Monarchs throne — than did the English.

  Their harbors — Vigo, Oporto, Lisbon — were every day filling with the Kings ships from the world over, and with them came thousands and thousands of sailors and soldiers who, to the Portuguese, were foreigners trampling their shores, depleting their markets of food to provision the ships, and sending the price of goods to the heavens. And for what? King Philips desire to do battle in Gods name for Spain? Everywhere I went, in every tavern I stopped I heard the people protesting that twas for Philips own political aggrandizement and not the Lords.

  It was also a matter of pride, I learnt, for the Portuguese seafaring tradition had much preceded and outshone Spains. They had founded the principles of navigation upon which seamen from every nation in the world now relied. Worse still, Philip had requisitioned their largest and finest galleons, calling them his own.

  I would ride into a seaport town and hie me to the quays or dockside inns where I would open my cases and hawk my wares to the many ship captains who hoped someday to be released from Philips “Great Enterprise” to again ply the waters in trade. I learnt a great deal in my smooth dealings — which and how many foreign ships had been commandeered, impounded or chartered, how well the vessels were being provisioned with dried fish, salt beef, biscuit and wine. How much cordage and sail were taken aboard and most important, what were the stores of munitions. A new type of ship called a galleass was anchored in several ports. These were propelled not simply by galley slaves at the oars, but with oarsmen and sails together. These ships were thought to be the greatest strength of Philips new Armada.

  There was no surprise that gun and ordnance were being amply provided for each vessel. More to my dismay was the news that much of the cannon, ball and shot was English made. What logic, I wondered, was there in supplying our enemy with fire power!

  News of Captain Francis Drake flew all round me. Called El Draque, this English pirate was widely feared for the mischief he did to Spain on the high seas and its New World outposts. But he was respected, too, and more than once I saw gentlemen haggling over the price of a miniature of the captains portrait. I knew that of all the intelligence I sent back to my Father, some would surely be used in the service of this hero of England.

  I continued south and round the corner of Portugal to Spain, heading east along the coast into Andulusia, a land of innumerable olive and orange and cypress trees which spread in great forests over the land. Here I saw slaves for the first time — Moors and Blackamoors, following after their mistresses and masters, sometimes arrayed à la Turque.

  The ancient port of Cadiz was a strangely shaped island lying just off the coast of the mainland which, by its curving coast, formed a magnificent double harbor bisected by a small neck. At its mouth were two great forts armed with heavy guns. What alarmed me, however, was not the harbor itself but what I found within it — nearly one hundred ships, from small barques to great galleys to merchantmen, armed to the teeth — and they were, tho not altogether ready to sail, farther along towards dispatching than any fleet I had yet seen on my journey.

  I sat on the point at Santa Katerina across from the fort and made my report to Leicester, complete with crude drawings, tho I had yet found no network of spies and couriers for England so far south as this, and therefore no easy way to convey this letter to the Earl, as I had from other cities. If need be I would ride back to Lisbon, for this intelligence I believed was vital to Englands defence. Finished, I replaced my correspondence and writing implements in my saddlepouch and set out to find respite from the afternoon sun.

  Not far up the coast road from Santa Katerina point was the village of Santa Maria, and Mirage, sensing a rest and a feed for her self, made a brisk pace for the town. Twas not a large place, but this day was alive with celebration. I had found in my travels that in Spain almost anything was an excuse for rejoicing and festivals — Royal births and marriages, visiting Princes, every Catholic holiday, even the consecration of a shrine or the procession carrying a holy relic from one place to another would suffice.

  I knew nothing of the cause of this days revels, only rode as part of the boisterous procession down the main avenida. The shimmering air vibrated with music of guitar and tambourine. People were singing, dancing, some in fancy costume, others dressed like animals. Monks rode on mules draped in blankets of flowers. Vendors hawked orange juice and strawberry water, and fine ladies in lace veils sipped cups of chocolate so thick they were forced to follow with equal cups of water. We passed a raised stage where dancers danced a frenzied chaconne. Ladies twirled and turned their high chinned heads, tossing their hair and snapping their fingers.

  A sudden commotion. There is screaming. The crowd parts. Mirage and I are pushed back to the wall and trapt there as a fine carriage drawn by two horses thunders past — driverless — only the figures of two small children clutching the seat in terror. Some men grab for it but it speeds out of reach and on to the coast road. All — on foot, a few riding mules — are helpless.

  I shout to those who pin me against the wall for Gods sake let me pass! I work Mirage thro the crowd, anxious not to trample anyone in the throng, more anxious still to catch the carriage. The crowd makes way.

  The horses send up a cloud of dust on the packed earth road, showing me where to follow. Heading for Santa Katerina point where the road suddenly ends at a high palisade over the harbor. Mirage runs like the wind, closing the distance. I am not close enough to hear the children screaming. I can see the point approaching fast, the horses wil
d, slowing not at all. An unimaginable burst of speed, bless Mirage! Now three beasts galloping side by side. I dare not look at the children huddled on the seat, just fasten my gaze on the team. They are a hand higher than Mirage, making my leap to their backs difficult. Pounding hooves deafen me. Dust chokes my mouth and nostrils. I lift my self to a squat in the saddle to rise above the team. I know if I leap on a horses back between strides, he will surely fall. The carriage will crash, the children be catapulted into the air and they and both horses badly injured — or worse. I wait a beat. Hold my breath. Matching the rhythm of the stride, I leap upon the near horses back. Still, my weight throws off its gait. It stumbles, rights itself, but I lose its back, fall tween the pair. Desperately I clutch the wooden tongue. Searing pain! My thigh impaled, a hook on the tongue. I hear my self scream. Feel the horses slow with my weight on the tongue.

  All is still and quiet now except the children whimpering, the horses panting, the carriage creaking even at rest. And the sound of water crashing on the shore below. I lift my self, agonized, off the hook, out from under the team. Blood soaks my breeches. I turn to see the children. So small, eyes still bulging in terror. I limp to them, lift them, one in each arm, from the carriage. Hold them as they weep …

  Mirage comes then, cantering gracefully as tho nothing at all has occurred. She is followed by several men from town on horseback, another carriage, a friar on a mule. All gather round us, and a woman in a wine colored gown, her veil pushed back from her tearstained face, gathers the children to her. The men examine the carriage and thro a haze of pain I hear them exclaim their surprise that both horses are sound, only the tongue of the carriage broke. Suddenly they are all round me, staring at this stranger come to their town. The woman, her head buried in her childrens hair is crying “Gracias, Señor, Dios le Bendiga …” Then all before my eyes goes white and I am gone from this world altogether.