Battle’s Flood

by J. D. Davies

  Battle’s Flood

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  The Spanish Main, 1568

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  In memory of Martin Bentley, 1950–2012

  Requiescat in pace, old friend

  If all the miseries and troublesome affairs of this sorrowful voyage should be perfectly and thoroughly written, there should need [to be] a painful [i.e. painstaking] man with his pen, and as great a time as he had that wrote the lives and deaths of the Martyrs. Finis.

  Sir John Hawkins (1532–95)

  The Spaniards were very close now, but Drake and Hawkins had abandoned them to their fate.

  Jack watched the Minion manoeuvre away from the carnage in the anchorage, praying that his Tom was somewhere aboard one of them despite all; praying that, against all the odds, his son was safe.

  The few dozen desperate Englishmen left on the deck of the shattered flagship were screaming vainly at the receding ships. A few looked to Jack for leadership, but he had none to give. None of them would see England again, he reckoned. For his part, he would never see another Dunwich dawn, nor the smile on the face of his daughter Meg, nor the grave of—

  The first Spanish soldiers emerged onto the upper deck, their morion helmets and sword blades glistening in the brilliant sun.

  Jack Stannard muttered the Lord’s Prayer and prepared himself for death.

  But in his heart, he knew that death was not the worst fate the Spaniards could inflict.

  Prologue

  Westminster, April 1555

  The heretic would burn at noon, so Margaret Stannard had time to kill. Her brother had gone off to one of the Westminster alehouses with some of his roaring-boy friends. Her father was in a house on the St James’s side of the Sanctuary, where the meeting that had brought him so far from Dunwich was taking place. That left her free to roam where she willed with the short, serious, swarthy youth at her side, whose father was at the same meeting. And where she willed translated into the great abbey, towering over the tallest houses and even over the ramshackle old palace across the way, the seat of England’s parliament on those rare occasions when it sat.

  There was a steady stream of people in and out of the church’s west door: supplicants come to light candles or have Masses said for lost loved ones, cripples come to pray for a cure, and whores come to baptise or bury bastards. And there were more than a few others who had come to witness the execution, but who would spend the time before it began gawping at the countless grand tombs. Regardless of purpose, all who entered the building stopped, genuflected toward the east end, crossed themselves several times, then looked up in awe at the soaring arches and vaults. Many, like Margaret and her escort, smiled at the familiar smell of incense, and at the sound of a chorus of clerks in one of the side chapels singing a new setting of Exsurge Christe in Latin, the true tongue of God.

  Things were as they should be.

  ‘Deo gratias,’ said Margaret Stannard of Dunwich, by-named Meg by all who knew her.

  ‘Amen,’ said Luis de Andrade.

  They attracted many glances as they made their way down the north aisle towards the crossing, for they were an unlikely couple. She towered over the quite evidently foreign youth walking alongside her. Meg’s height made her appear older than her nineteen years, while the as-yet beardless Luis, actually a year older than she, seemed little more than eleven or twelve. Meg also dressed better than one of her rank usually did, being attired that day in an expensive yellow kirtle. She walked with the stately grace of a true lady. For a Spaniard, though, Luis dressed carelessly, his shirt creased and his breeches grubby, and he scuttled along half a pace behind Meg. It was probable that at least some of those who cast eyes on them that day in Westminster Abbey assumed they were some well-born lady and her young servant boy.

  They made their way to the astonishing Lady Chapel at the far end of the abbey, joined the throng of people at the spectacular tomb of King Harry the Seventh and his queen, and then sank to their knees, crossing themselves contentedly as they did so. Meg took out her rosary, prohibited until recently, and began to utter the Ave Maria.

  First, she offered up thanks for the restoration of the true faith in this great abbey church, as in all the churches in England, after twenty years of turmoil and heresy. Soon, it was said, monks would return to praise God in this place; in which case, perhaps, they might return to Dunwich too.

  Second, she gave thanks for those indubitable proofs of God’s providence, the accession to the throne of the high and mighty Lady Mary, by whose grace the errant kingdom of England had been reconciled to the Church of Rome, and her marriage to the noblest prince in Christendom, Philip of Spain, now King of England.

  Third, and invoking the specific intercession of Felix, patron saint of Dunwich, she prayed for her father, that God would preserve him upon his voyages and in his many ventures by sea; for her brother, that he might grow a backbone; for the souls of her dead mother and more recently dead grandfather, the last leper of their town; and for Dunwich itself, that what remained of it might be preserved from the further ravages of the unforgiving waves that clawed unremittingly at the base of its cliff.

  Fourth, she prayed that the child said by all to be nearly at term in the queen’s womb might be born healthy, and a son, an heir to both England and all the realms that King Philip already possessed, and the even greater ones he was soon set to inherit. This was the predominant prayer being uttered by most of those kneeling in prayer in the chapel that day.

  Fifth, she prayed that the heretic who was about to die would recant upon the pyre, thereby saving his immortal soul.

  Sixth, she prayed that her stepmother might die a painful and prolonged death, preferably very soon, preferably in circumstances that involved flies, rats and large quantities of pus, together with bloody and incessant quickshits. Meg knew this was a distinctly unchristian thought, and a most unworthy one to have in her mind in that most sacred of places, but she could not help herself.

  Seventh, she prayed that Luis de Andrade would be a little less stiff, a little less formal, a little less Spanish.

  She looked up at the face of a carved angel, very far above her, crossed herself, and smiled at it. It was probably a trick of the light, but she could almost have sworn that the angel winked back at her.

  Well then, Margaret Stannard, she chided herself, that was hardly something with which to bother God, the Blessed Virgin and the company of the saints. Unlike all her other prayers, this was a matter that she was perfectly capable of resolving herself, here upon earth.

  So be it. Master Luis de Andrade was too stiff and formal?

  She would soon change that.

  * * *

  John Stannard of Dunwich, known to one and all as Jack, loved being aboard ships, and conning them where wind and tide favoured. He loved the feel of a deck beneath his feet, and the sight and sound
of sails billowing in a fair breeze. He loved foreign harbours: their smells, their people, their women, and above all their cargoes. But he did not love hearing others talk about ships, harbours and cargoes, especially when they talked endlessly, and when, with only a few exceptions, the talkers were men whose experience of the sea extended no further than being sculled a mile or two up the Thames and then a mile or two back down again in watermen’s skiffs.

  He was not even sure why he had been asked to this meeting. Almost all of those present were far greater than he and certainly far richer, which meant very much the same thing. He was a mere merchant and shipowner of Dunwich, and if the others in the room had heard of it at all, they would know the place only as an ancient, decayed seaport on the Suffolk coast, now little larger than many a village. Indeed, some in the room would not even know where Suffolk was. These were the Spaniards, a dozen or so of them, now all whispering animatedly in an alcove by the fireplace. With their pointed beards and dark clothing, they resembled an unkindness of ravens. Jack Stannard knew only one of them, the only one who could speak English, Cesar de Andrade by name. He and his brother had come over to England in the old Queen Catherine’s time and set themselves up as merchants in Ipswich, where Jack and his father had come to know them well, even to like them. King Harry’s rejection of his queen, and the twenty years of madness that followed, drove them from England, but now Cesar was back with his sons. One of them, Pedro, was with him at the meeting: a proud young fellow who was seemingly oblivious of the stares directed at the huge birthmark, very much like a great butterfly, that disfigured almost the entire right side of his face. Another son, presently elsewhere, was of interest to Jack, and, gratifyingly, of even more interest to his forthright daughter Meg.

  ‘S-standing alone, Jack Stannard?’ said Will Halliday, returning from the jakes.

  ‘What is this for, Will? Why are we all here?’

  Jack’s oldest friend smiled. ‘P-p-peace and harmony between England and Spain, Jack. Eternal felicity, thanks to the union of our noble q-queen and the mighty King Philip.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, as I see it, there seems to have been precious little felicity in the arguments so far. They want us to sail for Muscovy, and Swedeland. The Levant, if we wish. But not Africa, and certainly not the Americas. Whereas he – who is that old whitebeard with Garrard? The one who spoke with such force earlier, despite his infirmities? One foot in the grave, if ever I saw its like.’

  ‘William Hawkins, of P-Plymouth. A fine s-seaman in his time, so it’s said, and a good man. A Member of Parliament, too. He was much in Master Gonson’s favour, as he was in the late king’s.’ Jack nodded. Benjamin Gonson, Will’s effective employer, had influence, and was also a good judge of men. A better judge than Henry the Eighth of famous memory, for sure. ‘I p-presume the youth with him is his son,’ said Will. ‘One of his sons, at any rate. They say the k-king has taken quite a shine to that young man.’

  The younger Hawkins was dressed soberly but richly, in black, and could easily have been taken for one of the Spaniards. Even from a distance, Jack could make out vivid eyes and an easy manner that made him appear comfortable in the presence of the great men around him.

  ‘Hawkins, then,’ said Jack. ‘Hawkins the father. He spoke well, I thought. If England and Spain are now one, and to be even more so when the child now in the queen’s womb ascends the thrones of both, then why should Englishmen not sail freely to all the King of Spain’s lands? Why should we not trade where we please?’

  ‘That, I s-suspect, is what our Spanish friends are m-murmuring about. After all, they hold all the c-cards, my friend. They have the Americas with all their g-gold and silver, they have the armies and navies – ours isn’t an equal m-marriage, that’s for sure.’

  Jack nodded, for he had once seen one of Spain’s mighty bullion fleets inbound from the Indies off the mouth of the river that led to Seville. England’s entire treasury was as a cockboat in the wake of the cargo of just one of those vast galleons. England and Spain were friends for now, but that might not always be the case. Jack had seen at close quarters the vast invasion fleet that France had sent against England ten years before, in the campaign in which the great royal ship Mary Rose sank and his friend Thomas Ryman died, but Spain could easily afford a fleet to dwarf it. These discomforting truths were in the back of the mind of every man in the room, from both nations.

  Perhaps, though, not in Will Halliday’s mind. Instead, Jack’s old friend was staring intently at the Spaniards.

  ‘One of them troubles me, Jack. I c-could swear I’ve seen him b-before, although I know I c-cannot have done.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one to the left of de Andrade. The one with the double-pointed b-beard.’

  ‘That one? The one who was introduced to us as – what was the name – Pimentel? I took him for an insignificant fellow. He has said nothing.’

  ‘Neither have you, Jack Stannard.’

  ‘Aye, and that’s the truth,’ sighed Jack. ‘I see why you’re here, Will. Principal Clerk to the Treasurer of the Council of Marine Causes – you represent Master Benjamin Gonson and the entire Navy Royal of England, my friend, no matter how much you may seek to deny it. Hawkins of Plymouth, there, his son and his like – yes, of course, it’s obvious why they’re here. Garrard, the Lord Mayor, likewise. My kinsman Barne, too. Merchants. Aldermen. Men of money. So why me?’

  Will Halliday placed a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. They had been at ease in each other’s company since their days in the choir of the short-lived Cardinal College at Ipswich, intended as the sometime Cardinal Wolsey’s greatest bequest to his birthplace. From time to time, when Jack was in London and they happened to find themselves in the same alehouse, they would relive those happy childhood days of song, Jack in his mellifluous tenor voice and Will in the confident, lyrical bass that always seemed so at odds with his stammer.

  ‘You answer your own questions, Jack. Your wife is kin to Sir George Barne, sometime Lord Mayor. He in his turn is a p-powerful voice at the shoulder of Garrard, the present incumbent. You’re a friend to me, and to Señor de Andrade yonder. You’re a Suffolk man, so you represent an interest d-different to Devon and London. You’ve sailed the northern seas, and the B-Baltic, which no other man here has done. So you fit the b-bill, my friend. The king wants to get a sense of England, of what Englishmen know, of what they aspire to.’

  ‘To see if we aspire to voyaging to his distant lands, you mean? To trading with his colonies? To obtain just a tiny fraction of his great riches? To see if we’re likely to make war on him, instead of the French, despite him now being our king?’

  ‘Something very like, I suspect.’

  Sir William Garrard, Lord Mayor of London, clapped his hands, a signal for the meeting to reconvene.

  ‘B-but that Spaniard’s face still troubles me,’ said Will as he took his seat at the long oak table in the middle of the room.

  At Garrard’s invitation, an obese Londoner whom Jack did not know launched into a tedious discourse on the difficulties caused to the Flanders trades by the ongoing war between the French king and King Philip’s father, the Emperor Charles. After a time, Jack felt his eyes glazing over, and he commenced a pleasant daydream of being under easy sail upon an endless ocean…

  He was suddenly aware of Will Halliday nudging him and whispering something urgently in his ear. He sat bolt upright, and turned to ask his friend what the matter was.

  ‘I know where I’ve s-seen his face b-before,’ murmured Will. ‘On a p-portrait, in the p-palace of G-Greenwich—’

  ‘Well, Master Halliday, Master Stannard?’ snapped Sir William Garrard, irritably. ‘What is so astonishing as to interrupt the rest of us?’

  ‘B-b-b-beg p-p-pardon, my Lord Mayor,’ said Will. ‘But I have certain knowledge that Señor P-Pimentel here is not what he seems.’

  The Spanish contingent looked at each other, but said nothing. Even though the comment had been translated to hi
m, Pimentel’s face was a mask.

  ‘Really, Master Halliday? Pray do enlighten us. If he is not Señor Pimentel, then who is he?’

  ‘Sirs,’ said Will, ‘he is—’

  De Andrade, who was sitting next to the mysterious Pimentel, raised his right hand. ‘A harmless ruse, my friends,’ he said, smiling broadly. His English was excellent, albeit with incongruous traces of Suffolk inflections. ‘Some simple play-acting. It was feared that our discussion might be – what is your word? Yes, constrained, had you known Señor Pimentel’s true identity.’ Swiftly and quietly, de Andrade spoke in Spanish to Pimentel, who merely nodded. De Andrade looked back at the Englishmen, and raised his voice. ‘My English friends, I now name to you Fernando Álvarez de Toledo y Pimentel, the Most High and Most Excellent Duke of Alba.’

  Sir George Barne coughed, while Garrard’s eyes widened. Jack knew that he himself was blinking furiously, but could do nothing about it. There was a moment or two of silence, then every Englishman in the room rose to his feet and bowed to Spain’s – no, all Europe’s – most famous soldier, the head of the royal household of Philip, King of England.

  The Duke of Alba, too, rose from his place. For several moments, he stood stock still, his eyes falling upon each of the Englishmen in turn, as though he was making a powerful effort to burn every face upon his mind’s eye; or, perhaps, to ensure that his features were burned on each of theirs. Jack Stannard recalled Will’s words: The king wants to get a sense of England, of what Englishmen know, of what they aspire to. The king could not possibly come to such a meeting as this: even if it was not far beneath his dignity, his face was known from every coin, where it was imprinted alongside that of his wife. But he could do the next best thing. He could send his most trusted aide, the victor of Tunis, Perpignan and Mühlberg, the most successful and most feared warrior in the world.

  Finally, apparently content that his purpose was complete, the Duke of Alba bowed solemnly in acknowledgement, then nodded, turned on his heel and left the room, de Andrade and the rest of the Spaniards trailing after him.