Authors: Ken Follett
By the time the
Hawk
’s guns were ready, the galleon would be less than a hundred yards away. But it was taller than the
Hawk
, and Barney wanted to hit the deck rather than the hull, so he needed to elevate his guns slightly. He ran along the line adjusting the wedges.
The next few moments felt long. The galleon was moving fast, nine or ten knots, its prow foaming the swell, but it seemed to approach by inches. Its deck was crowded with sailors and soldiers, apparently eager to leap aboard the
Hawk
and kill everyone. Silas and the gunners kept looking from the galleon to Barney and back: they were itching to put their matches to gunpowder. ‘Wait for my word!’ he shouted. Slightly premature shooting was the greatest possible gift to the enemy, allowing him to get close in safety while the gunners were reloading.
But then the galleon was a hundred yards away, and Barney fired.
Once again Captain Bacon had presented him with the perfect target. The galleon was heading straight for the guns of the
Hawk
. At such close range Barney could not miss. He fired all six guns in rapid succession, then yelled: ‘Reload! Reload!’
Then he looked out, and saw that his shooting had been even better than he had hoped. One ball must have struck the main mast, for, as he watched, it was falling forward, pushed by the wind. The pace of the galleon slowed as some of its sails collapsed. The main mast fell into the rigging of the damaged foremast and that, too, began to topple. The ship was now only fifty yards away, but still too far for its men to board the
Hawk
. It was crippled – but, Barney saw, it was nevertheless drifting into collision with the
Hawk,
which would then be boarded anyway.
But Bacon acted again. He turned the
Hawk
to leeward. The east wind filled the sails. The ship picked up pace. In moments the
Hawk
was speeding westward.
The crippled galleon could not catch up.
Could it be over?
Barney went up on deck, and the crew cheered him. They had won. They had beaten off a larger, faster vessel. Barney was their hero, though he knew the battle had really been won by Bacon’s skill and his quick, agile ship.
Barney looked back. The galleon was limping towards the harbour. Hispaniola was already receding.
And so was Bella.
Barney went to Bacon at the wheel. ‘Where are we heading, Captain?’
‘Home,’ said Bacon. ‘To Combe Harbour.’ When Barney said nothing, he added: ‘Isn’t that what you wanted?’
Barney looked back at Hispaniola, disappearing now into a haze under the Caribbean sun. ‘It was,’ he said.
13
Margery knew she was committing a serious crime when she picked up a broom and began to sweep the floor of the chapel, preparing it for Mass.
The small village of Tench had no church, but this chapel was within the manor house. Earl Swithin rarely went to Tench, and the building was in bad repair, dirty and damp. When Margery had cleaned the floor she opened a window to let in some fresh air, and in the dawn light it began to feel more like a holy place.
Stephen Lincoln put candles on the altar, either side of a small jewelled crucifix he had purloined from Kingsbridge Cathedral, way back in the early days of Elizabeth’s reign, before he had officially left the priesthood. Around his shoulders he was wearing a magnificent cope he had rescued from a Protestant bonfire of priestly vestments. It was gorgeously embroidered with gold and silver thread and coloured silk. The embroidery depicted the martyrdom of Thomas Becket. It also showed random foliage and, for some reason, several parrots.
Margery brought a wooden chair from the hall and sat down to prepare herself for Mass.
There were no clocks in Tench but everyone could see sunrise and, as the pale light of a summer morning crept through the east window and turned the grey stone walls to gold, the villagers came into the chapel in their family groups, quietly greeting their neighbours. Stephen stood with his back to the congregation and they stared, mesmerized, at the colourful images on his cope.
Margery knew how many people lived in Tench, for it was part of the Shiring earldom, and she was pleased to see that every inhabitant showed up, including the oldest resident, Granny Harborough, who was carried in, and was the only other member of the congregation who sat down for the service.
Stephen began the prayers. Margery closed her eyes and let the familiar sound of the Latin words penetrate her mind and submerge her soul in the precious tranquillity of feeling right with the world and with God.
Travelling around the county of Shiring, sometimes with her husband Bart and sometimes without him, Margery would talk to people about their religious feelings. Men and women liked her, and were more willing to open up to her because she was an unthreatening young woman. She generally targeted the village steward, a man paid to take care of the earl’s interests. He would already know that the earl’s family were staunch Catholics and, if handled gently, he would soon tell Margery where the villagers stood. In poor, remote places such as Tench it was not unusual to find that they were all Catholic. And then she would arrange for Stephen to bring them the sacraments.
It was a crime, but Margery was not sure how dangerous this was. In the five years since Elizabeth had come to the throne, no one had been executed for Catholicism. Stephen had the impression, from talking to other ex-priests, that clandestine services such as this one were, in fact, common; but there was no official reaction, no campaign to stamp them out.
It seemed that Queen Elizabeth was willing to tolerate such things. Ned Willard hinted as much. He came home to Kingsbridge once or twice a year, and Margery usually saw him in the cathedral, and spoke to him even though his face and his voice provoked wicked thoughts in her mind. He said that Elizabeth had no interest in punishing Catholics. However, he added, as if warning her personally, anyone who challenged Elizabeth’s authority as head of the Church of England – or, even worse, questioned her right to the throne – would be treated harshly.
Margery had no wish to make any kind of political statement. All the same, she could not feel safe. She thought it would be a mistake to relax vigilance. Monarchs could change their minds.
Fear was always present in her life, like a bell ringing for a distant funeral, but it did not keep her from her duty. She was thrilled that she had been chosen as the agent who would preserve the true religion in the county of Shiring, and she accepted the danger as part of the mission. If one day it got her into serious trouble, she would find the strength to deal with that, she felt sure. Or nearly sure.
The congregation here would protect themselves by walking, later in the morning, to the next village, where a priest would hold a Protestant service using the prayer book authorized by Elizabeth and the English-language Bible introduced by her heretical father, King Henry VIII. They had to go, anyway: the fine for not attending church was a shilling, and no one in Tench could spare a shilling.
Margery was the first to receive Holy Communion, to give courage to the others. Then she stood aside to watch the congregation. Their weathered peasant faces glowed as they received the sacrament that had been denied them for so long. Finally, Granny Harborough was carried to the front. Almost certainly this would be the last time for her here on earth. Her wrinkled visage was suffused with joy. Margery could imagine what she was thinking. Her soul was saved, and she was at peace.
Now she could die happy.
*
O
NE MORNING IN BED
Susannah, the dowager countess of Brecknock, said: ‘I’d marry you, Ned Willard, if I was twenty years younger, I really would.’
She was forty-five years old, a cousin of Earl Swithin. Ned had known her by sight since childhood, and had never dreamed that he might be her lover. She lay beside him with her head on his chest and one plump thigh thrown over his knees. He could easily imagine being married to her. She was clever and funny and as lustful as a tomcat. She had ways in bed that he had never heard of, and she made him play games he had not even imagined. She had a sensual face and warm brown eyes and big soft breasts. Most of all, she helped him to stop thinking about Margery in bed with Bart.
She said: ‘But it’s a terrible idea, of course. I’m past the age when I could give you children. I could help a young man’s career, but with Sir William Cecil as your mentor you don’t need any help. And I don’t even have a fortune to leave you.’
And we’re not in love, Ned thought, though he did not say it. He liked Susannah enormously, and she had given him intense pleasure for a year, but he did not quite love her, and he was pretty sure she did not love him. He had not known that a relationship such as this was even possible. He had learned so much from her.
‘Besides,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure you’ll ever get over poor Margery.’
The one drawback of an older lover, Ned had learned, was that nothing could be concealed from her. He was not sure how she did it but she guessed everything, even things he did not want her to know. Especially things he did not want her to know.
‘Margery is a lovely girl, and she deserved you,’ Susannah went on. ‘But her family were desperate to join the nobility, and they just used her.’
‘The Fitzgerald men are the scum of the earth,’ Ned said with feeling. ‘I know them too damn well.’
‘Doubtless. Unfortunately, marriage is not just about being in love. For instance, I really need to be married.’
Ned was shocked. ‘Why?’
‘A widow is a nuisance. I could live with my son, but no boy really wants his mother around all the time. Queen Elizabeth likes me, but a single woman at court is assumed to be a busybody. And if she’s attractive, she makes the married women nervous. No, I need a husband, and Robin Twyford will be perfect.’
‘You’re going to marry Lord Twyford?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Does he know about this?’
She laughed. ‘No, but he thinks I’m wonderful.’
‘You are, but you might be wasted on Robin Twyford.’
‘Don’t condescend. He’s fifty-five, but he’s sprightly and smart and he makes me laugh.’
Ned realized he should be gracious. ‘My darling, I hope you’ll be very happy.’
‘Bless you.’
‘Are you going to the play tonight?’
‘Yes.’ She loved plays, as he did.
‘I’ll see you then.’
‘If Twyford is there, be nice to him. No silly jealousy.’
Ned’s jealousy was focussed elsewhere, but he did not say so. ‘I promise.’
‘Thank you.’ She sucked his nipple.
‘That feels good.’ He heard the bell of St Martin-in-the-Fields. ‘But I have to attend upon her majesty.’
‘Not yet, you don’t.’ She sucked the other nipple.
‘But soon.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, rolling on top of him. ‘I’ll be quick.’
Half an hour later, Ned was walking briskly along the Strand.
Queen Elizabeth had not yet appointed a new bishop of Kingsbridge to replace Julius, and Ned wanted the dean of Kingsbridge, Luke Richards, to get the job. Dean Luke was the right man – and also a friend of the Willard family.
Everyone at court wanted jobs for their friends, and Ned hesitated to pester the queen with his own personal preferences. He had learned, during five years in Elizabeth’s service, how quickly her amity could turn sour if a courtier lost sight of who served whom. So he had bided his time. However, today the queen planned to discuss bishops with her secretary of state, Sir William Cecil, and Cecil had told Ned to be there.
The palace called White Hall was a sprawl of dozens of buildings, courtyards and gardens, including a tennis court. Ned knew his way to the royal apartment and went quickly through the guardroom to a large waiting room. He was relieved to find that Cecil had not yet arrived. Susannah had been quick, as promised, and she had not delayed Ned too much.
Also in the outer chamber was the Spanish ambassador, Álvaro de la Quadra. He was pacing restlessly and looked angry, though Ned suspected the emotion might be at least partly faked. An ambassador’s job was difficult, Ned reflected: when his master was impassioned he had to convey that emotion, whether he shared it or not.
It was only a few minutes before the secretary of state came in and swept Ned along with him to the presence chamber.
Queen Elizabeth was now thirty, and she had lost the girlish bloom that had once made her almost beautiful. She was heavier, and her fondness for sugary treats had damaged her teeth. But she was in a good mood today.
‘Before we get on to bishops, let’s have the Spanish ambassador in,’ she said. Ned guessed that she had been waiting for Cecil, not wanting to be alone for a confrontation with Quadra, who represented the most powerful monarch in Europe.
Quadra’s greetings to the queen were so brisk as to be almost offensive, then he said: ‘A Spanish galleon has been attacked by English pirates.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ said the queen.
‘Three noblemen were killed! Several sailors also died, and the ship was severely damaged before the pirates fled.’
Reading between the lines, Ned guessed that the galleon had got the worst of the encounter. King Felipe’s pride was hurt, hence his ire.
Elizabeth said: ‘I’m afraid I can’t control what my subjects do when they’re at sea and far from home. No monarch can.’
What Elizabeth said was only half the truth. It was difficult to control ships at sea, but the other side of the story was that Elizabeth did not try very hard. Merchant ships could get away with murder, often literally, because of the role they played in the security of her kingdom. In times of war the monarch could order merchant ships to join forces with the royal navy. Together they formed the main defence of an island nation with no standing army. Elizabeth was like the owner of a vicious dog that is useful in scaring off intruders.
Elizabeth went on: ‘Anyway, where did this happen?’
‘Off the coast of Hispaniola.’
Cecil, who had studied law at Gray’s Inn, asked: ‘And who fired the first shot?’