The Battle of All the Ages (13 page)

As if to prove the point, the new Chiffinch bowed to my brother rather more deeply than was necessary to an Earl, thus proving that he was entirely aware of the strong possibility that Charles Quinton was actually a son of King Charles the Martyr. Then he bowed to me rather more deeply than was necessary to a knight, thus proving that if the first possibility was true, I was the rightful Earl of Ravensden, and worthy of such deference. Without a word, he turned and escorted
us into the main body of the Abbey, where the flickering candlelight cast strange shadows upon the pillars and monuments. We walked up into the Choir, past the High Altar, and Chiffinch indicated a tall man standing in the darkness beyond the side-chapel of Saint Paul. We approached, and bowed.

Charles Stuart, second of that name, King of England, seemed at first to ignore us. He was a very tall man – as tall as myself – and truly ugly, a vast nose set within a face so dark that the king had been
nicknamed
‘the black boy’ since childhood. His attention seemed to be fixed entirely on the huge table tomb before which he stood. Although the light was very dim, I knew full well whose tomb it was: I had been here many times before. I could just make out the stern features carved in the white marble, the vast ruff about the neck and chest, the sceptre in the right hand and the orb in the left, the crown of state upon the head.

‘What would she have made of it, I wonder?’ said the king, still not turning to face us. ‘A defeat on such a scale. A calamitous judgement upon the land. What would she say to me, if she could?’ The king looked long and hard at the features of his predecessor, and shook his head. ‘Methinks it would have more of vitriol about it than even the sharpest of My Lady Castlemaine’s reproofs.’ Finally, Charles Stuart turned toward us, away from the effigy of Elizabeth the Great,
Gloriana
, the Virgin Queen: the monarch in whose name my grandfather had sailed out against the Spanish Armada. ‘Charlie, Matt, I tell you this,’ said King Charles the Second. ‘I will not be a new Harold, a king who loses his kingdom. I will not be a new Henry the Sixth, a weakling who allows his realm to descend into chaos.’ He nodded toward the tomb. ‘And above all, I will not be the king who fucks up her legacy.’

For a man who enjoyed the act so much, Charles Stuart rarely uttered the word; it was one of the strange paradoxes of this most enigmatic of monarchs that he favoured refinement of speech even when some of his other faculties were guilty of the worst excesses.

‘Tell me, Sir Matthew,’ said the King, turning fully toward me at last, ‘what do the men of the fleet say about how it came to be divided?’

Careful, Matt
…

‘Very much what men always say when there is some great calamity, Your Majesty. There are those who think it mere misfortune – simple error or chance. Others… others see darker causes.’

‘And they would be?’

Even more careful, Matt.

‘Many believe there must have been some great conspiracy – that treason was committed by those who wish ill to Your Majesty’s affairs.

Others still see it as God’s – that is, as divine judgement –’ ‘Oh, spit it out, Matt Quinton! Men see it as divine judgement upon me, for my weaknesses as a man. For what they would call my indiscriminate whoring. For the so-called degeneracy of my royal court. Is that not so?’

Being invited by Divine Majesty to call him a whoremaster to his face places a man in a somewhat delicate and unenviable position. I swallowed hard, and said nothing.

‘Your brother is a discreet man,’ said the King to Earl Charles. ‘But his recent shipmate Jack Rochester is anything but discreet, and that noble lord has delighted in telling me exactly what the men on the lower deck of your ship have been saying.’

I could imagine it all too easily: the Sceptres were not a reticent crew, least of all some of my long-serving Cornish followers, and even Rochester would have had no need to embellish their words.

The King looked down once again on the marble features of Queen Elizabeth the Great. For a moment he seemed to be lost in thought; perhaps it was a trick of the light, but I thought I saw a whispered apology upon his lips. Then he turned to us once more.

‘Two mysteries, then,’ he said. ‘Firstly, how did the fleet come to be divided? The French fleet was approaching, we were told. A French army was poised to invade Ireland, we were told. But in truth, the
fleet was no nearer than Toulon, and there is no army. We have been deceived, but was that deceit witting or unwitting? Secondly, how did we come to have no intelligence of the Dutch being at sea? Those are the questions. It is for you, the brothers Quinton, to answer them for your king. To answer them for England.’

In those times, a royal command was still akin to the word of God being inscribed in flaming letters fifty feet high. My brother and I could make only one response. We both bowed our heads before Sacred Majesty.

‘If there has been treason, then there must be a traitor,’ continued the King. ‘My Lord Ravensden, you will remain in London. I wish you to investigate the failure of intelligence from Holland, and the decisions taken by my ministers that brought about the division of the fleet. You will act in my name, and with my authority. All papers will be open to you, and all men – from the highest to the lowest – will be under orders to speak to you.’

My brother nodded, his face a mask. But I knew that this
unlooked-for
responsibility would sit heavily upon his shoulders: to investigate the king’s ministers for possibly treasonable failure was a sure way to make a host of new and powerful enemies.

‘And you, Sir Matthew,’ said Charles Stuart, preferring formality to ‘Matt’, which was what he had called me ever since my first audience with him, aged fifteen: ‘you will interrogate the two men who are our most likely traitors – the men who either provided the false
intelligence
that divided the fleet, or else betrayed the fact of the division to the enemy.’

It is not fitting to quibble with a royal command, but I could sense that my expression was quibbling to the point of outright rebellion. I was no inquisitor, I was a sea captain. Interrogation of potential traitors was my brother’s world, not mine. But perhaps there was a consolation in the king’s words. Only two men? Surely that would take no time at all, and in the meantime I could live at Ravensden House
with Cornelia, regaining my strength after the rigours and horrors of the four-day fight, reassuring myself that her mysterious sickness truly was nothing serious…

‘By chance, the men in question are far from London,’ said my brother, dashing my hopes before they were even properly raised, ‘but by an even greater chance, they are all within a few miles of each other.’

‘Chance,’ said the king, ‘or proof of a deep-rooted plot, hatched in a remote land notorious for its rebelliousness and disloyalty during the late civil war? That will be for you to discover, Matt.’

Far from London. A remote land. An appalling thought occurred to me. ‘Sire, I am the captain of the
Royal Sceptre
–’

‘And, God willing, you will be captain of her when she next
ventures
out against the Dutch. It will take several weeks to repair the fleet, Matt. Ample time for you to go where you have to go, and do what you have to do.’ Charles Stuart raised his arm and snapped his fingers. Chiffinch appeared, as if from nowhere, carrying two small bundles of papers in his hands. He handed one to my brother, one to myself. ‘Your instructions and authorities,’ said the King. He bowed the royal forehead towards us, a sure sign that Majesty was about to depart. ‘Find me a traitor. Find me someone I can hang, draw and quarter, to placate the mob. Find me someone whom England can blame for this disaster.’

Charles and I watched the King and Chiffinch depart. A distant door closed. Nothing stirred in the great church. In the dim candlelight, surrounded by all the royal tombs, there was an eerie sense of the entire weight of English history pressing down upon we two, the Quinton brothers.

‘Yes,’ said the Earl of Ravensden at last, ‘His Majesty wants
someone
who England can blame – someone, anyone, other than himself.
After all, it is not meet for governors to appear fallible in the eyes of the governed. Especially not as fallible as this, in such a time as this.’

‘But what if there proves to be no guilty man? No traitor for the king to scapegoat?’

‘Oh, the world is full of traitors and guilty men, Matt. The law is simply the means by which crimes are fastened upon them, like the planks of your ship to its ribs. The King commands us to find such men, and in my experience they are two a penny – the ones who are neither innocent enough nor clever enough to avoid the hangman’s rope.’

With that, Charles went over to the nearby tomb of Mary, Queen of Scots, and placed the papers that Chiffinch had handed him on top of the monarch’s effigy, so much simpler than that of the cousin who had ordered her execution. My brother opened the first of them, leaned against the tomb, and began to read. I was shocked by my brother’s apparent disrespect toward the remains of a divinely ordained monarch, even one as foolish, headless and Scottish as Mary Stuart; but then I realised to my astonishment that if the dark legend of his royal paternity was true, my brother was merely resting upon the grave of his own great-grandmother, whose ghost would probably indulge one of her own flesh and blood.

I moved into the light of a small group of votive candles, and opened the papers addressed to me.

My heart grew heavier, almost at the sight of each new word. I was to be transformed into a creature I despised: a soldier. I was to venture into perhaps the only part of the known world where my good standing in Cornwall would be positively dangerous to me: that is to say, Devon. Worst of all, one of those who I was to interrogate happened to be a good friend. If the evidence against him proved sufficiently damning, I was to be the instrument of his destruction. If I made him a scapegoat for the division of the fleet, which was clearly what the king wished, then I would be condemning him to a traitor’s
fate. In darker moments, I still blamed myself for the death of Will Berkeley. Was I now to be the instrument of another friend’s death? If so, then it seemed there was a high price to pay for friendship with Matt Quinton.

The government of England is like a very old dog: lazy, forgetful, incontinent, and beset by vermin. But when it rouses itself, the ancient hound can yet outrun the impertinent young pups, its bark can terrify all and sundry, and its bite can still tear apart beasts or men. Thus was the government of England in that summer of 1666. Shaken by the calamity of the Four Days’ Battle, the old dog suddenly stirred and looked about it. It remembered what it was, and what it could do. It stretched its limbs, shook off the fleas, and set to with a will. All was activity, all was purpose. The most indolent clerks of the Navy Office, rarely seen at their desks for more than an hour a day, were now scribbling before dawn and still hunched over their quills after
midnight. Foppish courtiers strode the corridors of Whitehall with grim-faced martial determination, hands resolutely clasping the hilts of newly-bought swords, and volunteered for the fleet in their droves. Kit Farrell’s letters from the
Black Prince
recorded how Chatham
dockyard
, that veritable temple to idleness, was transformed into a hellish cacophony of sawing and hammering. Every hour of every day and every night, men who would down tools in a trice if their
breakfast-time
was curtailed by so much as a minute worked with Herculean resolve to repair the shattered ships, the
Royal Sceptre
among them.

So it was on my journey to the west. I was accompanied only by the smallest of retinues – four men, Francis Gale, Macferran, Carvell and Ali Reis, competent horsemen all, and two additional horses laden with our effects – so we travelled light and very fast. But at every stage, our change of horses awaited us, already paid for: prime racing stallions, not the arthritic carthorses passed off by so many ostlers. We needed two overnight stops, and the inns that awaited us were the finest that Andover and Chard had to offer. The best rooms had been reserved for us (which, at Chard, involved ejecting a disgruntled baronet), and paid for in advance at substantially above the asking price. Innkeepers, justices of the peace and parish constables fell over themselves to present their compliments to the Most Honourable Sir Matthew, to establish whether the Most Honourable Sir Matthew had any requirements, to enquire whether the Most Honourable Sir
Matthew
might be interested in bedding their daughters, sisters, wives or mothers.

The small size of my party, and the need for it to move as swiftly as possible, meant that I was forced to leave Musk behind. In truth, though, this suited both of us. He was uncharacteristically quiet after the Four Days’ Battle. I had known Musk since I was five years old, and he had always seemed to be ageless and indestructible. Suddenly, however, he seemed much older, and it was clear that his exertions in the battle, allied to the wound he received earlier in the year, had
taken their toll on the old rogue. But if truth be told, both of us had other motives. I remained concerned about Cornelia’s health, and allowing Musk to return to his nominal duties as steward of
Ravensden
House would allow him both to watch over her and to send me word by express if her condition worsened. In any case, Musk had a proprietorial attitude to my wife – as he did, indeed, to all the Quintons – and accepted my instructions with enthusiasm. But we both knew he had yet another reason to remain in London. If my brother was to unravel the secret machinations that brought about the division of the fleet, he would undoubtedly resume the persona of Lord Percival: the secret identity that he had used in Cromwell’s time, when he was one of the most successful and feared Royalist agents, and which he had taken up again during the previous
plaguesummer
to thwart a most heinous plot against the kingdom and our own family. And Lord Percival’s faithful, if somewhat obstreperous, assistant, was the same Phineas Musk whom I left behind in our London house.

It was the Earl of Ravensden, too, who insisted that Francis Gale should accompany me to the west.

‘You will need a man of letters who can take oaths,’ Charles had said, ‘and I am sure you would rather depend upon Francis than some erstwhile rebel of a Plymouth lawyer.’

‘Of any lawyer,’ I replied indignantly. ‘Nothing did more to bring about the civil wars in this realm than the plotting of that avaricious profession. And as the King said, Devon was notorious for its
malignancy
– a veritable nest of serpents.’

‘Indeed. And you should not assume that all the serpents were extirpated at the Restoration, Matt. Remember who rules in Devon nowadays, who serves as its Lord Lieutenant, who has his men in every nook and cranny of the government of the county.’

Realisation came as a shock from the blue.

‘Albemarle,’ I said.

‘Our illustrious kingmaker. Quite. And as you have told me enough times, Matt, he is no friend to you. So be careful, brother. God be with you.’

‘And with you, My Lord.’ I smiled. ‘May I ask, though – is it to be My Lord Ravensden or My Lord Percival in this affair?’

Charles pursed his lips. ‘Ah, Matt. Do you know, I find it ever harder to tell those two apart?’

The town of Plymouth sat upon a hill to the north and west of a broad harbour thronged with shipping. The gate-tower through which we rode, and the walls on either side of it, still bore the unmistakeable signs of shot-marks and other damage inflicted by the siege artillery that, twenty years before, had attempted to batter Plymouth into
submission
to its lawful king. Upon seeing my approach, the guard at the gate, a lazy red-coated brute, sprang up from the stool on which he was lounging and doing nothing more than shouting ribald insults at passing wenches and goodwives. For, uncomfortable though I was in my new finery, I must have been an awesome sight indeed. Mounted upon a large grey stallion, I wore a broad-brimmed, befeathered black hat, knee-high cavalry boots, a yellow tunic and a wide black baldric. Behind me came my little troop, as diverse a soldiery as that of the largest army: the black-skinned Carvell, brown-skinned Ali Reis and red-haired Macferran, all clad uniformly in yellow tunics and
lobster-pot
helmets, with muskets slung over their shoulders. And as if to emphasise the fact that no ordinary entourage was approaching the gates of Plymouth, our fifth horseman was a black-cassocked
clergyman
, who nonetheless looked just as much a soldier as the rest of us.

The guard tentatively levelled his musket and shouted a challenge. ‘Who goes there?’

‘Sir Matthew Quinton, Major of the Lord Admiral’s Marine
Regiment
!’

We did not slow the pace of our horses. If the fellow had done his duty, he would have shot me dead there and then; but as he knew full well, the men at my back would have cut him to pieces long before he could reload. Instead, he came awkwardly to attention and shouted ‘Pass, Sir Matthew Quinton!’

We rode on, into the heart of the town.

It being a Sunday, there was little doubt where most of those whom I needed to inform of my arrival would be found. A large church stood high upon the slope overlooking the inner harbour, the bells were ringing, and the crowds flocking toward it suggested that a service was imminent. I was in no mood for delay, or for reticence in announcing my arrival: I wished to complete the unpleasant business as swiftly as possible, then to return to my wife and my ship.

I left Carvell to arrange accommodation for the men. As one of the most cosmopolitan seaports in the land, Plymouth was one of the few places where such exotic creatures as an erstwhile Virginian slave, a Moor and a red-headed Scotsman would attract little comment or attention. Meanwhile, Francis Gale and I made our way up toward the church, receiving some curious stares as we did so. More than curious, too, in not a few cases: I could see hatred in some eyes, especially in those of the old, those who remembered the late times. I had been prepared for such a reception, although it still came as a shock to be regarded as an enemy in one’s own land. But Plymouth had been one of the staunchest strongholds of the rebellious Parliament during the civil wars. Some of the widows who now gave me the evil eye would undoubtedly have lost their husbands in battle. To them, the young officer standing proud in a yellow uniform-coat and black baldric would have seemed the epitome of the Cavaliers against whom the men of Plymouth fought.

We came to the Church of Saint Andrew, a vast structure which dwarfed Ravensden’s cramped parish church, where Francis
ministered
. My friend looked up appreciatively at the large tower.

‘Recent,’ he said. ‘No more than two-hundred years old. Proof of the wealth of the town. The incumbent will be a fortunate fellow – the tithes here must make him nearly as rich as Croesus.’

I nodded. Further proof of Plymouth’s prosperity could be seen all around us, in the grand merchants’ houses that lined the streets, in the cut of the clothing of the townsfolk making their way through the north door, in the confident air given off by men and women alike.

We made our way through the porch, into the main body of the nave.

I have fought in countless battles. I have encountered deadly foes at swordpoint. I have known fear. I have been under the surgeon’s knife more often than I can remember. Truly, though, few experiences are more unsettling than walking into a strange church for the first time. I never felt that peculiar sense of isolation and terror more keenly than in Saint Andrew’s church of Plymouth. The hubbub of conversation ceased at once. All eyes turned towards the door, towards Francis and me. We were appraised, frankly and critically. I felt uncomfortably akin to a prize stallion being assessed at a horse fair, but Francis was in his element. Indeed, even as my eyes scanned the crowded nave for a pew with even a modicum of space, the Reverend Gale was looking around keenly.

‘Puritanical,’ he stated, loudly enough for at least half the congregation to hear. ‘To be expected in this den of rebels, of course. No altar rails, candles or genuflection, the curate not even in a chasuble. Low Church, Sir Matthew. So damnably low, its arse scrapes the floor.’

With that, he began to stride boldly down the aisle, toward the very front of the congregation. I followed, rather less certainly, but deciding that there was nothing to be gained by modesty; indeed, the grandeur of my uniform precluded it. There were some gasps and growls as we made our way past the serried ranks. Those in the very front pews, the great men of Plymouth (and their even greater women, at least in girth), turned their heads toward us and glowered. One of them,
a gross and self-satisfied creature, wore a chain of office around his neck: the mayor, no doubt. Next to him sat a strongly built, squarefaced fellow, dressed simply in the black garb favoured by the so-called godly in the days of the Commonwealth. He sat by what could only be his wife, a great, fat creature similarly clothed in black, a white bonnet crowning her vast head and ugly, scarred face. The mayor’s expression was furious, but that of the man with the titanic wife was cold and calculating.

Now, though, I could see that we had at least one ally in this place. Across the aisle from the mayor sat a stout man of middle years, bewigged and sporting a great nose not unlike that which adorned the ugly face of the king. His wide eyes met mine. We exchanged a nod of recognition, although for the moment I could not quite place where or when I had met him. But his red uniform coat and sash identified him as an army officer, and the fact that he was alone in his pew suggested that he was very nearly as out of place amid this hostile congregation as I was. I began to make for the vacant space beside him.

Francis Gale could never be out of place in any church, though. From the lowest chapel to the greatest cathedral, each and every church was Francis’s stage. He marched boldly into the choir,
brushing
past the bemused curate, and genuflected in front of the altar, making the sign of the cross as vigorously and publicly as he possibly could: actions calculated to cause the utmost offence to the Puritanical hordes among the congregation behind him.

While Francis remained kneeling before the altar, seemingly deep in private prayer and oblivious to the hostile hubbub behind him, I came up beside the army officer.

‘Sir Matthew,’ my ally said, bowing his head.

‘Begging your pardon, sir, you have me at a disadvantage –’

‘De Gomme,’ he said, and now I could identify his strong Flemish accent, so similar to that of my Zeelander wife Cornelia. ‘We met at the Tower last year, when you were arming the
Merhonour
.’

‘Sir Bernard,’ I replied, reciprocating the bow. No mere officer, then: the King’s Engineer, no less. And I knew full well the nature of the ‘engine’ he was now building here in Plymouth. So did every man, woman and child in the congregation of Saint Andrew’s church; and that was precisely why Sir Bernard De Gomme sat alone and friendless in the front pew.

At the east end of the church, Francis’s words were suddenly
interrupted
by the arrival of the incumbent Vicar of Saint Andrew’s, a stooped, elderly man who must have experienced, and been shaped by, the bitter religious schisms of thirty and forty years before. His simple cassock and stole revealed his taste in religion as surely as if he had written a five-hundred page book setting out his theology. He whispered angrily at Francis, who merely smiled beatifically at him before genuflecting to the altar once more, turning, and taking his place beside me.

‘Latitudinarian,’ said Francis loudly, thus deploying one of the
vilest
insults in his vocabulary. ‘But one step away from atheism. Remind me to mention it to my friend Billy Sancroft, on our return to
London
. He will be only too pleased to take it up with the Archbishop.’