Battle’s Flood Page 5

  Meg smiled innocently at her half-brother.

  ‘Of course, dear Ned,’ she said, ‘it will be good for you to be so occupied. As you’ll see, the keeping of the books and papers is a very easy task. Very easy indeed. Why, it must be, must it not, for a poor simple woman to have done it unaided for so very long?’

  Four

  ‘Ah the sighs that come from my heart,

  They grieve me passing sore;

  Since I must from my love depart,

  Farewell, my joy, for evermore.’

  Jack Stannard and Will Halliday exchanged a smile before they began to sing the next verse, Jack in a lyrical tenor line and Will in his deep bass.

  ‘I was wont her to behold,

  And taken in arms twain,

  And now, with sighs manifold,

  Farewell, my joy, and welcome, pain!’

  They had first encountered Cornysh’s love song when they sang together in the chapel choir of Cardinal College. At the age they were then, their interest in maidens only just burgeoning, phrases such as ‘taken in arms twain’ and ‘sighs manifold’ told of as yet unknown and exciting delights, almost but not quite within reach. At any rate, such songs, prohibited in the sternest terms by their po-faced choir master, were more thrilling than the countless settings of the Kyrie that formed the staple of their days.

  Their audience, there in the principal room of Will’s house, was a small one. Marion, Will’s wife, grew plumper every time Jack saw her, and the hair spilling out from beneath her coif was now largely grey. She was a sensible, intelligent woman, who had been an ideal helpmeet for her husband during their years of marriage. Jack envied his friend in this. She sat by the two youngest of their seven surviving children, Lettice and Elizabeth. The former was clearly bored beyond measure, despite her valiant attempts to hide it, but the latter, a lively youngster of eight, was entranced.

  Will’s house stood on Aldgate Street. It was close by the church of St Andrew Undershaft, and the two men’s music-making was but a pastime until the bells rang three, when they would leave in answer to another man’s summons: a summons that had not a little air of mystery to it.

  The house was quite new, thin but tall, as was the fashion in London, with three storeys above the ground floor. Rich furnishings and Flemish tapestries provided further evidence that Will Halliday had come a very long way from the impecunious young clerk he had once been. Even so, Jack could not envy him. For his part, he was always glad to escape from London, and was still discontented that a summons to meet a man of some importance, as Will termed him, had delayed his plan to take the Suffolk road as swiftly as he could, having left Tom at Plymouth to oversee the repairs to the Jennet. Dunwich’s peace and quiet might have been born of decay, but it was always a blessed relief after London.

  ‘Ah, methink that I see her yet,

  As would to God that I might!

  There might no joys compare with it

  Unto my heart to make it light.’

  The two men proffered a bow to their audience. Marion and Elizabeth clapped enthusiastically, Lettice politely.

  ‘Truly, the Chapel Royal’s loss is our gain,’ said Marion Halliday.

  She knew that it had once been the dearest ambition of her husband and his friend to join the exclusive number of the monarch’s own choir, but fate had set them both upon very different courses.

  ‘I still live in hope,’ said Jack, laughingly.

  At that moment, the first bell of Undershaft tolled, followed closely by the slightly more distant bells of St Katharine Cree and St Katharine Coleman. Jack looked sideways at Will.

  ‘We must go.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Marion. ‘God be with you both.’

  Will kissed her, followed by his daughters. Then he and Jack made their way out into Aldgate Street, cut across to Lyme Street, and turned onto Lombard Street at St Dionis Backchurch. It was a warm, dry afternoon, and their journey provided Jack with a perfect reminder of why he disliked the great city. The streets, even those that might be termed side roads, were full. Hawkers and beggars lined their sides, the former bawling out their wares and the supposedly astonishingly low prices they wanted for them, the latter pitifully imploring passers-by for alms. Between them passed a throng of people of all stations and descriptions, from well-dressed men and women of rank to apprentice boys in little more than rags. Carters and men on horseback struggled valiantly to make their way through the press. Dogs fought with cats, and rats scurried hither and thither amidst the pungent dung that covered almost the entire length and breadth of each street. Pigeons, crows and jackdaws swooped on anything that could possibly be construed as food. Will evidently loved the bustle, but it merely reinforced Jack’s opinion. Oh, for the quiet, nearly deserted streets of Dunwich.

  Once again, he asked Will for the identity of the man they were going to meet, but once again, his friend was elusive upon the matter.

  ‘It would mean n-nothing to you,’ said Will. ‘Although in a way, he is nearly k-kin to you, Jack.’

  ‘Kin? How can that be?’

  ‘Well, your wife is a c-cousin to Sir George B-Barne, who was Lord Mayor, is she not? This man married Barne’s daughter. T-true, she died, but there may be a c-canonical degree involved somewhere.’

  ‘But what else is he, Will? You make him seem a man of mystery.’

  ‘In a way, he is. He sets out to k-keep his affairs p-private. But Secretary Cecil r-rates him, and many speak of him as a c-coming man. Master Gonson for one, and others of the Council of Marine Causes, too – Sir William Wynter says this fellow will be a great man one day. He has been a Member of P-Parliament, and has been in Scotland with Throckmorton, the ambassador. I’ve heard whispers that he was somehow involved in the intrigues surrounding Queen Mary’s d-downfall. He is t-trusted with c-confidential matters by the highest in the land. The very highest, if you t-take my meaning.’

  Jack shivered involuntarily. Once, he had been within a few yards of King Henry the Eighth of famous memory. He had briefly held the confidence of Lord Admiral Lisle, as he then was, who later became Duke of Northumberland, the man who ruled the kingdom and tried to deny the crown to its true queen, setting the Lady Jane Grey in her place. He had once been in the same room as the dreaded Duke of Alba, in those strange days when Philip of Spain reigned as King of England. But those had been mere chimeras, fleeting moments that had never been repeated. He was an Icarus who had flown too close to the sun, and had rightly been burned. Now, though, he was about to meet a man who seemingly had the confidence of Queen Elizabeth herself. Perhaps Icarus was about to take flight once again.

  They came to the Pope’s Head, a large, rambling old hostelry opposite St Mary Woolnoth, close to where Lombard Street and Cornhill came together. The courtyard was full of drinkers, moneylenders rubbing shoulders with carters and lawyers, and apprentices leering at bawdy wenches and having their interest returned in full measure. The two men made their way into the range on the far side, climbed two flights of stairs, negotiated a warren of corridors, and came at last to a closed door at the very back of the rambling tavern. Will knocked on it, and a clear, confident voice responded from within.

  ‘Come.’

  They entered. The room was small, but light and airy, with several chairs and a table. The man before them was in his middle thirties, Jack estimated, although his hair was already running to grey. His beard and moustache were immaculately trimmed, the ends of the latter being turned upward in a manner that might have been ludicrous in a man with less of a presence. His body was not large, but firm and broad enough, and was clothed almost entirely in black, making him appear very nearly Spanish. Yet it was his eyes that caught Jack’s attention. Although, at first sight, the bags under them gave an impression of tiredness, Jack realised that the eyes themselves were anything but tired. Indeed, it was hard to see if this man ever blinked.

  ‘Halliday,’ said the man.

  ‘M-Master Walsingham, permit me to name John Stannard
of D-Dunwich.’

  ‘John Stannard,’ said the man, appraisingly. He spoke quietly but firmly, with no trace of an accent. ‘I understand, though, that you have always been known as Jack? My sometime good-brother Barne says as much, and he is acquainted with your wife, who ought to know your given name. I shall call you Jack, then. For my part, I am Francis Walsingham. Please, let us be seated. Some wine?’

  Jack and Will both nodded. Walsingham took a jug from the table and poured two goblets. Jack noticed that he did not take one for himself.

  The three men sat.

  ‘So, then, Goodman Stannard,’ said Walsingham, ‘you had a noteworthy voyage, I gather.’

  ‘I prefer them less noteworthy, Master Walsingham.’

  ‘So I imagine. A shame about Mielle… he was a useful man for us in those parts. But there are others, of course. And your ship? It is still at Plymouth? It can be repaired?’

  ‘My son will see that it is. It should be a matter of no more than a few weeks.’

  ‘And your plans for it, once the repairs are complete?’

  Jack frowned. Why should this man, this supposedly influential man, take such a minute interest in the Jennet of Dunwich?

  ‘To see if cargoes are offered at Plymouth, or one of the ports thereabouts. If not, to have my son bring her back round to London or Dunwich, then to one of our usual trades.’

  Walsingham nodded, and pursed his lips.

  ‘I have a different proposition for you, Jack Stannard. A very different proposition. You know John Hawkins of Plymouth, I am told.’

  ‘I do. He is kin to my son’s wife.’

  ‘And you know he is about to embark upon a distant voyage?’

  ‘I do.’

  Walsingham rose, walked to the window, looked out over the scene below, then turned back to face the two men once again.

  ‘Master Halliday here, and Master Gonson, Master Barne, and others too, all tell me that you are a man of discretion, Jack Stannard. A man who can keep confidences. I trust their judgement, and I intend to tell you confidences of the highest nature. But I am also told that you are a God-fearing man, Stannard of Dunwich.’

  ‘I endeavour to be so, Master Walsingham.’

  ‘Well, then, you should not object to offering me an additional assurance.’ Walsingham took up a substantial book from the table, and walked over to Jack. ‘The New Testament, Goodman Stannard. The words of Our Lord. I ask that you swear on it that you will not divulge anything said in this room. Can you do that?’

  Jack felt as though he was being led into a trap, but did not know how, or why. Even so, he rose, placing his right hand upon the book and his left upon his heart.

  ‘I do so swear, so help me God.’

  Walsingham returned the book to the table.

  ‘Very good,’ he said, ‘although perhaps you might have preferred a Latin version?’

  Jack’s head swam. No man knew what prayers he said in his thoughts, or what faith he kept in his heart. No man. He glanced at Will, but his friend’s face was as shocked as his own must have been.

  Walsingham sat once again, and raised a hand.

  ‘The queen has decreed that she will not make windows into men’s souls,’ he said. ‘Your faith is no concern of hers, and no concern of mine, John Stannard – no concern for now, at any rate. But your ship is quite another matter. You see, your friend Hawkins is embarking upon a voyage that will take him to the shore of Guinea, perhaps thence to the Carib Sea. It is intended as a mere trading expedition, but it has been proposed by two Portingal adventurers of good repute and experience. Substantial profits are anticipated, especially as these Portingals claim to have certain knowledge of—

  ‘But no, that is beyond the point for this discussion, I think. Nevertheless, as I say, large profits are expected. For that reason, many very considerable men of the court, the Common Council of London, and so forth, have invested in this voyage.’ Walsingham’s tone suggested that he, too, was one of those investors. ‘Indeed, the queen’s majesty herself is loaning Hawkins two of the royal men-of-war, which are being made ready in the River Medway as we speak. But there are, shall we say, sensibilities. I am sure you are aware of them, Master Halliday.’

  Will, still startled by Walsingham’s intelligence of his friend, faltered in his reply.

  ‘M-M-Master W-W-Walsingham…’

  ‘Take some of your wine, Master Halliday.’

  Will did so, and then attempted to speak again.

  ‘P-Portugal claims a monopoly on t-trade with Africa, and S-Spain a monopoly on t-trade with the Americas. Both c-claim that the Pope g-granted it t-t-to them in a t-t-treaty—’

  ‘Tordesillas,’ interrupted Walsingham, ‘in the year 1494. A line drawn upon a map. A line drawn down the middle of the world, with all newly discovered land on the east side of it given to Portugal, all to the west to Spain. The arrogance of it, made doubly so because the Pope who made the treaty was a Borgia, one of that foul, incestuous breed of murderers and fornicators. That foul Spanish breed. And as it transpired, of course, Spain’s share proved to include vast seams of gold and silver, the foundation of all its overweening power. So the Spanish are eager to exclude all others from the Indies, whatever their reason for going there, lest such interlopers become a threat to the flow of bullion into King Philip’s coffers.’

  ‘Yet Englishmen have t-traded with the Americas in r-recent years,’ said Will, gaining in confidence. ‘Many of the g-governors and m-merchants are eager to do so. But King Philip and his m-ministers are set against it. They do not give the b-bullion as the c-cause, of c-course. Instead, they stand upon their p-privilege, and upon the letter of the t-treaty.’

  ‘Aye, very true, Master Halliday, and there’s the nub of it,’ said Walsingham. ‘Those of the court and city who invest in the voyages of Hawkins and his kind – why, even the queen’s majesty herself – are keen for them to proceed. Indeed, for them to be more frequent, and larger, as this next voyage will be. But such voyages come with a terrible risk, Jack Stannard. For if Hawkins makes a mistake, if he somehow offends the Spanish, if he overreaches himself, then the consequences might be unthinkable. There may even be war with Spain, and with Alba’s army soon to be a mere few miles across the sea from England’s shore, God knows what the outcome of such a war might be.’

  ‘A terrible prospect,’ said Jack, ‘but I do not see how it concerns me, Master Walsingham.’

  Jack was truly baffled, although inwardly, he felt a certain thrill to be addressed as an equal by such a seemingly important man as this, and to be talking of such weighty matters of state, the likes of which were usually so very far above his purview. Perhaps in Purgatory, or Hell, or wherever his diseased soul had finally gone, Jack’s father was finally proud of him.

  Walsingham went to the table, brought back the jug of wine, and refilled Jack’s and Will’s goblets.

  ‘There are men who place the risk of war above the chance of profit,’ he said. ‘England is not ready for a war. We are too weak. Thank God that France is bitterly divided and on the brink of another war with itself. What happens upon the coast of Guinea is of little concern to me, or those I represent – whatever happens, we will not have a war with Portugal, which has a child king and is even weaker than England. But Spain… we cannot have a breach with Spain at any price. So, John Stannard of Dunwich, I want you to sail with Hawkins, in the ship you already have at Plymouth. It will be a royal command, but he knows you, he is kin to your son, so he will have no cause to suspect or object. Doubly so, as there will also be a letter from his good-father, Master Gonson, who is one of the major investors in the voyage.’

  Jack saw Will smile. This, then, was partly his doing. Jack knew that a few years earlier, his old friend had attended the wedding of John Hawkins and Benjamin Gonson’s daughter.

  ‘All I ask,’ continued Walsingham, ‘is that at every opportunity, you urge caution upon Hawkins. If there is any quarrel with the Spaniards, seek to pacify it. If there is any
incident, record the facts of it. When you write home, and when you return, tell the truth, so that we do not depend only upon the word of John Hawkins as to what has transpired. Those who think as I do want a man we can trust sailing on this voyage. A man of good judgement. A man we can depend upon. A man who, of course, will be amply rewarded for his work. Will you be that man, Jack Stannard?’

  Jack’s thoughts raced. To act the spy went against every instinct in his body. He knew nothing of Guinea, or the Carib Sea, or the Indies. He had never sailed the great ocean, and did not have the first idea of how to do so. Such a voyage would mean months, perhaps years, away from Dunwich, and Meg, and…

  But Walsingham had talked of ample reward. What was more, if Jack succeeded, then Walsingham and those who thought like him would know his name, and would know him to be a dependable man. He might even come to the attention of the queen herself.

  He thought again of the great ocean, and of the Carib, and the Americas beyond it. Yes, like every seafarer contemplating a voyage in unfamiliar seas, he felt a sense of fear. But every seafarer also felt the thrill of the unknown, the prospect of new sights to be seen, of new knowledge to be gained: the irrepressible urge to know what lay beyond the horizon.

  It was also true that such a voyage would, indeed, mean months, perhaps years, away from Dunwich. Years away from his wife.

  ‘Yes, Master Walsingham,’ he said, raising his goblet in a toast, ‘I will be that man.’

  Five

  Tom Stannard and the men of the Jennet had spent a hard day stepping her new mainmast up at the mooring by Spike Point, and were intent upon a prodigious quantity of ale. Tom felt a little guilt at this, as his Catherine and the boys saw him little enough, but it was important to keep the men content, far as they were from their own homes in Dunwich. So they were drinking their way around the taverns and alehouses of Plymouth, coming at last to a small alehouse hard against the wall of the old and decayed castle, high upon its hill overlooking Cattewater.