A Column of Fire

  The two groups faced each other across the hall. Bart's men-at-arms came in to stand behind their earl, and more of the sheriff's men appeared. Margery could hardly believe how quickly this had gone wrong. If they fought there would be terrible slaughter.

  Bart yelled: "Kill them all!"

  Then he fell over.

  He went down like a tree, slowly at first, then faster, hitting the stone floor with a sickening thud.

  Margery had often seen him fall down drunk, but this was grimly different.

  Everyone froze.

  Margery knelt beside Bart and put her palm on his chest. Then she felt his wrist and his neck. There was no sign of life.

  She stared at her husband. He was a self-indulgent man who had done nothing but please himself, heedless of others, during his fifty years on earth.

  "He's dead," she said.

  And all she felt was relief.

  Pierre Aumande went to the apartment where he kept Louise de Nimes, his mistress for the last four years. He found her richly robed, with her hair in an elaborate coiffure, as if she were going to court, which of course she was never permitted to do. He always made her dress formally, for that intensified the pleasure of degrading her. Anyone could humiliate a servant, but Louise was a marchioness.

  He had not tired of the game, and he felt he never would. He did not often beat her, because it hurt his hands. He did not even fuck her much. There were more exquisite ways to give her pain. What he liked most was to destroy her dignity.

  She had run away from him once. He had laughed: he knew what would happen. Her few friends and relations were terrified that if they took her in they, too, would come under suspicion of heresy, so she had nowhere to go. Born to privilege, she was utterly incapable of making a living on her own. Like so many destitute women, she had ended up prostituting herself to avert starvation. After one night in a brothel she had asked him to take her back.

  Just for fun, he had pretended reluctance, forcing her to go down on her knees and beg. But of course she was too good to lose.

  Today he was mildly surprised to see his stepson, Alain, at the apartment, sitting close to Louise on a sofa, talking intimately. "Alain and Louise!" he said.

  They both sprang up.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked Alain.

  Alain pointed to a gown draped over a chair. "You told me to bring her that dress."

  That was true, Pierre recalled. He said: "I didn't tell you to spend the afternoon gossiping here. Go back to the palace. Tell Duke Henri that I'm on my way to see him and I have learned the king of Spain's battle plan for the invasion of England."

  Alain raised his eyebrows. "Who told you that?"

  "Never mind. Wait for me outside the duke's apartment in the palace. You can take notes."

  He went up to Louise and casually fondled her breasts.

  Alain left.

  Both Alain and Louise were scared of Pierre. In moments of self-awareness he knew that was why he kept them around. It was not because of Alain's usefulness as a dogsbody, or Louise's sexual appeal. Those things were secondary. He liked their fear of him. It gave him a boost.

  Did he care if they were friends? He saw no harm in it. He could even understand why Alain might sympathize with Louise. She was an older woman, a mother substitute.

  He squeezed her breasts harder. "These were always your best feature," he said.

  She made a grimace of distaste. The expression was fleeting, and she suppressed it immediately, but he saw it, and he slapped her. "Take that look off your face," he said.

  "I'm so sorry," she said humbly. "Would you like me to suck you off?"

  "I don't have time. I came to tell you that I've invited someone to dine here tomorrow. I want to reward the man who told me the Spanish battle plan. You will serve us dinner."

  "Very well."

  "In the nude."

  She stared at him. "Nude," she said. "In front of a stranger?"

  "You will act perfectly normally, except that you will have no clothes on. I think it will amuse him."

  Tears came to her eyes. "None at all?"

  "You can wear shoes."

  She managed not to cry, but it was a struggle. "Do you have any other requirements?"

  "No. Just serve us."

  "Very well."

  Her distress made him horny, and he was tempted to stay longer, but he wanted to see Duke Henri as soon as possible. He turned away and left the room. As he closed the door he heard her sob, and smiled with pleasure as he went down the stairs.

  Ned was elated to receive a letter from Alain de Guise in Paris giving the battle plan of the king of Spain.

  The Spanish armada would sail through the English Channel and anchor off Dunkirk. There they would rendezvous with the Spanish army in the Netherlands, led by Alessandro Farnese of Parma, the most successful general ever sent to the Netherlands by the king of Spain. Then the reinforced armada would turn around and sail due west, straight into the estuary of the river Thames.

  Ned also got a letter from Jeronima Ruiz saying the Spanish armada had one hundred and twenty-nine ships.

  Jeronima was in Lisbon, and she had seen the armada with her own eyes and counted the vessels in the harbor. She had gone there with the cardinal, who was one of a large contingent of priests needed to bless the ships and individually absolve each one of the twenty-six thousand sailors and soldiers for the sins they would commit in England.

  Queen Elizabeth was devastated. Her entire navy consisted of thirty-eight ships. She did not see how she could defeat the invasion, and nor did Ned. Elizabeth would be destroyed, King Felipe would rule England, and the ultra-Catholics would dominate Europe.

  Ned was mortified. He felt it was all his fault, for encouraging the execution of Mary Stuart.

  Jeronima's information was corroborated by other spies. The numbers changed only a little from one message to the next.

  Elizabeth wanted to know how many troops the duke of Parma had in the Netherlands, and how he planned to get them across the Channel. Ned had reports from several spies, but they disagreed, so he decided to go and see for himself.

  He would be risking his life. If he were caught, and discovered to be an English spy, then hanging would be the best fate he could look forward to. But he had helped to create the catastrophe that loomed, and it was his duty to do what he could to avert it, including risking his life.

  He took a ship to Antwerp. He found it a lively, cosmopolitan city: anyone was welcome, he guessed, as long as he paid his debts. "And there's no nonsense about usury being a sin," said Carlos Cruz.

  Ned was intrigued to meet Carlos, the distant cousin about whom he had heard so much. He was fifty-one and heavy, with a bushy beard going gray. Ned thought he looked like a jolly peasant in one of those Dutch paintings of yokels merrymaking. It was hard to imagine that Carlos and Barney had killed a sergeant in a fight over a card game.

  Carlos lived in a large house near the waterfront with a huge ironworks in the backyard. He had a pretty wife, Imke, with a big welcoming smile. A daughter and son-in-law lived with him, plus two grandchildren. The men dressed somberly but the women were draped in gorgeous colors, bright blue and scarlet, peach and lavender. The house was full of costly objects: framed oil paintings, musical instruments, mirrors, decorative jugs and bowls and glassware, leather-bound books, rugs, and curtains. The Netherlands people seemed home-centered, and they showed off their wealth in a curiously domestic way that Ned had not seen elsewhere.

  Ned needed Carlos's help for this mission, but he was not sure of getting it. Carlos was Spanish and Catholic. On the other hand, he had been forced by the church to flee his homeland. Would he work against the armada? Ned would soon find out.

  On the day Ned arrived, Carlos's longtime business associate Ebrima Dabo came to supper with his wife, Evi. Ebrima was seventy, and his curly hair was white. Evi wore a gold necklace with a diamond pendant. Ned remembered Barney saying that when Ebrima was a slave he had been the lo
ver of Aunt Betsy. What a life that man had led: first a farmer in West Africa, then a soldier, a prisoner of war, a slave in Seville, a soldier again in the Netherlands, and at last a rich Antwerp ironmaker.

  Carlos poured wine generously and drank a great deal of it himself. As they ate, it emerged that both Carlos and Ebrima were apprehensive about the Spanish armada. "It's partly because of Queen Elizabeth that the Spanish have failed to pacify the Netherlands," Carlos said, speaking French, which they all understood. "Once the king of Spain has conquered England he'll be free from her interference here."

  Ebrima said: "When priests get to run the government it's bad for business."

  Carlos said: "And if our independence movement is defeated, there will be nothing to stop the Holy Inquisition."

  Ned was encouraged. It was good that they were worried. He judged this was the moment to make his proposition.

  He had thought hard about it. He would be safer here if he traveled with Carlos, who spoke fluent Dutch, knew the country, and was himself known by hundreds of people in the region. But Carlos would be risking his life.

  Ned took a deep breath. "If you want to help England there is something you could do," he said.

  "Go on," said Carlos.

  "I'm here to assess the strength of the Spanish forces getting ready to embark for England."

  "Ah," said Ebrima in the tone of one who is suddenly enlightened. "I wondered."

  Carlos said: "The Spanish army is mostly around Dunkirk and Nieuwpoort."

  "I wonder if you would consider selling the Spanish a consignment of cannonballs. They must need thousands of them for the battle ahead. And if you and I arrived with several cartloads of ammunition we'd be welcomed instead of suspected."

  Ebrima said: "Count me out. I wish you well, but I'm too old for such adventures."

  That was a bad start, Ned thought grimly; it might encourage Carlos to decline.

  But Carlos grinned and said: "It will be like the old days."

  Ned relaxed and drank some more wine.

  Next day Carlos loaded his entire stock of cannonballs onto carts, then scoured Antwerp for more. In the end he had eight cartloads. He joined the carts in pairs in line, each pair pulled by two oxen. They set out on the third day.

  The road to Nieuwpoort ran along the coast, and soon Ned began to see what he had come to look at: the preparations for the invasion. All along the shore were moored new flat-bottomed boats, and every boatyard was busy building more. They were crude, unwieldy craft, and they could have only one purpose: to move large numbers of men. There seemed to be hundreds of them, and Ned reckoned each would carry fifty to a hundred soldiers. How many thousands of troops did the duke of Parma have waiting? The fate of Ned's country depended on the answer to that question.

  Soon Ned began to see the soldiers, camped inland, sitting around cooking fires, playing dice and cards, as bored as armies usually were. A group passed them on the road, saw the loaded carts, and cheered them. Ned was relieved by this confirmation that the cannonballs would be their passport.

  He began to estimate numbers, but the camps seemed never to end. Mile after mile, as the plodding oxen pulled the heavy carts along the dirt road, there were more and more troops.

  They bypassed Nieuwpoort and went on to Dunkirk, but the picture did not change.

  They had no trouble gaining entry to the fortified town of Dunkirk. They made their way to the marketplace on the waterfront. While Carlos dickered with an army captain over the price of the cannonballs, Ned went to the beach and looked across the water, thinking.

  The number of troops here must more or less match the numbers embarking in Lisbon, he guessed. In total there must have been more than fifty thousand men about to invade England. It was a vast army, bigger than anything Europe had seen for decades. The largest battle Ned could remember hearing about had been the siege of Malta, which had involved thirty or forty thousand Turkish attackers. He felt overwhelmed by the sense of an almighty power inexorably bent on the destruction of his home.

  But they had to get to England first.

  Could the flat-bottomed boats take the troops across the open sea to England? It would be hazardous--they would capsize in anything but calm water. More likely, their purpose must be to transport the soldiers to larger ships anchored near the shore--a process that would take weeks if all the galleons had to dock normally.

  Ned stared at the harbor and imagined thousands of men being carried out to the galleons at anchor off the coast--and he realized that this was the weak point in the battle plan of the king of Spain. Once the army was embarked, the invaders would be an unstoppable force.

  It was a gloomy prognosis. If the invasion succeeded, the burnings would resume. Ned would never forget the dreadful squealing sound Philbert Cobley had made as he burned alive in front of Kingsbridge Cathedral. Surely England would not go back to that?

  The only hope was to stop the armada in the Channel before it could embark the troops. Elizabeth's navy was outnumbered, so the chance was slim. But it was all they had.

  26

  Rollo Fitzgerald saw England again at four o'clock in the afternoon of Friday, July 29, 1588. His heart lifted in joy.

  He stood on the deck of the Spanish flagship San Martin, his legs adjusting to the rise and fall of the waves without conscious effort. England was just a smudge on the horizon to the north, but sailors had ways of checking where they were. The leadsman dropped a weighted rope over the stern and measured its length as he paid it out. It was just two hundred feet when it hit the sea bottom, and its scoop brought up white sand--proof, to the knowledgeable navigator, that the ship was entering the western mouth of the English Channel.

  Rollo had fled England after the collapse of his plot to free Mary Stuart. For several nail-biting days he had been only one step ahead of Ned Willard, but he had got out before Ned caught him.

  He had gone immediately to Madrid, for it was there that the fate of England would be decided. Continuing to call himself Jean Langlais, he had worked tirelessly to help and encourage the Spanish invasion. He had a good deal of credibility. The reports of Don Bernardino de Mendoza, Spain's ambassador first to London, then to Paris, had made it clear to King Felipe that Langlais had done more than anyone to keep the Catholic faith alive in Protestant England. He was second in status only to William Allen, who would be archbishop of Canterbury after the invasion.

  The launching of the armada had been postponed again and again, but it had at last sailed on May 28, 1588--with Rollo aboard.

  The king of Spain presented this as a defensive war: retaliation for the attacks of English pirates on transatlantic convoys, for Queen Elizabeth's help to the Dutch rebels, and for Drake's raid on Cadiz. But Rollo felt like a crusader. He was coming to free his country from the infidels who had seized it thirty years ago. He was one of many English Catholics returning with the armada. There were also one hundred eighty priests on the ships. The liberators would be welcomed, Rollo believed, by Englishmen who had stayed true, in their hearts, to the old faith. And Rollo had been promised the post of bishop of Kingsbridge, his reward for all those years of difficult and dangerous secret work under the nose of Ned Willard. Once again Kingsbridge Cathedral would see real Catholic services, with crucifixes and incense--and Rollo would preside over it all in the gorgeous priestly vestments appropriate to his status.

  The admiral of the armada was the duke of Medina Sidonia, thirty-eight years old and prematurely bald. He was the richest landowner in Spain and had little experience of the sea. His watchword was caution.

  When the position of the armada had been confirmed, Medina Sidonia hoisted a special flag on the mainmast, one that had been blessed by the Pope and carried in procession through Lisbon Cathedral. Then he flew the king's flag, a diagonal red cross, on the foremast. More flags blossomed on the other ships: castles from Castile, dragons of Portugal, the pennants of the noblemen aboard each vessel, and the emblems of the saints who protected them. They fluttered
and snapped bravely in the wind, proclaiming the gallantry and strength of the fleet.

  The San Martin fired three guns to signal a prayer of thanksgiving, then furled her sails and dropped anchor, and Medina Sidonia summoned a council of war.

  Rollo sat in. He had learned enough Spanish in the past two years to follow a discussion and even take part if necessary.

  Medina Sidonia's vice admiral was the handsome Don Juan Martinez de Recalde, commanding the San Juan de Portugal. A lifelong naval officer, he was now sixty-two and the most experienced commander in the armada. Earlier today he had captured an English fishing vessel and interrogated the crew, and he now revealed that the English fleet was holed up in the mouth of the river Plym. This was the first large harbor on the south coast. "If we dash to Plymouth now and surprise them we could destroy half the English navy," Recalde said. "It will be revenge for Drake's raid on Cadiz."

  Rollo's heart leaped in hope. Could it really be all over that quickly?

  Medina Sidonia was dubious. "We have strict orders from His Majesty King Felipe," he said. "We're to head straight for our rendezvous with the duke of Parma and the Spanish army of the Netherlands at Dunkirk, and not get diverted. The king wants an invasion, not a sea battle."

  "All the same, we know we're going to encounter English ships," Recalde argued. "They will surely try to prevent us making our rendezvous. Given a perfect opportunity to devastate them, it would be foolish to ignore it."

  Medina Sidonia turned to Rollo. "Do you know this place?"

  "Yes."

  Many Englishmen would now regard Rollo simply as a traitor. If they could have seen him, on the flagship of the invading force, helping and advising the enemy, they would have sentenced him to death. They would not understand. But he would be judged by God, not by men.

  "The mouth of Plymouth harbor is narrow," he said. "Only two or three ships can pass through abreast, no more. And the entrance is covered by cannons. But, once inside, a few galleons could wreak havoc. The heretics would have nowhere to run."

  Spanish ships were armed with heavy, short-barreled cannons, useless at any distance but destructive at close range. Furthermore, the decks of the armada were teeming with soldiers eager for action, whereas English warships were manned mainly by sailors. It would be a massacre, Rollo thought eagerly.