They had hoped that they might steal away at dawn, and that the citadel might not realise they were gone until it was too late. Following that plan, they did not disembark where they had arrived, on the beaches and dunes on the east of the island, but sent the ships northward to wait off the marshy waters around the Ile de Loix. The Ile de Loix was connected to the island by a tiny causeway, covered at high tide. Buckingham’s plan was that the English army should slip across the causeway as the waters were rising and any French pursuit would be kept back by the swirling currents. Then the English could board the ships in good order and sail away.
Despite their safety behind the thick walls, the French sentries on duty were alert. As the little makeshift English tents were struck and the soldiers quietly formed into ranks, the French sentries watched and raised the alarm. As the ragged English army lined up in companies the gates of St Martin opened and the French, well-fed, well-clothed, well-commanded, marched out. Buckingham’s troops, nearly seven thousand of them, fell slowly back before the French force. They went in a textbook retreat, staying outside musket range, refusing to engage with the sporadic fire that the French troops offered.
‘How does the tide?’ Buckingham asked John quickly as he tried to keep the men maintaining a steady pace towards the causeway. The ground underfoot was marshy and wet and the men could not keep to a quick march. They floundered about and had to be ordered into single file on the narrow path. The sniping from the rear increased as the French soldiers gained on them.
‘The tide’s turning,’ John warned. ‘Let them run to the ships, my lord, or we’ll not get them off the island before the tide rises.’
‘Run!’ Buckingham shouted. ‘As fast as you can!’ He sent his standard bearer ahead to show the men the way. One man stepped carelessly off the causeway and immediately sank to his waist in thick mud. He shouted to his friends for help and they, glancing anxiously towards the rear of the army where the French were coming closer, laid their pikes on the ground towards him and pulled him out.
‘Go on! Go on!’ John urged them. ‘Hurry!’
It was a race against three forces. One, the English, breaking ranks and running for their ships; two, the French coming behind them, as confident as poachers in a field of rabbits, pausing to fire and reload and then marching briskly on; three, the tide swirling in either side of the island, threatening to cut the narrow causeway in two, pushed on by the rising winds.
The men who had been ordered to lay timbers down over the mud flats to make a causeway to the ships had made the road too narrow, and there were no handholds. As the men pushed and shoved their way along the track, those at the very edge fell off and struggled in the marshy water which grew deeper with every pulse of the tide. John stopped to haul a man back on the causeway. The man struggled, gripping tight to John’s reaching hands until John felt his own feet slipping under him.
‘Swim with your legs!’ John shouted.
‘Pull me!’ the man begged.
A higher wave lifted him up and John landed him like a writhing frightened fish on the causeway. But the wave which had brought the lieutenant on shore was washing over the causeway, making the timbers slippery and wet. Men were stumbling and plunging off on either side, and the men at the rear, fleeing from the French, were tumbling over their comrades and falling over the edge.
John glanced back. The French were closer, the front ranks had cast aside their muskets and were stabbing out with their pikes. The only way the English army could be saved would be to turn and fight; but half of them had lost their weapons in the run through the marshes, and there were dozens swimming in the water and struggling in the mud. The currents swirling treacherously around were sucking them down, and they were screaming for help and then choking on the slurry of the marsh.
He looked around for the duke. He at least was safe on board, leaning out from the side of the Triumph, urging men on to the landing craft and up the nets to the ship.
‘God bless you.’ The half-drowned man staggered to his feet and gripped Tradescant’s arm, and then turned to see why Tradescant was staring in horror. The French were coming on, sure-footed and closer than ever, stabbing and pushing men from the causeway into the marshes and the seas. The waves were coming in faster than a galloping horse across the flat sandbanks, rushing in and washing the exhausted English army off their narrow causeway, into the brackish stinking water, and under the sharp downward stabbing French pikes. The French were standing on the causeway and stabbing their long pikes into the waters, picking off the English soldiers like a boy needling fish in a barrel.
The lieutenant shook Tradescant by the arm. ‘Get to the ship!’ he shouted above the noise of the water and the screams of the men. ‘They’re closer and closer! And we’ll be cut off!’
John looked forward. It was true. The causeway was half underwater; he would be lucky, with his weak knee, to get to the other side. The lieutenant grabbed his arm. ‘Come on!’
The two men, clinging to each other for balance, pushed their way through the water to the other side, their feet unsteady on the wet wooden track. Every now and then a deeper wave threatened to wash them into the sea altogether. Once John lost his footing and only the other man’s grip saved him. They tumbled together on to the marshy wet land on the other side and ran towards where the Triumph’s landing craft were plying from the boggy shore to the ship.
John flung himself on board one of the craft and looked back as the boat took him from shore. It was impossible to tell friend from enemy; they were alike mud-smeared, knee-deep in water, stabbing and clawing for their own safety as the high dirty waves rolled in. The landing craft crashed abruptly against the side of the Triumph and John reached up to grip the nets hung over the side of the ship. The pressure of the men behind him pushed him up, his weaker leg scrabbling for a foothold but his arms heaving him upwards. He fell over the ship’s side and lay on the deck, panting and sobbing, acutely aware of the blissful hardness of the holystoned wood of the deck under his cheek.
After a moment he pulled himself to his feet and went to where his lord was looking out to the island.
It was a massacre. Almost all the English soldiers behind John had been caught between the sea and the French. They had plunged off the causeway, or tried to escape by running through the treacherous marsh. The cries of the drowning men were like seagulls on a nesting site – loud, demanding, inhuman. Those bobbing in the water or trying to crawl back on to the causeway died quickly, under the French pikes. The French army, who were left dryshod on land before the causeway, had the leisure to reload and to fire easily and accurately into the marshes and the sea, where a few men were striking out for the ship. The front ranks, who had done deadly work off the submerged causeway, were falling back before the sea and stabbing at the bodies of Englishmen who were rolling and tumbling in the incoming waves.
The captain of the Triumph came to Buckingham as he stared, blank with horror, at his army drowning in blood and brine. ‘Shall we set sail?’
Buckingham did not hear him.
The captain turned to John. ‘Do we sail?’
John glanced around. He felt as if everything were underwater, as if he were underwater with the other Englishmen. He could hardly hear the captain speak, the man seemed to swim towards him and recede. He tightened his grip on the balustrade.
‘Is another ship behind us to take off survivors?’ he asked. His lips were numb and his voice was very faint.
‘What survivors?’ the captain demanded.
John looked again. His had been the last landing craft; the men left behind were rolling in the waves, drowned, or shot, or stabbed.
‘Set sail,’ John said. ‘And get my lord away from here.’
Not until the whole fleet was released from the grip of the treacherous mud and waves and was at sea did they count their losses and realise what the battle had cost them. Forty-nine English standards were missing, and four thousand English men and boys, unwillingly conscripted,
were dead.
Buckingham kept to his cabin on the voyage home. It was said that he was sick, as so many of the men were sick. The whole of the Triumph was stinking with the smell of suppurating wounds, and loud with the groans of injured men. Buckingham’s personal servant took gaol fever and weakened and died, and then the Lord High Admiral was left completely alone.
John Tradescant went down to the galley where one cook was stirring a saucepan of stock over the fire. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘You should know,’ the man said sourly. ‘You were there as well as I. Drowned in the marshes, or skewered on a French pike.’
‘I meant, where are the other cooks, and the servers?’
‘Sick,’ the man answered shortly.
‘Put me up a tray for the Lord High Admiral,’ John said.
‘Where’s his cupbearer?’
‘Dead.’
‘And his server?’
‘Gaol fever.’
The cook nodded and laid a tray with a bowl of the stock, some stale bread, and a small glass of wine.
‘Is that all?’ John asked.
The man met his eyes. ‘If he wants more he had better revictual the ship. It’s more than the rest of us will get. And most of his army is face down in the marshes eating mud and drinking brine.’
John flinched from the bitterness in the man’s face. ‘It wasn’t all his fault,’ he said.
‘Whose then?’
‘He should have been reinforced, we should have sailed with better supplies.’
‘We had a six-horse carriage and a harp,’ the cook said spitefully. ‘What more did we need?’
John spoke gently. ‘Beware, my friend,’ he said. ‘You are very near to treason.’
The man laughed mirthlessly. ‘If the Lord High Admiral has me executed before the mast there will be no dinner for those that can eat,’ he said. ‘And I would thank him for the release. I lost my brother in Isle of Rue, I am sailing home to tell his wife that she has no husband, and to tell my mother that she has only one son. The Lord High Admiral can spare me that and I would thank him.’
‘What did you call it?’ John asked suddenly.
‘What?’
‘The island.’
The cook shrugged. ‘It’s what they all call it now. Not the Isle of Rhé; the Isle of Rue, because we rue the day we ever sailed with him, and he should rue the day he commanded us. And like the herb rue his service has a poisonous and bitter taste that you don’t forget.’
John took up the tray and went to Buckingham’s cabin without another word.
He was lying on his bunk on his back, one arm across his eyes, his pomander swinging from his fingers. He did not turn his head when Tradescant came in.
‘I told you I want nothing,’ he said.
‘Matthew is sick,’ John said steadily. ‘And I have brought you some broth.’
Buckingham did not even turn his head to look at him. ‘John, I want nothing, I said.’
John came a little closer and set the tray on a table by the bed. ‘You must eat something,’ he urged, as gentle as a nurse with a child. ‘See? I have brought you a little wine.’
‘If I drank a barrel I would not be drunk enough to forget.’
‘I know,’ John said steadily.
‘Where are my officers?’
‘Resting,’ John said. He did not say the truth, that more than half of them were dead and the rest sick.
‘And how are my men?’
‘Low-spirited.’
‘Do they blame me?’
‘Of course not!’ John lied. ‘It is the fortune of war, my lord. Everyone knows a battle can go either way. If we had been reinforced …’
Buckingham raised himself on an elbow. ‘Yes,’ he said with sudden vivacity. ‘I keep doing that too. I keep saying: if we had been reinforced, or if the wind had not got up that night in September, or if I had accepted Torres’s terms of surrender the night that I had them, or if the Rochellois had fought for us … if the ladders had been longer or the causeway wider … I go back and back and back to the summer, trying to see where it went wrong. Where I went wrong.’
‘You didn’t go wrong,’ John said gently. He sat, unbidden, on the edge of Buckingham’s bed and passed him the glass of wine. ‘You did the best you could, every day you did your best. Remember that first landing when you were rowed up and down through the landing craft and the French turned and fled?’
Buckingham smiled, as an old man will smile at a childhood memory. ‘Yes. That was a day!’
‘And when we pushed them back and back and back into the citadel?’
‘Yes.’
John passed him the bowl of soup and the spoon. Buckingham’s hand trembled so much that he could not lift it to his mouth. John took it and spooned it for him. Buckingham opened his mouth like an obedient child. John was reminded of J as a baby tucked into his arm, seated on his lap, feeding from a bowl of gruel.
‘You will be glad to see your wife again,’ he said. ‘At least we have come safe home.’
‘Kate would be glad to see me,’ Buckingham said. ‘Even if I had been defeated twenty times over.’
Almost all the soup had gone. John broke up the dried bread into pieces, squashed them into the dregs and then spooned them into his master’s mouth. Some colour had come into the duke’s face but his eyes were still dark-ringed and languid.
‘I wish we could go on sailing and never get home at all,’ he said slowly. ‘I don’t want to get home.’
John thought of the little fire in the galley and the shortage of food, of the smell of the injured men and the continual splash of bodies over the side in one makeshift funeral after another.
‘We will make port in November, and you will be with your children for Christmas.’
Buckingham turned his face to the wall. ‘There will be many children without fathers this Christmas,’ he said. ‘They will be cursing my name in cold beds up and down the land.’
John put the tray to one side and put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. ‘These are the pains of high office,’ he said steadily. ‘And you have enjoyed the pleasures.’
Buckingham hesitated, and then nodded. ‘Yes, I have. You are right to remind me. I have had great wealth showered on me and mine.’
There was a little silence. ‘And you?’ Buckingham asked. ‘Will your wife and son welcome you with open arms?’
‘She was angry when I left,’ John said. ‘But I will be forgiven. She likes me to be home, working in your garden. She has never liked me travelling.’
‘And you have brought a plant back with you?’ Buckingham asked sleepily, like a child being entertained at bedtime.
‘Two,’ John said. ‘One is a sort of gillyflower and the other a wormwood, I think. And I have the seeds of a very scarlet poppy which may take for me.’
Buckingham nodded. ‘It’s odd to think of the island without us, just as it was when we arrived,’ he said. ‘D’you remember those great fields of scarlet poppies?’
John closed his eyes briefly, remembering the bobbing heads of papery red flowers which made a haze of scarlet over the land. ‘Yes. A bright brave flower, like hopeful troops.’
‘Don’t go,’ Buckingham said. ‘Stay with me.’
John went to sit in the chair but Buckingham, without looking, put out his hand and pulled John down to the pillow beside him. John lay on his back, put his hands behind his head and watched the gilded ceiling rise and fall as the Triumph made her way through the waves.
‘I am cold in my heart,’ Buckingham said softly. ‘Icy. Is my heart broken, d’you think, John?’
Without thinking what he was doing, John reached out and gathered Buckingham so that the dark tumbled head rested on his shoulder. ‘No,’ he said gently. ‘It will mend.’
Buckingham turned in his embrace and put his arms around him. ‘Sleep with me tonight,’ he said. ‘I have been as lonely as a king.’
John moved a little closer and Buckingham settled himself f
or sleep. ‘I’ll stay,’ John said softly. ‘Whatever you want.’
The horn lantern swung on its hook, throwing gentle shadows across the gilded ceiling as the boat heaved and dropped in gentle waters. There was no sound from the deck above them. The night watch was quiet, in mourning. John had a sudden strange fancy that they had all died on the Isle of Rue and that this was some afterlife, on Charon’s boat, and that he would travel forever, his arms around his master, carried by a dark tide into nothingness.
Some time after midnight John stirred, thought for a moment he was at home and Elizabeth was in his arms, and then remembered where he was.
Buckingham slowly opened his eyes. ‘Oh, John,’ he sighed. ‘I did not think I would ever sleep again.’
‘Shall I go now?’ Tradescant asked.
Buckingham smiled and closed his eyes again. ‘Stay,’ he said. His face, gilded by the lamplight, was almost too beautiful to bear. The clear perfect profile and the sleepy languorous eyes, the warm mouth, and the new sorrowful line between the arched brows. John put a hand out and touched it, as if a caress might melt that mark away. Buckingham took the hand and pressed it to his cheek, and then drew John down to the pillows. Gently, Buckingham raised himself up above him and slid warm hands underneath John’s shirt, untied the laces on his breeches. John lay, beyond thought, beyond awareness, unmoving beneath the touch of Buckingham’s hands.
Buckingham stroked him, sensually, smoothly, from throat to waist and then laid his cold, stone-cold face against John’s warm chest. His hand caressed John’s cock, stroked it with smooth confidence. John felt desire, unbidden, unexpected, rise up in him like the misplaced desire of a dream.
The lantern dipped and bobbed and John moved at Buckingham’s bidding, turned as he commanded, lay face down in the bed and parted his legs. The pain when it came to him was sharp like a pain of deep agonising desire, a pain that he welcomed, that he wanted to wash through him. And then it changed and became a deep pleasure and a terror to him, a feeling of submission and penetration and leaping desire and deep satisfaction. John thought he understood the passionate grief and lust of a woman when she can take a man inside her, and by submitting to him become his mistress. When he groaned it was not only with pain but with a deep inner joy and a sense of resolution that he had never felt before, as if at last, after a lifetime, he understood that love is the death of the self, that his love for Villiers took them both into darkness and mystery, away from self.