It was turned slightly away from him so that the first thing he noticed was his father’s ear. But the merchant had not heard him. He was sitting in his usual posture, but staring so straight ahead that it seemed as if he were in a trance. Saying nothing, the boy tiptoed forward, watching his father’s face.
He had not seen grief before. When his wife had died, believing he was protecting the boy, Totton had hidden his distress beneath a calm exterior. But now, thinking himself alone, he was staring in silent misery at the images his mind presented before him: the baby he had loved, but left, as was proper, to be cared for by his mother; the toddler he had watched and for whom he had done nothing but make plans; the child he did not know how to comfort; the boy who only wanted to sail away from him; the son he had lost.
Jonathan had never witnessed anguish, but he did now. ‘Father.’
Totton turned.
‘It’s all right. We’re all safe.’ The boy took a step forward. ‘We were blown down the coast.’ Totton was still staring at him as though he were a ghost. ‘There was a shipwreck in the storm. Alan Seagull is still out there.’
‘Jonathan?’
‘I’m quite all right, Father.’
‘Jonathan?’
‘Did your boat get home?’
His father was still in a daze. ‘Oh. Yes.’
‘So you won your bet.’
‘My bet?’ The merchant stared. ‘My bet?’ He blinked. ‘Dear God, what’s that when I have you?’
So Jonathan ran to him.
And then Henry Totton suddenly burst into tears.
It was some minutes, as he lay in his father’s arms, before Jonathan gently disengaged himself and reached for the purse around his waist. ‘I brought you something, Father,’ he said. ‘Look.’ And he opened it and took out the contents. They were golden coins. ‘Ducats,’ he said.
‘So they are, Jonathan.’
‘Do you know what they’re worth, Father?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘So do I.’ And, to his father’s astonishment, he repeated, entirely correctly, the values the merchant had told him in their lesson three weeks before.
‘That’s exactly right,’ said Totton with delight.
‘You see, Father,’ the boy said happily. ‘I remember some of what you tell me.’
‘The ducats are yours, Jonathan.’ He smiled.
‘I got them for you,’ said his son. He paused a moment. ‘Can we share them?’
‘Why not?’ said Henry Totton.
THE ARMADA TREE
1587
‘You will go with me, a little way, upon my journey?’
The moment she had spoken he had felt his heart sinking. It was an order, of course. ‘Willingly,’ he had lied, feeling almost like a schoolboy.
He was forty and she was his mother.
The road from Sarum towards the south-east – it was a wide, grassy track, really – made a gentle progress across the broad meadows in which the city lay and then rose slowly, in stages, on to the higher ground. The cathedral was more than three miles behind them before they started the long drag up and over the high ridge, which was the south-eastern lip of the broad basin where Sarum’s five rivers met. Although there was a hint of sharpness in the breeze, that September morning, the weather was fine.
It was no light matter when Albion’s mother took to the road. Only upon the bridegroom’s thrice repeated promise of the best room in the house of Salisbury’s richest merchant had she consented to come to the wedding festivities without bringing her own furniture. Even so, as well as the carriage in which she travelled with coachman, groom and outrider, there was the wagon behind, groaning under the weight of two manservants, two maids and such a prodigious quantity of chests containing her dresses, gowns, shoes and formidable collection of toiletries – the coachman swore that one of the chests had a Roman priest in it, too – that one could only thank God the autumn weather was still dry for otherwise it must surely have stuck in the mud. But then his mother had firm views about how things should be done and, Albion reflected a little sadly as he rode beside the carriage, she did not stint herself. So the horses, at least, were glad when, cresting the ridge, the lady abruptly called a halt and ordered her litter.
The groom and the manservants silently assembled it, slotted in the poles and brought it to the carriage door. As his mother stepped out, Albion observed that she was already wearing wooden pattens on her feet to protect them from the mud. She had planned this halt, therefore. He should have guessed. She pointed, now, to the path along the ridge. Evidently she wished to go up there and expected him to accompany her. Dismounting, he walked up behind as the four men carried the litter and so, a curious little procession silhouetted against the sky, they made their way along the chalk rim as the small white clouds hurried over them.
At the high point she ordered the litter put down and stepped out of it. The men were told to wait at a distance. Then she turned towards her son, and beckoned. ‘Now, Clement,’ she said with a smile – the name had been her particular choice, not his father’s – ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Gladly, Mother,’ he said.
At least she had chosen a fine place to do it. The view from the ridge below Sarum was one of the finest in southern England. Looking back the way they had come, the long slope now appeared as a beautiful sweep down into the lush green basin from which, four miles away, Salisbury Cathedral rose like a grey swan from the Avon valley floor, its graceful spire soaring so high that you might have supposed the surrounding ridges had been spun out from it, like clay on a lathe, driven by an ancient spirit. To the north lay the bump of Old Sarum’s castle mound and the sea of chalk ridges beyond. Eastwards, the rich, undulating countryside of Wessex rolled away into the distance.
But it was turning south, in the direction of their journey, that one saw the longest sweep of all. For there, shelving gradually down, mile after mile, lay the whole vast expanse of the New Forest – wild oak wood, gravel ridges, sweeping gorse and heather heath, all the way to Southampton and the misty blue slopes of the Isle of Wight, plainly visible, twenty miles away in the sea.
Clement Albion stood before his mother on the bare ridge and wondered what she wanted.
Her opening words were not encouraging. ‘We should not fear death, Clement.’ She smiled at him in quite a friendly way. ‘I have never been afraid to die.’
The Lady Albion – for although her husband had not been a knight, so she was always called – was a tall, slim woman. Her face was powdered white; her lips were, as God had graciously made them, red. Her eyes were dark and tragic unless she was annoyed, when they became adamantine. Her teeth were very fine – for she despised all things sweet – and long, and the colour of ancient ivory.
To the casual observer it might have seemed that she had continued to dress in the fashion of her heyday because, being neither at court nor in London, and proud no doubt of the finery of her best years, she had quietly slid, as older women often did, a decade or two behind the times. Instead of the large ruff now in fashion, she maintained a simple high, open collar; her long heavy gown had large slit puffs on the shoulders and her arms were encased in the close-fitting sleeves of an earlier time. She wore a richly embroidered underskirt. On her head she usually carried a heavy veil held with a linen hood; but today, for her journey, she had put on a jaunty man’s cap with a plume. From a chain around her waist hung a fur-lined muff. To the casual observer it might have seemed a picture of dated charm. But her son was not deceived. He knew better.
Her clothes were all black: black cap, black gown, black underskirt. She had dressed in this way ever since the death of Queen Mary Tudor, thirty years before; there being, she would say, no reason to leave off mourning. Yet what made this attire so truly startling was the fact that the embroidery of the underskirt and the whole inside of her stiff, high collar were bright crimson: red as the blood of the martyrs. She had trimmed her widow’s black with crimson, now, for half a year.
She was a walking emblem.
He looked at her cautiously. ‘Why do you speak of death, Mother? I hope you are in good health.’
‘I am, by God’s grace. But I was speaking of yours.’
‘Mine? I am well, I think.’
‘Before you, Clement, may lie great earthly glory. I pray it may be so. But if not, we should equally rejoice to wear the martyr’s crown.’
‘I have done nothing, Mother, to cause me to be martyred,’ he said uneasily.
‘I know.’ She smiled at him almost gaily. ‘So I have done it for you.’
When the Wars of the Roses had ended, a century before, with a final royal bloodletting, the new Tudor dynasty had picked up England’s crown. Descended only from an obscure branch of the royal Plantagenets, and on the female side, the Tudors had been anxious to prove their right to rule and, with this in mind, had been the most pious supporters of the Holy Roman Church. But when the second Tudor had needed a marriage annulled to get a male heir and secure the dynasty, politics had taken pride of place over religion.
And when King Henry VIII of England quarrelled with the Pope, divorced his royal Spanish wife and made himself head of the Church of England, he had acted with a terrifying ruthlessness. Sir Thomas More, saintly old Bishop Fisher, the brave monks of the London Charterhouse and several others all suffered martyrdom. Most of Henry’s subjects were either cowed, or indifferent. But not all. In the north of England a huge Catholic uprising – the Pilgrimage of Grace – had made even the king tremble before it was put down. The English people, especially in the countryside, by no means accepted the break with the old religious ways.
Yet as long as King Harry lived, good Catholics could still hope that the true Church might be restored. Other rulers might be impressed by the doctrines of Martin Luther and the new generation of Protestant leaders who were shaking all Europe with their clamour for change. But King Harry of England certainly believed he was a good Catholic. True, he had denied the authority of the Pope; true, he had closed down all the monasteries and stolen all their vast lands. But in all this he claimed he was only reforming papal abuses. His English Church was still in doctrine Catholic; he continued to execute troublesome Protestants as long as he reigned.
It was only when his poor, sickly son, the boy-king Edward VI and his Protestant guardians came to power that the new Protestant religion was forced upon England. The Mass was outlawed, the churches stripped of popish ornament. Protestants – they were mostly merchants and craftsmen in the towns – might have liked it, but honest Catholic folk in the countryside were horrified.
Hope returned for loyal Catholics when, after six years of this enforced Protestantism, the boy-king died and Henry’s daughter Mary came to the throne: child of the long-suffering Spanish princess – whom even Protestant Englishmen agreed Henry had treated shamefully when he divorced her – Mary wanted passionately to restore her mother’s true faith to her now heretic island kingdom and, given time, she might have succeeded.
The trouble was, the English didn’t like her. She was a sad woman. Deeply marked by her father’s treatment of her mother, passionate for her faith, all she longed for was a good Catholic husband and the blessing of children. But she had no charm; she was dictatorial; she wasn’t her father. When she decided to marry the most Catholic king of mighty Spain – which was sure to put Englishmen under Spanish rule – and the English Parliament protested, she told them it was none of their business. And then, of course, she burned several hundred English Protestants.
By the standards of the age the burnings were not so terrible. By the time of the later Middle Ages, although there was nothing in the scriptures to support such a thing, the Christian community had developed an extraordinary appetite for burning human beings alive and it was a fashion that lasted for several centuries. Nor did it seem, in England, to make much difference which side of the denominational divide you were on. Catholics burned Protestants and Protestants burned Catholics. The Protestant Bishop Latimer had personally presided over what can only be described as the sadistic ritual murder of an elderly Catholic priest – a burning carried out in so disgusting a manner that even the crowd who had come to watch it broke down the barriers and intervened. Now, under Mary, it was Latimer’s turn to be burned, although with less sadism, thereby to earn the reputation of a martyr for his faith.
But there were others – simple townsmen, innocent of political connivance but humbly seeking God – who were burned; and there were too many of them. Before long, the English were calling their Catholic queen ‘Bloody Mary’.
The King of Spain came and went, and there was no child; the burnings continued. Then Mary tried to fight a little war and lost Calais, the last English possession in France. And by the time the poor woman died, after five miserable years upon the throne, the English were sick of her and welcomed good Queen Bess.
Clement Albion stared at his mother in horror.
Did she deceive herself or was she really so fearless? Perhaps she herself did not know. One thing he was sure of: she had woven herself so closely into the part she played, and for so long, that she had become as stiff as the brocade of her dress.
Old King Harry had still been alive when she had married Albion. She was a Pitts – a notable family in the county of Southampton, as Hampshire was often called – and due, from a cousin, to receive a great inheritance. It was a marriage that had seemed to promise Albion great advancement. Nor, at first, had it seemed a difficulty that, like all her Pitts family, she was devout.
The crisis of Henry VIII’s reign had caused great shock in the county of Southampton. Bishop Gardiner of Winchester, in whose great diocese the region lay, was a loyal Catholic who had only with difficulty been persuaded to acknowledge Henry’s supremacy over the Church. He had nearly gone to execution like Fisher and More. When Henry had dissolved the monasteries huge tracts of the county had changed hands. In the New Forest, in particular, the great monastery of Beaulieu, the lands of Christchurch priory to the south-west, the smaller house of Breamore in the Avon valley and the great abbey of Romsey just above the Forest – these were all stolen, their buildings stripped and left to fall into ruin. For a family like the Pitts this was terrible indeed.
But the Protestant years of the boy-king that followed were almost beyond enduring. Bishop Gardiner was taken to the Fleet prison – a London common gaol – and then to the Tower, before being left under house arrest. In his place as bishop the king’s Protestant council sent a man who had been married three times, who held two bishoprics at the same time and who cheerfully sold part of Winchester’s endowment to pay off the family of the Duke of Somerset who had appointed him. ‘See’, a Pitt remarked drily, ‘how these Protestants purify the Church.’ And certainly, in the years of the boy-king that followed, the diocese of Winchester was well and truly purified. The churches of Hampshire and the Isle of Wight had been particularly well furnished. With what boundless joy, therefore, the Protestant reformers now fell upon them. Silver plate and candlesticks, vestments, hangings, even the bells were taken down. Some of this huge haul simply disappeared, stolen. Some was sold, although for whose account it was not always easy to say. Thus the English Church was liberated from popery.
Clement had no memory of his mother during these years. He had been born early in the boy-king’s reign, but he was not yet three when his mother had left. He could only guess at what strains these events had put upon his parents’ marriage, but it was apparently his father’s purchase of some property that had belonged to Beaulieu Abbey that made his pious mother realize she could no longer dwell in her husband’s house. She had returned to her family, the other side of Winchester. His father had always told him that he had refused to let her take her little child with her, so Clement supposed it must be so.
With the accession of Queen Mary to the throne and the return of Bishop Gardiner to the diocese his mother, also, had returned to her marital home and Clement had come to know her. She was a strikingly handsome
woman. He had felt so proud of her. And indeed, it seemed to him that these were happy years. He would never forget his parents’ gorgeous apparel when he was allowed to accompany them to Southampton to greet the King of Spain when he landed there to marry Mary Tudor. His mother’s strong faith was well known, and she and her husband had been well received at the royal court.
There had even been a child born, Clement’s sister Catherine. She was a pretty little girl. He had pushed her about in a small cart and she had loved him. But then Queen Mary had died and Elizabeth had come to the throne; and not long after, his mother had gone again, taking his sister with her.
His father would never say why she had left; nor, when they met, did his mother ever tell him much. But he supposed he could imagine.
‘The Whore’s Daughter’. That was how his mother always referred to the queen. To good Catholics, of course, King Henry’s Spanish wife had been his only wife until she died. The charade of the divorce and remarriage, sanctioned by Henry’s breakaway English Church, was nothing but a fraud. So Queen Anne Boleyn had never been married and her daughter Elizabeth was a bastard. Nor, for Clement’s mother, could Queen Elizabeth’s Church be of any interest. The Church that Elizabeth and her counsellor Cecil tried to create was a compromise. The queen did not claim to be its spiritual head but only its governor. Its doctrines were a sort of reformist Catholicism and on the vexed question of the Mass – whether or not a miracle took place and the bread and wine of the Eucharist actually became the body and blood of Christ – the English Church maintained a formula whose ambiguity was little short of genius.
But what was ambiguity to her? The Lady Albion knew she was right. And this, Clement assumed, was the reason for her departure. His father was kindly and, in his way, devout. But the Albion family had been making accommodations ever since the days of Cola the Huntsman, five hundred years before and Clement’s mother despised compromise. She also despised her husband so she left. Perhaps, Clement thought, his father had been relieved to see her go.