The Secret World of Christoval Alvarez Page 21

  ‘We are to stay in guest rooms at Knole,’ he said, as we rode towards the manor house just outside the village. ‘The estate is owned by the Earl of Leicester but is leased to a gentleman called John Lennard. Sir Francis has been given permission by the Earl for us to spend the night there, both on our way to Rye and on our return. There are, I believe, conditions in the lease which permit the Earl to make use of the house when he chooses.’

  ‘That must be somewhat trying for Master Lennard,’ I said, as we passed under the great gateway.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘But a convenience for us.’

  It seemed that the Lennard family was in London at present, but we were made welcome by a very grand steward, who seemed from his dress and manner to rank not much below an Earl himself. I wondered whether he came with the house. At one time, I believe, the land and the original house belonged to the Archbishop of Canterbury, but the great King Henry had such a way with him that many churchmen were only too glad to present him with their properties. His daughter had given it to one of her favourite courtiers, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, though I am not sure whether he ever lived there himself.

  We were extremely well fed and wined, as vicarious guests of the Earl, and I slept that night on five mattresses of increasing softness as they towered ever higher above the bed ropes, cradled between hangings embroidered with pomegranates, peacocks’ feathers and cornucopias, in an abundance that signified the enthusiasm of the embroider if little rational juxtaposition.

  The next morning we set out early, crossing the Downs as the sun burned away the morning mist. At the highest point of our road, Phelippes reined in and extended his arm, pointing south.

  ‘Now that the mist has cleared, you can see from here to the coast. There is the sea, directly south.’

  I followed his finger and caught the unmistakable glitter of the sea beyond the rolling farmland and scattered belts of woodland.

  ‘Rye is to the southeast of here,’ he said, waving his hand in that direction, ‘but those woods hide it from view. We’ll spend the night in Hawkhurst, about a twenty-five mile ride altogether today. Tomorrow it will be much shorter to Rye. Only about fifteen miles.’

  He seemed more at ease on his horse today and thanks to our early start we reached Hawkhurst in the late afternoon. It was no more than a village, though a prosperous one, boasting three inns. Standing where it did, on roads leading from the south coast to both London and Canterbury, it probably did well out of travellers like ourselves. Phelippes had sent one of our men ahead to book rooms in the largest inn for our party, so that when we arrived we were made welcome by a plump innkeeper and his even plumper wife. I believe you can judge the quality of an inn’s food by the girth of its proprietors, and the Hawkhurst inn did not disappoint.

  We took supper soon after we arrived, then Phelippes retired to his rooms to write letters and to peruse papers which reached us by a courier from Sir Francis soon after we arrived at the inn ourselves. It seemed too early on a lovely summer’s evening to withdraw to my room, so I decided to take a walk around the village. I did, however, ask Phelippes’s permission first.

  ‘Yes, I do not see why you should not,’ he said, ‘provided you stay within the village and do not stray outside. Will you take one of the guards?’

  ‘No.’ I laughed. ‘I am sure I will be quite safe.’ This was the man who sent me home across the dark and dangerous streets of London alone and after midnight. A quiet stroll along the sunny lanes of the village hardly seemed a threat.

  The inn faced on to a broad village green, grazed by a flock of sheep. To one side was a duck pond, where a number of ducklings trailed after their mothers, bobbing about like corks while the older birds dived amongst the weed. Beside the pond, the village stocks, uninhabited at present. I followed the lane which ran alongside the green, past several comfortable cottages, each with its apple and pear trees, its vegetable plot, and a pig being fattened for winter. Apart from the income generated for the inns from travellers passing through, there must be other occupations for these villagers.

  In a few of the cottages as I passed, I noticed looms placed near the window in the front room, and weavers at work where they could benefit from the light, but I also became aware of noises coming from further along the road – loud clanging of metal, like a blacksmith’s workshop, but a blacksmith for giants. I could see smoke, too, more smoke than you would expect to see on a fine summer’s evening. The air smelled curious, too. A harsh, metallic smell that caught in the back of my throat.

  As I rounded a bend in the road, just past the last cottage, I saw that another lane led off to my left, where all the noise and smoke and smell were coming from. I walked a little way down the lane towards a group of grimy brick buildings, but stopped, unsure of my welcome. A cart was approaching me from the direction of the buildings, drawn by two great Shire horses who strained at the traces. I stepped on to the verge to let it pass. The noise was almost deafening here, but I called out to the carter, ‘Is that an ironworks?’

  He did not stop, but removed his hat and wiped his face with the back of his hand, for he was sweating from the heat that rolled down the lane after him.

  ‘Aye. Hawkhurst iron foundry.’ He peered at me incredulously. ‘Have you not heard of us? Finest cannon foundry in the country.’

  ‘I’m just passing through from London to Rye,’ I said apologetically. ‘I didn’t know of you.’

  The cart was creaking slowly past and I realised why the horses were labouring so hard. The cart held three newly cast cannon, gleaming in the sun. No wonder the carter would not stop. It would have taken immense effort to get the load rolling again.

  ‘Well, you won’t find better cannon nowhere,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Wealden iron stone and Wealden coal and Wealden charcoal and Wealden water to drive the machinery. And the skill of our founders, better’n any man.’

  With that the cart turned into the road leading north, headed, I supposed, for London. I drew a little nearer the buildings and saw what looked like a scene from some vision of Hell. Outlined against the crimson flames of furnaces, half-naked men caked in sweat and soot manoeuvred machinery whose purpose I could not fathom. I saw a waterfall of molten metal, as dazzling to the eye as looking into the heart of the sun. Men like tiny ants moved around it, using long rods to move the throat of the machine which vomited this beautiful, terrible liquid. I backed away, my lungs filled with the choking heat and smell, my clothes already sprinkled with a fine black dust of sooty flakes.

  I turned and walked away, back down the lane where cows grazed unconcerned on either side. So this was where the prosperity of Hawkhurst lay. And these were the cannon which must arm our ships and army against the foreign invader. What blighted lives those men must lead, to forge for us protection against our enemies.

  We reached Rye the next day, a pretty town whose busy streets sloped down to the harbour, one of the famous Cinque Ports, a confederation established centuries ago to guard against invasion from France. Even earlier the Romans had built forts around this corner of England, which they called the Saxon Shore, to fend off the barbarian invasions. There was a sobering lesson to be read here, for the Romans had gone and the Saxons had invaded all too successfully. Was history to repeat itself? In the lands from which the Saxons had come, we were even now fighting against the Spanish in support of the Protestants of the Low Countries. Sir Francis’s son-in-law, Sir Philip Sidney, was there and so was the Earl of Essex. From words I had heard exchanged between Sir Francis and Phelippes, my lord of Essex – who saw himself as a great general – was a dangerous liability to our army. Sir Philip, himself a skilled soldier but obliged to defer to the Earl’s rank, was near despair with Essex’s arrogant blundering that had already cost men’s lives.

  Looking out across the waters of the Channel from Rye, I thought what a narrow moat it was for the protection of England. A Spanish fleet sailing from the Low Countries or a French one sailing from the northeast coas
t of France had little more than twenty or thirty miles of sea to cross. Not much more than we had ridden that day from Hawkhurst.

  I spoke my thoughts aloud to Phelippes as we stood looking over the town wall to the harbour below.

  ‘And that is why we must remain ever vigilant,’ he said. ‘It is one of the reasons Sir Francis sent you with me, so that you would understand just how vulnerable we are.’

  ‘Not as vulnerable as Portugal was to Spain,’ I said. ‘We had no Channel to protect us. When I was ten years old I stood and watched the Spanish army march into Coimbra. They had marched all the way from the Spanish border and not a finger was lifted to stop them. Our army just melted away.’

  ‘That will not happen in England,’ Phelippes said grimly. ‘Our army will stand and fight any who manage to break through the defences of our navy.’

  I told him about the cannon foundry I had seen at Hawkhurst.

  ‘Aye, the Wealden forest is the heart of cannon casting. The iron masters are working at full stretch to arm the ships our shipwrights are building.’

  ‘Master Phelippes,’ I said hesitantly, as we headed back to our inn, ‘I have been thinking much about the matter of the Scottish queen.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If, as you expect, she reveals that she is privy to this plot for invasion and assassination of the Queen, then she is guilty under the Act for the Surety of the Queen.’

  ‘Aye, she would be.’

  ‘And that is treason?’

  ‘It is treason.’

  ‘Punishable by death.’

  ‘Indeed. But only after a fair trial and the imposition of the death penalty, which means the Queen would have to sign the order.’

  I looked at him. His shoulders were hunched and his mouth was turned down in disapproval. How he and Walsingham had laboured to protect the Queen and the country, yet I did not think she thanked them for it.

  ‘Well, supposing the Scottish queen were to be sentenced to death, and executed. What would France and Spain do then? I do not think they would walk away.’

  ‘They would not. I fear the threat of invasion would be even greater.’

  ‘But then . . .’ I wanted to say, ‘But what has it all been for?’ Yet I could not utter the words.

  He stopped at the door of the inn. ‘You are wondering whether everything we have done has been pointless? You must remember, Mary covets the Queen’s throne. With her gone, there is no clear Catholic claimant, except, of course, Lord Strange, though I think he has no taste for monarchy himself.’

  I looked at him blankly. ‘Lord Strange? The Earl of Derby’s son? I did not realise that he is somehow caught up in this complex web of royalty.’

  ‘He is descended from King Henry VII, and his mother the countess was named in Henry VIII’s will in the line of succession after our present Queen. If she dies before the Queen, which seems likely, Lord Strange would be next in line, although, as I say, I do not think he seeks the honour. However, the mostly feasible claimant with Mary gone would be Mary’s son, King James VI of Scotland. He is a Protestant and receives a pension from our Queen. No force sent by the Duke of Guise or King Philip would seek to put him on the throne. Therefore there is no figure around whom a conspiracy like this could be formed. Nevertheless, that does not rule out a revenge attack by either or both of them. Nothing would please them more – or indeed the Bishop of Rome – than to overrun England and force us to accept the rule of the papacy.’

  This conversation, and all the impressions which had crowded in on me over the last three days, kept me awake that night. I tossed restlessly in my bed, even getting up and lighting my candle at one point. That merely made my wakefulness worse. I blew out my candle at last and lay staring at the ceiling in the faint light washing in from the window. Finally I slept, only to be woken, it seemed, at once, by the noise of the citizens of Rye going about their business in the streets.

  After we had broken our fast, Phelippes bespoke a room where he could interview various of Walsingham’s men who worked in the area. I sat quietly in a corner, taking no part in the discussions, but listening attentively. First he interviewed the customs officials and searchers of Rye. Nothing and no one suspicious had come through the port that he did not already know about.

  ‘Traffic is down in Rye,’ the most senior port official said as he was leaving. ‘The silting up of the port grows worse every year. Landowners over in the Marsh keep trying to reclaim more land from the sea and it wreaks havoc on the shipping channels. As often as they do it, we keep taking them to court and getting an order for them to dredge the deep water channels that they’ve clogged up, but the minute our backs are turned, they’re at it again.’

  The general advice from the Rye officials was that the port was so effectively policed now that no one would any longer try to smuggle men in through the town.

  ‘Anywhere between here and Hastings,’ they said. ‘There are half a dozen places with small fishing fleets and no proper supervision. That is where you want to be looking.’

  ‘What about the Marsh?’ Phelippes asked.

  A shrug, a shake of the head. ‘Anywhere there a man might come ashore, but unless he knows the Marsh, he’d be a fool to do so. A local man might make his way safely out of the Marsh, but not a stranger, certainly not a foreigner.’

  ‘Not that they will be foreigners,’ Phelippes said, as the door closed on the last of the local men. ‘It is renegade Englishmen William Allen ships in, to our eternal shame and their damnation.’

  The next day we rode out to begin our investigation of the cluster of villages, some of them no more than hamlets, which lay west along the coast towards Hastings. It was a dull morning, everything shrouded in a thick sea mist.

  ‘The very weather for slipping a man ashore,’ Phelippes said.

  I nodded. We could barely see the track in front of our horses’ hooves. Our armed guard were somewhere nearby, but lost in the fog. It lay over us like a sodden blanket. Beaded moisture gleamed dully on Hector’s mane and I could feel the damp slowly soaking through the shoulders of my doublet. The fog smothered all sound, although from time to time some small sound – the click of an iron horseshoe against a stone, the tap of a sword against a spur, the lonely cry of a gull – would be oddly magnified and echo against the wall of fog as if it were a cliff.

  We groped our way into the first village, a miserable huddle of a dozen poor houses, closed and shuttered like blank faces. Not a soul was to be seen. The village possessed no pier. Instead five fishing boats were simply hauled up on the shingle beach, tipped over on their rounded sides. Even the boats looked poor, their paint peeling and their woodwork patched here and there crudely with rough timber where the sea had done its damage over the years. These boats must have been built by the grandfathers of today’s fishermen and were held together now by little more than faith.

  ‘Could those boats cross to France?’ I asked Phelippes. ‘Surely they are too frail.’

  He shrugged. ‘Desperate men might attempt it. And poverty makes men desperate.’

  Nets of tarred cord were draped over the sides of the boats and spread out over ancient barrels, I suppose to dry them, though nothing would dry in this fog. We went from house to house with our questions: Had any strangers been seen in the neighbourhood? Where did the men fish? Did they ever carry passengers?

  We were met by ugly stares and curt answers. It was the women who came to the doors, old women bent and wrapped up to the eyes in threadbare shawls and younger women clustered about with half naked children, all of them dirty and sullen. They had seen nothing, knew nothing.

  ‘Where are all the men?’ I said. ‘They are not at sea in this fog.’

  ‘Skulking in the back rooms,’ said Phelippes. ‘This coast is known for smuggling. They will be keeping out of the way of anyone in authority. I don’t care two farthings if they have been smuggling in French wine under their barrels of fish. We can leave that to the customs men in Rye. But they would not beli
eve us if we signed a declaration in our own blood.’

  He was becoming quite poetic in his frustration.

  The second village, though slightly larger than the first, was much the same, although here there was one boat larger and newer than the rest. That boat I could imagine braving the trip to France.

  Once again we were met with blank or frowning faces and negative answers. Yet I felt the declaration of ignorance was less convincing here.

  Winchelsea had its own customs officer and searchers, who had answered Phelippes’s summons to Rye the previous day, so we rode through the town without stopping and went on to the next village. Once again the same poverty, the same sullen looks, the same denials. There were two more villages before Hastings, but by now the fog was lifting and the waterfront was suddenly busy. Nets were being folded carefully and stowed aboard the fishing boats, empty barrels loaded, women coming down from the cottages with bundles of food. Men and boys, and sometimes the younger women too, put their shoulders to the boats to heave them down the sloping shore into the sea.

  All were barefoot, their prehensile toes digging into the shingle for a better grip. They made it seem easy, yet the boats were heavy and unwieldy on shore. Once in the sea, however, they righted themselves and floated with a kind of sturdy elegance amid the flicking of the waves, which were now taking on a pewter gleam as the sun peered through the thinning fog. The men scrambled over the gunwales, the women waded ashore, watching us warily from the corners of their eyes.

  With the men taking to the sea, the women seemed less nervous, but their answers were still negative and unfriendly. The officials in Rye had suggested just these five villages, reckoning that Winchelsea and Hastings were too well guarded nowadays for anyone to be smuggled ashore there. If our information was correct, that the men were to be brought to Sussex, it would be somewhere along this stretch of the coast.