The Forest (55 page)

‘They will be met by the muster, My Lady. My brother,’ Jane added eagerly, ‘and my betrothed’ – she hesitated only a moment when she said this last word – ‘are both in the muster.’

‘They are both steadfast to the true Faith?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘And brave men both, I am sure,’ the lady continued warmly. ‘Who is their captain?’

‘A noble gentleman, My Lady,’ Jane hoped this was the way to talk to a queen. ‘His name is Albion.’

‘Albion?’ This was exactly what she wanted. ‘And will they follow him obediently?’

‘Why yes, My Lady.’

‘Let me put you a question, child. If it should chance that the Spanish upon our shores are truly our friends and not our foes, what will your brother do?’

Jane looked perplexed. How was she meant to answer?

‘If this good captain, Albion, should instruct him so?’

Jane’s brow cleared. ‘He will obey, loyally, I promise you, My Lady, whatever Albion commands.’

‘Well said, my child,’ the lady cried. ‘I see you are truly loyal.’ And with a wave that might, indeed, have been given by a queen, she rode off towards Brockenhurst.

When she met her unhappy son just north of that village she greeted him gaily with words that made him quake even further: ‘I have been speaking with the good people of the Forest, Clement. All is well. You are loved and trusted, my son.’ She beamed at him approvingly. ‘You have only to give the word and they are ready to rise.’

Two more days passed and the weather over the Forest continued fine. It was said that the Spanish had definitely set sail, yet no one knew their whereabouts. The English fleet was down in the west, at Plymouth. The beacons were ready, but still no message came. Up at Malwood young Nick Pride wailed in high excitement. Each evening Jane visited him, and this evening she had promised to stay and keep him company as he took the night watch. ‘I may fall asleep, Nick,’ she had warned.

‘You may.’ He had smiled confidently. ‘I shall not.’

So when evening fell she told her parents she would remain up at Malwood with him and took her usual path down from Brook past the Rufus tree. The shadows were lengthening as she reached the old oak and she was walking by, not intending to pause, when suddenly she realized she was not alone. Under the trees nearby stood a small cart. In the cart sat Puckle.

She gave a little start. He was watching her calmly. She wondered if he had been there long and why he was waiting. He seemed to expect her to approach and so, conscious that her heart was beating faster than she wanted it to, she went over.

‘What brings you here?’ she asked with a smile.

When she had drawn near his eyes had dropped as
though studying his hands. Now he slowly raised them. They were very clear, large and bright as they looked straight into hers. ‘You do.’

She gasped. She didn’t mean to. She couldn’t help it. She remembered telling him she usually came this way to Malwood. So he had been waiting for her. She did her best to stay calm. ‘And what can I do for you?’

He continued to look at her coolly. ‘You could get into the cart for a start.’

She felt her breath suddenly short above the heart. A tiny tremble went through her body. ‘Oh?’ She managed another smile. ‘And where are we going?’

‘Home.’

Her home? She frowned, glanced at his face, then looked down at the ground. He meant his home: the cottage at Burley with the carved bed. The nerve of his offer was almost shocking. She could not look up. She had not expected this. Yet his manner suggested he thought it was inevitable. He had come for her. It was shocking, but simple. She ought to turn and walk away. Yet, against all reason, she experienced an unexpected sense of hidden, deep relief.

She knew she had to walk away, but did not move.

‘I have to spend the watch at the beacon with Nick,’ she said at last.

‘Leave him.’ His voice was quiet as the dusk.

She shook her head, paused, frowned. ‘I must see him.’

‘I’ll wait.’

She turned and began to walk towards Malwood. The light catching the leaves was crimson gold. She glanced back, once, towards the Rufus oak, standing in a pool of orange light. Puckle had not moved. She walked on.

What did she mean to do? She didn’t know. Did she know? No, she urged herself, she didn’t. She needed to see Nick Pride. She had to look at him.

It did not take long to reach the old earthwork. As she
entered it the fire of the Forest sunset was making a bright crescent around the dark-green shadow within its walls.

Nick was standing by the hut and he came towards her, looking excited. ‘It’s time to go up. You’re late.’

How young he seemed. How sweet – she felt a wave of affection for him – but how young.

She let him lead her up on to the earth wall beside the beacon. He was talking eagerly about the day he had passed, how one of his men had almost missed his watch. He sounded so proud of himself. She was glad for him.

After a while, she said: ‘I have to go back to Brook for a while, Nick. But I’ll try and come by later.’

‘Oh.’ He frowned. ‘Something wrong?’

‘Some things I have to do. Nothing much.’

‘But you won’t come after dark.’

‘’Course I will. If I can. I know the way.’

‘There’ll be a bit of moon tonight,’ he agreed. ‘You could see your way, I suppose.’

‘I’ll try to come.’ Why was it that this lie gave her such pleasure, such excitement? She had never behaved like this before. The delight of deception was quite new to her. With an extraordinary sense of lightness she kissed him and left him, and made her way back towards the Rufus tree.

She was trembling, nonetheless, when she got into the cart. Without a word. Puckle took up the reins, touched the pony with his whip and they moved off. What was she doing? Did she mean to go with Puckle in secret and return to Nick? Was this a sudden severance from her family, her former life and her betrothed, to become Puckle’s woman? She did not know herself.

The sunset was glowing deep red ahead of them as the cart came out on to the open heath. The red shafts caught Puckle’s face so that it looked strangely ochre, almost demonic, as they rolled towards the west. Seeing it, she gave a little laugh. Then the great orb of the sun sank and the heath grew dark, and she leaned over so that, for the first
time, he put his arm round her to comfort her as she journeyed with him towards the mystery of the forbidden.

The cottage was silent in the pale moonlight when they arrived. The children were not there. Presumably they were with some other member of the Puckle clan that night. He lit a candle from the embers when they got inside and, carrying it upstairs, set it on the chest so that its soft light made the strange oak bed glow in an intimate and friendly manner. The counterpane was off.

When he took off his shirt, she put her hands on the thick dark hairs of his chest, feeling them wonderingly. His face, with his short pointed beard, suddenly looked triangular, like some forest animal’s in the candlelight. She was not quite certain what she should do next, but he gently lifted her up and laid her on the bed, and when she felt his powerful arms around her she almost swooned. As he came on to the bed with her she was soon aware that he was as hard and firm as the oak bed itself, but for a long time he stroked and caressed her so that it seemed to her as if, in some miraculous way, she had become one of the creatures he had so expertly carved, nestling, peeping out, or writhing upon the bedposts. And if, once, she cried out for a moment in pain, she could scarcely afterwards remember quite when or how it was, during that night when, as though by magic, she became at one with the Forest.

She was not aware, as she slept, that just before dawn the coastal beacons had sprung into flame to announce that the Armada had been sighted.

Don Diego yawned. Then he bit his knuckle. He must not fall asleep. He must complete his task. His honour was at stake.

He was tired, though, very tired. Six days had passed since the Spanish Armada had been sighted entering the English Channel and the beacons had been lit. Six days of action. Six days of exhaustion. And yet he had been lucky. His
relationship, distant though it was, with the Duke of Medina Sidonia, who had now been given command of the whole Armada, had secured him a place in the flagship itself. And from this privileged vantage point he had witnessed it all.

The first days had been promising. As they passed the south-western tip of the island kingdom a cheeky English fishing vessel had come out to look at them, circled the whole fleet counting numbers, then vanished. Although one of the Spanish boats had chased it unsuccessfully, the Duke had only smiled. ‘Let it go and tell the English how strong we are, gentlemen,’ he declared. ‘The more terrified they are the better.’

The next day, as they sailed slowly towards Plymouth, they learned that the English fleet was trapped by the wind in Plymouth harbour. A council of war was called on the flagship and it was not long before Don Diego knew what was being said.

‘Smash them now. Take the port and use it as our base,’ the bolder commanders urged. And it seemed to Don Diego that this was good advice.

But his noble kinsman thought otherwise. ‘King Philip’s instructions to me are very clear,’ he told them. ‘Unless we have to, we are to take no unnecessary risks.’ So the mighty Armada had sailed slowly on.

But that very night the English ships had rowed out of Plymouth and stolen the advantage of the wind. And they had been on the Spanish fleet’s heels, like a pack of hounds, ever since.

The English attack had been almost continuous. The Spanish galleons, with their high castles fore and aft, and their huge complement of soldiers, were certain to win any encounter if the English came close enough to grapple. So the English circled, darted in and out, and poured in volley after volley of cannon fire, while the Spanish responded. ‘But the English seem to fire much more often,’ Don Diego had observed to the captain.

‘They do. Our crews are used to firing only once or twice before we come alongside and grapple. But the English ships are organized as gun platforms. So they just keep firing. They’ve got more heavy cannon, too,’ the captain added morosely.

But what Don Diego particularly noticed was the relative speed of the English and Spanish ships. It was not, as he had supposed, that the English vessels were smaller – some of the biggest English vessels were actually larger than the Spanish galleons. But their masts were set differently; they dispensed with the cumbersome castles; they were built not for coming to grips and grappling with the enemy, but for speed. The traditional medieval sea battle had been an extension of an infantry attack; the English navy was almost entirely artillery. When the Spanish ships tried to catch them and board them, as they did several times, the English ships sailed easily away.

But the Spanish were not an easy prey. The Armada had entered the Channel in a single formation – a huge crescent seven miles across with the most heavily armed ships forming a protective screen all round its leading edge and the most vulnerable transports huddled in the centre. The English, harrying them from the rear, had scored some successes. On Sunday, three days before, they had inflicted horrible damage on some ships that had fallen behind and the next day they had taken several of these while the commander of one galleon, Don Pedro de Valdez, which had damaged its rigging by fouling another vessel, ignobly surrendered to Sir Francis Drake without even putting up a fight. But after that the Duke had ordered the wings of the great crescent to fold in behind and from then on the mighty fleet had proceeded up the Channel like a huge moving stockade.

In this new formation the Armada was almost impregnable. If the Spanish could not catch the English, the English could not dent the Spanish. Again and again they tried.

‘Take care,’ the Spanish captains had been warned. ‘The English gunners aim for the waterline.’ And on Tuesday, off the southern promontory of Portland, the English had given the Spanish everything they had. Yet although there had been a number of casualties, remarkably little damage had been done. This was partly because the English did not dare come too close. As a result, even the cannon balls from their largest cannon had lost much of their velocity before they struck the huge galleons and many of them just bounced off. The other reason, which would never be reported in the island kingdom, was plain. As Don Diego remarked to one of his companions: ‘I’m glad these English fellows aren’t terribly good shots.’

The Armada was almost impregnable, but not quite. And it was a minor success on the part of the English gunners that gave Don Diego his opportunity for glory now.

When Albion’s mother had told her son that his brother-in-law was an important captain in the Spanish army she had, as usual, overstated the case. What Catherine had actually written to her mother was that her husband Don Diego hoped to gain a command. Only in the celestial world of the Lady Albion’s imagination had this hope already been translated into a brilliant existence.

In truth, Don Diego had never had a career at all. He was a good man. He had elegant manners. He loved his wife, his children and his farms. And if, like every true aristocrat, he longed to add lustre to his family name, his happiness with his domestic life had always held him back. But now, in middle age, when a man knows that if he is ever to do anything with his existence he had better do it now, Don Diego had seen the prospect of the great expedition in England as a lifetime’s chance. His kinship with the Duke of Medina Sidonia, although distant, was real and had secured him a place on the flagship. And so this middle-aged man, whose marriage had saved his estate, and whose children loved him, went out to risk death so that he could
bequeath them a little of the military glory that had so far been lacking in his homely life.