The Heretics

Chapter 26

HE TOOK TWO wheel-lock pistols, both primed with powder and loaded with shot, and a map drawn by Godolphin, and rode towards the little fishing village of Newlyn. There he tethered the horse and began the long steep climb inland on foot.

A black dog loped past him downhill. Otherwise the dusty path was deserted and the fishers’ houses were empty. Acrid fumes from the burning dwellings in the nearby villages of Mousehole and Paul blew across the sky in a black cloud. At the top of the hill, he stopped in the shade of a windblown tree and consulted his sketchy chart. He could see Paul less than half a mile away, ablaze, the flames leaping and roaring. As he got closer, the smoke thinned and he ducked down behind a grass-covered knoll. He could see Spanish soldiers on the northern fringe of the village. Some were lined up in order, defensively. Others sat and smoked pipes or drank from clay jugs, refreshing themselves from the hot work of destroying other men’s homes and possessions. None looked in his direction.

Shakespeare moved in short bursts, from cover to cover, behind hedgerows and trees, going around the village’s western margins. Finally, as he came closer to open ground, he dropped to his belly and crawled. He spotted a sentry, some two hundred yards from the village, standing nonchalantly, his pike resting over his shoulder. Shakespeare pulled out his dagger and wondered about taking him, but he was too close to the village. He let him live, and skirted around him.

On the south-western edge of the village, he came across two men, standing by a cottage some distance from the rest of the troops. One wore the clothes of a workman: hide jerkin and hose. The other looked like a senior Spanish officer. Shakespeare moved on through the woods, keeping them in view. When he was close enough, he dashed at a crouch to the shelter of a wagon, laden with crates of fish, not more than twenty yards from the two men. Above them, the roof of the house crackled and burnt, but they paid it no heed.

Looking out from between the wheels of the heavy oak cart, Shakespeare strained to hear what the two men were saying. Suddenly, they both laughed, and the officer slapped the workman on the back. As the man turned, Shakespeare got a good view of his features. The jerkin might be that of a labourer or a blacksmith, but the smooth, tanned skin, the handsome face and the long, well-kept brown hair were those of a gentleman. The officer said something in Spanish, which Shakespeare could not quite catch, and his companion drew his sword from its scabbard. He ran his finger along the razor-sharp edge and drew blood.

‘See how my sword weeps . . .’

Shakespeare froze. He had spoken in perfect English.

The man licked the blood from his finger and grinned at the Spanish officer, then they turned and walked back into the village.

For the next hour, Shakespeare hid in undergrowth and in whatever cover he could find, watching the soldiers’ movements, counting their strength and assessing their armaments. Finally, when he had learnt as much as he could, he began to descend the hill towards Mousehole, keeping to the woods that shrouded the steep, narrow pathway.

From a vantage point just above the little fishing port, he saw that thirty shallops – longboats for transporting men ashore from large vessels – were beached, just as Jacob Keigwin had indicated. He concealed himself in undergrowth where he could watch and wait. Spanish soldiers were everywhere – above and below him – destroying everything they found.

In the middle of the afternoon, the soldiers in Paul suddenly began to move. They were lined up by their officers and marched downhill to Mousehole. They passed within twenty yards of his hiding place, their arms shouldered. He counted them: three hundred in all. And he reckoned a hundred more had stayed at Mousehole to protect the boats. That meant a total strength of four hundred.

Within half an hour, they had embarked on the shallops. And then they were gone, leaving only fire and ashes in their wake.

As the longboat rowers hauled across the still seas of Mount’s Bay to the galleys, Shakespeare watched them from the shade of a tree on the hillside. In the distance, across the bay, stood the fortress of St Michael’s Mount, its heavy cannon too far away to attack the vessels. He could not see the green where Godolphin was attempting to raise a defence force. Would it be needed, though? Had the Spaniards gone for good, or was this return to their vessel merely the prelude to another attack, somewhere further along the coast? Was this all a test of defences? Or was it, as he had already wondered, something more: a ruse to lure Drake’s ships from safe harbour at Plymouth, or even the first shots in an invasion?

He turned and strode downhill between the burning, blackened ruins of family homes and outhouses. At the harbour shore all the fishing boats had been coated in pitch and set ablaze. In a scene of desolation, only one house remained unburnt. A man’s body was sprawled, half in, half out of the doorway, surrounded by a dark stain of blood in the dust. Shakespeare turned him over. This must be Jenken Keigwin, who had refused to leave his house to the fire. Shakespeare felt sick; if he had ever doubted the rightness of the war of secrets that he and Sir Robert Cecil fought, those qualms had gone for ever.

Shakespeare looked out to sea once more and realised with dismay that the longboats were not returning to the galleasses after all, but were heading north towards Newlyn and Penzance. And in their wake came the main ships, their ranks of slave oarsmen rowing hard, their big guns already rolled out. For Godolphin’s band of defenders it would be a deadly onslaught.

Encumbered by his sword and pistols, Shakespeare ran along the cliff path until his lungs burnt from exertion and the choking smoke.

He reached Newlyn in about ten minutes, to find his horse still there. He pulled himself up into the saddle just as the first of the longboats reached the shore. The galleasses, meanwhile, had moved on north towards the green where the defenders were preparing to make their stand. As he kicked on, he saw that the four vessels were stopping, ready to stand off, no more than a hundred yards from the English militia.

The first bombardment came as he rode towards the green. A shattering blast of powder, the guns belching fire and smoke as they hurled their iron balls and stones at human flesh.

And then he spotted Lucia Trevail. She sat astride her horse like a man, at the side of Sir Francis Godolphin. She had a pistol in her hand. It was pointing out to sea, towards the galleys. She pulled the trigger, the steel wheel spun, the spark lit the touchpowder. Smoke and fire spewed forth and the shot was hurled harmlessly into the water.

She looked across at him with a curious smile. ‘Ah, Mr Shakespeare, I thought you had run away.’

He rode forward and came alongside her. ‘What in the name of God are you doing here, my lady?’

‘Shooting at Spaniards. What else should I be doing? How many would you like me to kill to prove that I am no traitor to England?’

‘You must return to the safety of Trevail Hall.’ He turned to Godolphin. ‘Sir Francis—’

Godolphin shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘She is beyond my reckoning, Mr Shakespeare. Always has been.’

‘My lady, this is no place for you. Hundreds of heavily armed enemy soldiers are presently coming ashore no more than half a mile from here. They are in murderous mood.’

‘Mr Shakespeare, did you learn nothing when you came to our little gathering at Susan’s house in Barbican Street? Do you think the ladies you met there are fainthearts who would be ruled by men or would miss the spectacle of a Spanish invasion? Anyway, I have brought three of my retainers. They will soon learn to be fighting men if they wish to remain in my employ.’

She tilted her head in the direction of three serving men standing beside packhorses. They bowed at her gaze and, thought Shakespeare, looked mighty disconsolate.

‘You are not practised in the art of war. Look around you at the damage being wrought. At least one man has already been killed. Others are fleeing for their lives.’

‘I know how to shoot a pistol as well as any man. And you must know that when I return to court, the first thing Her Royal Majesty will demand of me is a full account of this day’s events. How, I beseech you, will I provide her with the detail she requires, unless I witness whatever befalls? I would not miss it, sir. Come, allow me some courage. Does not Elizabeth herself have the heart of a king?’

Shakespeare sighed. He looked to Godolphin for support, but he was preoccupied with sending messengers to collect arms and men. Well, so be it. For the moment, he had other things to do, the first of which was to move the English militia to a better defensive position. He rode to Godolphin’s side and interrupted him.

‘We have little time, Sir Francis. The Spanish army will soon be upon us and we will be overwhelmed. We must make a tactical retreat, for we have no hope of defending this flat green against insuperable odds.’

‘How many men do they have?’

‘Four hundred, as Mr Keigwin suggested. Possibly more than that, and they are true soldiers whereas your men—’

‘—are a rabble. Yes, I know that, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘I merely meant to say that they are untried in battle.’

A cannonball ripped into the earth just a few feet from them. Shakespeare’s horse reared up and nearly threw him. Godolphin reached over and grabbed the reins to steady him. ‘Be careful, Mr Shakespeare. We need you alive.’

Shakespeare patted the spooked animal down the neck to soothe it.

‘Come, let us head for the market square in Penzance,’ Godolphin said. ‘It is higher ground and we will have cover among the houses. Give the order, sir.’

As Shakespeare looked around the green, it became clear that an orderly retreat was already out of the question; the men were deserting eastwards like a stampede of terrified cattle. And then he realised why: Newlyn was on fire and the Spanish troops were advancing from the west.

By the time they reached the market square, Godolphin’s force was reduced to twenty men – mostly his own retainers and colleagues – and Lady Lucia Trevail. For half an hour, they fought a battle of musketfire. Shakespeare’s arquebus became so hot with firing that he feared it would explode.

A Spaniard raced forward, a pistol in hand, his head encased in a steel morion. Shakespeare took aim and shot him in the apex of the collarbone. The man crumpled, blood shooting before him into the dusty road.

It was a small victory, for there were hundreds of Spaniards behind him, all heavily armed and advancing steadily.

‘This is hopeless, Mr Shakespeare,’ Godolphin said. ‘We cannot defend this position. We must retreat to Marazion and the fortress of St Michael’s Mount.’

Shakespeare well understood why the commander’s expression was so grim. ‘We must hope reinforcements arrive very soon or I fear the worst.’

He knew that if the enemy was not thrown back from the beaches in short order, they would entrench and set up defensive works of their own. If that happened, they could use Mount’s Bay as a haven for their fleets, while landing troops at will for a full-scale invasion.

Godolphin gave the order. ‘Collect up your arms and follow me. I want a fighting retreat.’

The trek to Marazion was dogged every step by the Spanish advance guard. At the causeway to St Michael’s Mount, the tide was encroaching, but they managed to cross before the path was lost to the waves. Exhausted, they climbed the steep, rocky footpath to the ramparts of the fort that topped the Mount.

Godolphin shook his head in something akin to despair. ‘Cowardly dogs,’ he muttered to no one in particular, though Shakespeare understood that it was not the Spaniards he was talking about, but his own countrymen.

Across the bay, Penzance had been taken and was in flames. The evening was darkening and the fires lit the sky with a hellish red glow all around the shoreline. The boom and crack of cannon fire and gunshot filled the air over the fishing town.

Godolphin summoned a castle servant and ordered brandy. The only thing that gave him any hope was that small boats had begun pulling into the harbour at the base of the Mount, discharging men from villages and towns throughout the south-west. Many were armed with ancient weapons; all were volunteering to fight.

There was news, too, from a messenger who had arrived after a gruelling ride from St Mawes fort, at the entrance to Falmouth Harbour. He blurted out his message before catching his breath.

‘I bring word from Captain Hannibal Vyvyan, sir. He has sent a company of men. He believes they will be here by morning.’

‘Good man. But be pleased to tell Mr Vyvyan that one company is not likely to be enough.’

‘Word has gone post to Drake and Hawkins at Plymouth. They have been asked to send ships-of-war, sir, and soldiers by land.’

Shakespeare stood at Lucia Trevail’s side. Night had almost come, but her face and eyes were alive with the reflected light of the fires.

‘Have you seen enough of war now, my lady?’

‘Why, it is like a display of fireworks, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘It is not so pretty for those who have lost their homes, livelihoods or lives.’

‘Indeed not. I had not meant to make light of their misery.’

She moved closer to him, so that he could smell her soft scent, mingled strangely with the smoke of gunpowder.

‘Sir Francis tells me you were quite the hero today. That you scouted the enemy positions on your own. Will you not tell me about it?’

‘There is little to tell. I managed to make an estimate of their numbers and armaments, and I saw the body of a man who had had the temerity to resist them.’

‘And that is all?’

Yes, except that I also saw an Englishman among their number; but I will keep that information to myself until I see Sir Robert Cecil.

‘That is all, my lady.’

She looked deeper into his eyes, as though searching for something. ‘You are a strange, mysterious man, Mr Shakespeare. I think you keep much to yourself. Do you trust anyone?’

‘Experience has taught me caution.’

She kissed him quickly. It was a chaste kiss, the sort of kiss that men and women at court gave to each other in greeting. And yet it wasn’t chaste at all.

‘War and death, Mr Shakespeare. Whatever your misgivings, you must own that they stir the passions. They do something to a man, do they not?’

He looked out at the distant flames. He knew that what she said was true. He knew, too, that the same effect could be wrought in a woman at war.

‘Do you think me forward, sir? I seek no pardon for that, for I do not have time to wait on wooing. I tell you, the Queen’s Privy Chamber is a very nunnery of virgins, so I have not time enough nor do I care for the good opinion of the world when I am away from her presence. Come to me tonight, Mr Shakespeare.’

Lucia looped her arm into Shakespeare’s. Her fingers touched his side like a feather.

Inside the fortress hall, more than a hundred candles blazed on the orders of Godolphin.

‘We shall light up the night as well as they,’ he said, as they entered.

This island, rising so dramatically from the sea, had once housed a Benedictine monastery. Now it was home to a Cornish family called Morston and, though ill defended, it dominated the bay. Shakespeare hoped its presence would make the Spaniards think hard about the wisdom of moving against it.

A castle servant approached and bowed low. ‘There is a man to see you, sir.’

‘Indeed. And who is he?’

The servant grimaced as though he had put something foul-tasting in his mouth. ‘He says he is Boltfoot Cooper and that he is known to you.’

Shakespeare smiled. ‘Thank God.’ He turned to Lucia. ‘My lady, Mr Cooper is my manservant. Forgive me. I must go to him.’

Lucia released her grip on his arm. ‘Mr Shakespeare, you do not escape from me that easily. I shall reserve a place for you, next to mine.’