The Blast That Tears the Skies (2012) (21 page)

‘Sir Martin Bagshawe,’ said Lord Percival. The masked man turned. ‘You have led me a merry dance indeed, I think.’

‘My Lord?’

‘Now, Sir Martin, we are going to talk frankly, you and I. Or rather, you are going to talk frankly. You are going to talk of a killing at the chapel of Pomfret. You are going to talk of the alleged deposition of a certain ostler of the parish of Stebonheath named Thomas Eden – because following extensive enquiries, Sir Martin, I am as certain as a man can be that no such fellow exists, or ever has. You made a commendable job of inventing a life for him, should such enquiries ever be made – even a forged hearth tax return, indeed, to set alongside the forged deposition in his name, and the false report of his attendance at Harvey’s conventicle. Impressive, Sir Martin.’ Lord Percival pressed on relentlessly. ‘Above all, Bagshawe, you are going to talk of a tale about twenty captains of His Majesty’s navy royal. A tale, I venture to suggest, that you and other kindred spirits – former Commonwealthsmen all – concocted in order to spread dissension in the realm and especially in the fleet, thereby abetting the heinous designs of those who seek to bring down His Majesty. That is what you are going to talk of, are you not, Sir Martin?’

It was impossible to see the expression behind the mask. ‘God’s teeth,’ he said, slowly and angrily, ‘you still concern yourself with
that
? Look about you, man. The city is dying. England is dying. What will there be for your precious fleet to defend?’

Close by, two tiny corpses – children, evidently – were thrown into a pit, with lime immediately shovelled on top of them. No mother wept for them.

Almost in the same moment, there was a commotion at the far side of the pit. A young man, his face disfigured by the plague-rash, limped to the side of the great hole and began loudly to intone the
twenty-third
psalm. Two of the corpse-bearers approached him tentatively, looking to Bagshawe for guidance. The magistrate gave a slight nod of his masked head, and the bearers withdrew.

‘…and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Amen.’ At that, the young man stretched out his arms and fell forward, down into the pit, preferring to await his death-agony with those who had already endured it.

Bagshawe nodded again, and the gravediggers stepped forward to entomb the young man and the dead around him. It was evidently not the first time that any of them had witnessed such a spectacle, or colluded in it.

Evidently shaken, but still in control of himself, Lord Percival whispered, ‘No, Sir Martin, England will live. England will always live. But, sir, if you are involved in a treasonable conspiracy designed to bring down the king, then I fear you will not.’

The masked man was silent for some moments. ‘That,’ he said sadly, ‘is not a threat that carries much weight with me, My Lord.’

He reached up with his gloved hands and pulled off the mask. Even the unmoveable Phineas Musk shuddered involuntarily; for the face of Sir Martin Bagshawe was monstrously red and swollen, with carbuncles upon his chin and ears. He was sweating profusely. ‘I also have the buboes in the groin and the armpit,’ said Bagshawe. ‘Two days now. But someone must oversee what is done here, and give orders. Most of my fellow Justices have fled to the country, or else are already dead.’

He replaced the mask before any of his minions could catch sight of him. Then he shook his head, more in pity than denial. ‘Very well, then, I will talk, My Lord. I have but little time left for talking, I think. Thus I will give you the truth you seek, to salve my conscience before I join that poor fellow in the grave-pit yonder. Let us go into the church, then, and if you are willing to risk a quarter-hour in the company of the plague, you will hear my confession. But be prepared, My Lord Percival.’ Bagshawe’s voice was stern. ‘It is not as you have said – indeed, it is the very opposite of what you have said. You see, My Lord, we have all been played for fools. Played for fools by a very great personage indeed.’

* * *

As was only fitting, the royal salute began aboard the
Charles
, the temporary floating palace of the Duke and Duchess of York. Each ship in the fleet took it up, rapidly filling the Gunfleet with a magnificent cacophony. The
Merhonour
joined in, firing guns on both sides while specially selected members of our crew lined the rails, waving and huzzaing. I stood upon the quarterdeck, raising my best hat and circling my sword above my head. It was the only fitting way to mark our sovereign lord’s thirty-fifth birthday, which was, by happy coincidence, also the fifth anniversary of his blessed restoration to the throne of his ancestors.

There is nothing like a party to raise the spirits of a true Briton, and to briefly drive away fears of curses, plagues and the Dutch alike. I went through the messes, toasting each in turn, all the way along the upper, middle and lower gundecks of the
Merhonour
. Lord, what joy and what a din! Men danced between the guns, Ali Reis the Moor fiddled, and my Cornish friends greeted me with boisterous songs and much undeferential back-slapping. Even the less obstreperous and sullen of the Welsh made merry, for after all, the Welsh had been staunch on the side of the late king during the civil war, and had suffered for it with the blood of thousands. In their own tongue, they sang the strange harmonies of their bleak, rain-sodden land, and a few even raised their wooden cups to honour their captain and their king.

As I passed along the decks, I strove to imprint the memory of every single face upon my mind; for how many of these men would survive what was to come?

Upon the quarterdeck, we officers gathered in our best attire and employed my finest crystal (in truth, Ravensden Abbey’s fourth finest) to toast His Majesty, Her Majesty Queen Catherine, Their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of York, the king and duke’s sister the duchesse d’Orleans, her brother-in-law the Most Christian King (this a nod to Roger d’Andelys, who wore an astonishing befeathered creation) and all good success to His Majesty’s fleet in this present war. Lieutenant Christopher Farrell fidgeted with his newly acquired and still unfamiliar periwig, the finest that Harwich could provide. Cherry Cheeks Russell, admitted to the august gathering by virtue of his rank, was already considerably fuddled.

It was a marvellous, clear day. Even the fogs and rains seemed to have vanished in salute to our sovereign lord. I left the happy throng momentarily and went over to the larboard rail. The foul plot of twenty captains and the plague ravaging London both seemed so very far away. Surely such an auspicious anniversary and such a happy fleet could only portend imminent victory over the Dutch?

With both that pleasant thought and my glass of wine warming me, I looked out across the waters of the Gunfleet. A skiff seemed to be steering toward us from the direction of the
Royal Charles
. Behind the six rowers and forward of the helmsman sat a woman. As the craft drew nearer, her face became clear.

I heard myself bark an order, although to this day I am not certain how I managed to form the words: ‘Mister Lanherne! Side party to receive My Lady Ravensden!’

 

 

 

My good-sister’s tour of the
Merhonour
had reached the main gun deck. She seemed not in the least concerned that her descent of the steep spiral stair from the ship’s steerage might prove the undoing of her astonishing costume, all billowing satin with a tight bodice and short, puffed sleeves. Nor did she seem at all abashed by the significant display of ankle – aye, even of calf – that her descent necessitated, nor by a plunging décolletage that left little of her bosom to the imagination. Although our gunports were open for the royal salute and a blessed breeze aired the deck, it still felt as though we were descending into an oven. On this deck, as on the upper deck above, bare-chested or loose-shirted Cornishmen and Welshmen craned their necks shamelessly to boggle at the sight, and were duly overwhelmed by seas of Celtic lust. Like their captain, they sweated in rivers, yet the lady at the heart of it all seemed utterly serene. And yet something rather less than serene, if truth be told.

‘Heavens, Matthew, what mighty weapons!’ cried the Countess Louise, stopping before the first gun on the larboard side. She was evidently in playful mood. ‘So much greater even than those upon the deck above!’

‘Culverins, My Lady,’ I said, praying that she would obey the laws of propriety at least once and address me before my crew as ‘captain’. I resented her intrusion into our private, male, wooden world, which should have been concentrating entirely upon the imminent battle; I resented the dangerous possibility that any visitor newly come from London might be bearing the plague with them; and I resented even more this devious creature’s latest intrusion into the life of Matthew Quinton. Nevertheless, few things give a captain more pleasure than showing off his ship to others, and I found my pride rapidly put my other emotions to flight. ‘They fire eighteen pound shot, My Lady. We have even greater upon the lowest gundeck – demi-cannon firing thirty-two pounds.’

As was ever the case below decks, my height forced me to bend low, bringing my eyes almost to the same level as hers. The throng of men, the vast carlings and knee-timbers that supported the deck above, and the crowding presence of the guns, barrels and tackle all around us, forced me to stand much closer to her than I would have wished to be. Thus I could smell distinctly the exotic fragrance in which she had doused herself, strong enough even to diminish the hideous stench of several dozen Merhonours, and noticed things about her I had never seen before – a little mole upon her neck, there…

The Countess Louise closely inspected the nearest culverin, then stroked her fingers slowly up and down along its smooth iron barrel. ‘Such length,’ she said. ‘Such restrained power. And then, in the heat of action … it … erupts.’

Her face remained entirely innocent. To this day, I doubt whether the same could have been said of mine, or of those nearby.

We passed along the deck, the sweating men parting like the Red Sea before Moses. Even the most insolent were as simpering babes in her presence. To them she was entirely gracious, the epitome of a great lady, bestowing a smile here and a little nod there. All the while, she kept up a constant barrage of questions, apparently genuinely eager to know more of this entirely male world into which she had stepped unbidden.

‘This long pole, then, is the whipstaff, by which the ship is steered?’

‘Indeed, My Lady. It is connected to the tiller on the deck beneath, which in turn moves the rudder at the stern.’

‘Ah. And only one pair of hands, pulling upon this pole, is sufficient to move it this way and that?’

I stammered a response. ‘G – generally so, My Lady, although in heavy seas and high winds we would have several men upon it.’

‘I can imagine it – the bucking and rearing of the ship, riding upon a great sea.’ She looked about her. ‘The door yonder?’

‘Admits to the lower great cabin, presently the quarters of My Lord of Andelys.’

‘An interesting man, the noble
comte
. Tell me, Matthew, does he spend much time at the court of the Most Christian?’

A strange thing to ask, even for an avowed agent of that monarch. ‘I believe not, My Lady. Since his return to France, he has been concerned principally with the restoration of his ancestral estates, which were much wasted during the wars of the Fronde.’

‘I see.’ She was thoughtful and seemed to be on the verge of asking another question about Roger, but appeared to think better of it. Instead she spied Ali Reis and Julian Carvell before the trunk of the mainmast, and returned the shameless stares with which they favoured her.

‘Not only a Frenchman, but a Moor and a blackamoor also! Truly, good-brother, the world sails with you! Tell me, blackamoor, how come you to be aboard?’

I had never seen the eternally confident and cheerful Julian Carvell lost for words, but now he was almost as tongue-tied as a mute, staring down at the deck and shuffling uncomfortably. ‘Signed aboard a king’s ship in Virginia, M’Lady,’ he mumbled eventually, trying and failing to keep his eyes anywhere other than the countess’s bosom.

‘Virginia,’ she said. ‘I know of Virginia. My late husband, General Gulliver, had an estate there. I believe he owned a hundred or two of your kind.’

‘I did not take kindly to being owned, M’Lady,’ growled Carvell, recovering his voice and meeting her eyes impudently.

She eyed him up and down as though inspecting a horse. ‘Had I known he owned such as you, I would have endured the voyage and undertaken a tour,’ said my good-sister, out-brazening him. Ali Reis and the other lads crowded behind him smirked.

‘Now, Matthew, what is this device?’

‘The warping capstan, My Lady. And a little way ahead lies the jeer capstan, which we use for lifting guns, yards and so forth. This, the warping capstan, is for the anchors, as is the main capstan on the deck beneath. But as its name suggests, this is the capstan we employ when we need to warp – that is, My Lady – say, if we are entering or leaving a harbour, then oft times we need to secure the ship to buoys or pillars ashore to haul her in or out.’

She seemed aggrieved. ‘I know what warping is, Matthew. I saw it done often enough when I was a child, albeit never performed upon machines so vast.’

This was an unexpected revelation. I recalled how determined my uncle and wife – aye, and myself, if truth be told – had once been upon laying bare the life of our countess, which seemed shrouded in such mystery. Yet now, unbidden, she offered up this tantalising clue to her past. ‘You grew up near the sea, My Lady?’

‘Near enough to it to walk to this harbour or that.’
Which
? But with my men so close on every side, all ears, I could hardly press her. ‘Do you know, Matthew, I think that if I had been a man, the sea would have been my trade, too?’

It was impossible to think of a riposte to such a strange remark. All I could venture was, ‘We are nearly at the very fore part of the ship, My Lady. You have seen enough?’

‘There is more, beneath this deck?’

‘Another entire gun-deck, but lower and darker. Beneath that, the orlop with the cockpit and many of the officers’ stores, along with the powder room. And lowest of all, the hold. But I fear the heat and stink will overcome Your Ladyship, and the ladders to the lower decks would be too steep and narrow for – for –’

‘For my choice of garment.’ She smiled. ‘If I were dressed as you are, good-brother, nothing would deter me from exploring every inch of the ship. But you have the right of it. I fear my present attire was not intended for such as you have described.’

As we approached the great brick fireplace of the galley, toward the ship’s bow, the tenor of her conversation changed abruptly.

‘I must obtain for you an invitation to dine aboard the
Royal Charles
, Matthew. Why, it is a very miniature of Whitehall! Most excellent company – Her Royal Highness, of course, and dear Harry Brouncker, my very good friends – Lord Falmouth – and last night we had his Grace of Buckingham with us!’

I recalled another dinner, one that now seemed so very long ago, and vowed that I would do all in my power to avoid being in the company of the loathsome Brouncker and this, his assumed lover. Yet I have to confess I was intrigued by this new proof that, having been rejected by the king, my good-sister seemed successfully to have ingratiated herself with the woman who might one day be queen. After all, what else could explain my good-sister’s presence in the fleet, unless she felt an especially urgent need to be serviced by Harry Brouncker?

‘My thanks, My Lady. But there is much to do aboard this ship if we are to be ready for battle.’

‘Surely the ship will survive without you for the duration of one meal, Matthew?’ She studied my face too closely for my liking. ‘Why, truly you have turned Puritan in your wooden world, good-brother, as I told you at Ravensden Abbey!’ Many of my men were still within earshot, else I would have reproved the insolent harpy. With difficulty, then, I managed to maintain decorum and merely nodded.

As we turned, she said casually, ‘Tell me, Matthew – have you heard if My Lord Mordaunt is come to the fleet? I have a matter of import that I wish to discuss with him.’

Mordaunt
. Why the devil should she concern herself with Mordaunt? ‘No, My Lady. But as you have said, the fleet is full of volunteers, and more come out by the day. It may be that the noble lord is somewhere among us, but that his presence is as yet unknown to me.’

‘Ah. But then –’

I heard a message shouted down the hatchway of the stern ladder and watched as it was passed from man to man down the length of the deck. Within moments one of the Welshmen – Morgan, as I recall, who had once been a drover – was turning to me, saluting with a knuckle to the forehead, and saying in heavily accented English, ‘Begging pardon, Captain. Signal aboard the flag – flagmen and senior captains to attend the council of war.’

O give thanks unto the Lord, because he is gracious: for his mercies endureth for ever
. Yet even as I offered up the prayer of Azariah, my good-sister gripped my arm unexpectedly and urgently. ‘Before you abandon me, Matthew, one more thing, I beg – do you know what is become of Tristram?’ The Countess Louise’s mask had slipped; there was a strangeness about her eyes, an uncertainty in her tone, that I had seen only once before, that night of the great reception at Whitehall. ‘He – he promised to supply me with evidence from your family’s history. But he is not at his lodgings in Oxford, nor at the Royal Society, and I do not know what has become of him.’

‘No, My Lady,’ I said sharply, eager to be rid of her and to be at the council. ‘I regret I have not heard from my uncle, and have no knowledge of his movements.’

As I escorted the countess back to the upper deck, I thought upon her curious remarks. Why should she suddenly be so concerned to know the whereabouts of Lord Mordaunt and Doctor Tristram Quinton? And in that moment, I came to a troubling realisation. As I had told her, entirely truthfully, I did not know where Tristram was. I had not received a letter from him for many days, and Cornelia’s troublingly perfunctory epistles from London made no mention of him. And Doctor Tristram Quinton was usually the most frequent and effusive of correspondents to both my wife and myself. Thus it was with something of an unquiet mind that I was rowed across to the
Royal Charles
.

* * *

The council assembled once again in the great cabin of the flagship. The Duke of York and Sir William Penn were already present as we entered; the duke’s face, usually grave, seemed almost elevated.

‘My Lords and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I will not detain you long. We have had fresh intelligence from Whitehall. The Dutch fleet is at sea.’ There was much murmuring: the young Duke of Monmouth grinned broadly, evidently eager for the fight. ‘Thanks to Sir George Downing, his Majesty’s envoy at The Hague, we know they have orders to seek us out upon our own shore and to pursue us up the Thames if they can. All the way to London Bridge, says Downing.’ The fleet’s commanders looked at each other. There was more murmuring.

‘Impudent rogues,’ growled the old Earl of Marlborough. ‘The last foreign potentate to sail that far was the Emperor Claudius. I see no reason why he should be supplanted by Meinheer De Witt.’

The Duke of York gave what might have been one of his ambiguous half-smiles. ‘Indeed, My Lord. Thus I believe we should disabuse their High Mightinesses, and that swiftly. Sir William?’