is no question but that we will return triumphant with armfuls of Spanish gold.
He frowns. ‘But I have done my part. She will have the child whether I am there or not, and there will be nursemaids to take care of it. God’s blood, Bruno, I have done what they asked of me, I have got an heir, that is why they have had me cooped up at Barn Elms for the past two years. Am I not permitted a little freedom now?’
I am tempted to observe that he has possibly misunderstood the nature of marriage, but I refrain; I am hardly qualified to advise him about women. Besides, there is no profit in making him more irritable. His anger, I see now, is not at me, but at everyone who would voice the same objections: his wife, his father-in-law, Francis Drake, the Queen. He is rehearsing his self-justification. I have great affection for Sidney, and he has many qualities I admire, but he can be spoilt and does not respond well to being thwarted.
‘It might be a girl,’ I reply.
He makes a noise of exasperation. ‘I am going back down for a drink. Are you coming?’
‘I think I will stay here for a while.’
‘As you wish.’ At the head of the stairs to the main deck he turns back, one hand on the guardrail. ‘You know, I am trying to find a way to help you, Bruno. I thought I might have a little more thanks than this.’ He sounds wounded. In my amazement at his mad scheme, it had not occurred to me that I might have hurt his feelings.
‘Forgive me. I am grateful for your efforts – do not think otherwise.’
‘You are coming, then? To the New World?’ His face brightens.
‘Let me get used to the idea.’
He disappears to the lower deck and I return my attention to the restless black water that surrounds us. Two weeks of this had seemed a diversion; months on end is another proposition entirely. In sunlight, the sea looked benign, obliging; now its vastness strikes me as overwhelming. To challenge it, to attempt to best it with such a small vessel, appears grotesquely presumptuous. But perhaps all acts of courage look like folly at first. The breeze lifts my hair from my face, and I realise that the sun has fully set and the horizon is no longer visible on either side. There is no divide between sea and sky, nothing but endless darkness and the indifferent stars.
We round the headland into Plymouth Sound two days later, early evening on 23rd August, as a cheer goes up from the men on deck. The wind has not been on our side since we passed the coast of Kent and moved into the English sea, making our progress slower than Knollys had predicted, but now the sky is clearer overhead, the sun glistening on a broad bay, surrounded on three sides by gently sloping cliffs, dark green with thick tree cover. Sidney and I have been standing at the prow for the past hour, craning for the first sight of the harbour, but nothing could have prepared me for the spectacle of the fleet anchored in the Sound.
Some thirty ships of varying sizes, the largest painted black and white and greater even than the Galleon Leicester, stand at anchor; between the great painted fighting ships and merchantmen, ten or so smaller pinnaces rock gently on the swell, sails furled, pennants snapping, their heraldic colours bright against the pale sky. The water sparkles and the whole has the appearance of a marvellous pageant. I find myself staring open-mouthed with delight like a child, Sidney likewise, as the crewmen on deck send up another cheer at the sight of their comrades. Until this moment, I would not have claimed any great interest in seafaring, but the assembled fleet is truly a sight to stir a sense of adventure. I picture all these ships sailing out in formation at Drake’s command, pointed towards the New World, Sidney and me at the prow, squinting into the sun towards an unknown horizon. And returning, to the salute of cannon from the Plymouth shore, our pockets bursting with Spanish gold. Sidney really believes this is possible; now that we are here, it is hard not to be infected by his conviction. All about us, a volley of shouted commands is unleashed, followed by the heavy slap of canvas as sails are furled, ropes heaved, chains let out with a great clanking of metal on metal, and the vast creaking bulk of the Galleon Leicester slows almost to a standstill as her anchors are dropped and rowboats lowered down her sides to the water. Knollys turns to us, eyes bright with pride, as if this show is all his doing.
‘There, gentlemen, you see the flagship, the Elizabeth Bonaventure, Sir Francis Drake’s own command. And there, the Tiger, captained by Master Carleill.’
He points across the Sound; Sidney shoots me a sideways look and a grimace. Half the investors in this expedition he knows from court, many of the officers men with connections to his own family. He will have to keep his plans quiet until the voyage is underway, for fear of Walsingham finding out.
Knollys continues, oblivious, his outstretched arm casting a long shadow over the deck as he gestures: ‘Across the way you have the Sea Dragon, the White Lion and the Galliot Duck, and there the little Speedwell, and beside her the Thomas Drake, named for the Captain-General’s brother and under his command.’
We are near enough to see the crews of the other ships, men scuttling up and down rigging and swarming over the decks like insects. Now that we are at ease in the shelter of the harbour, the breeze has dropped and I feel the warmth of the sun on my back for the first time since we left London.
‘And what is that island?’ I ask, pointing to a mound of rock in the middle of the Sound. Sheer cliffs rise to a wooded crest, and at the summit, a stone tower peeps above the treeline.
‘St Nicholas Island,’ Knollys says, shading his eyes, ‘though the locals call it Drake’s Island. Sir Francis has been trying to raise money to improve the fortifications in case of invasion. There was a garrison there in years past, though I believe it has fallen out of use for lack of funds. But come – the Captain-General, as we must call him on this voyage, will be expecting us.’
He leads us down a flight of stairs below deck, where he calls for rope ladders to be dropped over the side through a hatch. These are thin, precarious-looking contraptions, but Knollys swings himself easily into the gap and shins down to the two stout sailors holding the end of the ladder steady in the rowboat below. Sidney nudges me to follow, and a silent sailor hands me through the hatch, where I climb without looking down, gripping the ropes until my palms burn, placing one foot below the other, conscious all the while of Sidney’s impatient feet inches above my head.
The oarsmen negotiate a path between the anchored ships and from this vantage point, at the waterline, you understand the immensity of these galleons; their hulls the height of a church, their masts disappearing to a point so high you have to crane your neck until you are almost lying horizontal to see the top. Navigating through them you feel as if you are in a narrow lane between high buildings, if buildings were uprooted from their foundations and could lurch and heave at you. A hearty melody of flutes and viols carries across the water, accompanied by raucous singing that collapses into laughter after one verse. A few more strokes of the oars and our boat cracks against a sheer wooden cliff scaled with barnacles, where another ladder sways, awaiting us. I glance at my palms. Sidney notices and laughs.
‘Don’t expect to go home with the soft hands of a gentleman, Bruno.’
‘I’m not sure I have ever had the soft hands of a gentleman,’ I say. I hold them out and regard them on both sides, as if for evidence. My fingertips are stained with ink, as always.
‘That’s not what the ladies of the French court say,’ he replies, with a broad wink. It is one of Sidney’s favourite jokes: that I worked my way
