He saw the Duke draw back slightly. Had he revealed too much?
‘I care that she has no heir, will have no heir. The Virgin Queen knows that while she is all that stands between England and civil war her advisers will do everything in their power to keep her alive. Elizabeth has opted to preserve herself while she lives, and doesn't care for what happens to her country when she dies.' He paused for a moment, ‘I think there'll be civil war when she dies. The contenders for her throne? A clutch of rapacious nobles with a pinch of royal blood and an overweening ambition. The warped King of Scotland, son of the Mary Queen of Scots we executed…' He had almost said I instead of 'we’. 'Scotland is, of course, England's oldest enemy. A stupid, vapid woman called Arabella Stuart whose blood gives her a claim and whose brains do not exist. And the King of Spain, our oldest enemy of all.' Gresham turned to look back to where the English ships were gathered in the dark. 'So I chose Spain. I chose Spain because I believe that Spain has the power to conquer those rapacious nobles, to conquer the impoverished King of Scotland, the pathetic Arabella Stuart. That it is so powerful that its success is inevitable. Spain will win. And will it matter to the peasant in the field and the woman striving to fill her children's bellies whether it is a Protestant Queen or a Catholic King who holds the final authority over them? I think not. I think what matters to them is that they are left in peace to scrape a bare living out of the earth, left without soldiers trampling down their crops and sticking their babies on the end of pikes as trophies of war. I decided Spain would win that war. And when I had decided that, the other decision was inevitable. Why go through with the war in the first place? Why not work to achieve the inevitable and cut out the need for war? Why not work to install Spain in England without the ritual of yet more senseless death? That is why I chose Spain, my Lord.' He bowed to the Duke. 'I did not choose my path for religion. I chose my path, I always choose my path, because I thought that in so doing fewer people would die.'
The sound of the water lapping against the hull was gentle, the ringing in Gresham's ears after the day's combat nearly gone.
'You will have no place in the new England,' said the Duke after a while, 'if indeed that conquest ever happens. However well it is exercised, power will be in the hands of those with Spanish blood flowing in their veins. You will be thanked, and forgotten. Sidelined. Is that the word?'
'I think so, my Lord,' said Gresham. 'That it is the word, and that it is what will happen. But I've never valued life much, and I value its honours even less.'
'I have an estate in Andalusia,' said the Duke, dreamily. 'A fine estate, with a grand house and peasants who have worked the land for centuries, and think of me and my family as God if they think of God at all. It is pure Spain, sun-drenched yet harsh, proud, certain of its history. It loses me money, every year, despite its fields bursting with growth, its orange groves so full of the smell of fruit that a man might die drawing it into his lungs. The man I pay to run my estate is corrupt and clever in his corruption.' The Duke of Medina Sidonia sat on the stern rail, the gesture revealing a decade of exhaustion. 'Would you run such an estate for me? In time, there would be access to the Court, introductions. Oh, they would deny you access to the top tiers, of course. Yet you would live in a country at peace, an ancient country, be able to rise in the morning and hold rich earth between your fingers.'
Across the boundaries of race and culture, of age, of warring humanity and a flawed creation, something of elemental, simple humanity had been said.
Why were there tears in Gresham's eyes? Why did his body continually try to let him down? 'I thank you, my Lord,' Gresham responded, finally. 'With all my heart. But before I allow myself to think of the Heaven of Andalusia I cannot help but wish to deal first with the Hell of the English Channel.'
The Duke laughed, a full, strong laugh that showed Gresham yet another side of this most complex man. 'You are right to correct me, right for youth to stop an old man dreaming impossible dreams.' The Duke stood up from the stern rail, rubbing his ungloved hands to warm them in the chill of the night.*We cannot beat your English ships, can we?' he asked blankly.
‘No, My Lord,' said Gresham bluntly. 'You cannot. They are faster and nimbler before the wind. You can only win if you close with them, and they have the power not to let you do so, however courageously you pursue them. Yet you can meet with the Duke of Parma, and stand between his transports and the English fleet,' said Gresham.
'I hope to God that we may,' said the Duke bitterly, turning away to look astern. 'Yet why has he not responded to my messages.’
One hundred and sixty-seven men killed, two hundred and forty-one wounded, the manifest stated to the Duke the next morning. A mere pinprick in the Armada's strength. Only two vessels lost, neither of them disabled as a result of enemy action. The Spanish ships had survived four assaults, their discipline holding, the damage even to the heavily-engaged San Martin quite minimal. So why did Gresham have such an overwhelming sense of defeat?
On the Friday morning the Duke despatched yet another pinnace to Dunkirk, begging Parma to send him heavy shot and some shallow draft vessels to get in close among the English. Begging him most of all to name a rendezvous, a meeting point for the Armada and his army. At five o'clock on the Saturday evening, in a strengthening wind, the Armada sighted Calais. The Pilot hastily brought over from one of the great Portuguese galleons demanded that they anchor in the broad, open roadstead outside the Calais breakwater. If they kept on, the Pilot swore, the currents would carry the Armada through the strait and out into the North Sea, sweeping them away from England. The Armada dropped its anchors, the metal flukes seeking to bite into the shallow holding ground.
The English fleet took station, just out of range, reinforced by another thirty vessels from the Channel, lurking, watching, threatening.
Chapter 10
August 7th — August 9th, 1588 The Battle of Gravelines
Was Anna in Calais? Gresham hoped so. The Duke had made it quite clear that neither he nor Mannion could leave the San Martin, though the Duke had consented to him sending a messenger to enquire after her safety and whereabouts. 'Was she always part of your plans to cover up your allegiance?' the Duke had asked. 'No, my Lord,' Gresham had answered. 'She was… an accident.' Which was one way to describe her, he thought.
'Well,' said Gresham, holding a by now habitual dawn council of war with Mannion, the both of them gazing from the bow towards the distant port of Calais, 'what're the odds now?'
'Difficult,' said Mannion, "cos it all depends on Parma, don't it? As far as your Duke's concerned this is shit creek and we're moored in it.' Mannion had taken to referring to Medina Sidonia as "your Duke" as Gresham's comments on the man had become increasingly full of admiration for the Spanish Commander's quiet courage and dignity. 'Currents here are terrible, and if you wants my opinion this bloody place 'as got "fireship" written all over it. But if I've got it right,' said Mannion, 'Parma could get loads of boats with his troops down through those canals, with the Dutch able to do sod all about it. Or he could get 'em to Dunkirk and give us pilots to take enough of the smaller ships up into the harbour to protect the transports. Or, best of all, you say Parma's got Antwerp?'
'He's got enough of it to shelter a fleet in the approaches to Antwerp, on the Scheldt,' said Gresham.
'So all it needs is for 'im to send a few pilots over here, and get enough of this lot moored off Antwerp. Nothing I've seen of that lot,' Mannion motioned dismissively out to the English ships, 'is telling me they can stop 'em.'