The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [166]
And how long would these good fellows last against four fully trained, fully armed Spaniards? He didn’t know; a few moments, perhaps. Then they would all be dead; shot and hacked to pieces every one. Thank God they didn’t know it. So it would be, he knew very well, for every parish muster in the county.
In the spring of 1588 the defending forces in the all-important central section of England’s southern coast were in a state of complete shambles.
The musters of raw village recruits with their ancient bills and hunting bows were all but useless. Often the bowmen only had three or four arrows. Many of the men had no weapons at all. When the county knights and squires had come to a big review at Winchester, it was found that only one in four was fit for any kind of service. Worst of all, the business was in the hands not of one, but two great noblemen, who constantly quarrelled with each other and not even the commissioners sent down by the council had been able to bring order to the business. Neither Winchester, the all-important port of Southampton, nor the harbour of Portsmouth, a little further along the coast, where old King Harry had started to build up a naval dockyard, was properly defended with troops. Three thousand men, the best of what there was, were being stationed on the Isle of Wight, but the mainland was, for all practical purposes, undefended. This was England’s state of readiness as it awaited the great invasion of the most highly trained army in Christendom. In the words of one of the reports back to Queen Elizabeth’s council: ‘All thinges here is unperfect.’
All this, although he kept it from his men, Clement Albion knew very well. He had visited Southampton and the naval yards at Portsmouth. He had attended meetings at Winchester. Not only was there no effective army to oppose the Spaniards, but the council was even afraid that some of the peasantry who longed for a return to the old religion might help the invaders. And while he personally rather doubted this, as Clement gazed at his poor, doomed little troop of men, he found himself wondering: was his mother right, after all? Would it be wiser, if the Spanish came, to join them? As a loyal son of the true Church, connected through his sister to the grandees of Spain, they’d be sure to welcome him. But if so, when? As the ships approached? After the troops landed? Could he, should he, really attempt something at Hurst Castle?
‘Well done, Nicholas Pride,’ he called out, as the young fellow attempted to parry and thrust with his sword. ‘We’ll show those Spaniards what Englishmen can do.’
By late afternoon it was time to show the village. They lined up in a column two abreast and, because he had armour, Albion put Nick in the front row. Then they gave three cheers, so that everyone would know they were coming, and sent a boy down to make sure; and Nick secretly wished they had a drum to beat, but they didn’t. Then they marched, almost in step, down the short track, shaded by overhanging trees and came down on to the green and there was everybody waiting, including Jane, who was wearing a red shawl round her shoulders. So they marched to the middle of the green, which was only thirty yards from end to end anyway, and took up their positions. And then they gave a display.
It was a brave show, no question about it. The men with their long bills stood in a line and raised and lowered and thrust with their weapons all together, so that you could hardly imagine any Spanish troops getting past such an awesome phalanx. Next they set up targets and the bowmen shot their arrows, hitting somewhere on the target every time. But the finest show of all, surely, was when Nick Pride and Albion