The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [182]
When he took off his shirt, she put her hands on the thick dark hairs of his chest, feeling them wonderingly. His face, with his short pointed beard, suddenly looked triangular, like some forest animal’s in the candlelight. She was not quite certain what she should do next, but he gently lifted her up and laid her on the bed, and when she felt his powerful arms around her she almost swooned. As he came on to the bed with her she was soon aware that he was as hard and firm as the oak bed itself, but for a long time he stroked and caressed her so that it seemed to her as if, in some miraculous way, she had become one of the creatures he had so expertly carved, nestling, peeping out, or writhing upon the bedposts. And if, once, she cried out for a moment in pain, she could scarcely afterwards remember quite when or how it was, during that night when, as though by magic, she became at one with the Forest.
She was not aware, as she slept, that just before dawn the coastal beacons had sprung into flame to announce that the Armada had been sighted.
Don Diego yawned. Then he bit his knuckle. He must not fall asleep. He must complete his task. His honour was at stake.
He was tired, though, very tired. Six days had passed since the Spanish Armada had been sighted entering the English Channel and the beacons had been lit. Six days of action. Six days of exhaustion. And yet he had been lucky. His relationship, distant though it was, with the Duke of Medina Sidonia, who had now been given command of the whole Armada, had secured him a place in the flagship itself. And from this privileged vantage point he had witnessed it all.
The first days had been promising. As they passed the south-western tip of the island kingdom a cheeky English fishing vessel had come out to look at them, circled the whole fleet counting numbers, then vanished. Although one of the Spanish boats had chased it unsuccessfully, the Duke had only smiled. ‘Let it go and tell the English how strong we are, gentlemen,’ he declared. ‘The more terrified they are the better.’
The next day, as they sailed slowly towards Plymouth, they learned that the English fleet was trapped by the wind in Plymouth harbour. A council of war was called on the flagship and it was not long before Don Diego knew what was being said.
‘Smash them now. Take the port and use it as our base,’ the bolder commanders urged. And it seemed to Don Diego that this was good advice.
But his noble kinsman thought otherwise. ‘King Philip’s instructions to me are very clear,’ he told them. ‘Unless we have to, we are to take no unnecessary risks.’ So the mighty Armada had sailed slowly on.
But that very night the English ships had rowed out of Plymouth and stolen the advantage of the wind. And they had been on the Spanish fleet’s heels, like a pack of hounds, ever since.
The English attack had been almost continuous. The Spanish galleons, with their high castles fore and aft, and their huge complement of soldiers, were certain to win any encounter if the English came close enough to grapple. So the English circled, darted in and out, and poured in volley after volley of cannon fire, while the Spanish responded. ‘But the English seem to fire much more often,’ Don Diego had observed to the captain.
‘They do. Our crews are used to firing only once or twice before we come alongside and grapple. But the English ships are organized as gun platforms. So they just keep firing. They’ve got more heavy cannon, too,’ the captain added morosely.
But what Don Diego particularly noticed was the relative speed of the English and Spanish ships. It was not, as he had supposed, that the English vessels were smaller – some of the biggest English vessels were actually larger than the Spanish galleons. But their masts were set differently; they dispensed with the