The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [189]
He wondered whether to go and see. It could be dangerous if there was a boatload of them. On the other hand he was mounted. He had a sword. He considered, then shrugged.
His curiosity had got the better of him.
Don Diego watched cautiously. He was still rather wet, but he counted himself fortunate. The hulk had run aground only a mile or so out from the shore. The sea was calm. It had been quite easy, in the ship’s hold, to find all he needed to make a simple, buoyant raft and fashion a broad-bladed paddle. The tide had helped him reach the sandy beach well before dawn broke. He had concealed the raft, climbed the sandy little cliff and started to walk along the heath. One precaution he had taken. Like most of the gentlemen travelling with the Armada, he wore a long gold chain round his neck. Its links were as good as any currency. For the time being he had concealed this inside his shirt and doublet. He also made himself as presentable as he could. He cleaned his shoes and stockings, brushed his breeches and doublet as far as possible. He understood the English fashions followed the Spanish. He was not sure how well he spoke English. He had gone to great trouble to do so and his wife assured him he did. Perhaps he could pass for an English gentleman who had been robbed rather than a Spaniard who had been shipwrecked. He would find out soon enough.
He walked along cautiously, ready to dive for cover in an instant if necessary. He knew from the maps on the duke’s flagship what the lie of the land was around the mouth of the Solent. He knew where Hurst Castle stood. He wished he knew where Brockenhurst was, but he didn’t.
His mission now, in any case, was wonderfully simple. He had to avoid being robbed, or killed by any overeager musters. He had, as soon as possible, to find one man; then all his troubles would be over.
He saw the lone horseman coming towards him from some way off. He leaped behind a gorse bush and waited, preparing himself carefully.
As he approached the gorse bush Albion slowed his horse to a walk and then stopped. He had seen the lonely figure walking along, apparently by himself, and watched him dart behind the bush. Now, with his hand on his sword, he waited for the next move.
He did not have to wait long.
The dishevelled Spaniard – for it was quite obvious that this was what he was – stepped out and, to his surprise, addressed him, despite his Spanish accent, in passable English. ‘Sir, I ask your help.’
‘Indeed?’
‘I have been waylaid and robbed, Sir, on my journey to a kinsman who lives not far from here, I believe.’
‘I see.’ Clement kept his hand on his sword, but decided to play out this charade to see where it would lead. ‘You come from where, Sir?’
‘From Plymouth.’ It was true, in a way.
‘A long journey. May I know your name?’
‘You may, Sir.’ The Spaniard smiled. ‘My name is David Albion.’
‘Albion?’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Don Diego watched as the Englishman’s face registered complete astonishment. I have impressed him, he thought and, emboldened, continued: ‘My kinsman is no less a person than the great captain, Clement Albion himself.’
To say that this information impressed the Englishman would be an understatement. He looked stupefied. ‘Is he so great a man?’ he asked weakly.
‘Why, I think so, Sir. Is he not captain of all the trained bands and shore defences from here to Portsmouth?’
For several terrible seconds Albion was silent. Was this his reputation with the invading Spanish? Had the entire Spanish Armada heard of him? Would any captured Spaniard cry out his name? How, unless England fell into Spanish hands within days, was he to explain this to the council? Appalled though he was, he collected his wits enough to realize he had better find out more. ‘You are not David Albion, Sir. Firstly, because I perceive that you are Spanish.’ He quietly drew his sword. ‘And secondly because Albion