The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [190]
For a moment the Spaniard broke into a delighted smile, then checked himself. ‘How do I know that you are Albion?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Clement replied calmly.
But the Spaniard was looking thoughtful. ‘There is a way,’ he said quietly. And then he told Clement his name.
‘But what luck – I should say what a sign of God’s providence – my dear brother, that of all the people in England I might have encountered’ – Don Diego looked so delighted, so touched – ‘I should have come straight upon you.’ He looked at Albion happily but seriously. ‘It’s wonderful, you know.’
They were sitting, at Albion’s suggestion, in a pleasant hollow near the cliff where they would not be disturbed. It had only taken a few moments to verify who they were. Albion had asked tenderly after his sister Catherine and Don Diego had been equally anxious to know the good health of the mother-in-law whom he described as: ‘That wonder, that saint’. When Albion had politely congratulated him on his own high command, however, Don Diego had looked mystified.
‘My command? I have no command at all. I am merely a private gentleman travelling with the Armada. It is you, my dear brother’ – he inclined his head – ‘who have achieved such a high and honourable state. Your mother wrote to us about it long ago.’
Albion nodded slowly. He began to understand. He saw his mother’s fantastic hand in all this now. But this did not seem the moment to disillusion the well-meaning Spaniard. There were so many things he needed to find out. Was the King of Spain himself expecting him to deliver Hurst Castle to the invaders?
‘Ah, my plan!’ Don Diego’s face lit up. ‘Your mother’s plan, of course, I should say. What a woman!’ But then his face fell. ‘I tried, my dear brother. God knows I tried. I wrote a long memorandum to my kinsman the Duke of Medina Sidonia. But …’ His hand indicated a falling motion. ‘Nothing.’
‘I see.’ Things were looking up.
But what exactly, Albion ventured to ask, was the Spanish plan of invasion?
‘Ah. What indeed?’ Don Diego shook his head. ‘We all supposed, all the commanders of the ships supposed, that we should take a port as a base. Plymouth. Southampton. Portsmouth. One of them. From there our ships could be supplied.’
‘That seems wise.’
‘But His Majesty King Philip insisted the Armada go straight to meet Parma. In the Netherlands.’
‘The Armada will transport Parma’s troops across, you mean?’
‘No. It seems the waters by Parma’s army are too shallow for our galleons. The Armada will rest at Calais.’
‘That’s only a day’s sailing away.’
‘And then?’
‘Then Parma will cross to England. He’s a great general, you know. Some say’ – he dropped his voice as though he could be overheard – ‘that it’s Parma who will make himself king of England, instead of King Philip. Not that he would be so disloyal, of course.’ Don Diego still looked doubtful.
‘So how will Parma cross? Has he a fleet?’
‘Flat-bottomed boats only. So he’ll need fine weather.’
‘But the English ships would blast any such transport vessels out of the water,’ Albion objected.
‘No, no, brother you forget. Our Armada will be only a day’s sailing away. And our galleons are bristling with troops. The English won’t dare come near enough to attack them.’
‘Then why are they doing so now?’
As if to underline the question a faint rumble was heard from the sea beyond the Isle of Wight. The English attack on the Armada had just begun again.
Don Diego looked troubled. ‘Actually, my kinsman the Duke of Medina Sidonia did seem to hint that he … thought the king’s plan was imperfect.’ He shook his head. ‘We were told your ships were all rotten and that they’d run away.’
‘Did my mother tell you that too?’
‘Oh, most certainly.’ But now Don Diego brightened. ‘However, my dear brother, we must never forget one all-important thing.’
‘Which is?’
‘That God is with us. It is His will that we should succeed. Of this we are certain.’ He smiled. ‘So all will be well. And of course, the moment the English know