Portuguese Affair

The size of the ship reminded me of that first ship I had travelled in, although that had been a merchantman, not a ship of war, and despite my determination to banish all thoughts of that voyage seven years ago, I knew a moment of panic. We would be travelling back over those same waters, in a ship not so very different. I tried to concentrate on immediate and urgent problems. I needed to know where I would sleep. Here I could not offer to sleep with the horses, as I had done when Nicholas Berden and I had travelled together on Walsingham’s business. Would I be expected to sleep with the crew? It would be impossible, and still conceal my sex. To share a cabin with the distinguished members of our party, or with the ship’s officers would be just as dangerous.

I investigated the ship from bow to stern as unobtrusively as possible, keeping out of the way of the sailors, and at last found what I was looking for. There was a corner on the foredeck, behind a massive water cask and between two huge coils of thick rope, where I reckoned I could bed down unseen, if I could make my way here without being forestalled. It would be uncomfortable, but not cold, even while we were in English coastal waters, and it would be far better and safer than sleeping hugger-mugger in a hammock amongst the crew. I stowed my knapsack here, but kept my satchel on my shoulder.

That was one problem solved, I hoped, but as the last of the supply boats drew away and the swirling river waters showed that the tide was turning to the ebb, I felt a terrible lurch of fear in my stomach. It caught me so suddenly that it stopped my breath. A single topsail was hoisted on the mainmast. The anchor chain rattled up as six of the crew trudged round the capstan with a rhythmic chant to help their efforts. The great anchor rose, dripping weed and Thames mud. The signals from officers to crew on this huge ship were conveyed by whistles or trumpets, unlike the friendly shouts I had known on the pi

The boy had reached the masthead and seemed to be busy up there, then I saw what he was about. As he shi

Plymouth, where we were to take on supplies and recruits to the expedition’s army, was the first place I had seen in my new country, all those years ago. Now it would be the last place we would see in England. My life seemed to be rolling in reverse. Although it had been the scheme of those three influential men in my life – Dr Nuñez,  Dr Lopez and my father – that I should take my father’s place on the expedition, yet I also clung to my own reasons for returning to Portugal, despite these moments of panic. I could not tell whether my half-formed plans would even be possible. I had said nothing of them to anyone, not even my father, not even Walsingham, who might have been able to help me.

More signals were sounded on the whistles and more canvas was broken out, until we were under a full complement of sail. I had loved the sleek lines and beauty of the two pi

The journey itself as far as Plymouth was uneventful. The weather was calm, but with enough of a breeze to take us out into the German Sea and around the easternmost nose of Kent. As we stood out into mid Cha

A vast ship like the Victory could take neither of these measures to extricate herself from the shoals, so I was relieved to see that our helmsman was steering a wide course over to towards the French coast. We were not far from Gravelines, where I had been caught up in the battle aboard the Good Venture last year. It was hard to imagine it now, the explosions and smoke, the glare of the burning fire ships, the screams of injured men, and the air choking with dust and the reek of gunpowder. Now there was nothing to be seen but our well-ordered fleet and a few fishing boats closer to land on the calm waters.

Dr Nuñez came to stand beside me, where I was leaning on the starboard rail, looking toward Kent.

‘Will that be Dover?’ he asked, pointing to where we could now make out the castle high on its promontory. I realised that, although his ships traded regularly throughout the known world, he had probably never travelled this way except on his original voyage to England.

‘Aye,’ I said. ‘That’s the castle up there, and, down below, the harbour I sailed from when I went to Amsterdam. ‘They light a signal fire on the old Roman lighthouse after dark, as a guide to ships.’

‘We’ll see that, no doubt,’ he said. ‘We are to put in to the harbour for the night. Some of the ships are to embark a contingent of soldiers from the garrison.’

‘Are they?’ I wondered whether Andrew Joplyn would be amongst them. ‘Their commander will not be pleased. He does not care for anyone to interfere with his ru

‘Ah, of course, you met him.’

‘Aye. A pompous, rude man. We should be thankful he is not part of this expedition.’

He laughed. ‘I think Sir John Norreys would soon lick him into shape.’

We stood in silence as the Victory furled some of her canvas and turned slowly to make her way into the harbour. Flights of gulls shrieked from the nearby cliffs, skimming over the sea around us and plucking fish effortlessly from the water. I could see untidy nests being built on the ledges of the cliff face, which was streaked with their droppings, a dirty cream against the gleaming white of the limestone.