Julian Stockwin - The Iberian Flame - Thomas Kydd 20

Hearing the cry, the Ripostes erupted out of the Indiaman and joined in the frantic rush to board.

It was over quickly, the corvette’s reduced crew overwhelmed, throwing themselves over the side in their haste to get away, while the two boats of marines stood off to blaze furiously at any soldier who showed himself.

Bray’s stentorian voice lashed the men into a fury of exertion, making ready to carry the vessel to sea, and in minutes lines were thrown off and the corvette caught the current, beginning to drift out on the ebb and into the night.

Chapter 19

London

No other prospect could be more enchanting, thought Nicholas Renzi, as he strolled along the canal in St James’s Park in the late spring sunshine. At the very centre of one of the biggest cities in the world, it was nevertheless a charming island of dappled verdancy and blossoms in a world at war, and it worked on his soul.

He threw some bread to the pelicans that waddled fearlessly up to him until it was clear he had no more then shamelessly abandoned him for the water.

Children shouted at their play, adoring couples sauntered by without a glance, completely oblivious that they were passing one who had burdens of the world beyond their conceiving. But with the felicity of his personal situation safeguarded by those like Captain Sir Thomas Kydd, his closest friend, whose selfless striving against the enemy was England’s bulwark, how could he ignore what was being asked of him?

Whitehall had played it well: the call from Congalton of the Foreign Office had been in the nature of desiring a favour, his reception that befitting a respected nobleman, the sixth Earl Farndon, as he now was.

Spain, the traditional foe, proud and stubborn and with a long history, was now being buffeted by the titanic struggle between Bonaparte and Britain and suffering cruelly.

Word was that there had been a palace coup. The swaggering Godoy had lost his post and the King had been made to abdicate in favour of his son Fernando. In the system of interlocking factions and obligations there was now a realignment with unknown effects, the only constant being the all-pervading French presence as they sought to swell their influence. There were now many more troops in the country on their way to dismember Portugal in accordance with a treaty that could no longer be termed secret.

There was unrest, of course: King Carlos had been a known quantity, a figurehead for those who yearned for the ancient ways, a bulwark against those who wanted change. What would the new King bring?

The fervent mix of allegiances and ancient hatreds held with Iberian passion made every piece of Spanish intelligence questionable. It was Renzi’s mission to uncover the truth at the highest level he could reach – and by its light seek out what he might of opportunities for himself or others to subvert the French alliance.

He’d been given a free hand in how he wished to proceed.

Spies and the like had their methods but they were not his. His success depended on his identity and status being openly known: someone of consequence whose word could therefore demonstrably be taken at sight.

It had sufficed on other occasions – at the court of King Christian in Denmark, the Turkish sultanate of Selim III – but this was different. It was an enemy country.

On the canal a smart model yacht heeled to the wind – close hauled on the larboard tack, he noted. A child was following it along the bank and stopped, looking up at him uncertainly. He straightened and took off his hat solemnly to the little craft. Delighted, the boy skipped on.

How the devil could he, as an Englishman, enter the kingdom of Spain without being taken up as an alien, or worse?

It had to be open and above suspicion, allowing him to retain his name and rank, his presence in Spain being for an unimpeachable reason.

A quite impossible demand, of course.

And then he had it.

Congalton looked up from his desk with polite interest. ‘My lord?’

‘A possibility.’ Renzi took the visitor’s armchair, drawing his thoughts together. ‘My much-loved cousin, of papist persuasion and roguish reputation, lies mortally ill and is not expected to live. He repents of his erring and was sent a vision: if he makes pilgrimage to the same shrine as his mother once did in faith and performs obeisance to her memory he will be forgiven his sins.’

Congalton gave a tiny smile. ‘This shrine to be in Spain, naturally.’

‘Quite. In view of his condition I shall travel there in his place to undertake the offertory – if this be allowable.’

‘Certainly. A not uncommon request and generally met by an appropriate passport and travel under cartel.’

‘Excellent. This, then, is my play. I’m trusting that as a well-placed grandee of England, as it were, there will be those who believe me privy to the attitudes and intentions of our rulers to the changes taking place and will seek to learn these by some means.’

‘Friendly or otherwise.’

‘We may accept they will be of the party having the most to lose.’

‘That of the new King – who has legitimacy but not power.’

‘Most likely, yes. From their fears I might deduce directly their weaknesses and its origin – discovering perhaps names, a cabal.’

‘Which you will then privily approach with the same object.’

‘Just so.’

‘A workable conceit, I believe, my lord. To quiz a notable of the English ruling class face to face is a temptation indeed. I shall, of course, provide you with a crib of answers of value to His Majesty’s government.’

‘And, ahem, the furnishing of the name of a place of pilgrimage suited to my purpose would oblige.’

‘Certainly. Might I remark, my lord, that matters in Spain are proceeding at a startling pace and your early appreciations would be most gratifying?’

Chapter 20

Spain

The scorching, dusty central plains stretched out as far as the eye could see, an endless ochre-tinted earth sparsely populated with bushes, and then, at last, the rock-strewn passes leading to his goal, Toledo, with a history of richness and antiquity of centuries beyond counting. Squarely within it was the magnificence of Santa María de Toledo, the greatest of the high Gothic cathedrals of Spain.

The long journey from the cartel port of Cartagena had been a trial but the Spanish had been faultless in their attentions to the English nobleman, providing carriage, four-man escort and a tonsured cleric, Fray Mendoza, an impeccably mannered translator and guide, who gravely answered Renzi’s interested questions without reservation. Renzi had thought it prudent to keep his facility with the language from them. He’d won it in quite a different circumstance in the insurrection and invasion of Buenos Aires years before.

Despite himself, his pulse quickened. This was his first visit to the Spain of Castile and León, El Cid and the Reconquista from the Moors; this arid country they passed through held so many relics of the past but there was no time to linger. He knew that it was the domain of the enemy, but how could the ragged, picturesque peasantry he saw at labour in the parched fields be rightly termed foe?

Jago, his dark-jowled under-steward and man of affairs, rode behind in a less well-appointed conveyance, with two servants. What must he be thinking as they ground on ever deeper into this land? Renzi would never know: the man was gratifyingly close-mouthed, and if he suspected his master to be more than he seemed, he kept it to himself.

The road steepened; the horses slowed as the carriage crested at a tight curve – and there was the muddy green Tagus river, which, in perhaps half a thousand miles, would finally reach the Atlantic, at Lisbon. Nestled atop a mountainous bend in the river was the fabled city of Toledo, dominated by the massive tower and nave of the great cathedral.