As for myself, I turned from the sight of that terrible object above the wall, sickened and appalled at what had been done, not only to a man but to a priest. However much I tried to keep it out of my sight, it was always there, at the corner of my vision, and his voice speaking in my ear, blessing me. The dead face wore an expression of unspeakable horror, which I think will stay with me as long as I live.
The Dom soon began to grow impatient of living in the open fields under a sun which broiled us like a bread oven and whose heat even rose from the parched earth at night. Our Portuguese party (those of us who had come from London, with the half dozen Portuguese who had joined us) rode in the evening of the next day part-way along the road to Cascais, in search of the solar belonging to a local nobleman, whom the Dom had known in his youth. Here he would demand accommodation for us, while the common soldiers of Norreys’s army remained behind, camping outside Lisbon. He would return in triumph once Lisbon was taken. I confess, I was as eager as anyone when we rode up to the long, low building, with its thick white walls promising cool rooms and shadowy rest. The memory of the young priest’s head bloodily spiked over Lisbon haunted me. I wanted to put Lisbon behind me. The doors of the manor house were closed and the windows shuttered. Perhaps none were at home. Or perhaps the Senhor was one of those already taken by the Spaniards.
One of the Dom’s few servants rode up to the door, banging on it with the butt end of his whip and crying out, ‘Open there, in the name of Dom Antonio of the House of Aviz, rightful king of Portugal!’
The response was swift. Men rose up on the flat roof and began firing at us with crossbows and muskets. The servant, wounded in the leg, with blood running over his boot and down his horse’s side, wheeled around and galloped back to us as fast as his frightened horse would carry him. The shutters on the upper storey of the house were flung open and the muzzles of muskets poked out. From round by the stables, a group of young men, also armed, rode out and made for us. They were shouting, not in Spanish, but in Portuguese.
We scrambled to turn our horses in the narrow lane and rode hard for the high road back to Lisbon, with Dom Antonio in the lead. So this, I thought, is the Dom’s warm reception from his own people. They may have hated the Spanish, but they feared them even more, and with great good sense they saw that there was no hope of release from the Spanish occupiers through the actions of our dwindling, makeshift army. Even then, Drake might have turned the tide, had he sailed the short distance up the river to Lisbon, but Drake sat counting his gold crowns in Cascais, and did not come.
At the end of the next day, Norreys strode up to our silent huddle of Portuguese, followed by half a dozen of his captains. Since his attempt to find better quarters, the Dom had not dared to stray outside the safety of the English camp. Norreys’s face was grim and I suppose we all knew what he would say.
‘There is no profit, Dom Antonio,’ he said, ‘in continuing to sit in this slaughtering heat before the walls of Lisbon. We have no siege engines or cannon. We have not even men enough to cut off their supplies. The longer we wait, the greater the risk that Philip’s main army will march on us from Spain and we will be butchered like beasts in a shambles. My men are wounded and sick and starving. We must make for the ships at Cascais while we still can.’
The night was coming on, in that sudden way it does in southern Portugal, so different from the long lingering twilights of an English summer evening. A sliver of moon had already risen in the sky and the birds, silent through the numbing heat of the day, were murmuring sleepily in the broken branches of the olive trees, which the men had ravaged for wood to put on their cooking fires. There were no fires this evening, for there was nothing left to cook, the very last of the stores the Dom had wheedled from the peasants having been exhausted that morning.
‘We cannot leave now!’ The Dom’s voice choked with desperation. This was a different man from the preening peacock we had known in London. To do him justice, he was courageous, in his way, for he was not a young man, and the last weeks had been a severe trial.
‘This is the key to the kingdom,’ he said. ‘Lisbon was our goal, and had we come here at once, as ordered by the Queen,’ (he emphasised this, for Norreys was almost as guilty as Drake) ‘aye, as ordered by the Queen, then we would have secured Lisbon weeks since and be sitting in the palace now, with food and drink enough for all.’
Norreys shrugged.
‘We cannot talk of what might have been. We must talk of what is.’ He spoke as if teaching a schoolboy a lesson, tapping Dom Antonio familiarly on the arm. The Dom jerked away from Norreys’s touch, with a flare of anger in his eyes.
‘We cannot take Lisbon,’ Norreys said flatly, with finality. ‘No Portuguese have come to join you. The men are dying. We must march to the ships. We will start at once.’
Ruy Lopez, ever the one to believe in the impossible, pleaded with him.
‘We must have more time!’ His tone was peremptory. ‘Word has been sent out around the country since we reached Lisbon. Our supporters will come, and bring weapons and supplies.’
Norreys gave an angry sigh. Then he looked about him and saw, as I did, that it would soon be night, with little moon. It was only that, I am sure, that made him say:
‘Twelve hours more. You may have twelve hours more. Then I move the army to Cascais. You may come with us or stay here in your country, as you will.’
He turned on his heel and stamped away, followed by his officers.
The senior men of the Portuguese party drew together in conference then, but I walked away from them. I knew that Norreys was right. The expedition had been lost from the time we stayed more than a day at Coruña. There was nothing left for us now but to retreat to the ships and save as many of the men as we could. All hope was dead. I rolled myself in my cloak and slept on the ground that night, but my sleep was troubled. From hour to hour I woke and saw, huddled together in the thin moonlight, the three old men, Dom Antonio, Dr Lopez, and Dr Nuñez, sitting with their eyes open and their ears straining for the Dom’s ghost army, which did not come.
I woke again as the sky was growing light, but before the sun had risen. The three old men had gone, but their horses remained. All around me, men were crawling from the hollows and ditches they had scratched out of the hard-baked soil, to provide themselves with some illusory protection from the merciless sun and the occasional cannon fire loosed off from the city walls, which mostly fell short of the camp, established at a discreet distance from the city. The soldiers stumbled around, gathering up their pitiful possessions and hoisting their packs on their backs. There would be nothing to eat until we reached Drake, so they were in a hurry to be on their way. I was not sure that the full twelve hours Norreys had promised were yet passed, but I strapped my gear on to my horse and brought him water in my helmet, which was not likely to see any better use that day. Before long I was joined by the others of our party. We did not speak.
Before we left, Norreys sent a troop of his few experienced men to set fire to the buildings lying outside the city wall. By now even the old and infirm had departed, but in sheer frustration he wanted to wreak what little destruction he could. The smoke of the fires rose lazily into the windless sky, wreathing Lisbon with this petty gesture of spite. At least, I thought, the city will not be sacked and the innocent slaughtered.
As the army moved off, I saw that there were men who had not climbed out of their pits this morning, but there was no time and no strength to bury them. Like those who had died on the way from Peniche, they would be left to the scavenging birds and beasts, and their English bones would bleach under the hostile Portuguese sun.