‘I’m telling you the truth,’ Nicholas insists.
‘Of course you are. But while this present emergency prevails, I have orders not to allow anyone on a vessel who does not have a written passport from the mayor and the Council. And they won’t write one until the Earl of Ormonde arrives to tell them they can.’
The next day, when word reaches Cork that Ormonde is only hours away, the mood in the town lifts like morning mist in summer. The citizens become animated. Their former fatalistic lethargy vanishes. Even the church bells ring out each hour with vigour instead of slow despondency.
Even so, the force that Ormonde brings in is, to Nicholas’s eyes as he and Bianca watch the earl ride in through the North Gate, woefully understrength. If all they have heard of Tyrone’s abilities is even half-true, the mix of undernourished Irish levies and mustered English – barely five hundred strong – will need more than the reinforcements disembarking on Loch Machan to win back Munster.
But the early signs are good. The earl brims with urgent efficiency. Even before his men have cleared a space to set up their tents and cooking cauldrons on a patch of open ground in the lee of St Peter’s churchyard, he dispatches messengers to summon the mayor, the corporation, leading citizens and eminent settlers – Edmund Spenser amongst them – to the church’s nave to hear his assessment of the present parlous state of affairs.
Standing beside Spenser outside the church, Nicholas and Bianca watch Ormonde stride in, accompanied by his senior officers – amongst them, Nicholas notes to his dismay, Sir Oliver Henshawe. ‘How gallant,’ says Bianca teasingly. ‘He’s had himself attached to the earl’s staff so that he can ensure I’m safe.’
‘I’m surprised he could steal the time away from all that slaughtering he so enjoys,’ Nicholas replies testily.
Bianca keeps silent. She still finds it difficult to match the young man who paid court to her – earnestly chivalrous on the outside, but with his inner awkwardness obvious to any woman who had the eyes to see it – with the murderer of helpless survivors of a shipwreck. Instead, she keeps her eyes fixed on the person everyone hopes will be the saviour of the city.
Ormonde is a small man, well into his sixties, his white hair cropped close to the scalp. Clad in mud-splattered field armour, with a burgonet helmet held under one arm, he clatters as he strides into the church. Climbing into the pulpit, he proceeds to deflate the newly buoyant mood as effectively as if he’d stabbed a blown-up pig’s bladder with the fine Lombardy rapier that he left with a page by the door, in deference to the Almighty.
‘The rebels are as unsoldierly as a band of Morris men,’ he tells the gathered worthies. ‘But they are fierce fighters. And wicked with it. They do not give battle like honest fellows. They will not stand against pike, musket or horse like Christian soldiers. Instead, they resort to deception and ambuscade. When we come close to them, they let loose a volley or two, then slip away into the forests. When we have passed, they fall upon our tail like hungry rats. They attack at night, slitting the throats of our sentries. They raid our baggage trains and foraging parties. Our wounded are butchered where they fall. We cannot be everywhere, and so they burn and plunder at will–’
Nicholas hears Spenser mutter, ‘Don’t I know it?’
‘But you need not fear,’ Ormonde assures them, his voice ringing as though he were delivering a fiery sermon. ‘Cork is safe. Cork has walls and a garrison. And now it has Thomas Butler, Lieutenant-General of Ireland and Earl of Ormonde, to watch over it.’
Cheers from the assembled worthies.
‘Thinks highly of himself, doesn’t he?’ Bianca whispers in Nicholas’s ear.
Ormonde rises – either on his toes or on his own hyperbole – the better to lean over the rim of the pulpit. His gaze is as tenacious as the bite of a mastiff at a bull-baiting.
‘As you can see with the eyes that God gave you,’ he continues, ‘reinforcements from England are arriving by the day. And not just into Cork, but into Youghal, Wexford, Waterford and Dublin. Her Majesty the Queen has given me all authority to crush this traitorous uprising and bring her peace to Ireland. That is what I intend to do. And Cork will be the wellspring from which victory flows.’
St Peter’s rings to more animated hosannahs. But Nicholas is not convinced. He can recall any number of stirring speeches he’d heard from commanders in the Low Countries. And the Low Countries are still at war. He imagines this island may not be as easy to subdue as Ormonde – or the queen – might suppose. But his immediate concern is how to get Ormonde to allow him to take Spenser to England.
‘I need your help, sweet,’ Nicholas tells Bianca later in their cramped lodgings under the eaves of Spenser’s house. Bianca’s mouth purses in mock resignation. ‘I know, Husband. I’ve grown accustomed.’
‘I mean, I need your help to get us out of Cork.’
Sitting up in the narrow bed, Bianca leans forward to avoid the rafters, so that her heavy waves of dark hair hide her face from him. ‘What would you ask of me?’ she says, her voice turning from teasing to serious.
‘Your former suitor, Oliver Henshawe, the butcher of shipwreck survivors – I need you to seek a favour from him.’
‘I didn’t care much for Henshawe when he was paying suit to me. I care for him even less after what we saw on that beach. Do I have to?’
Nicholas sighs. ‘He’s the surest way I can think of to get an audience with the Earl of Ormonde. And we need Ormonde’s passport to leave Cork. Petitioning him could take weeks.’
‘What is it I must do?’
‘Seek him out and talk him into asking Ormonde for a meeting. Tell him I’m the queen’s physician; that should help. It might put his nose out of joint, too – which would be pleasing.’
‘What if Henshawe doesn’t believe me?’
‘You can describe the banqueting hall at Greenwich in detail, can’t you? I don’t recall you falling asleep.’
‘You’ll owe me dearly, Husband. You know that, don’t you?’ Bianca says, placing one hand on his thigh in a manner that is far from cautionary.
‘I know, Wife,’ he says, placing his hand over hers. ‘I’ve grown accustomed.’
It doesn’t take Bianca long to locate Henshawe. Sir Oliver has commandeered himself a pleasant lodging near the Red Abbey Tower, ejecting its previous occupants and making himself and his servant at home. When Bianca is shown into his chamber she finds him bent over a table, cleaning a fine Flemish wheel-lock pistol. Holding up the weapon to the light from the window, he inspects the polished horn inlay of the stock and nods in satisfaction.
‘Took this off the body of a Spanish gentleman who’d had the gall to come sailing by,’ he says proudly. ‘Had to clean it up a little, but it’s as fine a firing piece as you’ll find in any armoury. Ironic really – the Don brings it here to do England harm, and it ends up in my hands doing execution on traitorous Irish rebels. They do say God works in mysterious ways.’
‘When you were paying court to me, I never took you to have a stony heart, Oliver,’ Bianca says, her voice laden with disappointment.
‘You think me cruel?’
‘At the shipwreck – that was nothing but murder.’
For an instant she thinks he’s going to lose his temper. But then his face takes on a sad, almost hurt expression.