But what if there are other hands waiting to catch him? If he falls amongst the English settlers who think they hold this island for their ageing queen, what then?
In that event, Constanza herself will be his cover. A Spanish nobleman and his daughter shipwrecked on a voyage to her marriage is a tale that should play well enough with a nation that loves the frivolity of the playhouse. Constanza will speak for him. She has good English, taught to her by Padre Robert of the Jesuit seminary at Valladolid. It was Robert Persons himself who, on the quay at Coruña the day they departed, had wished them God’s fair winds.
There is bound to be a period of confinement and interrogation in some draughty castle. But why should any minister of the English queen consider his appearance in Ireland to be anything more than what he will say it is: an unfortunate shipwreck on the way to a wedding? The food is likely to be unbearable and the company vulgar. A little of the family plate and jewels back in Castile may have to be sold to raise a ransom. But it has happened before. Who knows, in Antwerp the lucky groom may even wait, poor sap. Yes, Don Rodriquez thinks, if we fall into English hands, Constanza will be the saving of us.
The rocky cliffs are much closer now. The roar of the ocean breaking against them grows louder with every passing moment. The end cannot be long in coming. Don Rodriquez is not afraid. He has faced danger often in the service of Spain. He wonders if the dying King Philip will learn of his fate before his reign ends. A king’s prayers should count for something in the ledger of a man’s life.
Sensing movement at his shoulder, he turns – to find himself staring at a plump Madonna in a green satin gown, a black lace mantilla covering her features. For a moment he is speechless. His exhaustion must be playing tricks on his mind. Then the Madonna speaks, her voice muffled by the folds of the mantilla.
‘If I am to die, Father, I shall die as the bride of José de Vallfogona y Figaro-Madroñera!’
Constanza pulls aside the black lace veil. The full lips that have never quite decided if poise or petulance should be their lodestar are trembling. Her eyes dart from the rocks ahead to her father’s face, accusing both. Behind her, Cachorra gives a resigned shrug, as if to say, She ordered me to dress her. If she wants to drown in her trousseau, who am I to disobey her command?
Before he finds his voice, Don Rodriquez can do little but stare. ‘Christ’s most holy wounds, Daughter! What nonsense is this?’
Constanza begins to wail.
He considers telling his daughter sternly to accept what must be accepted. Face it like a true daughter of Spain. Bear it the way your late mother bore the illness that carried her off. Show the same fortitude as your dying king. But he is not an uncaring father, so he remains silent. He puts an arm around Constanza’s shoulders. Her little button-nose puckers at the smell of the vomit she left on his doublet all those hours ago.
It is Cachorra – the leopard cub that has grown to strength and beauty since that day in Hispaniola when he first set eyes upon her – who now shows more courage than any of them. She stands watching the oncoming cliffs as though they hold not the slightest danger for her. What right did I have to pluck such a flower from the edge of the known world, Don Rodriquez asks himself, only to bring it to a terrible end on a rocky Irish coast?
But it is too late now for remorse. Besides, Holy Spain has plucked whole meadows of such flowers from the golden lands across the ocean. What is one amongst so many?
The San Juan is now almost upon the rocks. Don Rodriquez can see in clear detail a jagged promontory jutting out towards the vessel, the sea breaking over its base in wild detonations of white foam that shine in the morning sunlight like clouds of jewels scattered from a giant’s hand.
As if to a silent command, several of the praying sailors rise from their knees, pointing, laughing, waving. Even cheering.
Now Don Rodriquez can make out, either side of the sharp promontory, the entrances to two sheltered coves, each with a curved strand of shingle at the foot of steep, craggy bluffs. He allows himself a brief feeling of relief. God has not forsaken Spain. God never would.
Facing the shore, he has his back to the wave that comes in from the ocean like a thousand horsemen charging flank-to-flank. It breaks against the windward side of the San Juan in an explosion of white foaming water. She rolls almost onto her beam ends, toppling crew and passengers, scattering them about and mixing them with the debris that the storm has not already washed overboard. Don Rodriquez himself fetches up against a tangle of heavy pulley blocks and cordage, breathless from the impact, the icy brine burning his eyes, soaked and bruised, but still alive.
As though reflected in an imperfect mirror glass, he sees the distorted figure of Constanza some distance away across the deck. She is lying on her back, the expensive gown he bought her for her marriage transformed into a sodden winding sheet, her arms and legs flailing wildly. He can hear her shrieking in protest at this final humiliation. And he sees Cachorra – who has served her mistress with such quiet forbearance since the day the infant Constanza was able to issue her first unreasonable demand – running towards her across what looks to him like a fast-flowing ford, kicking up water as she goes.
It is barely an instant before he sees what Cachorra has seen: Constanza’s left foot has become entangled in some rope netting that is already sliding over the side, dragging his daughter with it.
Exhausted by the storm and the sleepless hours spent in anticipation of his life’s violent end, Don Rodriquez can barely find the strength to climb to his feet, let alone follow Cachorra across the deck. He stumbles after her, his eyes brimming with salt spray. As though viewed from behind a waterfall, he sees Cachorra reach his daughter, squat down and deftly free her from the jumble of cordage.
And then a second wave bursts over the deck.
It spins him around, slamming him up against the wooden bulwark, folding him over the painted rail like someone peering over the parapet of a bridge. He stares down in stunned confusion at the seething holly-green water.
Across his sight – carried on a sudden churn of the current – sweep the upturned faces of Constanza and Cachorra. They stare up at him, as though they have yet to register the shock of being swept overboard.
And then they are gone – lost in the tumbling spume.
Don Rodriquez Calva de Sagrada lifts his head to the sky in anguish, a sky now so clear and blue that it might never have known a single storm since its very creation. A howl of despair escapes from his mouth, heard clearly even against the crash of the waves.
The tossing back of his head takes his gaze up the jagged promontory to the very top of the cliff. He searches for God’s face in the sky, wanting to demand of Him the reason for such arbitrary cruelty. But all he sees is a line of horsemen drawn up along the precipice, looking down at the drama playing out beneath them.
Bianca lets her tired eyes wander around the sparse whitewashed interior of the guest chamber. She had expected that a royal palace might have guaranteed a more comfortable night’s sleep. Beside her in the bed, which no one has thought to hang with curtains, Nicholas is sleeping the sleep of the not-quite-innocent. She is about to lean across and kiss the wiry black strands of hair where it breaks at the nape of his neck and curls back towards his ears, when she hears footsteps on the floorboards outside. An instant later, the chamber door shakes to a presumptive hammering.
Nicholas sits up beside her with a start. He stares about him, still half-snared in sleep. ‘Who calls?’ he demands. ‘Is Her Majesty sick?’