The Portuguese Affair by Ann Swinfen Page A

is one of my earliest memories, travelling there in a coach with my mother and brothers and sisters, with my father riding beside us. We used to listen for the cry of the gulls and try to be the first to catch sight of the sea. Later, when I was older, I rode with my father, so I always saw the sea first, having a better view.’
    I thought, This is why he is here. It has nothing to do with driving out the Spanish and putting Dom Antonio on the throne. He is in search of his lost childhood.
    I turned away. Perhaps that was partly why I was here as well.
    We spent the night at anchor in Dover harbour. The leaders of our party went ashore to attend a banquet given by the mayor and councillors of the town. Although Dr Nuñez tried to persuade me to accompany them, I had no wish for a long evening of eating and drinking too much and listening to too many worthy speeches. As dusk fell, after taking supper with the junior officers, I made my way to my corner behind the water barrel. No one paid any particular attention to me. I was no part of the working crew, nor was I one of the distinguished passengers, the leaders of the gentlemen adventurers. Grateful for the anonymity given me by my ambivalent position amongst the people aboard the Victory , I did my best to bed down on deck. Earlier I had managed to filch a couple of blankets from one of the hammocks below decks, but I could not pretend I was going to be comfortable. Sleeping on straw with the horses on the Silver Swan had been luxury compared with this. By the time we reached Portugal I should be black and blue all over.
    It was well past dark when I heard the shore party returning, well wined and dined by the sound of them, Dom Antonio’s voice overriding them all, strident and assertive. I had had little chance to observe him so far, but what I had seen did not impress me with a sense of his royalty and dignity. He seemed inflated and boastful, full of pride at the moment, yet I sensed he would become querulous and ill-tempered if matters should fail to go his way.
    My bed proved uncomfortable but private, as I managed to keep out of sight of the crew while they went about their duties. I felt secure, though I hoped the weather would remain fine. That first night I slept in fitful snatches. We remained at anchor in Dover harbour; the night was still and full of stars. Without even a thin palliasse or a layer of straw beneath me, every position I took hurt my shoulders, my hips or my back. Before dawn I was sitting propped up against the barrel, wondering how I could make my hidden bed more comfortable.
    After we had broken our fast, we watched a troop of soldiers marched down from the castle to the harbour, then ferried out to two of the other galleons, not our own ship. I counted just twenty men. Either Dover could spare no more or else Sir Anthony Torrington, the commander of the garrison, had beaten Sir John Norreys down to this paltry number. Apart from the experienced soldiers due to be sent over from the Low Countries to meet us in Plymouth, these were the only trained soldiers we would be carrying. I screwed up my eyes, trying to make out whether Andrew Joplyn was amongst them. If he was, I did not see him.
    Once the soldiers from Dover were aboard, we weighed anchor and with the rest of the fleet made our way out of the harbour and into the English Channel. In the early summer the Channel was calm, and we proceeded along the south coast of England with a moderate following wind. Before last year’s battle we would have feared attack from Spanish ships plying back and forth along these waters to the lands they occupied in the Low Countries, but the Spanish navy was still at home, licking its wounds. Not even the French were to be seen, apart from a few fishing boats, busy about their own affairs close to their own coast. We dropped anchor in Plymouth harbour three days after leaving Dover without any incident to trouble us. Here, as off Gravelines, it was hard to