After days of heat and strong but steady winds, the weather was shifting. Clouds were building up out to sea, and there was the crackle of lightning in the air. The wind was gaining in strength, and we had to fight our way round the south side of the peninsula through heavy surf. The fort stood guarding the inner curve of the harbour, so our fleet kept well off shore, out of cannon-range, while the officers of the army decided how to deploy their men. The wind continued to rise, so that once we had dropped anchor at the far eastern end of the harbour, the Victory tugged and jerked at the chain like an impatient dog. Some of the lubberly soldiers began to look green again, but when they were told to arm themselves for landing, their cheer increased. Perhaps Peniche would offer as many picking as Coruña had done.

A fleet of longboats was launched, rowed by sailors and crammed with two thousand soldiers. Before they were halfway across the bay, we saw a contingent of Spanish soldiers, in their distinctive armour and carrying the Spanish flag, emerge from the fortress and deploy around the safe landing place just below it. Dr Nuñez had come from his cabin and stood watching beside me, his knuckles shining where he gripped the rail.

‘Pray God our men have the sense to attack the Spanish soldiers and leave the Portuguese alone,’ he said. ‘Though after Coruña I put little faith in them.’

‘I think Sir John has given clear orders to his officers,’ I said, though without much conviction.

‘Let us hope you are right. What are they doing now?’

For the oarsmen had back-watered and most of the boats were changing direction.

‘I think Essex has seen the Spaniards. He’s making for the Praia da Consolação.’

The boats rowed off across the choppy waters, some of them becoming entangled with each other and rocking perilously as the great breakers rolled in from the Atlantic, driven by the rising storm. The boats were dangerously overfull. At last they sorted themselves and began to head towards Consolação. The Spaniards made no move to head them off. They must have thought a landing there was impossible. The boats pressed on, however, the one bearing Essex’s standard in the lead. As they neared the shore, we saw Essex get to his feet and stand in the bow, his tall figure impressive, despite the bobbing and dipping of his craft. Then suddenly he was gone.

‘What’s happened!’ cried Dr Nuñez.

‘He’s jumped overboard!’ I said, ‘Dear God, he’s up to his neck in the waves. It must be near six feet deep there.’

We could see Essex’s head, all that was visible, bobbing across the water towards the shore, like a pig’s bladder from a boys’ game of football floating on the surface.

‘Oh, look, the fools!’ I cried.

‘It’s too far away,’ he said. ‘I cannot see.’

Bravely, the men following Essex had jumped in after him, taking no account of the fact that he was exceptionally tall. Most of them disappeared from sight, too short and too burdened by their armour to follow his magnificent stride as he rose from the waves like some travesty of an ancient sea god, streaming with water from every joint of his armour, his helmet encircled with seaweed. A few men scrambled out of the sea behind him, but the rest never reappeared. I felt sick

In the confusion the seamen were shouting to the soldiers to stay aboard until they had beached the boats, the soldiers were standing up, uncertain whether to follow their commander or obey the sailors, the boats were rocking perilously and ramming into one another. Only Essex and a few of his followers had gained the shore when one of the other boats capsized, overloaded as it was with a cargo of landsmen who knew nothing of how to behave at sea, tipping soldiers and sailors alike into the bay, well off shore. We watched helplessly as they were swept away to the ocean by a powerful undertow.

Eventually, the remnant of the soldiers reached the shore, and we noticed then that Norreys had kept to the fortress side of the bay and was landing his disciplined men. Whether alarmed more by the mad heroics of Essex or by the calm determination of Norreys, the small group of Spaniards immediately took to their heels. We learned later that they had retreated across the isthmus to the hills opposite the peninsula.

Then to our joy and relief we saw Dom Antonio’s standard climbing above the ramparts of the fortress and the gates being thrown open, spilling out a riot of civilians – women and children amongst them. Standing in the prow of the ship, the Dom had out his handkerchief and was wiping his eyes. Ruy Lopez was ablaze with triumph. Dr Nuñez turned to me with a smile that was wry and affectionate at the same time.

‘Well, it appears, Kit, that not even Essex has been able to ruin our return to Portuguese soil. I wish your father could have been here.’

I nodded. Despite all my doubts about the expedition, I had to hold back my tears. I am not quite sure why I was weeping. Was it because we had reached Portuguese soil without being met by armed force? Was it because the dreams of these old men were about to be realised? But what of the men who had just died, needlessly, before our very eyes? Yet again the poor leadership of the expedition had cost the lives of the common soldiers and sailors. The senseless folly of Essex in leaping out into deep water had brought the deaths of his loyal followers. Overloaded boats had cost more lives. The failure to teach the soldiers how to behave in a boat had led to still more death. While those on shore were cheering and the Dom was weeping for joy, men’s bodies were being sucked away irredeemably by the ocean, while others, weighed down by armour, were even now sinking into the mud and sand at the bottom of the harbour.

There seemed to be some little flurry on the shore. A man of commanding figure was in conference with Norreys and both were gesturing emphatically. Within a few minutes, a longboat put off from the quay and rowed out to the Victory.

One of Norreys’s officers called out to us as they came alongside.

‘The Portuguese garrison is commanded by one Captain Aruajo, who is Dom Antonio’s man. He says that he will surrender to no one but the Dom himself. I am to take you all ashore.’

With some difficulty the three elderly men scrambled down into the heaving boat, and I scrambled after them, with hardly more dignity. At the quay Dom Antonio was helped ashore, and the rest of us behind him. As one, the people of Peniche knelt down, on the wave-washed quay and the sodden sand, and raised their hands and their tearful faces to their king. The tall man, Captain Aruajo, drew his sword. Holding it flat across his two palms, he offered it to Dom Antonio who took it, murmured something I could not hear, then handed it back, The captain sheathed his sword again, then took his king’s hand and kissed it.

After Plymouth, after Coruña, Peniche seemed like a paradise. A throne stood ready for the returning king. The rooms were luxuriously furnished, the fortress amply supplied with food and drink. The storm rolled in over the town soon after we landed, turning the evening skies to midday with flashes of sheet lightning and making the very buildings vibrate with the reverberations of thunder. Despite the lashing wind-borne rain, we felt we had reached a safe haven. That evening we sat down to a Portuguese feast such as I had not seen since the last night in our own home in Coimbra. The tables were laid with elegant Turkey carpets and heavy silver. There were rich tapestries on the walls and braziers scented the air with regal frankincense and sweet lavender. We drank the finest wine from Venetian glass. They had killed and roasted a whole ox, and I was reminded suddenly of a story I had heard, at the church of St Bartholomew, about a long-lost son returning to his father’s house. The noise and laughter were overwhelming.