Sitting in tense silence on the rowboat back from the Santiago, Will watched the quayside for guards ready to arrest him, but every man was occupied with the frantic reprovisioning of the fleet. Why hadn't Hawksworth brought men to The Ship of Women? Why had he risked whispering to Will in the certain knowledge that Will could have slit his throat and attempted to make good his escape there and then?
Once the boat was tied up, Will uneasily joined the throng hauling barrels out of the warehouses while he tried to decide on a course of action. It was easy to lose himself in the swirl of noisy activity. New barrels were still being constructed amid a clatter of hammers, before they were lowered with grunts and curses into every available rowboat.
No one came for him. It made no sense, unless Hawksworth had a grander scheme in mind. But what could that be?
For the rest of the day, Will scanned his surroundings, the groups of stone-faced infantry, even the dark interiors of taverns and stores, but there was not even a furtive glance from the Spanish officers, no hint that anyone was the wiser about his true identity.
He was torn, but there was too much at stake to flee. Finally he decided to continue as planned and hope he could deny any allegation Hawksworth made. Once back on the Rosario, he acted as normally as possible, exchanging lewd banter with Barrett and Stanbury as he went about his allotted tasks. Occasionally, he caught glimpses of Hawksworth, but the traitor gave no sign that anything had passed between them. That puzzled Will even more.
Twilight brought a cooling breeze that eased the heat of the day. Will sat with the crew on the deck while the officers discussed Medina Sidonia's orders at the forecastle. After so long in Corunna, there was an eagerness to get back to sea although it was tempered by apprehension at what might lie ahead.
The gun to make ready sounded at midnight. Will dozed fitfully, in case Hawksworth made his move during the night, and at dawn every crew member was up with the crack of the gun ordering them to sea. It was another very hot day, and it took until midafternoon for the fleet to assemble, and by the following dawn they were finally out of sight of Spain.
Will glimpsed Hawksworth regularly, talking to the officers or overseeing some mundane task, but he continued to give no sign that anything had passed between them. With each hour, the tense atmosphere magnified until Will wanted something to happen to end the unbearable waiting, though he knew he had to board the grey-sailed ship before his identity came to light.
He had noticed that the Unseelie Court ship regularly paused alongside the Rosario, as well as the flagship and some of the other important ships, for around fifteen minutes each night. Sailing with unnatural speed, it appeared to mark out a proscribed route among the fleet, as though following a ritual path.
Fifteen minutes to board the ship, find the Silver Skull, and escape was little time, but he made his preparations regardless. In the hold among the carpenters' tools, he had located the grapnels used by boarding parties and had secreted one on deck.
That night, while the crew members slept on their filthy blankets, he crept up into the salty night air, ready to mount vigil for the grey-sailed ship pulling aside. They were sailing under a bank of low cloud, drizzle coming in sheets. The Rosario bucked across a choppy sea, and with visibility poor the night crew were occupied. Across the water, Will occasionally glimpsed the lamps of the other ships in the fleet.
Huddled against the elements, he waited. Finally, he caught sight of the silhouette of a lightless galleon ploughing across the waves on a slanting path in the channel between ships. Its speed told him it was the grey-sailed vessel.
As he went for the grapnel, he caught sight of someone emerging from below deck. Ducking down at the rail, Will watched, stock-still, as the figure searched slowly while trying to keep out of view. At the foot of the steps to the poop deck, the swinging lantern revealed Hawksworth's profile, sword drawn, but kept low at his side.
"Prowd?" he growled.
Cursing under his breath, Will peered over the rail to where the greysailed ship had now moved alongside, keeping an exact pace with the Rosario. Although dark, Will could see there was no movement on deck, no one on the poop deck or forecastle, no lookout, no sound of orders being barked. To the casual eye, it could have been abandoned and drifting with the current if not for the purposeful way it had been steered alongside. An illusion, Will decided, like the Fairy House in Edinburgh, which always appeared empty from the street.
The ship was close enough to reach with the grapnel, but Will couldn't risk trying to move between ships with Hawksworth prowling around not far away. Nor could he risk a sword fight on deck, which would quickly draw attention and awkward questions.
After a moment's thought, he left the hook where he had hidden it and pulled himself onto the rail. Fleet-footed, he bounded up the rigging, the oily rope slick beneath his fingers. Away from the shelter of the deck, the wind tore at him and the rain lashed as the ship rolled across the swell. Hooking his arm through the rigging, he waited in the knowledge that Hawksworth would probably not think to look up.
In frustration, he accepted the moment had passed for the night. As he watched the grey-sailed ship, the hairs on his neck tingled as if someone was looking back at him. He wondered what really stood on that seemingly empty deck.
Below him, Hawksworth continued to prowl, sword ready to repel any attack, with all the balance and poise of a master swordsman. It appeared he had decided to eliminate Will himself, rather than hand Will over to the Spanish commanders. Will couldn't understand Hawksworth's thinking. The capture of a live spy who could be tortured to provide vital information was a prize that could be traded for a high reward. One dead body was proof of nothing.
Will drew his knife and waited.
Hawksworth moved steadily around, clearly puzzled that Will was nowhere to be seen. He'd obviously observed Will leave his sleeping space, and had decided he was either up to no good or that it was the best time to dispatch him quietly.
Edging around to the back of the rigging, Will held on in the face of the harsh wind. When Hawksworth was beneath, he dropped. Hawksworth's cry was lost to the gale as Will smashed him to the deck, and before the traitor could recover, Will propelled him into the rail, winding him. Lunging with his knife just at the moment when the ship bucked over a large wave, Will skidded on the wet boards, and he half went down, one hand keeping his balance.
Eyes blazing, Hawksworth brought up his sword with a skill that surprised Will. "Prowd," he snarled, "or should I say `Swyfte'?"
Will couldn't wait for Hawksworth to raise the alarm. Using the momentum of the rolling ship, he threw himself forwards and plunged his knife into Hawksworth's gut. Hawksworth's eyes bulged with shock as if he was not expecting any attack. Blood splattered from his mouth.
"No!" he gasped.
Will whipped the knife out and sliced it across the artery at Hawksworth's neck. As the blood arced into the rain, the traitor slumped down against the rail, desperately trying to stem the flow, knowing it was already too late.
"You fool!" he said. "I am a spy, like you!"
"Lies at the last?" Will knelt next to Hawksworth so they would not easily be glimpsed, ready to use his knife again if Hawksworth attempted to call out.
"I worked both sides, but gave the last to Walsingham." Hawksworth's clothes were now sodden with the blood.
"He said nothing-"
"Walsingham never says anything!" More blood ran from his mouth. "The Spanish were close to uncovering me. My time was short, and I needed your aid. Together, we both could have escaped when we engage the English fleet. I have details of Parma's invasion force… locations… numbers…" He coughed, grew weaker.
"You are the fool! Why did you not identify yourself?" Will demanded.
"I had to be certain. And now it is too late! We spend so long pretending… we waste our lives on lies… we are always slain by our own deceit. All of us."
His final breath rattled from his throat, and his chin slumped onto his chest. Briefly, Will bowed his head too, so that they resembled reflections of each other, one alive, one dead. His guilt quickly turned to anger at the stupidity of the confusion, both of them hiding behind masks, both mistrusting each other.
When Will was sure no one was watching, he lifted Hawksworth to the rail and pushed him over into the sea. In the wind, and the crash of the waves against the hull, the splash was not audible. The body went under and was gone.
The grey-sailed ship still kept apace with the Rosario, but as he watched, it gained speed, pulled ahead, and then sailed across the prow and away into the dark towards the San Martin. Will stifled the bitter sting of failure with the knowledge that he no longer risked discovery, and could return the following night to try again.
But as he walked towards the steps that led below deck, he thought he glimpsed a dark shape waiting there, quickly disappearing down as he neared. Had someone seen him dump Hawksworth's body? Worse, had someone overheard their exchange?
He hurried in pursuit, but when he reached the sleeping quarters, no one stirred. There was only the sound of the waves on the hull, a steady, deathly beat like the slow tick of a clock.
((CHAPTER 48
v
he time of reckoning has come," Launceston said as dispassionately as if he were preparing for a saunter along the shore. Eerily motionless, he looked out to sea where the ships waited.
Beside him on the quayside at Plymouth, the setting sun warmed Carpenter's face, the brassy light blazing across the jumbled rooftops cascading towards the sea. "Call it what you will," Carpenter replied. "We are likely sailing to our deaths, and death at sea is not like death on dry land, the brief, honourable pain of a sword thrust or the creak of old age. It is lungs bursting with water, and madness as breath is sucked away, or roasted alive in hellish fires, or limbs left splintered by cannon, your blood leaking into your shit and piss."
"Death is death," Launceston said simply.
Everywhere was unnaturally quiet at the end of the working day as the doors of the warehouses clattered shut and the merchants bid each other a quiet farewell, hurrying away with the workers from the sail-lofts and the other businesses that served the great ships. The delivery carts rolled off lazily amid the fruity aroma of horse dung. The taverns and stews around the harbour were deserted, most of their regular drinkers now aboard the ships, others hiding away in their homes in case they were pressed into service.
"If these are our last days, Robert, we should live them to the full," Carpenter mused. "Be the men we want to be, or dream we are, or give voice to the whispers in our hearts. What say you?"
Launceston considered this for a moment, and then nodded. "You speak sense, but for some of us that is not such an easy task."
Clouds of midges danced in the lazy heat, and as the shadows lengthened, the sounds of boots clattering at a steady pace over the cobbles drew towards them from the direction of the dark, mazy streets descending the steep hill to the dock. A confident, upright man emerged, striding purposefully, his hands clasped behind his back, his chest puffed out, and his head held high as if he was being watched by everyone he passed. His brown moustache and beard were carefully trimmed for the occasion and his hair swept back from his forehead. His features would have been familiar to almost all Englishmen and Englishwomen from the surfeit of pamphlets in circulation to mark the great successes of England's bravest adventurer, navigator, and sea captain.
"Sir Francis Drake," Launceston said, adding, "Does `vice admiral' fit him better than `privateer' these days?"
"No one can doubt what he has done for England, whatever his title."
Drake had dressed in his finest clothes, a new doublet in deep brown with gold stitching at the shoulders, a high white collar, and a black collarbone protector held in place by a gold chain. He walked up to them with a pronounced swagger and enquired, "Walsingham's men?"
"Yes, sir," Carpenter replied. "We are to accompany you aboard the Revenge in case the knowledge we have gained of the Enemy…" He corrected himself. "… the Spaniards, may be of some use in the coming battle."
"Very good," Drake replied. "Good men are always welcome aboard my ship."
"It is true, then," Carpenter enquired. "The Armada has been sighted."
"Fifty Spanish ships, off the Scilly Islands this very dawn, seen from the lookout of the Golden Hind, assigned to patrol the western approaches to England. The captain, Thomas Fleming, raced to tell me himself. This day, July twenty-ninth, will never be forgotten, for it is the day that the sleeping beast of England was woken."
"As we had heard," Launceston said. "The Spanish race up the Channel to engage us at their leisure."
With pride, Drake looked to his ship, the Revenge, resting elegantly on the gleaming waves amid the other great ships. "I have spent the afternoon at Plymouth Hoe, studying the weather for any change in the direction of the wind. I have said my goodbyes to my Elizabeth, and now I am ready."
"Should there not be more haste?" Carpenter ventured.
"More haste?" Drake repeated superciliously. "Nothing could be done until the tide had turned. Besides, these are Spaniards and we are Englishmen. I could put out tomorrow morning and still whip them like dogs."
News of Drake's arrival at Sutton Harbour spread quickly in whispers along the narrow streets. Soon groups of old women and men gathered to see the great hero, shooing the clutches of excited children racing and playing along the harbour's edge.
Drake briefly moved among them, bragging about the natural prowess of Englishmen, and by the time he left they were all cheering and pumping his hand.
"He plays his part well," Launceston observed, "like Will."
"I am not so sure it is a role with Drake," Carpenter replied. "He believes his own legend."
A rowboat took them out from the quay to the Revenge in the lee of St. Nicholas' Island. Drake's eyes never left his ship as they neared. "How can the Spaniards even hope to win this war?" he said. "They circulated full details of the strength of their Armada, hoping it would strike fear into us and encourage the powers of Europe to support them. All it did was give us a tactical advantage." He waved his hand towards his ship. "Thirteen years old, forty-three guns, firing shot of nine pounds to sixty pounds in weight. What fine firepower for an Englishman! Thanks to the Spanish, we now know that their most heavily armed vessel, the San Lorenzo, has forty guns, and sixteen are but sakers or minions firing only four or six pound a shot." He laughed, his eyes gleaming.
Carpenter watched him closely. He'd heard the stories but had never encountered Drake before, and he wondered if his bravado rang true. Whether it did or not, Drake's confidence was infectious. The black mood that had gripped him since he had disembarked the Tempest lifted slightly.
A hundred feet long at the keel, but appearing even larger, the Revenge grew more imposing as they neared. It was weather worn and its green and white chevrons had faded slightly, but that only gave it the appearance of a seasoned warhorse. Carpenter could smell the sticky bitterness of the fresh tar that turned the keel a shining black.
On deck, the crew waited in small groups to greet Drake. Drake never met their eyes, but Carpenter could see they were comforted by his presence. The great cannon gleamed, the gun crews standing at the ready. As if in silent prayer, he glanced up the mainmast to where the sails were furled at the yards, gave an approving nod, and then began his final inspection.
As the last glimmer of the setting sun lit the waters ablaze, the wind from the sea turned, and with the tide on the ebb, the signal gun fired. Slowly but steadily, the Revenge and the other great English galleons began their journey down Plymouth Sound. Night fell.
Once they were in open water, the crew scaled the rigging like monkeys to unfurl the sails. Carpenter knew this was a crucial time. The Spanish could have been waiting to bear down on them, but the topmen reported no ships ahead, though the danger would remain until first light. Drake gave the order for all lanterns to be extinguished, and they moved forwards as part of the night.
Launceston stood at the rail, his deathly pallor unnerving some of the crew who bowed their heads and muttered prayers as they passed. Carpenter thought a strange mood had come upon him.
"Will they strike now, coming out of the dark before our journey has even begun, like the death we spoke of ashore?" he mused.
Carpenter didn't know what to say, and left him there to watch Drake as he strode proudly across the still-warm deck, the master of his world.
When dawn came, the seas were still empty and the tense mood lifted slightly. The fleet of fifty-four ships led by Lord Howard of Effingham sailed out into mist and squalls.
At three p.m. that day, an exuberant Drake summoned Carpenter to the poop deck. "Would you like your first sight of our enemy?" he said gleefully.
Carpenter peered into the drizzle, but could see nothing, even when the rain cleared briefly. He eyed Drake to see if he was finding humour at the expense of a man who had not earned his sea legs. He was surprised to see Drake watching him deferentially.
"I, and all England, owe you a great deal," he said. "You have turned the tide of this war."
Carpenter was lost for words. From behind his back, Drake handed him a long tube of shaped beechwood, bounded by brass hoops. A second tube slid in and out of it, and there was glass in the end.
"What is this?" Carpenter asked, still unsure if he was to be made a joke.
Drake pressed the tube to Carpenter's eye and positioned him. Spanish sails loomed up in Carpenter's vision, shocking him so much he almost dropped the device. He lowered it, but could no longer see the sails.
"They are far away," he stuttered, "beyond my natural sight. Yet this device lets me see them. Is this some of Dee's magic?"
Drake laughed. "It is Dee's magic, but not in the way you mean. It is called a tele-scope. This arrangement of glass draws closer that which is distant. No supernatural power there, only human ingenuity."
Admiring the tele-scope, Carpenter said, "I never knew we had such a thing. How is that?"
"No one knows. No one will know, for many years to come. It is a secret, and you would know about those things. There is plenty that never reaches the ears of the common man, am I correct?"
Carpenter nodded. "But what has this to do with me?"
"As I heard it from Lord Walsingham, Dee worked upon a type of this very device, in years gone. He heard whispers and talk among his kind…" Drake smacked his lips in disapproval. "… that some Italian painter had drawn designs for this tele-scope many centuries past, and so he set about building one. He struggled to find the right glass, until word reached him of another similar design, being studied by the tsar's magicians."
Carpenter's brow furrowed. "In Muscovy?"
"The tsar's device did not work either, but he had a different part of the puzzle. And so two brave spies were sent to retrieve his invention-"
"This is what Will brought back!" Carpenter said, examining the simple tube. "I thought it was some great weapon."
"You do not understand its importance," Drake said. "Only a true seaman would. This tele-scope will turn the tide of battle. We can study the Spanish ships from afar, watch their preparations, their direction, and we can be upon them at the point of our choosing."
Carpenter was too stunned to speak.
"I heard you paid a great price for the recovery of the item that led to this great thing Dee has made," Drake continued. "Know you, then, that every scar you bear marks a thousand… nay, ten thousand English lives that have been saved this day. Saved by you, Master Carpenter. Your sacrifice will keep England free."
Dumbfounded, Carpenter could barely respond to Drake's praise. He made his way down the steps from the poop deck, his mind struggling to reconcile the bitterness that had encysted his heart since Will had abandoned him with the new knowledge of what had been won.
As he gathered his thoughts by the rail in the salty spray, he decided this new information had to be conveyed to Launceston, whom he had not seen since dawn had broken. He searched the length of the deck, and then plunged into the stifling, near-deserted confines below, his puzzlement growing by the moment. Eventually, he had exhausted all possibilities apart from the sec tion of the hold containing the sail stores, timber, carpenters' tools, and all the items necessary to keep the great ship afloat.
When he called out, his voice was lost beneath the symphony of sound that filled every ship, the constant boom of waves against the hull and the chorus of creaking as every board flexed to cope with the pressures upon them. His view obscured by canvas hanging like drapes amid piles of timber, he worked his way through the obstacles, pulling back sheet after sheet.
As he drew back the final covering, he was convulsed with shock. Had he suddenly stepped into hell? As red as the Devil, Launceston loomed over a sticky mess, his knife still dripping. When he looked at Carpenter, fires blazed in his eyes, and it took a second for him to focus. With a faint, dreamy smile, he said softly, "What wonders to behold."
It took Carpenter several seconds to comprehend what lay before him. "Is… is that the cabin boy?"
Launceston examined the mess, and appeared to see it for the first time himself. His smile now had the sheepish cast of a man caught out drunk before night had fallen. "Do not judge me, John," he said.
"Judge you?" Carpenter ran a hand through his hair as his thoughts reeled with all the possibilities that now lay ahead.
The knife slipped from Launceston's slick fingers and he stood up, his expression haunted. "I have… unnatural desires, John. I know my shortcomings, and I fight every day to keep them under control, but what you said… about being who we are… in the shadow of death-"
"I did not mean this!" Head in his hands, Carpenter crashed onto a pile of timber. "I must think. Damn you! This will destroy everything!"
"We are who we are. Our natures rule us, for better or worse. What makes me like this makes me a valuable tool for England, and the queen, and Walsingham." He released a deep, juddering breath.
As Launceston's words settled on him, Carpenter glared. "They know?"
The earl did not respond directly. "I do not wish to be this way. My life is filled with torments," he said, his voice breaking. "This business makes us monsters to deal with monsters. I wish only the peace of a summer afternoon, but this is my world now, and always." With disgust, he looked down at what lay at his feet. Tears sprang to his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. "Help me, John," he pleaded.
After a moment, Carpenter stood and rested a hand upon his shoulder. "We must dispose of all this before it is discovered. And get you cleaned up." Carpenter reeled. He had always sensed Launceston was not like other men, but he had turned a blind eye to the extent of the darkness lurking within. Did that make him complicit in Launceston's atrocity? The notion sickened him.
"Thank you, thank you," Launceston muttered pathetically.
"We are in this together," Carpenter said with a sigh as he saw the magnitude of what lay ahead. "Damn you, Robert. Damn you."
((CHAPTER 49
v
reeping on deck when the sun had set, Will feared it was his last chance to board the grey-sailed ship. Since he had killed Hawksworth, every attempt had been thwarted by events beyond his control, and now, with battle looming, he had to risk all.
Hawksworth had been missed the day after Will had disposed of the body, but it was presumed he had either thrown himself overboard in a fit of despair or had fallen; it was not an unusual occurrence. Will had spent the first few days brooding over the stupidity and confusion that had led to Hawksworth's death, but he knew it was one of the risks of his profession where every face was a mask. Soon the dark thoughts were washed from him, as he was sucked into the feverish preparations for the coming battle. Day after day the crew engaged in dry runs of the battle procedure under the urgent eyes of the clearly unsettled commanders. Fearful faces turned towards the grey horizon in every free moment, and rumours spread beneath deck like fire. Increasingly frustrated by the lack of opportunity to reach the Unseelie Court ship, Will could only wait. And then, that night, he seized his moment.
The night was clear, with a large swell, but there was no more rain, which would make his task easier. Below, the crew grabbed fitful hours of sleep in preparation for what would likely be an eventful day.
Locating the grapnel, Will waited patiently at the rail for the grey-sailed ship. Along the coast of England, beacons blazed, warning of the threat off the shore and calling the nation to war. It was Saturday, July 30, and the Armada was at anchor at Dodman Point in a state of heightened anxiety after sailing east along the Channel.
Earlier, he was convinced his final opportunity to find Mayhew and the Skull had slipped through his fingers. As the Spaniards watched the beacons, an English pinnace had swept across the bows and fired a single shot. But it was more to mock than threaten and the pinnace disappeared as the La Rata Santa Maria Encoronada returned fire to no avail. The English fleet was sighted, but they did not attack. Medina Sidonia and his Spanish commanders had made sure they had the weather gage, the best position in relation to the wind and coastline. They would wait out the night before battle commenced at dawn.
Finally, Will caught sight of the grey-sailed ship making its strange, circuitous journey around the fleet with what appeared to be increased urgency. Once it sailed alongside, he clambered onto the rail, braced himself against the rigging, and spun the grapnel before letting it fly. It fell short, splashing into the waves. Quickly, he hauled it in and adjusted his next throw for distance. This time it caught in the rigging of the grey-sailed ship. Tightly fastening his end to the Rosario's rigging, he gripped the rope firmly and then swung his legs up, crossing his ankles over the top to hang like one of the monkeys that performed in the market on Cheapside.
He'd left some slack, but his fear was that one or other of the ships would sail away and tear the rope free, plunging him into the black waves. Ignoring the blast of the wind, he shimmied along the rope. At the midpoint between the two ships, the swell swung the rope wildly and it took all his strength to hold on. Beneath him, the waves grasped for his back, driven high by the furious confusion of battling currents, two inches beneath him, one, his clothes soaked by the spray.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself slowly up the curve towards the grey-sailed ship, one hand at a time. His fingers slid on the slick rope, his heart beating out every second the journey took.
By the time he reached the rail, his limbs were shaking from the strain. With a final effort, he hauled himself over the rail and onto the deck. The roll of the ship made him land harder and more noisily than he intended, and he quickly hid in the lee of the quarterdeck.
The stillness was unsettling. A strange odour hovered over everything, sickly-sweet but with a florid bitterness beneath, like mould on an apple in the autumn orchard. After a moment he heard the tramp of boots, which paused above his head and then moved towards the steps. Someone was investigating the dull sound of his landing.
Drawing his knife, he waited in the shadows against the steps as the ship pitched and yawed, seawater sluicing across the boards. From his hiding place, Will could not see who approached-a lookout? The helmsman?-and he only had the noise of the boots to estimate the position. When the figure loomed at the foot of the steps, he brought his knife up and across the throat. He had a glimpse of long brown hair and blazing eyes, and then as hands went to the open throat, Will spun him around and pitched him straight over the rail into the sea.
Once he was below deck, the constant roar of the sea retreated, but the sickly orchard smell was stronger. He could hear nothing beneath him apart from the steady heartbeat of the pumps keeping out the seawater. On either side, the quarters appeared empty. The crew would be in the berth, resting among the cannon. Will did not want to risk disturbing them and bringing every one of the Enemy upon him.
All depended on where Mayhew was being held. Would they be cruel enough to imprison him in the vile conditions beneath the waterline, with the rats and the stench? He was too valuable for that. That left the officers' quarters, the captain's own quarters, the brig, or the infirmary, if the Unseelie Court needed such things.
As he progressed, distorted sounds faded in and out of the unsettling silence, reminding him once again of the Fairy House-voices chanting in an incomprehensible language, mournful pipe music.
The door to the officers' quarters was ajar. Inside a group of figures sat around a long table, heads bowed, their faces hidden in the half-light. Although they appeared to be communicating with each other, all was quiet. He could see four, guessed there could be as many as ten.
Slipping by, he continued to the great cabin and the captain's cabin. The door here was also partly open. Inside, flickering lanterns cast shifting shadows as a male swayed around the room soundlessly in what appeared to be some kind of ritual. His movements reminded Will of the pattern the ship defined on the sea. A bitter aroma filled the air, incense or burned herbs, and there was the occasional gleam of objects, a chalice, he thought, a knife with a cruelly curved blade.
In the bowels of the galleon, it was darker, and damper, the sour stink rising from below the water level. Outside the door to the berth, he felt an uncomfortable pressure upon him from the other side. Blood trickled from his nose and a dull buzz echoed in his head.
Beyond more deserted officers' quarters, he found what would have been the infirmary and mess on an English galleon. Here the door was locked, and no sound came from within.
Removing the velvet pack of locksmith's tools all Walsingham's men carried with them, he got to work. He was not an expert lock-pick like some in the service, but after a moment he heard the tumblers turn with a dull clunk. Hesitating a moment to see if there was a response from the other side, he slowly swung the door open.
A slow-pulsing white light forced the shadows back, holding them at bay for a second before they swooped back in. It came from a glass globe just large enough to be contained in two hands, resting on a small table. Inside the globe was another that opened and closed like an iris, releasing the steady beat of light. It was of such a unique appearance, it had to be of some importance, but Will could not guess its purpose. Three more of the globes stood on plinths on the boards beneath the table, but no light emanated from them.
Wary of triggering an unseen alarm, he studied the room before taking a step inside. In the glare beyond the globe, the gloom held a figure lying on a mat on the boards, asleep or drugged. The glint of silver told him it was Mayhew. Beside the door was an open-topped barrel. From the salty smell, it appeared to contain only seawater, but as he reached towards the surface to test the liquid, an eel-like creature about as thick as his arm burst from the depths, snapping for his fingers. He withdrew his hand just in time, but he had glimpsed teeth like needles. He had never seen its like before.
Time grew short. He intended to kill Mayhew and cut off his head, as he had done with Don Alanzo's father, dumping the Silver Skull into the sea to be lost for all time. But as he took three steps towards the prone figure, he suddenly found himself facing the door.
The disconnection left him reeling. He tried to approach Mayhew again, but the same thing happened. Finally, he decided the inexplicable turn must have been caused by the pulsing globe. It was a protection device of some kind, either working its influence upon his mind and disorienting him, or physically spinning him around in the blink of an eye. Whatever, he could not get near to Mayhew, nor could he approach the globe to destroy it.
In frustration, he retraced his route to the steps where he grabbed one of the lanterns that illuminated the passageway. The sounds in the ship came to him more clearly, as if the longer he spent there, the more attuned he became to the peculiar qualities that existed on board. A carpet of rats scurried away from his feet as he descended to the lowest level, the orlop deck, the store for the spare sails, rigging, timber, and carpenters' tools, the galley, magazine, and brig. Amid the foul smell of bilge in the damp and the dark, he swayed across the rolling deck to where the grey sails hung. Any second now the ship would start to sail away and he would be trapped aboard.
Stacking the timber to create a pit, he used the lantern to set fire to one of the sails within it. Leaping flames rapidly filled the deck with thick smoke.
In the right conditions, the fire would send the ship down to the bottom of the Channel, and Mayhew and the damned Unseelie Court with it. At worst, he hoped it would cause enough damage to make it worthless to the fleet.
As he pounded up the steps, rapid activity erupted in the berth. He only just made it past the door when it was thrown open and bodies rushed out on the trail of the rising smoke.
On deck, he saw the ship had started to sail away. Without stopping, he leapt over the rail and grabbed the now-taut grapnel rope, swinging his feet up to shimmy along it. The rope strained beneath his fingers as the two great ships pulled apart. Below, the waves surged hungrily towards him.
Fearing a break at any moment, he dropped his legs and used his arms alone to power him on. He didn't slow until he grabbed hold of the Rosario's rigging and released the grapnel rope into the churning water.
The grey-sailed ship had come to a halt, the smoke swirling in the wind. With satisfaction that he had struck a decisive blow, Will settled against the rail to watch the mounting conflagration. A second later he heard movement at his back. Barrett was there, and Stanbury, and several others drawing closer.
"Spy!" Barrett snarled.
Will had a second to guess Barrett had seen him dispose of Hawksworth's body, and then a fist laid him flat.
He came round to the silver of a new day, wrists bound behind him, head still ringing, a light breeze caressing his bruised face. As his vision cleared, he saw he was on a forecastle, looking down at a crew gathered in a crescent. They stared back at him with hateful eyes. At the front stood Medina Sidonia and several of the other Spanish commanders; it appeared he had been transported from the Rosario to the San Martin. Nearby, the grey-sailed ship listed, although no fire damage was visible from his vantage point. He guessed he had been under observation since he had killed Hawksworth, and his boarding of the grey-sailed ship had been the final condemning evidence against him.
Don Alanzo stepped before him. Though he attempted to remain aloof, a deep hatred burned in his eyes. "You are like a disease, infecting the very heart of our glorious empire," he said quietly. "But we have a cure."
"Your empire is already black and corrupted. Your sister knows the truth, Don Alanzo."
In a blaze of anger, Don Alanzo made to strike Will, but caught himself. "Your part in this business is now done." He paused. "By business, I mean life."
"So, an execution at sea. Do I not have the right to be heard?"
"A spy has no rights."
"I hope you feel the same if you are ever captured on English soil." He nodded towards the grey-sailed ship. "Should you ever reach England. Without your dogs, you are a toothless opponent."
Don Alanzo's cheeks flushed. "Our allies are already at work repairing their vessel. You have caused a delay, not an end."
"With England's ships so close, a delay may be more than enough."
Don Alanzo held Will's gaze. "I know the inner workings that drive you." A shadow crossed his face, and for a moment Will understood him too. "You have no regard for your life, and there is little I can do that will cause you pain," he continued. "But you must know punishment for your crimes before you die… for your crimes against Spain, and against my family. Against me."
"There is nothing you can do-" Will was cut short by the flash of a familiar face in the crowd as Barrett and Stanbury dragged Grace to the front. Her frightened eyes looked up at him in desperation.
"Leave her alone!" he snapped.
"I had no wish to harm her. You did this. You brought her to misery. Let that stain your conscience as you die."
"There is much of the Unseelie Court in your cruelty," Will said.
Don Alanzo winced, but there was still some joy in his eyes at the pain he was causing Will.
"Do not kill her," Will pleaded.
"I will not. She is vital to our allies' plans, and therefore to our plans. But I can protect her no longer. I allowed her to sail on La Arca de las Mujeres to keep her safe from harm. You have forfeited that right. She will be taken from here to that ship…" He indicated the grey-sailed vessel. "… and she will travel with our allies."
"No!" Will cried. He tried to throw himself at Don Alanzo, but a guard caught his arms and flung him to the deck. "No man or woman can abide being among them for any period. Their very presence is corrupting. She could be driven mad, or worse. You know this!"
"On your head," Don Alanzo said quietly.
Grace cried out as Barrett and Stanbury roughly dragged her towards the rail to transport her by rope to the grey-sailed ship. In fury, Will renewed his efforts to reach Don Alanzo and felt the pommel of the guard's sword crash against the back of his head, plunging him into unconsciousness once more.
When he came round again, Grace was nowhere to be seen. He was leaning against the rail, a rope wrapped around him and stretching across the deck, the other end trailing over the side into the water. Two teams of men waited on either rail so he could be pulled tight against the barnacled keel.
"We have no time to waste here, or I would relish inflicting suffering on you," Don Alanzo said. "Your death will be quick, but your suffering no less for haste."
"Do it, then." Will's head was hazy from the punishment of two blows. "I have damaged your plans. My life is a fair price if it brings you to your knees."
Don Alanzo ignored Will's taunting. He appeared calmer now that he could see Will's end was close. "You are not a seafaring man. Nor am I. Punishment at sea has its own particular flavour, I am told. What you are about to undergo has proven effective in the Dutch navy, according to the mercenaries aboard."
Will's gaze followed the trailing rope. "Keelhauling," he said.
Don Alanzo nodded. "Pulled tight and fast, the rope will drag you down, under the water, and along the keel. Barnacles affixed to the keel will slice through clothes, and tear off skin, and the bloody prisoner that emerges on the other side of the ship is thereby made repentant. Pulled slack and slow, the prisoner hangs beneath the keel, and drowns. Either way, you will not survive this ordeal."
Unbidden, the terrible, shattering sensation of drowning Will had experienced in the Fairy House flashed across his mind. With all his will, he fought back the wave of terror. "Come, then. I would not delay your encounter with my countrymen. Your own reckoning awaits." He cast one eye towards the grey-sailed ship, and tried not to think of Grace.
At Don Alanzo's nod, Barrett and Stanbury lifted Will onto the rail, and then steadied the rope trailing from his back. On the other side of the deck, four sailors prepared to drag him under.
"And so the debt to my father is paid," Don Alanzo began. "This day-"
"Do not torture me with prattle." Will flashed lion Alanzo a defiant grin, and leapt from the rail. He took pleasure in Barrett's angry cry as the rope burned through his hands, and then he hit the water. The cold shocked the last of the wool from his head. His lungful of air would not last long. The two teams of sailors both now had the rope taut, dragging him directly beneath the ship where he was held tight against the barnacle-encrusted hull.
The air burned in his lungs, and however much he tried, he could not escape the haunting sense-memories of his torture in Edinburgh.
With a tremendous effort, he ignored the panic pricking his thoughts, the flashes of what would happen the moment he exhausted his breath, the water rushing into his lungs, the feeling of being trapped. By will alone, he calmed himself.
Pressing his right arm against the keel, he released the trigger on the hidden blade in the leather forearm guard under his shirtsleeve. He prayed he would have the opportunity to thank Dee for his ingenuity.
Twisting, he rubbed his restraining rope against the blade, which quickly frayed and broke under the sharp edge. He drifted down from the keel, towards the dark depths.
His lungs burned. He could not last much longer without another breath. On deck, they would realise the rope had broken and would be watching out for him. Kicking out for the stern, he surfaced just beyond the rudder before his lungs burst, and trod water. They would not be able to see him from above, but one of the other ships might spy him if he waited too long. From above came the calls of his enemies as they hung over the rails searching the water.
With difficulty, he rubbed the bonds at his wrists along the edge of the rudder, and after several attempts, the wet ropes loosened until he was able to wriggle his hands free.
Gulping air, he continued underwater beneath the next ship. The rest of the fleet was visible all around, but they would be too distracted preparing for the battle to see him in the water. After a brief rest, he carried on, surfacing for air at every ship, until he reached open water.
He was free, but adrift in the middle of the English Channel. How long could he survive before exhaustion dragged him down to his death?