Mark Chadbourn - The Silver Skull
Santos guided Will out of the room, but did not close the door. "I will find you a razor, scissors, and dye. Now: have you everything I can give you to bring misery to the hated Spanish?"
"Your gifts and my own wits are all I need."
Santos's polite bow only just hid years of mounting hatred. "Then I must tidy up here. I will meet you downstairs shortly." He drew his knife and prepared to step into the attic room again before turning back briefly, his face haunted in the candlelight. "These times make monsters of all of us," he said. "I wonder sometimes where is the simple man who took joy from the art he created in the hills around Lisbon. I fear he is lost forever."
With that, he stepped into the attic room and closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER 45
ake one more step and I will cut off your ears and your nose!" the Spanish officer barked in faltering English. One hand lay on the hilt of his knife, and he looked as if he wished to mutilate Will whether he complied or not.
Will came to a halt at the top of the rope ladder, on the brink of stepping onto the deck of the Nuestra Senora del Rosario, one of the most heavily armed ships in the Spanish fleet.
"Papers!" the officer demanded. Snatching them from Will's fingers, he cast an eye over the stolen documents while keeping Will's face in view. The cursory glance came to a sharp halt, and he read one section in detail, his brow knitting, before staring deeply into Will's eyes. When he drew his knife suddenly, Will was sure he had been discovered, and went for his own hidden knife. But then the officer jabbed the blade past him to indicate a clutch of three men further along the deck, and thrust the papers back into Will's hand with a contemptuous expression.
Playing his part, Will gave a sullen nod and climbed on board. Freshly clean-shaven, with trimmed hair dyed to turn it from black to dark brown, he was now William Prowd, a mercenary fighting man fresh from the campaign in the Netherlands. As such, he was not expected to be a seasoned sailor and could easily disguise his ignorance of the detail of the backbreaking work on deck. And with a supply of dye to keep his hair brown, he hoped he could survive for weeks, if necessary. By judgment or chance, Santos had done his work well.
But he was now trapped on a ship full of enemies who would take his life in a moment, amid a vast fleet filled with thousands more cutthroats en route to the fiercest battle the world had known. He would not be able to rest for a second.
The dawn had broken, clear and golden, with a light wind off the Atlantic, the sticky scent of pine from the forested hills mingling with the tang of salt and the rich aroma of fresh fish from the small boats unloading their catch on the quayside. Amid the discordant screech of seagulls, Will had made his way to the ship early to avoid unnecessary scrutiny.
The Nuestra Senora del Rosario was moored on the far side of what the locals called the floating forest. It was a carrack, with a soaring forecastle that would prove a terrifying prospect for any would-be boarders. It was also the Spanish pay-ship, carrying the wages of every man sailing with the Armada, and as such Will knew it would be a prime target for England's pirates. The last thing he wanted was to be slain by his own countrymen within sight of home, if he survived that far.
The three men eyed Will suspiciously as he drew near. They were all English. Two were mercenaries like Will, happy to sell themselves to the highest bidder: Henry Barrett was a barrel of a man with enormous muscular arms that looked like they could crush bones, and a big belly, a shaven head, and protruding ears framing a face that had the half-lidded expression of someone on the brink of exploding into a rage; Jerome Stanbury was slight next to his associate but still muscular, with a hooked nose and lank greyblack hair hanging down to his shoulders. The third, Walter Hakebourne, was a coastal pilot who would guide the ship to safe harbour once they arrived in England. A small man, he appeared permanently anxious and on edge as if he expected an attack at any moment.
"Have ye heard the news?" Stanbury said. "Philip has sent his orders to sail. This day, May the ninth, is one for our journals, eh, friend? We will make good money out of this, for even when we reach England the Spanish will require much fighting and peacekeeping."
"How long till we are ready to depart?" Will asked.
"We can be ready in hours, for this is a well-run ship. It is under the command of lion Pedro de Valdes, one of the Armada's main commanders," Hakebourne stuttered. "But the rest of 'em? I would say two days."
As the day gradually warmed, they continued to speak about little of import in the curt manner of men who trusted no one: the poor quality of the food, their doubts about the management of the purchasing of provisions for the voyage, the inadequacy of many of the Spanish sailors. Guiding the conversation in an oblique manner, Will attempted to discover more vital information about Medina Sidonia's plans for the Armada, but it quickly became clear that the men knew nothing, nor wanted to know. They were only interested in the money they were going to pocket, and were ready to do anything asked of them.
A buzz began to spread across the other ships in the harbour, voices raised cheerily, shouts and song, as news spread of the arrival of the king's orders and the certain knowledge that the crews' long wait would soon be over. It was the irony of their work; whenever they were at sea they craved the comforts of port, but when on dry land, they could not wait to return to sea.
"This will be over in no time," Barrett grunted. "The Spanish officers told Hawksworth that Elizabeth still persists with peace negotiations with Parma, when Philip has no intention of seeing them concluded. There is no time for England to get its defences in place. We will stride right up to the door of the queen's bedchamber, knock politely, and ask for entry!"
They all laughed, but Will's mind was racing. "Hawksworth?" he asked.
Uneasily, they exchanged brief, flickering glances as Stanbury said, "Sir Richard Hawksworth. You have heard tell of him?"
Will had. Hawksworth had spent his time in the shadow of the treacherous Sir William Stanley, but his reputation for deceit and cruelty was, if anything, even greater. In the Netherlands, while helping Stanley complete his betrayal of the city of Deventer to the duke of Parma for a substantial purse of gold, he was rumoured to have sent his own brother to his death for money. In a stew of traitors, cutthroats, and liars, Hawksworth would always be the least trustworthy. More worrying to Will, Hawksworth had spent a great deal of time at court, and while he had never met Will face-to-face, he knew of his reputation, and perhaps other telling details too.
The mention of his name had certainly troubled the others for they had grown bad-tempered, and there was still one thing Will wished to know before they sloped off below deck.
"I have heard tell," he said, leaning in conspiratorially, "of strange things occurring around this fleet. Of portents ... and apparitions. I would not sail with a fleet that is cursed."
Will knew many of the sailors and fighting men were superstitious, a response to the closeness of death in their lives, but he was surprised by the reaction. Barrett, Stanbury, and Hakebourne all went for the items they carried to ward off ill fortune: a rabbit's foot, medallion, and ring.
"I myself saw, two nights gone, mysterious lights under the waves after dark had fallen, moving from the shore to ship ... several ships," Hakebourne whispered.
"The beer turned to vinegar at an inn on the quayside after a drunken Spaniard cursed the Fair Folk." Barrett looked over his shoulder as if he expected someone to be standing on the ship's rail at his back.
"Spectres," Stanbury muttered. "Glimpsed in the evening mist, stalking the forests around Lisbon." He pointed an accusing finger at Will. "Do not mention them again."
Will didn't need to-he already had the answer he required: the Unseelie Court was accompanying the Armada to England. He was amid even more enemies than he had feared.
His question had cast a pall over their conversation and as they prepared to break up so Will could find his berth for the night, they were hailed loudly by a tall, flamboyantly dressed man with a pockmarked face. Will noticed he rarely blinked, so that he resembled one of the lizards he had seen basking in the sun on the rocks during his journey from El Escorial.
"Watch your back," Stanbury said quietly. "It is Hawksworth."
His heavy-lidded gaze flickered across those present before alighting on Will. Hawksworth's brow knitted briefly before he spoke, but his gaze kept returning to Will for unsettling periods. "I have just returned from a council of war on the flagship," he pronounced. Will knew Hawksworth was not one of the inner circle, however much he pretended, so he could only have been on the ship as an associate of Stanley, and was likely not privy to anything of importance. "You will have heard the order to sail has arrived, yes?" Hawksworth continued. "But the king also sent another missive, warning that English spies may attempt to sneak into the fleet. We must be on our guard at all times. You all have correct papers, yes?" He spoke to the group at large, but his eyes suggested he was only addressing Will.
Will showed him the papers, and that appeared to satisfy him, although as he swaggered away from the group he cast one final, curious glance at Will.
Soon after, Will was put to work in the hold securing siege guns and other weapons for the land war, which would be put to good use against vulnerable English towns along the south coast once the Spanish broke through the sea defences.
The Spanish officers worked the crew hard, but the sense of anticipation was high. The waiting and the boredom had started to prove self-destructive, and everyone was eager to put to sea, however much danger lay ahead. As they worked, Barrett and Stanbury bantered with a gallows humour, only falling silent whenever Hawksworth passed by. He appeared to do no work himself, and spent most of his time attempting to inveigle himself with the Spanish officers who showed little interest, and some irritation, in him.
As dusk fell, Will finally found his cramped sleeping space in the gloomy, noisy below-deck compartment. The crew slept on the bare boards with only one coarse dogswain blanket for comfort and a folded jerkin for a pillow. It was impossible to move without jostling another crew member, and the air was heavy with the vinegar-sour reek of sweat, and urine, and the everpresent stink of vomit from those who had consumed too much drink. After they'd eaten, the men turned to raucous sing-alongs or played cards, or told tales of their time at sea.
Much later, when he was sure his absence would not be noticed, Will crept on deck and examined the lights flickering across the floating city, mirroring the stars above.
Briefly, he considered swimming among the ships to try to find Grace and the Silver Skull and steal them away before they put to sea, but the chances of his discovery were high and of his locating The Ship of Women in such a mass were low.
Medina Sidonia's flagship, the San Martin, was moored close by, and throughout the day Will had surreptitiously watched the comings and goings on board for any sign of lion Alanzo, without any luck. But as he stood at the rail studying the ship, his attention was caught by familiar, unsettling movement-grey shapes flitting across the deck, insubstantial in the dark.
He watched the Enemy for long moments, trying to make sense of what they were doing on board, wondering how much the Spanish knew of the threat in their midst; for he knew the Unseelie Court would easily turn on their current allies once England was destroyed. Suddenly he became aware that one of the indistinct figures had come to a halt and was standing at the rail.
Looking at him?
Will ducked down and moved quickly away from his vantage point. Had he been seen? Worse, had he been recognized?
Returning to the seething mass of sleepers below deck, he tried to lose himself among the crew. The night was hot and uncomfortable in the crowded, confined quarters. Will slept with his knife in his hand, but the only disturbances came from sailors stumbling over him in the dark, and the resultant curses and kicks.
The next day passed with a sense of mounting anticipation as the fleet readied itself for war, and on May 11, Medina Sidonia took advantage of a light easterly wind and the Armada set sail downstream. But the long string of ships had barely passed the mouth of the Tagus when the wind turned and blew directly at them, and they were forced to drop anchor and wait. Storms raged up and down the coastline, and as Will watched the churning black clouds, he couldn't help but wonder if Dee had something to do with it. Rumours of his conjuring abilities had circulated the court for decades. Will had no idea how many of them were true, or if he was just a very clever and skillful man who was, like all in Walsingham's employ, good at portraying whatever face best served his purpose. Still, as lightning flickered and the crew grew irritated at the delay so early in their campaign, he wondered.
The wait dragged from hours into days and then weeks, the tension slowly escalating. Will took the opportunity to watch the constant stream of boats back and forth from Medina Sidonia's San Martin. He knew what they carried: intelligence reports from Philip's network of spies detailing the readiness-or lack of it-of the English forces. And the wind continued to blow, lashing the fleet with occasional bouts of stinging rain, and rolling the sea up into choppy waves of white-topped grey.
On May 27, Will finally caught sight of Don Alanzo aboard the San Martin, cloak wrapped tightly around him against the elements, deep in conversation with Medina Sidonia himself. Will kept his head down, working hard. But when he took the opportunity to glance back at the ship, he realized Hawksworth was watching him. He tried to pass off his attention as idle curiosity, pointing out the fluttering pennants and new gilding to a clearly disinterested Stanbury. When he glanced back, Hawksworth was gone, but he knew he would have to take more care.
That night, in the face of a fierce gale, Will and several others were sent up on deck to supplement the seasoned crew. As the deck bucked and heaved under his feet, he fought to stay upright, dragged to his knees time and again by sluicing water from the crashing waves. After an hour, the skin of his face burned from the lash of the rain and the spray and the bite of the wind. The officer barked orders in Spanish. Will had to feign ignorance, forcing him to attempt to give directions by pointing. After a while, he found it easier to leave Will alone and struggling to do what he could under the personal guidance of Hakebourne.
The other ships loomed like black castles in the dark on all sides, lamps glowing in their windows, as they fought their own battles with the gale. As Will gripped the rail in the face of one severe swell, he caught sight of a ship he had not seen before. It moved with a speed that belied the conditions, strange grey sails billowing; and as it sailed closer, Will was surprised to see there was no activity on deck to take the pressure from the straining rigging. It had an unsettling spectral quality, at times fading into the spray, at others seeming insubstantial even when the wind dropped. Flashes of greenish light came and went in the windows and on the forecastle, like the glows that burned over the marshes luring travellers to their doom. Will searched for some identifying banner or name, but there was none.
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