Mark Chadbourn - The Silver Skull
In the middle of the confusion, a sudden squall hit the flailing Rosario. As her foremast shattered, men with axes ran to cut it loose from the rigging, but it was too late: the carrack was crippled.
In the chaos of the listing vessel, men plunged overboard, fighting to stay afloat amid the bodies and the burning wreckage. Clinging on to his pathetic pieces of timber to stay afloat in the tossing sea, Will watched many drown.
One sailor struck out strongly for a section of broken crossyard. Another reached it first, but as he struggled to climb across it, the other dragged him off and held him under until he drowned. The act of brutality came as naturally to the survivor as breathing, and as he turned his head, Will saw the heavy-lidded, lizard expression of Barrett. Shock flared briefly when he recognised Will, but then a sly glance told Will all he needed to know as the swell brought them towards each other.
With the flames burning all around and the black smoke heavy on the water, there was only the two of them, locked on a course of destruction. Grinning, Barrett drew his knife.
In a surge of grey-green water, they clashed like the waves breaking against the Eddystone Rocks. Barrett stabbed wildly. His strength ebbing, Will avoided the first blow and caught Barrett's wrist at the second. In their struggle, they were dragged off their respective supports and splashed into the rough water. They went down quickly as they wrestled for advantage.
Cheeks and eyes bulging, Barrett's face was a mask of fury, but the water impeded his attempts to stab, and instead he tried to grip Will's throat. The water grew black around them, the shimmering grey light far above.
Back and forth they rolled, ineffectually, sinking ever deeper, until Will's lungs burned and he knew his last moments were upon him. A deep clarity descended. He thought of Grace, of jenny, and knew he could not die there.
Pressing his forearm against Barrett's throat, he triggered the hidden blade. Blood gouted out in a black cloud. In a frenzy, Barrett gulped mouthfuls of seawater. The last thing Will saw as he struck out for the surface was Barrett's eyes rolling up white as he sank down into the depths.
On the surface, Will filled his lungs and found the crossyard that Barrett had abandoned. His fingers slipped on the wet wood and he could only hold on weakly. All around, the gunfire gradually dimmed as the battle came to an end for the day, and he knew he would have to seize the chance to escape the madness or he would not survive the night.
On every side, the sea was thick with bodies and wreckage. Will eyed the carnage and death for a moment, and then with resignation dragged the nearest corpse towards him. Once he had fished some of the rigging out of the water, he drew another corpse and bound the two together. Looping the rope around, he caught three more corpses and fastened them tightly with the last of his strength. Once the makeshift raft was complete, he crawled on top of the cold bodies and, with one arm trailing in the water, paddled slowly away from the burning ship.
The urge to close his eyes and sleep was powerful. Half aware, he realised Medina Sidonia had given the signal to leave the Rosario, and the Armada sailed on, leaving Will's former shipmates lost to despair that they had been abandoned so easily. Will knew why: compared to the grey-sailed ship, the rest of the fleet was dispensable. It was a harsh message to broadcast to the Spanish ships, and would be bad for morale. It also revealed how effectively the Unseelie Court had mesmerised the Spanish commanders: the Enemy was more valuable than the thousands of human beings under Medina Sidonia's command.
On the heaving seas, the Armada eventually faded from Will's view. As the smoke gradually dispersed, he slipped in and out of consciousness, and eventually realised night had fallen.
Overhead, a crescent moon shone brightly. It took him a while to realise ships were once again all around him, just silhouettes against the night sky. They were under battle conditions-no light shining. In the gloom, he could just make out the pennants festooning the vessels and the Cross of Saint George, dark against the white background.
Home, he thought weakly.
Hailing the ships, his voice was frail at first, but eventually found its strength. He was answered by a booming cry, and when he responded in English and identified himself, there was rapid activity on deck.
That was all he remembered.
For a time he swam through darkness to an island where grey figures slowly drew towards him. They whispered terrible things that filled him with dread, but on awakening he could recall none of the words, only the sickening way it made him feel.
"Ho! You have slept the sleep of the dead! Or the just! One or the other, I cannot recall." The booming voice filled the cabin the moment Will's eyes flickered open.
His wild hair and beard a fiery red, Captain John Courtenay strode around the cabin, passionate and intense. Will sensed he was the least thing on the captain's mind.
"I am on the Tempest?"
"For two days now."
"Two?" Will replied incredulously.
"You were plucked from the water by the Triumph aboard a merry raft you had constructed, and Frobisher delivered you here."
"Then, it is ... August second?" Will struggled to rise.
Courtenay eyed him askance and said, "It might do well to rest longer after your ordeal."
"There is no time to rest. I have much to tell, and there is much we must do. The Enemy plots-"
"As always."
Almost falling backwards, Will steadied himself before taking a step. His legs felt like lead, his head light. "The Armada?"
"There have been victories, small perhaps, but each one adds to the pile. The capture of the Rosario and all the riches it contains. We drove the Spanish fleet past Torbay, and yesterday held them off from Weymouth in a fight more vehement than ever has been seen at sea. The San Martin itself was riddled with gunfire, the royal standard in tatters, and was only saved at the last by a line of Spanish galleons."
Breathing deeply, Will staggered to the door, acutely feeling every ache and pain. "And today?"
"Today is Wednesday." Courtenay clapped his hands loudly. "Today is the defence of the Isle of Wight and the Solent."
"You are in the vanguard of the attack?"
"My orders were to stay away from engagements, unless our firepower was desperately needed. We have greater business than a few Spanish bastards. The Enemy has not yet shown their colours. But you and I know they will, and then we must be ready. But first, if you are insistent upon putting your feeble limbs to the test, come and meet old friends."
Courtenay led him out of the cabin and onto the deck, bright in the morning sun. On the blue sea all around, the English fleet were becalmed amid a flourish of coloured pennants and flags, while across the Isle of Wight and the Hampshire coast trails of black smoke drifted high, beacons summoning the militia to the defence of the nation. Watching the activity at the foremast were Launceston and Carpenter.
Trying to disguise the weariness in his face, Will left Courtenay and lurched over. Carpenter scowled when he saw Will, looked away, and then marched over to meet him. Will was surprised when Carpenter shook his hand, although his expression showed no warmth.
"We will never be friends, but I understand you more," Carpenter said. "I am glad you survived the perils of the damned Spanish. Hiding out among our bitter enemy is the kind of bravado that will carve your name into history."
Will was puzzled by what might have led to this change in attitude, but did not question it. "I would thank Medina Sidonia personally for his hospitality some time."
They joined Launceston, who nodded in his usual aloof manner as if it had only been an hour since he saw Will last. "This weather ensures there will be little more fighting this day. We drift slowly eastwards." With a faint air of disappointment, he added, "It is quieter here. On the Revenge, there was action aplenty. And death too."
"Why did you return to the Tempest, then?" Will asked.
"Courtenay may be mad, but he is a haven of sanity after the Revenge," Carpenter growled. "Any more of Drake's bragging and I would be heading for Bedlam, and lock the door myself."
"Then the fighting begins again tomorrow." Will looked towards the eastern horizon. "But our task is harder even than that faced by Howard's brave band. Somewhere in that sprawling fleet lies a grey-sailed ship, which purports to be the architect of all our misery. The Enemy will be working hard to repair the damage I wrought, and soon it will be brought into play. The Spanish seek to hold out until it is ready, for they know it could mean victory for them and destruction for England. We must prepare ourselves, for this business is only going to get more dangerous."
CHAPTER 52
n a red glare, the last of the setting sun illuminated the forest of masts of the Spanish ships at anchor just off Calais, tightly packed into their defensive crescent formation. In the middle of that mass, there was no chance of Will identifying the grey-sailed ship, even with its distinctive outline, but he studied them with Drake's tele-scope nonetheless.
"Why do you fear this ship so?" Drake asked. "It is only more Spanish rabble, yes?"
"No. These allies of Spain have Dee's wit and cunning, and the information I have gathered suggests they hold a great weapon."
"Great enough to threaten us?" Drake said with gently mocking disbelief. "Time and again our tactics have shown the Spanish up to be the children they are. We drove them away from the English coastline and their last chance for a bridgehead or a haven, where they could replenish their diminishing supplies of food, water, and munitions. Pursued them across the Channel, where they were at the mercy of the open seas, and now they wait for Parma's aid. If they had a great weapon, surely they would have used it by now."
Will was not convinced. The Unseelie Court was expert at misdirection and subtle manipulation, and when they seemed least of a threat was when they were at their most dangerous. With the plans Howard, Drake, and the other commanders of the English fleet had concocted for that night, he expected the sleeping beast to be woken.
"And if we do see that ship, it will be blown out of the water by good English cannon." Drake sniffed as he reclaimed the prized tele-scope that had been such an aid in marshalling his strategy over the last week.
Will showed no reaction, but his dilemma consumed him. Drake's suggestion was the correct one, but how could he stand by and watch Grace die, even if it meant victory? Ever since she had been taken, he had swung between the old Will, who had existed in study and good humour before the Unseelie Court had entered his life, who would put the survival of his friends above any abstract notion of loyalty to country; and the man he had become, corrupted by a world where there appeared to be no right or wrong, only survival in the face of unspeakable threats, and where terrible things had to be done for good ends.
It was Sunday, August 7. The Revenge was at anchor at the head of a fleet that appeared to be sleeping. At the rear, the Tempest was ready to be called into battle if the Unseelie Court showed its hand, but Will, Carpenter, and Launceston needed to be in the forefront for what they expected to be a decisive night.
The English fleet was upwind of the Armada, with the floodtide in their favour. It was a strong position, but a little further along the coast in Dunkirk, Parma had gathered his invasion force, ready to join the Armada in barges sent from ports along the Flemish coast. No one on the English side knew the level of preparedness of Parma's army, nor their numbers, but it was clear they had been in regular contact with Medina Sidonia. Everything might have been different if Will had not killed Hawksworth, but that matter had passed and they had to deal with the situation before them.
All was not yet lost. Dunkirk was blockaded by Justin of Nassau and his ragged but fierce Dutch Sea Beggars, but that would crumble if Medina Sidonia sent ships to drive the Dutch away. If the Spanish broke through the English fleet with Parma's army, England was only a few miles away. There were so many vagaries, and everything was crucial; and the Unseelie Court had yet to show its hand.
Drake turned his face to the last of the sun, and for the first time Will saw none of the braggart and only the devout man who was prepared to sacrifice everything for his God and his country. "I must lead the men in prayer," he said, "and impose upon them what is at stake for their families and their country if we fail this night."
After Drake had departed, Will joined Carpenter and Launceston. They were both introspective as they prepared themselves for the night ahead, although Will noticed a strange fire in Launceston's eyes. Without conversation they toured the ship, watching the stern-faced men working silently and pensively at their stations, stacking the shot and the powder on the gun deck, preparing the water to dampen any fires on board, eyeing the rigging and the sails on the main deck ready for the order to sail. In the infirmary, the ship's surgeon had his tools already laid out.
And then it was only a matter of waiting for the tide to turn.
From the rail, Carpenter studied the eight ships that had been selected. "I do not know which is the worst death," he mused. "Frozen in the forests of Muscovy, or burned alive in an inferno. But there is one common factor in both." He eyed Will.
"You say I am some pariah, leading you to mishap?" Will replied wryly.
"I say nothing. But if you see a connection, perhaps there is some truth in it."
"Fire or ice, heaven or hell, we are always caught between two sides, John. The only debate that concerns me is wine or beer, and we can decide that in the Bull when we are safely back in London."
"Fair comment." Carpenter shook Will and Launceston's hands in turn. "For England, for the queen."
He left quickly, but Will thought he saw a surprising glimmer of the Carpenter he had known before their experiences in Muscovy. Will envied the peace Carpenter appeared to have found.
They were each transported to one of the three central ships in the formation of eight where they watched the tide turn and waited for midnight. By the time the moon glimmered silver on the water, the ships were pulling at their anchors in the strengthening tide. The creak of timbers drowned out any noise the few crew members made as they completed their final preparations.
When midnight came, Will glanced to his left to Carpenter and to his right to Launceston and gave the nod. Across the eight vessels came the dull thud of the crew chopping the cables that held them fast, and within seconds the ships were caught in the tide and moving downwind towards the Armada in complete silence.
Relieved that the waiting was over, Will moved quickly around the deck where clutches of men waited with flints. Their apprehensive eyes flickered towards him. Acknowledging their bravery, he nodded to each in turn and then checked on the helmsman, who had set the course for the heart of the Armada and was busy lashing the helm in place. In the holds, more men waited, cupping their hands around smouldering match. Here the smell was almost too much to bear-pitch, brimstone, gunpowder, and tar-and the men coughed and covered their faces with scarves.
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