Mistress of the Sea (16 page)

‘
Socorro!
’ the Spaniard screeched.

Will threw the cresset down, kicked dirt over the man, trampled on his shirt and rolled him over with his boots – and if he trod on the Spaniard it was more than he deserved.

‘He’s roasted enough,’ he muttered.

Then Hix joined in the stamping with a few hard kicks.

‘Damn him.’

More shots sounded from the inn’s upper rooms. Will held his knife to the Spaniard’s neck.

‘Get up,’ he commanded.

The man stood and stumbled. He winced and clutched at his ruined shirt, eyes rolling towards Will.

‘
Inglés!
’ he gasped.

Will pushed the man towards the inn, past the flaming cresset
on
the ground and a toppled candle-stand inside the entrance, over broken pots and strewn baggage.

‘Move!’ He forced his prisoner along the hallway, pressing the knife-blade flat against the Spaniard’s neck. When he reached an open door, he craned round to peer inside. Beyond was darkness and an evil stench, one that he knew: the
Jesus
had carried such a smell from Africa, deep in her hold.

He threw a word into the darkness – a word loaded with faint hope.

‘Kit?’

The clink of a chain sounded close to his feet. He stared down.

There were people on the floor. He could sense their breathing, feel their heat But there was no answering voice. No response from anyone.

The Spaniard hung back. Will pushed him away and towards another doorway that was glowing with light. Inside, he found Glub the quartermaster with his caliver levelled at a dozen or more captives. They were huddled beneath a large table. Most were servants by the look of their skin. All were male. Will shoved the Spaniard down to join them. The man groaned.

‘Sit quiet,’ Glub barked, and aimed his matchlock at the Spaniard’s belly.

Will glanced round.

‘Where are the others?’

In the corner of the room was an open staircase. A heavy thud shook the ceiling. Glub raised his brows and jerked back his chin.

‘Up there.’

Will ran up the steps. He could hear a Spaniard shouting. At the top was a passage with arched openings off; drapes were
hanging
from most, hacked and ripped. Through one of the arches he saw patch-eyed Simon and the bowman, Morrys. They were both crouched down. Facing them was a Spaniard with an arquebus in his hands.

‘
Quédese!
. . .’ The Spaniard yelled while edging away. Will saw everything in an instant: the window near the Spaniard and the firearm he held, the open chest by his friends, the scattered pearls on the floor. He darted along the passage, through the next archway, and dived inside the adjoining room.

At the end of the room were shuttered doors – beyond would be the balcony. Will hurled himself at the doors. At the moment he crashed through there was an explosion of noise. Then he heard Morrys howl, ‘Bastard! Bastard! . . .’

Will staggered, veered and saw the Spaniard at the next window in the midst of tumbling out. The man landed on the balcony, and then leapt for the balustrade. Morrys roared from the window behind. As Will reached the Spaniard, Morrys sprang out. Will grabbed the man by the shoulders and wrenched him hard back. Morrys punched the man in the face, again and again.

‘He’s shot Simon.’

‘Let me at him.’ Will drew his knife and held it to the man’s throat, feeling rage surging inside him. He turned to Morrys. ‘Go to Simon,’ he rasped. ‘Help him.’

He marched the Spaniard back through the shattered doors, across the room and into the passage, treading on pearls as he made for the stairs. Then he saw Simon coming close, dragging a chest with a broken hasp. More pearls were spilling out.

Will stared at his friend.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘Only a knock.’ Simon grinned.

Morrys joined them, bent under the weight of full saddlebags over his shoulders. His brow was bleeding, but he managed a smile.

‘That shot at Simon were dismal-bad.’ He lurched up to Will’s prisoner and slammed his fist against the man’s ribs. ‘Lucky for you, Spaniard.’ He turned to Will. ‘Bastard was hiding under the bed.’ With a kick, Morrys sent the man sprawling. The Spaniard finished in a heap at the bottom of the steps.

Will bounded after him and called back.

‘Take everything. Empty the place.’

He forced the Spaniard towards the table while sounds of destruction rang out: smashing and clattering as objects were tossed down the stairs.

The prisoners were quiet. None of them looked at Will. They watched the muzzle of Glub’s caliver, and the mounting pile of their plundered possessions. But from the hallway someone was calling.

Will made for the shouts. A lad ran up to him, a youngster from Drake’s party. The lantern he carried was shaking in his grasp.

‘The Captain’s finished and asks that you leave, sir.’

‘Has he found much?’ Will demanded.

‘Rich cloth, wine and spices . . .’ The lad’s eyes widened. ‘There be oil and soap, too, but we’ll be leavin’ that since the
Kestrel
can’t hold no more . . .’

‘Has all the cloth been taken?’

The youth appeared puzzled.

‘Aye, sir. All the silks and linens.’ He spoke urgently. ‘The Captain says you should come right away and leave the lodgers comfortable.’

Will’s smile was grim.

‘He said that?’

‘I’sooth he did.’

Will nodded.

‘Then help us do it.’ He called for Hix, strode back into the room and beckoned to the others. The pile had grown. ‘Heap the lot outside: curtains, bedding, everything. We’ll take the best and leave the Spaniards a fine bonfire. So they won’t catch cold,’ he added, to a chuckle from Glub.

Morrys and Simon set to work, their belts bristling with the weapons they had seized. Will marched up to the prisoners and drew his sword.

He searched for the Spaniard who had shot at Simon. The man’s head was down, but Will recognised his lank hair. He held the sword blade under the man’s bruised chin, bringing it up until the Spaniard raised his face. The man’s eyes were puffed up and screwed closed; his teeth chattered though his jaws were clamped tight. Sweat glistened in his stubble. Will thought of what he might do. He snarled as he pressed the blade against the man’s skin.

‘Do you know of any English prisoners?
Presos ingleses?
’ He had learnt what to ask. ‘
Dónde están?
’ He pressed the blade harder. Then he let the man speak.

‘
No, no!
’ the man screamed, eyes rolling. ‘
No ingleses!
’

He heard Hix very close.

‘Shall we tie ’em up?’

Will stepped back and shook his head. He had made up his mind.

‘Strip them.’ Will looked round the room, at a broken lute on
the
floor and the hangings dragged from the walls, smashed crocks and the rifled belongings. ‘Burn all their clothes.’

His eyes settled on a large ring with a multitude of keys. It hung from a hook on the damp-stained wall. He grabbed the keys and strode out. Through the chaos in the hallway he made for the dark doorway he had peered into first. He threw the door wide. By the dim light that streamed in he saw a score or more faces looking up: all were black.

He weighed the keys in his hand. Then with a shout he threw them inside. ‘Free yourselves!’

Morrys staggered by hauling a blanket bulging with plate.

A fire already raged on the path beyond the inn. It cast a brilliant light into the hall that shone from points across the floor; Will bent towards one and picked up a pearl, then as many others as he could quickly reach. He charged outside.

Sheets and mattresses were going up in flames – every item of fabric from the upstairs rooms. Morrys and Simon had hold of the chest. Hix dashed past with his arms full of clothes, and then cast them all on the fire. The messenger lad was on his way, staggering bent double with a box on his back. Will took weapons and the blanket stuffed with silver. The rest would burn. The Spaniards would be left naked with nothing but oil and soap.

‘Let’s go!’ he called to his friends.

Will ran with them down to the jetty, and his spirits soared with every step. They had shamed the Spaniards and made themselves rich. Drake would be well satisfied.

The pearls in his pocket would be for Ellyn.

11

Sounds

‘. . . The isle full of noises,

Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments

Will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices

That if I then had waked after long sleep

Will make me sleep again . . .’

—The Tempest
by William Shakespeare, Act III, Scene 2

Panamá, the Americas

May 1571

WHAT WAS HE
doing? Ellyn’s attention had been caught by the sight of someone twirling about on the beach: a man possessed of an elegant shirt, a sword and good legs – a man with dark hair fetchingly tied back with a red ribbon. Richard Dennys was engaged in a duel with an invisible opponent at the edge of the sea. He was showing off, she decided, while bending her head once more over her sewing, and she would not be distracted by the performance.

But his calves were very fine.

She stole another glance at him between stitches. From her position under the shade of a straggling tree, Ellyn was confident he could not see her clearly, so what could be the harm in taking an occasional peek? Master Dennys had the sort of physique it was difficult not to look at. A few ostentatious leaps drew her gaze back to his legs. Were he not so vain, she might have considered him more seriously. But what sort of man would wear black crossed-garters over bright red hose? She pondered on this, until she realised to her consternation that he was walking towards her.

Master Dennys proceeded with an expression of happy astonishment, as if he had only just become aware of Ellyn’s presence under the tree (something she very much doubted). His approach sent her into a flurry of stitching, though a few surreptitious glances informed her that he was striding energetically across the sand, and next that he was almost beside her, chest heaving and breathing deeply. She bent her head, conscious that this small show of indifference was hardly likely to be convincing; so it proved.

‘Ah, Mistress Ellyn!’ he addressed her heartily. ‘I am pleased to find I have an audience, and yet more delighted that my observer is the lady to whom my practice is dedicated.’

Ellyn made an effort to continue with her needlework without any hint of having been distracted. Threads were pulled and examined diligently.

‘I hope that is said in jest, Master Dennys, since I can assure you I was not watching. What practice?’

Master Dennys drew his sword again with a flourish. The action was so quick that Ellyn flinched.

‘This, fair mistress,’ he said, slashing his blade repeatedly above her head. The result left her cowering beneath a shower of sliced leaves.

He laughed.

‘The cut and thrust of the
spada da lato
, as I am sure you must have noticed since your fair visage was turned towards me while I was rehearsing my principal attacks.’

Squinting up, Ellyn was perturbed to see the knowing look on his face. She might have been keen for Will to think she found the gentleman diverting, but she certainly had no wish for Master Dennys himself to suppose the same.

She brushed away the leaf parings, shook her sewing and took off her hat, tipping it up and smacking it vigorously in a way she trusted would make plain her exasperation.

‘I may have been resting my eyes. I was not aware of any attacks.’

With some alarm, she saw Master Dennys raise his sword once more, but it was in the manner of a salute, blade upright before his face. And then, to her relief, he sheathed it and dropped on one knee beside her. She ignored him and searched for her needle.

‘The lady feigns disregard,’ he proclaimed, somewhat theatrically, thought Ellyn while pulling her sewing about, convinced that she had pinned the needle through before brushing the fabric clean of leaves. How tiresome.

‘But the courtier understands her meaning,’ he went on. ‘A knight can expect no display of interest from the object of his devotion. He must be content with the slightest acknowledgement.’

Having located the needle at last, Ellyn stabbed it into the cloth, brows raised and shaking her head, in a manner which she hoped
would
convey her disdain. She had a suspicion that Richard Dennys was mocking her, and that did nothing to lessen her irritation. As his pronouncements continued, she became aware that he was peering ever more closely at her face.

‘The arch of a brow,’ he said.

Ellyn lowered her brows and shot a contemptuous sneer in his direction. It elicited a smile.

‘A glance,’ he added.

Ellyn scowled as she made a misplaced stitch. Now she would have to unpick it. She pulled the sewing closer to her eyes, and at the same moment Master Dennys took hold of a corner as if to admire it. The result was a stretched piece of fabric that neither could do with as they wanted. Ellyn jerked the sewing from his hands.

Master Dennys appeared unperturbed.

‘The knight remains true regardless of reward,’ he asserted, gripping his sword hilt instead. ‘This is your privilege as a lady: to receive loyalty and give nothing.’

He shuffled nearer while Ellyn jabbed at the offending stitch. She hoped that her sigh would convince him that this was not the way either to amuse her, or win her regard. Her vexation was increasing, but the only discernible effect was to make Master Dennys more insistent.

‘My sword is your protection because my allegiance is to you.’

Her response was crisp.

‘I am sure you need have no concern for my protection, Master Dennys. I have the
Swan’s
guns, Captain Drake’s brother and six other men here to safeguard me.’

‘Ah, but these men are not true gentlemen,’ Master Dennys
countered,
without any hint of having registered a rebuff. ‘They are not knights in spirit. They have no proper training in the art of combat. The arquebus and musket are their weapons of choice. They would rather trust to firearms, though these weapons are as likely to blow powder in their faces as to hit a target by design.’