The Merchant of Dreams (12 page)

“Birch Men?”

“From your northern lands, or so they said.” Erishen closed his eyes for a moment. “Tall, fierce men, with white skin and yellow hair like birch trees in autumn. Men like you.”

Coby frowned. The Dutch had not travelled to the New World so long ago.

“You mean the Danes? Master Catlyn told me how they sailed to the New World and brought back stories of the skraylings.”

“Not just stories,” Erishen said. “They took some of our kinfolk with them. This book was written by those captives, after they escaped. Several lifetimes after.”

Sweet Jesu
. “Guisers here in England, hundreds of years ago?”

“Yes.”

“And do they still live?”

“I think it unlikely, but I cannot be sure until I have translated the rest of this book.”

“Then we must do it, as fast as we can.”
And pray that you are right
.

CHAPTER VIII

Ned ducked into the cabin, kicking the door shut behind him to keep the weather out. Rain sluiced down the diamond-paned windows and seeped through the gaps around the frames, adding to the perpetual dampness of the ship’s interior. Shaking the water from his hair he made his way to the far end of the dining table, where he set down the covered plates he had brought up from the galley.

“There you go,” he said, removing the pewter lids to reveal mounds of pinkish grey mash. “Sir.”

Mal looked up from the map he had been studying and gave him a wan smile.

“Where’s that?” Ned asked.

“Venice.”

Ned pushed the unwanted plate aside and leant over Mal’s shoulder. The details of the map were hard to make out in the gloom. “Looks like a fish to me.”

“It’s a fanciful map of the city,” Mal replied, “but I’m told the island is more or less this shape.” He traced a broad blue line that curved like an S, cutting the island into two unequal halves. “See, that’s the Grand Canal, and there’s the Piazza San Marco, Saint Mark’s Square. They say the basilica is beyond compare.”

“What’s this place?” Ned pointed to an over-large building south of the basilica with rows of round-topped arches drawn across its façade.

“It says…” Mal referred to the numbered key in the corner of the map. “Palazzo Ducale. The Doge’s Palace.”

“What’s a ‘doge’ when he’s at home? Some sort of duke?”

“Not exactly. The Doge is of noble birth but is elected by his fellow citizens, like the Lord Mayor of London.”

“Huh. Is that why it’s called a republic?”

He listened with half an ear whilst Mal described the workings of the Roman senate and speculated on the similarities with modern Venice. It seemed to take Mal’s mind off his seasickness; now, if only he could be persuaded to eat. Perhaps if he were set an example? Ned straightened up and went round to the other side of the table.

“Do you reckon the skraylings are there yet?” he said, sitting down.

Mal looked off into the distance, his fingers twitching as he did the reckoning in his head. “No. They cannot be many days ahead of us, even if they left Sark when we did.”

“I can’t wait to see Lord Kiiren’s face when you turn up hot on his heels. He’s bound to know you’re up to something.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about.”

“Oh?” Ned scooped up a spoonful of the salt-beef-and-chunny mash. It was plain fare, but filling, and at least there was some meat in it.

“The other skraylings are from a different clan,” Mal said. “They aren’t going to like me talking to Kiiren, not if they think I’m in Venice on the Queen’s business.”

“Then you’ll have to convince them you’re there for some other purpose.”

“Yes, but what?”

“I thought that was what Raleigh was for? To be your Trojan horse.”

“That ruse may fool the Venetians – with any luck they’ve never heard of me, and won’t connect me with Kiiren – but the skraylings are another matter.” Mal stared at the map, tracing the contours of the island with one finger. “Fear not, I’ll think of something before we reach Venice.”

“And if not?”

“We are in God’s hands, and can only do our best.”

“Easy for you to say,” Ned replied around a mouthful of mash. “I don’t fancy going back to London to tell Walsingham we’ve failed.”

“We haven’t failed yet. And I don’t intend to.”

The ship lurched over the crest of another wave, and Mal’s plate slide a few inches along the table.

“I hope my brother is faring better than we are,” Mal said. His face was pale in the cabin’s gloom. “I swear I would rather face a dozen guisers than another Atlantic storm.”

“No more nightmares, then, since we came aboard?”

Mal shook his head. “Not of that sort.”

“I don’t suppose there’s likely to be any guisers on board anyway. Are there?”

“It’s not impossible, but no, you’re right. Why would they risk one of their own on a hazardous sea voyage, when there’s plenty of mischief they could be getting up to in England?”

“Such as?”

“Whatever manoeuvring at Court will bring them the most power, I suppose.”

Ned muttered a curse under his breath. God-damned monstrous witches, they should be rounded up and burned, and their skrayling friends sent back to the New World with their tails between their legs.

“Still, they can work magic from afar, can’t they?” he said after a moment, glancing at the rain-blurred window. “That’s how you were spirited away.”

“True. But over hundreds of miles of ocean? I pray they do not have that kind of power.”

“So do I. Though I’d be happier if I had some kind of protection like yours.”

“Oh I’m sure something could be found,” Mal said with a shadow of his familiar grin. “Master Warburton is certain to have some leg-irons around.”

“I’m not that desperate,” Ned replied hurriedly.

Mal sipped his watered wine and glanced at the plate of mash. A moment later he was leaning over the edge of the table, retching up what little he had eaten this morning. Ned sighed and went to fetch a bucket of sea water.

Mal folded up the map and stowed it in the pack in his locker, then threw himself onto his bunk. He cursed Walsingham for pressing Raleigh upon him, Raleigh for his eagerness to set sail, and most of all himself for agreeing to this voyage. They should have gone overland, through France and northern Italy, despite the risk of spring floods. But Ned was not accustomed to hard riding, and he needed Coby to… His heart contracted at the memory of her in his arms, her mouth on his, her slender body warm against his belly… His hand strayed down to his groin, but the seasickness had robbed him of even that small comfort, and he abandoned the attempt with a curse of frustration and rolled over in the bunk.

The pearl earring pressed against his cheek, and after a moment’s indecision he took it out. Surely there were no guisers here on the ship? And if there were, better to know of it than remain ignorant. He hauled himself out of his bunk, retrieved his knapsack and stowed the earring in its pouch. It would be a pity to lose such a rich jewel, and he would need it when he returned to England.

The sound of someone singing a bawdy ballad filtered down through the poop-deck overhead, and Mal smiled to himself. Enough of such fretting! It gained him naught but to sour his stomach further. He needed something wholesome to occupy his thoughts. As soon as this weather abated, he would teach Ned how to handle a sword.

Rain lashed down as Ned leant over the rail, hauling on the thin rope. At this rate he might as well stand on deck and let the bucket fill by itself. Or wring his clothes into it. His woollen doublet and hose had soaked up rainwater like the earth after a drought, and they now hung in leaden folds that encumbered his every move. He pushed wet hair back from his eyes and thought longingly of his own warm bed in Southwark.

Above and behind him the sailors went about their mysterious tasks amongst the rigging, seemingly oblivious to the rain. They had scarcely spoken a word to Ned since he came aboard, apart from the ship’s cook, who joked about Mal’s poor appetite and advised Ned to eat his master’s dinner for him.

As he hauled the bucket up the last few feet, he became aware of someone standing over him. Looking round he squinted up into the broad, weatherbeaten face of the second mate: Handsaw, Hangnail, or whatever he was called. Hard to make out names over the roar of a gale.

“Still throwing up, be he?” the sailor asked.

“What is it to you?” Ned lowered the bucket to the deck, never taking his eyes off the man.

“You look to have your sea-legs already. Been on a ship before?”

“No.”

“Natural-born sailor, then.”

Ned shrugged. “I couldn’t say.”

“Well, ye’ve taken to it quicker than your master. Not missing your own varlet back in London, then?”

“What?”

“I saw ye, afore ye came aboard. Both o’ ye, kissing those pretty yellow-haired lads. Or were they your whores?”

I know your sort of old. Think you can goad me into a fight, eh?
“Is that what you ask for, when you visit a stew?” Ned replied. “Girls in breeches?”

The second mate roared with laughter. “Not I! Can’t get at her cunt fast enough that way, can ye?”

He elbowed Ned, who laughed with him, though mostly out of relief. The other man had height and reach on him, and fists like half-bricks.

“Master Hansford!” Raleigh bellowed down from the poop-deck. “I thought you were taking the whipstaff?”

“Right you are, captain!” Hansford glowered at Ned. “Don’t think that’s an end on’t. I got my eye on ye, ye fish-bellied knave…”

Ned waited until the man was halfway up the stairs to the poop-deck, then made the sign of the fig at his back before snatching up his bucket and heading for the cabin.

He stepped through the door and pulled up short. Mal was sitting on his bunk with his sheathed rapier across his knees, dangling the matching dagger from one finger by the ring on its hilt.

“You’re looking more cheerful,” Ned told him. “Stopped feeling sick?”

“No,” Mal replied, getting to his feet, “but I weary of letting it rule me. I shall be the master of my stomach from now on.”

“Glad to hear it. I weary of being your nurse.”

Mal flipped the dagger upwards and caught it by the hilt. “How would you like to be my sparring partner instead? I grow restless, mewed up like this.”

“Me, fight you? With a sword?”

“Don’t you want to learn?”

“I…”
Had Mal overheard?
“I reckon I can handle myself well enough in a tight spot. I’m not one of your milk-livered courtiers, you know.”

“I’m not talking about tavern brawls. Real fighting, against men armed with steel. You never know who or what we might come up against on this expedition.”

“I’ve fought an armed man before. And killed him, too.” He tried to sound as if it was nothing though, truth be told, if it hadn’t been for a lucky throw of a piss-pot he would have been the victim, not the victor.

“Once. And that only by great good fortune,” Mal said, echoing his thoughts.

“I told you many a time, I have the Devil’s own luck.”

Mal shook his head in despair.

“I cannot go into a fight knowing you can’t guard my back – worse, that I must defend you as well as myself.”

“All right, all right. Tell you what: if you can go an hour without puking, you can teach me what you will.”

He held out his hand, and Mal clasped it. “Done.”

Ned retrieved his bucket and swabbed up the vomit, then went back out on deck and threw the bucket’s contents into the sea, being careful to choose the leeward side so that it didn’t blow straight back in his face. Hansford might be a ill-favoured lout, but he was right about one thing: he really was getting the hang of this sailing business. And now he was to become a swordsman too.
Well, they do say that stranger things happen at sea.

Ned woke with a start, and for a moment wondered where he was. Why was the house creaking like a ship in a storm? Oh, yes – because he was on a ship. Probably in a storm. And his bladder was as full as an alderman’s belly.

He climbed out of his bunk, cursing as he banged his shins on the raised side. Mal muttered something in his sleep and rolled over. Ned staggered across the cabin, still barely half-awake, and fetched up against the table. He was sorely tempted to piss on one of the unused mattresses and save himself the bother of going out on deck, but he’d heard alarming tales about naval discipline. He’d rather get soaked again than endure a flogging.

He pulled on his still-sodden hose, groped his way to the door and heaved it open. Thankfully the rain had stopped, though the westerly wind drove the
Falcon
onwards as swiftly as her namesake. The only light came from a couple of lanterns, barely enough to pick out the sheen on wet timbers and the pale faces of the men on duty. It was enough. Ned wove across the deck to the welcome cover of the forward cabin.

The darkness within stank of sweat, tobacco and stagnant seawater, and only a narrow gangway was left between the rows of hammocks. Ned sidled down it, praying he wouldn’t disturb any of the sleeping sailors. He didn’t know if Hansford was on duty tonight or asleep in one of these canvas swaddlings, but either way he had no wish to encounter him. He had nearly made it to the far end, and the tiny jakes-cabin they called the heads, when his nemesis stepped out in front of him.

“What be ye doing abroad at this time o’ night?” Hansford growled. “Come looking for a pretty boy to fuck?”

“I’ve come for a piss, nothing more.”

“Hear that, lads?” Hansford laughed softly, and two other sailors materialised out of the blackness, no more than shapes against the pale bulks of hammocks. “This ‘un’s come to get his prick out for us.”

Ned tried to run for the cabin door, but one of the sailors blocked his way. Someone – Hansford? – grabbed his shirt from behind and pulled him backwards. Before he could cry out, a fist connected with his belly and his aching bladder shed its load.

“Aw, the little babby pissed ‘unself,” Hansford crooned. “Better get him into the heads, boys, before he shits his breeches as well.”