Traitor (44 page)

‘God’s blood, no. You will always have a better view from on high. I say again, is your eyesight sufficient?’

Boltfoot sighed. ‘Yes, admiral. My eyesight will suffice.’

Lieutenant Morgan Millwater watched Frobisher being rowed for shore in the cockboat and knew he would have to act soon. There had been feverish activity aboard all the ships. Two thousand marines were already on land, out of range of the fort’s guns. Something would happen today, something that would involve the perspective glass. He was certain of it.

Millwater gazed out across the choppy grey water to the cliffs. He was tall and slender with soft, well-bred features, one of the
Vanguard
’s senior officers, just the sort of man that Frobisher liked, for he was a professional and had been at sea with him before, chasing Spanish treasure fleets. What Frobisher did not realise was that Millwater cared nothing for the admiral’s opinion of him. His thoughts were all on the perspective glass.

It had all seemed so simple. Have Trayne lure Ivory to a game of chance, then club him and relieve him of the spyglass. And so it had proved – except that the glass in his possession was a fake.

Trayne had not noticed the deception. The device he took
looked
as it should. It was cylindrical, made of stiff hide and had a roundel of glass at either end. Without further ado, he had hidden it deep in a keg of gunpowder. No one would look for it there. No one except Morgan Millwater.

But then came the incident at Paimpol. The plan had been for Trayne to take the glass ashore, ride to the Spanish garrison at Blavet and hand it over to General del Águila. But bloody Cooper had foiled that idea with his inspection of every man’s forearm, and his seizing of Trayne. Millwater only discovered all this when he rejoined the
Vanguard
at Morlaix.

With Trayne under guard, he had gone at night to the marked powder keg to remove the perspective glass. That was when he discovered that it was merely a fake, a worthless replica of the perspective glass containing blank roundels where complex lenses should be. In a rage, Millwater tossed it from the ship’s stern into the foaming sea. As for Trayne, he was a base hireling, a mere assassin. When he was tossed into the sea, Millwater shed no tears. No one would miss him: food for lobsters and crabs.

But where was the perspective glass?

If Ivory did not have it, someone else must. Who, though? The obvious answer was Boltfoot Cooper, for had he not been assigned to protect both Ivory and the glass? It must be in his possession. Well, today was the day he would find out. And it would be Boltfoot Cooper’s last day on earth.

‘Do you hear that, John?’

He nodded. Yes, he had heard. Two English cannons shot in quick succession, a count of ten, then three cannon rounds, another count of ten, two more reports, another count of ten, then four more booms. It was the signal. The first three salvoes were the code; the fourth, added to the other three, gave the hour. Eleven. If all went well, the attack would commence at eleven o’clock – forty minutes from now.

Eliska and Shakespeare were on the seaward ramparts. Her voice was a whisper and she smiled as though she was commenting on the weather. They had only one guard now, Gomez, an old veteran who had fought in the Low Countries and in Portugal under Alba. He was white-haired and hunched, but Shakespeare did not underestimate him. He might be slow and ponderous, but if he had survived this long in the bloodiest wars of the century, then he knew how to fight. He would not be an easy man to overpower.

Paredes was striding around the ramparts issuing orders. He had seen ships’ boats carrying men and supplies from Frobisher’s fleet and he had observed the hugely increased levels of activity among the land forces of Norreys and Aumont. As he approached Shakespeare and Eliska he bowed his head.

‘Well, Lady Eliska, Mr Shakespeare,’ he said, smiling. ‘This is a day the English will rue.’

‘I am sure God will look down favourably, captain, for you will be fighting in His name.’

‘Indeed, but I must require you to take shelter, for your own safety. Sergeant Gomez will take you to the guardhouse.’

Shakespeare saw that Paredes had a fine pistol in his hand.

Paredes followed his eyes. ‘A beautiful pistol, yes? Sir John Norreys must miss it. Today I will discover if it is as good as it looks. It would be appropriate to shoot Norreys dead with his own pistol, I think. Now, if you please, you must make haste.’

The fort was in uproar. Men moved in all directions, hauling kegs of powder on their shoulders; dragging cannonballs up from the arsenal; frantically cleaning muskets and honing swords; hefting spare muskets, crossbows, blades and pikes up to the ramparts; priming, loading and firing cannon; heating cauldrons of oil to tip over any enemy who got close enough to scale the bastion walls. Every man had his task and knew it well. No one was looking at Shakespeare and Eliska. No one but Sergeant Gomez, who plodded behind the captain’s guests as they made their way towards the guardhouse, deep beneath the inner wall of the curtain rampart.

‘
Sargento
,’ Eliska said, smiling, ‘if I might be permitted to go first to my chamber. A lady has requirements …’

Gomez looked doubtful, but Eliska touched his arm and her voice was as sweet as ripe Mediterranean figs. He nodded briskly and marched them towards the officers’ quarters.

She opened the door to her room, then hesitated. Gomez was standing behind her, his sword sheathed, but his hand on the hilt. Shakespeare was at his side.

There was a screech. The monkey bounded across the floor from the other side of the room in welcome. Gomez turned his head towards the animal in surprise.

Just then the English and French siege battery opened up again. Fourteen guns roared with scarce a second’s delay between each one. The cannonballs smashed like a hellish hail into the counterscarp, and some overtopped it and hit the curtain wall. The thunderous sound allied to the screeching and jumping of Doda disoriented Gomez. He turned this way and that, a small lapse of concentration, but it was enough for Shakespeare.

He pushed the guard and moved across him in a single, seamless movement.

Gomez stumbled forward. Shakespeare’s knee came up sharply into his belly. The Spaniard lurched and toppled headlong. He grunted, then cried out, but his voice was lost in the roar of cannon and the shooting of hundreds of muskets and rampart guns. Shakespeare clutched his hands together and brought his forearms down on to the back of Gomez’s neck, pummelling him to the ground.

He lay there, face down, moving feebly. Shakespeare relieved him of his sword, dagger and pistol, then stripped him of his soldier’s cassock and mail. He hit his head another crushing blow with the haft of his own dagger. Gomez lay still, his breathing weak. Shakespeare stepped further into the room and took a linen sheet from Eliska’s bed. Using Gomez’s dagger, he cut it into shreds.

Eliska closed the door behind her. ‘What are you doing, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘Making twine to bind and gag him.’

‘We do not have time for this. Kill him. Put the dagger to his throat.’

Shakespeare ignored her and wound a gag around Gomez’s mouth, then tied his arms behind his back. He pulled up the guard’s legs and bound his ankles to his wrists. Tight.

Eliska shook her head in dismay. She was undoing the stays on her gold-thread bodice and sleeves. She removed the garment, then took off her undershirt, a bright, corn-yellow chemise. She put the bodice back on, then began attaching the chemise to Gomez’s sword.

Shakespeare picked up the guard’s dagger and pistol. ‘We move as soon as we hear the mine. Is that your understanding?’

‘Yes.’ She moved closer to him. ‘And the attack starts as soon as the rockets go up. If we fail – if
you
fail – the English will all be slaughtered, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Then let us not fail.’

She looked at him with a kind of sadness. ‘We are, indeed, a long way from the inn on the moor.’

Shakespeare thrust Gomez’s dagger into his belt and began to check that the pistol was properly primed and loaded.

‘John …’

He glanced at her. There was a light in her eye, glistening. He put down the gun and took her in his arms. He kissed her.

‘Surely you must trust me now?’ she asked him.

He kissed her again. Her slender body moulded itself to his. He recalled the night they had made love at the inn in Lancashire. Perhaps there would be other times for them, when this was over. He could not entertain such thoughts; their lives hung by the lightest of gossamer threads.

‘Why did you weep?’ he was about to say, but then stopped himself. He had no right to ask such a thing. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I trust you.’

Trusting
her
was one thing. Trusting the plan was another. Could all the elements of this great, preposterous scheme be in place?

The
Vanguard
was riding at anchor, a little too close to the Fort El Léon battery. Lieutenant Morgan Millwater was in command of the ship. All the marines were ashore with Frobisher at their head.

Millwater stood on the quarterdeck, gazing across to the fort. He listened to the skirmishing. This was the moment. Languidly, he called over to Boltfoot.

‘Mr Cooper, I would see you in the captain’s cabin.’

Boltfoot was half the length of the ship away, looking up into the rigging. Very little in life frightened him, but this was a task that would test his mettle to the full. In truth he would rather face a dozen Spaniards single-handed than climb this confounded mess of tarred ropes. He turned around at the sound of Lieutenant Millwater’s voice.

‘Yes, master?’ he called.

‘I have a matter to discuss with you. Come, Mr Cooper.’

Boltfoot was very clear that he was to go to the main-top now.

‘Sir, I am under strict orders from Admiral Frobisher to take this watch. There is to be no delay.’

‘God’s blood, Mr Cooper. It is the admiral himself who has commanded me to discuss this certain matter with you. There has been a change of plan. Now come with me, sir, or do I have to bring you by force?’

Boltfoot looked up into the shrouds once more and shuddered. The mast-top had to be a hundred feet or more above the deck. He glanced across at William Ivory, slumped against the bulwark.

Ivory shook his head. ‘Go up, Cooper. Don’t listen to him.’
Ivory’s words came out from the side of his mouth like a dribbled stream. ‘Go up – or for ever remain the craven dog that you are.’

‘Aye. I’ll do your work for you yet again. Even without your supposed sharpness of sight, Ivory.’

‘Don’t be a horse’s arse, Cooper. The perspective glass will give any man the eye of a hawk. You don’t need my blue eye.’

‘Mr Cooper!’ Millwater was striding towards them now.

Ivory was frowning. ‘Bloody Millwater. Ignore him. I recall him from the
Dainty
. Didn’t think much to him then and I don’t now. There’s only one man to obey here – Frobisher. If you’re not up there in short order, you’ll miss the signal.’

Boltfoot began to climb. First one step with his good right foot into the lowest of the sagging ratlines. He pulled up his left leg and clumsily placed it into position. He would have to move like this: right foot first, get a firm hold in the swaying ropes, then bring up the left. Same thing, every ungainly step of the way through the stinking ladder of ropes. The sea was choppy and the great ship rocked violently. The air for miles around was filled with the sound of cannonfire and musket-shot. On the headland, smoke billowed above the fort and beyond.

‘Mr Cooper!’ Millwater bellowed. ‘Come here this instant or face the damned consequences.’

William Ivory’s body might have been half wrecked by the stroke, but his mind was untouched. He was thinking about Millwater and the bark
Dainty
. Had Millwater known about the perspective glass back then? Captain Thompson certainly knew about it when they took the
Madre de Dios
off the Azores. Had he told Millwater about it after an evening drinking brandy? Or had Millwater merely looked up and guessed what Ivory was about?

The concept of a spyglass was certainly no secret. Mariners in Spain and the Low Countries, even Italy, had talked for years of the possibility that it might one day be created. It was simply a matter of finding the right conformation of glass roundels and the men expert enough to make it.

Saliva dripped from Ivory’s mouth. He scrabbled about, trying to move, suddenly horrified, because it was all beginning to make sense. That was why Trayne didn’t have the fake glass in his possession, because Millwater had it. Millwater was the confederate.

Boltfoot raised his right foot on to the next tarred rope. He could not bear to look up. Millwater was halfway from the quarterdeck now. He had a pistol in his hand. Boltfoot climbed another rung, then another. Millwater was below him, pointing his pistol.

‘Come down now! Else I will bring you down dead.’

A gunshot rent the air, so close that it cut through the thunder of cannon. Boltfoot looked down again. Lieutenant Millwater was clutching his side. Blood was pouring from a wound, washing through his fingers. His face was bemused, as though he didn’t realise he had been shot. Boltfoot glanced across at Ivory. A pistol smoked in his right hand. He was grinning, lopsidedly, with the half of his face that still functioned.

‘Don’t stop, Cooper! Carry on with your bastard climbing or you’ll miss the signal.’

G
OMEZ’S UNIFORM WAS
not much of a disguise. Shakespeare’s tall figure and pale skin would give him away to any soldier who took a second look. He was relying on them all being too busy, too focused on shooting at the enemy without the walls to note the enemy within.

He nodded to Eliska. She was watching him from the door to her quarters. Behind her back, concealed in her black velvet cloak, she held Gomez’s sword, her corn-yellow chemise tied to it like a pennant.

The day was cool, but Shakespeare was dripping with sweat. He had to find a way to create a breach, or the fort would never be conquered. The walls were unbreakable by cannon alone.