few days brooding over the stupidity and confusion that had led to Hawksworth's death, but he knew it was one of the risks of his profession where every face was a mask. Soon the dark thoughts were washed from him, as he was sucked into the feverish preparations for the coming battle. Day after day the crew engaged in dry runs of the battle procedure under the urgent eyes of the clearly unsettled commanders. Fearful faces turned towards the grey horizon in every free moment, and rumours spread beneath deck like fire. Increasingly frustrated by the lack of opportunity to reach the Unseelie Court ship, Will could only wait. And then, that night, he seized his moment.
The night was clear, with a large swell, but there was no more rain, which would make his task easier. Below, the crew grabbed fitful hours of sleep in preparation for what would likely be an eventful day.
Locating the grapnel, Will waited patiently at the rail for the grey-sailed ship. Along the coast of England, beacons blazed, warning of the threat off the shore and calling the nation to war. It was Saturday, July 30, and the Armada was at anchor at Dodman Point in a state of heightened anxiety after sailing east along the Channel.
Earlier, he was convinced his final opportunity to find Mayhew and the Skull had slipped through his fingers. As the Spaniards watched the beacons, an English pinnace had swept across the bows and fired a single shot. But it was more to mock than threaten and the pinnace disappeared as the La Rata Santa Maria Encoronada returned fire to no avail. The English fleet was sighted, but they did not attack. Medina Sidonia and his Spanish commanders had made sure they had the weather gage, the best position in relation to the wind and coastline. They would wait out the night before battle commenced at dawn.
Finally, Will caught sight of the grey-sailed ship making its strange, circuitous journey around the fleet with what appeared to be increased urgency. Once it sailed alongside, he clambered onto the rail, braced himself against the rigging, and spun the grapnel before letting it fly. It fell short, splashing into the waves. Quickly, he hauled it in and adjusted his next throw for distance. This time it caught in the rigging of the grey-sailed ship. Tightly fastening his end to the Rosario's rigging, he gripped the rope firmly and then swung his legs up, crossing his ankles over the top to hang like one of the monkeys that performed in the market on Cheapside.
He'd left some slack, but his fear was that one or other of the ships would sail away and tear the rope free, plunging him into the black waves. Ignoring the blast of the wind, he shimmied along the rope. At the midpoint between the two ships, the swell swung the rope wildly and it took all his strength to hold on. Beneath him, the waves grasped for his back, driven high by the furious confusion of battling currents, two inches beneath him, one, his clothes soaked by the spray.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself slowly up the curve towards the grey-sailed ship, one hand at a time. His fingers slid on the slick rope, his heart beating out every second the journey took.
By the time he reached the rail, his limbs were shaking from the strain. With a final effort, he hauled himself over the rail and onto the deck. The roll of the ship made him land harder and more noisily than he intended, and he quickly hid in the lee of the quarterdeck.
The stillness was unsettling. A strange odour hovered over everything, sickly-sweet but with a florid bitterness beneath, like mould on an apple in the autumn orchard. After a moment he heard the tramp of boots, which paused above his head and then moved towards the steps. Someone was investigating the dull sound of his landing.
Drawing his knife, he waited in the shadows against the steps as the ship pitched and yawed, seawater sluicing across the boards. From his hiding place, Will could not see who approached-a lookout? The helmsman?- and he only had the noise of the boots to estimate the position. When the figure loomed at the foot of the steps, he brought his knife up and across the throat. He had a glimpse of long brown hair and blazing eyes, and then as hands went to the open throat, Will spun him around and pitched him straight over the rail into the sea.
Once he was below deck, the constant roar of the sea retreated, but the sickly orchard smell was stronger. He could hear nothing beneath him apart from the steady heartbeat of the pumps keeping out the seawater. On either side, the quarters appeared empty. The crew would be in the berth, resting among the cannon. Will did not want to risk disturbing them and bringing every one of the Enemy upon him.
All depended on where Mayhew was being held. Would they be cruel enough to imprison him in the vile conditions beneath the waterline, with the rats and the stench? He was too valuable for that. That left the officers' quarters, the captain's own quarters, the brig, or the infirmary, if the Unseelie Court needed such things.
As he progressed, distorted sounds faded in and out of the unsettling silence, reminding him once again of the Fairy House-voices chanting in an incomprehensible language, mournful pipe music.
The door to the officers' quarters was ajar. Inside a group of figures sat around a long table, heads bowed, their faces hidden in the half-light. Although they appeared to be communicating with each other, all was quiet. He could see four, guessed there could be as many as ten.
Slipping by, he continued to the great cabin and the captain's cabin. The door here was also partly open. Inside, flickering lanterns cast shifting shadows as a male swayed around the room soundlessly in what appeared to be some kind of ritual. His movements reminded Will of the pattern the ship defined on the sea. A bitter aroma filled the air, incense or burned herbs, and there was the occasional gleam of objects, a chalice, he thought, a knife with a cruelly curved blade.
In the bowels of the galleon, it was darker, and damper, the sour stink rising from below the water level. Outside the door to the berth, he felt an uncomfortable pressure upon him from the other side. Blood trickled from his nose and a dull buzz echoed in his head.
Beyond more deserted officers' quarters, he found what would have been the infirmary and mess on an English galleon. Here the door was locked, and no sound came from within.
Removing the velvet pack of locksmith's tools all Walsingham's men carried with them, he got to work. He was not an expert lock-pick like some in the service, but after a moment he heard the tumblers turn with a dull clunk. Hesitating a moment to see if there was a response from the other side, he slowly swung the door open.
A slow-pulsing white light forced the shadows back, holding them at bay for a second before they swooped back in. It came from a glass globe just large enough to be contained in two hands, resting on a small table. Inside the globe was another that opened and closed like an iris, releasing the steady beat of light. It was of such a unique appearance, it had to be of some importance, but Will could not guess its purpose. Three more of the globes stood on plinths on the boards beneath the table, but no light emanated from them.
Wary of triggering an unseen alarm, he studied the room before taking a step inside. In the glare beyond the globe, the gloom held a figure lying on a mat on the boards, asleep or drugged. The glint of silver told him it was Mayhew. Beside the door was an open-topped barrel. From the salty smell, it appeared to contain only seawater, but as he reached towards the surface to test the liquid, an eel-like creature about as thick as his arm burst from the depths, snapping for his fingers. He withdrew his hand just in time, but he had glimpsed teeth like needles. He had never seen its like before.
Time grew short. He intended to kill Mayhew and cut off his head, as he had done with Don Alanzo's father, dumping the Silver Skull into the sea to be lost for all time. But as he took three steps towards the prone figure, he suddenly found himself facing the door.
The disconnection left him reeling. He tried to approach Mayhew again, but the same thing happened. Finally, he decided the inexplicable turn must have been caused by the pulsing globe. It was a protection device of some kind, either working its influence upon his mind and disorienting him, or physically spinning him around in the blink of an eye. Whatever, he could not get near to Mayhew, nor could he approach the globe to destroy it.
In frustration, he retraced his route to the steps where he grabbed one of the lanterns that illuminated the passageway. The sounds in the ship came to him more clearly, as if the longer he spent there, the more attuned he became to the peculiar qualities that existed on board. A carpet of rats scurried away from his feet as he descended to the lowest level, the orlop deck, the store for the spare sails, rigging, timber, and carpenters' tools, the galley, magazine, and brig. Amid the foul smell of bilge in the damp and the dark, he swayed across the rolling deck to where the grey sails hung. Any second now the ship would start to sail away and he would be trapped aboard.
Stacking the timber to create a pit, he used the lantern to set fire to one of the sails within it. Leaping flames rapidly filled the deck with thick smoke.
In the right conditions, the fire would send the ship down to the bottom of the Channel, and Mayhew and the damned Unseelie Court with it. At worst, he hoped it would cause enough damage to make it worthless to the fleet.
As he pounded up the steps, rapid activity erupted in the berth. He only just made it past the door when it was thrown open and bodies rushed out on the trail of the rising smoke.
