'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,'
