did he only reveal it this past night?’
‘These are questions for another time,’ Will replied, dismissing any debate with a wave of his hand. ‘For now, we must hope we still have an opportunity to prevent a greater disaster. Let us to the docks, and pray that we are not too late.’ He threw himself down the cobbled slope towards the crack of sailcloth and barked orders, the cries of the gulls and the dank smell of the wide, grey river.
Strangewayes shielded his eyes from the bright morning light as they emerged from the shadowed alley on to the quayside. The dock-workers were already hard at their labours, grunting and sweating as they heaved bales on to the backs of carts. The horses stamped their hooves and snorted, the apple-sweet scent of their dung caught in the sharp wind off the water. The steady beat of wooden mallets echoed from the shipwrights’ dens. To that rhythm of seagoing life on the Merse, merchants waved their arms in the air as they auctioned their wares, haggling over prices, and sailors sang their work-shanties on board the great vessels at anchor.
Tobias followed Will’s gaze along the forest of masts large and small. His heart fell when he realized the carrack had already sailed.
‘We have lost Dee,’ he said with bitterness, ‘when we were so close. What now for us all?’
‘Keep your spirits up.’ Swyfte seemed oddly unmoved despite the desperate situation in which they found themselves.
‘What do you suggest? That we steal a boat and sail for Ireland? We will feel the sharp edge of a chieftain’s broadsword if we trespass into the interior of that benighted land.’
He felt another spike of annoyance as his companion ignored him, striding out to the edge of the quay where a black-bearded seaman knotted the frayed ends of a net. ‘Tell me, friend, the carrack that sailed for Ireland,’ Will asked, ‘how much of a head start does it have?’
‘Ireland?’ The sailor’s eyes sparkled. ‘It’s bound for farther shores now.’
‘What say you?’ Swyfte’s eyes narrowed.
The seaman drew the final knot on his net and admired his handiwork. ‘A new course was ordered before dawn, so I ’eard,’ he replied, glancing out across the glassy water. ‘They’ll be putting in somewhere or other to take on provisions. But then they’re bound for the New World.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Red Meg shivered, pulling her Crimson cloak Tighter around her. The autumn wind bit hard, lashing her auburn hair, as she leaned against the oak rail and watched Liverpool disappear into the hazy distance. How easily she had sailed into uncharted waters, with Will Swyfte once again steering the new course of her life. She smiled. Though danger awaited, better a life of adventure and romance than a slow march to a grey death. She turned, looking towards the forecastle. Ahead lay the Irish Sea with its wild storms and soaring cliffs of black water. And beyond? She pushed aside all the questions that assailed her, unable to stare into the furnace of her true motivations. Time would judge if she were fool or not.
Captain Nicholas Duncombe emerged from his cabin. He was a strong man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a quiet nature that seemed more suited to scholarly pursuits than to command. He was kind, too, kinder than any other man of the sea she had encountered, most of whom always had a lustful look in their eye when they spoke to her.
The captain saw her watching him and strode over. He kept his eyes down, his features tense. ‘Mistress O’Shee,’ he murmured, not wishing to draw attention to their conversation, ‘I fear for all our souls. This vessel is bewitched.’ He glanced towards the helmsman who stood as rigid as an oak, oblivious of the wind pummelling his face. Meg followed his gaze across his crew, who moved as if in a dream. ‘Your companion is the devil’s own. I know not what spell he has woven over my crew, but only disaster can come of this.’
‘I cannot control Dr Dee, captain. If you would keep your life, ’tis best to do as he commands.’
‘I am a seasoned traveller on these waves, mistress, but the New World? Such a journey requires careful planning and men prepared for the rigours that lie ahead.’ The captain furrowed his brow, his fears both imagined and real. ‘We sail into the haven of pirates and Spanish warships and the Lord knows what else. Perhaps Hell itself, if your companion is any indication.’
‘But there will be good men coming to our aid, and soon. You must trust me on this.’
Duncombe searched her face, wanting to believe her words. ‘Then I will delay the taking on of provisions for as long as possible when we put in to port in Ireland, and pray to God that your good men will have a fair wind at their backs.’
Meg smiled with confidence, but she fervently hoped they could wriggle out of Dee’s grasp before they reached whatever destination the alchemist had in mind. She had seen the fire in the old man’s eyes and had no doubt that whatever he planned was terrible indeed.
‘I have little experience of sorcery, save the dark stories sailors tell each other on the waves,’ the captain went on as his fingers closed on the hilt of the dagger he wore at his hip, ‘but I fear our lot on board the
Meg winced at the captain’s kindness, but quickly offered her thanks. Here was a man who valued honour above all, far removed from the duplicitous and treacherous world of spies that she knew. When she peered into his weathered face, she found herself thinking of her father, though he had been gone for years now, and she felt a wave of sadness. At that moment, she feared for Duncombe more than he did for her. Could men so good ever survive in such a world?
The door to the cabins clattered open. She sensed Dee’s presence before he stepped from the shadowy interior as if he blazed with the white heat of a forge. His hair was wild, his eyes drained of all humanity. ‘And so we leave this world behind,’ he called to the wind. He looked at Meg, and through her to the dim horizon, and gave a lupine smile.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nonsuch Palace echoed with the sound of feet moving through vast chambers and down winding stairways. Candles threw swooping shadows across the stone walls as breathless servants hauled wooden chests between them, and dragged well-stuffed sacks, and staggered under the weight of bales. In the moonlit inner ward, horses stamped their hooves upon the cobbles. Blasts of hot breath steamed in the chill air. Cart after cart creaked under the weight of loads waiting to be transported along the highway to the Palace of Whitehall just beyond the city walls. The Queen and her court were returning to London.
In the ruddy glare of hissing torches along the walls, guards watched the hasty exodus, their furtive eyes flickering from the frantic activity to the darkness that suffocated the surrounding countryside.
Grace Seldon paused in the long gallery leading from the Queen’s chambers to peer through the diamond- pane windows at the confusion in the yard below. Her arms ached from the weight of the Queen’s sumptuous dresses, each one jewelled and heavily embroidered. She was wearing her plain yellow travelling skirt and bodice, and a matching ribbon held her brown hair away from her face during her labours. Since sunset had she carried garments to the other ladies-in-waiting in the courtyard, and there would be no respite until all the monarch’s chambers were bare. She had heard the tales of nameless enemies marching upon Nonsuch, the mutterings of blood and thunder and impending doom, as she had heard them so many times before. She raised her chin in defiance. These were dangerous days and she would not jump at shadows.
The murmur of familiar voices rustled along the gallery, and Grace pressed herself back into a darkened chamber before she could be seen. She bristled as she heard the arch tones of that duplicitous little man, Sir Robert Cecil, the spymaster, who had often turned his poisonous words against Will. The other was the Earl of Essex, a self-important braggart who swaggered through the palace in his white doublet and hose as if all eyes must ever
