as if the earth itself spewed forth its entrails. So monstrous, so malevolent, it towered over the world and grew so that a man might think it would develop horns, hooves and a flashing red tail.
Almost simultaneously there was a great cloud of smoke, littered with a mass of wood splinters, iron, stones, bodies; all hurled upwards and outwards with uncontainable, venomous energy. Then the sound, a blast of such ear-splitting ferocity that the brain could scarcely register it, and the shock — a sudden wind with the power to knock a man off his feet, senseless.
The Swiftsure pitched over to the larboard at such an angle that all those aboard, all the cannon, all the stores, were hurled down. One saker drove two gunners into the sea, another crushed the master gunner’s left leg.
Shakespeare fell hard into the bulwark, which saved him from going over the side. Boltfoot smacked into him, winding them both.
As the vessel righted itself, then heeled back over, they saw Mr Adam and the helmsman sliding across the deck like a pair of children sliding down a slope of snow on wooden boards. Shakespeare clung on to a rope, and Boltfoot clung on to Shakespeare’s waist.
At last the Swiftsure steadied. Shakespeare jumped up. He looked over the bulwark and saw two men in the sea. ‘Men overboard!’ he shouted, and dived in without thinking what he was going to do.
The water was churning foam. For the second time that day Shakespeare pushed out with an overarm stroke to try to save life. Then he saw the ship’s boat, broken loose from its line to the Swiftsure, just two yards away. He lunged for it, grabbed the side and clambered in. There were two oars aboard. He started rowing towards the two seamen, one of whom was floundering, the other seeming unconscious.
Up on the ship’s deck, Boltfoot looked upriver to a patch of water and floating debris where once a hundred- ton bark had been. Now it was no more than a hulk, alight and belching forth hot steam and smoke and surrounded by flotsam. No one within a hundred yards of the Sieve could have survived. Boltfoot looked at his hand. It was shaking. His hand had never shaken before, even in the hottest exchange of fire. He tried to imagine what such a blast would have done to London Bridge. It would have reduced its nine-hundred-foot span to rubble.
James Adam struggled to his feet and came across the wet, slippery deck to where Boltfoot stood. He put an arm around his shoulders. For a moment, Boltfoot forgot the pain of his scorched back and welcomed the touch of another human being.
‘God’s teeth, Mr Cooper, but my ears are ringing like Bow bells. I think it fair to say we hit the correct vessel, don’t you?’
Boltfoot found himself laughing for the first time in many days. ‘Aye, that I do, Mr Adam,’ he said, shouting against the din of his own ringing ears. Plenty of holes in that Sieve now, he thought, but declined to say it.
Debris started to rain down on them — wood, ash, fluttering shreds of sail, blood.
‘Time to haul Mr Shakespeare aboard and look to the injured,’ Adam shouted back.
The damage to the Swiftsure was not great. A broken spar, cracks in the bulwarks and gunports where the sakers had rolled. The whipstaff and bilge-pump would need repairs, but they were minor faults, easily remedied.
The harm to the men was greater. The master gunner’s shin and thigh were broken and one of the sailors Shakespeare had brought in had concussion from a head injury. As the officers fought to bring order out of chaos, Shakespeare suddenly realised that Peter Gulden, the clockmaker, was missing.
‘I saw him jump,’ Boltfoot said. ‘Just before the hellburner went up.’
They all peered over the bulwarks into the water.
‘No sign of him,’ Shakespeare said.
‘Better dead than what he had coming had he lived,’ Adam said.
‘Wait — I think I see him there, amid the wreckage.’
There was a body, floating face down. They could tell from the man’s rich attire and bald head that it was Gulden. From this distance, it seemed almost certain that he was dead. A pair of sailors were despatched to bring the body aboard.
Shakespeare said nothing. It would have been better if he had taken his life before ever he designed so foul a device, but Gulden had found his courage at last. He had been weak, not evil.
The Swiftsure was making way slowly. All along the route, they saw the anxious, news-greedy faces of spectators lining the banks. None knew what had happened and no one aboard the ship was about to tell them.
The officers and crew kept a look-out to see whether any other shipping or fisher boats needed assistance. The damage wrought seemed mercifully slight. Shakespeare looked over the poop bulwark at the remains of the Sieve. He saw the bodies of three of the black-clad Scots, floating face down. He could not tell whether they were men or women. Boltfoot had told him a little of their strange rituals. Doubtless other bodies would appear in the days to come, for none could have survived.
‘Sister Agnes and Sister Gellie, you say?’
‘They were kin of witches by that name, Mr Shakespeare,’ Boltfoot said gloomily. ‘Burned by James for setting to sea in sieves with intent to sink his ship.’
Shakespeare shook his head in bewilderment. Scots or English, heathen or Christian, he was certain of one thing: they were pawns in a bigger game. This was a Spanish conspiracy; Gulden the clockmaker had confirmed it. Everything had come from Madrid and from the Spanish regime in the Low Countries, and it was far from done. ‘We cannot rest, Boltfoot. We must find this prince of Scots.’
At the time of the explosion, horses had reared and whinnied, men and women had stopped their work as far away as Chelsea and had looked at each other with questioning, unbelieving eyes. Was this the second coming, or had a powdermill exploded? London was rife with rumour and fear. At Greenwich Palace, Sir Robert Cecil had closed his keen eyes and murmured a prayer of supplication. He knew he would be summoned by the Queen for an explanation, so he immediately sent out messengers to gather information and to order the palace guard doubled, before making his way to the presence-chamber.
Across the river, Holy Trinity Curl had felt a surge of pride and satisfaction. It was all coming together. He would have his vengeance. The Dutch would die in their hundreds. He would make a special diversion to the Sluyterman household and do for them, every one. That would be the greatest pleasure. Sluyterman. The very name stank of foreign treachery and usury.
Oliver Kettle’s brow furrowed at the sound of the blast. ‘Mr Curl,’ he said. ‘This is three or more hours early. And the direction of the sound is not right. I would swear that blast was in the east, not the west.’
‘Sound plays tricks, Mr Kettle. It will echo and distort. That was our hellburner, there can be no doubt. Glory be, the wind must have carried it sooner than we could have hoped. Have you ever heard a more thunderous or wondrous sound?’ He turned to the gathering. ‘This is our time, men. Have courage. File from here in good order and follow your commanders with the mettle of true Englishmen. When they see what damage is wrought, the prentices and journeymen will rise up in their hundreds, then their thousands. The stout hearts of London will join you, this I pledge.’
The Swiftsure picked up a group of six men whose fishing boat had been turned over and who were clinging to the upturned hull. They also went to the assistance of a fisher who had been struck by flying debris.
In the early afternoon, Adam ordered the ship to drop anchor off Greenwich to await the turn of the tide, which would not be long. Shakespeare and Boltfoot disembarked with the injured gunnery crew and the fishermen.
Cecil was on the quayside, standing apart from a group of courtiers. He was clutching a crystal goblet of red wine. Shakespeare hurriedly despatched Boltfoot and the seamen to be treated for their injuries, then bowed low to Cecil. The privy councillor was more tense than he had ever seen him.
‘You heard the blast, Sir Robert?’
‘Of course I heard the blast. They must have heard it in France!’
‘It was a hellburner, greater even than the one used at Antwerp. Thanks to God’s will and fine English gunnery, we were able to destroy it off Erith marshes. They had meant to blow the bridge and bring slaughter and mayhem to London. It was a conspiracy of terrible proportions involving many men. Even your father’s intelligencer William Sarjent. There is much to be told.’
‘Sarjent? God’s faith, John, I am sorry…’
‘He and Quincesmith have been double-dealing for years, since their time in the Low Countries. I suspect they
