by Anne Lyle
When he found Ned at last, the younger man rushed to embrace him, muttering curses over and over like prayers as he buried his face in Mal’s shoulder. Mal rested his chin against Ned’s brow, fighting down his own post-battle shakes. Around them the gunners were slapping one another’s shoulders and laughing, even as their injured fellows groaned in the hold below. They had lived to see another day, God be praised. No man could ask for more than that.
CHAPTER XI
Coby stood on the after-deck, staring up at the red sails that bellied above her. Nearly three weeks into their journey and they were still zigzagging down the coast of Portugal. The same westerly winds that hindered their own progress would be blowing Mal’s ship around the coast of Spain and into the Mediterranean. She kicked the rail irritably, as if the ship were a lazy pony needing to be spurred on by its rider. The skrayling at the ship’s wheel turned to stare at her, and she muttered an apology in Tradetalk.
She looked around for Sandy, and presently spotted him sitting on a coil of rope with a book of mathematics open on his lap. She pattered down the steps to the weather deck and crossed the ship’s waist in long, slightly erratic strides.
Sandy looked up as her shadow fell across the pages.
“We left England only a day or so after Mal,” she said. “Do you think we might catch up with him?”
“The Falcon is a fast ship, made for war. They are well ahead of us by now.”
“But you cannot be sure, can you?” She squatted next to him so that they were eye to eye, and lowered her voice. “You have not… spoken to him yet?”
“I have tried.” He stared southwards, as if he could see Mal’s ship in the distance. Coby had to admit that he looked like a man who had not slept well in days. Or rather, nights. “But most likely he still wears the earring Kiiren gave him. At any rate, I have searched all night, as far as I dared to go, and found no sign of him.”
“You are right, I suppose,” she said, standing up. Though she strained her eyes, she could see nothing in any direction except miles of empty ocean. “It’s almost Easter, and still we sail south. Surely we must be nearing the Straits of Gibraltar?”
Sandy got to his feet. “I will speak to our captain, if that will soothe your spirit.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And you should take cover, like your friend Gabriel,” he added. “The sun is far stronger in these parts, and will burn you before you know it.”
Since the hold was now hot, stuffy and stinking of the bilges by day, Hennaq had rigged up an awning on deck between the two masts so that his passengers could shelter from the sun and keep out of the way of the sailors. Gabriel was lying on his stomach stripped to his shirt and hose, a sheaf of paper before him and an ink-pot wedged into a gap between the mats that covered the bare deck. He looked up with a frown, and Coby tried not to smile at the ink stain down the side of his nose.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“No, don’t go.” Gabriel laid down his pen and pushed himself up off the matting, twisting round to sit cross-legged. “I want your opinion on something I’m writing for Ned.”
Coby sighed. “I know little of love poetry, sir.”
“This isn’t a love poem. At least, not in the usual sense. It’s a play.”
“Oh.” She sat down on a cushion next to him. “What’s it about?”
“It’s…” He cocked his head on one side, his features twisted into a caricature of frustrated thought. Coby suppressed a laugh. Gabriel was ever the actor, on or off stage.
“There’s this young man and his sweetheart,” he said eventually, “but her father wants her to marry a rich old merchant, so they trick the old man out of his fortune and get married anyway. I’m calling it A Bear-baiting in Bankside, because that’s where it’s set. And the old man is the bear, do you see?”
“Oh. That’s… different.”
“Tales of kings and princes and foreign lands are all very well,” Gabriel said, “but what man – or woman –does not enjoy scandal and gossip? And one’s neighbours cannot be relied upon to follow lives of constant wickedness.”
“No indeed.”
“So I thought, why not put it in a play? A comedy about men’s foibles – with a moral ending of course.”
“That could work. And the Master of the Revels could have no objection to such a trifle.”
“My thoughts exactly.” He grinned and passed her a handful of papers. “Here, tell me what you think.”
Coby began to read. The handwriting was dreadful, and the page a mess of crossings-out with corrections written very small between the original lines, but she had seen enough such drafts in her time at the theatre to be able to make sense of it. She read on to the next page. It was hardly Marlowe, but the words had a lively spirit to them, the humour sharp-edged without being malicious. She found herself smiling at a line here and there.
When she got to the end of the first scene, she looked up to see Gabriel gazing at her anxiously.
“Well?”
“It’s… promising,” she said.
“You truly think so?”
“Truly. But if I were you, I’d make sure to put your name on every page. And burn the ones you mean to discard, or tear them up and throw them overboard.”
“Why so?”
“The skraylings are mad for stories; they’re as good as money to them. Which means that ownership is important.”
Gabriel held out his hand for the script. “Thank you for the reminder. I’ll do it right away.”
She settled down on the cushions to doze the heat of the day away. Sandy was right. Mal was probably almost to Venice by now. Perhaps he would come to Provence on his way back to England. She smiled to herself at the thought, and closed her eyes.
Erishen waited until he was sure the girl was busy talking to Gabriel, then made his way to the bow. He had not wanted to alarm her, but she was not alone in her concern over their slow progress. The captain owed them a clearer explanation at the very least.
Captain Hennaq was conferring with his quartermaster over their supplies, so Erishen waited at a respectful distance until they were done. This would have to be handled carefully if he were not to cause offence. Though Hennaq had agreed to help them, he made it clear he did so for his cousin’s sake alone. As a law-breaker, even an unwilling one, Erishen had no place in the clan hierarchy.
From the little he could overhear, Erishen was able to gather that the captain was concerned about their supply of fresh water. It was always a problem on long voyages, and with enemy lands on either side, finding somewhere they could safely refill their barrels would not be easy. After some debate they agreed they would consult the navigator on the best place to land, and the quartermaster left the foredeck.
“You wish to speak to me?” Hennaq said, seeming to notice Erishen for the first time.
“I bring a request from my Christian friends.” It was not the ideal topic, but it had the advantage of having some truth behind it. “It is their custom at this time of year to celebrate their spring festival, and they seek your permission to do so.”
The captain glanced towards the passengers’ tent.
“What does this festival entail?”
“The first three days require only quiet contemplation, then it is customary to hold a celebratory feast.”
Hennaq hissed his amusement. “It does not sound like much of a festival.”
“It is their tradition, not ours,” Erishen replied, softening his reproving words with a stance of submission.
“Very well. They may proceed, though we have few enough supplies for a feast. I will instruct the cook to do his best.” He paused. “I think there can be no harm for us all to eat well together, eh?”
“No, indeed. Thank you, sir.”
“However your Christian friends must not interfere with the work of the crew, nor importune them to join in the other ceremonies.”
“Of course, captain.” The skraylings had listene
d attentively to the first missionaries to the New World, paid them generously for the stories they told, then told them very politely to go home. Those that did not take heed had soon fled in terror from visions of Hell out of their own sermons. “I think the Christians have learned their lesson.”
“Is that all?”
Erishen bowed. “My friends also asked me to enquire whether you or any of your crew possess a copy of the Christian book of stories they could borrow.”
“I shall make enquiries amongst the crew. But any such copies will be in our own tongue.”
“I will read it to the Christians, putting it into English,” Erishen replied. It would be good practice of his language skills, as well as another way to pass the time.
“When is this… festival to take place?”
Ah, now we get to it. “That is the difficulty. My friends have lost track of the count of days since we left England, and it is important that they celebrate on the same day as other Christians.”
Hennaq looked up at the sky. “Please, excuse me.”
He hailed the first mate, then made a complex series of arm movements, signalling his commands to the crew. Something about the ropes, or the sails…? Erishen had little idea; he had never been much interested in sailing.
“We have been at sea for twenty-two days,” Hennaq went on. “Do you not agree?”
“That is what I thought, but I did not trust my own reckoning. I have been studying an English book of mathematics and astronomy, and also following our voyage on one of their maps.”
“And?”
“And I am perplexed. Either the map is wrong, or we have sailed much further south than the gateway to the Inner Sea.”
He watched the captain’s reaction, expecting bluster or denial. Instead Hennaq smiled, baring his fangs.
“The map is not wrong, nor your calculations.”
“What?”
“I have changed my mind as to our destination.”
The captain nodded absentmindedly. Erishen turned in alarm; too slow. Powerful hands seized his arms and a sack was thrown over his head. He struggled and cried out, but to no avail. There were at least three of them, maybe more, and though he was a good head taller than any skrayling, he could not fight blind. And even if he did break free, where would he run to?
Coby woke from a dream in which she was wrestling shadowy figures who jabbered incomprehensibly at her, only to discover it was not a dream. The skraylings seized her arms and legs, pinning her to the matting. She screamed, as much in fury as in terror, and kicked out. The grip on her right leg momentarily loosened, and she lashed out again. This time her foot connected with the skrayling’s jaw, sending him tumbling across the matting onto the deck.
“Hendricks?”
It was Gabriel’s voice.
Before she could answer him she was cuffed around the temple and her head snapped sideways, making her gasp and retch at the pain.
“Silence!”
She licked her lips and looked around for the speaker. In the shadowy confines of the hold, the tattooed faces looked too alike for her to distinguish individuals. What was this nightmare? Why had the skraylings turned on them?
The sailors hauled her to her feet and bound her hands in front of her. She could see Gabriel now, standing calmly defiant between his captors, his fair hair in disarray and a smear of blood across his chin.
“What…?”
A hand clamped over her mouth, rough fingers smelling of seaweed and tar.
“I say silent, you are silent,” a voice growled in her ear. “See you it?”
She nodded as best she could.
“Good.”
The voice barked orders in Vinlandic, and the captives were pushed out of their shelter into the blinding gaze of the sun.
They removed the sack, and Erishen spat pita fibres, blinking in the dim dusty light of the hold.
“What is this, Hennaq? Where are you taking me?”
He was tied to the main mast where it penetrated the hull, hands bound before him and ropes around his ankles, knees, hips and chest so that he could scarcely move. Beyond Hennaq, he could see the girl and the actor being helped down the ladder.
“Leave my English friends out of this,” he said. “If any offence has been caused, I will bear the responsibility alone.”
“It is a little late to take responsibility, Erishen.” The captain leant close, hissing his name in his face. Erishen resisted the urge to return the gesture. Without fangs, it would be about as threatening as a child sticking out his tongue.
“Responsibility for what?” he said instead.
“You don’t remember, do you?”
“There are many things I do not remember.”
“I was but a boy when you first came to England, in proper shape–” Hennaq looked him up and down disdainfully “–and told the council how you were going to find our kin, stolen by the Birch Men long ago. I thought it a fool’s errand, even then, but my heart-mate Tanijeel…”
Hennaq stood silent for a long moment, staring at something in his hand. Erishen grasped at the name, sought it amongst his shattered memories, but found nothing. The captain cleared his throat.
“Tanijeel was smitten with you: one of the oldest of our kind, who had walked with the stolen ones and spoken with the Birch Men, come to our humble settlement in a far-off land! He wanted to accompany you on your quest, but you would have none of it. He was heartbroken.”
Erishen remembered now. A young man of perhaps eighteen or twenty summers, judging by the extent of his clan-marks, with bright eyes and a breathless enthusiasm that reminded him all too much of Kiiren.
“It was too dangerous.”
Hennaq laughed sharply. “In that at least, you were correct.”
“What happened?”
Hennaq stared at him, golden eyes full of hatred. “When you did not return, he went looking for you. The first time, when he came back empty-handed, I thought that would satisfy him. But he never gave up. The last time he went looking, he did not come back.”
A sick feeling twisted Erishen’s guts. “When was this?”
“Eleven years ago.” Hennaq’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason. What did you mean, you’ve changed your mind about our destination?”
Hennaq smiled. “I’m taking you home, honoured one. To Vinland.”
“Vinland? What about my amayi? He is your cousin–”
“And many miles away. No. Too many have died already on this quest of yours.”
Hennaq carefully unfastened the top two buttons of Erishen’s doublet and loosened the neck of his shirt, then took something out of the pouch at his waist and held it up for Erishen to see.
“We found this in your baggage.” He unfastened the spirit-guard and reached around behind Erishen’s neck. “I cannot let you roam free.”
“No!”
Coby did not struggle as they tied her to one of the upright timbers that supported the deck. The last thing she wanted was for them to bind her so tightly she had no chance of escape. But escape from a ship in the middle of the ocean required planning, and planning required time and a clear head.
To her relief Gabriel appeared to have come to the same conclusion, and was meekly standing against his post whilst the skraylings fetched another length of rope. Somewhere behind them, Sandy was talking to the captain and it didn’t sound good. The captain was angry and upset by turns, and Sandy kept asking him questions, or so she guessed from his tone of voice. But if the captain was not interrogating his prisoner, what was he up to? Why bring them all this way, if he was not their ally? They must be near the coast of Africa by now…
She swallowed against the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, and glanced at Gabriel. Two healthy young people, fair of hair and skin, would fetch a high price in the slave markets of Moorish Africa. But on the other hand a shipful of skraylings was worth a hundred times that. Surely their captors would not risk enslavement themselves, just fo
r the money they could get for her and Gabriel. Not if the reaction of the crew they had found on Corsica was anything to go by. It must be something else, then; something to do with Sandy and Kiiren and skrayling politics. Quite what, though, she could not fathom.
The skraylings finished tying them up and departed with their captain. Coby called out to Sandy, but he didn’t respond. Maybe the captain had gagged him, or fed him a sleeping draught to keep him quiet. She realised she had no idea how the skraylings dealt with their prisoners. They did not seem like a cruel people, and yet she had heard some blood-curdling stories of the New World, of human sacrifice and mutilation. If the skraylings inscribed their flesh with needles for mere decoration, what might they not do to their enemies?
“Hendricks?”
She turned at the sound of her name. Gabriel grinned at her, his face a mask of blood, bruises and shadows. No, the skraylings would not have been so rough if they had intended to sell their human passengers to slavers. She took a sliver of comfort from the thought.
“You’re not badly hurt?” she asked Gabriel.
“I gave as good as I got. You?”
“The same. I’m not sure about Sandy, though. He’s been silent since the captain left.”
She craned her neck. Sandy was trussed up tighter than his companions, and by the looks of it only the ropes held him upright. His head lolled forward, his features slack and eyes closed.
“Have you any idea why we’ve been taken prisoner?” Gabriel asked.
She shook her head. “It makes no sense. If the captain isn’t our friend, why did he bring us all this way? Did he change his mind?”
“He could be taking us somewhere else.”
“But where? Not Africa. I’ve seen for myself how much the skraylings fear slavery.”
“Spain, then. You and I both work for Walsingham; I am sure King Philip would pay a bounty for the likes of us.”