Across a Moonlit Sea

by Marsha Canham

  Drake had insisted on seeing the paintings and the documents. He had studied every last detail, and because Dante had been adamant about recognizing Beau’s part in identifying the Spanish galleons, she sat by Drake’s side as they went through all three pictures and made a list of the ships they decoded.

  “You believe this to be the Girona?” he asked. “But she is a galleass and I see no evidence of oars.”

  “The Girona’s captain is the Duke of Alicante. His family crest consists of a lion, a cross, and”—Beau touched a fingertip to the carved grotesque worked into the ship’s stern—“a ram’s head.”

  Drake stared and Spence grinned.

  “My father appreciates good wine,” she explained. “Some of the best burgundy is produced on the Duke of Alicante’s estates. His bottles bear his crest.”

  Sir Francis nodded slowly and looked back at the list of ships they had compiled. He himself had contributed the San Marin, the Saragoza, the Magdalena.

  “By Christ, it is all here,” he muttered. “A complete inventory of the ships gathering in Spanish ports. And for what other reason than war? Moreover, if the ‘harvest’ dates are correct, the King is intending a June launch.” He lifted his head and scowled. “We are not sailing into these waters a day too soon. Hopefully, not a day too late either.”

  Dante was standing, lounging against the cabin wall. “You have the firepower, all you need do is pick your first strike with care and purpose. Do enough damage, you can set all of Spain back on its heels.”

  Drake looked at him expectantly. “I suppose you have the perfect target in mind?”

  The pirate wolf grinned. “Cadiz.”

  “Cadiz? Spain’s principle seaport?” Drake arched an eyebrow. “Why would you not just suggest we sail up the Tagus and attack Madrid … after first laying waste to Lisbon, of course?”

  “Because, if they are in any way anticipating an attack, they will be anticipating it in Lisbon. Cadiz, on the other hand, is deep in their own waters.” He paused and his gaze touched on Beau’s golden eyes. “They will be as lax with their guard in Cadiz as they were in Veracruz.”

  Drake frowned and tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “An intriguing suggestion, Simon, and audacious, as usual, but we have no clear idea what defenses we would be up against.”

  Dante pushed aside the paintings and leaned over the table, sketching an invisible map on the wood.

  “The port is shaped thus, like a funnel, with a wide outer harbor and a smaller, rounded inner harbor. The city itself straddles a detached spit of land joined to the main by a stone bridge. The defenses in the outer harbor are reasonably strong, for in order to breach the inner, a ship must first pass through this channel”—he drew a line through the neck of his invisble funnel—“and challenge the guns of the castle fortifications.

  “The castle itself overlooks the channel. It was built nearly a century ago to defend the city against repeated sackings from Algerian corsairs. While not to be lightly dismissed, I suspect with this many ships in port, we would not even have to risk the guns or the shoals to make short work of the King’s fleet.”

  “Shoals?”

  “Aye, they run along the leeward side of the channel, like teeth waiting to snap at an unsuspecting keel. If I were to try to penetrate the inner harbor, I would send the pinnaces in first to sound the shoals and test the wind and currents—both of which have a tendency to lose spirit inside the harbor.”

  Drake was staring hard at Dante’s squared jaw, the tightly compressed lips, the sudden blaze of blue in his eyes. “You never mentioned where it was you were taken,” he said quietly, “when you were subjected to the auto-da-fe. May I presume it was Cadiz?”

  “There was not much to do between beatings but stare out a crack in the wall of my cell and watch the harbor. I attacked it a hundred times in my mind, and each was a success.”

  “We need to attack it only once,” Drake said. “And it would have to be a success.”

  “Given the fact you are almost as audacious as I, I cannot see how it would fail.”

  Drake weathered the challenge with a slow smile, but it was apparant the bait was already half taken. His eyes sparkled and his complexion was ruddy with excitement, and he stared down at the invisible map Dante had drawn as if he could already see the harbor burning, the ships in flame.

  Restless now, he stood up and paced to the windows. His black satin shirt was stiff with jeweled embroidery, the sleeves of his velvet doublet were puffed and slashed, the doublet itself was padded generously to add bulk to his shoulders and dipped low in front to form a stylishly aggrandized peasecod belly. His hose, while doing little to flatter the bow in his legs, were worth more than a year’s wages to a common sailor.

  “Walsingham,” he said, thinking aloud as he continued to contemplate the possibilities, “has suggested we concentrate our efforts on the smaller coastal ports. He thought a blockade off Cape Saint Vincent would seriously hamper the provisioning of Lisbon. He has made his suggestion in the expectations of the Spanish king choosing Alvaro de Bazan, Marquis of Santa Cruz, to admiral his fleet, despite the old warrior’s age and reports of ill health.

  “On the other hand, there is the Duke of Medina Sidonia, the current court favorite. Richer than Croesus, he owns half of Andalusia and covets the rest. He is neither a soldier nor a sailor, however. He spears bulls with lancets and teaches horses to caper through the air. I doubt he has even been on the deck of a ship, save once, years ago, when he went to fetch his child bride from Navarre. His duchess is more of a sailor than he, having made several voyages to the Indies to visit her father—a governor, I believe, of one of the islands. I heard some mention she was there now, for he was ailing. Or that she was on her way back, for he was dead.”

  Dante’s face remained impassive but Pitt’s turned a strangled shade of red and Spence swallowed loud enough for the sound to reverberate around the cabin. Drake was too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice the subtle increase in tension, but Carleill passed a curious eye from Pitt to Spence to Beau, who was also, suddenly, preoccupied with a scrap of paper she was folding and unfolding into a tiny square.

  “Medina Sidonia would be the people’s favorite,” Drake decided curtly, searching for agreement from his audience, “for he would only have to snap his fingers to have fifty thousand men eager to follow him into the bowels of hell. His palacio, as it happens, is in Cadiz.”

  “In which case,” Carleill observed on cue, “it would not enhance his reputation any to be defeated in his own province.”

  “No more than it would enhance mine,” Drake countered, “to be seen acting too rashly with the Queen’s ships.”

  “Rashness, sir, is what is demanded. The Queen will know this when it comes time to choose her admiral to champion the defense of England.”

  Drake smirked. “The Queen, bless her soul, has a great deal of Old Henry in her and thinks like a man when it comes to the strategies of warfare. But she is also the Queen and must think of her own position when it comes to the strategies of politics. Charles, Lord Howard of Effingham is Lord High Admiral of England, and will no doubt satisfy the needs of the Privy Council. I am, alas, only the son of a common preacher and to put me in command of men with noble blood would offend every law of nature and seigniory. On the other hand”—his smile turned conspiratorial—“we can always hope for common sense to prevail, and if I should shew the boldness to sail into Cadiz and singe the King’s beard, well…”

  “She will have no choice but to appoint you,” Carleill insisted. “Noble blood be damned.”

  Drake bowed slightly to acknowledge Carle ill’s astute perception—one he shared wholeheartedly—and not by chance his gaze settled on Beau. His small, close-set eyes narrowed as he gave her doublet and breeches, her ill-fixed braid, a bemused inspection.

  “I have it in my mind Bess would take to you at once, child. I half believe there are times she would forfeit her crown if she could but once fling her farthinga
le into the wind and climb the rigging of a ship.”

  Beau was not sure how to respond. Luckily she was spared the need as Drake walked brusquely back to the table.

  “Mister Carleill—we shall have to call a council of war with all of the captains. If Cadiz sits well with them—and I cannot see them arguing overlong, since I have already made the decision—we shall lay in our course and sail close-hauled to the wind. A fortnight, I estimate, and we should be smelling the olive groves and camel dung.”

  “The, er, question of the other captains, sir…?”

  “Not now, Carleill.”

  The lieutenant glanced at Dante. “But, sir—”

  “Not now.” Drake fixed a smile in place and offered a casual explanation to his audience. “Borough. He likes his opinions to mean something. He also likes his pomp and ceremony and takes every care to see his enemy has a gallant opportunity to defend himself, even if it means knocking on the door and announcing our arrival. He holds no favor with surprise and stealth, the very qualities the Spaniards least expect. The very ones I admire most, unless, of course”—the bright blue eyes went to Spence—“they are meant to impugn my own character. Did you really expect, Captain, I would be so churlish as to confiscate whatever goods you have in your holds? Goods other than Indies Gold, that is.”

  A slow, hot flush crept up Spence’s bullish neck, and Dante interceded.

  “You would confiscate the teeth out of your mother’s mouth if your own were lacking. And it was on my strong advice that Jonas kept both his mouth and his cargo holds firmly shut.”

  “Cousin, cousin, you disappoint me.”

  “I also know you, and know that by nightfall you would have found some excuse to relieve us of a portion of the burden we relieved in good faith from a passing Spaniard.”

  “How did ye know?” Spence gasped, drawing the keen blue eyes—which he now suspected could see through three-foot-thick planking.

  “Your hull shows signs of recent damage,” Drake drawled. “And Dante de Tourville is on board. An idiot could have made the equation.”

  Carleill, wary of the gleam in his commander’s eyes, kept his voice deliberately businesslike. “Might we know the name of the ship whose burdens you relieved? And perchance the where and when of it, lest our course be affected?”

  “Six days ago, thereabout. She was a straggler, trying for Lisbon. We caught her”—Dante grinned at Spence as he quoted—“with her cod open and her pisser hanging out.”

  “A worthwhile exchange, I hope?”

  “Worthy enough. Timely, too, for we found these paintings and letters in her master’s cabin—all of which we will gladly entrust into your care in case your captains need convincing.”

  Drake drew a breath and laced his hands together behind his back. “And the ship?”

  “The San Pedro de Marcos”

  Carleill’s head jerked around. “The San—? But she’s— she’s six hundred tons if she’s an ounce!”

  “She was big,” Dante admitted blithely—so blithely, it sent Spence’s cup to his mouth again and almost dragged Pitt’s gaze up off the floor, where it had been fixed for the past five minutes.

  “How hotly did she protest?” The lieutenant’s voice had a catch of awe in it.

  “We peppered her with over four hundred rounds before she brought down her colors.”

  “Yet you did not claim her as prize?”

  “We did not think she stood much chance of making it to a Spanish port, let alone an English one.”

  Drake cleared his throat, which was suffused with a rising red tide of ill-concealed jealousy. “Her cargo?”

  “Plate and bullion.” Dante paused and smiled like Clarence the cat after a successful raid on the cook’s stores. “Sixty thousand, thereabout. Only a rough estimate, you understand, having no guild merchant on board.”

  Drake shook his head, the movement barely perceptible at first, then with enough vigor to supplement the sudden bark of laughter that erupted from his throat. “You blackhearted bastard! First Veracruz, then a miraculous resurrection, then a Spanish treasure galleon. You will have the Queen appointing you Lord Admiral of the defense of England if you don’t have a care.”

  There was not as much jesting behind the words as his demeanor implied and both men knew it. Drake ached for the command. He wanted it, he deserved it, the people demanded it. But unless he could accomplish something spectacular between now and June, the Queen would likely give the nod to protocol.

  And if Cadiz had not been firmly fixed in his mind before, it was now, for an attack on Cadiz could prove to be his most spectacular coup yet.

  “We will hold council on the Bonaventure tonight,” Drake said crisply. “You will, of course, join us,” he added, extending the invitation to include Dante and Jonas Spence.

  “It will be an honor,” Dante agreed.

  Drake waited impatiently for Carleill to gather up the documents. With Spence scrambling out of his chair to follow them, the two men strode out of the cabin and returned topside.

  As he passed, Spence plucked at Dante’s sleeve and hissed, “Do ye not plan to tell him about the duchess? What if she’s”—he lowered his voice to an airless whisper—“ye know … the duchess?”

  “I did not mention our guest, firstly, because we have yet to determine if she is Medina Sedonia’s duchess; secondly, because I have played at whist with my esteemed comrade too many times to underestimate the benefit of always holding a trump card back in case it is needed. For that matter, he rarely plays without holding one or two back himself.”

  “Ye think he isn’t tellin’ us everythin’?”

  “I think he isn’t telling us something. I just don’t know what it is.”

  Beau did not follow the men up on deck. She went to her own cabin instead and stood on the gallery balcony to watch the famous sea hawk being rowed back to the Elizabeth Bonaventure. She had seen him from a distance many times before—who had passed through Plymouth and had not?—so his abbreviated appearance did not startle her. Also, she knew from the sailors’ talk that he was cheerful, first to buy a round of ale, and first on his feet to defend his Queen and country with word or blade.

  Something about him, however, left her with an odd sense of unease. As if he would not have been above confiscating their plunder from the San Pedro had Dante not been on board.

  She sighed and heard voices behind her, recognizing those of Dante and Geoffrey Pitt. Pitt’s was the sharpest and she surmised they must be discussing the fate of Doña Maria Antonia Piacenza and whether that was her full name or not. If not, if she was the Duke of Medina Sidonia’s wife, Pitt’s little duchess might just prove to be more valuable than ten shiploads of treasure and nothing would stop Drake from taking her.

  The voices stopped, rather abruptly, and Dante joined her on the gallery a few angry footsteps later.

  “Love,” he said grimly. “Such brief pleasure for such prolonged pain; the one hardly justifies the other.”

  She looked at him sidelong. “Some people, I am sure, find the exchange fair.”

  “Some people are fools.”

  Beau turned her head forward again. “I gather you have asked Mister Pitt to find out if the duchess has any more titles behind her name?”

  “I cannot very well ask her myself. She melts into a frightened puddle if I so much as inquire after her health.”

  “I was imagining that was the kind of reaction you preferred from your women. Docile, fainthearted, demurring to your every command….”

  He glared at her. “If it was, I wouldn’t be taking you into my bed every night, now would I?”

  Beau returned his stare for a long moment, then pushed away from the rail with a curse. She gained no more than a pace or two before Dante’s arm snaked out and caught her around the waist, hauling her back.

  “Let me go, you insufferably arrogant—”

  He kissed her hard, on the mouth, and when he did let her go, he was grinning. “You’re like a keg
of powder, did you know that? The smallest spark touches your fuse and blam! Off you go.”

  She wriggled and squirmed and tried to wrench herself free, but he only tightened his grip and trapped her closer against his chest.

  “If you truly want me to explode, Captain—”

  He laughed again and lifted her, wary of the eyes that might be watching from the Elizabeth Bonaventure. He carried her, still thrashing and spitting like a cat, into the cabin and closed the gallery door behind them. Turning her into the corner, he kept her pinned there with his big body even as he freed his hands to cradle her neck and tilt her mouth up to his.

  She tried to bite him and he bit her back. Her gasp allowed his tongue to make short work of her defenses and within a few halfheartedly angry protests, she was all but a puddle herself.

  “Bastard,” she gasped when she could. “You don’t play fair.”

  “With you? God’s truth, I would not stand a chance. You would have me castrated, and without the use of a knife.”

  She opened her mouth to the rovings of his tongue and lips, and curled her arms around his shoulders.

  “Besides,” he said between suckling caresses, “I need to talk to you and I need your full attention.”

  “You have it,” she murmured. “Talk away.”

  “I plan to go on the raid to Cadiz with Drake. He will likely ask me anyway, if I have not put his nose too far out of joint, but even if he doesn’t, I’m sure I can catch a ride with someone.”

  Beau’s eyes opened and her mouth stopped moving against his. His dark head lifted, though he was careful to keep her body immobilized against the wall.

  “What about the Egret?”

  “What about her? She is going home … and so are you.”

  “Thank you very much for the dismissal, but I don’t recall you being named captain.”