S Perry - The Rebel’s Mark

The Atlantic Ocean, sixty leagues south-west of Ireland,

September 1598

Since the sandglass was last turned, the storm has stalked the San Juan de Berrocal from behind the cover of a darkening sky. It has sniffed at her with its blustery breath, jostled her with watery claws, spat at her with a sudden icy blast of rain. Along the western horizon where the twilight is dying, flashes of lightning now ripple. Whenever the carrack rises on a wave crest, they seem brighter. Nearer. It is only a matter of time, thinks Don Rodriquez Calva de Sagrada, before the accompanying thunder is no longer drowned by the roaring of the sea and the screaming of the wind.

Drowned.

Don Rodriquez has faced death before in the service of Spain. He has made voyages longer and more uncertain even than this one. But to drown that, he thinks, would be an ignominious death for a courtier of The Most Illustrious Philip, by the Grace of God, King of Spain, Aragon, Valencia, Mallorca, Naples, Sicily and Sardinia.

The deck cants alarmingly as the San Juan plunges down a vertiginous slope of black water. Don Rodriquez flails wildly for something to hang on to. His hands seize the wooden housing of the ships lodestar, brightly painted red and gold the colours of Castile. Beneath his numb fingers, the wet timber is as slippery as if the paint were blood. But to let go, he is sure, would result in him sliding off the deck and into the maelstrom surging mere feet below. He is beginning to wonder if the captain fearful of interception by one of those sleek English sea-wolves bristling with cannon and possessed of Lucifers luck has made a fatal error of judgement.

As the deck soars upwards again, leaving Don Rodriquezs stomach somewhere in the depths of the ocean, the captain a short, taciturn fellow with the darting eyes of a scavenging gull, and whose seamans contempt for the landsman who chartered his ship has not abated since they left Corua pins his chart against the lid of the lodestar box. The corners thrash wildly in the gale like the wings of a bird trying to escape the hunters net. Be not dismayed, my lord! he says with an insulting smile as the index finger of his free hand, encased in the thick felt of his glove, makes landfall in the pool of dancing light cast by the helmsmans lantern. God, in his infinite mercy, has provided us with a safe anchorage here.

Don Rodriquez leans forward to study the map. It is a portolan chart, purchased in Seville for more maraveds than he had cared to pay. Everything on it from the compass bearings to the harbours and inlets, promontories and coves is based upon reports from Spanish fishermen who once plied these waters. But since the outbreak of the present war between the heretic English and God-fearing Spain there have been few enough of those in these waters. What if the map is out of date, and the English have built a castle where the captains finger now rests? Besides, it will be utterly dark soon. Not even a lunatic would consider a night landfall on such a treacherous coast. And only a lunatic who was heartily tired of life would do so in the face of an approaching storm.

Here turns out to be some distance from Roaringwater Bay, where the captain had promised to put them ashore at first light.

Is there nowhere closer? Every extra hour I am ashore is an hour given to the English to contrive our ruin.

With an impertinence he would never dare risk on dry land, the captain says, We made a pact, my lord, did we not? I am not to ask why a grand courtier of our sovereign majesty wishes to interrupt his voyage to the Spanish Netherlands to spend a night in Ireland. In return, the same grand courtier shall leave all decisions of a maritime nature to me. Yes?

Yes, admits Don Rodriquez despondently. We agreed.

Trust me I know these waters, the captain adds. I have sailed them before, with the Duke of Medina Sidonia.

The mans familiarity with the coast of Ireland is why Don Rodriquez hired him in the first place. Now, thinking on the fate that befell the commander of the grand Armada, he is beginning to have second thoughts.

Another wave of watery malevolence sends the San Juan into a plunge even more sickening than the last. The sea breaks over the elegantly carved Castilian lion on her prow, and for a moment Don Rodriquez fears she will go on plunging into the deep, never to rise again. From beneath the deck planks, a shrill female scream carries clearly against the clamour of the gale.

You had best go below and comfort the noble lady, your daughter, and leave me to my duties, my lord, says the captain, fighting the wind for possession of the chart as he tries to tuck it back into his cape.

Don Rodriquez, being a man of honour, objects.

You may think me a cosseted courtier, Seor, but I am also a soldier, and I have voyaged in His Majestys service before. My arms are still strong. Let me stay here. Direct me as you will.

The captain glances at his passengers well-manicured hands, the fingers laden with bejewelled rings. He looks at the pretentiously styled black curls on his head, the conceit of a man just a little too old to carry them off. A landsman of the worst kind, he decides. A danger on a storm-tossed deck, not only to himself but to all around him.

Voyaged where? he asks. On the Sanabria, in a pleasure barge?

To New Spain. To Hispaniola.

The captain looks Don Rodriquez up and down, wondering if this is little more than a courtiers boasting. You never told me that at Corua. Was this recently?

Twenty years ago, Don Rodriquez admits.

Ah, the captain says, barely bothering to keep the scorn out of his voice. In that case, your place is not here, my lord. I suggest you go below and leave me and my crew to our profession. Then, with the sly smile of a Madrid street-trickster, he adds, I hope you and the women have strong stomachs. Were in for a tempestuous night.

Beyond the shuttered windows of the smaller of the two grand banqueting chambers at Greenwich Palace, on the southern bank of the Thames some five miles downriver from London Bridge, the early-September dusk is troubled by no more than a few high wisps of cloud, as insubstantial as an old mans breath on winter air. Inside, the candles have been lit, the dining boards and trestles cleared away, the covers of Flanders linen folded up and carted off to the wash-house, the plate and silverware removed. As for the diners, if indigestion is in danger of making its presence publicly known, they are doing their level best to suffer in silence. Elizabeth of England does not appreciate having her masques interrupted by vulgar noises off-stage.

Dr Nicholas Shelby and his wife Bianca have removed themselves to the gallery, amongst the other palace chaff who dont merit a place closer to the players. As a consequence, they have an uninterrupted view of the assembled courtiers bedecked in their late-summer plumage: satin peasecod doublets and venetians for the men, low-cut brocade gowns cascading richly over whalebone farthingales for the women all striking languid poses around a raised dais covered in plush scarlet velvet. In the centre of the dais stands a gilded wooden chair emblazoned with the English lion and the Welsh dragon. Upon the chair lies a plump cushion covered in the finest cloth of gold. And upon the cushion, like a petite pharaoh perched on a ziggurat, sits a woman with the whitest face Bianca has ever seen.