"The other skraylings are from a different clan," Mal said. "They aren't going to like me talking to Kiiren, not if they think I'm in Venice on the Queen's business."
"Then you'll have to convince them you're there for some other purpose."
"Yes, but what?"
"I thought that was what Raleigh was for? To be your Trojan horse."
"That ruse may fool the Venetians – with any luck they've never heard of me, and won't connect me with Kiiren – but the skraylings are another matter." Mal stared at the map, tracing the contours of the island with one finger. "Fear not, I'll think of something before we reach Venice."
"And if not?"
"We are in God's hands, and can only do our best."
"Easy for you to say," Ned replied around a mouthful of mash. "I don't fancy going back to London to tell Walsingham we've failed."
"We haven't failed yet. And I don't intend to."
The ship lurched over the crest of another wave, and Mal's plate slide a few inches along the table.
"I hope my brother is faring better than we are," Mal said. His face was pale in the cabin's gloom. "I swear I would rather face a dozen guisers than another Atlantic storm."
"No more nightmares, then, since we came aboard?"
Mal shook his head. "Not of that sort."
"I don't suppose there's likely to be any guisers on board anyway. Are there?"
"It's not impossible, but no, you're right. Why would they risk one of their own on a hazardous sea voyage, when there's plenty of mischief they could be getting up to in England?"
"Such as?"
"Whatever manoeuvring at Court will bring them the most power, I suppose."
Ned muttered a curse under his breath. God-damned monstrous witches, they should be rounded up and burned, and their skrayling friends sent back to the New World with their tails between their legs.
"Still, they can work magic from afar, can't they?" he said after a moment, glancing at the rain-blurred window. "That's how you were spirited away."
"True. But over hundreds of miles of ocean? I pray they do not have that kind of power."
"So do I. Though I'd be happier if I had some kind of protection like yours."
"Oh I'm sure something could be found," Mal said with a shadow of his familiar grin. "Master Warburton is certain to have some leg irons around."
"I'm not that desperate," Ned replied hurriedly.
Mal sipped his watered wine and glanced at the plate of mash. A moment later he was leaning over the edge of the table, retching up what little he had eaten this morning. Ned sighed and went to fetch a bucket of sea water.
Mal folded up the map and stowed it in the pack in his locker, then threw himself onto his bunk. He cursed Walsingham for pressing Raleigh upon him, Raleigh for his eagerness to set sail, and most of all himself for agreeing to this voyage. They should have gone overland, through France and northern Italy, despite the risk of spring floods. But Ned was not accustomed to hard riding, and he needed Coby to… His heart contracted at the memory of her in his arms, her mouth on his, her slender body warm against his belly… His hand strayed down to his groin, but the seasickness had robbed him of even that small comfort, and he abandoned the attempt with a curse of frustration and rolled over in the bunk.
The pearl earring pressed against his cheek, and after a moment's indecision he took it out. Surely there were no guisers here on the ship? And if there were, better to know of it than remain ignorant. He hauled himself out of his bunk, retrieved his knapsack and stowed the earring in its pouch. It would be a pity to lose such a rich jewel, and he would need it when he returned to England.
The sound of someone singing a bawdy ballad filtered down through the poop deck overhead, and Mal smiled to himself. Enough of such fretting! It gained him naught but to sour his stomach further. He needed something wholesome to occupy his thoughts. As soon as this weather abated, he would teach Ned how to handle a sword.
Rain lashed down as Ned leant over the rail, hauling on the thin rope. At this rate he might as well stand on deck and let the bucket fill by itself. Or wring his clothes into it. His woollen doublet and hose had soaked up rainwater like the earth after a drought, and they now hung in leaden folds that encumbered his every move. He pushed wet hair back from his eyes and thought longingly of his own warm bed in Southwark.
Above and behind him the sailors went about their mysterious tasks amongst the rigging, seemingly oblivious to the rain. They had scarcely spoken a word to Ned since he came aboard, apart from the ship's cook, who joked about Mal's poor appetite and advised Ned to eat his master's dinner for him.
As he hauled the bucket up the last few feet, he became aware of someone standing over him. Looking round he squinted up into the broad, weatherbeaten face of the second mate: Handsaw, Hangnail, or whatever he was called. Hard to make out names over the roar of a gale.
"Still throwing up, be he?" the sailor asked.
"What is it to you?" Ned lowered the bucket to the deck, never taking his eyes off the man.
"You look to have your sea legs already. Been on a ship before?"
"No."
"Natural-born sailor, then."
Ned shrugged. "I couldn't say."
"Well, ye've taken to it quicker than your master. Not missing your own varlet back in London, then?"
"What?"
"I saw ye, afore ye came aboard. Both o' ye, kissing those pretty yellow-haired lads. Or were they your whores?"
I know your sort of old. Think you can goad me into a fight, eh? "Is that what you ask for, when you visit a stew?" Ned replied. "Girls in breeches?"
The second mate roared with laughter. "Not I! Can't get at her cunt fast enough that way, can ye?"
He elbowed Ned, who laughed with him, though mostly out of relief. The other man had height and reach on him, and fists like half-bricks.
"Master Hansford!" Raleigh bellowed down from the poop deck. "I thought you were taking the whipstaff?"
"Right you are, captain!" Hansford glowered at Ned. "Don't think that's an end on't. I got my eye on ye, ye fishbellied knave…"
Ned waited until the man was halfway up the stairs to the poop deck, then made the sign of the fig at his back before snatching up his bucket and heading for the cabin.
He stepped through the door and pulled up short. Mal was sitting on his bunk with his sheathed rapier across his knees, dangling the matching dagger from one finger by the ring on its hilt.
"You're looking more cheerful," Ned told him. "Stopped feeling sick?"
"No," Mal replied, getting to his feet, "but I weary of letting it rule me. I shall be the master of my stomach from now on."
"Glad to hear it. I weary of being your nurse."
Mal flipped the dagger upwards and caught it by the hilt. "How would you like to be my sparring partner instead? I grow restless, mewed up like this."
"Me, fight you? With a sword?"
"Don't you want to learn?"
"I…" Had Mal overheard? "I reckon I can handle myself well enough in a tight spot. I'm not one of your milk-livered courtiers, you know."
"I'm not talking about tavern brawls. Real fighting, against men armed with steel. You never know who or what we might come up against on this expedition."
"I've fought an armed man before. And killed him, too." He tried to sound as if it was nothing though, truth be told, if it hadn't been for a lucky throw of a piss-pot he would have been the victim, not the victor.
"Once. And that only by great good fortune," Mal said, echoing his thoughts.
"I told you many a time, I have the Devil's own luck."
Mal shook his head in despair.
"I cannot go into a fight knowing you can't guard my back – worse, that I must defend you as well as myself."
"All right, all right. Tell you what: if you can go an hour without puking, you can teach me what you will."
He held out his hand, and Mal clasped it. "Done."
Ned retrieved his bucket and swabbed up the vomit, then went back out on deck and threw the bucket's contents into the sea, being careful to choose the leeward side so that it didn't blow straight back in his face. Hansford might be a illfavoured lout, but he was right about one thing: he really was getting the hang of this sailing business. And now he was to become a swordsman too. Well, they do say that stranger things happen at sea.
Ned woke with a start, and for a moment wondered where he was. Why was the house creaking like a ship in a storm? Oh, yes – because he was on a ship. Probably in a storm. And his bladder was as full as an alderman's belly.
He climbed out of his bunk, cursing as he banged his shins on the raised side. Mal muttered something in his sleep and rolled over. Ned staggered across the cabin, still barely half-awake, and fetched up against the table. He was sorely tempted to piss on one of the unused mattresses and save himself the bother of going out on deck, but he'd heard alarming tales about naval discipline. He'd rather get soaked again than endure a flogging.
He pulled on his still-sodden hose, groped his way to the door and heaved it open. Thankfully the rain had stopped, though the westerly wind drove the Falcon onwards as swiftly as her namesake. The only light came from a couple of lanterns, barely enough to pick out the sheen on wet timbers and the pale faces of the men on duty. It was enough. Ned wove across the deck to the welcome cover of the forward cabin.
The darkness within stank of sweat, tobacco and stagnant seawater, and only a narrow gangway was left between the rows of hammocks. Ned sidled down it, praying he wouldn't disturb any of the sleeping sailors. He didn't know if Hansford was on duty tonight or asleep in one of these canvas swaddlings, but either way he had no wish to encounter him. He had nearly made it to the far end, and the tiny jakes-cabin they called the heads, when his nemesis stepped out in front of him.
"What be ye doing abroad at this time o' night?" Hansford growled. "Come looking for a pretty boy to fuck?"
"I've come for a piss, nothing more."
"Hear that, lads?" Hansford laughed softly, and two other sailors materialised out of the blackness, no more than shapes against the pale bulks of hammocks. "This 'un's come to get his prick out for us."
Ned tried to run for the cabin door, but one of the sailors blocked his way. Someone – Hansford? – grabbed his shirt from behind and pulled him backwards. Before he could cry out, a fist connected with his belly and his aching bladder shed its load.
"Aw, the little babby pissed 'unself," Hansford crooned. "Better get him into the heads, boys, before he shits his breeches as well."
"Bastards!" Ned panted, catching the doorframe with one flailing hand and bracing his feet against the deck.
One of the sailors ducked and grabbed his ankle, hauling it up so that Ned was now suspended between his captors like a sack of turnips. He struggled as if the very devils of Hell had hold of him, but the doorframe slipped from his grasp and he was carried into the fetid blackness beyond.
Mal twitched awake and heard the cabin door creak shut.
"That you, Ned?"
There was no answer. Mal hitched himself into a sitting position, noting that he felt less queasy than he had done for a while. He turned to see a dark shape moving about the cabin.
"Ned?"
The figure leapt towards him, the sweep of his arm alerting Mal to his intent. Mal dodged and rolled over the side of the cot, landing heavily on the deck as the blade thunked into the wood where he had been lying. He carried on rolling until he was sure he was out of reach, then leapt to his feet. The assassin was between him and his blades, damn him. Mal dodged back around the table. The man hesitated, and Mal cast his mind about the cabin in search of a weapon. A lantern, on the hook behind and to his left. No point in a feint; they could barely see one another in the darkness.
He stepped back and reached up to his left, fingers brushing the lantern's greasy exterior. In a moment he had it unhooked, and transferred it to his right hand. Throw or swing? The assassin chose that moment to dash around the end of the table. Swing it was, then. He parried the incoming blade and continued to back away around the table. Just a little further, then he could get back to his bunk before his opponent and retrieve his weapons.
A cry rang out in the night air, distant but shrill. Ned? Mal threw the lantern at the assassin and ran for his bunk, scrabbling at the back of the mattress until he found his rapier and dagger. He turned just in time to catch another downward-angled thrust, this time on the sheathed rapier. Seizing the scabbard close to the tip with his other hand, he pushed his opponent backwards. The man staggered and almost fell, giving Mal time to draw both blades.
"That evens the odds, eh?"
The assassin began backing towards the cabin door. Mal lunged, driving the forty-inch blade across the space between them. The man cried out; a hit! Then his heavier blade crashed down on the rapier, driving it towards the deck.
Before Mal could pull the rapier back for another strike, light flooded the cabin.
"What's all this?" Raleigh bellowed. "Catlyn? And who are you?"
But the would-be assassin had already fled through the other door.
"He won't get far." Raleigh crossed the cabin and was out of the door after him with scarcely a glance at Mal. "Master Warburton! Belay that miscreant!"
Mal followed him, blinking against the lantern's afterimages that danced before his eyes.
Out on deck, his assailant had already been apprehended by three of Raleigh's men. He cowered back from the captain but did not struggle to break free. There was little point, unless he preferred drowning.
"Who is this man?" Raleigh asked Warburton as the first mate clumped down from the poop deck.
Warburton looked the man up and down, his white eyebrows twitching.
"Smith, isn't it?" he said to the man. "Tom Smith."
Smith said nothing.
"Why were you attacking my passenger?" Smith looked pointedly away, and Raleigh cuffed him round the temple. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, man. Who are you, and what is your purpose on my vessel?"
Smith spat at Raleigh's feet.
"Take him away," Raleigh said, gesturing to his men. "He hangs at dawn."
As the prisoner was led towards the hatch down to the lower decks, the door of the forward cabin opened and Ned limped out. His clothing was torn and half undone, and he sported a split lip and several bruises.
"Dear God in Heaven!" Mal crossed the deck to his friend and slipped an arm under his shoulder to support him. "Who did this?"
Ned shook his head. Mal looked around at the crew, but no one would meet his eye.
"Seems our friend there had accomplices, distracting your manservant so you could be attacked with ease," Raleigh said. "Master Warburton, half rations for all the men in the third watch until we find out who it was."
Hansford glowered at the captain.
"I heard Smith whispering and joking with some of the crew," he said slowly. "Mocking the lad here for being a mite too fond of his master, if you know what I mean, sir."
"I hope you're not insinuating anything unseemly about my passengers, Master Hansford."
"Nay, sir, not I. I'm just saying what I heard."
"Do you know who these men were?"
Hansford shook his head. "'Twere dark, cap'n."
"I see."
"As for allies, I couldn't rightly say. We took a few new men on, just afore we sailed."
"Very well, we'll look into it further in the morning." Raleigh looked around at his crew. "Well, what are you waiting for, ye lubbers? Back to work."
Seeing there was no chance of further progress tonight, Mal helped Ned back inside. They sat on one of the benches in silence until Raleigh had retreated to his own cabin, then Ned began stripping off his soiled clothing. Mal found flint and tinder and lit one of the lanterns, then hung it from a beam where he could get a better look at Ned's injuries. His friend stood naked and shivering, not meeting Mal's eye. Dark fingertip-sized bruises were already blooming on his arms where his assailants had seized him, and larger ones marred his back and chest.
Mal retrieved some clean under-linens from his own knapsack and handed them to Ned.
"I should bind your chest," he said as Ned pulled on the drawers. "You've likely cracked a rib or two."
He took one of the sheets and began ripping it into strips with his dagger.
"You don't have to–"
"Yes I do. I asked you on this expedition, and if it wasn't for that assassin wanting to get me alone, you wouldn't be in this state."
"Don't be too sure of that. Hansford was just looking for an excuse–" Ned winced as Mal wound the first bandage around his chest. "I've come across his kind before."
"It was Hansford? The lying bastard."
"Aye, and a couple of his mates."
Mal recalled some of the rougher sorts he'd met on campaign, men who took out their frustrations on anyone weaker than them, by any means that amused them. He swallowed.
"Did they…?"
Ned shook his head. "Just roughed me up a bit."
"I'd like to rough them up. With the edge of my blade." He tucked in the loose end, and tore off another strip of linen. "Hansford will get off scot-free, I suppose. No man is like to betray his superior or his comrades, not for a stranger."
Ned grunted his agreement.
"Still," Mal went on, "as Raleigh said, it's too much of a coincidence that we were attacked at the same time."
"Perhaps yon assassin did egg them on, then took advantage of the distraction."
"Perhaps."
He finished up the bandages, then helped Ned back into his shirt. On impulse, he leaned in to kiss his friend's temple.
"Don't," Ned muttered, pulling away.
Mal nodded in understanding. The last thing Ned wanted to think about was the suspected sin that had earned him this beating. He sheathed the dagger and laid both weapons along the outside edge of the bunk, between him and the door, then settled down next to them.
He lay there for hours, listening to Ned's breathing slow into sleep, wondering who had sent the assassin aboard. Plenty of people knew he was leaving with Raleigh: Jos Percy, the astronomer Harriot and his friend Shawe, indeed everyone at Raleigh's supper. Then there was Walsingham and his daughter, and perhaps through her, Grey. Dammit, it could hardly have been more public if he had printed a broadsheet and had it cried through the streets of London. There were too many connections at Court, too many threads linking him to his enemies. Perhaps exile was the only answer after all.