Peril on the Sea (2 page)

The vessel followed the swells, her reduced sails cutting an angled shape out of the stars, a fighting ship, thought Sherwin, judging by her tall sterncastle and robust build. As the ship swept forward with the increasing wind, Sherwin could make out the row of gunports along her side, each port shuttered tightly against the sea.

Sherwin discerned the silhouettes of sailors, and the solitary figure on the quarterdeck of this vessel. Sherwin called again, a wordless cry, only to hear how duminutive his voice continued to sound under the great sky. He called, and he saw how far away the ship was, even now.

Even as Sherwin thanked God for his deliverance, he had the painful thought that this heedless vessel might simply part the litter on the sea and pass on toward Southampton. It could be on some errand of state, conveying a message, perhaps, regarding the Spaniards, rumored to be preparing a war against England.

The month was July of the year 1588. The previous year, Sir Francis Drake had led a raid on the Spanish harbor of Cádiz, and ever since, rumors of war had boiled along the English coastline. Some supposed that a great invading force, carried by an Armada of warships, was sure to set sail for English waters from Spain. Drake and other privateers—mariners granted license by Queen Elizabeth and her Admiralty to attack and rob the Queen's enemies—had continued to harass Spanish shipping, and every port simmered with the desire to make profitable use of what peace remained.

Never before had Sherwin felt the smallness of his own cry, the puniness of his own mortal life as he now called out, “In the name of Jesus, look here, good sailors, here!”

The unfamiliar ship did slow her onward rush, it was true, and she turned to, and at the sight of this maneuver Sherwin was certain that his voice had been heard. A boathook flashed, and with a prick of bitterness Sherwin realized the nature of this ship's occupation. The vessel was probing for intact casks—scavenging.

He also had a flicker of suspicion regarding this ship. Privateers were little more than legal pirates, and as a lawyer's son Sherwin had a high regard for the courage of Drake and Hawkins, Fletcher and Frobisher—all of them adventurers worthy of public acclaim—but he had no such regard for their ethics.

Furthermore, there was no proof that this ship even sailed with a privateer's regard for morals. In an English navy that was largely informal, with so many freelance
fighting ships and freebooting adventurers, there were tales of hostages taken and innocent lives lost in the quest for gold. Torture on the high seas was rumored, and tales of innocent throats cut.

But Sherwin's choices were poor. The chill had seized every part of his body, and his eyes were slow in responding to his will, his lids sluggish and heavy, the eyeballs themselves turning slowly in their sockets. He had, at best, scant minutes to live.

He took his future into his hands. He kicked free of the cask and swam toward the ship. Even when he was close and the vessel loomed high over him, his voice was feeble compared with the groan and creak of timbers and lines.

Sherwin could smell the ship, an atmosphere of tar and gunpowder clinging about her hull. The sound of voices reached Sherwin, and the boathook flashed in the starlight, searching among the shattered casks.

A voice called, “By God, there's a rat the size of a Christian.”

A lantern was held out and over the water, and this same voice broke into a laugh. A boathook was guided downward and Sherwin seized it, his fingers numb and unable to grip the long span of wood. He flung an arm over it and hung on, only to slip off and spin downward, releasing a long tendril of bubbles—his last, unanswered prayer.

K
ATHARINE WESTING braved the windy weather, hurrying at her father's side. Despite his limp, her father was an energetic man and always set Katharine a brisk pace. Their servingman Baines followed behind, at a respectful distance.

The night was blustery and a gale was building from across the Channel. Sir Anthony Westing leaned against his walking stick and let his gaze sweep the view from the clifftop, the chalk-and-shingle shore, the lace of breaking waves, and the salt sea beyond.

They came here often to fix their eyes on the horizon and to hope. While the shoreline of the Fairleigh estate offered no formal harbor, it was a safe anchorage situated between the village of Beer to the east and Sidmouth to the west on the Devonshire coast of southwestern England.

Often in recent months they had spied a ship in the distance that looked like the
Rosebriar
—several ships resembled
her, including several Dutch vessels. But regardless of their high hopes, the sails they saw were never those of their long-awaited treasure.

This sea held their future, whether good or ill, as often before. Katharine loved the ocean as much as her father did, and loved to hear her father tell the stories of his days building pinnaces for the Admiralty, of the investments he had made as a speculator in spices and rare cloths, and of ships that had weathered brutal gales to arrive packed with answered prayers. Pinnaces were smaller vessels carried or towed by ships and used in exploration and surprise attacks, and a well-built pinnace was a craft of beauty.

This windy night she had been eager to sit before a fire and serve her father hot wine, and she had questioned the wisdom of going to church for the evening's service. But the ceremony was a tradition along the Devonshire coast, calling for the blessing of God on the vessels of fishermen and merchants alike, and this evening had included a sermon on the storm of the Sea of Galilee, and how Jesus had quieted the tempest with a command.

Katharine knew that her father was no more pious than the next man, but she also knew that no one was more in need of Heaven's favor than the two of them. His injured leg was not healing, and every day his limp had been growing more pronounced. Katharine was increasingly responsible for running the household. When problems arose, the servants told Katharine before they troubled her father with the news.

They had nearly reached the gatehouse of Fairleigh, the manor house and walled gardens of the dwindling Westing property, when the sound of hooves swept down on them from the woodland. The lead horse had a distinctive sound—small bells had been fastened to the bridle so the rider could descend on his prey with a sweet but sinister melody.

Sir Anthony tried to hasten Katharine along toward the protection of the gate, but his sixteen-year-old daughter was quick enough to move out of the way of his attempts to shield her. Katharine believed that it fell to her to protect her father from harm, and she stepped into the path.

Sir Anthony's man Baines reached for his weapon, an old-fashioned broadsword.

For a moment no one spoke.

“I wish you good evening,” said Sir Gregory at last, with an abrupt courtesy.

His squire rode with him, a silent hulk named Cecil Rawes. Cecil was a new, taciturn arrival to Lord Pevensey's domain, and no one knew much about him. England was well supplied with rough hands looking for profitable employment and not above acts of violence. Cecil let his cloak hang open, windblown, and let the starlight gleam on the hilts of a rapier and a dagger with a brass knob.

“We are hale but cold,” replied Sir Anthony with forced cheer. He kept a good grip on his walking stick, a knobby span of hazelwood that could serve as a defensive weapon.

“All the more reason to ask me in, then, to your hearth,” said Sir Gregory, “so we can discuss business.”

Sir Gregory Skere was a knight who had fought in Portugal against the Spanish, received a musket ball in the face, and retired to serve as a hired sword to whatever lord or lady would fill his purse with coin and his cup with malmsey, the sweet wine of his preference. Sir Gregory worked for Lord Pevensey, the most important landowner of the district. In the starlight Katharine could not make out what she knew was a battered visage under a cap that sported a single falcon feather.

“I should be glad to offer you bread and beef,” said Sir Anthony, “but this evening's offering is not worthy of a man of your good name.”

Katharine knew as well as her father that their pantry was reduced to rinds of cheese as hard as soap, and the darkest, most chewy bread, no food fit for a guest, and proof, furthermore, of their financial straits.

“Lord Pevensey,” replied Sir Gregory, “in particular asked me to sit down with you and discuss most urgent business.”

“We will be most grateful to his lordship,” said Sir Anthony, “if he would be our guest on some night not many days from now, along with you and any of your friends.”

Sir Anthony was a baronet, a minor but honorable noble rank. His estate had been in the Westing family since 1435, when a Westing named Robard wagered that his falcon could catch more pigeons than a hunting hawk owned by a Pevensey forebear.

Ever since Fairleigh and its land had been won by this sporting bet, the Pevensey family had fumed. Pevensey was an earl, and he owned orchards, grain mills, the fishing rights to major rivers, and every roof and chimney of several villages. A retinue of clerks and controllers was needed simply to accumulate his yearly rent.

Sir Anthony, in contrast, was the owner of unpretentious farmland, and was owed the services and rents of a few loyal folk. There was, however, the grand manor house of Fairleigh, complete with paved courtyards and a sprawl of chambers and fireplaces. The estate also featured a gatehouse, with an ancient gatekeeper, Sedgewin, who even now was opening the cross-timbered gates.

“We will speak business this very night,” insisted Sir Gregory, “or my lord will be most displeased.”

“My father is weary, Sir Gregory,” interjected Katharine, “and fretful with his worries over an illness that plagues our stable, affecting even our broodmare.”

If Sir Gregory had little regard for human beings, he nevertheless might wish to spare his horse contact with a croup or fever. This equine illness was a fiction—every last horse had been sold, and the stable stood quite empty.

“I saw your broodmare at market, Friday a week past, my lady,” said Sir Gregory. “The one with the nick in the ear, the pretty bay. She's a good breeder, and as sporting as any female this countryside has produced, save, if I may say so, the young mistress of this place.”

“No,” said Baines, who had been trembling with illsuppressed
anger. “You may not say so, my lord, if you please, and you hear my master when he says that this is not a good night for visitors.”

But as Baines pronounced this rugged attempt at courtesy, he made the mistake of gesturing with his sword, more to add meaning to his words than as a threat. Sir Gregory lifted a booted foot from his stirrup and kicked Baines hard in the chest.

The servingman went down, and Sir Gregory guided his steed forward with a quiet
cluck, cluck
sound. No horse would choose to put a hoof on a human body, which provided at best unsteady footing. But this horse had been trained, or at least had learned to accommodate his master. The horse placed a metal-shod hoof on Baines's chest as the man stirred, catching his breath.

“Please let me speak with you, Sir Anthony, inside where it is warm,” said Sir Gregory with what was in him a great demonstration of diplomacy. “I would so regret,” added the knight, “being forced to injure your man.”

L
ET ME SAY what we all know to be true, Sir Anthony,” said Sir Gregory when they were all settled before the hearth.

“As you wish,” answered Anthony. He added, with a dry laugh, “Although when a man sent by Lord Pevensey speaks of the truth, even the mountebank hides his coin.”

“You wrong me, Sir Anthony,” protested Sir Gregory. “I am not a bird hound, trained to leap at a whistle.” Cecil sat in the shadows, firelight glinting off the brass pommel of his dagger as he took a long swallow of wine.

Anthony smiled and said nothing further for the moment. He was a tall, lean man with sandy hair. He was quick to take pleasure in life, and quick to grow concerned. He could hide his feelings from someone like Sir Gregory, who did not know him well and who was too vain—in Katharine's view—to sense another man's feelings in any event. Anthony could not hide his tensions or his happiness from his daughter, however, and she could see how anxious he was.

Their visitor leaned forward, with his elbows on the table. A maplewood cup of wine was beside him, the last of the best drink that Fairleigh had to offer. A fire was burning merrily in the grand fireplace—a great oak had fallen last winter in a gale, and firewood, if nothing else, was plentiful.

Sir Gregory gave a wondering glance at Katharine, who had joined the two men at the table. It was not entirely usual for women to confer with men, but with the death of Katharine's mother four years previously, Anthony had come to rely on Katharine's judgment regarding everything from whether he should wear a hood instead of a cap to whether the sheep—when there had been a flock—might be ready for shearing.

“My daughter,” explained Anthony, “is my partner in commerce.”

This phrase was calculated to carry weight—where business was concerned, age and sex stood aside for good judgment regarding money. While women entered life, and marriage, at a disadvantage, many a widow ran a prosperous business, and a bright husband might seek a wife with the capacity for balancing income and expense.

“What a prize,” said Sir Gregory, “your daughter will be.”

“She is a prize to me, as she was to her late mother,” said Anthony. He added, perhaps foreseeing a discussion of marriage, “My daughter is not chattel.”

Sir Gregory lifted a finger, as though to acknowledge
Anthony's remark without necessarily agreeing with him.

Baines entered the room at that moment, casting a baleful glance in Sir Gregory's direction. Baines was nearly the last of a committed staff of servants. Sedgewin the gatekeeper had stayed on, too, a man who had sailed to Naples as a youth and who now kept pots of dwarf oranges growing in tubs over the entrance to Fairleigh. Aside from Angus Deets, the cook, and his dimpled daughter, Molly, the once-renowned kitchen staff of Fairleigh had departed, including the ewer carriers and the bottler, the pantler and the scullery boy. Want of silver had forced Anthony to let even the most loyal and able of them go—and they were all faithful, warmhearted folk—with promises to hire them back when he could afford to.