Gloriana

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

With considerable satisfaction Captain Quire watched the bank of cloud gradually move across the moon. Ahead, the horizon vanished, the sea no longer gleamed. The lights of the Polish galleon, the Mikolaj Kopernik, had already been pointed out by O’Bryan, the Erin renegade, who sat comfortably upon the dying bulk of the light-keeper, puffing his pipe and sniffing the wind. “She should be aground within half an hour, Captain.”

The light-keeper moaned. There was a round-pommelled dirk in his back, O’Bryan’s.

“By Jupiter, O’Bryan,” said Tinkler, blowing on his gloved hands, “won’t you finish off that poor devil?”

“Why should I?” O’Bryan spoke reasonably. “The longer he lives, the warmer he stays. In this weather a man must make use of everything possible to keep him from freezing. That’s the trick of survival, Tink, look you.”

Quire put his spyglass to his eye. As he lifted his arms, the wind caught his cloak and blew it back from his shoulders. He tucked the glass in his belt and recovered the cloak, fixing it at the throat by the silver clasp he sometimes wore. He repositioned the spyglass and thought he sighted the galleon. The brim of his hat was bent back against the crown, his hair was blown like weed in a whirlpool, and the spray from the sea below, a curling steamer of foam, pricked that part of his face not protected by the cloak’s collar.

“A perfect night for a wreck.” O’Bryan re-lit his long clay pipe and shifted his rump a moment, to give the keeper a few extra breaths. O’Bryan wore a huge fur hat, after the Ukrainian fashion, and had on a bearskin coat made from the whole pelt, so that the claws hung about his hands and the beast’s head acted as a high collar. His square, ruddy features bore the drinker’s mark and his eyes revealed his character even if his smile and easy manner did not. He looked up at the tower, a scaffold set above the watchman’s two-roomed cottage, where a red light gleamed to warn ships to hold off approaching the channel until morning. At the sides of this were two unlit lanterns, one yellow and one blue, to indicate, in good weather, which side of the light the ship should go, for the warning beacon was positioned on this small island at the centre of the sandbar; the waters here ran very erratically, sometimes deep, sometimes shallow, depending on the position of the shifting, unstable sands.

Tinkler stared down to the beach where the rest of their men stood, close to the horses they had ridden here while the tide was out. “If it’s more than half an hour those ruffians’ll be too stiff to act and the plan’s wasted, and all this work.”

“The plan can’t be wasted,” Quire told him. “It’s the only one.”

“And a mad scheme.” O’Bryan was approving. “A Polish noble will fetch a good price. They’re rich, the Poles. Probably richer, head for head, than Albion. I was in Goddansjik for a few months and saw more gold than I’ll ever see in London. But they have strange laws, made by commoners, and it’s hard for a free spirit to earn a living there, save as a soldier in the East, where it’s poorer.”

Quire had decided not to give O’Bryan the full story and intended to betray him as soon as he had served his turn: he knew O’Bryan for a fool with more greed than intelligence who could not be controlled as the others were controlled. “We’ll all be rich within the month, O’Bryan. It’ll be your task to carry our message to Poland.”

O’Bryan had agreed to this and, since Quire had already been generous, had seen no snags to the scheme. The Irishman warmed his hands over the bowl of his pipe and kicked with his heel at the ribs of his victim, as another man might stir the embers of a fire.

Quire now had the ship in focus. He thought he heard a trumpet sound, as the ship signalled. It was rolling in rapidly, borne by the notorious quicksilver tide. Quire could make out figures-the pilot in conference with one who was doubtless the captain, pointing in their direction. And on the high deck, astern, the untidy figure he had had pictured for him, the Polish King.

Quire began to climb the ladder of the tower, while Tinkler took up the trumpet and blew a deep blast to answer the ship’s.

Thus, as the shaggy King of Poland looked shoreward from his sterncastle, did Captain Quire put lips to lamp and extinguish the red signal, lighting instead, with casual fingers, the green. Next, he leaned to light the blue lantern on the left, to guide the ship directly onto the sands where his men waited. He could see the Mikolaj Kopernik with his naked eye. She had most of her sails reefed and her oarsmen were backing water. A few moments, while the signal was interpreted, and then the galleon advanced more swiftly, heading, to Quire’s relief, in exactly the direction he had anticipated. Hastily he swung down from the tower, tapped O’Bryan on the shoulder, winked at Tinkler, and began to run, his spurs silvery and jingling, down to the beach to await his lumbering prey.

“She’s on her way, lads.” Quire stooped to pull up the folded-down flaps of his jack-boots, lacing them tight at the thigh. The wind made so many scarecrows of his men, all wild rags and hunched figures, and gave the horses halos of their own manes. Some distance away the sea slithered over the sands or struck flat and wet against the smooth stones; Quire could smell it. He could taste its salt on his lips. He had no liking for the sea. It was too large.

“Guns, Captain?” One of the hirelings spoke, half-muffled, from his cloak.

“That’s what we brought ‘em for, Hogge. More for the noise than anything. The trouble with a task of this kind is that unless you advertise your presence like mummers at the fair you’ll not be noticed. And unless you’re noticed, nobody’s afraid. And if nobody’s afraid they can all get away from us without ever knowing we were here!” Quire enjoyed this speech, but he left his men bewildered. “Guns, yes. Fire ‘em willy-nilly-into the air until we’ve got our man at least. We don’t want to put a ball through his head and have no ransom. I’ve told you who to look for.”

O’Bryan came stiff-legged down the sands. He rubbed at his bottom and farted. He drew two great horse pistols from the pockets of his bearskin coat and held them close to his face in the gloom, inspecting the locks.

“And careful with those pistols, O’Bryan.” Quire patted the Erin man on the arm. “If you let ‘em off too soon the ship’ll think she’s attacked by a man-o’-war and fire a broadside to destroy the whole island.”

O’Bryan appreciated this compliment to his weapons and laughed loudly.

Quire detected a different note to the tide and turned, taken unawares, to see the jigging lights of the Mikolaj Kopernik as her keel shuddered into sand and her oars began to smash, cracking one by one; so many whiplashes. The wind droned like an organ around the huge ship and the cries and shrieks from the decks were like the sound of gulls. Quire and Tinkler began to run towards her.

As Quire made out the ship’s bulk he saw that she yawed markedly to starboard, seeming to lean on her broken oars like a monstrous wounded crayfish. The wind found her staysails and moved her intermittently, adding to the impression of a helplessly landed seabeast. From above came the sound of every sort of human distress. The oarsmen had doubtless been the worst hurt and from the rowing ports issued wailing screams that had an extra eeriness in conjunction with the notes of the wind.

Tinkler shuddered as they got closer. “Ugh! It’s like banshees. Are you sure we haven’t taken some ghost ship, Captain? There’s so many have gone down in these waters…”

Quire ignored him, pointing to the ornamental stair built into the ship’s side. “We can climb that easily enough. Quickly now, Tink-while they’re confused.”

They were knee-deep in the surf, creeping under the splintered shafts of the huge sweeps, when they reached their goal, to see that it was further from the ship’s bottom than Quire had originally judged. Weed tangled itself about his boots and caught in his spurs. The ship creaked and groaned and sank a little deeper on its side so that for an instant Quire thought they would be crushed, but it brought the gilded stair a little closer.

“On my shoulders, Tink.” Quire bent and lifted his swaying accomplice. Tinkler grabbed for the stair’s rail, missed, shifted himself and grabbed once more, catching it, swinging himself onto the lowest step, then leaning down so that Quire could jump, clasp his hand and be hauled up. The great ship settled again. Overhead, orders were being given in a language entirely unfamiliar to Quire and it seemed that some sort of discipline was in danger of being restored. Then, thankfully, Hogge and O’Bryan began their barrage and sent almost everyone crowding forward. Up the angled stairway they went, bodies against the ship’s side, until they had reached the main deck and could raise their noses high enough to inspect the scene. There were corpses on the deck, where men had been flung from the yards, and there were crippled sailors, with broken limbs and ribs, being tended by their fellows. Lanterns moved here and there and Quire glimpsed the captain in conference with the pilot, who was shaking his head and either pretending ignorance or professing it in good faith (Quire did not know how much Montfallcon had involved the man). He tried to see if Poland’s King was still in the sterncastle, but it was too dark. Boldly, with Tinker in his wake, he climbed rapidly for the stern, like two black shadows cast by the flapping sails above as the moon appeared mistily behind thinner cloud. Though many mariners passed them and some glanced curiously at them, Quire and Tinkler were only challenged when they reached the companionway to the castle itself. Quire held up his lantern to reveal the face of the armoured musketeer. “We’re from the shore. To help. We saw the wreck.”

The musketeer shook his head. Quire laughed confidently and held up the lantern again, clapping the guard on the shoulder as he and Tinkler squeezed past and continued on their way to find Poland sitting up against the rail, blinking and perplexed, with some noble greybeard bending over him in concern.

“I was sent here,” said Quire in a harried tone, “to attend a gentleman. Does anyone speak our tongue?”

The old noble, swathed in sable, looked up, his speech halting and guttural. “I speak it, sir. You’re from the shore? What happened? The shots.” He blinked. He was shortsighted.

“You’re wrecked, sir. Smashed up, sir. And you’ll be breaking before long if you don’t get off.” (This last, a lie.)

“What shall we do?” Peering. “Who are you?”

“Captain Fletcher. Coast guard, sir. The shots you heard were ours, driving off brigands who attend wrecks like crows attend a corpse. You were lucky we were close. Come now, where’s your women and children?”

“There are none.”

“This passenger looks like someone of quality.”

“In truth, sir, he is.”

“Then let’s get him over the side, and you too. Who else?”

“This one first. I’m not important. And there are valuables. In the cabin. They must be saved. They are gifts-”

“Valuables may be salvaged later, sir, but not lives,” said Quire chidingly.

“These valuables are of great importance. Help His-this gentleman-to the shore. I’ll fetch the treasure.” He spoke to the King in Polish. The King smiled, vaguely.

Quire appeared to debate with himself. Then he nodded. “Very well, if you think that’s for the best. My lieutenant here will go with you.” He offered his gloved hand to the King, who looked at it without understanding at first, then accepted it. “Up you get, your worship.”

The King climbed unsteadily to his feet and Quire supported him, helping him to the companionway and down it. “Carefully, now, sir.”

“I am much obliged to you, sir,” said Poland in the High Speech used for diplomacy throughout the globe, but Quire had to pretend hearty ignorance.

“Sorry, sir, but I don’t know a word of whatever it is you talk.”

They got to the deck and began to move back towards the point where Quire and Tinkler had boarded. The ship shuddered again, quite dramatically, and Quire was flung hard against the rail. The wind’s note changed, became shrill. The moon vanished. Water dashed itself aimlessly around the ruined ship. Quire staggered back, still half-carrying Poland, who murmured with hazy cordiality, permitting himself to be guided to the leaning steps and down them, while Tinkler cried “Here!” from behind and waved a bundle, the old nobleman at his rear calling out to the crew to follow, which was what Quire had feared would happen. “Easy, sir. Easy, sir.” He helped an irresolute Poland into the shallow water. “This way.” He took Poland’s arm and tugged. Tinkler was next, but the old man remained on the steps, still calling back for his men.

Quire and his charge left the water and began to trudge up the beach as O’Bryan and the others came in sight. “Off we go, O’Bryan!” he called. “Hold them, Tink, and we’ll meet you at the mill.”

O’Bryan put out a hand to take the King’s, leading him to their spare horse. “Up you go, my lord.”

The King chuckled and shook his head. O’Bryan said something in Polish and the King laughed again, readily straddling the sorrel. Quire found his black and was up, too, taking the sorrel’s bridle while O’Bryan mounted. He heard Tinkler yell an order as sailors began to wade ashore, seeking their liege, and musket and pistol fire roared in the hands of the half-score knaves Tinkler commanded, cutting down the first rank of sailors.

The King shouted a question to O’Bryan, who replied again, as he and Quire had arranged, that there were brigands along this coast who always came out in the hope of attacking a wreck but that their coast guards were holding the villains off.

They were galloping rapidly through the shallows separating the island from the mainland before Poland cried out and tried to draw rein.

“What’s he want, O’Bryan?” shouted Quire above the wind.

“Says he’s concerned for his people, that he should stay.”

“Very worthy. Tell him the tide’s due in and all must get to high ground, that our men are looking after the rest.”

O’Bryan spoke slowly in Polish. The King replied, still reluctant.

“What’s up now, O’Bryan?”

“He says the tide appears to be going out.”

“So it does!” Quire grinned. If the tide were not retreating, they would not have been able to cross this wide strip of sand at all. “He’s observant in some ways, eh? Tell him it’s deceptive. Put a bit of urgency in your tone, O’Bryan!”

The bitter wind grabbed at them, struck them with such force that the horses staggered. “Ride, by Mithras!” yelled Quire.

More gunfire sounded from behind. The King tried to turn the sorrel. “Oh, sweet Ariadne!” Quire rode in close, removed the King’s cap, drew a pistol from the holster on his saddle even as Poland began to crane to see what happened, and struck him hard at the base of his unkempt skull, grasping him before he fell too far, leaning him across the pommel, wrapping reins to hold him in position, taking the bridle and leading the sorrel on. O’Bryan fired off one of his pistols, apparently for the fun of it, and waved the other. They were almost at the grassy dunes where glinting snow displayed the evidence that they left the tidal flats behind and would soon be on true land.

They rode at a gallop, inland and eastwards, away from the harbour city of Rye, for Quire had determined that they should put at least fifty miles between them and the wreck if they were not to be accidentally detected.

Quire looked back and saw a few flashes, heard a few shots and yells. If he guessed right, Tinkler and the men had had less trouble than any of them had anticipated and were even now horsed, leaving the Mikolaj Kopernik and her crew to fare as best they could until news reached Rye and help was sent. By then it would be morning and the rufflers well on the way to London, while Tinkler joined him at the spot they had agreed, bringing with him, by happy chance, the King of Poland’s treasure.

As they galloped, Quire began to utter a series of sharp, barking notes, between the sound of a wolf and a raven, which made O’Bryan somewhat nervous even after it had dawned on him that Quire was laughing.

Some hours later a bedraggled, shivering Tinkler, his snag fang dancing in unison with his other, less visible teeth, a bundle clutched between legs and saddle-horn, his face blue and his eyes glazed, as if ice covered them, sighted the windmill where they had agreed to meet. It stood out as a black silhouette against the early light, its old sails squeaking as they tried to turn in the wind. The horse splashed through the shallow water of the fen; its hooves broke thin ice with every step; the frozen grass cracked as it bent. There was scarcely any colour to the scene and it seemed to Tinkler that everything which was not white was black. Even Quire’s hunched form, sitting outside the mill beside a small fire, was completely black to Tinkler’s eye. He called out and then became nervous as his voice bawled with startling loudness from his lips and sent some white geese flapping into the pale sky. “Quire!”

Quire looked up and waved cheerfully. There was a dead, plucked fowl on his knee.

Tinkler walked the horse over the small, decaying bridge crossing the clogged stream. “Where’s our charge?”

“Inside, tied and sleeping.”

“O’Bryan?”

Quire gestured with the knife he had been using to gut the goose. The mound on which he sat stirred and groaned. Tormented, blood-shot eyes peered from out of bear fur. “He’s served his first purpose, to communicate to our charge. Now he’s serving a second. One he suggested himself. He’s kept me pleasantly warm for the last two hours, while the fire drew.”

O’Bryan’s mouth opened and groaned again. Blood ran from between his clenched teeth and over his lips. Thoughtfully, Quire took some of the goose’s feathers and stuffed them tight against the teeth, so that the blood would not run onto the bearskin coat and spoil it. O’Bryan whimpered, imploring Tinkler for help, but Tinkler glanced away and entered the mill, noticing, as he did so, the three carefully placed daggers which stuck from O’Bryan’s twitching back.

“What’s next?” he called, looking down at the King of Poland, who snored on ancient straw. He seated himself on part of a broken millstone and began to unwrap the bundle.

“Montfallcon will pretend to send out men. Hogge will take the ransom note to one of the Polish merchants in London-making it clear that we have no idea whom we have captured-and eventually, after much fuss, our victim will be found, none the worse for wear-and with only a few of his valuables gone.” Quire spoke over his shoulder at Tinkler, who was holding up a golden figurine to the shaft of light which fell through the gap in the mill’s roof. “Just a few, Tink. If we were caught with too much, we’d hang this time, for certain, even though it entailed a change in the Law. Montfallcon couldn’t afford to save us. Poland would demand our lives. The treasure-or most of it-will be rescued with its owner.”

Tinkler put the things back. He picked up the bundle and placed it casually in a corner. “And when will that be, Captain?” He scratched, characteristically, at his exposed tooth.

“Shortly before Twelfth Night, Tink. In time for the Court Masque, when so many dignitaries and sovereigns shall be present that our poor King will be lost amongst them and his gestures, speeches, protestations-all will fall flat. He’ll be able to blame himself-as well as brigands-for his failure-but he’ll not blame Albion or Gloriana. And that’s the issue.”

Tinkler had not been listening to most of this. He stepped over O’Bryan’s head again, studying Quire’s efficient hands. “How long will he take to cook, eh, Captain?”

And he reached to pinch the goose.