Martyr

Chapter 19

Walking along Deptford Strand among the bustle of sailors, sailmakers, carpenters, shipwrights, and whores, no one would have noticed Miles Herrick in his workmen’s jerkin with the tools of his trade slung in a bag over his shoulder.

It was a crisp, bright February day, almost springlike. The last of the snow had melted or been washed away by the rain, and suddenly there was a new fire in men’s bellies. The world seemed brave and worth getting out of bed for. Herrick looked around him and examined the houses and shops that fronted the riverbank. His eye fixed on a chandlery, an ancient, leaning building of three stories with small windows. A sign outside said Room to let. That would do. He ducked into the shop. It was thick with lung-clogging sotweed smoke. Through the fug, among the cordage, the sail gear, the galley pots, the barrels of hard biscuit, dried peas, and salt beef, and all the other essentials of a voyage to sea, he saw two men in conversation; strong working men who seemed to be arguing over some detail of a shipwright’s plans of a caravel, spread over a trestle. As he approached they stopped talking and turned his way, pipes of sotweed in their mouths, belching forth smoke like autumn bonfires.

“Are you the master of this chandlery?” Herrick asked the taller of the two men, who seemed the more assured. “I am looking for lodging and saw your sign. Is the room still free?”

“It might still be free of tenants,” the taller man replied, “but it would certainly never be free of charge.”

Herrick smiled thinly at the man’s attempt at humor. He took his purse and loosened the drawstring. “I can pay well. I am here from the Low Countries, looking for work with armaments.” He enjoyed the irony; the word armaments made him sound plausible. He knew, too, that such a claim would never be checked on.

“Well, you have come to the right place. There is plenty of work to be had. The admirals will be glad of another armaments journeyman. Come with me and see the room.”

The room was on the third floor, under the pitch of the roof Exactly what he required. He heard rats or birds scuttling behind the plasterwork, in the eaves. There was a bare palliasse and a small table and three-legged stool. Nothing else. But there was a small casement window that gave out over the river. Herrick stood at this window a long moment, then turned back into the room. God’s work. Thy will be done.

“I will take it.”

The landlord reached out his hand and brushed some cobwebs down from above the low door. “My name is Bob Roberts. I will supply you with blankets and a pot to piss in. Two shillings and sixpence a week, but you can have it for half a crown.”

Herrick put his bag of tools on the floor as casually as a goodwife depositing a basket of laundry, and shook hands with the landlord to seal the agreement. “I am van Leiden. Henrik van Leiden.”

“Well, Henrik, come down and share a stoup of ale with us and you can pay me the first week’s rental,” the landlord said and turned to leave. “And if you need any names of captains for work, I will happily help you.”

“What of Drake, the greatest of all captains?”

The landlord laughed. “Aye, what of him? Work for him? Drake will give you no rest and no pay.”

“So he is in these parts?”

“Every day. Never have I seen a captain put so much into preparation. If the fleet is not ready for the armada, it will not be for want of Drake’s efforts. But beware, after a few days in his employ you might wish yourself an oarsman slave, manacled and thrashed daily on a Spanish galley.”

Herrick smiled. “I understand. But it would be a great honor to make his acquaintance.”

“Then I wish you well, Henrik, but beware. Drake will press you into service as soon as shake your hand.”

As the door closed behind the landlord, Herrick stepped once more to the window. The sill was three feet above the floor. The window was two feet wide and three and a half feet top to bottom. It would be perfect for his purpose. He crossed himself, then knelt and prayed.