S. PERRY - The Saracen’s Mark

The oarsmen drown first, in neat ranks, chained to their benches. The janissaries, standing on the raised central deck, don’t live much longer. Weighed down by their mail coats, they too succumb, the stronger struggling only a little longer than the weaker.

Eventually there is only one survivor – a salt-scoured European swimming towards the Marion with long, determined strokes.

To Nicholas’s surprise, the crew shout encouragement, willing him on. A moment ago Connell was an enemy. Now he is simply another mariner in danger of drowning – a man to be pitied, to be rescued. Down on the main-deck they are throwing ropes over the side for him to cling to. Seeing their efforts, Connell strikes out even more vigorously.

From his vantage point, Nicholas can see him clearly, perhaps thirty feet out from where he stands on the sterncastle, moving through the water at an angle towards the Marion ’s side.

There is no conscious thought behind what Nicholas does next – only an animal desire to make an accounting for Solomon Mandel, as he had sworn to, and for Hadir and the others. Noticing the rabinet gunner has left his place to assist with the rescue, Nicholas walks purposefully towards the swivel-gun mounted on the bulwark. It is still primed with powder and loaded with hail-shot, in anticipation of a boarding. Nicholas takes the smouldering match-cord from its stowage. He seizes the round iron button at the inward end of the barrel and aims it over the side of the Marion. Squinting down the length of the rabinet, he tracks Connell as he swims. The gun swings effortlessly on its greased swivel. At this distance, Nicholas knows he cannot miss. In an instant there will be nothing in the water except a few pieces of bloody meat for the gulls to feast upon, and tendrils of blood spreading on the current.

As he touches the burning match-cord to the powder vent, Nicholas feels not the slightest remorse.

Gault sends her word in the shape of a bright-eyed young lad named Owen, though he waits ten days before he does it.

Owen walks into the Jackdaw early in the morning of a sunny Friday in late June. He is alone, which is unusual in itself. Young men from across the river tend to visit Bankside in pairs at the very least, if only to bolster their bravado with the painted doxies who whistle at them from the doorways of the stews. But Owen – a handsome, well-made lad with fair hair and eyes the colour of lapis – makes it all the way to the taproom with his chastity and his purse intact.

‘My master bids me send word he has a tilt-boat moored at the Mutton Lane stairs, Mistress. He wishes to speak to you – privily,’ he says, in a gentle Irish lilt.

A boat on the river; Bianca has to stop herself smiling in triumph. Gault must have something remarkable to disclose – something he won’t even risk his servants on Giltspur Street overhearing. She wishes Nicholas was here to see how well she’s played Master oh-so-handsome Reynard Gault, member of the Grocers’ Guild, leading light of the Barbary Company and Rouge Croix Pursuivant of the College of Heralds. He’d be so proud of her!

Owen accompanies her to the water-stairs. Standing beside a comely maid more than a decade his senior, he’s taken on what appears to be a permanent case of sunburn about the cheeks. Bianca tries her best to put him at his ease.

‘I recognize you, Owen,’ she says pleasantly. ‘I saw you at your swordplay. I thought you looked the perfect gallant. Very fierce.’

Owen grins sheepishly. ‘The master says that only men of courage and skill can expect reward in this world, Mistress. He says that where we’re going, a sword and a strong heart are all that’s needed to make you a prince. I shall enjoy being a prince. I know I shall.’

Bianca looks at him out of the corner of her eye. ‘And where exactly is it that you’re going, Master Owen?’

‘Wherever Captain Connell takes us, Mistress. Like Drake, Hawkins and Raleigh, we’s all going to shake the heathen world by its ears. We’re going to bring back more than they ever did from the Madre de Deus .’

‘How very enterprising. You’re fortunate to have a master who desires so much good for his apprentices that he wishes to make them princes of foreign lands.’

‘More than princes, Mistress – we’ll be kings!’

‘How well do you know Captain Connell?’ Bianca asks doubtfully, remembering Farzad’s dreadful story.

‘Captain Connell is a great man. A fine venturer. He and Master Gault grew up together, in Leinster…’

For a moment he falters. He seems to be wondering how much he dares reveal. Bianca suspects he hasn’t been in female company for a while. ‘Pray continue, Owen,’ she says encouragingly.

‘The master says you’re of the true faith, so I suppose he won’t mind me saying.’

‘I’m sure he would not.’ She touches his arm to reassure him, causing Owen to all but jump out of his skin.

‘It was like this, you see,’ he begins, turning an even fierier red. ‘When they were but boys, they were on a ship together with their parents and their moveables, coming from Wexford to Rome. They were steadfast in the true religion – marked out to be priests when they grew up. The barque was wrecked near Rathmoylan Cove. Everyone got ashore, though they were half-drowned. They thought God had delivered them, but they fell into the hands of Protestant heretics who damned them as papists and put everyone to the sword – save for the two lads.’

The story has the ring of truth, Bianca thinks. She has heard tales of how survivors of the great Armada were butchered on the shores of Ireland, even as they offered up prayers for having escaped the deep.

‘They were sold to an English plantation man and his wife – rich but barren – who’d been handed a stolen estate in Leinster by that heretic whore, Elizabeth,’ Owen continues. ‘They made the boys their own; brought them up in the heretic faith, so they did. But imposed heresy won’t stick to men with honest souls. When they died, as the oldest, Master Reynard inherited the property. Captain Connell went sailing to Araby.’

‘That is a sad tale indeed, Owen,’ Bianca says, remembering the Irish landscape in the painting in Gault’s house. She does not like him any the more for hearing it, but she understands him a little better. Connell, too – though she can barely bring herself to admit it.

Gault is waiting for her aboard the small tilt-boat at the Mutton Lane stairs. It has a canvas awning stretched over a wooden frame, like a little tent, to provide privacy. She prays that today will be the one day when Bankside’s prurient eyes are looking elsewhere – a young woman taking a trip on the river in an enclosed tilt-boat usually means only one thing.

At the oars are Owen’s companions from the house on Giltspur Street. Whatever secret Gault intends to reveal to her, he’s guarding it carefully.

‘You cannot imagine how much the owner of this thing charged me for just a morning,’ Gault says as she climbs in under the awning. ‘When I said I wanted my own oarsmen, the price tripled. I think he feared I might not return it.’

‘I really cannot see you as a waterman, Master Gault. You’re dressed far too smartly.’

‘Occasions of great import should not be treated casually,’ he says as he helps her to a spread of cushions in the stern, making the boat roll alarmingly.

She notices he’s brought a bottle of fine Rhenish and two silver cups. ‘Mercy, but this is very privy,’ she says as they move away from the jetty. ‘Are you afraid the walls of your nice new house on Giltspur Street have been built with their own set of ears?’

Gault gives her a tight little smile. ‘These lads are bound to me by a sworn oath. I know where each one came from – my estates in Leinster. However, London servants are not always so trustworthy.’ He pours the wine and raises his cup. ‘A formal toast: to the destruction of heretics and the return of the one true faith.’