D. Wilson - The Traitor’s Mark

‘Well, I’m damned if I’ll let them get away with it. I think there might be a way for us to capture the ship. Do you speak Spanish?’

‘A little,’he replied.

‘That’s all we would need. Let’s find the captain.’

When we had rejoined the remnants of our little army, I explained my makeshift plan. ‘It would need half a dozen of your fit men and we’d have to take Black Harry along to support our illusion.’

At that moment the silence of the marsh was split by the roar of a ship’s cannon.

‘That must be the signal that they’re about to leave,’ Morice said. ‘Hurry.’

The captain detailed six of his men and I quickly briefed them. They removed their helmets and wrapped cloaks round them to conceal their breastplates. We collected Black Harry from the wagon and untied his legs but not his hands. Pushing him ahead of us, we moved quickly in the direction of the creek.

When we reached the water’s edge, I said to Morice, ‘Time for your best Spanish.’

Cupping his hands round his mouth he called out, ‘ Este es Harry. ?Vengo pronto!’

The response from the ship was immediate. ‘?Llegando!’

Moments later we heard the sound of creaking oars as the ship’s boat crossed the short expanse of water.

‘You’d better wait here, Ralph,’ I said. ‘This is no job for a one-armed man. We’ll signal as soon as we’ve got control of the barque.’

‘Is there nothing else I can do?’he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Pray.’

The boat nosed up to the bank. We could see that it held two oarsmen. One of them called out. I pushed Black Harry forward, so that they could recognise him. My dagger was pressed firmly against his neck.

‘One word and it will be your last,’ I whispered.

‘ Te tomaste tu tiempo ,’ one of the boatmen called as he swung the craft broadside on to the land.

In the next instant hands grabbed him and his companion, yanked them out and silenced them.

We took our places in the boat and rowed towards the ship. I held my blade tight against Black Harry’s windpipe.

Someone was holding a lamp over the side to show us where the boarding net was hanging down. My men scrambled up, two at a time. I pushed Black Harry and sent him sprawling in the bottom of the boat. ‘Don’t go away,’ I said, as I reached for the net and hauled myself up.

On the deck it was apparent that we had achieved almost complete surprise. Two of Brooke’s men were grappling with my guards but three others were being securely held.

‘What do we do with them?’ someone asked.

I thought quickly. ‘Oh, put them in the boat!’

‘Suppose they try to escape?’

‘Bring the oars up. They’ll not get far without them.’ I turned away to give other orders. ‘Search the ship. Round up everyone you can find. I’m going to look for Brooke.’

I strode across to the aft cabin. I was about to push the door when it opened. Ferdinand Brooke, alarmed by the commotion, stood there, sword in hand. Lamplight glinted on his gold chain and heringed fingers. It even caught glints from the gilt thread of his stylish doublet.

I drew my own weapon. ‘It’s finished, Brooke,’ I said. ‘We have command of your ship. Drop your weapon.’

He remained motionless. ‘I think not.’ He smiled, revealing gleaming teeth. ‘I’ve yet to meet a mere merchant who knew one end of a fine blade from the other.’ He made three or four rapid and professional-looking passes.

I backed away, fending off his blade with my own. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ I shouted. ‘You can’t escape.’

‘Then I’ll send one more heretic to hell first.’ He glared at me and I knew I was facing not a man, not even an expert swordsman. The gloating creature before me embodied hatred and fanaticism.

I retreated, trying to keep my wits sharp and not dulled by fear. Occasionally, my weapon made contact with his, deflecting the advancing point from my body. But more often he avoided contact and lunged at me. I felt a stab of pain in my left shoulder. Then, another in my right thigh. I could do nothing but continue stepping backwards, keeping my eye fixed on the needle-sharp point of his rapier. I came to a sudden halt, my back against the mainmast. With a wide grin, Brooke thrust at my chest. Only a quick sidestep enabled me to avoid a blow that must have been fatal. His point buried itself in the wood. With an inept lunge I managed to pierce his upper sword arm.

He winced. Then laughed. ‘A lucky strike, master merchant. En garde.’

He came at me again and I felt a searing pain in my abdomen. The shock of it made me drop my sword. I staggered back, clutching a hand to the wound. Brooke closed in for the kill.

‘Don’t … match … yourself … against … your … betters,’ he recited, emphasising each word with a prod of his sword. He was playing with me, like a barn cat with a cornered mouse.

Mistake. One of my men came behind him and felled him with a single dagger thrust.

I staggered to the mast and managed to remain upright by propping myself against it.

‘Are you hurt bad, Master Treviot?’ my deliverer asked anxiously.

I shook my head. ‘How are the others?’

‘No problems. We have the crew safe – all shut up below, save for three we’ve put in the boat. Best let me look at that wound of yours.’

He helped me to the cabin and sat me in a chair. With difficulty, I pulled off my outer clothes and shirt. I looked down. There was a lot of blood trickling from a gash just below my ribs. My attendant made a bundle of the shirt and pressed it hard against the wound. ‘That’ll staunch the flow till we get you ashore and have it properly bound.’

At that moment I was aware of movement. I heard the faint creaking of timbers. There was shouting out on the deck. Another guard burst in.

‘We’re under way!’ he cried. ‘Drifting on the ebb tide!’

Still holding the cloth to my wound, I hobbled out on deck. The ship was, indeed, moving, and at what seemed alarming speed. From what could be seen in the gloom, we were drifting, slightly sideways on, down a narrow channel between mud flats and marsh.

‘Fetch the ship’s captain,’ I ordered. ‘He’s the only one who can help. Make him understand that he’s in command of the barque and can use whatever men he needs. But watch them all like hawks.’

I returned to my chair in the cabin, my body throbbing with pain. I heard the clamour outside as the prisoners were released. Orders were shouted in Spanish and running feet hastened to carry out the captain’s instructions.

It seemed an age before anyone came in to tell me what was happening. Eventually, one of the archbishop’s guards entered – a no-nonsense, authoritative man in his forties.

‘Let’s have a good look at your wound,’ he said brusquely.

‘First tell me what’s going on. In God’s name, how came we to be adrift?’

‘The rogues we put in the boat.’ He brought the lamp closer to examine the wound. ‘They cut the mooring ropes.’

‘Ropes?’ I was puzzled. ‘Were we not anchored?’

‘Sit still!’ he snapped. ‘I can’t untie these rags if you’re wriggling. No, the anchor was already inboard. The ship was ready for a quick getaway, only held by fore and aft ropes.’

‘How are things now?’ I demanded. ‘Is the ship well in hand? We must make a landfall somewhere on our own coast. Make sure the captain steers us into a good haven. Can you get him to understand that?’

‘At the moment he’s understanding what he chooses to understand.’

‘Don’t let him try to take us out to sea.’

‘We won’t. Right now he’s more worried about steering us through the shallows. This is a treacherous bit of coast. He’s got a linesman out there taking readings every couple of minutes.’