by Anne Lyle
“We’ll be right there.” He went back inside and woke Ned. “Come on, lazy bones! Time to go.”
As soon as Ned was on his feet, Mal went to find Raleigh. The rest of the crew were soon roused and sent to rejoin their fellows on the Falcon, and the three Englishmen headed for the Hayreddin. The harbour lay in shadow still, and a chill breeze blew down off the hills.
“Take my ship back to Marseille,” Raleigh told Warburton, “then come to Venice as soon as she’s fully repaired.”
“Aye, captain.”
They boarded the galleass, and Mal and Ned went to change back into their familiar English garb. They had been assigned a tiny cabin in the fo’c’s’le with no bunks, only three paillasses that covered most of the floor. The sturdy lock on the door suggested this was normally used as a storeroom for valuable cargo.
“Damned uncomfortable way to spend the rest of our journey,” Raleigh muttered.
He gestured for Mal and Ned to place his sea chest on the only remaining piece of bare floor, and stumped back out on deck.
“This is going to be cosy,” Ned said, throwing down his own small knapsack.
“We can spend most of the day on deck,” Mal replied. “At least the weather is better than in the Atlantic.”
They went back up to find the oars shipped and the crew preparing to row out of the harbour. Mal shaded his eyes and gazed southwards. Four white sails in the distance, though he could not make out their flags. Youssef’s lookouts must have the eyes of hawks.
“We’ll tow the Falcon out to sea,” the captain said as the Hayreddin began to move. “This land breeze is too feeble to get her going fast enough to outrun the Spanish.”
“Can we help?” Mal said, looking down at the men straining at the oars.
Youssef shook his head. “My men know the rhythm; you would only break it and slow us down. Do you know how to work the sheets?”
“A little.”
He sent Mal and Ned to help unfurl the sails, and they hauled on the ropes until their hands were blistered. The Hayreddin slipped past the Falcon and threw her a line, then the two ships moved out of the harbour together, veering eastwards out of the path of the oncoming galleons. The Spanish changed course to intercept, fanning out in a line that spanned the bay.
“Do you think they’ll fire on us?” Ned asked when they paused for breath.
“Probably,” Mal replied, wiping his forehead with the back of his shirt sleeve. His left shoulder ached and his palms felt like they’d been burned with brands. “They have more sail as well.”
“And that’s bad, is it?”
“They’re faster, but less manoeuvrable. It’s going to be close.”
The westerly wind caught the Falcon’s sails at last, and she slipped her cable and drew alongside the Hayreddin.
“The sooner we split up,” Raleigh yelled across to Warburton, “the harder it’ll be for the Spanish to catch us both. Run before the wind, then turn back north as soon as you can.”
“Aye, my lord. I’ll see ye in Venice – or take a few Spaniards down with me to Hell!”
The Falcon, true to her name, sped eastwards. Her transom was still a patchwork of salvaged timbers, but she was otherwise sound and fled the confrontation without further damage. Youssef steered the Hayreddin to starboard, on a heading that would take them between two of the Spanish galleons.
“Is that wise?” Mal said, joining him on the poop-deck.
“They will have to turn to fire on us,” he replied, “and they risk hitting their own ships if they do so.”
“And if they don’t turn and we time it wrong, the starboard one could ram us amidships.”
Youssef nodded. “And we could rake the other in the stern.”
The Spanish had clearly come to the same conclusion, for the more easterly of the two began to turn north whilst its companion continued on its course. Mal and Ned could only watch anxiously from the rail as the Hayreddin drew closer to the galleons.
The easterly galleon opened fire, but the wind had already taken them too far away and their shot fell shot, splashing into the waves a ship’s length short of their target. A few of Youssef’s sailors jeered, but the rowers only pulled harder. They were getting close to the second galleon now, close enough to see the faces of the men hauling on the sheets and the mouths of the cannons within the gun-ports.
“To larboard!” Youssef shouted, and the galleass heeled as the wind caught her sails and drove her on a slanting course ahead of the Spanish galleon.
Mal clung to the rail, unable to look away as the galleon bore down on them. Surely she would ram their stern? But the rowers and the wind between them pulled her clear. The Hayreddin bucked as the galleon’s wake buffeted her stern, then they were free of the cordon. Mal watched in mingled relief and anxiety as the Spanish, assuming that Raleigh was aboard his own ship, headed east in pursuit of their origin quarry.
“It looks like you may get your wish,” he said to Ned.
“If it were only Hansford and his cronies aboard, I’d be cheering the Spanish on,” Ned admitted, “but the rest of the crew don’t deserve to be drowned or imprisoned for Raleigh’s sake.”
“True enough.”
Mal grimaced as he peeled his hands from the rail. He had been clutching the wood so hard, the blisters had burst.
“Here, let me see to those,” Ned said, taking him by the elbow. “You’ll not be fit to carry a sword if they fester.”
Mal let himself be led away. It would be a blessed relief to be back on land, where he could take on enemies on his own terms.
Ned took Mal belowdecks and bound his hands.
“A pity,” he said. “I was looking forward to practising my swordplay again.”
“True. You still need to work on your parry.” He flexed his bandaged hands experimentally. “Give me a day or two, and I’ll be fit enough.”
Mal’s prediction turned out to be accurate. With his riding gloves for extra protection, he was soon able to hold a weapon again. They spent every morning drilling and sparring, and the afternoons watching the Italian coast drift past. At first Ned felt uncomfortable showing off his skills, or lack thereof, in front of Youssef’s crew, but the sailors paid the passengers little mind and went about their business with a quiet efficiency that made Raleigh’s men look like an ill-disciplined mob.
Youssef allowed them to study his map of the eastern Mediterranean and, with little else to occupy his thoughts, Ned tracked their route along the northern coast of Sicily. Soon they reached the Straits of Messina, slipping between the city of the same name and the toe of Italy, and then steering north-eastwards towards the heel. The waters hereabouts were thick with ships, mostly fishing vessels of all sizes, but a good many merchantmen too, of all nations: Italian, Greek, English, French, Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, Turkish. Ned had seen many such vessels moored at the London quays at one time or another, their crews filling the air with a babel of tongues, but seeing them here on the sunlit waves where they belonged was somehow different. They reminded him of wild beasts set free, beautiful but deadly.
“Should only be three or four more days,” he said to Mal as they limbered up one morning. “We’re in the Adriatic Sea now.”
Mal laughed. “You’re becoming quite the navigator.”
“Have you thought about what we’re going to do when we get there?”
“I’ve thought of little else,” Mal said in a low voice.
“And?”
“A good commander doesn’t make decisions until he’s seen the lie of the land.”
“In other words, you have no plan at all yet.”
Mal threw him a cudgel and gave him one of those lopsided grins that stirred his blood in delicious but frustrating ways.
“Pretty much, yes.”
CHAPTER XV
The city of Venice lay at the centre of a large rectangular lagoon, protected from the sea by a line of narrow islands. The entrance to the lagoon, a gap between two of the larger islands
, was guarded by towers on either side, and galleys patrolled the waters without. One of them came swiftly towards the Hayreddin, oars flashing in the spring sunlight. Mal prayed the Venetian officials would not ask to search the vessel, or they might wonder why Raleigh had a couple of dozen Moors lurking belowdecks.
“What is your business in the Republic?” the captain of the galley hollered in Italian once they were in range.
Time to play the ignorant foreign visitor, foolish and harmless.
“I beg your pardon?” Mal shouted back in English.
“Ah, inglese!” The captain repeated his question, this time in English.
“We are come to buy lace ruffs for Queen Elizabeth of England,” Mal told him.
The Venetian laughed. “You expect me to believe you came all the way from England, signore, for a few yards of lace?”
Raleigh stepped forward and leaned over the rail.
“Do you know who I am, sir? I am Sir Walter Raleigh, Lord Warden of the Stannaries and a trusted advisor of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth.”
Mal suppressed the urge to kick Raleigh. The title was legitimate enough, but “trusted advisor”? This was not the plan they had discussed on the voyage.
“I beg your pardon, Signore Raleigh,” the Venetian replied. “We are honoured to have so famous an English hero in our city. Please, proceed.”
Raleigh, looking pleased with himself, gave the order to enter the lagoon.
“What are you doing, sir?” Mal hissed, drawing Raleigh aside. “Our story is that you are out of favour with the Queen and here to buy gifts to win her over.”
“Tush! It sufficed to get us past that jumped-up harbourmaster, did it not?”
“Well, yes, but that’s not the point. If this plan is to work, the Venetians must not suspect us of being here to spy on the skraylings.”
Raleigh sighed. “Very well, I will play your part if I must.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The Hayreddin had passed into the lagoon now and was making its slow way towards the distant city. Countless vessels rowed back and forth across the calm waters, from tiny rowing boats to massive oared galleys, single-sailed fishing smacks to mighty galleons bigger than the Ark Royal. Beyond them all, the city shimmered above the water like a heat haze, its pastel-coloured buildings as insubstantial as mist.
“So that’s Venice, then?” Ned said, joining Mal at the rail.
“Indeed. La Serenissima. The Serene Republic.”
“You seem to know a fair bit about it, considering you’ve never been here before.”
Mal turned his gaze westwards, towards the mainland. “There was much talk of Venice when I fought in the north of Italy. It stands between Christendom and the Turkish Empire, owing scant loyalty to the former and ever at war with the latter.”
“But they are Christians here, Catholics?”
“Of a sort. But they do not like the Pope. The Venetians dislike being under the thumb of any foreign lord, spiritual or temporal.”
“I like them already.”
Mal laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Just mind your tongue, all right? If there is one thing they do not tolerate, it’s insults to the Republic. You think what happened to Kyd and Marlowe was bad? The English are amateurs compared to the Venetians.”
Ned turned pale. The events of two years ago had cast a long shadow over Bankside.
“No one must suspect our business here,” Mal added in a low voice. “I shall adopt the manner of a gallant, that thinks of naught but fine Italian doublets and the latest fashion in shaping his beard.”
“You, play the coxcomb?” Ned burst out laughing. “I shall enjoy seeing that.”
As they drew closer they could make out the main landmarks of the southern side of the island: the pale façade of the ducal palace, the gilded domes of the basilica behind it and, most prominent of all, the campanile in St Mark’s Square, rising above the surrounding buildings like a digitus impudicus, defying the world. To the right of the palace, a long quay stretched the length of the shore towards a vast red-brick-walled enclosure at the tip of the island: the Arsenale, the Venetian state shipyard.
“I heard they once built an entire ship in two hours,” Mal said, “whilst King Henri of France was eating dinner with the Doge. Mind you, they have thousands of men working there.”
“They would have made short work of the Falcon, then.”
“They do not repair anyone else’s ships. The whole place is locked up as tight as a nunnery, to preserve the secrets of their craft, and all foreign visitors to the city are watched closely.”
“It’s not going to be easy, this job, is it?”
“No, it’s not.”
The Hayreddin dropped anchor some hundred yards offshore and Ned brought up their baggage ready to disembark. He deposited it on the deck at Mal’s feet with a thud.
“Where now?” he said.
“We find the English ambassador’s house,” Mal replied, “and give him Walsingham’s letter. After that… I need to see the lie of the land first.”
“Right.” Ned shaded his eyes and scanned the docks. “Well, that answers one question.”
“What’s that?”
“We know the skraylings are here.” Ned pointed out a red-sailed vessel, half hidden behind an enormous brig.
“Either that, or there’s more than one skrayling ship come to Venice in the past month.” It was not an encouraging thought.
Before the jolly-boat could be lowered into the water, the Hayreddin was approached by one of the many gondolas plying their trade along the waterfront.
“I take you somewhere, signori?” the gondolier called up. “My cousin has the nice taverna, very cheap.”
“Do you know the house of the English ambassador, my good man?” Mal said. He took the letter from his pocket and pretended to read the address with effort. “It’s in the, um, Salizada… San… Pantalon.”
The man’s expression changed very slightly, no doubt recalculating how much he dared charge this wealthy but ignorant milord for his services.
“Of course, signore. The district of Santa Croce. How many of you am I to take?”
“Two. And my servant and baggage.”
They climbed down into the slender craft, which rocked alarmingly as if determined to throw them into the emerald-green waters. Somehow they managed to manhandle Raleigh’s sea chest aboard without anyone falling in, and they were soon skimming westwards towards the mouth of the Grand Canal.
The gondolier took them past a succession of elegant palazzos, every one different: plaster painted white or rose or honey-yellow; windows with round arches, pointed arches, with or without little stone balconies; shutters on upper windows thrown open to greet the day or latched tight. In one respect, however, they were all alike. Every one had ground-floor windows protected by thick iron grilles to keep out robbers. Mal had seen similar arrangements elsewhere in Italy, but in Venice the contrast with the airy buildings was particularly striking.
Just as the Grand Canal turned back on itself their gondolier heaved on his oar and continued on westwards down a tributary. The houses here were less grand, though still three or four stories tall with bronze doors and painted plaster walls. A bridge crossed the canal, barely high enough for the gondolier to go under without ducking; it had no parapet, as if the citizens of Venice were so accustomed to the water that they gave it no thought.
A little further on they passed under a second bridge and then turned aside into a yet smaller canal, perhaps twenty feet across. The houses bordering it were more modest in proportion, mostly no more than two or three stories, with simple arched windows edged in white stucco. The gondola snaked around a dogleg bend and stopped at the foot of a weed-encrusted stair leading up to the fondamenta, the canal-side walk.
“Here you are, signori,” the gondolier said, gesturing to the building on their right. “This is the residence of the English ambassador.”
The house sat on the bend in the c
anal, a fine specimen of Venetian architecture with walls painted a deep terracotta red and arched windows decorated with white plaster mouldings. Two sides faced the canal, the third gave onto a street that merged into the fondamenta, and the fourth was joined to its neighbours. Mal’s thoughts were already occupied with assessing its entrances and exits.
He scrambled ashore, relieved to be back on solid ground again, and waited with studied indifference whilst Ned heave their belongings onto the fondamenta. Raleigh paid the gondolier, strode up to the house’s street entrance and rapped on the handsome panelled door. Mal joined him, signalling to Ned to wait with the baggage. Several minutes passed, and Mal began to think they had the wrong address. He was just about to ask a passing Venetian for directions when the door opened and a manservant peered out.
“Sir Walter Raleigh, to see the ambassador,” Raleigh barked.
The servant blinked at them, then opened the door with a bow.
“Please, come in, sirs.”
They followed him into a small but elegant atrium with a floor of grey marble tiles. The servant left them there and made his way slowly up a narrow staircase of the same stone, clutching the balustrade with an age-knobbed hand. No wonder it had taken forever to open the door. Mal wandered over to a gilded side table and leafed through the pile of handwritten notices: announcements of executions, the election of citizens to public office, and all the other doings of a well-run state that might be of interest to diplomats and men of business.
Above the table hung a portrait of a gentleman in recent English fashions; the ambassador himself? Mal’s guess was proved correct when the man from the painting descended the stair. A little older and stouter, perhaps, but undoubtedly Sir Geoffrey Berowne in the flesh.
“Sir Walter!” The ambassador bowed. “How wondrous unexpected! How is Her Majesty?”
Raleigh bowed in turn. “In good health, God be praised. And yourself?”
“The damp plays hell with my joints in the winter, but the summers make up for it.” He looked from Raleigh to Mal and back. “Have I been recalled?”
“Not at all,” Mal said, bowing and holding out Walsingham’s letter. “Maliverny Catlyn, at your service.”
