He approached the huge double doors to the builder’s hall and nodded to the guards on duty, who unlocked the smaller hatch at the base of the doors and waved him inside. The noise of hammers increased, along with the rhythmic cries of the pulley teams as they worked the ropes. Isaac straightened and dusted himself down, then cast his eyes over the machine taking shape. Even unfinished it was still magnificent. The alchemical engine was the latest innovation to come from the unfathomable mind of the King, a poorly-rendered sketch improved upon and brought into the world by Isaac Bonnington. He watched a huge cannon being lowered slowly into place with a mixture of awe and terror.
When the Lionheart was complete, when the fruit of his labours was brought to bear, all nations would crumble before the unstoppable might of England.
Thirteen
The Hermione
The Atlantic Sea
THE WINDS REMAINED steady and mild for the remainder of the journey. It became quickly obvious that Eyja was able to command the skies without any apparent effort and the Hermione did not have to endure any more rain, even with the steady approach of winter. Command and control, it seemed, were parts of her talent. Mathias had been impressed by Giraldo’s easy charm and his ability to manipulate with the right word or phrase; Eyja, he learned very quickly, was able to achieve the same result with little more than a smile.
He also noticed that the smiles rarely reached her eyes. It bothered him. He felt a deep sympathy for this strange, quiet, beautiful woman. Tagan had become her constant companion and he noticed the change that had come over her. She was less impulsive than she had been, more thoughtful and considered in what she said. She’d rather self-consciously tried to make herself look a little more presentable, and had spent time repairing the numerous tears and snags in the only dress she had. The rest of the time, she made do with sailor shirts and breeches that were far too big for her, but at least protected her modesty.
Until Eyja’s arrival, Tagan had remained quietly apart from the crew during the day, understanding—but not necessarily appreciating—the superstitions surrounding women on board. Now, however, wherever Eyja walked, Tagan was always a step or two behind her. It had a clear effect on her confidence, and it made Mathias glad to see her smiling again.
By the fourth day of the journey south, Mathias was beginning to enjoy the routine once more. The daily training sessions with Warin had paid off and he was able now to slip into animal forms with little thought and far less effort than when he had first tried. Giraldo, in turn, was teaching him the basics of handling a sword, with which he was proving to be far less proficient.
‘You don’t think ahead,’ laughed the Pirate King after Mathias had ended up on his backside for the fifth time in a row. ‘You need to anticipate. Learn to read what your opponent might do, whilst you deal with what they are doing. Did you never play chess?’
‘No,’ replied Mathias, a little sullenly. The humiliation of constant defeat was starting to play on him and it was affecting his performance, not to mention his mood. It wasn’t entirely true; Wyn had tried to teach him to play chess once or twice, but despite his intelligence and his patience, Mathias had never had much of a talent for strategy.
‘Perhaps you should start.’
‘More training? Isn’t this enough?’ Mathias brandished the wooden sword fiercely enough to elicit laughter from the Shapeshifter, lounging amidst ropes and nets watching the sparring. Mathias turned on his mentor, a spark of irritation in his eyes. ‘You aren’t helping, Warin.’
‘Swords. I never had any interest in the weapons of men. You’ve seen what I can do. Who needs man-made weapons when you can have claws or teeth? The boy isn’t a natural warrior, de Luna. What are you hoping to accomplish with this farce?’
Giraldo shrugged his slender shoulders. ‘It is a distraction. The boy has taken to brooding.’
Brooding. For no very rational reason, Mathias was annoyed by Giraldo’s words. What did this peacock know of his worries? What did Giraldo de Luna know of uncertainty and homelessness? Time on board the ship was giving him time to think, allowing events to catch up with him. To dwell upon what had happened. And yes, he reluctantly admitted, to brood. Acknowledging the truth did not improve his temper.
Other men might have turned to insult or given vent to their anger. Mathias simply set down the training sword and walked away. But the ship was not that large. There were not many places he could walk to.
But he walked anyway.
The Vanguard
The Channel
IT HAD TAKEN some time to organise the crew in the wake of the damage caused by the magically conjured storm. Following the departure of the Hermione, the storm had slowly abated and work had begun to make the vessel seaworthy once more. The Vanguard was heavily damaged; one mast was broken, and the hull breached in several places. Debris was dragged from the water and used to patch the holes, and boards were sealed with pitch to keep the waves at bay. Replacement canvas was brought up from the hold and used to make what sails they could. Battered and bruised, the ship limped into Portsmouth harbour three days later.
The Lord Inquisitor was unimpressed by the delay.
With the entire fleet anchored off the coast of France, the only vessels available were cogs and fat-bellied cargo barges. None were suitable for the pursuit of the fleeing Hermione, and he could feel her slipping away with each passing day. Weaver demanded the men work faster. Work gangs were drafted in to speed the repairs, and worked day and night removing the guns from the damaged decks.
When the Vanguard slipped back out into the channel a few days later, she was a shadow of her former self. If Isaac Bonnington had seen what had become of his beautiful ship, he would undoubtedly have wept.
‘My lord, surely it would be wiser to return to the fleet?’ The Vanguard’s captain, an increasingly stressed man by the name of Henry Hudson, was trying desperately to convince the Lord Inquisitor to change his mind. ‘She’s in poor shape. Any further damage will see her at the bottom of the sea. And even with fair winds and every strong man at the oars, we cannot hope to catch a ship propelled by magic. We...’
Weaver turned slowly on the spot to glare at Hudson through the slits in his mask and the captain’s words died in his throat. The six knights accompanying the Lord Inquisitor stood at his back, their own expressions fixed in steely determination.
‘Never presume to tell me my business, Captain Hudson,’ he rumbled menacingly. ‘Here are my orders and you will see fit to obey them. You will set your men to the oars and they will row harder than they have ever done before. We are going to make up as much lost time as we can. When we reach our destination, then you can do what you want with this ship. Not before. Is that quite clear?’
The unfortunate captain found his mouth had suddenly gone very dry. He swallowed thickly. ‘Yes, my lord. Might I ask about our course?’
‘Set her to the south, Captain Hudson,’ Weaver said. ‘We are heading to Morocco.’
December, 1589
The Hermione
Morocco
FOR THE PAST forty years, the Portuguese had insisted on referring to the port as Casa Branca. The military fort standing strong and proud on its overlook above the port kept a close eye on the many vessels passing through on their way to exotic eastern lands. Quick action put a stop to the worst of the pirate raids.
‘Anfa,’ Giraldo said wistfully as the Hermione made her way up the narrow channels leading to the busy port. ‘She will ever be Anfa to me. I had some fine times here in days gone past.’
Seeing Warin roll his eyes and sensing that the Pirate King was about to embark on one of his lengthy tales, Mathias made a quick move to forestall it before it began. Warin’s patience, always thin to begin with, had started to fray in the time it had taken to sail to the coast of Morocco. He had little wish to bear witness to another blazing argument between the pair.
Even with the onset of winter, the weather had grown hot as they travelled further south. F
or both Warin and Eyja, used to more temperate climes, the heat was oppressive. Eyja adjusted to it more quickly, but Warin seemed to visibly wilt as the heat sapped his stocky body of strength. Mathias thought on this as he asked Giraldo about the sights and spectacles of the approaching town.
‘Give it a few days,’ he said mildly. ‘Warin is a solitary creature, rough and full of bluster, but he will adapt. It is what he does best.’ Mathias shrugged and focused on the remarkable sights before him.
The young man pointed to a high tower, with a domed top and intricately worked detail in rich turquoise. ‘What is that place?’ He was captivated by its beauty, by its clean lines, as it stood at the waterline, waves lapping lightly at its base.
‘That’s a mosque,’ said Giraldo, happy to be the guide in this instance. ‘It is where the people of Anfa go to pray to their god.’ His usually cheery expression grew serious. ‘We have timed our arrival well. When you first hear the call to prayer, it can be something you never forget.’ His expression grew wistful. ‘I know I have never forgotten it.’
The mosque loomed larger and larger as the Hermione passed by, and all eyes were drawn to its magnificence. The white buildings that made up the port city were so brilliant, so different from anything that Mathias and Tagan had ever seen.
‘Whatever else happens,’ said Mathias in a low voice filled with wonder, ‘I will always be glad for seeing this.’
The Hermione became a bustling hive of activity as the crew made ready to drop anchor. Voices rose and people ran around the deck, winding in rope and trimming the sails. Eyja, her heavy cloak neatly folded and slung over one arm, seemed perfectly comfortable in the warmth of the late afternoon sun as she joined Mathias, Tagan and Giraldo at the rail.
‘Anfa,’ she said, wrinkling her nose slightly. ‘So... dusty. Why he ever chose to stop wandering in this part of the world...’
‘Who knows why he does anything, Eyja?’ said Giraldo. The mysterious exchange meant little to Mathias. ‘Where’s Warin?’
‘In your cabin, making the most of the shade, or so he tells me.’ Eyja smiled fondly. ‘Once we land, he will join us. What is our plan, dear one?’
‘There is a tavern in Anfa where we can spend the night,’ he replied. ‘Tomorrow, the Hermione will leave. If the Inquisitor really wants to find us, and he seems remarkably good at doing that, then I would prefer it if he didn’t find my lady of the sea. He’s unlikely to catch up to her. And besides, my Tohias can run circles around that English ship. If someone could see fit to give them a good wind out of port tomorrow morning, they should get enough of a head start to get clear.’ He gazed up at the ship’s figurehead and sighed. ‘I’ll miss her, but... well. Needs must, as the saying goes.’ He grinned. ‘Tohias is no doubt sick of me bringing him into port only to send him away again, but he is my first mate for a reason.’
Eyja smiled her dazzling smile and inclined her head. ‘It will be as you ask,’ she said, before returning her attention to the port city. Her arms stole across the shoulders of Tagan and Mathias. ‘Tonight,’ she said, ‘you will see what free people do with the gift of magic. You will see the wonder that King Richard the Lionheart hoped to bring to his people so many years past.’ She raised her head and inhaled the dust and riotous scents of the port town.
THE HERMIONE DOCKED without further ceremony, and despite a few suspicious glances from the locals, there was no trouble. A portly man with a deep voice and skin tanned darker than Mathias or Tagan had ever seen before approached them, speaking in a language that sounded similar to that he had heard used amongst Giraldo’s pirates.
‘Portuguese,’ murmured Eyja. ‘That is Anfa’s port master. Giraldo will soon deal with him. Just watch.’
The clink of coins was slow and deliberate as Giraldo pressed them into the man’s palm. He smiled with all the considerable charm at his disposal and the port master smiled back, displaying a mouthful of dazzling white teeth. Or mostly white—the gold caps in his mouth stood out startlingly.
The port master turned from Giraldo and dropped a ridiculously over-exaggerated bow. ‘Welcome to Anfa, travellers!’
Eyja nodded politely and smiled at him. Tagan followed her mentor’s example and smiled as prettily and nicely as she could muster. The port master made an expansive sweeping gesture towards the town.
‘Where is Warin?’ Mathias looked around. Giraldo shrugged.
‘He said he’ll follow on later. Let him be; he has one of his bad moods upon him. He will get over it. Come. Come see the town. You will never have known anything like it.’
His excitement was undeniably infectious, and they followed him eagerly as he led them into the white-walled Moroccan town. It felt oddly enclosed once they stepped through the archway that Giraldo led them through, and the day, already fading to dusk, seemed to become a little darker. But it was not in any way threatening.
The smells hit them first: roasting meats and sweet, burned sugar that lingered in the nostrils and lured them towards the traders plying their wares. Both Mathias and Tagan were used to markets and had even experienced a travelling fair, but this was something else entirely. The closest market stall was trading meat of some kind, sold in big, succulent-looking slices.
But the trader did not have any kind of campfire or grill set up to cook his wares. Instead, he was roasting the steaks with short bursts of fierce fire that he seemed to conjure from his own fingertips. Mathias felt the tingle of magic and Tagan clapped her hands together in delight.
‘He is like me,’ she said excitedly. ‘He conjures fire! Oh, look!’
Already the mage was forgotten as Tagan’s attention was caught by another trader, a woman selling fine silk cloth. The beautiful fabrics were a vast array of colours and designs, and before their eyes, she was passing her hand over the weave and altering the shades to her customer’s tastes.
‘It used to be better. It used to thrive,’ complained Giraldo, apparently heedless of the packed souk. He half-closed his eyes and allowed memories of past glories to surface. Nobody noticed.
Everywhere they looked, they saw magic used in different ways. Some obvious and remarkable, such as the woman selling the silks; others more mundane but no less extraordinary. A young boy carried a pail of water on a cushion of air before him. Eyja gave him the sweetest smile as he passed her. An obviously wealthy merchant, given his fine attire and arrogant bearing, had employed a young woman to conjure gentle winds to keep him cool in the evening heat. A train of robed monks followed a softly glowing cross as it led them on their long pilgrimage to the Holy Land. They maintained a soft chant, musical and tuneful, and with each rise in pitch, the cross glowed just a little brighter, fed by their magic and their faith in equal measure.
‘It’s wonderful,’ breathed Tagan, turning in circles where she stood. ‘So much life. So much colour.’ Before anybody could stop her, she had raced over to the woman with the silks and found herself caught up in a conversation in halting English. Giraldo walked over behind her, smiling ever so slightly, as he watched the country girl with no experience of the world beyond her village communicate well with a complete stranger.
‘Her work is beautiful, isn’t it?’ Giraldo said something to the woman in Spanish and she tipped her head to one side, giving the Pirate King a huge smile. She said something back in a fast, fluting voice and passed her hand across the piece of fabric she was holding. The cloth became a deep, arterial scarlet. She held it up and studied Tagan critically, then passed her hand across it again, and threads of glittering orange and yellow were worked into the red silk. It caught the light breeze, flickering like a forge fire. Her eyes grew round and wistful.
‘That’s so beautiful,’ she said, breathlessly. The woman smiled and stood, tying the piece of silk around Tagan’s waist.
‘Beautiful silk for a beautiful lady,’ she said in halting English. Tagan began to shake her head and untie the sash, but Giraldo stopped her.
‘She is giving you the fabric as a gift,’ he m
urmured softly. ‘Perhaps there is something you could do for her?’
‘But I couldn’t make anything so beautiful.’
‘Really?’ Giraldo’s smile never slipped, and Tagan nodded thoughtfully. She closed her eyes for a moment and after a second or two, a tiny flame sat in the palm of her hand. She teased the small flame, stretching it out and shaping it until she had crafted another fiery butterfly, just as she had done for Mathias on that day back in Wales, which felt so far away and so long ago now. She opened out her palm and the fiery creature fluttered free. The trader laughed delightedly and clapped her hands, even after the butterfly had faded to a smoky memory.
‘There. You have pleased her. A gift for a gift.’ Giraldo linked his arm into Tagan’s. ‘This is how a community thrives with magic at its heart. Do you see now how grey, how poor, England has become for the lack of it?’
Before she could respond, the noise in the market fell to a hush and the strangest sound began to thread through the crowd. A haunting, but beautiful sound; a male voice, raised in song. Tagan did not understand the words, but there was something strangely uplifting in them. Around them, the market place began to close down, traders moving away.
‘What is that?’ She didn’t notice the tears on her cheeks until Giraldo gently wiped them away.
‘The adhan,’ he replied. ‘It is the call to prayer for these people. They live in harmony with the gift of magic, the bounty of nature and their faith. It is the ideal envisioned by so many... so long ago.’ He sighed softly. ‘Come. Let’s get a few hours sleep in a comfortable bed. We have a hard journey, come the morning. We leave at dawn.’
‘Where are we staying?’
‘I know a woman who owns a tavern.’ Giraldo’s grin was wicked. ‘Well, sort of a tavern. Eyja’s not going to approve, put it that way.’
Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising Page 22
