The cries of wounded men echoed across the deck, the iron tang of blood caught on the cold breeze. When a man fell, Will darted into the space, thrusting with his rapier as each new bone-white face heaved into view. He glimpsed Launceston, a curious expression on his face as he studied the deep wound his blade had made across the neck of his opponent: a lick of his lips, a flicker of a smile. Carpenter swung his sword like a butcher carving a cow with strong, hard blows, his lips curled back from his teeth. And Strangewayes darted fast and low, each thrust made with grim determination. Yet the wave of Fay warriors seemed as if it would never end.
Lost to the delirious whirl of swords and bodies and the cries and screams and oaths, Will barely realized the galleon was gathering speed until it lurched free of the ice with such force that it almost threw him from his feet. ‘Almost there, Master Swyfte,’ Captain Prouty bellowed from the quarterdeck. ‘Hold them off a moment longer and we will be away.’
Will caught Carpenter’s eyes and they nodded. Renewing their efforts, they yelled encouragement to the men. The Enemy’s attack appeared to falter, then die away, and the spy dared to hope. But the resonant cracking of wood signalled a new approach. Throwing himself to the rail, Will peered down the hull to where the remaining warriors clung like spiders. Another crack echoed as a Fay tore off a gun port and flung the shattered oak behind him. Twisting like a snake, he slithered through the black square into the vessel.
‘To the gun deck!’ Will cried, beckoning his fellow spies as he raced past the bewildered crew and ducked down through the door in the forecastle. He understood the cunning of the Unseelie Court. In the dark, cramped gun deck, filled with cannon, there would be little space for swordplay. The Enemy’s speed and strength would give them an even greater advantage.
He slowed as he stepped into the pitch-black of the lower deck. The steely taint of powder hung in the air. Holding his rapier in front of him, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark. At the far end, the lighter night intruded in three shafts where the gun ports had been wrenched off. All was still. Will waved his blade from side to side, searching for the attack he knew would come.
‘They would lure us into their midst so they can slit our throats, unseen,’ Launceston breathed at his shoulder. ‘Let them come to us.’
Though the Earl’s words made sense, Will felt a tingle of apprehension. His worry was answered a moment later by a flaring light. A flint had been struck. A candle flame flickered into life in the open door of a lantern. White faces appeared from the gloom like pale fish rising from the sightless depths. Will saw a triumphant smirk spread across the lips of the Fay warrior who held the lantern and he knew what was to come.
‘Back,’ he yelled, keeping his rapier levelled as he urged the other three up the steps. ‘We are too late.’
The powder barrel lay on its side, its granular, black contents flowing across the boards. Two of the Fay warriors darted past the cannon and wriggled out the way they had entered. The third stood against the open gun door, his gleaming eyes locked on Will. With a flick of his wrist, he released the lantern. The guttering flame arced.
Will pounded back up the steps after the others. The blast ripped through the heart of the vessel, flinging all four spies through the forecastle door and across the main deck. His head ringing, Will felt the ship lurch to one side beneath him. Grey smoke billowed out of the open door. The roar of the raging fire below deck drowned out the terrified cries of the crew.
Will hauled himself on to shaky legs. Flames were already licking up the side of the stricken vessel, curls of sparks whisking towards the sails. He reached out a hand to drag Carpenter to his feet. Launceston and Strangewayes staggered behind.
Another blast tore open the main deck. An orange sheet of flame rushed up through the fissure, catching stays and canvas and lines as it swept along the vessel. A sailor was caught in the inferno and, screaming in agony, hurled himself overboard in a bid to quench the flames. Will choked, holding up an arm to protect his face from the searing heat pressing in on every side. They had perhaps only a moment before the powder store blew, taking the galleon and every man aboard to kingdom come. Yet the fire beat him back at every turn.
‘Is this how it ends, then,’ Strangewayes gasped, his face ruddy in the light of the flames, ‘for us, for England?’
Will spun round, searching for a path through the conflagration. Then, as the mainmast cracked with a sound like cannon-shot, the blazing sailcloth plunged down towards them.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Flames roared up into the night. Dancing orange light flared across the frozen river as the listing galleon was consumed in the jaws of the conflagration. Blackened wood cracked and spat. Black snow fell across the icy waste, flakes of charred canvas swirling in the breeze. In the trees on the far bank of the Thames, Sir Robert Cecil watched from under lowered brows and thought of the midwinter fire festivals in the far north. No celebration here; it was a bonfire of all their hopes. After so long holding the Unseelie Court at bay, England was lost.
Sickened, he reined in his skittish horse, no longer able to see a path ahead. What would he tell the Queen? That Dee was lost to them? That they should free the Faerie Queen immediately and plead for mercy from the Fay when they came like a storm in the night?
His bodyguard shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. He was a big man, his face a map of scars, but he sensed his master’s dismay and had grown scared. ‘Swyfte and his men?’ he asked.
‘Dead and gone. They failed us all.’
The galleon’s powder store exploded, the deafening blast a bitter punctuation to his comment. A plume of fire soared high above the treetops. Shards of smouldering timber and burning sailcloth rained down. The spymaster’s horse whinnied in terror and reared up, almost throwing him from its back. With a curse, he fought to bring it under control. When the fog of smoke cleared, nothing of the Gauntlet remained save a few burning staves slipping below the black water.
Cecil covered his eyes, hoping the soughing of the wind in the branches would soothe him after the din. Yet when he raised his head to survey the dismal scene, he felt as if despair would be lodged in his heart for ever. Damn Swyfte for raising his spirits! After such hope, this failure tasted even more bitter.
‘Back to the Palace of Whitehall,’ he snarled to his bodyguard. ‘I must give the Queen my counsel.’ He urged his mount back on to the lonely road to London.
As he rode, his gaze flickered towards the white ribbon of the Thames glimpsed through the trees. He could no longer see any sign of the misty figures he had witnessed sweeping towards the galleon. From a distance, they had looked like moon-shadows, but he knew their true nature. Even if he had raised the militia, they would have stood little chance of repelling the invader. The tales of the days when the Unseelie Court roamed across England without hindrance haunted him, and always would. The ruined lives, the lost souls. Jane, poor Jane. Still visiting him every night without fail.
As the two riders thundered towards London’s walls, the bodyguard bellowed to the sentries to open the gates. Inside the city, their hoofbeats rattled off wattle walls. Candlelight gleamed in windows here and there, but the cold streets were empty. Cecil had thought the explosion at Greenwich would have brought the curious and fearful out into the night, and he wondered if somehow they all sensed that grim atmosphere. Stay with your families and pray for all our souls, he silently implored.