Reynard did not bother to open his eyes. He was raw inside from the knotted string of memories and visions, with no way of knowing which was what. There was nobody and nothing beyond his eyelids to see, he knew that already. And besides, he did not need to open his eyes, as the lids themselves had become clear as stamped-glass panes, useless to block such specters.
And yet…
A well-dressed gentleman stood before him, shoes set solid on the sun-touched water. At least his coloring and figure were not reversed. A fancy ostrich plume adorned his well-shaped and expensive hat. Reynard, who seemed to watch from all around, saw the gentleman’s pleasant smile and knew that something more was wanted of him. This was a man of privilege. Even for a vision, being so well-dressed showed money and power, and so he must needs be polite.
“Noble sir,” he murmured.
“Fine lad!” The beplumed gentleman leaned in and stretched out his arm. “I have summat to teach thee about the heavens and their ways. I have studied long, and think thou needest guidance on such matters, even now, before thy moment of being born.”
“I am already born,” Reynard said, wondering if the man was an idiot, or truly a ghost.
“Nay, thou hast not even a name, yet.”
“And what is your name, sir?”
“Frauncis,” the man said. “Thou’lt know me better in time.” His fingers tickled Reynard’s palm in patterns he recognized, letters leading into words, words forming a kind of poetic sense, of which he translated a crucial few: The First Mother… the First Word…
The First Star in the Sky.
Was that the stand of it?
A far metal peal interrupted.
Reynard lifted his chin.
The man collapsed like folded paper.
Reynard looked for the source of the clang that had roused him. Had it been a swinging bell? Bump of blocks against an anchor? After a short, dark time, he thought he heard other voices—not English voices, but not dreams, either—and craned his neck to find their direction, muffled as they were by fog, like every other sound—but real. He looked down at his fingers, but could recover nothing from the strange dream of the feathered man except his smile and the arch of his plume.
Again Reynard tried to stand, and nearly fell into the water. Words from across the lapping waves came flat and clear to his ears—Spanish words, and not from spirits. Dare he cry out in answer? What choice? To keep to this drifting pile of sticks meant a sure and drowned death. Could the Spanish do worse?
Walsyngham had insisted they could.
Reynard made his choice.
“Ahoy!” he tried to yell, but the call came out a dry, weak croak. He tried again, and once more, with no better result, then leaned on his elbow and stared into the gloom, cheeks puffy, eyes stinging with salt.
There it was! A great shadow pushed through the lower grayness, huge spritsail dragging under a boom big as a tree. The sail passed over his wreck, and the hoy hard-bumped a keel and swung slow about, grinding and spinning along a massive, bulged black hull. Above, from as high as the sky, more cries drifted down. He knew little Spanish, but these were words he could almost understand—nautical words. They had seen the wreck and were discussing it, he was sure.
Reynard rose to his knees to hold out his arms and reach for a ladder or rope, something to climb or cling to. Whatever the origin of the huge, potbellied ship and its crew, they were alive, it was afloat, and together offered at least a thin hope.
But nothing was lowered to his grasp, and the wreck kept grinding and spinning.
And then, suddenly, shouts and cheers from above, and a huge, dark mass plunged from over the rail into the water, just feet from the wreck of the hoy. Bubbles greened the sea, and a sad hump surfaced and rolled to show a long head, folded and broken legs—
A horse! A dead horse. With such a feast, the ocean would soon be thick with sharks. The words from above grew louder. The wreck had beat along about a third of the galleon, wrenching against solid oak and splitting the frame. Reynard was awash to his waist when a thick line uncoiled like a snake from the quarterdeck. He grabbed it and held tight. A grizzled old sailor leaned over the rail, scanned the dead horse and the wreck’s submerged tangle, then waved his arm and pulled back. A few seconds later, the old sailor was swung out again and down, sitting on a slung board, such as might be used to paint the hull or transfer sailors.
The old one laughed as if this was a joke and he was paying off a bet. He had very few teeth left. “Muchacho!” he said. “¡Oye, tú! ¿Eres inglés o castellano?”
Asking if he were English or Spanish. Reynard understood this much. But again, he could only croak.
The old man looked him over with a yellowed, doubtful eye. “I think inglés. Do not move. Thou art fast sinking.”
A great voice boomed from the forecastle, arguments broke out along the rail, and the old man was pulled up. Water slopped into Reynard’s mouth and he tried to swim, but his muscles knotted. The great ship moved on. He was sure that would be the last he would see or hear of any of them, but moments later, the old man descended again and flung him a second rope. “Tie it on!” he urged, and pointed to his own skinny waist. Reynard had enough strength to do that, and soon he was lifted like a sack, the old man keeping him steady as they both were hauled aboard the ship, passing gun ports, thick sheets of tar and hair to help repel shipworm, black steel spikes to discourage boarders—which could skewer them like fish on a hook. But the men pulling from the deck swung them about, and the old man, with surprising strength, pushed the boy up over the thick rail.
Reynard sprawled on his back, gasping, and the sailors and soldiers—dozens of Spanish soldiers in full battle gear—formed a solid wall, like a stand of brutal flowers. A great net had been slung above the deck, and hammocks still dangled from its squares. The soldiers carried half-pikes and halberds and wore crested helmets and bulge-breasted cuirasses, and they were bearded, brown or olive with sun and warm-climed Spanish blood.
They circled around Reynard, curious, disdainful. Some spat. Some moved in with short swords drawn, ready to dispatch this useless English wretch, until the old man cried out, “Santa Maria, madre de Dios!” and pushed them back. The soldiers rewarded him with grating laughter and what sounded like insults.
The old man leaned over Reynard and whispered to him, “Speak truth! Speak lies! But say thou canst tell us where we are.”
Reynard croaked and pointed to his mouth.
The old man lifted his gaze to the soldiers and curious sailors and called for water. The sailors grumbled, the soldiers parted and wandered off, but water was brought in a bucket by a frowning boy much younger than Reynard, and the old man ladled him his first drink in days.
“Not too much,” he advised. “Thou wilt heave on el maestro’s bloody deck.”
The water was sweeter than fresh apples and gave Reynard back a whisper. “What ship?”
“A mighty ship,” the old man said. “El Corona Royale, thirty-one guns! Sad boy, niño inglés, thou shalt surrender to the imperial navy of King Philip and the Duke of Medina Sidonia, and tell us where we sail!”
“¡No hay viento!” cried a voice forward.
“No wind,” the old man translated. “No wind anywhere.”
A man of great dignity and fine clothes came down to the middle deck to inspect their catch. He knelt beside Reynard and regarded him sadly. The old man, in oft-patched rags, with a rope for a belt, was a sorry contrast to this splendid fellow, whose gray-specked beard had been neatly trimmed, and whose enameled scabbard depended from a belt on a silver chain. His eyes were like emeralds, and his hands were pale and smooth—a young woman’s hands, untouched by the wear of rope or oar.