‘God’s teeth, Mr Cooper, but my ears are ringing like Bow bells. I think it fair to say we hit the correct vessel, don’t you?’
Boltfoot found himself laughing for the first time in many days. ‘Aye, that I do, Mr Adam,’ he said, shouting against the din of his own ringing ears. Plenty of holes in that Sieve now, he thought, but declined to say it.
Debris started to rain down on them — wood, ash, fluttering shreds of sail, blood.
‘Time to haul Mr Shakespeare aboard and look to the injured,’ Adam shouted back.
The damage to the Swiftsure was not great. A broken spar, cracks in the bulwarks and gunports where the sakers had rolled. The whipstaff and bilge-pump would need repairs, but they were minor faults, easily remedied.
The harm to the men was greater. The master gunner’s shin and thigh were broken and one of the sailors Shakespeare had brought in had concussion from a head injury. As the officers fought to bring order out of chaos, Shakespeare suddenly realised that Peter Gulden, the clockmaker, was missing.
‘I saw him jump,’ Boltfoot said. ‘Just before the hellburner went up.’
They all peered over the bulwarks into the water.
‘No sign of him,’ Shakespeare said.
‘Better dead than what he had coming had he lived,’ Adam said.
‘Wait — I think I see him there, amid the wreckage.’
There was a body, floating face down. They could tell from the man’s rich attire and bald head that it was Gulden. From this distance, it seemed almost certain that he was dead. A pair of sailors were despatched to bring the body aboard.
Shakespeare said nothing. It would have been better if he had taken his life before ever he designed so foul a device, but Gulden had found his courage at last. He had been weak, not evil.
The Swiftsure was making way slowly. All along the route, they saw the anxious, news-greedy faces of spectators lining the banks. None knew what had happened and no one aboard the ship was about to tell them.
The officers and crew kept a look-out to see whether any other shipping or fisher boats needed assistance. The damage wrought seemed mercifully slight. Shakespeare looked over the poop bulwark at the remains of the Sieve. He saw the bodies of three of the black-clad Scots, floating face down. He could not tell whether they were men or women. Boltfoot had told him a little of their strange rituals. Doubtless other bodies would appear in the days to come, for none could have survived.
‘Sister Agnes and Sister Gellie, you say?’
‘They were kin of witches by that name, Mr Shakespeare,’ Boltfoot said gloomily. ‘Burned by James for setting to sea in sieves with intent to sink his ship.’
Shakespeare shook his head in bewilderment. Scots or English, heathen or Christian, he was certain of one thing: they were pawns in a bigger game. This was a Spanish conspiracy; Gulden the clockmaker had confirmed it. Everything had come from Madrid and from the Spanish regime in the Low Countries, and it was far from done. ‘We cannot rest, Boltfoot. We must find this prince of Scots.’
At the time of the explosion, horses had reared and whinnied, men and women had stopped their work as far away as Chelsea and had looked at each other with questioning, unbelieving eyes. Was this the second coming, or had a powdermill exploded? London was rife with rumour and fear. At Greenwich Palace, Sir Robert Cecil had closed his keen eyes and murmured a prayer of supplication. He knew he would be summoned by the Queen for an explanation, so he immediately sent out messengers to gather information and to order the palace guard doubled, before making his way to the presence-chamber.
Across the river, Holy Trinity Curl had felt a surge of pride and satisfaction. It was all coming together. He would have his vengeance. The Dutch would die in their hundreds. He would make a special diversion to the Sluyterman household and do for them, every one. That would be the greatest pleasure. Sluyterman. The very name stank of foreign treachery and usury.
Oliver Kettle’s brow furrowed at the sound of the blast. ‘Mr Curl,’ he said. ‘This is three or more hours early. And the direction of the sound is not right. I would swear that blast was in the east, not the west.’
‘Sound plays tricks, Mr Kettle. It will echo and distort. That was our hellburner, there can be no doubt. Glory be, the wind must have carried it sooner than we could have hoped. Have you ever heard a more thunderous or wondrous sound?’ He turned to the gathering. ‘This is our time, men. Have courage. File from here in good order and follow your commanders with the mettle of true Englishmen. When they see what damage is wrought, the prentices and journeymen will rise up in their hundreds, then their thousands. The stout hearts of London will join you, this I pledge.’
The Swiftsure picked up a group of six men whose fishing boat had been turned over and who were clinging to the upturned hull. They also went to the assistance of a fisher who had been struck by flying debris.
In the early afternoon, Adam ordered the ship to drop anchor off Greenwich to await the turn of the tide, which would not be long. Shakespeare and Boltfoot disembarked with the injured gunnery crew and the fishermen.
Cecil was on the quayside, standing apart from a group of courtiers. He was clutching a crystal goblet of red wine. Shakespeare hurriedly despatched Boltfoot and the seamen to be treated for their injuries, then bowed low to Cecil. The privy councillor was more tense than he had ever seen him.
‘You heard the blast, Sir Robert?’
‘Of course I heard the blast. They must have heard it in France!’
‘It was a hellburner, greater even than the one used at Antwerp. Thanks to God’s will and fine English gunnery, we were able to destroy it off Erith marshes. They had meant to blow the bridge and bring slaughter and mayhem to London. It was a conspiracy of terrible proportions involving many men. Even your father’s intelligencer William Sarjent. There is much to be told.’
‘Sarjent? God’s faith, John, I am sorry…’
‘He and Quincesmith have been double-dealing for years, since their time in the Low Countries. I suspect they took many tons of powder from Rotherhithe. They were in league with Baines and a rabble-rouser called Curl — and they nearly did for poor Boltfoot.’
‘My father will be mortified. He never suspected Sarjent. If such a man betrays us, then who is to be trusted?’ He shook his head gravely. ‘Much has happened, John. The palace has been in uproar. The royal guard has been engaged in a skirmish with a band of renegades within this past hour. Seven of them, all now dead. They came upon Greenwich with stealth, thinking to storm through the palace unhindered. The guard was ready and killed them like dogs.’
‘They must have been Curl’s men.’
‘Indeed. And a man identified as this same Curl tried to march through the city to the bridge. I am told his militia stopped in its tracks, open-mouthed with horror when they came close to the bridge, as if they had seen a spectre. Clearly, they had expected to see it destroyed and hoped to garner support among the people of London. Little did they realise what affection our London folk hold for Her Royal Majesty. When no one joined their band, they seemed unsure of what to do next. They were milling about like lost sheep when a detachment from the Tower found them and engaged them. Most of Curl’s men tried to turn tail. Two or three escaped, but the others were either killed or captured. That is not alclass="underline" there was another disturbance, at the Dutch church. But it was already heavily guarded and the rebels were driven off, excepting two dead, one of them their ringleader, a Mr Kettle.’
‘What of Curl? Was he taken?’
Cecil shook his head briskly. ‘No. He was recognised in the skirmish but escaped. What I want to know, Mr Shakespeare, is what in God’s name is going on? Do we have a civil war on our hands?’
‘It seems we have quelled the first wave, Sir Robert.’