Dozens of soldiers and sailors had lowered themselves on ropes and a climbing net and were already walking around the ship, calling out that there was damage—a wide hole in the larboard hull.
The old man tied a rope around Reynard’s neck. “Stay by me. I am th’one who hath heart for you.”
Reynard gripped the rope in both hands, twisted it until it burned his neck, and for a moment, considered how he could escape from the Spaniards and even from the old man, to escape and discover this place on his own!
And to die thyself unfinished.
That inner voice again, not quite his grandmother—and not quite the man with the white shadow.
“My head is truly haunted,” he murmured.
The old man heard this. “I share that concern,” he said, and raised his wrinkled hand. “Stay alert,” he advised, “and do nothing rash.”
Cardoza seemed to want to stay and explore. The gentleman’s horse had had its armor removed and was fitted into a leather sling. A dozen soldiers and sailors rigged a crane and slowly, jerkily, lowered the unhappy beast over the rail to the beach, where it whinnied and scuffed, scattering pebbles and sand. As it was loosed from the sling, several more soldiers held its tack and tail, but it kicked free and ran for a time on its own, then turned, looked startled, reared, and trotted a fancy circuit of the cove.
Reynard thought he saw trees on a headland shiver as if in reaction to the horse’s spirit, though it might have been wind. He stayed close to the old man as three brown dogs, almost as large as ponies, with leather muzzles, were also slung and winched down, but these were not set free. Instead, a single small man in pantaloons and a leather jerkin held tight to their ropes, as they seemed eager to leap and attack any and all. Fierce dogs. Dogs that wanted to fight and kill. Now would not be a good time to break free and run. The Spanish might enjoy such sport.
A long ramp was run out over the rail, and then another, aft of the first, and more soldiers scrambled down to the beach, where they flanked the boards and prepared to steady them. Reynard and the old man descended now, single file. On the beach, the old man squatted slowly, knees popping, then sat. Reynard settled down beside him and resumed his study of the land and the ship, the soldiers and sailors and boys.
Small crabs raced the waves and picked along the rocks. The rear of the beach, inland from the black sand, was shingle of a type he had not seen before—mixed rocks and polished pebbles, brown and gray, even pink, all shiny as glass. Now they jostled and rattled like dice. The great ship complained, groaning, creaking—making alarming reports like gunshots. Reynard had heard of trembling ground before, in Iceland… Volcanic. With earthquakes. Maybe they had reached Iceland!
Or Reynard had died, and was now being punished.
“You are not dead,” the old man said, as if reading his thoughts. “Nobody returneth from that country, so how could we?”
Sailors and soldiers crowded the rails, eager to see, but not so eager even now to go ashore. How many fully armed soldiers were there? Reynard wondered. At least a hundred, and as many sailors.
How many had died at Gravelines?
“You begin here,” the old man said. “Or, like me, start over.”
They watched young boys, los grumetes, as the old man called them, trying to shove through the crowd to the rail.
“The young are still curious. But most sailors, and smart soldiers, are less so. This is a strange land, and the ship is familiar, however much its bilges stink, however infested with lice and fleas.”
Both had already found their way onto Reynard but, strangely, were either dying or dead. He had already plucked and tossed a few of their small, familiar corpses. “You have been here before?” he asked.
“Not for decades,” the old man said. “I know not what hath changed. The sailors wish to return to sea with the flood,” by which he meant the tide. “But el capitán is eager for conquest. And so his mare.” He turned his head and pointed to the galleon. “El maestro.”
A very fat man climbed onto the forward ramp, then stepped down delicately to the beach, face pale and sweating despite a steady breeze that blew up the cove. He was soon followed by the gentleman, Cardoza, el capitán, who whistled and called as he descended, until his fine mare trotted to him. Soldiers in armor brought down an ornate tooled saddle, and soon the gentleman rode tall over to the fat man.
Then Cardoza and el maestro called for the rest to descend, all but a small crew to tend the ship and bring out weapons, and a guard to watch from the remaining crow’s nest.
The old man prodded Reynard. “Get up,” he said. “They have need of us.”
Cardoza dismounted and led his mare over to them. Reynard knew horses from his uncle’s stable, where, between fishing voyages, they had tended a fair number of Southwold’s draft and work animals. Cardoza’s mare was of mixed Arab blood, brown-eyed, with a concave forehead, strong despite the hardships—magnificent and nervous and very tired of being cooped up on the ship. No doubt her hooves would need tending, and soon, if el capitán planned to ride her about on these clattering shingles—as he seemed eager to do.
“The old sailor hath skills sharpening swords and repairing locks,” the captain said, “but he saith thou know’st the needs of horses. Is this true?”
Reynard patted the animal’s neck until it seemed to accept him, then got down on one knee, lifted its foreleg, and studied the horse’s hoof. “Too long she stands in wet and piss,” he said. “She wants a good trim and new shoes. Hot shoeing will be best. I can do it.”
“We had twenty horses. Ten died. Thou wilt prepare the shoes from ship’s stores… And from a barrel of special shoes for my beauty.” el capitán said a forge would be set up and an anvil would be brought down later. The old man said he would return to the ship to retrieve clippers and files.
el maestro was a bulky man, maybe fifteen stone, with thick arms and fashionable but worn clothing. In appearance, with his mottled, pale face, he resembled a stage clown, a marked contrast to el capitán, but a formidable presence nonetheless—in command of the galleon’s day-to-day operations, but going where el capitán ordered. From a seaman’s perspective, el maestro was the real captain.
Reynard never did learn his name.
“Where are we, boy?” el maestro inquired in English, taking advantage of the old sailor’s absence. Until now, Reynard had kept his head down and focused on the horse, but this question was direct. Reynard wondered what the Spanish would do if they discovered his ignorance. Would they punish both him and the old man?
“¿Irlanda o Islandia?” Cardoza asked.
The old man returned with surprising speed, carrying a small bag of tools, and stood near Reynard. He stooped and picked up the rope again, cap in hand, not to interrupt.
“Come we to Irlanda, boy?” el maestro inquired, staring critically at el viejo.
“No, señor,” Reynard said. “The trees and wind are wrong, and there be nought of Queen’s soldiers. And neither is it Iceland, ’cause I heard we ply too far north, and not so far west.” He knelt and bowed his head. “señor, the horse’s hooves are damp and could split on these rocks. You should not ride far till they be trimmed and shod.”
Cardoza observed him critically, then turned to the old man. “I will see what is near and a threat—and then thou canst do thy work. Unless thou wish’st to discourage me?” el capitán chuckled. “el viejo, this boy is either a cunning fraud or a spy.”