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Authors: Laurie McBain
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were meeting in Santo Domingo. Francis Walsingham would have been proud of him, for he was actually beginning to think like a spy.
For courage mounteth with occasion.
S hakespeare
Chapter Four
T he fisherman , gold weighing heavily in his pocket, rowed as close to the Estrella D'Alba as he could without drawing the guards' attention. It was an overcast night, with no stars or moon to reveal the shallow-hulled craft's progress as it closed the distance between the shore and the looming bulk of the deep-drafted galleon riding at anchor in the bay. The fisherman smiled to himself. These fancy hidalgos were a greedy lot. But, he reminded himself, their greed had made him a wealthy man. He had often rowed one or two of them out to a galleon under cover of darkness so they could retrieve the contraband that had been so costly to smuggle in under the customs officials' long noses.
And this fine gentleman had been no different- - except perhaps more nervous. Half hiding his face behind a scented lace handkerchief held to his high-bridged nose, his speech muffled yet elegantly spoken, he had certainly played the grandee until the first wave had lifted the boat's prow high into the sea spray. And without all of the finery, the simple fisherman imagined, he looked the same as any other man, and maybe not even as fine, for the gent was as rawboned and spindle-shanked as he'd ever seen.
Stripped down to his linen undergarments, Sir Basil slipped over the side of the boat and let the gentle swells carry him toward the galleon's curving hull. A block and tackle still hung from the stern where cargo had been loaded through an after port earlier in the day. A rope dangled from the pulley block, the frayed end conveniently close to the water and in reach of Sir Basil's outstretched hand. He pulled himself out of the water and began to shinny up the rope, his destination the carved balustrade, part of the gilded ornamentation gracing the stern that guarded the small balcony outside the captain's cabin.
Climbing over the railing, he edged closer into the concealing blackness of the shadows beside the lattice windows, where a golden glow spread from the lantern-lit interior of the great cabin. His heart pounding more from anticipation than physical effort, Sir Basil risked a glance inside.
Three gentlemen and a priest were sitting around a table cluttered with silver plate and the remnants of what appeared to have been a sumptuous feast. Through a small, diamond-shaped pane of glass, he watched Don Pedro, whom he had been formally introduced to the night before at Casa del Montevares, raise a silver goblet in response to whatever toast had been made by one of his guests.
Sir Basil's gaze narrowed thoughtfully, for he had not been mistaken in his earlier recognition of a certain gentleman he had seen in the courtyard. Now, as the Englishman sat back down, Sir Basil saw for the first time the face of the other man. His identity was now fully revealed to Sir Basil's disbelieving gaze; it was a face he knew well. Not more than a year past, when he had dined with the court at Whitehall in celebration of the queen's accession to the throne, he and that very same gentleman, now dining on board a Spanish galleon, had toasted the good health of Elizabeth Tudor.
Turning his head, so his ear nearly touched the pane, Sir Basil listened intently.
" 'Twould be so easy to kill her. I have stood as close to her as I am now to you. Her palaces are not well guarded, and daily she takes the air, walking through St. James's Park and the streets of the City like some strutting courtesan. So very easy," the Englishman said, his pale blue eye glowing brighter, while the dark brown eye seemed to darken into blackness. "Should Elizabeth die, our true and rightful queen, Mary Stuart, would wear the crown that was stolen from her by that whore's daughter. A pity the king did not send her to the block when he sent the
For courage mounteth with occasion.
S hakespeare
Chapter Four
T he fisherman , gold weighing heavily in his pocket, rowed as close to the Estrella D'Alba as he could without drawing the guards' attention. It was an overcast night, with no stars or moon to reveal the shallow-hulled craft's progress as it closed the distance between the shore and the looming bulk of the deep-drafted galleon riding at anchor in the bay. The fisherman smiled to himself. These fancy hidalgos were a greedy lot. But, he reminded himself, their greed had made him a wealthy man. He had often rowed one or two of them out to a galleon under cover of darkness so they could retrieve the contraband that had been so costly to smuggle in under the customs officials' long noses.
And this fine gentleman had been no different- - except perhaps more nervous. Half hiding his face behind a scented lace handkerchief held to his high-bridged nose, his speech muffled yet elegantly spoken, he had certainly played the grandee until the first wave had lifted the boat's prow high into the sea spray. And without all of the finery, the simple fisherman imagined, he looked the same as any other man, and maybe not even as fine, for the gent was as rawboned and spindle-shanked as he'd ever seen.
Stripped down to his linen undergarments, Sir Basil slipped over the side of the boat and let the gentle swells carry him toward the galleon's curving hull. A block and tackle still hung from the stern where cargo had been loaded through an after port earlier in the day. A rope dangled from the pulley block, the frayed end conveniently close to the water and in reach of Sir Basil's outstretched hand. He pulled himself out of the water and began to shinny up the rope, his destination the carved balustrade, part of the gilded ornamentation gracing the stern that guarded the small balcony outside the captain's cabin.
Climbing over the railing, he edged closer into the concealing blackness of the shadows beside the lattice windows, where a golden glow spread from the lantern-lit interior of the great cabin. His heart pounding more from anticipation than physical effort, Sir Basil risked a glance inside.
Three gentlemen and a priest were sitting around a table cluttered with silver plate and the remnants of what appeared to have been a sumptuous feast. Through a small, diamond-shaped pane of glass, he watched Don Pedro, whom he had been formally introduced to the night before at Casa del Montevares, raise a silver goblet in response to whatever toast had been made by one of his guests.
Sir Basil's gaze narrowed thoughtfully, for he had not been mistaken in his earlier recognition of a certain gentleman he had seen in the courtyard. Now, as the Englishman sat back down, Sir Basil saw for the first time the face of the other man. His identity was now fully revealed to Sir Basil's disbelieving gaze; it was a face he knew well. Not more than a year past, when he had dined with the court at Whitehall in celebration of the queen's accession to the throne, he and that very same gentleman, now dining on board a Spanish galleon, had toasted the good health of Elizabeth Tudor.
Turning his head, so his ear nearly touched the pane, Sir Basil listened intently.
" 'Twould be so easy to kill her. I have stood as close to her as I am now to you. Her palaces are not well guarded, and daily she takes the air, walking through St. James's Park and the streets of the City like some strutting courtesan. So very easy," the Englishman said, his pale blue eye glowing brighter, while the dark brown eye seemed to darken into blackness. "Should Elizabeth die, our true and rightful queen, Mary Stuart, would wear the crown that was stolen from her by that whore's daughter. A pity the king did not send her to the block when he sent the
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