A Brood of Vipers(26)

(Mind you, whenever I think of ships, I remember the Mary Rose, Henry VIII's great warship, built at Greenwich. On its first voyage, the Mary Rose set sail, fired one cannonade and turned full-tilt in the water. Hundreds of good men died. The fat bastard Henry went purple with rage and commissioned me to seek out the murderer. Oh yes, don't listen to anyone else, old Shallot knows the truth. The sinking of the Mary Rose was no accident. Those sailors were drowned, and that great ship destroyed, by a soul as black as midnight.)



My voyage on the Bonaventure was a living hell. The sailors were pleased - they welcomed the winds that swept us out of the Channel and into the Bay of Biscay. I didn't. I remember some of the details of the voyage - the great white sails billowing in the winds, snapping and cracking; men shrieking; the patter of feet on decks; blue sky and racing waves; strange fish leaping up beside the ship - but it was all like a dream. I was sick in the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening and during the night. At first I thought it would end eventually, but my stomach kept wringing itself like a wet rag and I was unable to keep any food down. I fell into a fever which lasted days.

I remember Preneste bending over me, my master's white, anxious face and, I am sure, little Maria mopping my brow and forcing some evil-tasting black substance between my lips. And then one morning I woke up. I felt light-headed and weak, but my stomach was calm. I didn't even retch at the stench of the fetid slops that had accumulated between decks and made the ship smell like a midden at the height of summer. My master bent over me.



'What day is it?' I croaked.

'The feast of St Ethelburga, the 25th of May.'

'Good Lord!' I replied. 'Twelve days gone!'



Benjamin nodded. 'We have reached the tip of Spain.'



All around me I could hear the ship creak and groan. I noticed how hot and sour the air was.



'For God's sake, Master,' I groaned. 'Get me out of here!'



As my master helped me to my feet I saw how stained and dirty my clothing was. When we reached the deck I was at first nearly blinded by the light, for the sun shone hot and fierce. Then I saw a group including the captain and Roderigo watching some sailors dancing while a thin-faced boy played a flute. On the deck near the sterncastle some Florentines, Giovanni and Alessandro among them, exercised with wooden swords. When they saw me they called out and came over. The sweat coursing down their faces from matted hair, they looked like happy boys engaged in a game. I felt a stab of envy at their bronzed good looks.



'Your sea legs at last!' Giovanni teased. 'It's good to see you in the land of the living again, Master Shallot.'



Alessandro poked his wooden sword at me. 'Time for exercise. A short melde could banish the evil humours.'



Maria appeared, grasped my arm and, with my master, helped me to the ship's side. 'They mean well,' she murmured, 'but the Florentines, dear Onion Patch, have great experience of travel. They are used to much worse seas than those we have travelled through.'

(I can well believe it! That old pirate Drake told me that in mid-Atlantic there are waves higher than Hampton Court. But you know Drake - if he wasn't a sailor he would have made a fortune as a teller of tales!)

Maria and Benjamin propped me against the rail. I sucked in the sultry breeze, but had to keep closing my eyes to shut out the sunlight dancing dazzlingly on the water.



'Don't look at the waves,' Maria said quietly. 'Choose some point on the horizon and watch that. Then the giddiness will pass.'



I heard the soft rustle of her skirts and caught the fragrance of a light perfume. I smiled down at her. 'Thank you,' I said, meaning it.



'For what? I can't have old Onion Crosspatch die on us!'



In a low-cut dress, the sleeves pulled back, Maria looked as fresh as some golden milkmaid on an English morning. Her eyes were soft and her mouth was welcoming. She stroked my hand lightly.



'You were very ill, Roger,' she said. 'And delirious.'

'About you,' I half-joked.

'No, no, about some other woman. Agnes.'



I looked away. Strange that someone like Maria should drag back the memories of Agnes - Agnes, pure and innocent as a doe, strangled in a garden just because she and her family knew me.



'Agnes is dead,' I told her. 'We all have dreams.'



Maria looked past me at Benjamin.



'You must take him out of the sun,' she said briskly, 'and cover his head and the back of his neck, otherwise the sun will drive him mad. More people die of sunstroke than at the hands of the Turks.'

I looked at her uncovered head and neck and bare shoulders.



'In which case, Mistress, surely you should take better care?'

Maria giggled, ‘I am used to this heat. As a child I often ran naked.'



'And now?' I teased, forgetting my discomfort.