Isabella had obviously seen the understanding in Preston’s eyes. “So you see, now.”
The Irish colonel swallowed, nodded. “I believe I do, Your Grace. Just one question. Is there something my people, my Wild Geese, can do to help?”
“You already have.”
Preston started. “I have?”
“Specifically, four hundred of the men of Lord O’Donnell’s tercio have. They were not sent to garrison in Antwerp as you, and they, were originally told. They were sent there to board ships and have now joined a task force in order to fulfill their part in our plan.”
Preston was too stunned to feel stunned. “And if they succeed?”
Fernando leaned forward. “If they succeed, our futures are secure. Both yours and ours. For many, many years to come.”
“And if they fail?”
Isabella sat erect. “Colonel Preston, I am surprised at that question. Tell me, as the most senior officer of my Irish Wild Geese, how often have they ever failed me?”
“Only a very few times, Your Grace. But their determination in your service has a dark price, too.”
“Which is?”
“That, rather than retreat, they die trying.”
Isabella sat back heavily, looking every year of her age. She responded to Preston—“I know, Colonel, I know”—but her eyes were far away and seamed with worry.
July 1635
What raging of the sea
St. Kilda archipelago, North Atlantic
“Commander Cantrell, propellers are all-stop. Awaiting orders.”
Eddie Cantrell looked to his left. The ship’s nominal captain, Ove Gjedde, nodded faintly. It was his customary sign that his executive officer, Commander Cantrell, was free to give his orders autonomously. Eddie returned the nod, then aimed his voice back over his shoulder. “Secure propellers and prepare to lower the vent cover.”
“Securing propellers, aye. Ready to lower prop vent cover, aye.”
“And Mr. Svantner, send the word to cut steam. Let’s save that coal.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Cutting steam. Let free the reef bands, sir?”
Eddie looked at Gjedde again, who, by unspoken arrangement, reserved rigging and sail orders for himself. The sails had been reefed for the engine trials and with the engine no longer propelling the ship, it would soon begin to drift off course.
The weather-bitten Norwegian nodded once. Svantner saluted and went off briskly, shouting orders that were soon drowned out by the thundering rustle of the sails being freed and unfurled into the stiff wind blowing near the remote island of St. Kilda.
Well, technically speaking, they were just off the sheer and rocky north coast of the island of Hirta, largest and most populous islet of the St. Kilda archipelago. If you could call any landmass with fewer than two hundred people “populous.” But even that small settlement was pretty impressive, given how far off St. Kilda was from—well, from everything. Over fifty miles from the northwesternmost island of the already-desolate Outer Hebrides, and almost 175 miles north of Ireland, Hirta and the rest of the islands of the group were, for all intents and purposes, as isolated as if they had been on the surface of another planet. And, since it was rumored that most of the inhabitants were still as influenced by druidic beliefs as by Christianity, it was not an exaggeration to say that, even though the natives of St. Kilda did dwell on the same planet, they certainly did inhabit a different world.
“Commander Cantrell, there you are! I’m sorry I’m late. I was detained below decks. Paying my respects to your lovely wife and her ladies.”
Eddie swiveled around on his false heel. Time at sea had taught him, even with his excellent prosthetic leg, not to lose contact with the deck. “And you are”—he tried to recall the face of the man, couldn’t, guessed from context—“Lieutenant Bjelke, I presume?”
The man approaching—tall, lithe, with a long nose and long hair that was several shades redder than Eddie’s own—offered a military bow, and tottered a bit as the ship rolled through a higher swell. “That is correct, sir. I tried to present myself to you immediately upon coming aboard, but I found myself embarrassingly, er, indisposed.”
Eddie smiled, noticed that Bjelke’s pallor was not just the result of pale Nordic skin, but a manful, ongoing struggle against sea-sickness. “Is that why you did not attempt transfer to this ship until today, Mr. Bjelke? Waiting for good weather?”
Bjelke, although only twenty, returned the smile with a courtier’s polish. Which was only logical: his father, Jens, had been the Norwegian chancellor for more than twenty years and was certainly one of the nation’s wealthiest nobles. If one measured his stature in terms of influence rather than silver, he was arguably its most powerful lord, having been given the Hanseatic city of Bergen as his personal fief just last year. Henrik Bjelke had, therefore, grown up surrounded by wealth, influence, and ministers of etiquette.