Free Traitor's Storm by M. J. Trow

in the world.
    ‘Do you think they’ll come, Christopher?’ the governor asked, locking his hands behind his back and half turning to the playwright.
    ‘Who, Sir George?’
    ‘Why, the dons, man. The Spaniards. The whole island’s bristling with more mercenaries than the King of Spain has confessors. Look, here.’ He pointed suddenly to an arrow slit in the wall. ‘That’s Heynoe’s Loop. The story goes that when the French invaded in 1377, Philip de Heynoe put a crossbow bolt through their commander’s brain, fired from that very spot.’
    Marlowe squatted to check the trajectory. ‘Impressive,’ he said.
    ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Carey muttered. ‘Anyone can shoot a crossbow. My own dear sister damned near killed me with one once.’
    ‘Did she?’ Remembering the biceps on Mistress Carey, Marlowe was not too surprised.
    ‘Oh, she was distraught, of course. In fact, between you and me, she never quite got over it. It was only a scratch and you know how tense everyone gets during a hunt.’
    Marlowe knew.
    ‘She has never touched a crossbow since and she hasn’t come hunting with us either. Which is no bad thing, I suppose. She used to put the men off their stroke. A stunning looking girl she was, in her day.’ Sir George looked to a far horizon that only he could see. ‘Hmm, yes.’ Then he stood upright, squaring his shoulders. ‘But that was then.’ He looked out grimly to where the labourers toiled in the meadows that fell away to the south. ‘Now it’s all calivers and culverins and sakers. Do you know how thick these walls are?’
    ‘No, sir.’ Marlowe was no fortifications engineer. He was also too polite to guess; there was nothing more embarrassing for guest or host than a guess that got the answer bang on the nose. He waited to be enlightened.
    ‘Only two feet in places and the centre filled with rubble. That’s where they’ll come.’ He pointed out over the ground rising below the walls. ‘They won’t try the north, the town side. It’s too steep. They’ll never get their cannon up the hill. But over there …’ Carey shook his head and clicked his teeth. ‘Man, it’s a gunner’s dream.’
    He walked on, fingering the rough stones as he went. They climbed a long stairway, the stones uneven and worn with the years, to the ancient keep. George Carey, used to the climb as he was, was wheezing by the time he reached the gate. ‘We don’t use this part of the castle any more. Oh, except for Martin, of course; he has a little mathematician’s eyrie. Says it helps him count. But if we
are
attacked, we can take refuge here. There are ovens and a well – one hundred and sixty feet deep, they say.’ Then he stopped. ‘It’s my fault, of course. If I hadn’t frittered the money away on the hall and the mansion, I might have been able to put up some modern earthworks.’ Carey became confidential. ‘They say Giambelli’s in London.’
    ‘Giambelli?’
    ‘Federigo Giambelli, the engineer. Apparently the Italian bastard offered his services to Spain but the King turned him down. So, naturally, he came over to us. You heard about the hellburners last year, Drake’s fire ships at Cadiz?’
    ‘I heard.’ Marlowe nodded.
    ‘Giambelli.’ Carey tapped the side of his nose. ‘The man’s a genius … Still, there it is. I can’t afford him now.’
    ‘Er … the garden’s lovely.’ Marlowe looked down at the tangle of verdure behind the chapel.
    ‘Oh, my dear fellow, here I am, burbling on about fortifications and impending doom. And you have come with your poetry and wit to lighten our lives for a while. Oh, God.’ Carey was frowning down. ‘Johnson, where’s Hasler?’
    The governor clattered down the steps, wobbling here and there but making it safely to the bottom.
    ‘My Lord?’ An ancient gardener was leaning on his hoe in the middle of a green mess, but the Hall obscured his view now and for a moment he could not see Carey at all. He gazed vaguely into the