Free Martyr by Rory Clements

King and conquer him anywhere. Even if Philip did, as rumored, have the largest invasion fleet ever seen—up to two hundred great ships—carrying tens of thousands of troops.
    The dockside at Deptford was a madness of shipping. You could scarcely see the shore for the forest of tall masts and their weblike rigging. The gaunt spars of the berthed vessels were as bare of sails as the trees on land were now leafless. Dozens of large ships, galleons and barks, were moored here, their great oak bulwarks and castles towering over the houses onshore. There were also pinnaces and dozens of smaller craft. From the river it was a stirring sight. As they came closer, it seemed thousands of men were at work among the long line of shops, riotous inns, ship chandlers, cooperages, sailmakers, spirit sellers, caulkers, pitch men, timber merchants, joiners, and carpenters that lined this stretch of river.
    As the tiltboat pulled up at the stairs by the naval yard, it was immediately clear from the shouting and commotion that something was afoot. On the shore, a throng of men was grouped around something prone on the pebbles. Disembarking from the tiltboat, Shakespeare told the watermen to wait for him. Though they knew he was on Queen’s business, they began to argue with him, saying they were due to wind up their day’s work, but Boltfoot silenced them by producing his razor-sharp dagger and drawing it lightly across his throat in warning.

    O N THE SHORE , the crowd was growing larger. Shakespeare strode down from the Strand across the gravel and mud to see what was there at the water’s edge. Through a gap in the crowd he thought he saw a giant man in black lying there twitching.
    Shakespeare pushed his way through the jostling crowd, receiving angry elbows for his pains. As he got closer, he saw that it was not a man but a huge black fish or sea monster, twenty-five feet or more from nose to tail. It seemed to be alive, for it was moving slowly, its fins flapping gently against the ground. A couple of apprentices were laughing and kicking it, trying to get a reaction out of it.
    That’ll make a few fish suppers, said one young journeyman with the work apron of a joiner around his waist.
    Shakespeare felt a curious pity for the huge beast. Its gray-black skin shimmered in the cloudy light. It was encrusted with barnacles. Seaweed growths straggled from its great belly. He moved forward and tried to stop the apprentices kicking it. They laughed at him and carried on, their fellows joining in.
    It’s an omen, someone said. A sign of evil tidings.
    I think it’s a Spaniard, said the journeyman joiner.
    It’s King Phil himself, said another, standing beside him. Big fucker, isn’t he?
    Shakespeare turned to Boltfoot Cooper. Put the fish out of its misery.
    Boltfoot still had his dagger in his hand. He moved forward and knelt beside the crippled animal, stroking its huge forehead. He seemed to whisper something to it, then thrust upward through its exposed white underside. As he withdrew the long blade, a rush of blood poured out. The animal thrashed for barely a minute, with Boltfoot cradling its enormous head, then died.
    “’Ere, he’s killed the King of Spain!”
    Good riddance to him. Romish bastard. Now let’s get the Scotch whore topped.
    It was a leviathan, Boltfoot said quietly to Shakespeare as he stood up, wiping his blade on his kerchief. I saw many of them in the southern seas. Sometimes they’d follow us in our wake. Twice the size of that one there, some of them. Fifty foot or more.
    Shakespeare felt a hand on his shoulder and turned sharply.
    Hello, John. I thought that was you.
    Shakespeare found himself staring into a face he knew well. Harper!
    At your service. I was told to expect you.
    Captain Harper Stanley was a proud man with a high ruff that looked preposterously uncomfortable to Shakespeare. He had a broad brown mustache that tapered horizontally into points above an equally pointed beard. He was just a