Free Mistress of the Sea by Jenny Barden Page A

the opening and moved fast. He climbed out into pandemonium: seething confusion beneath the sinking red sun. Men were lugging boxes, kegs, weapons and silver – a brass globe from General Hawkins’s cabin, bags from the treasure store, skins and crystal – all were being lowered to the
Minion
; what was not lowered was thrown.
    Will spotted the general and the bo’sun struggling with a chest. The
Jesus
was listing. She rocked and men fell, one against another. They dropped what they held: guns, sacks and biscuit drums.
    Will pushed through the crowd. Suddenly men were scrabbling for the rail, climbing over the bulwarks, leaping for the
Minion
and throwing off the ropes.
    ‘Hold!’ the general was shouting. ‘Back to the
Jesus
. Stand fast till we’re ready.’
    Few obeyed. Men leapt between the gunwales of the ships.
    ‘Hold!’
    It was too late. Sails unfurled on the
Minion
. She was moving away. Then all at once Will understood the desperation to flee. A Spanish fireship loomed blazing in a sulphurous halo of light, flames crackling, smoke billowing. Moments later, the general jumped; he had no choice. Only the
Minion
had any chance of escape. Will followed, almost falling. The heat from the fireship was carried nearer by the wind, and the stink of its burning. The gap widened.
    ‘Jump!’ The general called, holding out his arms.
    Young Paul was left on the
Jesus
, clutching a goblet and jewelled plate.
    ‘Drop them!’
    Paul stood paralysed with fear. Will could see that he was crying; the fireship roared nearer and lit up his face. He dropped what he held, but it was as much as he could do.
    ‘Jump!’
    Will looked down at the sea that separated the two ships. When he looked up, the wind blew straight into his eyes, fire-hot and keening, carrying thick smoke and ash.
    ‘Jump!’ the general yelled.
    No one did. There was no turning back.
    Will would never forget.
    The wind was cold. Will felt it, looking up. He saw the prow of the
Swan
and her furled spritsail swaying. A whistling thrummed around him: the sound of the breeze in ropes and rigging. He heard the grinding of rubbing strakes and the creak of masts and yards. Waves slapped against the quay. He turned and stepped away. Only when he resumed walking did he notice the people around him: mariners and merchants, pedlars and lightermen, and a portly gentleman whom he recognised ambling along in the opposite direction. Will raised his hat as he neared.
    ‘Good day, Master Fownes.’
    Peryn Fownes inclined his head, and smiled with a look of mild confusion.
    ‘Eh! Good day.’ His waddling gait did not slow.
    Will supposed Fownes had forgotten him, though they had been introduced by Nicholas Cooklsey only a few weeks before. Indeed, he wondered whether Fownes was on his way to Cooksley’s house. That was certainly possible; Fownes was known to be courting Ellyn. The thought made Will change course. He drew closer to the gentleman.
    ‘I have news that might concern you, good sir. I serve a man who knows Mistress Ellyn Cooksley.’
    ‘Verily?’
    Will could tell that he had struck a spark of interest; Fownes gave him a sharp look, and then tucked his chin against his ruff.
    Will kept alongside him.
    ‘My master thinks very highly of the lady.’
    ‘As does everyone, I am sure,’ Fownes responded drily. He veered away.
    Will followed.
    ‘He is a veteran of wars and an accomplished swordsman.’
    ‘Ah . . .’ Fownes hunched his shoulders under his cloak and carried on walking, but Will noticed the gentleman’s hand moving unsteadily towards his sword hilt, and his eyes flickering wildly, from Will to the narrow alleyways, to the people passing by.
    With a few easy strides Will drew ahead of Fownes a little, just enough to be sure Fownes could hear him as he lowered his voice.
    ‘My master brooks no rivalry and has a great passion for duelling.’
    ‘O! Oh . . .’ Fownes flinched. His mouth shut like a trap then opened as he gulped for air.
    Will