Free The Lion of Midnight by J.D. Davies Page A

gravedigger who whistles a cheery air as he works. Hence I shook my head sadly. ‘If we ever sail, Musk. And what prospect of prizes can there be when all I am to do is husband a gaggle of ungrateful tarpaulins back to England?
    Consumed by such miserable thoughts, I looked again at the remaining heap of papers upon the table. My heart emulated Drake’s leaden coffin and plummeted straight to the sea-bed of my soul. An afternoon and evening chained to the inkpot, straining my eyes by dim candlelight , seemed particularly unattractive when the mast-fleet might still be under threat and a vile regicide stalked the streets of Gothenburg –
    Well, just so. A captain had a duty to keep his papers in order, but he also had a much higher duty. A duty that was now surely presenting itself in a most timely and convenient fashion. I brightened.
    ‘Musk,’ I said decisively, ‘I think I should be ashore. To ensure that the Cressys are following my orders to the letter. To set an example. To be on hand if there are any difficulties. Mister Jeary can have the ship.’
    The old man smiled. ‘Had been hoping you’d say the like, Sir Matthew.’
    * * *
    We reached the southerly King’s Gate of Gothenburg shortly before sunset, but the guards were already making ready to close the passage for the night. They were inclined to exclude us, but my loftiest tone and some of Musk’s ripest abuse brought forth a young ensign who spoke good French and brought both his men and himself to a crisp salute for this English knight. The streets of the city were blessedly quiet: that is, there was no evidence of a battle royal between my Cressys and the citizenry, or with John Bale’s coterie, or with the Landtshere’s guards, or with the crew of the
Nonsuch
of Kinghorn, Captain Andrew Wood (that, according to Gosling, being the identity of the Scots privateer in the Great Canal, which had docked there in the autumn to repair damage sustained in a fight with a Dutch caper in the Great Belt).
    ‘Strange, the way shadows form and dance on the snow and ice,’ said Musk suddenly; an unusually contemplative comment for him. ‘If he didn’t know it was just shadows, a man could swear he was being followed.’
    I said nothing, but I had the same uncomfortable feeling. More than once I glanced behind us, but none were in sight but the occasional townswoman, drunken boor or inquisitive dog. Yet the snow and ice created sounds, too, and echoing the crunching footfalls that Musk and I made, albeit further away, there seemed to be –
    I endeavoured to dismiss the thought, but did not entirely succeed.
    We came at last to the Sign of the Pelican, a large inn over toward the Saint Erik bastion, where Lord Conisbrough was well known and had taken rooms for the duration of his time in Gothenburg. It was owned by an Englishman of good repute and stout loyalties, he had said, and so it proved. As Musk opened the door, I could have sworn I was transported into the likes of the George in Bedford or the Swan at Biggleswade. The principal space was filled with English voices, many of them familiar and tinged with Cornish. Perhaps twenty Cressys turned, registered my presence, and saluted either conventionally or by raising their tankards. The minute but formidable John Tremar stepped forward. I had elevated him to a boatswain’s mate for this voyage, and he took the responsibility seriously. Up to a point.
    ‘Sir Matthew,’ he slurred, ‘Mister Musk. God blesh you both.’
    ‘Tremar,’ I said. ‘All is well?’
    ‘All well, sir. Landlord’s a good man. Of Somerset, so better at least than a Devon whoremonger, and loyal to the king.’
    The good man duly presented himself. He was of middling height, a lean fellow with a few wisps of hair remaining on a head that at one time had received a mighty blow from a blunt instrument, judging by the indentation on the right side of his skull.
    ‘Lukins, Sir Matthew. Peter Lukins. Been in Gothenburg these twenty