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Act 11, St. Katherine's Dock

The Swallow slipped through the Calais-Dover gap at a fast clip. These straits had belonged to England until the disastrous reign of Bloody Queen Mary, when Calais had been lost forever to the French. In King Harry's reign, these waters had been known as the English Channel; now they were called the French Sea.

Since leaving the Plymouth and the Westcountry, the Swallow had cruised up the south coast standing off from the Isle of Wight, thus avoiding its treacherous rip currents born of four tides a day. At low tide, sailors could still see the wreck of King Harry's great ship, the Mary Rose, beneath the waters. When the Swallow rounded The White Cliffs, she entered the realm of the city of London with its rich merchants and treacherous courtiers. William would almost as soon rather force the defences of Cadiz harbour in a leaky wherry than enter the Port of London.

A short run up the North Kent coast brought the Swallow into the mouth of the Thames and its many ports. The Isle of Sheppey slid by on the port side guarded by the port of Sheerness. Past Sheerness was the River Medway and the fleet anchorage at Gillingham. Here, the Queen's galleons were beached on the tidal mudflats for maintenance. Further upriver, the ship building yards at Chatham sheltered behind the new fort at Upnor.

Swallow eschewed the safe harbours of the Medway and sailed west into the Thames. The banks of Essex and Kent closed in as the estuary narrowed. The flat rich soils of the Thames included some of the richest agricultural land in Europe, so villas and prosperous farmhouses lined the banks. The port of Gravesend marked the last of the open coast harbours. From here, the long ferry shuttled livestock and passengers backwards and forwards from the sea to London. The Swallow sailed through flotillas of ships and boats ranging from Thames barges to great carracks.

"Reduce speed," said William.

"Reef the mainsails," ordered the master.

"Aye, aye sir," said the boatswain.

Swallow slowed down to a slow walk. A few more hours bought her to Kentish Dartford as the sun set.

"Master, pick up a buoy on the edge of the channel. No one is to go ashore and no boat is to approach without my permission. I want a guard topside at all times." The Thames estuary was notorious for piracy. William did not seriously expect anyone to be foolish enough to attack a galleon but the treasure on the ship weighed heavily on him. Having done all he could, he retired but sleep eluded him for some time and was dream-disturbed when it came.

A sailor shook him awake.

"Cap'n, sir. Gunner says a wherry is coming alongside and should he shoot it?"

"Christ, no," said William and dashed for the deck.

"Blast your eyes, I'm your pilot," said a voice from the river.

"That may be so." William heard the gunner's voice. "But come any closer without the captain's say-so and I will blow you out of the water."

"Don't shoot," William said. "That, ah, really is our pilot."

"Very good, sir," said the gunner, unperturbed. "Come aboard then, matey."

The pilot climbed over the side, glaring at the gunner who ignored him. "Good morning, Captain. My orders are to take you all the way in to London docks. A messenger has been sent to the office of Sir Francis Walsingham to announce your arrival."

"All the way in to London docks? Are you sure?" William was puzzled. Galleons would normally anchor in the outer Thames at Dartford or perhaps Erith where there were naval arsenals.

"Sir Francis has left strict instructions. You are going to London, Captain."

William sighed. It would be a long day moving the Swallow around the twists and turns of the meandering Thames. "Man the pinnace and get the longboat out boatswain. We will be towing the ship for part of the way."

By dinner, they had passed Erith on the Kent bank and Barking Creek was in view on the starboard bow. The pilot knew his business and eased the big ship through the mudflats. The Thames split at this point into multiple channels. The pilot kept them in the deepwater channel along the Kent bank. A huge mudflat slid by only a few yards to starboard. Hovels built from old ship's timbers were built on the centre, which was above high water by just a foot or two.

"A good few ships have ended up there, I'll warrant," said William, pointing.

"Aye, sir, but we are going upriver on a rising tide. I am sure we will be able to float you off if you stick." The pilot grinned. William failed to appreciate the joke. He was captain of an oceangoing ship and felt trapped here.

A large black fish, eight or ten feet long, surfaced beside the Swallow. It flicked its tail lazily and dived beneath the ship.

"That's a Thames sea hog," said the pilot. "They fish them using towed nets."

"Are they fair to eat?" asked Simon.

"Foul," said the pilot. He gestured to the impoverished hamlet to starboard. "The hovels yonder are Silvertown, lovely name, filthy place. They say you can marry your mother there and most of them have. Some of them have more fingers on one hand than we have on two." The pilot held his sides in appreciation of his own wit. William thought that he likely related the same jocularity to every captain he piloted. The ship now faced the long southern loop around the Isle of Dogs. It would be slow oar work all the way but at least the tidal flow would help.

At that point there was a shudder as the Swallow kissed a mudbank, throwing the crew off their feet. For a moment there was a long grinding hiss, like a plane moving across a plank, then the ship freed herself with another shudder. The pilot and William climbed back on their feet. "Perhaps a point to starboard, Captain," said the pilot.

Simon was working in his study when Lucy walked in and sat in front of him. "Can I help my lady?" he asked, cautiously. One never knew with Lucy what direction the conversation might take, except that it was likely to lead Simon into difficulties. This time she came straight to the point.

"I hear that the master swordsman is to teach you how to fight."

Simon winced, as this was something of a sore point. As a gentleman he was entitled to wear a sword but the truth was that it was merely a badge of rank to him. He had little idea how to use it. So he had arranged to take lessons from an expert and few were better than the swordmaster of the Tower.

"I want to learn with you," she said.

Simon just gaped at her. He could have not been more surprised if she had said she wanted to learn how to fly.

"That's not possible," he said.

"Why?" she countered.

"Because women don't fight," he said. He knew that it was a stupid remark as soon as he said it. He was aware that a statement was not proved merely by reassertion. His lecturers had drummed as much into him at Cambridge.

"Because your uncle will kill me," he said, getting down to the practicalities.

"Only if he finds out," she said, jauntily.

"You would be surprised what Sir Francis can find out," Simon said, darkly. "What in heaven do you want to learn to fight for?"

"I just thought it might come in handy," said Lucy. "There being a madman abroad killing girls."

"That hardly concerns you," said Simon He gestured to where Gwilym hovered politely out of earshot.

"Gwilym might not always be there," said Lucy.

"You are quite wrong," Simon said. "As long as there is the slightest danger, Gwilym will always be there. Sir Francis' instructions were quite clear and Gwilym is conscientious."

"You know what happened to me," she said. "Don't make me say it."

"I know nothing except that you are my patron's niece and a lady of some position," said Simon firmly, closing the conversation. He went back to his work but when he looked up she was still there.

Simon sighed. "I am not comfortable with this conversation, madam."

"Very well, you force me to be frank," said Lucy. "I am possessed by a demon."

"Stop it!" said Simon. "Possession leads to screaming madness. You are no madder than any other aristocrat that I have met. In fact, you are considerably saner than many."

'He refuses to believe me, Lilith. I will need to prove that you exist,' thought Lucy.

'Are you sure, Lucy?' thought Lilith.

'I need his cooperation,' thought Lucy.

Lucy reached across and slipped Simon's dagger from its sheath. She casually bent the steel blade into a right angle in front of him.

"Do you see, Simon?" Lucy asked. "Do you believe me now?"

Simon shook his head in horror. "Oh God, it's there, isn't it? Is it called Lilith? You asked for prayers for Lilith."

"She, Simon, she—not it. She's called Lilith and I believe she has been sent to me for a purpose. You saw the Spanish witch make magic with your own eyes in the theatre and you saw me stop her."

"I saw." He stopped and tried to gather his thoughts. "I am not sure what I saw, to be honest."

"Isabella will attack my family. She is very dangerous. I need to learn how to fight, Simon. Please help me."

"You must tell Sir Francis," said Simon.

"No, he must not know because there is nothing he can do. It would hurt him terribly to know and—I am frightened that they will burn me. You must tell no one. Promise me," Lucy said, pleadingly.

What could he say?

"Very well, Lady Dennys, you have my word. Come with me."

Simon led the way to the armoury. The master swordsman was a surprising small man with an enormous moustache. He showed bent low over Lucy's hand to kiss it. The moustache tickled. Gwilym leaned against the wall by the door. Walsingham had instructed the Welshman to stay with Lucy at all times. The Tower's walls were clearly no protection against whatever had killed the guard. Gwilym tended to take his orders literally.

The swordsman stood stiffly with a rapier point down into the floor. "Do you want to learn to really fight or simply to prance prettily for the girls?"

"To fight," Simon said, simply.

"Very well. The most admired duellists in the world are the Latins, especially the Italians and the Spanish. They duel with style, with flourish, and with artistry. Ladies swoon at their manly athletics. The Spanish style abounds with tricks and artifices. It's exponents move with such fluidity and grace that the technique is known as dancing feet. I will not teach you dancing feet, Master Tunstall; I will teach you to kill. That is the English style. It is brutal and efficient. No girls will swoon at your feet but your enemies will die. Come, let us try a few passes."

The master tossed a practice sword to Simon. The secretary took up a defensive position and crossed swords with the swordmaster. He advanced on the smaller man and engaged him. The master kept moving away from Simon, forcing him forward. Within seconds the swordmaster had the guarded point of his weapon at Simon's throat.

"Why did you press me so closely, Master Tunstall? Are you in such a hurry to die?"

"I thought that one had to attack, that the advantage lay with the attacker," said Simon.

"Hmm." The swordmaster snorted. "Always keep back from your opponent. The only reason to close is to attack—and the only time to attack is when you think you can deliver a fatal blow. Do you understand?"

Simon assented.

"Four governors mark the successful fighter. They are judgement, distance, time and place," said the swordmaster. "Of these judgement is the most important. It is the art of knowing how and when your adversary can reach you and in return what you can do to him. Connected with judgement is distance. Always keep your distance to give yourself space to defend your body or to offend your enemy. Time and place are used to attack. You must know the exact moment to strike and the place from which you will strike. But most of all, you must immediately fly backward if your attack fails to prevent your adversary striking you in return. Come again."

The men fought again and Simon defended himself for a good quarter minute before he was "killed."

"Rule one is too stay alive. Only by staying alive can you win. Again!"

The lesson went on. Lucy, and hence Lilith, watched intently. When the master was satisfied that Simon understood the basic strategic concepts, he started to teach him simple tactical moves to parry his opponents weapon out of alignment for a counterstrike.

"Enough, Master Tunstall. Now you must go away and practise. When you have practised for a month, come back to me." The master left the practise room. He was as calm as if he had merely walked across a lawn. Simon was sweating from every pore and breathing hard.

"Lady Dennys. I believe I will go back to my chamber for a small rest. I hope you found that instructive."

"Very good, Master Tunstall. I shall stay here for a moment." Gwilym stayed with Lucy.

Lucy was in despair. 'This is so complex Lilith. How am I to learn without practising? And who will practise with me?'

'Human beings learn with their forebrains. But they have to practise physical skills to train their rear brains. This enables them to carry out actions quickly and smoothly without having to think about it,' Lilith observed. 'You humans think so slowly that thought slows you down.'

'And you are faster, I suppose,' thought Lucy, cattily.

'Yes,' thought Lilith, simply. She was vaguely aware that Lucy was scolding her but Lilith was still having trouble understanding sarcasm or irony. Saying the opposite of what you meant to convey the idea more strongly was a difficult concept for one of the People to grasp.

'I have tried something new. While you were watching the duel, I laid down tracks in your hindbrain. I believe you body has already learnt what you saw. Try with a sword,' thought Lilith.

'But who shall I fight?' thought Lucy.

The bully from Rood Lane materialised before her with a sword in his hand. 'Fight him,' thought Lilith.

Lucy picked up a rapier and tried a few passes against the image projected by Lilith. It was not so successful, as one cannot clash swords with a phantom. Lilith was at a loss to suggest something.

"Would you like to try some passes against me, 'ighness?" asked Gwilym.

Lilith had forgotten that the bodyguard was there. Of course, servants had a different attitude to women fighting than gentlemen. Lucy had once secretly observed two servant girls have a catfight over a boy. The male servants had all stood around enjoying it immensely and making wagers on the victor. Her maid had told her that the landlady of the Dog and Hound tavern down in the village had knocked out Gwilym himself with a cooking pot. Apparently, the woman had caught Gwilym in a compromising position with her daughter. The gossip was that the landlady had been less worried about her daughter's maidenhood than the fact that she herself had an understanding with the man.

The pair took their stance and duelled.

'Lilith, I can do this!' Lucy seemed astonished to find that she could hold the man off. When Gwilym moved into the attack she parried his blade and moved inside his reach, rotating her body in a circle. Her sword ended against his neck.

Gwilym laughed out loud. "A good trick, 'ighness. At you again."

He moved back into the attack. This time he dropped his sword when she parried his blade and tried to counter. With his free hand, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her in closer. His elbow against her throat stopped her. She would have been dead had he struck another three inches.

"Oh!" said Lucy.

"Someone has taught you to be a fair duellist, 'ighness, but on the streets they fight a rougher style with no rules. I think you are learning the wrong lessons. You will never fight a formal duel and I do not think you will carry a sword like a gentleman. But I notice that you still carry Doctor Dee's knife."

"How did . . .?" The girl stopped before she said something stupid. She had thought the knife well concealed in the folds of her dress but it was Gwilym's job to notice hidden weapons. And Gwilym was very good at his job or he wouldn't be where he was.

"The master told me to make sure that you are protected. Teaching you to use that dagger might be the best way." Gwilym rooted around in a chest until he found two wooden practice knives. He spun one to Lucy, who caught it easily. Gwillym grinned. "I heard you were good at catching blades! Now let's teach you to fight with them."

The lesson went on for hours. At the end, Lucy knew a great deal more about male anatomy and how to inflict divers damage on it. She knew when to kick, how to kick, and where to kick. Gwilym kept it to himself if he was surprised how quickly she learnt or how fast and strong she was.

"Thank you, Master Gwilym," she finally said.

"Just Gwilym, 'ighness," said the bodyguard. "I ain't no gentleman, I work for a living."

"Um, Gwilym," she said. "It might be better to keep this to ourselves. People might not understand."

"'Ighness, he said. "I am Sir Francis' man. When my old father died, the family nearly lost the tenancy of his farm back in Wales. My brother got in debt to a moneylender, see. The master paid the debt and had the moneylender thrashed. I took care of the thrashing bit myself, but it was the master who squared it with the sheriff. We're a bit old-fashioned in the valleys of Wales. I have pledged myself to is 'ighness so that includes 'is family too."

"I understand. Thank you, Gwilym. Do you miss Wales?" Lucy asked.

"Bless you miss, no. My father sent me to live with my cousin's family in London when I was but four or five. My elder brother would inherit the farm so there was nothing for me there. I have only been back a few times. They even laugh at the way I speak and call me a foreigner."

"I will retire now so you may attend your own business," said Lucy.

"I will see you to your room, first, 'ighness."

'Lilith,' said Lucy, when she was back in her bedchamber. "How did I know that spinning trick with the sword? I don't remember the swordmaster teaching Simon it."

"I put that in your head," said Lilith. "I saw it in the other Shadow World before I came here. Look."

Lilith projected the video clip of the bullfight into Lucy's head. To Lucy it appeared to be on a screen in midair. The two girls watched the Spanish matador whirl in his suit of light. Lilith had always loved the artistry of the clip but now, in Lucy's head, she had a whole new reaction to the elegance of the matador.

It's just leakage, insisted a stubborn subroutine, just leakage from Lucy's emotional centres. Lilith turned off the subroutine—permanently.

The rowboats inched the Swallow bow first into a jetty at St. Katherine's dock. Final contact came with a thump. The carpenter rushed forrard to examine his beloved hull. William took off his cap and wiped his brow. For the captain of an oceangoing vessel, navigating the Thames was worse than an Atlantic crossing. At least you were unlikely to bump into something midatlantic. The boatswain shouted orders to lash the Swallow firmly in place.

"Than you, sir, a fine piece of navigating," William said to the pilot. In truth, it was a fine bit of watermanship—William could not bring himself to think of it as seamanship—to bring the Swallow so far up the Thames with barely a touch.

The pilot bowed. "It's a privilege to navigate such a ship, captain. It makes a change from piloting coast-crawlers."

"I am sorry for that misunderstanding at Dartford," said William.

"Not to worry, Captain," said the pilot. "I realise that your man would not have really fired on me."

"Ah, no," said William. Actually the gunner would have blown the man out of the river without turning a hair. But best to leave the pilot in ignorance about how close he had been to his maker.

"I will take my leave of you, then. I have to report in to the office of Sir Francis Walsingham to announce your arrival. He will send someone down to see you." The pilot gestured to port. "At least I won't have far to go. His office is in there."

The Bloody Tower leaned over the dock. William examined it. He had made the Thames run a few times but always unloaded at Gravesend or Dartmouth. Now here he was docked right outside the city wall of Old London Town, about to hobnob with the mighty. William was a provincial so he was prepared to find fault with the capital. But he had so admit that he was a bit awed. London Bridge had more and better housing than most Devon towns and the Tower was an impressive reminder of Elizabeth's power.

Only the London city wall disappointed. It was actually falling down in places. Londoners clearly had no fear of an attack. In the Westcountry, they built their walls high and maintained them well. One never knew when the French or Spanish or Moors might come calling. Moorish slave raids were the most feared of all. North European women sold for a high price on the auction blocks in North Africa or Turkey. English girls, in particular, were sought after for harems.

The boatswain reported. "The ship is safely docked, Cap'n. Ah, the men respectfully ask that they be allowed a run ashore, sir."

"Very good, boatswain. I will let the men off the ship a watch at a time, starting with the starboard watch." That meant the gunner got the first shore run. "Assemble the men on the deck in one hour."

With time to spare, the starboard watch was assembled on the main deck, waiting for the captain to emerge from his cabin. William strode out of his cabin and stood on the rear deck where he could look down on them. My God, he thought, what a shower to release on London. He was aware that he was wasting his time with moral exhortations but William's Protestant faith demanded that he try.

"Men," he said. "It's been a long cruise and I realise that you are keen for some leave but I just wanted a few words."

The sailors waited patiently for him to finish. He was the captain after all.

"Here we are docked in the great city of London. It has more churches than any other city in England. St. Paul's is one of the most magnificent dedications to the Lord ever created. The city has an enormous collection of bookshops selling improving tracts. There are halls and museums dedicated to all the arts, theatre companies showing morally uplifting plays, and divers entertainments for good Christian men."

William looked down at the collection of assembled sea dogs. One, Burket, grinned happily at him, showing rows of blackened teeth. The captain sighed. He had made his pitch as religion demanded but now he had to get down to practicalities.

"The port watch will run a ferry service with the longboat for those who want to cross the river to visit Southwark. Remember, Southwark can be a dangerous place. Stay together and look after each other."

The gunner cracked his knuckles and one of the boatswain's mates tapped a marlinspike against his leg. William looked at the assembled sailors. He though he had never seen a more frightening collection of bullies in his life. "Oh for God's sake, go. Just don't burn the place to the ground."

The captain stalked back to his cabin to write up his log.

Writing was not William's forte. He struggled to find the right words and the quality of his hand left much to be desired. A large inkblot splattered onto the page. Perhaps he should cut another pen. A knock sounded on the door.

"What in Hades is it now? I'm busy."

A sailor stuck his head around the door. "The boatswain's compliments, sir," he said reciting the message carefully. "But the messenger from Sir Francis Walsingham is here and he has brought one of Sir Francis' relatives with him. Apparently the Lady Dennys wants to see a galleon."

William stormed out of the cabin. "Wants to see a galleon! Is this a warship or a rich man's yacht? If Walsingham thinks that I have time to show some dried-up old prune of an aunt around then he has another think coming."

William found himself looking at the largest, cutest pair of brown eyes that he had ever seen. "That is, um . . ."

The woman flicked back her hood and rich auburn hair tumbled out. William thought he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Captain," she said. "If you are busy, I can wait on the dock."

"No," he said, far more loudly than was necessary. "No, there is no need, milady. I would be delighted to show you around."

"Well, if you are sure." She smiled at him. It lit up her face like a shaft of sunlight through storm clouds.

"Of course I am sure." He had never been surer of anything. He had the rest of his life if necessary. William offered her his arm. She looked at the stains on his jacket dubiously but took the proffered limb anyway. Damn, damn, damnation, thought William. If only he had some warning. He was sure he had some decent clothes somewhere in his cabin. Hopefully, she would be impressed by his rugged sea dog appearance, instead of merely thinking him a vagrant.

"This is the main deck," he said. "We, um, call it . . ."

"The main deck?" She completed the sentence for him.

The girl was laughing at him but, as long as he retained this beautiful creature on his arm, he didn't care. They passed the boatswain.

"I was sure that he said he didn't have any time to show dried-up old prunes related to Walsingham around the ship," said the boatswain to one of his mates, in an actor's whisper that must have been audible on the dockside.

William glared at the boatswain who looked back politely. William heard a muffled laugh beside him. The girl had her head down but she was laughing at him again. William gave up.

"What would you like to know, milady? Would you care to hear about some of my bolder adventures?"

"Later, Captain. What weight of shot do you use in the cannon and what is their maximum effective range?"

William heard the boatswain collapse in laughter. He must remember that this was no wide-eyed tavern girl but a sophisticated court lady. He was going to have to raise his game to hold her attention. "They are actually demi-culverins, milady, firing a nine-pound shot. We can hit out to five hundred yards but I prefer to close to one hundred or less."

And so it went on. The girl clearly had no experience of ships but she listened intently and asked follow-up questions that showed she understood his explanations. William had found a beauty that was fascinated by galleons; he thought that he had died and gone to heaven. Two men followed behind. One was a slim young gentleman who occasionally asked a question of his own in an educated accent. That would be Walsingham's agent.

"You are related to Sir Francis, milady?" said William.

"He is my uncle and guardian. I have been part of his household since I was a small child."

That explained the second escort. William recognised his type. He was a large, silent man who walked a precise three paces behind and one pace to the left of Lady Dennys. His eyes swept continuously around and his hand was never far from his weapon. Walsingham had assigned her a bodyguard, probably the best the spymaster had, and that meant the best there was. William would have paid money to see this man spar with the boatswain. Loyalty would have made him wager on the sailor but by God it would be a close-run thing.

William was deep in conversation with Lady Dennys about the provisioning problems of race-built galleons when the gentleman interrupted him.

"Just how far do you get on a transatlantic voyage before you reach the urine-drinking stage?" asked Simon.

The captain coloured up to Simon's delight. The randy bastard had drooled all over Lucy ever since they came onboard.

"Perhaps we could retire to your cabin and I can present you with Sir Francis' instructions," said Simon. "I can read them to you if you have trouble with the longer words." At that point he tripped over a rope, rather spoiling the effect.

William leafed through the instructions. Most of the documents concerned unloading the ship and the master and purser would deal with those details. The key paper was the last. It ordered William to hold himself and his ship ready for special assignment, as Walsingham dictated.

When their business was concluded William turned to Lucy. "Is there anything further I can do for you, milady?"

"I am starving, Captain. I would greatly favour dinner."

"We are out of provisions on the ship, milady," said William.

"Except for the urine," muttered Simon. Lucy gave him the Look.

"But there is a decent tavern outside the dock. I would be flattered if you would join me for supper there. And your party, of course." William looked coldly at Simon.

"Excellent, Captain." She took his arm again and he guided her to the gangplank. "You can tell me of your bolder adventures while we eat."

William had the distinct impression that she was laughing at him again. Never mind, she was eating with him. That must prove something.

Lucy stayed on William's arm all the way to the tavern. Simon and Gwilym followed behind. The sun set as they arrived at the door of the tavern. Gwilym moved in front of Lucy. "If you will wait here with the gentlemen for a moment, 'ighness." He disappeared inside to look around and assess any danger to his charge. William waited patiently. You do not interfere with a top-class professional doing his job.

Gwilym reappeared with the landlord. "Lady Dennys," said the man. "This is a great honour. Come in, your ladyship, and be welcome."

The landlord led the way into the tavern. He prodded a customer at a centre table. "You will have to move. This is the best table and it is needed."

The man opened his mouth to object and then saw Lucy. He got up without a word and indicated to his mates to follow.

"I didn't want to cause any bother," said Lucy.

"It's no bother, lady," said the customer. "There is another table over there".

"Thank you. You are very kind," said Lucy. She looked pointedly at Simon. "Master Tunstall."

"Please deliver a jug of your finest ale to that table, landlord. I will pay," said Simon.

"Thank you, lady," said the customer, looking pleased.

Lucy would not, of course, carry money or buy drinks. But all understood that, although Simon paid, the Lady Dennys was their benefactor.

The landlord's daughter came to take their order. "What do you recommend, love?" asked William.

"The mutton pie is excellent."

"Four then. And some ale for the men. Lady Dennys?"

"Wine, please, Captain."

The girl vanished behind the bar. She reappeared moments later with a mug of wine and a jug of ale. "The pies will come shortly."

"How about a song then?" the landlord said.

"What shall I sing?" asked his daughter, looking doubtfully at Lucy.

"Not 'The Little Pixie,' girl, something classy. We have quality in tonight."

The girl made her way to a small stage at the fireplace. Cries of "hush" went around the room. Clearly she was popular.

 
"Sigh no more, ladies, sigh nor more,
"Men were deceivers ever,
"One foot in sea and one on shore,
"To one thing constant never,
"Then sigh not so,
"But let them go,
"And be you blithe and bonny,
"Converting all your sounds of woe,
"Into hey nonny, nonny."
 

The girl had a superb voice and her interpretation of the song was faultless. She held the whole tavern spellbound. The landlord supervised the serving of their mutton. "She has a rare way with a song, does Mary, does she not?"

"Indeed, Master. Indeed," said Lucy. "I have never heard it sung better."

 
"Sing no more ditties, sing no mo,
"Or dumps so dull and heavy,
"The fraud of men was ever so,
"Since summer first was leavy.
"Then sigh not so,
"But let them go,
"And be you blithe and bonny,
"Converting all your sounds of wo,e
"Into hey, nonny, nonny."
 

Lucy wolfed down her food. She obviously was very hungry since, for although she eat daintily, she dined on a man's portion, which was odd for such a small girl.

 
"Then sigh not so,
"But let them go,
"And be you blithe and bonny,
"Converting all your sounds of woe,
"Into hey, nonny, nonny."
 

The girl tossed her head just like a maid dismissing an inconstant lover. The patrons whistled and clapped and threw copper coins to her. Simon and William threw silver. Lucy whispered in Simon's ear and he produced a gold sovereign and tossed it to the girl. She caught it, kissed it, and displayed it to the tavern's customers as a trophy. They cheered and clapped the more. The girl mouthed a "thank you" to Lucy and ran offstage behind the bar. Lucy's eyes flashed and she gave William a devastating smile.

Then the door flew open and a dozen toughs walked in.

"Any trouble, Jackson, and you are out," said the landlord to the surly rogue at their head.

"My money's as good as anyone else's," said Jackson.

The newcomers clustered around the bar. The girl tried to serve them but one of them pinched her bottom hard. She fled past Lucy's table. As she ran past, William could see tears in her eyes. He also saw Lucy's lips tighten.

William deflected Lucy with conversation but the magic of the moment had been broken. The captain called over the potboy. He pressed a coin in his hand and whispered something. The potboy disappeared behind the bar.

The men got rowdier and ruder, pushing other customers out of the way and drinking from their mugs. Jackson leaned back against the bar. "Bloody gentry. Live off the fat off the land. What do they do about the bloodsucker that's killing our women? Nothing, that's what."

Jackson drained his mug and called for another beer with a curse. The landlord's hand shook as he poured the drink. Jackson took another pull. "Look at them sitting there like Lord and Lady muck. Maybe we should show the girl a good time, lads. Show her what real men are like." He laughed, coarsely.

Gwilym got up and walked towards the bar. William and Simon also rose. The bodyguard walked straight up to Jackson. God knows what the tough expected, threats, appeasing words, amateur breast-beating. But Gwilym was a professional. He didn't give warnings.

The bodyguard stepped in close to Jackson and kneed him in the groin. The man folded over with a falsetto scream. Gwilym seized his head and kneed him again, in the face this time. The rowdy's head snapped back, spraying an arc of blood into the air. He bounced against the bar and went down. The man groaned, Gwilym kicked him in the head, and he lay still.

Jackson's friends stood gaping in astonishment. Gwilym turned to walk back to his table. For a moment, it looked as if that might be the end of the matter but a tough was stupid enough to grab the bodyguard's arm. "Hey! You can't do that."

"I just did." Gwilym turned and hit him in the jaw with a loud crack. The man went down. William yelled in delight and charged into the gaggle of rowdies. Crowded, they fell over each other, tumbling like dominos. Other toughs ran round to surround the two men. Simon drew his sword with a metallic hiss. He had few illusions about his ability at fisticuffs. He stepped in close and rammed the point into a tough's shoulder. The man screamed and lost interest in the proceedings.

Three men rushed at Simon. He slashed one. The man stepped back, holding his hands over his face. Blood dripped between the fingers. Simon slipped and fell. The other two toughs got past him and headed for Lucy. All would be lost if they held a knife against the girl's throat. William cursed and tried to follow, but a rowdy on the floor had him by the ankle and he tripped.

William stuck a dagger into the man holding him. The hand let go. William hurled himself after the two men threatening Lucy, but he was too late. The men reached the girl but something very odd happened. The first seemed to fall over and catch his head on the table. The second gasped and staggered back. William could have sworn that Lucy had punched him, her arm moving so fast it was a blur. He must be seeing things.

At that point, the tavern door opened and the boatswain strode in with the deck watch and the potboy. He held a wooden lever in his hand. "Evening, Cap'n, I got your message. These the lads that are feeling their oats?"

The Swallows spread out to surround the rowdies that were still standing. Gwilym had put another brace on the floor. "We didn't mean no harm," whined one. "We was just funning."

"That so, I like a bit of fun meself," said the boatswain, slapping the wooden club against his palm.

"Boatswain," said William. "Take this rubbish out. They have no manners."

The boatswain seized the nearest rowdy by his throat. "Don't you worry none, about that, sir. Me and the lads will learn them manners soon enough."

The Swallows pulled the toughs out into the street. Thumps and cries carried clearly through the door into the tavern.

"A song," said William brightly. "Another song to lighten the mood."

The tavern girl appeared, hesitantly. "What shall I sing?"

"Do you know 'The Little Pixie'?" asked William.

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Framed