As he thought about that yet again, he heard his name being shouted, and clutching his anchoring rope, he turned to see Tam Sinclair within arm’s reach. He let go of the rope with one hand and reached out, suddenly conscious of the weight of his sodden mantle, to grasp Tam’s wrist and pull him to where he, too, could grasp the rigging and turn his hunched back to the gale.
“De Berenger sent me to get you,” Tam shouted into Sinclair’s ear through a cupped hand. “He’s in his cabin.”
Sinclair felt his heart sink into his boots as he heard the summons. He was up here on the galley’s central deck for one reason: he had survived his first attacks of seasickness several days earlier, although he could still hardly credit the violent misery he had endured, but even so, the minor degree of tolerance he had since developed for the lurching, pitching, and yawing movements of the ship could not survive in the fetid atmosphere, the darkness, and the chaotic, unpredictable motion belowdecks. The galley’s crew appeared to think nothing of it, and knew the layout of the ship so well that they could find their way about down there in total darkness, but Will Sinclair knew that was a skill he would never possess, and the mere thought of remaining aboard for long enough to develop it appalled him. Now, knowing that he had no alternative but to go aft and belowdecks, he turned and looked back towards the high stern of the ship, where he could see a pair of helmsmen straining against the weight of the tiller, struggling to keep the ship headed directly into the wind and the incessant line of combers bearing down on them from the northwest. Below, in the waist of the vessel, the oarsmen sat huddled and miserable on their benches, waiting patiently, their oars shipped and secured vertically, ready to be deployed at the shout of an order.
“What’s happening, d’you know?”
Tam shook his head. “He came up on deck and sent me to fetch you. Something’s up, but I’ve no more idea than you.”
“Well, let’s find out. I’ll be glad to get out of this.”
“Aye, and so will I. Off this whoreson box and back on dry land. Sooner the better.”
Together, choosing each step with great care, they fought their way back to the stern, where Tam crouched down out of the wind, in the shelter of the ship’s side, while Sir William approached one of three doors in the wall below the stern deck where the helmsmen stood. He knocked, and without waiting for a response, swung the door open and leaned inside. De Berenger was sitting on one side of his sleeping cabin, facing the ship’s wall, in front of a small tabletop that was hinged to the vessel’s timbers so that it could be folded away when it was not in use. He had been writing, for his fingers were stained with ink.
“You sent for me, Sir Edward?”
“I did, Sir William. Come inside, if you will, and close the door.”
Sinclair did as he was bidden, relieved to see that at least there was light in here. Three fat candles hung in heavy sconces, intricately suspended, although he could not quite see how, from a device that hung from the beams of the overhead deck, and although the shadows they cast swung and swooped disconcertingly, their light was nonetheless extremely welcome, projecting an illusion of warmth.
“Sit on the bunk if you wish, or on the stool.” De Berenger glanced at him sympathetically, noting the haggard lines around his eyes and mouth. “How are you feeling, all things considered? Will you last, think you?” There was the merest hint of smile around his eyes.
Sinclair perched himself carefully on the three-legged stool with his spread feet firmly planted on the decking, his back to the door, and one hand clutching an iron bracket that was anchored in the ship’s timbers. “Aye, I’ll last. I know that now, after five days of this. But I warn you, I’m like to vomit without warning. I can barely manage to control myself on deck, in the fresh air, but I cannot stay confined for any length of time without being able to see the horizon.”
De Berenger’s little smile widened to a grin. “Aye, that’s common with seasickness. But don’t worry about vomiting in here. I don’t imagine you have much in you to spew up, after five days. And there’s no shortage of seawater with which to wash it out.” He pointed a thumb towards the papers spilling from the open leather wallet on the table beside him. “I wanted to talk to you about these. Haven’t had much time since they came aboard, and only started reading them this forenoon…But they are thought provoking, and the admiral has obviously taken great pains over what he had to say.” He paused briefly. “They came to me, of course, from admiral to vice-admiral, one shipmaster to another. But you hold higher rank within our Order than either of us ever could, and thus I know that what’s contained in there concerns you primarily. The admiral has suggested that there will be grave decisions to consider, and he suggests, too, what they might entail…I read what he had to say with great interest, but I found myself glad the decisions are not mine to make.”
Sinclair nodded, glancing sideways at the open wallet and its contents. He had watched the wallet come aboard, on the first day of the bad weather, during a brief lull between the passing of one storm and the onset of the next, when St. Valéry’s galley had approached close enough through treacherous waters to shoot a crossbow bolt safely into their ship’s side, close by the entry port. It had taken several attempts, but a bolt had eventually thumped home. A length of fishing line had been tied to it, and attached to the far end of that had been a thicker cord, securing a pitch-covered basket, like a tiny boat, that held a waterproofed package of heavily waxed cloth containing the wallet of dispatches. He had watched the recovery process with interest, coming close to forgetting his own discomfort as he admired the monkeylike dexterity of the seamen who had carried it out, and he had presumed that whatever was involved in the hazardous delivery, it had to be a purely naval matter, since they had been far from land for days by then and nothing had occurred during that time that might involve him in his capacity as a member of the Order’s Council.
Now he looked back at de Berenger, raising one eyebrow. “You wish me to read them?”
“Aye, Sir William. I do. But I suspect you might find the task impossible, given your seasickness. You would have to sit here, head down, and concentrate on reading while everything around you seems to move. And so, if I may make a suggestion?”
“Of course. What is it?”
De Berenger indicated the table again with a wave of his hand. “I have already read everything here, and have been thinking of it for the past few hours. I can tell you what is involved, and outline the admiral’s suggestions. Then, afterwards, if you so wish, you may read anything you choose more carefully, without having to wade through the entire wallet.”
“Excellent suggestion. Do that. Give me the gist of it.”
The vice-admiral picked up a substantial pile of papers and held them up in one hand. “Much of what’s here, naturally enough, is straightforward naval records work—copies of bills of lading, cargo lists, disciplinary reports, that kind of thing. None of that interests us in this instance.” He squared the edges of the papers and aligned them carefully against the bulkhead before picking up a second, much smaller pile that had been set apart. “This is what concerns us. These papers deal with the two main areas that the admiral is concerned about. The first of those is the matter of the three galleys that sailed into La Rochelle after we left. What happened to them, and where are they now?”
“Do we know any of that? I have heard nothing since the admiral delegated those two other galleys to keep an eye on them.”
“Admiral St. Valéry detached two more vessels to hang back and position themselves separately between us and Parmaison and de Lisle. That was five days ago, before the storms came down on us.”
“Separately. You mean separate from each other, or separate from de Lisle’s ships?”
“Both. The second pair, commanded by André du Bois and Charles Vitrier, were to station themselves within view of each other but far enough away from the first two to be able to pass the word to