Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(158)

‘That’s enough, Trevithick,’ our sailor answered. ‘This gentleman’s on official business.’ He lowered his voice. ‘The food’s corrupted through lying too long in the barrels, sir. We don’t like the smells coming from below. We were supposed to get fresh supplies today but they ain’t come.’

‘Food is ever the main concern among the soldiers too,’ Leacon said. He looked at the barefoot sailors. ‘Food and shoes, though you sailors don’t seem to worry about those.’

‘The soldiers should go barefoot like us, then they wouldn’t slip and slide whenever they come on board.’

The Mary Rose moved slightly with the breeze, and I almost stumbled again. On the walkway above me two sailors, carrying a long heavy box between them, barely checked their stride as they walked across. They disappeared through a doorway into the aftercastle. Our sailor, bored with us, moved away.

‘I can see why your men were intimidated,’ I said quietly to Leacon. ‘I’ve been on ships before, but this – ’

He nodded. ‘Ay, though I don’t doubt their courage in the rush of battle.’ I looked up again at the aftercastle. I saw more netting there on the top deck, secured to a central spar, dimly illumined by light from lamps below. Someone up there was strumming a lute, the sound drifting down. Leacon followed my gaze. ‘We practised on the aftercastle of the Great Harry today, firing through the blinds on the top deck. It was hard to get a good shot.’

‘The sailors seem in a poor humour.’

‘They’re hard to discipline, they’ve been dragged together from all over the realm and beyond. Some are privateers.’

I smiled. ‘Are you showing your prejudices, George?’

‘They didn’t mind showing theirs earlier, laughing at my men.’

A thin wiry man in a striped jerkin picked his way towards us; he carried a horn lantern whose light was brighter than the sailors’, a good beeswax candle inside. He bowed briefly, then addressed Leacon in a Welsh accent. ‘You have business with Master West, Captain?’

‘This man does. He needs to speak with him urgently.’

‘He’s down in the galley with the cook. You’ll have to go to him, sir.’

‘Very well. Can you take me?’

He looked at me dubiously. ‘The galley is down in the hold. Can you manage it?’

I answered sharply, ‘I got up on the ship, didn’t I?’

‘Your robe will suffer, sir. Best take it off.’

Leacon took it. ‘I’ll wait for you here,’ he said. ‘But please do not be long.’

I stood in my shirt, shivering slightly. ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ the sailor said. ‘It’s warm enough where we’re going.’

He led the way along the deck to the forecastle. As I followed I tripped beside a group of card players, accidentally sending a tiny dice flying; a man retrieved it with a quick scooping motion. ‘I am sorry,’ I said. He looked at me with hard hostility.

Just before the aftercastle we reached an open hatch where a wide ladder descended into darkness. The sailor turned to me. ‘We go down here.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Morgan, sir. Now, please follow me down carefully.’

He put his feet on the ladder. I waited till the top of his head disappeared, then began to descend.

I had to feel carefully for the rungs in the semi-darkness, and thanked God the ship was barely stirring. It grew hotter. Water dripped somewhere. At the foot of the ladder there was some light, more lanterns hanging from beams. I saw it was the gundeck. Well over a hundred feet long, it ran below the castles, almost the whole length of the ship. Further down the gundeck some areas were partitioned off into little rooms, the backs of cannon projecting between them. To my surprise there was enough headroom to stand. I looked down at the cannon on their wheeled carriages. The nearest was iron; the one next to it bronze, stamped with a large Tudor rose, a crown above, gleaming with an odd sheen in the lantern light. A harsh smell of powder mixed with the cooking smell; pods of broom and laurel leaves tied against the walls to sweeten the air had little effect.

Men were checking stone and iron gunballs for size against wooden boards with large circular holes, then stacking them carefully inside triangular containers beside each cannon. Two officers looked on: one bearded and middle-aged, a silver whistle round his neck on a silk sash, the other younger. ‘This job should have been finished before dark,’ the older officer growled. He saw us and stared at me, raising his chin interrogatively. Morgan bowed deeply.

‘This gentleman has a message from shore, sir, for Master West. He is down in the galley.’

‘Don’t get in the men’s way,’ the officer told me curtly. Morgan led me some way down the gundeck. We came to another hatch, with a ladder leading down. ‘This goes right down to the galley, sir,’ Morgan said.

‘Who was that?’

‘The master. He’s in charge of the ship.’

‘I thought that was the captain.’

Morgan laughed. ‘Captain Grenville doesn’t know the Mary Rose, though at least he’s a seaman, unlike some of the captains. Most are knighted gentlemen, you see, to put us in awe.’ Like Sir Franklin with the soldiers, I thought.

Morgan stepped to the ladder and began nimbly descending again. I followed.