The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(30)

"I'm not that desperate," Ned replied hurriedly.

Mal sipped his watered wine and glanced at the plate of mash. A moment later he was leaning over the edge of the table, retching up what little he had eaten this morning. Ned sighed and went to fetch a bucket of sea water.

Mal folded up the map and stowed it in the pack in his locker, then threw himself onto his bunk. He cursed Walsingham for pressing Raleigh upon him, Raleigh for his eagerness to set sail, and most of all himself for agreeing to this voyage. They should have gone overland, through France and northern Italy, despite the risk of spring floods. But Ned was not accustomed to hard riding, and he needed Coby to… His heart contracted at the memory of her in his arms, her mouth on his, her slender body warm against his belly… His hand strayed down to his groin, but the seasickness had robbed him of even that small comfort, and he abandoned the attempt with a curse of frustration and rolled over in the bunk.

The pearl earring pressed against his cheek, and after a moment's indecision he took it out. Surely there were no guisers here on the ship? And if there were, better to know of it than remain ignorant. He hauled himself out of his bunk, retrieved his knapsack and stowed the earring in its pouch. It would be a pity to lose such a rich jewel, and he would need it when he returned to England.

The sound of someone singing a bawdy ballad filtered down through the poop deck overhead, and Mal smiled to himself. Enough of such fretting! It gained him naught but to sour his stomach further. He needed something wholesome to occupy his thoughts. As soon as this weather abated, he would teach Ned how to handle a sword.

Rain lashed down as Ned leant over the rail, hauling on the thin rope. At this rate he might as well stand on deck and let the bucket fill by itself. Or wring his clothes into it. His woollen doublet and hose had soaked up rainwater like the earth after a drought, and they now hung in leaden folds that encumbered his every move. He pushed wet hair back from his eyes and thought longingly of his own warm bed in Southwark.

Above and behind him the sailors went about their mysterious tasks amongst the rigging, seemingly oblivious to the rain. They had scarcely spoken a word to Ned since he came aboard, apart from the ship's cook, who joked about Mal's poor appetite and advised Ned to eat his master's dinner for him.

As he hauled the bucket up the last few feet, he became aware of someone standing over him. Looking round he squinted up into the broad, weatherbeaten face of the second mate: Handsaw, Hangnail, or whatever he was called. Hard to make out names over the roar of a gale.

"Still throwing up, be he?" the sailor asked.

"What is it to you?" Ned lowered the bucket to the deck, never taking his eyes off the man.

"You look to have your sea legs already. Been on a ship before?"

"No."

"Natural-born sailor, then."

Ned shrugged. "I couldn't say."

"Well, ye've taken to it quicker than your master. Not missing your own varlet back in London, then?"

"What?"

"I saw ye, afore ye came aboard. Both o' ye, kissing those pretty yellow-haired lads. Or were they your whores?"

I know your sort of old. Think you can goad me into a fight, eh? "Is that what you ask for, when you visit a stew?" Ned replied. "Girls in breeches?"

The second mate roared with laughter. "Not I! Can't get at her cunt fast enough that way, can ye?"

He elbowed Ned, who laughed with him, though mostly out of relief. The other man had height and reach on him, and fists like half-bricks.

"Master Hansford!" Raleigh bellowed down from the poop deck. "I thought you were taking the whipstaff?"

"Right you are, captain!" Hansford glowered at Ned. "Don't think that's an end on't. I got my eye on ye, ye fishbellied knave…"

Ned waited until the man was halfway up the stairs to the poop deck, then made the sign of the fig at his back before snatching up his bucket and heading for the cabin.

He stepped through the door and pulled up short. Mal was sitting on his bunk with his sheathed rapier across his knees, dangling the matching dagger from one finger by the ring on its hilt.

"You're looking more cheerful," Ned told him. "Stopped feeling sick?"

"No," Mal replied, getting to his feet, "but I weary of letting it rule me. I shall be the master of my stomach from now on."

"Glad to hear it. I weary of being your nurse."

Mal flipped the dagger upwards and caught it by the hilt. "How would you like to be my sparring partner instead? I grow restless, mewed up like this."

"Me, fight you? With a sword?"

"Don't you want to learn?"

"I…" Had Mal overheard? "I reckon I can handle myself well enough in a tight spot. I'm not one of your milk-livered courtiers, you know."

"I'm not talking about tavern brawls. Real fighting, against men armed with steel. You never know who or what we might come up against on this expedition."

"I've fought an armed man before. And killed him, too." He tried to sound as if it was nothing though, truth be told, if it hadn't been for a lucky throw of a piss-pot he would have been the victim, not the victor.

"Once. And that only by great good fortune," Mal said, echoing his thoughts.

"I told you many a time, I have the Devil's own luck."