As though a fist had closed around the ship and were squeezing it tight.
“Impossible,” Cecilia whispers.
“Is it?” Seymour says.
The deck disintegrates around Cecilia, and she tumbles into the heaving sea below, bodies and boat tossed around her. The cold is a punishment. She looks for an intact piece of wood and finds one a little way away. Two men are clinging to it. She splashes over to them, clumsy in her drenched gown.
“Let go,” she orders them. They ignore her. She curls her legs around one of them. One arm she clamps around his neck. The other she uses to plunge her nails into his eye. The man screams and releases the plank. Cecilia lets go of him and takes hold of the wood, washing the blood and jelly from her fingers. She looks over at the other man. He is staring at her, face pale, mouth a perfect bread roll.
“Let. Go.” She repeats. He throws himself back, away from her, and she pulls herself onto the wood, letting it take the weight of her torso.
The hunger has returned. If Seymour truly commanded the bordweal to destroy a warship, then Cecilia must have her power. Nothing else matters.
She searches for the woman and the panther among the wreckage, but she already knows that they are unlikely to be there. Seymour would not have destroyed herself with the ship. Sure enough, Cecilia spies them just beyond the bordweal. The shape of the vessel she had seen before is clearer now, the sigil of the Feorwa Isles on the wind-blown flag. Someone is throwing a harness down to Seymour. She ties the harness around her panther’s belly and the beast is hauled aboard.Seymour is next, a dozen arms reaching for her. Cecilia watches the scene with a curious emptiness. An emptiness she always feels in the face of the strangeness of commoner families.
She toes off her boots and abandons the wooden plank, swimming towards the ship. They have not yet pulled up the anchor. She grabs hold of the rope, fighting the waves and her sodden gown to heave herself up, hand hold by painful handhold. The fibres scour her palms but still she climbs. There’s a small window a little way above her. She levels with it, panting and wincing against the salt in the fresh wounds on her palms, and uses her elbow to smash the glass and then to bend the lead latticework. If she can tear the bottom of her gown off, she should be able to slip inside to safety.
“Oh look, a rat has stowed on board,” a voice says from above her head.
A Feorwan sailor with cropped hair and a rounded face looks down at Cecilia. Next to them stands Seymour.
“I am worth more to you alive than dead,” she shouts, hoping they can hear her above the sea spray.
“You’re worth trouble, is what you are,” the sailor says. Cecilia looks to Seymour.
“Remember that I know my brother,” she calls.
“Fuck you,” the sailor says. “And fuck your brother.” They swing an oar towards Cecilia’s head, and the last thing she knows is the crush of the plank on her cheek, and the sting of the sea, and then nothing.
PART TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
My Lord Cromwell,
I write to you from the town of Swegan, where my enquiries into the nature of the incident at the bordweal continue apace. My news thus far is unfortunate. It seems that it was indeed the king’s sister on board the ship in question. I can find no report of any survivors, although my men continue to scour the coast and the waters near here – the tide has already borne some unfortunate victims to these shores. I fear that our only hope rests on the reported sighting of a Feorwan ship, which my sources claim was sailing south – whether to the southern coast of Elben or to Capetia, we have yet to ascertain.
In the absence of more tangible news, I also bring you rumour. I have heard certain peoples in this part of the kingdom discussing the incident as the natural progression of Elben’s treacherous queens, leading to a faulty bordweal. This is a supposition that I have encouraged, which I hope will be to Your Grace’s approval.
There are some other, less savoury rumours which I have attempted to quash. I fear that these have aligned with the arrival of certain emissaries from the Hleaw tribes. His Majesty has shown leniency in the past to these heretics, but I would urge him to quell his naturally merciful nature in this instance.
I will write again soon with further news,
Your humble servant,
N. Ackworth
My Lord Brandon,
This letter will, I fear, not be welcomed by you. I know and understand your opinion of me, Your Grace, but beg of you to lend this letter your eyes and but a little of your time. We both of usdesire the strength and glory of my master – your friend – and our king, and it is in that vein that I write.
As I am sure you have heard through your many connections, I have been engaged for several moons in a quest for knowledge. For no matter what we tell His Majesty’s people – no matter what Lord Wolsey and I tell those foreign diplomats stationed at High Hall – we are marching towards a crossroads. I fear that if something is not done, and soon, Elben will turn on itself. Neither you nor I wish to see our beloved country and our more beloved monarch embroiled in the ugliness of civil war.
My access to Bishop More’s library and extensive archives has, at last, yielded something of interest. We are about to embark upon an experiment that, if successful, will secure the king’s place in the annals of history as one of the world’s greatest leaders, a god who walks among us. Yet I cannot do it alone.
I beg of you to meet me, to join with me in my efforts, setting aside old grievances for the sake of our king and kingdom. If you accept, I will be returning to High Hall forthwith, once my affairs at Plythe are settled.
Your humble servant,
