Chapter 20: The Eastern Quay

The dawn came grudgingly to Rye, a pale grey seepage of light through the bedchamber curtains, and with it the distant clatter of carts and the cries of gulls wheeling over the harbour. Edmund Ashworth, Earl of Morland, regarded the day with the profound distaste of a man who had been robbed of his sleep by his own ambition—or, more accurately, by the machinations of a spymaster who had no respect for the sacred hours of repose.

He had dressed without ringing for his man, a small rebellion against the tyranny of routine, and now stood at the window with his doublet half-fastened, watching the masts of the fishing fleet sway against the sullen sky. Somewhere out there, beyond the shingle and the salt marshes, the Spanish were fitting out their great armada, and somewhere in this town, a Dutchman named Jan Vos was selling secrets that could light a signal fire from Cornwall to the Scottish border.

“You are brooding,” Cecily said from the doorway. She was already dressed in a travelling gown of dark wool, her hair pinned beneath a simple coif, and she held a small leather satchel that clinked faintly as she moved. “It is an improvement over snoring, but not by much.”

Edmund turned, offering her a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I do not brood, Lady Cecily. I contemplate. There is a difference, though I confess the distinction is lost on most of the Privy Council.”

“And on me,” she said, stepping into the room. She set the satchel on the table beside the remains of last night’s supper—a half-eaten capon, a crust of bread, a flagon of wine that had gone flat. “You have been standing at that window for the better part of an hour. Either you are watching for Vos, or you are trying to persuade yourself that the sea will swallow the Spanish fleet before they trouble us. Which is it?”

He laughed, a low sound that surprised even him. “Both, perhaps. I find the sea a comforting thought. It does not scheme, it does not lie, and it does not expect me to attend meetings before noon.”

Cecily’s lips twitched. “You are a terrible spy, my lord.”

“I am a magnificent spy,” he corrected, at last turning from the window. “It is merely that I prefer to do my spying in the afternoon, after a proper meal and a brief sleep. Unfortunately, the Queen’s enemies are inconsiderate of my schedule.”

They left the inn through a side door, avoiding the common room where the innkeeper’s wife was already laying out bread and ale for the early risers. The streets of Rye were narrow and crooked, the timber-framed houses leaning toward one another as if sharing secrets, and the air was thick with the smell of fish, tar, and damp wool. The eastern quay was a short walk, down past the church of St. Mary and the old walls, and Edmund kept his hand near the pommel of his sword—not because he expected trouble, but because Cecily had insisted, and he had learned that arguing with her was a waste of energy better spent on naps.

The quay was busy despite the early hour. Fishermen were mending nets, boys were hauling baskets of herring, and a pair of customs officers were arguing with a merchant over the contents of a cask that smelled strongly of brandy. Edmund scanned the faces, looking for a man who matched Walsingham’s description: middling height, a scar above his left brow, the habit of tugging at his ear when nervous. He had not expected the Dutchman to be easy to find, and he was not disappointed.

“There,” Cecily said, her voice low.

She nodded toward a figure at the far end of the quay, near a stack of barrels and coils of rope. The man was leaning against a bollard, his cloak drawn up against the wind, and he was indeed tugging at his left ear. He was watching the customs officers with an intensity that suggested he was either a smuggler or a man with something to hide. Edmund suspected both.

“Wait here,” he said.

Cecily raised an eyebrow. “You are ordering me to stay behind?”

“I am requesting,” he said, “with the full force of my diplomatic charm. If Vos becomes alarmed, I do not want you caught in the crossfire. Or the arrest. Or whatever unpleasantness follows.”

She studied him for a moment, her dark eyes unreadable, then gave a curt nod. “I will be watching. If you are not back within a quarter of an hour, I will assume you have been murdered and will raise the alarm. For the pleasure of identifying your body.”

“Your concern is touching,” Edmund said, and set off along the quay.

He approached Vos from the side, affecting the loose-limbed amble of a man who had nowhere to be and nothing to do. The Dutchman saw him coming, his hand moving instinctively to the hilt of his knife, but Edmund spread his palms in a gesture of peace.

“Jan Vos?” he said, keeping his voice low. “I am a friend of the Widow With the Blue Door.”

Vos’s eyes flickered. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Then you are not the man I am looking for,” Edmund said, and began to turn away. “Pity. I had a letter for him, concerning a shipment of wine from Antwerp. But if you are not Vos, I will find someone else.”

He had taken three steps when Vos called out, his voice sharp with suspicion. “Wait. What wine?”

Edmund turned back, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “The kind that does not travel well, unless it is accompanied by the right documents. You understand.”

Vos’s jaw tightened. He glanced toward the customs officers, then back at Edmund. “You have the documents?”

“I have questions,” Edmund said. “And if the answers are satisfactory, I may have documents as well. But I am a busy man, Vos, and I do not like standing on cold quays in the morning. Either we talk now, or I walk away and you can explain to your masters why the deal fell through.”

The Dutchman hesitated, his hand still on his knife. Then he gave a short, sharp nod. “There is a warehouse behind the chandler’s shop. We can talk there.”

Edmund followed him, keeping a careful distance, and as they passed the customs officers, Vos tugged at his ear again—a nervous gesture, Edmund noted, that would have betrayed him to any spy worth his salt. They reached the warehouse, a sagging timber structure that smelled of salt and rot, and Vos pushed open the door.

Inside, the light was dim, filtered through cracks in the roof, and the air was cold. Edmund let his eyes adjust, and when they did, he saw that they were not alone.

A man was standing in the shadows, tall and lean, his face half-hidden by a high collar. He was not Dutch, Edmund thought—his bearing was too rigid, too disciplined. Spanish, perhaps, or Italian. He held a pistol, and it was aimed at Edmund’s chest.

“Lord Morland,” the man said, his accent confirming Edmund’s guess. “We have been expecting you.”