Chapter 21: The Vintner's Price

Edmund Ashworth, Earl of Morland, looked down the barrel of the pistol and felt a profound weariness settle over him. Not fear—he was too tired for fear—but the bone-deep exhaustion of a man who had been dragged from his bed one too many times.

“You have the advantage of me, sir,” he said, with the mild tone he reserved for disagreeable weather or overcooked mutton. “I confess I expected a Dutchman. Vos has a certain ring to it, does it not? Solid, dependable. You, on the other hand, look like a man who has never once enjoyed a proper afternoon nap.”

The foreigner’s eyes narrowed. Behind him, Cecily had gone very still, her hand resting on the hilt of the small dagger she kept hidden in her sleeve. Edmund prayed she would not do anything foolish. His own hand was creeping toward the hilt of his sword, though he knew he was out of practice.

“The merchant Vos is dead,” the man said. “He was found with his throat cut three days ago. I am here to ensure his business concludes properly.”

“His business?”

“The manifest you seek. The names of those who trade with Spain.” The man’s smile was thin and cold. “You are not the only one who reads letters, Lord Morland.”

Edmund heard Cecily’s sharp intake of breath. He kept his eyes on the pistol, which had not wavered.

“I am not Lord Morland,” he said, with a puzzled frown. “I am his valet. He sent me ahead to inspect the goods. The earl is indisposed—gout, you understand. Terribly common among the nobility.”

The man’s smile did not change. “You lie poorly for a man who has been playing the spy.”

“I have had very little practice,” Edmund admitted. “My previous occupation was composing lute music and supervising the planting of roses. The espionage trade is a recent and unwelcome acquisition.”

There was a creak from the rafters above. Edmund did not look up, but he saw the foreigner’s eyes flick toward the sound for a fraction of a second. That was the moment he struck. He lunged forward, not at the man but to the side, knocking Cecily behind him as he swept a wooden crate from a stack beside them. The crate caught the foreigner’s arm, sending the pistol’s shot wide. The ball buried itself in a sack of grain with a dull thud.

The man was fast. He dropped the spent pistol and drew a long dagger from his belt, advancing with the practiced steps of a duelist. Edmund had no time to draw his sword. He grabbed the nearest object—a heavy iron hook used for hauling cargo—and swung it in a wide arc. The hook caught the man’s shoulder, and he staggered back with a grunt.

“Run!” Edmund shouted to Cecily, but she had already slipped behind the foreigner, her dagger in hand. She drove it into his thigh, and the man screamed, twisting to face her. She danced back, quick as a cat, and the distraction gave Edmund the moment he needed. He drew his sword and pressed the point to the man’s throat.

“Now,” Edmund said, breathing hard, “we will have a conversation. You will tell us who sent you, and what you know of Lord Hunsdon’s dealings with Spain. And then you will be so good as to leave me in peace, because I have a pressing engagement with a feather bed.”

The foreigner laughed, a wet, bitter sound. “You think you have won? Lord Morland, you have no idea what you have stumbled into. The names you seek are not in this warehouse. They never were. The manifest went to the widow with the blue door—and she is not what she seems.”

“The widow?” Cecily’s voice was sharp. “Who is she?”

The man’s eyes glazed for a moment, and Edmund saw the fatal stillness that preceded death. He pulled his sword back, but too late. The foreigner’s own dagger had found his heart, and he crumpled to the ground with a sigh.

“Damn,” Edmund said quietly. “I was rather hoping for a name.”

Cecily knelt beside the body, searching his coat with quick, practiced hands. She pulled out a folded paper, stained with sweat and salt. “This is not a manifest,” she said, unfolding it. “It is a letter. Addressed to Captain-General Medina Sidonia, commander of the Armada.”

Edmund took the letter and read it by the dim light filtering through the cracks in the roof. His blood ran cold. “It speaks of a landing at Margate,” he said. “A signal fire to be lit from the cliffs of Dover when the Queen is dead. It is signed with a seal—the Howard arms.”

“Hunsdon,” Cecily breathed.

“So it would seem. But the letter says ‘we,’ not ‘I.’ There are others.” Edmund folded the paper carefully and tucked it into his doublet. “I must get this to Walsingham immediately.”

“And the widow?”

Edmund looked at her. The question hung between them, heavy with suspicion. He remembered the blue door in London, the mysterious figure who had spoken in riddles. He had never learned her name, never discovered her true allegiance.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that is a question we must answer before the tide turns. But first, we must leave this place. The man said they were expecting us—which means someone knows we are here. We are not safe in Dover.”

They stepped out of the warehouse into the cold sea air. The sun was setting over the Channel, painting the water in shades of gold and blood. In the distance, a ship was making its way toward the harbor, its sails dark against the fading light.

“Edmund,” Cecily said, her voice low, “there is something I must tell you.”

He turned to face her. Her eyes were troubled, her mouth set in a grim line. He had seen her angry, seen her sharp-tongued and fierce, but he had never seen her afraid.

“The widow with the blue door,” she said. “I know who she is. She is my mother.”