Heartstone

'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.

We passed another deck, full of stores in partitioned areas. I made out barrels and chests, coils of immensely thick rope. Billows of hot steam rose up from below now. The ship shifted slightly, groaning and creaking, and one of my feet almost slipped. A red glow was visible underneath us, accompanied by a wave of heat, the smell of bad meat increasingly powerful. I glanced down at Morgan; his face was redly illuminated from below. 'Where are you from?' I asked.

'St David's, sir. I have a fishing boat, or did till I was enlisted like half west Wales. Though they still haven't enough sailors, a third of the crew are Spaniards or Flemings.'

'How many sailors on board?'

'Two hundred. And three hundred soldiers if we go to battle, so we're told. Too many, some say enough to overset the ship if they all go on those high castle decks.'