Elementary by Mercedes Lackey Page A

back from the battle. As before, the English were determined to stay far enough distant that they could not be grappled and boarded by the far greater numbers of the Spanish soldiers, and for some time the
canone
filled the sky with thunder and smoke before a light breeze came up to clear the air and fill the sails. Fatigue numbed Rodrigo, and he no longer felt the terrors of the first battle encounter. Instead, his heart filled with a secret delight each time he saw the English evade the slower Spanish ships, each time they held off the larger force of the
grande
Armada.
    Although the stern lantern of the
San Lorenzo
had been shot off in the fray, there had been no significant damage to the stern, nothing that affected either her fragile rudder or the stern hold full of gunpowder. Seeing that his ship had sustained no injury, Don Moncada commanded that she engage the
Triumph
, whose foolhardy captain had once again misjudged the wind and found himself becalmed between the
San Martin
and the
San Lorenzo
. With a flicker of his eyes to the fore, Rodrigo saw Don Ruarte, a closed fist upraised as he held the winds still to trap the English ship. The slaves and
buenaboyas
rowed the
galleas
into better position, ready to fire upon the
Triumph
. The soldiers on the deck shouted themselves hoarse with anticipation, anxious to engage with one of the elusive English ships. This was the moment they had longed for after all these months at sea, when their skills with the arquebus and the sword would finally be put to the test.
    Rodrigo mourned the absence of Tareixa’s kin. With the unpredictability of most of their kind, they had sought deeper waters in the past two days. Alone, Tareixa could not provide more than a slight delay to the forward progress of the
galleas.
As he scrambled to prepare the lines for the moment when the grappling hooks would be swung out, he glanced down to the seas, catching a glimpse of Tareixa’s form, silver-green in the sun, snaking around and ahead of the
San Lorenzo
, creating small eddies and cross-currents to slow the ship as she shuddered between the swells, timbers creaking. Some foreboding caused him to look up, and he saw Don Ruarte in the forecastle, his sharp gaze fixed on the same place where Rodrigo’s eyes had just been. Before the Don could turn again, Rodrigo bent to his task, once more bidding Tareixa seek the safer depths and move farther from the
San Lorenzo
.
    The glance to the sea had been only a moment of distraction for Don Ruarte, but it was enough. His grip on the winds had eased just enough that the breeze slipped free, filling the
Triumph’s
sails, once again sending her coursing away. Although the
San Juan de Portugal
and another
zabra
gave chase, they seemed to make no progress against her. In his head, Rodrigo caught an echo of Tareixa’s glee—these smaller ships were proving easier to delay than the great
galleas
. Although he had only once asked her to hold back any of the Spanish ships, she had begun to do so of her own will, delighting in her successes. As before, with the change of the wind, the Spanish ships continued on to the east, and once more the English drew back from the attack and allowed them to proceed.
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    August 8, 1588
    â€œHell-burners! Slip anchor!” Don Moncada’s shouted order drew the men from the rails, where they had watched in frozen fear as dark shapes had emerged from the night, glowing as the sparks set by the departing crews had taken hold, turning the unmanned ships into drifting weapons.
    The enthrallment of the floating fires broken, the men of the
San Lorenzo
leaped into action. Drilled with the rest of the sailors, Rodrigo lunged to a place on the arms of the fore
cabrestante
, straining to turn the wheel to bring up the rope of one of the two anchors that held the ship in the shifting waters off Calais.
    â€œWe’ll never bring it up in time!”