The galleon's grave

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Death comes from such random throws of the dice. Thin streaks of grey light signalled dawn bleached across the black, flat Cambridge landscape. The horses sensed their owner's fear, were restive in the yard, hoofs clattering the cobbles, snorting so that the mist of their breath in the cold air joined with that of the panting men charged with their care. The lanterns swung wildly, the gloom still deep enough for them to cast flickering shadows on the walls, highlighting in passing the sheen of sweat on the faces and arms of the ostlers. You could smell the sweat, the strangely warm tang of horseflesh on the cold morning air, and the stink of the dung the Spaniard's horse had dropped.

If the Spaniard had chosen to leave Cambridge as night fell, when he first heard his news, he might have lived. As it was, he gambled that he had time enough, time for a decent supper, time for a few hours' sleep in a clean bed. He made the sensible decision, and it killed him, used up the time he had on earth. After all, few men rode out at dark. The finest horse can see no better at night than a man, and the appalling mud tracks that passed for English roads were quite capable of drowning a man and his horse in the potholes that seemed to penetrate the centre of the earth. Better to make the break at dawn, and hope for clear skies in this interminably damp country. A man determined to find his destiny did not skulk out like a traitor emerging from a dungeon, eyes closed shut from the danger of light A man — and a Spanish man above all — rode out with his eyes all-seeing. In command. In charge.

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