It was because he was afraid of the dark.
Most nights, she simply undressed and lay beside him so that when he woke in fright, he’d have somebody to wrap a thin arm around.
Occasionally, there was sex, but Creesjie was convinced Haan only called on her because Sara wouldn’t stay the night with him.
The thought of her friend’s stubbornness lit a fierce pride in her.
Any other woman would have submitted to his demands without complaint, believing it worth the life offered in return.
Not Sara though.
Throughout the beatings, scoldings, humiliations, and tantrums, she’d held strong, like a block of stone refusing to yield to the sculptor’s hammer. Many a night, Creesjie had arrived to find Haan raging against his obstinate wife, revealing a passion he would be mortified to show in public. All these long years, his arrogance had convinced him he was tormenting her, but Creesjie knew it was the other way around. Sara was the only enemy he’d never been able to best.
Haan murmured in his sleep, rousing her from her thoughts.
Hurrying to the desk, she found the list of names Sara had seen earlier that afternoon. Her friend had asked her to copy them, and Creesjie was in the habit of doing nearly everything Sara asked without question. For the truth was, Sara was more like her husband than she would admit, though her authority was built on a foundation of kindness rather than greed.
Picking up the quill, her eyes landed on Jan’s armor stand. A piece of folded parchment was tucked behind a strap on his breastplate.
“Now, what’s that?” she wondered.
43
Sara didn’t hear the whisper at first.
It was almost dawn, but the sleeping draught drowned her mind. One drop was all she ever took, though some days in Batavia, she had itched for more. Bad days, dark days, when the boredom had crushed her and she’d gazed out at the horizon, wishing she could choose any other life than the one that had chosen her.
On those days, she would stare at the vial for what felt like hours until eventually, she had Dorothea hide it. Far away from her longing.
Sara.
The whisper crawled up the walls and along the ceiling, running over her body on a thousand legs.
Blinking, she came awake, unsure at first what had woken her. With the deadlight across the porthole, the room was still dark, the hour uncertain. It could have been an hour or seven since she’d fallen asleep. It was stuffy, her mouth dry. She reached for the jug at her bedside.
Sara.
The whisper caused her to freeze, her skin prickling.
“Who’s there?” she demanded, blood thumping in her ears.
Your heart’s desire for a price.
The whisper was jagged, the words raking across her. She slowly felt around her bedside table for the dagger, her fingers curling around its hilt.
Last night, it had felt reassuringly heavy, but now, it just seemed clumsy.
Summoning her courage, she sprang off her bed, searching the four corners of the cabin. It was empty. Her only company was the moon, the tattered edges of the clouds giving it teeth.
What do you yearn for?
She rushed to the door, yanking it open.
A candle guttered in its alcove, revealing an empty corridor.
What do you yearn for?
Sara clutched her ears. “Go away!” she demanded.
What do you yearn for?
Freedom. She almost said it out loud. She almost shouted it. She wanted to go where she desired without being told she couldn’t. She wanted to decide each day how to live it. She wanted to pursue her talents without judgment and be the mother she wished to be, rather than the mother she had to be.
What do you yearn for? Tell me and I’ll depart.
“I want freedom,” she said quietly.
And what would you give for it?
Sara’s mouth opened, then shut. Even in the dark, even terrified, she was a merchant’s wife. She knew what bargaining sounded like.
“What would it cost?”
In his nightshirt, Vos clutched his hands to his ears, trying not to listen to the whisper.
She’ll reject you.
“She won’t,” he hissed through gritted teeth.
She’s laughing at you.
“No.”
Blood spilt and a bargain sealed, and she’ll be yours.
I would place the dagger under the bed.
Eyes wide in the candlelight, Lia held tight the model of the Saardam she was carving. It was such a simple offer, she thought. Such little effort for so great a reward.
What do you yearn for?
Johannes Wyck rolled off his mat and spun toward the door with his blade drawn, immediately alert.
A boatswain couldn’t afford to sleep deeply. Those who did usually died midsnore.
Wyck’s compartment was below the forecastle, where the crew took their recreation. He could hear the fiddle and the skitter of dice above him.
What do you yearn for?
“Who’s that?” he demanded, throwing open the door to the sailmaker’s compartment. That useless sod was snoring in his hammock, as usual.
Old Tom.
“Old Tom,” repeated Wyck, his expression changing. He went back into his compartment. It was pitch-black, but he didn’t mind the dark. They had an understanding.
“Aye, I know you of old, don’t I?” He tapped his eye patch. “Was wondering when you’d come find me, though I didn’t expect it to be like this.”
Silence met this declaration.
“Did you think I didn’t recognize you on deck?” gloated Wyck. “I kept your secret once and lost an eye for it. That was the last honorable thing I ever did. I know what you’re doing on this boat, and I reckon I know what you’re doing it for.”
Wyck turned in a circle, searching the cabin. There was a cunning leer on his face. Devils didn’t frighten him. Not after the life he’d led. There was no fresh sin to enjoy. No more depravities to tempt him with. He’d tried every terrible thing he could think to try, and he knew hell was waiting for him come what may. Now, he was on a different path.
The silence seemed to shift, gathering itself.
What do you yearn for?
“Something you’re going to give me.” He touched his eye patch again. “Something owed.”
Down on the orlop deck, Isabel rolled over on her mat, finding herself staring directly into Dorothea’s sleeping face. She was lit by the full moon, giving her a fey quality. Isabel half expected the older woman to wake up and offer her a wish.
The maid had moved her mat beside Isabel’s that afternoon, telling her she felt safer sleeping near a friendly face. Isabel had recognized the lie immediately. As Dorothea had said that afternoon, there were only two types. This one was sharp.
Sara must have sent her.
On the deck above, the two bells sounded. From the other side of the wooden curtain, she heard sailors shifting, grumbling, coming awake. Footsteps thudded down the steps as the watch changed.
Keeping her eyes on Dorothea’s face, she got up silently. From the hammocks and mats around her, snores issued, a few people spouting words in their sleep. The only light came from under the door to the gunpowder store, where the constable sang softly to himself.
She’d run into him last night and hadn’t stopped cursing herself since. That was likely why Dorothea now lay where she lay. She’d have to be more careful tonight. She had to be; otherwise, she’d have to stop going.
Offering Dorothea one last, cautious look, she disappeared down the staircase into the cargo hold.
Sara was stepping into the corridor to check on Lia when Creesjie flew out of her cabin and into her arms, sobbing.
“Old Tom whispered to me,” Creesjie cried in fright, clinging to her friend.
“That the boys would be spared if I killed your husband!” She heaved her chest, trying to gather her breath. “What did it want from you?”
“The same,” said Sara. “It even told me how to do it.”
“A dagger under his bunk,” repeated Creesjie, horrified. “If your husband summoned Old Tom, why does it want him dead?”
44
It was dawn when Arent finally returned to his berth, his father’s rosary twisted around his wrist. Reynier van Schooten had argued to throw it into the water, claiming it was cursed, but Sammy had stayed his hand, citing its importance to his investigation. He hadn’t offered any theory on how it had come to be on the Saardam. According to Arent’s uncle, this was the token taken by the assassin to prove he’d completed his contract and killed Arent’s father. That would put it in Casper van den Berg’s possession last, so how had it come to be in the animal pen?
These sorts of riddles delighted Sammy, but to Arent, it was like repeatedly lifting the same boulder, hoping each time to find something new beneath it.
Warmth touched his neck, a solitary ray of sunlight reaching for him. A yawl was being unlashed. Van Schooten had ordered it to row to the nearest ship in the fleet and tell them they were turning back as soon as the governor general gave the go-ahead. That ship would then dispatch its yawl to the next ship, and so on until the message had been passed across the remainder of the fleet.
As sailors untied the knots holding it in place, they gossiped about the ghost ship that had attacked last night, branding them with a demonic symbol. The story had already grown in the telling, he noticed. The Eighth Lantern was now an ethereal thing, hazy and indistinct, rather than simply distant, its crew comprising souls lost at sea. The mark of Old Tom had been burned into the Saardam, and rather than being static, the eye had blinked, its tail swishing, before it disappeared.
The gossip accompanied Arent to his berth. Tugging back the curtain, he stared in bewilderment at his hammock.
His surprise swiftly turned to rage. Somebody had used it as a privy.
Laughter echoed across the deck. Wyck and a few other sailors sat in the rigging, their faces twisted by glee. Here was the grievance he was meant to take to Larme, he realized.
“Could have found something a little cleaner,” mumbled Arent.
Marching out, he accosted Larme on the quarterdeck. “I’ve got a grievance,” he said without any preamble.
Larme blew out a breath. “How the hell did you learn about the law of grievance?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really, but there isn’t a man on this ship who’s short of one, so what makes yours special?”
“I hear it doesn’t have to be special, just a grievance.”
“Sailors only,” said Larme desperately, searching around to see who could hear them.
“A musketeer fought a sailor yesterday,” replied Arent.
“Over a damn hand plane, and a proper farce it was,” said Larme, relenting. “Who’s your grievance with?”
“Johannes Wyck.”
Larme stared at him disbelievingly. “Of all the men on the ship, you want to pick a fight with Johannes Wyck?”
“Seems he’s picking a fight with me.”
“Do you have any proof of the offense?”
“Only his laughter.”
Larme whistled at the rigging, summoning Wyck. He scurried down with surprising agility, wearing that familiar scowl beneath his eye patch.
“Did you shit on this giant’s hammock?” asked Larme, without preamble.
“Weren’t me,” replied Wyck.
“Shake his hand and call this entire thing over with then,” demanded Larme.
“I have a grievance,” repeated Arent stubbornly. “By ship’s law, I’m demanding fists on the forecastle.”
“There’ll be no penalty,” warned Larme. “You’ve no proof, so I can’t—”
“No penalty!” exclaimed Wyck incredulously. “His size is the penalty.”
“Give over. You’re not so small,” argued Larme. “It’ll be the mainmast and the mizzenmast swinging punches at each other.”
Wyck took a step back, holding his hands up as if fending off an assault.
“You’ve heard the stories. He’s the hero of bloody Breda. Fought off an entire Spanish army by himself.”
“Should have thought about that when you were using his bunk as a privy. Might have caused you to clench up.”
“I want an equalizer,” demanded Wyck, staring at them stubbornly. “Otherwise, I’m not doing it.”
Larme glared at him. “He’s called the right of grievance.”
“And I told you I ain’t done nothing. You’re putting me in a fight with a bear without any proof. Ain’t fair.”
Larme scratched under his armpit, obviously wishing he’d been a few minutes quicker to his berth. “What do you want?” he asked.
“Blades.”
Arent’s spine turned to ice. Why would Wyck change the bargain? Losing convincingly was a damn sight harder when metal was involved. There was a lot more bleeding, for starters.
The boatswain’s soot-colored eye bored into him. “What do you say, soldier? Make it fair?”
“Blades is fine,” agreed Arent, uncertain what else he could do. “When?”
“Dusk, after we’ve dropped anchor.” Larme shook his head. “You’re daft bastards, the both of you. I’ll be glad when one of you is dead.”
45
The congregation muttered in confusion. They’d gathered afore the mainmast, awaiting a sermon from the predikant, but he hadn’t arrived. Isabel had gone to rouse him, but his hammock was empty.
Cold rain was beginning to fall. Cracks of sunshine could be seen here and there, but they couldn’t break through the blanket of clouds.
It was an ill omen, they whispered.
Standing next to Creesjie and Lia, Sara watched the congregation become restless. A devil had whispered to her in the night. It had whispered to Sara and Lia, and it had no doubt whispered to these people as well. From the guilty looks on their faces, it was obvious that they’d been tempted.
She wondered if they’d been given the same offer as her, Creesjie, and Lia.
I will place the dagger under his bunk. That was what the voice had said. Her eyes traveled beyond the mainmast. Sailors watched them, their gazes predatory. How many of them had come out this morning, expecting to see the governor general among the congregation? How many of them were thinking of killing him? What had they been offered to do it? Watching their eyes paw Creesjie and Lia, she suspected she knew the answer.
Johannes Wyck was up on the forecastle deck. She didn’t know why he’d chosen that spot. He wouldn’t have been able to hear the sermon, though it gave him a good view over the passengers.
Had he heard Old Tom’s voice last night? Part of her assumed Wyck and the devil were in more regular contact than that.
Isabel pushed through the crowd toward Sara. “I’ve searched the orlop deck,” she said, flustered. “I can’t find Kers. Nobody’s seen him.”
“Arent’s berth is beside his,” said Sara. “Perhaps he knows something.”
Creesjie coughed, gesturing for Sara to delay a moment. “Before you talk to Arent, I have something you should see. Last night, in your husband’s cabin, I spotted a parchment folded up in his breastplate. You know I’ve been curious as to why Pipps is imprisoned. Well…” She handed over the piece of vellum. “I copied this while Jan slept.”
Sara read, as rain blotted the words.
Put manacles on Samuel Pipps. I’ve come across accusations that he’s a spy for the English. Not only a traitor to our noble enterprise, but our nation. It’s not yet common knowledge, but I’ve verified the claims and w
ill put them before my fellows soon. Execution awaits. Drag him before the Gentlemen 17 and your position will be vastly improved. Do these things and come quickly.
Yours in expectation,
Casper van den Berg
“Pipps is a spy?” gasped Sara.
“You can’t show this to Arent,” warned Creesjie. “If your husband were to find out I was stealing documents from his cabin, he’d throw me over the side of the ship.”
“Then I’ll devise some other lie to explain it,” said Sara. “Arent has to know about this, Creesjie. He worships Pipps.”
They went to the compartment under the half deck, but Sara found herself hovering on the threshold. Her husband had strictly forbidden her from seeing Arent or talking to him again. She’d given him a double dose of her draught, which meant he should still be asleep. Even so, it was dangerous to defy him so openly.
Vos could be abroad, and his eyes were practically her husband’s.
Her heart tugged her forward and her fear backward. If she were to carry on investigating Old Tom, she’d need a way to go about inconspicuously. She looked at Lia. “Would you go to the helm, dear heart, and keep watch for your father, Vos, or Drecht?”
Lia grinned. “This is like being in one of Pipps’s stories,” she said, hurrying toward her position.
The curtain surrounding Arent’s berth was open, revealing him snoring on a mat. The floor around him was wet with recent cleaning, but a faint odor still hung in the air.
“Oh my, the fun you’d have,” said Creesjie, eyeing Arent’s huge chest and thick arms.
Sara blushed. “Arent,” she said softly, trying to wake him.
He didn’t stir.
“Arent!” Sara kicked the bottom of his foot impatiently. “Wake up.”
“Isssss early,” he slurred, moving his leg out of range. “I only just…was asleep.”
The Devil and the Dark Water Page 25
