by Cory Barclay
“Where are you headed, fellow?” he asked the first man he reached.
From the deck of the Pride, Rowaine aimed her pistols in the general direction of the other ship. Then she flinched and her pistols were aimed at Captain Galager.
She had a clear shot at the back of his head. I could end this now, she thought, but shook the idea from her mind. If they were in the midst of battle, with bullets flying and swords swinging, it would be one thing, but this was a peaceful boarding. She didn’t feel like dying quite yet, which would surely be the outcome if her guns were the only ones firing and the captain was the only target.
“W-we’re going to Spain, sir,” the frightened man said.
“What are you transporting?”
“Linens, my lord.”
They must be headed for the English Channel. Poor bastards were so close.
“Where is your captain?” Captain Galager asked.
A man emerged from the crowd. He was calm, tall, and stiff, with a long mustache and a neat beret on his head. “I am the captain—”
Captain Galager speared the man in the neck before he could finish his sentence. Galager twisted the sword. The man stuttered and coughed, the blood streaming down his chin. His eyes blinked a few times before he crumpled to the ground.
Everyone on the trade galleon gasped and cried out.
A few of the pirates from the Lion’s Pride chuckled, but no one louder than First Mate Adrian Coswell, who let out a bellowing cackle.
“For firing on my ship,” Captain Galager said. He watched the huddled crowd of tradesmen while stepping over the blood pooling near the dead man’s head. “Speaking of, where is the man who actually pulled the trigger?”
The crowd parted. A man was brought to Galager, arms held by two other men. He kicked and screamed the entire way, tears streaming down his face.
The two men gave the culprit to Coswell as Galager pointed to his first mate with his bloody sword and said, “Set him on his knees.”
Coswell pushed the weeping man down. The man wedged his hands together. “Please,” he begged, “my lord, I was only following orders!” The man was more a boy.
“I know, son,” the captain said in a low voice. He lifted his sword and sliced down into the boy’s skull. The boy’s crying stopped, he fell forward, his face landing on the deck with a thud.
Rowaine grimaced and closed her eyes. She could hear the maniacal laughter of First Mate Coswell echoing from the other ship.
“Cos,” Galager said, wiping his bloody blade on the dead boy’s shirt, “find the linens. The rest of you, back to the Pride.”
“W-what about us, my lord?” asked a brave man from the trade boat.
The captain sighed. “How many lifeboats do you have?”
“One, sir.”
“Well, I count about twenty of you,” Galager said, pointing his sword at the heads on board. “So I guess it’ll be a tight fit, eh?”
Panic erupted on the ship, the tradesmen pushing and shoving each other as they all raced toward the single lifeboat.
Galager stomped his boot on the deck. “Not until we’re done getting your loot, you shits! I don’t care what you pitiful rats do after that. But if you cause a ruckus while my men are working, I’ll take your lifeboat and you can all swim to Spain!”
Everyone on the galleon stopped moving.
It didn’t take long for the crew of the Lion’s Pride to raid the tradeship. They were a skilled, experienced group, after all. They boarded the Pride with barrels full of fine silks and linens.
Within minutes the raid was over. Captain Galager returned to the bow of the Pride as the ship slowly rocked away from the galleon.
“Just remember,” the captain said to the tradesmen as the Pride floated away, “Captain Galager spared your lives. Don’t forget it, and don’t forget to tell your friends!”
He broke out in laughter and spun away.
As the Lion’s Pride departed with its booty, Rowaine could hear the screams and hollers and gunshots from the other ship’s crew, now transformed into bloodthirsty beasts, killing and maiming one another in their desperation to find room aboard their small lifeboat.
Rowaine figured the night was over.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
After the raid, a celebration was the usual order of business. But this time things took a very different turn.
“A job well done, men, but I’m afraid our good fortune has been sullied by an . . . unfortunate discovery,” Captain Galager announced. “It’s come to my attention, mates, that we have . . .” he waved a hand in the air as he paced the bow of the ship, as if searching for the right word. When he turned back to the assembled group of about thirty, he said, “We have . . . rebels in our midst, boys.”
A wave of murmurs and whispers swept through the gathered crowd.
With a furtive glance, Rowaine squeezed Dominic’s hand, gulping loudly.
“Isn’t that right, Cos?”
“That’s right, sir,” First Mate Coswell assured.
The captain held his cutlass out, point-first at the crowd, moving the blade from face to face, all eyes following its tip.
When it stopped, everyone turned.
To face Rowaine and Dominic.
Rowaine began to sweat. Thoughts raced through her head. Who betrayed me?
Quickly replaced with more immediate and horrid concerns.
“That’s right, gents. We have a mutiny on our hands! And to imagine, it stems from our own lovely navigator . . . Rowaine Donnelly!”
“Damn bitch,” one man shouted.
“Traitor!”
“Awful whore! Let’s all have at her!”
Two men grabbed her arms. With a cry, her hand was ripped from Dominic’s.
“Now, now, gentlemen”—Galager put a hand to his chest in mock pain—“surely, I am heartbroken. But I can’t be that surprised, can I? That’s what I get for being generous enough to bring a treacherous, diabolical . . . she-devil on board! Whatever her reasons—and be assured, I’ll find them out soon enough—this cannot stand.”
Rowaine gaped helplessly at the angry sneers from the filthy men. Her gaze locked onto Doctor Penderwick near the back of the crowd, his beady eyes closed, his head bent downward. She next saw Daxton’s big, shiny head, his frown green and sickly.
As Dominic Baker was pulled away from Rowaine, he cried out.
“Bring the bitch here!” First Mate Coswell screamed.
The pirates cheered.
“Wait!” Captain Galager shouted.
Everyone quieted, a few heads tilting in confusion.
“That’s too easy,” the captain clarified. “I can hurt her all I want, but why not take what she loves most, first? Then I’ll deal with the red-headed whore.”
A cruel smirk grew on the captain’s pocked face. His sword moved to Rowaine’s left, and everyone’s eyes again followed the blade. “Bring me that man she holds so dear!”
The sword pointed at Dominic.
“No!” Rowaine screamed. “He’s done nothing!”
The crewmen laughed, grabbing Dominic by the arms and legs.
“Rowaine!” he cried, trying to reach out to touch her hand. He was pulled away and pushed to his knees in front of the captain.
“Sir,” he pleaded, “why are you doing this? I’m your cabin boy! Your messenger!”
Captain Galager nodded calmly. “Yes, Mister Baker, which is why I’m so crushed that you didn’t warn me of this treachery. So, let’s go to my cabin, boy, and maybe you can earn your forgiveness.”
Captain Galager grabbed Dominic’s arm and yanked the young man to his feet. People snickered as the captain passed by the parting crowd, ambling down the stairs.
Rowaine felt tears trickle down her cheeks. She closed her eyes.
It didn’t take long for the screams to begin below deck. First loud, then muffled. Half the crew cheered and laughed; the other half remained awkwardly silent, their heads bowed.
&nbs
p; The image of the young girl from the past flashed through Rowaine’s mind, memories of those tortuous shrieks from the captain’s cabin drowning out Dominic’s muffled screams. Rowaine clenched her jaw. Tears of sorrow became tears of hatred, tears of rage. She tightened her fists so hard she felt the blood seep from her nails and fingers.
A few minutes later, Captain Galager appeared, tightening his belt. He gave a large, fake yawn. Some of the crew chuckled.
He then pointed at Rowaine. “Now, bring the girl here,” he said, his voice dark and menacing. “And take her guns away.”
Rowaine stood stunned and petrified. Her tears had stopped, replaced by a stone-cold expression of fear and anger.
She was dragged below deck, to the abyss of the captain’s room. Dominic was huddled in a corner, naked, his legs drawn to his chest, his face nestled between his knees.
Rowaine almost broke down as she eyed the bloody sheets on the bed.
Captain Galager unbuckled his belt and threw it against the wall. With a cruel grin he motioned for Rowaine to get on the bed. He started to untie the cords of her leather shirt.
The screaming started. High-pitched, loud, and frequent. Many of the pirates chuckled and cheered, while the others didn’t.
Five minutes later, the screams and cheers ceased. The boat grew quiet. Only the gentle sound of waves lapping against the ship’s hull remained.
Footsteps sounded below deck. The crewmen started hooting.
Then the chatter abruptly stopped. Heads tilted in confusion.
Rowaine stood in the doorway.
Several crewmembers drew blades and guns.
But Daxton Wallace was too quick.
He, with his crew of carpenters behind him, was upon the vicious men in seconds, his father’s sword inches from First Mate Coswell’s neck.
Meanwhile, Alfred Eckstein had a gun pointed at the back of another man’s head. He clicked the matchlock.
Coswell, praying to live another day, urged his crewmen not to make any hasty decisions.
Even the timid surgeon, Jerome Penderwick, had two pistols aimed at two different men.
The scene was almost absurd, the ship at a total standstill, guns and swords pointing in all directions. No one dared move a muscle until everyone figured out what was what.
Rowaine’s right, bloody hand held a small knife. In her left was something else. She dropped it onto the deck. It landed with a grotesque plop.
“Your captain,” she said, nudging her chin toward the bloody thing.
Captain’s Galager’s severed penis.
CHAPTER TWO
SYBIL
County of Norfolk, East Anglia, England
Sybil Nicolaus rested near the window of her small house, smiling as she watched her child roll on the ground. She leaned over and tickled him on the stomach, causing the toddler to belch and giggle. At two-and-a-half, Peter Sieghart was the pride of Sybil’s life.
She peered up from Peter, out the window, to the flat, rural countryside of Norfolk County. The springtime grass fluttered from a light wind as far as her eyes could see. She watched a group of men painting a four-walled structure a little ways from her house. Her husband, Dieter Nicolaus, was one of the men, laying tile on the roof of the building.
The front door of her house creaked open and a young man strolled in. Of medium height with a wiry frame and shaggy hair, he wore a frown on his face.
“Is there a problem, Martin?” Sybil asked. “How are the cattle?”
Martin Achterberg was sixteen years old and Sybil’s dear friend. Several years earlier, when just barely in his teens, he’d almost become her groom in an arranged marriage, though she now viewed him more like a younger brother. Sybil often wondered about her real younger brother, though she kept those thoughts to herself.
“A slight one, Beele,” Martin said, rubbing the back of his neck. “The young calf is having trouble feeding from Lily. She might have a bad leg.” Martin eyed the floor, likely worried he might be blamed for something he had no control over.
“Is there anything we can do?”
“I plan to splint her leg. Only time will tell, I’m afraid.”
Sybil sighed. “Very well. Start on dinner, will you? I’m going to bring the men some refreshments.”
Martin proceeded to the far end of the room where he started cutting potatoes. Without glancing up, he said, “I’d like to help at the church some day.”
“We really need help with the livestock, Martin. They are just as important as Dieter’s church.”
Martin nodded glumly.
Once outside, Sybil breathed in deeply, letting the wind caress her face. She filled a bucket by the door with cool water, then headed down the dirt road to the structure.
Dieter was climbing down from the roof. Shirtless, his tanned skin glistened from the sweat of a long day’s work. To Sybil, his lean arms seemed to grow more muscular each day from his work on the church.
“You look like quite a man, my love,” Sybil said, handing him the bucket.
“I’m sorry for being indecent,” Dieter said with a smirk.
Sybil laughed, running her hand through his short, brown beard. “Please, don’t apologize. The women at court would be in an absolute tizzy if they saw you like this. You look quite . . . alluring.”
Dieter wiped his forehead with his forearm, trying to hide his flushed cheeks. “I don’t care about those women.” He put his hands on his hips, took a few deep breaths, then turned to his church. “We’re finally almost done with it,” he said. “We should have the first layer of paint done by tomorrow. Then we’ll put up the cross.”
As they spoke, the other men kept working, hammering nails, positioning posts, and painting.
“I’m very glad for you,” Sybil said. “It’s a great accomplishment.”
“Be glad for us, Beele. It’s what you wanted too, yes? Aren’t you still planning things?”
“I have some ideas.”
Dieter cupped his mouth with his hands. “Grant, David, Leon, my wife has brought water.”
The three workers let out sighs and grunts, then rushed over, voicing their thanks to Dieter’s pretty wife while scooping up large spoonfuls of water.
“How are you boys?” Sybil asked. They were all neighbors, and had volunteered to help build the church without pay.
The Frenchman, Leon, spoke in a thick accent. “Very well, Madame Nicolaus. Claire will be thrilled to hear that our church is almost complete.”
Sybil curtsied. “Give Claire my thanks for letting us use you, monsieur.” She scanned the men’s faces one by one. “Make sure you tell your families they are all invited to our feast once the church is finished.”
With the sun setting, the three men thanked Dieter and Sybil and took their leave, walking back toward their houses and families. After they’d left, Sybil asked, “When do you hope to have first Mass?”
“This Sunday.”
“That’s in three days.”
“That’s why we’re working extra time tomorrow.”
“Martin says our calf is having problems feeding.”
Dieter crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s a shame.”
As the couple spoke of household matters, a carriage rolled up the road toward them. In the year Sybil had been in Norfolk, she hadn’t seen a single horse-drawn carriage in the countryside.
“That’s an odd sight,” she said.
Several yards from the church, the carriage stopped. A middle-aged man hopped out. He wore a purple vest and puffy shirt, looking nothing like the farmers Sybil had grown to know. His cheeks were high and pointed.
The man bowed. “Good day. I am Clarence Bailey, the reeve of this land.” He spread his arms out wide, gesturing at the rural shire. “Though he’s not with me now, I believe you’ve met my tax collector, Timothy Davis.”
Dieter put a shirt over his head. “Yes, my lord. We’re surprised—but pleased—to finally meet you. Mister Davis seems like a good man, and a fair
taxman.”
“Indeed.” Reeve Bailey had sly eyes. “I apologize for not making your acquaintance earlier in the year. Times are busy. But I had to come down when I heard you were building . . . this.” He eyed the church in a strange way. Sybil couldn’t decide whether he approved or not.
“Worry not, my lord,” Dieter said. “You would be quite welcome at Sunday’s Mass for your generous hospitality—for allowing us to live on your land.”
The reeve beamed. “I would very much enjoy that, as would my wife.” He reached into his vest and pulled out a piece of paper. Perusing the paper with scrunched eyebrows, he stopped when he came to a certain line, exclaiming, “Ah, here it is. It says in my docket that you two are from London.” His eyes moved quickly from Sybil’s to Dieter’s. “But you seem to have quite an accent, sir.”
Dieter hesitated for a moment. “Sybil and I originate from Germany, my lord. We escaped persecutors and shipped over to London.”
“Ah, so you are Strangers!”
Dieter gave the reeve a sideways glance. “Excuse me, sir?”
Bailey coughed into his hand. “Twenty-five years ago, Norfolk was a refuge for people fleeing Catholic oppression from overseas. The refugees were mostly French Huguenots and Belgian Walloons. They were called Elizabeth’s Strangers, and Norfolk became their haven.”
“Ah,” Dieter said, scratching his cheek.
The reeve smiled broadly. “So it seems you are a new generation of Strangers! Quite good, sir, quite good. And how did you fancy England’s capital?”
“I didn’t care for it,” Sybil said, stepping in. In truth, she’d hated London. The bustling hub of English urbanity reminded her of her chaotic life in Germany, which she’d come to England to escape.
“Excuse my wife’s brash tone, my lord,” Dieter said, holding out his hand. Sybil gave him a nasty glare. “We were welcomed, at first, by the lords and ladies of London. But we both felt strangely out of place.”
The place reminded me of the nobles and ballrooms in Bedburg, Sybil thought, shaking her head. And Johannes . . .
