by Kevin Sands
She didn’t respond.
Tom was disappointed. “You don’t speak any Dutch at all?”
I searched my memory. “I might know the word ‘Dutch.’ ”
“What’s that?”
“Nederlands.”
Moppet drew a breath.
I leaned in once more. I pointed at her. “Nederlands?”
She nodded. “Nederlands,” she whispered.
I stood, amazed. “No wonder she doesn’t speak to us. She’s not just scared. She hasn’t understood a word we’ve said.”
Sally frowned. “We’re at war with the Netherlands. What’s a little Dutch girl doing wandering alone in England?”
“Maybe she was shipwrecked, like us?” Tom said.
Or maybe . . . ? “Wait,” I said. “If she’s speaking Dutch, and she’s not saying ‘Puritan,’ what’s she actually saying?”
The closest language I knew was German, and while there were big differences between them, some of the words would be similar. Puritan, I thought. Suppose someone said that to me, speaking German. Then that would be . . .
Wise tugged on my sleeve. I turned to see he was still kneeling in the snow. While we’d been talking to Moppet, he’d drawn something else. He pointed to it.
And I understood.
CHAPTER
41
“THAT’S IT,” I SAID. “THAT’S it.”
“What?” Tom said. “The shipwreck?”
“No. What Moppet’s been saying. It’s not ‘Puritan.’ It’s Piraten. In German, that means ‘pirates.’ It’s pirates.”
Wise nodded, pointing at Moppet. We stood there, stunned.
“Pirates are kidnapping the children?” Tom said. “Can that be true?”
“It would certainly explain what’s been troubling Moppet,” I said. “Think: When did she get the most scared?”
He looked up, surprised. “When we went down to the Blood and Barrel. By the docks.”
“Right. It wasn’t Hook Reddale. You’d think the home of the White Lady would have frightened her the most. Yet she wasn’t scared at all—because she couldn’t understand what we were saying. She didn’t know it was supposed to be haunted. No, it was the Blood and Barrel, with Captain Haddock and his crew. Nothing frightened her more than them.”
“It isn’t Captain Haddock that’s kidnapping children, is it?” Sally said.
“It couldn’t be,” I said. “Moppet would have screamed blue murder if we’d taken her to the same pirates that had snatched her.”
Robert agreed. “I know Roger Haddock. He may not be a good man, but he’s not a bad one. And he certainly wouldn’t kidnap our children. He’s absolutely loyal to England.”
The farmer looked thoughtfully at Wise. “If it’s really pirates taking the children, then it could only be Barbary pirates. They’ve raided our coasts for decades.” He frowned. “But this is not how they do it. Corsairs attack entire towns. They don’t hide and snatch children in secret.”
“Wait,” Tom said. “If it’s pirates, why haven’t we seen their ship?”
“There are hidden coves all along the coast. If their ship can sail the shallows, they could have tucked in anywhere for the winter. Unless you stumbled upon them by accident, you’d never find them.”
“Then how are we supposed to stop them?”
I was fairly certain that, wherever they were holed up, that’s where Moppet had escaped from. But I doubted she’d be able to lead us back. She’d been wandering for days, lost, before Wise found her. She’d never remember where the pirates’ cove was.
Which left us with only one alternative. “We have to go back and see Julian.”
“Julian?” Sally said. “I thought it was Barbary pirates.”
“He has to be working with them. He’s the only one who knew we were going to Hook Reddale. No one else could have laid that trap.”
Robert looked confused. When I told him what we’d discovered, he could barely believe it. “Why would Baronet Darcy help Barbary pirates steal our children?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But Julian’s the key to figuring it out. If Sybil was right, and he’s not truly evil, perhaps we can play upon his guilt, get him to confess. I just wish we had some evidence to help break him.”
“What about his footprints?” Sally said. “The tracks at Hook Reddale were made by hobnailed boots. If we can match his soles to the prints . . .” Sally trailed off as Wise and Robert pointed to their tracks in the snow. Both of them were hobnailed.
“Most people round these parts have them,” Robert said. “Helps with the weather.”
But Wise regarded me thoughtfully.
“You have an idea?” I said.
Wise stepped back and unslung his bow. He half drew it, aimed at me, though there was no arrow in the string. He pointed at me, and then his own eyes. Did you see the man who shot at you?
“Just his cloak,” I said. He kept his hood up the whole time.”
Wise pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back. He held it out.
“We definitely saw the arrows.” A little too closely.
He pointed at the head, then at the fletching.
“Yes, we saw it. It was a broadhead, for hunting, and the fletching . . .” I stopped. “The fletching.”
“What about it?” Tom said.
“The arrows Julian shot at us at Hook Reddale. The fletching was bronze. Turkey feather. If Julian’s arrows match the fletching, that’s our evidence.”
Sally objected. “He can’t be the only person in Devonshire using turkey feathers for fletching.”
“Then we press him on it. Or threaten him with Lord . . .” I glanced at Robert. “Uh . . . my grandfather. But we may not need to. If he’s really not wicked, he should feel guilty about what he’s done. Let’s see how he reacts.”
I asked Robert for rations to take with us on our trek back to the Darcy estate. When he left to get them, I turned to Wise. “You’ve met Julian Darcy, right?”
He nodded.
“Would you be willing to come with us to his estate? It might help convince him to confess if someone he knows appeals to him.”
Wise’s eyes went wide. He put his hands up and backed away, shaking his head.
I didn’t blame him. He’d been terrified when he’d heard Moppet say “pirates”; I couldn’t imagine the nightmares he must have about being a slave.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to calm him. “It was wrong of me to ask.”
Wise bowed his head, looking ashamed.
I put a hand on his arm. “You’re a good man. You not only saved my life, you’ve helped discover what’s been happening to the children. We’ll get them back, I promise.”
He smiled gratefully. But he still looked ashamed.
And afraid.
• • •
We made to leave for the Darcy estate right away. Wise stopped us, gesturing. It took me a while to figure out what he was trying to communicate. When I did, it made me pause.
I’d forgotten. “Julian won’t be at home now. He spends the day outdoors.”
I cursed. We could have gone anyway and waited for him to return, but then I’d have to spend time with Sir Edmund. Never mind that I didn’t trust him. I didn’t want him anywhere near us when we confronted his son.
So we waited. We timed our departure to arrive at the Darcy estate an hour before dusk. Then we hid ourselves among the trees and watched carefully for Julian’s return.
Time passed slowly, the cold seeping through our coats. Still we waited, until—
There. A lone figure in a cloak, trekking along the riverbank, turned and made for the estate.
“Is that him?” Tom whispered.
I couldn’t tell. The cloak looked lighter in color than our would-be assassin’s, but the archer had been shaded by the woods. He made his way to the main entrance and opened the door without knocking. Just before it closed, he shook off his hood.
It was him. We rushed to the door. Cooper
welcomed us, as usual. “Sir Edmund is in the drawing room.”
“Actually,” I said, “has Julian returned? We were hoping to speak to him.”
“Certainly, my lord. He’ll be changing now. If you’d like to join Sir Edmund, I’ll tell Master Julian you’ve—”
“That’s all right; we’ll see him ourselves.”
I brushed past the surprised steward and hurried upstairs. Everyone came with me this time, Tom and Moppet included. I didn’t want Eternity anywhere but by my side.
I didn’t knock at Julian’s door. I just burst into his room like we were old friends. “Julian!” I said cheerfully.
He stood there, startled, right in the middle of changing. He was naked from the waist up, his breeches around his ankles, wearing only his drawers.
“Christopher,” he said breathlessly. “And Lady Grace—oh my.” He turned scarlet as he hurriedly pulled up his breeches. He grabbed a shirt laid out on his bed and turned away to put it on. That’s when I saw them.
His back was covered in scars. A crisscross of knotted flesh marked his skin, evidence of wounds old and healed. But some of the cuts were fresh, swelling, oozing an angry red. I could see the scabs where the blood had clotted. Someone had flogged him, mercilessly. A lifetime of cruelty, etched forever into his back.
Sally’s hand flew to her lips. Tom looked away, horrified. Moppet hugged his leg.
I couldn’t help but stare. And as I did, a memory returned. I remembered a place of cold stone, of gray walls and darkened rooms. It was
home?
Not home, Master Benedict said
and no, it wasn’t. Not anymore. But it had been, years ago. Cripplegate. The orphanage, where I’d lived.
Since you were a baby, Sally had told me.
I remembered it. I remembered the sternness of the masters, and the petty cruelty of the other boys. I remembered the pain of the beatings, for things done and things not done. I remembered my prayers. How I prayed for God to send me a family, how I promised Him anything, everything, if He’d send someone who might love me.
And I remembered thinking: Forever. This is for forever.
Then Master Benedict came and rescued me. I remembered that now. I remembered him. But I couldn’t see his face.
Why couldn’t I see his face?
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Julian mumbled. He buttoned his shirt, still turned away. His scars were covered now, but I felt a great swell of pity for the boy. I had to remind myself: He tried to kill you.
Julian buttoned his doublet, still babbling. “I apologize,” he said, and he did look sorry.
That’s not just an apology, I thought. That’s guilt.
And fear.
“I was just out exploring,” Julian said. “I found a new cave; I never thought I’d find one in the western hills, but there it was—”
I cut him off, smiling, as friendly as could be. “Did you still want to learn the sword?”
He looked confused. “I . . . yes. Really? Now? Yes!” His expression kept changing, like he couldn’t decide what to feel. Embarrassed? Excited? Friendly? Afraid?
I pretended not to notice. “Then let’s go to the armory. We can choose our blades.”
The thought of swordplay seemed to resolve whatever struggle was going on inside. He clapped his hands, like a delighted child, then hurried from his room and bounded down the steps.
We had to run to keep up with him. He sped past startled servants to the estate’s tower. By the time we got inside, he’d disappeared.
“Up here,” he called, poking his head out from the second floor.
We went up, cautiously. But he wasn’t holding a weapon, and there wasn’t any hostility in his eyes. He still hadn’t realized what I planned.
“Here they are,” he said, and he waved his hands around the room.
The second floor of the tower was where the Darcys kept their arms. The weapons, in racks around the curved walls, reminded me of the knight’s tower in Hook Reddale. Of course, these were in much better shape, and there were fewer of them: four swords, five halberds, three longbows, two pistols, and a single musket.
“They’re not much,” Julian said apologetically. “Nothing so nice as your man’s sword. But they’ll be good enough, won’t they?”
I froze. Julian had just made a terrible mistake.
Tom was carrying Eternity slung over his back, as usual. But the sword was still in its scabbard, and Tom hadn’t removed the sheath that covered the hilt.
So how did Julian know how nice the blade was?
There was only one place he could have seen it: in Hook Reddale, as we’d entered the tower. All doubts vanished. Julian was our would-be assassin.
The rest of the evidence was on the wall. Beneath the longbows, slung low from a hook, were a pair of quivers, a score of arrows filling each one. The fletching was unmistakable: turkey feathers, bronze.
Julian reached to take a sword from the rack. I bumped him out of the way. “Allow me.”
He looked a little confused at how I’d pushed him. When I turned to him, sword in hand, fear flickered across his face.
There wasn’t any more reason to delay. “Julian?”
“Yes?”
“Why did you try to kill me?”
I expected him to deny it. I expected him to protest, to shout, be surprised, be confused, angry, hurt. Instead, he wilted with undisguised guilt.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
His confession caught me off guard. “You admit you shot at us at Hook Reddale?”
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“And the children . . . you’ve been taking them, too?”
He turned white, so pale, I thought he might faint. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I couldn’t understand his reaction. Had he gone mad? “If you’re sorry,” I said, “why would you do it?”
He looked so small. “I didn’t want to. I swear I didn’t. He made us.”
“Who made you?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Julian—”
“Everyone’s going to die.” He wrung his hands, eyes shut, as if not seeing would make everything just a dream. “Everyone’s going to die.”
I grabbed his arm. “Listen to me. We can protect you.”
“You can’t. You can’t. He’ll kill us all.”
“Who will kill us? Your father? Álvaro? The pirates? Who?”
“Julian?”
I spun at the sound of the voice. Sir Edmund limped up the stairs, all his weight on Álvaro. Cooper trailed behind them, poking his head just above the floor.
Sir Edmund stared at us. He saw the sword in my hand, his son in tears. “What’s happening?” he said, his voice tight.
There was no time for an answer. Because just then, Álvaro’s eyes went wide. He cursed.
And suddenly Moppet was screaming.
CHAPTER
42
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—
Her shriek pierced my ears like a knife. Tom jumped, startled out of his skin. Sir Edmund stumbled backward and nearly fell down the stairs; only Álvaro’s grip saved him from tumbling. As it was, he knocked the Spaniard off balance.
Sally whirled, face white. Against the wall, Julian cringed. I backed away, gripping the hilt of my sword so hard the leather dug into my skin. And through it all came Moppet’s scream.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—
The sound was the worst thing I’d ever heard. It was pure terror, a nightmare made flesh, so anguished it shook me to the core. It evoked something primal, deep inside; all I could do was freeze, all I wanted to do was flee. So when the attack came, I didn’t see it happen until too late.
Álvaro shoved Sir Edmund off him. He glared at Moppet with such hatred that it made me shiver. Then he reached for his belt and drew a knife.
I thought he was going to throw it at the girl. So did Tom; he scooped her up and turned, offering his back as a target inste
ad. We were both wrong.
Álvaro spun on his heel. Sally screamed.
“Christopher!”
Then he hurled his dagger.
I saw it coming. Time seemed to slow, the knife hanging in the air. Why is he attacking me? I thought crazily, and in the same moment, I understood: the sword. I was the one holding the sword.
I flinched, eyes shutting involuntarily. So I didn’t see Sally throw her hand out. I only felt her ram into me, pushing me aside, and then I heard her howl in pain.
We fell. She hit the ground next to me, holding her left wrist, staring in shock at the blade, the blood, the dagger punched through her palm.
Álvaro cursed, this time in Spanish. He reached for a halberd, the closest weapon on the wall. I tried to scramble to my feet, but Sally had landed on my legs, pinning me to the stone. I struggled to get out from under her.
“Tom!” I shouted.
Tom pressed Moppet against the wall, the girl still screaming in paralyzed terror. When he turned, he looked so angry. I’d never seen him so angry.
He roared. He charged Álvaro, hands outstretched, just as the halberd came free. My guts churned as Álvaro whirled, slicing the wickedly hooked weapon toward my friend.
But the polearm was too long for close-quarter combat. By the time he brought the blade around, Tom had stepped inside the arc. The pole hit him, thumping hard against the side of his chest. Fueled by fury, Tom ignored it, driving forward. He wrapped the Spaniard in a bear hug and lifted him from the ground.
They slammed into the weapon rack. It cracked, sending two more halberds clattering to the floor. Then they fell, too, disappearing as they tumbled down the stairs.
“Tom!” I wriggled out from under Sally, began to rush after him. Then, in the corner of my eye, I saw something move.
Julian, I thought, and I turned. He’d recovered, too, and now he pulled a longbow from the rack.
I launched myself at him, sword still in hand. He drew an arrow from one of the quivers on the wall. He’d just begun to nock it when he saw me coming.
His eyes widened. “No—!”
I cracked him on the temple with the pommel. His head snapped back, crunching against the wall, and he slid down, bow slipping from his hands.
