by Clare Sager
The gavel hammered. “If Lady Vice has nothing further to add in her defence?”
She blinked at him. What could she say? FitzRoy, Blackwood, that damn officer leaning over the clerk’s shoulder – they had it all sewn up, didn’t they? As neat and final as a dead sailor sewn into his hammock ready to be tipped over the side.
She shook her head.
“Very good,” the judge said with a brief smile, “no sense in delaying the inevitable and wasting the Court’s time.” He nodded in approval. “Then it seems my verdict is a straightforward one. I find the accused guilty on all counts.”
Guilty. Her skin crawled.
Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong. Maybe this was just punishment for all those years before the letter of marque.
“And to the matter of sentencing, this too is straightforward. With no extenuating circumstances to consider, I sentence you, Lady Vice, or whoever you really are, to be taken in one week to Southsea beach. There you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead.”
The blood roared in her ears. But, no, she’d heard him correctly. Hanged. But – but hadn’t the others …
No. They’d blamed her for their actions. That explained their lenient sentences. She was the scapegoat, she had to hang to allow them to escape with only a spell in the stocks.
Bastards. Pricks. Wild Hunt take the lot of them and chase them for all time.
And with Perry possibly captured or else just ignorant of what was happening, there was no possibility of rescue.
Of course not. No sense in relying on anyone else to save her.
She could do this herself.
Seven days. She’d have to make a plan and escape by then. The weather – maybe there was a storm nearby she could call in. A lightning strike could cause a fire, a distraction, then –
“And until that time,” the judge said, lifting his chin, “you’re to be kept in a gibbet cage on Portsea Castle walls as an example to others who might follow in your heinous footsteps.”
Something like nails dragging down the inside of her skin froze her.
A gibbet.
Made of iron.
It would block her gift and –
She looked at the silvery padlock scar on her palm, the little blisters where her fingers had slipped onto the bars of her cell.
And it would burn.
Bloody Reunion
With rough hands, the guards bundled Vice out of the courtroom, down a winding staircase, to a small, dimly-lit cell beneath. She’d heard about these places. These were the rooms where the condemned awaited their sentences.
She was now one of the condemned.
It wasn’t possible … And yet here she was.
Body a knot of tension, she twisted her wrists against the ropes. But they were just as tight and chafing as when Blackwood had tied them.
The guards paused at the cell door, holding it open.
“Thank you ever so much, gentlemen,” an all-too bloody familiar voice said.
“FitzRoy?”
As she stared, mouth open, he swept into view, beautifully dressed in black and gold, hair clean and shining, rings on his fingers. Never had she been so glad to see so much gold.
“I won’t need long,” he told the guards as they locked the door behind him and skulked away down the corridor.
Shaking her head, she almost laughed. This was – had to be part of some ploy of his. He was going to spring her out of here.
“Bloody hells, Fitz, you have some interesting timing.” Scoffing now the guards were out of earshot, she rubbed her face, whole body sagging. “For a second then, I thought I really was for it. I’ve got to give it to you, I can’t work out what scheme you’ve concocted. I’m just glad it involves getting me out of here and, I assume, a large sum of money.” Grinning up at him, she held out her wrists.
Hazel eyes trailing to her bindings, he smiled softly. “Oh, my dear Vice. You’re partially right.”
Shrugging, she huffed. “Well, just a small sum of money will do.”
“Oh no.” Eyes glinting, he shook his head. “No, this involves a very large sum, indeed. Lots of noughts. But I’m afraid you won’t see any of it.” His head cocked, and his gaze drifted up. “Well, I suppose you might see me ride past your gibbet in my shiny new carriage. Because, just to be clear, my scheme doesn’t involve getting you out of here.”
Her body had forgotten how to work. Her grin was frozen in place, and her eyes just stared at him. She couldn’t even feel her heart beating heavily as it had in court, and it was only the fact she was standing that said her muscles and lungs still functioned.
She prized her teeth apart, swallowed, worked her tongue around her mouth. Gulping a long breath, she blinked. “What?”
“Oh, my lovely.” Shaking his head, he approached, boots scuffing softly on the stone floor until he was only half a foot away, the front of his splendid coat brushing the backs of her fingers. “My dearest, most darling creature.” He rubbed a lock of her hair between his thumb and fingertips, gaze on it like he was examining fine silk at the market. “You still don’t understand, do you?”
Eyebrows raised, he looked at her face, eyes drifting over every feature slowly. “This was all part of the plan. Sorry, I should clarify – my plan. Bricus helped me make an offer to the Navy. We get pardons, land, and that large sum of money I mentioned and in exchange, they get you. When Blackwood came aboard and gave us the Queen’s regards, that was the code to say the Navy and Crown had accepted our offer.”
Her throat closed to something the size of a reed, and it took all her effort just to keep breathing. Every inch of her went stiff and cold as stone as his words sank in. My plan.
And Blackwood’s involvement … from the very start …
Gods, hadn’t she told herself there was something off about the whole offer? But, no, she’d just been happy that they were finally privateers like she’d always wanted.
What a damn fool.
“You” – her voice rasped, forcing her to stop and swallow again – “you couldn’t stand it, could you? The stories, the songs, the wanted posters – all about me. Such a pathetic creature that you couldn’t bear to be overshadowed by a woman.” Face tight, trembling, she sneered at him.
“A pathetic creature?” He smiled, eyes narrow, cruel. “My darling, I’m not the one bound and locked in a cell.” He sighed and traced his thumb over her cheek, the sensation crawling through her. “But you’re, again, partially right. A girl shouldn’t overshadow her captain.” He snorted, shaking his head. “Bricus spent years telling me, I was just too blinded by you to see. You weren’t even a quartermaster or first mate and, yet you strutted across my deck, through my ship like you owned the damn thing.” His jaw knotted, and nostrils flared.
So Bricus, too, had always been against her. Had he felt that her odd position in the crew gave her too much power, trod on his toes as first mate?
“But that wasn’t all.” Fitz lifted his chin, a tight smile on his mouth as his hand slid down over her jaw to her throat. His fingers rested there at the point between neck and shoulder, thumb on the hollow between her collarbones. The pressure grew a shade too heavy for comfort.
She would not back down. She would not flinch. Face as still as Blackwood’s, she glared back at him.
“You see,” he murmured, a sigh in his voice, “I’m tired. I’ve spent my entire adult life chasing Drake’s treasure. And all I have to show for it is a scrap of paper.” His other hand touched the leather pouch dangling from a cord around his neck. “Years. All for a piece of paper I can’t even read.”
She ground her teeth. She’d have read it for him if he’d asked, just like the books about Drake written in Latium. No wonder he’d put off talking to her about this until ‘after Blackwood was off the ship’ – really it was to delay ever having to show her.
Treacherous bastard.
“So, yes, your fame and popularity and those ridiculous stories about you stung, but I haven’t done this
only for my wounded pride.” The pad of his thumb stroked her throat, again the pressure closer to choking than a caress. A threat.
Her chest heaved, but she stood fast. She was due to hang in a week, what the hells did she have to lose? She’d throw herself at the Wild Hunt before she’d let him frighten her.
“I’m done chasing a treasure that might not even exist,” he said, smiling. Disappointment laced the expression. “This has given me a great fortune, which I’m going to take and retire in luxury. Who knows?” He cocked his head. “Maybe I’ll even name my estate in your honour – Vice Hall has a ring to it, doesn’t it? Sounds like the kind of place I’d want to –”
In one movement, she grabbed the front of his coat, the brass buttons biting into her fingers, and kneed him between the legs.
With a choked gasp, he keeled over, clutching his crotch and staggering away.
“You bastard.” Body shaking, she stalked towards him. Blood on fire, muscles tense, there was no elegance to her movements. “You bloody bastard – Wild Hunt take you and chase you for the rest of your days.”
He backed into the bars with a clang. When he looked up, his eyes widened. “Guards,” he called, voice strained, breathless. “Guards!”
She was only a foot away. Her wrists were bound, but she could still throttle the life out of him like he’d threatened her with.
Stupid, angry tears misted the edge of her vision, and her pulse roared. “You treacherous bastard,” she spat, fingers closing on his shirt front.
But the cell door flew open and guards surrounded her, pulling her away with bruising grips.
“No,” she bellowed. She’d left that courtroom calmly, she’d be damned if they’d take her from here quietly, too. “No.” She kicked, clawed, screamed, bit, thrashed, body burning.
Even through the stone of the courthouse, she could feel the sky overhead churning, as frantic as her pulse.
She twisted and snarled and braced her feet on the floor, pulling. But there were too many of them, and her hands were tied. They just gripped harder, biting into her flesh, grinding against bone, lifting her with ease. They carried her into the corridor.
Chest heaving, FitzRoy stared after her, finally unbending.
But he was soon gone from her sight, leaving just her useless struggle against half a dozen men.
When had he become such an enemy that he’d leave her to this? That he’d help cause this?
A wordless cry of rage tore from her, echoing through the stone hall.
When Evered died, she’d lost everything. Or at least she’d thought she had. Perry and FitzRoy had been there … the ship had been there … And thanks to her gift, she’d proven herself and earned a place there. A home.
Now …
It had never been love between them, but she’d cared for him in her own way. And just like Papa, just like Evered, now he’d let her down. And Knigh had, too. Not that she cared for him, but he’d still managed to let her down.
Well, damn the lot of them. She’d escape. Somehow. She had to.
The daylight seared her eyes when they carried her out, but dark clouds threatened to the south.
She could use those.
Come closer. Faster.
With a little agitation from her, the clouds built, charged, darkened into a burgeoning storm.
Lightning crackled along its leading edge, and a peal of thunder shook the air moments later.
She went limp in the guards’ hold – resisting their grip was a waste of energy. She had a better way to use it.
Limbs slack, she let her awareness drift upwards. Their fingers on her, the cold air on her face, their voices – it all faded.
The sky thrummed. Perfect. The clouds – her clouds blew closer on an unnaturally swift, sudden wind.
Her muscles seared as she drew it closer, closer, churned the electricity within to an overwhelming level, ready to discharge at her command.
Then she was screaming. Burning.
No more sky, no more storm, no more wind at her call. Just white-hot pain on her hands and hairline.
Twitching, she gasped a harsh breath and opened her eyes. Her stomach roiled, churning as hard as the storm she’d built.
To the right, black bands criss-crossed her view over the city. To the left, a grey stone wall stretched away.
The cage rocked as the door crashed shut.
An iron cage.
The unmistakable clunk of a key turning in a lock tolled through her.
Hunching in her coat to keep from touching the bars, she turned.
A young man in Naval uniform pulled the key from the lock, face set in an expression far too grim for his smooth cheeks. At his nod, the cage lowered from the battlements, leaving her alone, dangling from the walls of Portsea Castle.
An example for everyone to see.
The sickness crept through her veins, seethed in her belly, silenced the hum of her gift that had been such a constant she’d stopped noticing it.
And she was alone. Truly alone this time. No Perry, no Barnacle, no ship. No feel of the sea breathing beneath her feet or at the end of a dock. She could feel nothing but the iron, the sickness, and the throbbing pain of her knuckles and forehead where she’d touched the vile stuff.
Hugging herself, she pulled her coat tight.
To the south, lightning cracked once, twice, and then the clouds dissipated.
The Notorious Lady Vice
Knigh stood in the window of the drawing room, hand resting on the cool glass. Outside, a constant drizzle put a grey cast on the sky, the gardens, everything. The fingers of his other hand traced the smooth curve inside the shell he still kept in his pocket.
Idiot. He should throw it on the fire. He should have thrown it in the sea when he was still in Portsmouth. He should place it on the floor and stamp on it and crush it to a thousand shimmering pieces.
But he didn’t. Frowning, he held it, pressed his thumb into its shallow cup. The purples and yellows of the reef. The blue light of the glow-worm cave. And the changing sea-colours of her eyes – green, turquoise, flecks of frothy pale blue, deep teal, clear cobalt …
Blinking away the ghost of those colours and images, he rubbed his eyes. He would put this behind him. He would forget her.
George was a fool to trust in Mercia, but he was right about one thing. Knigh had been under a great deal of strain since Father’s death. No wonder some silly part of his mind was reluctant to let go of something that had been a brief, bright comfort out at sea.
He scoffed. Or at least the lie had been. The truth was as comforting as a lightning strike.
“What’s so amusing?” Isabel’s voice chimed from the door, closely followed by the light tap of her footsteps.
Taking a deep breath and dropping the shell back in his pocket, Knigh turned. He only managed a half-hearted smile. “Nothing, really.”
“Well, I’ve just heard the news from Portsmouth.” She raised an eyebrow, the cock of her head teasing. “You didn’t tell us you’d captured such an infamous villain.”
His heart gave a heavy thud. There was only one person she could mean. He cleared his throat and turned back to the window, leaning his elbow high on the frame. “You know I don’t like to discuss work.”
“Yes, I had noticed.” She appeared beside him, peering outside as if she expected to find him occupied by something more exciting than Aunt Tilda’s gardens and the endless drizzle. “I thought you’d want to hear the outcome of all your hard work.”
It had been a week since he’d left Portsmouth. Enough time for – “The trial?” He barely got the words out before his throat closed.
“Guilty, of course.”
“Of course.” He should have felt nothing. Or the swell of pride at victory and a job well done. Instead, there was only cold. Over his scalp, in his chest, coating his fingertips, making his bones brittle, freezing his toes. “And” – despite his attempt to sound light, his voice cracked, forcing him to clear his throat – “and th
e sentence?”
“Hanging.”
Exhaling, he pressed his forehead against his forearm and closed his eyes.
This was the plan. He’d known this would happen. He’d made it happen. And yet …
His stomach twisted, writhing like that barrel of eels, coating his throat with bile.
“Knigh?” Isabel’s voice was as soft as her touch on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
Blasting a harsh breath, he pulled away, arm dropping from the frame. Get a hold of yourself.
“Nothing is wrong. Nothing.” But the heavy, heaving pit of his stomach said that was a lie.
“You know,” Is said, eyebrows rising as she looked up at him, “I’ve noticed something in the past couple of years – since you started pirate hunting rather than serving with the regular Navy.” Gentle lines creased her brow. “You’ve withdrawn from the family, and I don’t think it’s because of Father and what he left behind. It was after that. What have you seen out there?”
He clenched his hands at his sides as his stomach turned again. He didn’t deserve her kindness. Didn’t deserve her large blue eyes looking up at him so softly, with all the light of a sister looking up to her big brother and all the wisdom of Aunt Tilda.
“I’ve read books about wars and pirates,” she went on, “and I know the things Father did – all of them. I may not have been out in the world and seen it all, but I’m not so innocent. You can tell me.”
But he couldn’t. He’d shatter that look, that admiration in her eyes if he told her what he’d done to Billy and what he’d nearly done to those men who’d surrendered. Swallowing, he shook his head.
“I’ve never seen you like this after an assignment, Knigh.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “What’s eating you up about this particular capture? And what’s the significance of that shell?”
He looked down – the damn thing was in his hand again. Scoffing, he held it up. The late morning sun gleamed upon it, painting a whorl of a hundred pale colours on its iridescent inner surface.
Perhaps he could talk about that – or at least some of it.
