For two days they stayed in the shack, listening to the wind buffet the roof shingles and howl over the stovepipe. Hilfred made soup from clams and fish he bought from the old blind man. Other than that, neither of them left the little room. Arista slept a lot. It seemed like years since she had felt safe, and her body surrendered to exhaustion.
Hilfred kept her covered and crept around the flat, cursing to himself whenever he made a noise. On the night of the second day, she woke when he dropped a spoon. He looked at her sheepishly and cringed at the sight of her open eyes.
“Sorry, I was just warming up some soup. I thought you might be hungry.”
“Thank you,” she told him.
“Thank you?”
“Yes, isn’t that what you say when someone does something for you?”
He raised what would have been his eyebrows. “I’ve been your servant for more than ten years, and you’ve never once said thank you.”
It was the truth, and it hurt to hear it. What a monster she had been. “Well overdue, then, don’t you think? Let me check your bandage.”
“After you eat, Your Highness.”
She looked at him and smiled. “I’ve missed you so,” she said. Surprise crossed his face. “You know, there were times growing up that I hated you. Mostly after the fire—for not saving my mother—but later I hated the way you always followed me. I knew you reported my every move. It’s a terrible thing for a teenage girl to have an older boy silently following her every step, watching her eat, watching her sleep, knowing her most intimate secrets. You were always silent, always watchful. Did you know I had a crush on you when I was fourteen?”
“No,” he said curtly.
“You were, what, a dashing seventeen? I tried everything to make you jealous. I chased after all the squires at court, pretending they wanted me, but none of them did. And you … you were such the loathingly perfect gentleman. You stood by stoically, and it infuriated me. I would go to bed humiliated, knowing that you were standing just outside the door.
“When I was older, I treated you like furniture—still, you treated me as you always had. During the trial—” She noticed Hilfred flinch and decided not to finish the thought. “And afterward, I thought you believed what they said and hated me.”
Hilfred put down the spoon and sighed.
“What?” she asked, suddenly fearful.
He shook his head and a small sad laugh escaped his lips. “It’s nothing, Your Highness.”
“Hilfred, call me Arista.”
He raised his brow once more. “I can’t. You’re my princess, and I’m your servant. That’s how it’s always been.”
“Hilfred, you’ve known me since I was ten. You’ve followed me day and night. You’ve seen me early in the morning. You’ve seen me drenched in sweat from fevers. I think you can call me by my first name.”
He looked almost frightened and resumed stirring the pot.
“Hilfred?”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness. I cannot call you by your given name.”
“What if I command you to?”
“Do you?”
“No.” Arista sighed. “What is it with men who won’t use my name?”
Hilfred glanced at her.
“I only knew him briefly,” she explained, not knowing why. She had never spoken about Emery to anyone before. “I’ve lived so much of my life alone. It never used to bother me and there’s never been anyone—until recently.”
Hilfred looked down and stirred the soup.
“He was killed. Since then, I’ve felt this hole. The other night I was so scared. I thought—no, I was certain—I was going to my death. I lost hope and then you appeared. I could really use a friend—and if you called me by—”
“I can’t be your friend, Your Highness,” Hilfred told her coldly.
“Why not?”
There was a long pause. “I can’t tell you that.”
A loud silence filled the room.
Arista stood, clutching the blanket around her shoulders. She stared at Hilfred’s back until it seemed her stare caused him to turn and face her. When he did, he avoided looking in her eyes. He set out bowls on the table. She stood before him, blocking his way.
“Hilfred, look at me.”
“The soup is done.”
“I’m not hungry. Look at me.”
“I don’t want it to burn.”
“Hilfred.”
He said nothing and kept his eyes focused on the floor.
“What have you done that you can’t face me?”
He did not answer.
The realization dawned on her and devastated Arista. He was not there to save her. He was not her friend. The betrayal was almost too much to bear.
“It’s true.” Her voice quavered. “You do believe the stories they say about me: that I’m a witch, that I’m evil, that I killed my father over my lust for the throne. Are you working for Saldur, or someone else? Did you steal me from the palace guards for some political advantage? Or is this all some plan to—to control me, to get me to trust you and lure me into revealing something?”
Her words had a profound effect on him. He looked pained, as if rained on by blows. His face was strained, his jaw stiff.
“You could at least tell me the truth,” she said. “I should think you owe that much to my father, if not to me. He trusted you. He picked you to be my bodyguard. He gave you a chance to make something of yourself. You’ve enjoyed the privilege of court life because of his faith in you.”
Hilfred was having trouble breathing. He turned away from her and, grabbing his scarf, moved toward the door.
“Yes, go—go on!” she shouted. “Tell them it didn’t work. Tell them I didn’t fall for it. Tell Sauly and the rest of those bastards that—that I’m not the stupid little girl they thought I was! You should have kept me tied and gagged, Hilfred. You’re going to find it harder to haul me off to the stake than you think!”
Hilfred slammed his hand against the doorframe, making Arista jump. He spun on her, his eyes fierce and wild in a way she had never seen before, and she stepped back.
“Do you know why I saved you?” he shouted, his voice broken and shaking. “Do you? Do you?”
“To—to hand me over and get—”
“No! No! Not now. Back then,” he cried, waving his arm. “Years ago, when the castle was burning. Do you know why I saved you back then?”
She did not speak. She did not move.
“I wasn’t the only one there, you know. There were others. Soldiers, priests, servants, they all just stood watching. They knew you were inside, but not a single person did anything. They just watched the place burn. Bishop Saldur saw me running for the castle and actually ordered me to stop. He said it was too late, that I would die. I believed him. I truly did, but I went in anyway. Do you know why? Do you?” he shouted at her.
She shook her head.
“Because I didn’t care! I didn’t want to live …not if you died.” Tears streamed down his scarred face. “But don’t ask me to be your friend. That is far too cruel a torture. As long as I can maintain a safe distance, as long as … as long as there is a wall between us—even if it’s only one of words—I can tolerate—I can bear it.” Hilfred wiped his eyes with his scarf. “Your father knew what he was doing—oh yes, he knew exactly what he was doing when he appointed me your bodyguard. I would die a thousand times over to protect you. But don’t ask me to be grateful to him for the life he’s given me, for it’s been one of pain. I wish I had died that night so many years ago, or at least in Dahlgren. Then it would be over. I wouldn’t have to look at you. I wouldn’t have to wake up every day wishing I had been born the son of a great knight, or you the daughter of a poor shepherd.”
He covered his eyes and leaned his head against the threshold. Arista did not recall doing it, but somehow she had crossed the room. She took Hilfred’s face in her hands, and rising up on her toes, she kissed his mouth. He did not move, but he trembled. He did not breat
he, but he gasped.
“Look at me,” she said, extending her arms to display her stained and torn kirtle. “A shepherd’s daughter would pity me, don’t you think?” She took his hand and kissed it. “Can you ever forgive me?”
He looked at her, confused. “For what?”
“For being so blind.”
CHAPTER 12
SEA WOLVES
As it had for days, the Emerald Storm remained on its easterly course, making slow progress against a headwind that refused to shift. Maintaining direction required frequent tacking, which caused the top crews to work all night. Royce, as usual, had drawn the late shift. Getting this assignment was not Dime’s fault. Royce had concluded that the mainmast captain was a fair man, but Royce was the newest member of a crew that rewarded seniority. He did not mind the shift. He enjoyed the nights he spent aloft. The air was fresh, and in the dark among the ropes, he was as comfortable as a spider in its web. This afforded Royce the opportunity to relax, think, and occasionally amuse himself by tormenting Bernie, who panicked anytime his old guild mate lost track of Royce.
Royce hung in the netting of the futtock shroud, his feet dangling over the open space—a drop of nearly a hundred feet. Above lay the dust of stars, while on the horizon the moon rose as a sliver—a cat’s eye peering across the water at him. Below, lanterns flickered on the bow, quarterdeck, and stern, outlining the Emerald Storm. To his left, he could just make out the dark coast of Calis. Its thick vegetation was occasionally punctuated by a cliff or the brilliant white plume of a waterfall catching moonlight.
The seasickness was gone. He could not recall a more miserable time than his first week on board. The nausea and dizziness reminded him of being drunk—a sensation he hated. He had spent most of the first night hugging the ship’s figurehead and vomiting off the bow. After four days, his stomach had settled, but he remained drained, and he tired easily. It had taken weeks to dull the memory of that misery, but nested in the rigging, looking out at the dark sea, he forgot it all. It surprised him just how beautiful the black waves could be, the graceful undulating swells kissed by the barefaced moon, all below a scattering of stars. Only one sight could surpass it.
What’s she doing right now? Is she looking at the same moon and thinking of me?
Royce reached inside his tunic, pulled out the scarf, and rubbed the material between his fingers. He held it to his face and breathed deep. It smelled like her. He kept it hidden—his tiny treasure, soft and warm. On the nights of his sickness, he had lain in the hammock clutching it to his cheek as if it were a magic talisman to ward off misery. Only because of it had he been able to fall asleep.
The officers’ deck hatch opened, and Royce spotted Beryl stepping out into the night air. Beryl liked his sleep and, being senior midshipman, rarely held the late watch. He stood glancing around, taking in the lay of the deck. He cast an eye up at the maintop, but Royce knew he was invisible in the dark tangles. Beryl spotted Wesley making his rounds on the forecastle and crossed the waist and headed up the stair. Wesley looked concerned at his approach but held his ground. Perhaps the boy would get another beating that night. Whatever torments Beryl had planned for Wesley were no concern of Royce’s, and he thought it might be time to scare Bernie again.
“I won’t do it,” Wesley declared, drawing Royce’s attention. Once more Beryl nervously looked upward.
Who are you looking for, Mr. Beryl?
Royce unhooked himself from the shrouds and rolled over for his own glance upward. As usual, Bernie was keeping his distance.
No threat there.
Royce climbed to the yard, walked to the end, and, just as he had done during the race with Derning, slid down the rope so he could hear them.
“I can make life on this ship very difficult for you,” Beryl said, threatening Wesley. “Or have you forgotten your two days without sleep? There is talk that I’ll be made acting lieutenant, and if you think your life is hard with my current rank, after my promotion it’ll be a nightmare. And I’ll see to it that any transfer is refused.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to. In fact, it’s better if you don’t. That way you can sound sincere if the captain questions you. Just find him guilty of something. Misconduct, disrespect, I don’t care. You put his buddy the cook on report for not saluting. Do something like that. Only this time it needs to be a flogging offense.”
“But why me? Why can’t you invent this charge?”
“Because if the accusation comes from you, the captain and Mr. Bishop will not question it.” He grinned. “And if they do, it’s your ass, not mine.”
“And that’s supposed to entice me?”
“No, but I’ll get off your back. If you don’t, you won’t eat, you won’t sleep, and you’ll become very accident-prone. The sea can be dangerous. Midshipman Jenkins lost both thumbs on our last voyage when he slipped with a rope, which is strange, ’cause he didn’t handle ropes that day. Invent a charge, make it stick, and get him flogged.”
“And why do you want him whipped?”
“I told you. My friends want blood. Now do we have a deal?”
Wesley stared at Beryl and took a deep breath. “I can’t misrepresent a man, and certainly not one under my command, simply to avoid personal discomfort.”
“It will be a great deal more than discomfort, you little git!”
“The best I can do is to forget we had this conversation. Of course, should some unusual or circumstantial accusation be leveled against Seaman Melborn, I might find it necessary to report this incident to the captain. I suspect he will take a dim view of your efforts to advance insubordination on his vessel. It could be viewed as the seeds of mutiny, and we both know the penalty for that.”
“You don’t know who you’re playing with, boy. As much as you’d like to think it, you’re no Breckton. If I can’t use you, I’ll lose you.”
“Is that all, Mr. Beryl? I must tack the ship now.”
Beryl spat at the younger man’s feet and stalked away. Wesley remained standing rigidly, watching him go. Once Beryl had disappeared below, Wesley gripped the rail and took off his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He took a deep breath, replaced his hat, straightened his jacket, and then shouted in a clear voice, “Hands to the braces!”
Royce had dealt with many people in his life, from serfs to kings, and few surprised him. He knew he could always depend on their greed and weakness, and he was rarely disappointed. Wesley was the first person in years to astonish him. While the young midshipman could not see it, Royce offered him the only sincere salute he had bestowed since he had stepped aboard.
Royce ascended to the topsail to loose the yard brace in anticipation of Wesley’s next order when his eye caught an irregularity on the horizon. At night, with only the suggestion of a moon, it was hard for anyone to tell where the sky ended and the sea began. Royce, however, could discern the difference. At that moment, he noticed a break in the line. Out to sea, ahead of the Storm, a black silhouette broke the dusty star field.
“Sail ho!” he shouted.
“What was that?” Wesley asked.
“Sail off the starboard bow,” he shouted, pointing to the southeast.
“Is there a light?”
“No, sir, a triangle-shaped sail.”
Wesley moved to the starboard rail. “I don’t see anything. How far out?”
“On the horizon, sir.”
“The horizon?” Wesley picked up the eyeglass and panned the sea. The rest of the ship was silent except for the creaking of the oak timbers as they waited. Wesley muttered something as he slapped the glass closed and ran to the quarterdeck to pound on the captain’s cabin. He paused and then pounded again.
The door opened to reveal the captain, barefoot in his nightshirt. “Mr. Wesley, have we run aground? Is there a mutiny?” The captain’s steward rushed to him with his robe.
“No, sir. There’s a sail on the horizon, sir.”
“A what?�
�
“A triangular sail, sir. Over there.” Wesley pointed while handing him the glass.
“On the horizon, you say? But how—” Seward crossed to the rail and looked out. “By Mar! But you’ve got keen eyes, lad!”
“Actually, the maintop crew spotted it first, sir. Sounded like Seaman Melborn, sir.”
“I’ll be buggered. Looks like three ships, Mr. Wesley. Call all hands.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Wesley roused Bristol, who woke the rest of the crew. In a matter of minutes men ran to their stations. Lieutenant Bishop was still buttoning his coat when he reached the quarterdeck, followed by Mr. Temple.
“What is it, sir?”
“The Dacca have returned.”
Wyatt, who was taking the helm, glanced over. “Orders, sir?” he asked coldly.
“Watch your tone, helmsman!” Temple snapped.
“Just asking, sir.”
“Asking for a caning!” Mr. Temple roared. “And you’ll get one if you don’t keep a civil tongue.”
“Shut up, the both of you. I need to think.” Seward began to pace the quarterdeck, his head down. One hand played with the tie to his robe; the other stroked his lips.
“Sir, we only have one chance and it’s a thin one at that,” Wyatt said.
Mr. Temple took hold of his cane and moved toward him.
“Belay, Mr. Temple!” the captain ordered before turning his attention back to Wyatt. “Explain yourself, helmsman.”
“At that range, with the land behind us, the Dacca can’t possibly see the Storm. All they can see are the lanterns.”
“Good god! You’re right, put out those—”
“No, wait, sir!” Wyatt stopped him. “We want them to see the lanterns. Lower the longboat, rig it with a pole fore and aft, and hang two lanterns on the ends. Put ours out as you light those, then cast off. The Dacca will focus on it all night. We’ll be able to bring the Storm about, catch the wind, and reach the safety of Wesbaden Bay.”
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