Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  Leaning against the rail, Courte shuddered and tried not to think of the waves crashing below as he gripped the rope tied to one of the yards and watched the Swiftsure draw near. Pray they did not collide and one of them spring leak.

  A split second before they were close enough for his taste, he saw Kit mount the rail in one fluid motion and spring into the air. He swung out over the water on his rope. The thud of his landing on the neighboring deck resounded in the dark.

  Damn, Courte thought, knowing his turn had come. He looked resolutely at his destination, reset his grip on the rope, and shoved off. He landed on his backside, got up cursing. Why the devil had he let himself be talked into these things?

  Kit paid him no heed. He was already deep in conversa­tion with the captain of the Swiftsure. Ruske was a short, stout man, but the girth of him was all muscle and he knew his business. Together they stood at the whipstaff, guiding the ship on its course.

  Within the hour they were navigating in Channel waters, on the lookout for the Spanish. Kit had gone forward to stand at the forecastle rail, unable to keep the surge of exhilaration from coursing through his veins. Always the sea wind honed his wits to a fine edge of clarity. Always the tossing of the spirited galleon conveyed to him its power. He loved the sea and he loved this bold, beautiful ship. The hands who did not work the sails or stand lookout clustered around him in stalwart silence.

  Kit scanned the sea until he spotted their adversary—the lumbering Santa Maria de la Rosa—on her way to Antwerp She was much heavier than the Swiftsure, perhaps by sev­eral hundred ton. But the Swiftsure was quicker. The other loaded as she was with sugar, cinnamon, and cochineal would have trouble outrunning them.

  Kit called Ruske to him. "Run out the cannon in their ports and load them. I want you to ease the Swiftsure forward till we're within range. When I give the signal, fire both the forward cannon and demi-cannon. Then reload and stand at the ready. If they don't surrender after a few volleys, close in and clear their decks with the culverins. Use the hailshot and crossbow shot. Then we'll grapple and board."

  Ruske saluted and returned to the helm, where he gave orders to the first mate. The man ran off to alert the gunners.

  Courte came up and joined Kit on the forecastle. "Do you want a heavier sword?" He showed the one he'd brought from the cabin.

  Kit shook his head. Pulling his rapier from its scabbard, he inclined his head toward the Santa Maria. "We are al­most ready to begin."

  Courte nodded but kept his eyes riveted on the neighboring ship. For the life of him he wished he had Kit's courage. The man knew no fear—else it was crushed by his sense of past outrage. Courte found it a daunting task. Together they must board the other ship, find the captain, and make him surrender. Or fight him to the death.

  Minutes later they closed with the Spanish ship. Shouts in Spanish went up on the neighboring deck as the lookout and crew spotted the English galleon. Kit gave the order to run up the red flag showing they would attack. Then he gave the signal to tire.

  The opening salvo of the huge English cannon boomed in the night. Instantly the air was befouled with smoke. For a minute Kit could see nothing. Then the air cleared, and he observed with satisfaction the two gaping holes in the Santa Maria just above water line.

  He waited for what seemed an eternity. The captain could come out and surrender or run up the white flag. It often happened after the initial bombardment.

  Only a few Spaniards ran to and fro on the deck. As Kit waited, scrutinizing the Santa Maria, he became aware of another ship, smaller than his, about five cables off to portside.

  "What's that off the larboard?" he asked Courte, his gaze locked on the Spaniard.

  Courte squinted, trying to make out the flag. "Can't tell. She doesn't look Spanish."

  The Swiftsure's culverin began from the quarterdeck then, effectively clearing the Santa Maria's decks. It was almost time to board her. Kit decided to ignore the strange ship. Moving forward, he ordered the grappling hooks used, the boarding nets thrown out. Courte followed, preferring to use the net for the perilous crossover while Kit swung over on his rope. The English swarmed over the ship, meet-ting virtually no resistance.

  It was then the unthinkable happened. The Santa Maria fired back. With a tremendous crash the Spanish cannon spoke, opening a massive hole in the hull of the Swiftsure.

  "Damn!" Kit spun around to see what had happened Suddenly they were attacked. Spaniards swarmed from every direction, swords and daggers drawn. At once Kit and Courte closed with attackers who swung at them furiously. Kit had just dispatched his man when there was renewed thundering of hand weapons. Everyone dropped to the deck.

  Before the air cleared, Kit was up and fighting his way along the ship's waist. A vibrant strength surged through his limbs. He felt infallible tonight as he made his way toward the stern cabin, seeking the captain. The deck was perilously slippery, but Kit made speedy progress, dealing this man a crashing blow, another a thrust of his rapier. At the stern cabin he rammed the door open with his shoulder. The Spanish captain came at him as if he'd been waiting sword in his right hand, a dagger in his left.

  The cabin was small, low ceilinged. Kit confronted the captain, his chest heaving, their gazes locked. The Spaniard was tall and muscled, every bit an even match.

  "Surrender," Kit growled in Spanish, his voice low but piercing.

  "No, by God." The captain lunged at him, dealt him a blow with his rapier. Kit parried, edging left to force the captain into tighter quarters.

  Again the man attacked, attempting an imbroccata. The sound of metal rang out as Kit blocked him, then forced him back with a rapid staccata. A minute later he caught the Spaniard in the wrist with a mandritta, accompanying the swift horizontal cut with a curse. His rapier pierced a vulnerable muscle. The wounded hand reacted, causing the captain's weapon to leap from his grip. Instantly Kit's sword was at his neck, threatening. Slowly, slowly, the Spaniard lifted his face to stare at Kit with all the rage of impotence in his eyes.

  Kit stared back at him, laboring for breath. The man had been limber and skilled in his defense, but Kit was better. For good reason he had practiced many hours in a London school of defense. Under the insistent pressure of Kit's rapier point, the man sank to his knees.

  "Surrender," Kit barked in Spanish between hard gasps for air. "I claim your ship and cargo. You may take your men and go."

  "Go?" the captain demanded in angry disbelief. "How?"

  "Take the longboats." Kit crossed himself piously, took a rosary from the pouch at his waist and kissed it. "I'll not have your deaths on my soul." He regarded the captain intently, feeling the full extent of his revenge. They would be thoroughly humiliated, arriving at a French port in long­boats. Better still, Kit would be reported a religious fanatic of a pirate. They would never guess that he served the English queen. As a Catholic, he could not. They would assume their communiques lay undiscovered.

  "English whoreson," the captain spit back. "England will pay for this outrage."

  Kit narrowed his eyes angrily, stared through the slits of his mask. "Save your breath." He tossed the captain's sword to Courte, who caught it deftly. "You'll need it for rowing."

  The captain got up heavily, holding his arm where Kit had drawn blood. Under repeated urgings from Kit's rapier, he left the cabin, gave orders to cease fighting. Kit saw the entire Spanish crew into the longboats. They were packed in tightly.

  "May the wrath of God fall on you and your brethren." Standing in the boat, the captain shook his fist at Kit. "English pirates. Even if you are Catholic."

  Kit grinned at him ruthlessly. "I should have thought you would prefer this treatment to death." He bowed, his hands clasped as if in prayer. "I give you a fighting chance. You are not so far from land. It lies that way." He gestured toward the south.

  As the longboats drifted, taking the Spanish away from the Santa Maria, Kit turned his back on them to observe the night. Overhead the wild canopy of stars churned i
n a shifting maelstrom of mist. Thrusting his rapier back into its hanger, Kit gave orders to rope the Santa Maria for towing, all the while reveling in his triumph. He'd humiliated Philip of Spain's navy. And he meant to do it again and again.

  Wheeling around, he headed for the captain's cabin. It was time to find the communique. Inside, he closed the door and leaned against it, taking a long, slow breath. He would start by searching the desk.

  Ah, here were the dispatches. Carefully he handled the papers with their dangling seals. On top of the desk were a compass box, a pot of ink, some quills. But no lady's trinket. He riffled the drawers, didn't find it. Straightening, he searched every nook, corner, and cranny of the tiny chamber. Nothing. Not a bauble, not a trinket, not even a trinket box.

  Restlessly Kit paced the floor, staring at the boards by dim lantern light. Outside he could hear the shouts of his men as they divided valuables, taking the shares he had promised them. Still no communique. He gritted his teeth as he rummaged through a trunk of clothes. He didn't even know what he was looking for.

  The enormity of the task grew slowly in his mind as he worked. It had sounded easy, finding a lady's trinket, but execution was more formidable than he'd dreamed. With rising impatience Kit tore the blankets from the bunk, forcing himself to work methodically, to probe the straw-stuffed mattress for hidden objects. Nothing. Stymied, he glared at a portrait hanging on the wall between two ornaments, only half seeing them. Slowly his eyes focused on them—two fans, one on either side. Of course! Eagerly he reached for them, searched the first one, looking between each feather, inside the hollow handle. No communique. He put it down and searched the other one—this time separating the handle from the feathers so he could look inside the hollow quills. It was a shame to ruin the fans, but the communique must be in one of them.

  It wasn't. Unable to believe it, Kit broke both handles in two and examined the fragments. Mayhap there was a double chamber, with the communique secreted between the walls. He found nothing.

  Frustrated, Kit slammed out of the cabin and locked it with the key he'd found on the desk. At the forecastle, he planted himself with crossed arms and watched through the slits of his mask while his men brawled over cones of sugar and sacks of cinnamon.

  Something caught his eye—the ship he'd spied earlier. Patiently it waited, like a wraith shimmering in the mist. She'd ventured closer since they'd set the Spaniards afloat, so that now he recognized her as a Dutch carrack. The thought lodged in his brain with needling insistence. He pushed it away. Flagging down Courte, he went to check the cannon hole in the Swiftsure. They studied it from the deck above.

  A seaman approached, touched his cap, and waited to be noticed.

  "Not now," Courte admonished him. "We are assessing damages."

  "For the master." The man held out something.

  "I said not now." Courte's rebuke was acrid.

  "What is it?" Only half turning, Kit took the thing, meaning to stuff it in his pouch. As his hand closed around it, the bag released the wafting scent of cloves.

  Kit wheeled around to confront the messenger. "Where did this come from?"

  The man pointed at the smaller Dutch ship. The name, painted in white on the hull, showed clearly in the dark. L'Esperance. The Hope.

  "Pay no heed," Courte warned Kit, grasping his arm. "Let them send to us if they want something. Here, then," he demanded of the man, who was preparing to leave them. "Who is your master?"

  The old fellow grinned. He looked vaguely sinister, Courte thought, with his missing and blackened teeth. The scraggly hair and lined features made him resemble a death's head, leering at them in the night. The macabre vision beckoned to Kit.

  Courte could do nothing. He watched Kit go to the rail, stand as if transfixed while the old man dragged himself over the side and disappeared. When Kit moved to follow, Courte arrested him, one hand on his arm. "Don't go. It could be a trap."

  "I must. He's sent for me. Don't you see?"

  "Now just a minute," Courte insisted, clutching at his friend and managing to turn him around. "Even if this is one of the Sea Beggars, how do you know the Beggar King's on board? And look, the wind's rising. Don't go, I tell you. Stay here."

  Kit shook his head and directed his gaze back to the Dutch ship. "I need answers."

  "Are you sure you'll find them?" Courte shuffled his feet in agitation, realizing Kit hadn't found the communique.

  "I must take the risk," Kit rasped hoarsely. He moved away from Courte, went quickly over the rail.

  Courte stood alone on the deck and squinted at the other ship, then shook his head anxiously, not understanding. His friend sat in the skiff as it crossed between the two ships, his gaze fastened on The Hope.

  On board the Dutch ship, the old fellow waited. He led Kit to the stern cabin and bid him go in alone. The room was sunk in darkness. As the door swung shut behind him, Kit made out by the light of a solitary lantern a shadowy figure draped in a long cloak, seated at the table. The hood of the cloak obscured his face so that Kit could tell nothing about him, yet he sensed power emanating from him, a force that was almost audible, like a voice speaking in the dark. Instinctively Kit took a step forward. A feeling that was not quite fear roiled in his belly.

  The figure unfolded itself from the stool and stood. The man, whoever he was, possessed a towering height, with powerful shoulders and a stance of muscular strength. Yet there was something about his movements that bespoke age.

  Blood pounded in the vein at the side of Kit's temple. He exalted in his victory tonight, yet something essential was missing. Here, whispered his roving heart, was meaning.

  As he stared, the figure came forward into the frail light, planted himself firmly before Kit, and thrust back his hood. With a jolt of shock, Kit looked straight into the passionate eyes of the man he knew had to be the Beggar King.

  The two men stood face to face for some moments, staring at each other in silence. "Why?" Kit whispered at last, unable to tear his gaze from the depths of those fathomless eyes. "Why did you send for me?" He stopped, remembering the many mysterious tales spun in alehouses and at Elizabeth's court about the Beggar King and his fleet. "Though I'm glad you did. I confess your name and deeds have inspired me since I was a lad. I wanted to be like you, to know your secrets, especially who you are." His voice rasped with emotion. "Forgive me that last."

  The tall figure turned in the lantern light, illuminating a regal face framed by long locks turned silver by time. Beneath his fierce brows, the Beggar King's aged eyes were a keen blue, and they bored their way into Kit's mind to where he kept his deepest thoughts.

  "You seek answers." The sage swung away from Kit, bent to hold his hands before a brazier whose burning coal's sent pricks of heat into the cold sea air. "I, too, have sought them over the years, still I find myself asking—as you do. Tell me what it is you truly seek."

  Kit stood silent, knowing he was errant to pry. No one knew the Beggar King's true identity except his prince. He existed as a legend, sometimes exaggerated, often romanticized, but a secret just the same. Now the pirate's pointed question resonated through Kit's soul, setting off deep fibers of feeling—and a confusion as wild as the rising wind outside.

  "You don't really know. Goeie hemel, I'm not surprised." The man's English was heavily accented by his Dutch and German origins. "You are young yet, and like many young men you seek me because of what I am represent. Free­dom—the casting away of the bonds of society. Believe me my secret does not spare me the indignity of having to search for answers." He gestured to a black mask on the table Kit had not noticed. "I have sailed these waters for years craving enlightenment. Often, I learn the important thing is to ask the right questions."

  "And have you found these questions?" Kit could no stop the new query from rising to his lips.

  "Some of them."

  The Beggar King raised his gaze to meet Kit's, and again Kit felt the surge of attraction. Something so deep, he could not resist.

&n
bsp; "But others remain unanswered," the Beggar King went on, "mayhap we are not meant to know. Or we are meant to wait. I am waiting now, marking time." He seemed to scrutinize Kit, assessing him. "You took that ship tonight You did it as if you were used to such things. I know you are not."

  "Nay, you are wrong," Kit told him, a cavalier smile coming to his lips. "I am a pirate, bound to take goods And I know how to best my enemy. At sea or on land."

  The sensuous mouth of the Beggar King curved into a smile. "Pirate?" He gave a curt laugh. "Niet gij. A pirate puts the captured crew to the sword and thinks naught of it. You put them in the boats. Since you are no pirate, tell me why you take a Spanish ship."

  Kit's smile vanished. This man saw through him as easily as if he were transparent. And for some reason Kit didn't fully understand, he hungered for it—to be seen and understood. "You are right," he said, bowing his head. "I serve the Queen of England. I was bid take this ship and I took her. Would that I fulfilled all my vows so well."

  The Beggar King's eyes now blazed with recognition "You seek the Spanish secrets that pass between shores."

  It was no question. Kit gazed back at him, enthralled.

  "You wonder how I know. Tis because we both seek them. Our grail is the downfall of the Spanish."

  "Aye." Kit's heart suddenly lifted, he felt buoyant and light as he recognized this man acted under the same orders as he. "King Philip grows too strong. He abuses his strength. I have heard what he lets the Duke of Alva do in your country. Torturing honest merchants before killing them, sending men, women, even innocent children, to violent deaths. He wishes to do the same in England."

  "We must continue to fight him." The Beggar King was silent a moment. Slowly he moved to the brazier, took a shovel of coal, put the pieces on the hot embers, one by one.

  "See how they burn," he said darkly. "I, too, burn, with my life's shame. Often I have wished to give up. To lay down my arms and ask God to grant me rest. I cannot know peace." The confession floated to Kit from the depths of the dim room.