Another direct hit, she thought blackly, righting herself and hurrying on to the gunner's deck at the stern of the ship. She made her way virtually unnoticed to the first gunner's port where several men tended the cannon.
"You there, pull back your culverin. Tilt it thus so I can measure. We're going to take down the Spaniard's mast."
The crew of the gun gaped at her in astonishment. Everyone on ship knew who she was—half of them had been hired at Poole by Mistress Cavandish. Since she paid their wages, they usually responded promptly to her orders. But until now, her orders had pertained strictly to care of their cargo. Now she was ordering them into battle. Dead silence reigned on the gunner's deck.
"Aye, by God," one man yelled finally, "look how they gain on us. Let's fight 'em." He leaped to do her bidding, and another one followed. The three men hastened to roll the cannon back on its four wheels from the gun port.
Roz ran her hands appreciatively over the eleven-foot brass barrel of the two-ton culverin, assessing its power. What a beauty it was. But there was no time to waste. Swiftly she went to work, dangling the plumb lines and measuring with the rule the muzzle of the great gun, then repeating the process at the breech.
"What are you doing, mistress?" One of the gunners stared at her, fascinated.
"Getting to know this gun." Roz ran rapid calculations in her head. "I've never worked with it before. I need to estimate how far it will shoot." She put away the rule and plumb lines and pulled out her other instrument. "Lord 'a mercy, what be that?"
The men stared while Rozalinde adjusted the right-angle metal measure at one end of the gun. " 'Tis a gunner's quadrant," she said absently, calculating quickly. She squinted through the open port at their target. "Tilt the gun on its swivel," she instructed. "I want it aimed higher. Thus." She showed them what she meant. "Then push it through the port and prepare to fire."
The three men angled the big brass gun and pushed in the locking pin, responding to her prompts with alacrity.
"Now then, is the powder dry?" Roz rapped out. "The ball rammed? Good. Prepare the slow match."
The Spanish ship drew closer by the moment. She could see men on the ship behind them, see their gunmen as they prepared again to fire. "Get ready," she ordered tersely, studying the motion of both ships and the swell of the waves. "Touch the match to the powder ... now!" The gunman put the lit match to the tiny pan on top of the powder chamber.
A blaze of fire and smoke leapt before them. The English canon boomed with deafening magnitude. Roz dodged out the way as the brass gun recoiled and its rope restraints caught. The smell of burning sulfur assaulted her nostrils.
"Direct hit on the main topgallant!" she cried. "I think we got the mast." Elation filled her as she thrust her face out the gun port so she could see. "Reload," she urged the crew, bringing her head back in. "I want you to start taking out their guns, one by one."
"Mistress Cavandish, get below!" Captain Wellham appeared, distressed beyond measure. He took Rozalinde by the arm. "You cannot be here, mistress. 'Tis dangerous. What would your father say?"
"But we've struck their main mast," Roz argued with him, waving her gunner's quadrant at the Spaniard. "We'll take down the whole thing. We'll blow away their main braces—"
The simultaneous boom of multiple cannon shot rang out. "Captain!" A crewman approached at a run, as if pursued by fiends. "Ships a league off, sir. A whole fleet of 'em and coming fast."
Roz and the captain stared at each other, then raced for the upper deck. Every hand appeared topside with them, their eyes trained to the south. An entire fleet of ships could be seen just ahead.
"What nation?" one voice cried.
"Not French," shouted another.
Rozalinde scrunched up her face, trying to discern their flag. It was impossible this was happening, but even so she knew who it was. " 'Tis the Beggar Fleet," she cried, unable to contain her exhilaration. "Look at the shape of their hulls. They are Dutch ships. The Sea Beggars have come to our aid!"
The captain looked skeptical, but Rozalinde paid him no heed. Thank you, Kit, she breathed silently to herself. Thank you with all my heart.
Already one of the fleet's ships had cut away from the others and approached at great speed to challenge the Spaniard. Roz ran to the stern deck to see their pursuer fall back. Coward, she thought, as the Spanish ship adjusted its sails and began to retreat before the insistent cannon fire of its challenger. She could see Trenchard standing with the Spanish captain on the forecastle deck. Gritting her teeth, she turned away. George never risked anything if he could run away in time. Clearly he would retreat once he was outnumbered.
Casting a last, bitter glance at the Gran Grifon, she looked toward the Dutch fleet. She would concentrate on greeting the Sea Beggars and give proper thanks to the Beggar King.
"They are sure to liberate us," she told the captain jubilantly. "We will be permitted to sail on."
She let the captain lead her back to the helm, where he and his first mate could keep her safe. They'd insisted on this since the voyage began. But now she was too relieved to mind their hovering.
"Are you sure 'tis safe?" asked the captain, viewing the fleet with trepidation as it drew near, leaving the two ships behind to battle. "There's so many of them. They might loot us. I hear the Sea Beggars always lack for food."
"They would not do such a thing," Rozalinde assured him. "The Beggar King would not permit it. I know it of a certain. They'll let us sail on to Antwerp. Let us find the flagship and give the Beggar King our thanks."
It appeared there was no need for them to do so. The flagship approached. It came within hailing distance and a man in a black cloak stepped to the forecastle.
"In the name of the Prince of Orange, what port do you seek?"
"We thank you for your aid," Rozalinde shouted back, ignoring the captain's attempt to answer. "We are for Antwerp. Again, our most hearty thanks."
"Hold," cried the black-cloaked figure. "I claim your ship. You may not sail on."
Rozalinde leaned over the rail, unable to believe she'd heard right. "What?" she blazed at him. "We've a schedule to keep. We're due in port tomorrow. You'll not hold us back."
"I shall," shouted the Beggar King menacingly. "I command you to join our fleet or I shall take down your mainmast." Even as he spoke, the Dutch ship drew nearer. Roz could see men at the cannons through the gun ports. Others stood ready with grappling hooks, lining the rails.
"What do you want?" she raged at the Beggar King. "I said we are bound for Antwerp and it's the truth. We're honest tradespeople, why should you stop us?"
The Beggar King confronted her across the rail. "I forbid you to trade at Antwerp. And I warn you, do not attempt to fight us. Our number is too great."
"I'll not listen to you." Rozalinde gestured adamantly for the captain. "Adjust the sails, Captain. We're moving on."
"No! You shall not."
Roz shot the Beggar King her most challenging stare. As she did so, he sprang forward and grasped a rope tied to the yard. Before Roz could guess what he meant to do, he swung across to land with a thud on her deck. With deliberate stride, he planted himself before her and pushed back his enveloping hood.
Rozalinde gasped with horror as she stared at the determined, craggy features of a man fully fifty years old.
She let out a shriek, startled beyond comprehension. "Who are you?" she cried, taking a step backward.
"I am known as the Beggar King." The powerful giant came after her, locked both massive arms around her body. Before she could protest, he hurried her across the deck, boosted her up on the rail and, climbing up beside her, swept her tightly against his imposing chest. Grasping his rope, he swung them both across to his ship.
For one giddy moment Rozalinde thought she was falling. There was nothing beneath her feet, wind whistled in her ears, and her stomach lurched drunkenly. With hysteria threatening, she clutched the man with all her might. They landed with a jolt on the ot
her side. Gratefully she felt solid deck beneath her feet. Within a second, she resumed her rage.
"Loose me, you villain!" Vigorously she pushed away from the beast who'd captured her, unwilling to admit she'd clung to him unashamedly a bare second ago. "How dare you accost me, you knave, you ... you pirate." She summoned all her scorn. "I thought the Beggar King and his Sea Beggars had come to our aid. But instead I find you want prisoners. I suppose you'll want to plunder my goods, but you'll not have them. I won't let you take them."
"I can see we have much to discuss."
The Beggar King scowled back at her, and for a second Rozalinde faltered. He was tall and forbidding, his stern features reflected his determination, and his steely gray hair bespoke his age. How could she hope to best him?
Abruptly he turned away. "Back to your duties," he thundered at the crew gathered around, staring openly at her. "This lady is under my protection."
Grasping her elbow, he propelled her forcefully toward the stern, his mouth drawn into a grim, tight line.
Rozalinde fought him. "Where are you taking me? I must return to my ship." She wrestled with him unrestrainedly, losing all decorum, but he was too strong for her. His powerful hands held her tightly as he hauled her along.
"You cannot return to your ship. The situation is too dangerous. You will stay with me."
"Send for my trunk," cried Rozalinde. "I must have my trunk."
The Beggar King's face became a mask of wrath, hovering above her. "The lady's trunk," he instructed a gaping seaman. "Get it and make all haste, before our ships part. God's precious will," he cursed, resuming his progress along the deck with Roz still struggling. "A prisoner and she wants her trunk. You are fortunate to have your life, mistress. You must accept your fate." Jerking open the door of the stern cabin with a vicious wrench, he pulled her inside.
"I'll not be anyone's prisoner," stormed Rozalinde. "I'll kill you if you think to ravish me. I'll kill myself."
The Beggar King slammed the door shut behind them and banged a heavy bar into place. "I have no intention of ravishing you. Stop these dramatics."
He leaned against the door, and for the first time Roz noticed he was breathing heavily. Her struggle had cost him some effort—mayhap if she tried again ...
But he waited only long enough to see her trunk delivered. Then he left, locking the door firmly behind.
* * *
It seemed like hours before anyone remembered her. Roz was tired, hungry, and more furious than ever when a man finally entered, a crass old fellow who spoke only Dutch, and motioned for her to leave the cabin. Outside it had begun to rain. The Beggar King joined them on deck, huge and forbidding as before, and indicated she must follow him into a skiff. The waves tossed and churned, threatening to swamp their tiny boat as they made their way to another ship. Through the downpour, Rozalinde looked at the hull and realized it looked English. It was much too big to be Dutch.
"On board, mistress," the Beggar King ordered, motioning to the rope ladder hanging down the side. Drenched through to the skin, Roz searched for some avenue of escape; anything would do. She wanted away from this tyrant.
Nothing but choppy water met her eye. With a huff of defeat, she turned to the ladder. Given no choice, she began to climb.
Rozalinde's long skirts impeded her, twined around her legs, making a damned nuisance of themselves. Once on deck, the Beggar King took command again, propelling her to a dim little cabin. Perhaps she could reason with him, she thought, seeing him close the door behind them. She was preparing a new verbal assault when she sensed danger behind her. Whirling, she squinted in the lantern light. The light of the man standing there caused her fury to return.
"I should have guessed you were behind this, Christopher Howard." Haughtily she raised her chin. " 'Tis a shallow ruse, pretending you were the Beggar King. Now I know the truth."
Kit ignored the venom in her voice. He turned instead to the Beggar King.
"Delivered, as requested, Christopher." The Beggar King indicated Rozalinde with a nod. "And mind you, she's had enough shocks for one day. I did not handle her gently, getting her there. She is most upset."
"I am no such thing," Roz insisted, her temper blazing. "If I am anything, 'tis disgusted, I am—" "She would have known eventually," Kit replied, as if Roz were not there. "And now mayhap you should leave us. You see, this lady has defied my instructions," he threw a calculating glance at her over his shoulder, "and on that subject, I have something rather strong to say."
The Beggar King gave Kit a wry grin and turned to go. It was clear he wanted no part of the quarrel. As he opened the door, two seamen arrived. "Ah, here is the lady's trunk."
Rozalinde thought she detected a slight hint of sarcasm.
When the two men were done, the Beggar King sent them out ahead of him, then saluted Kit and Roz and left.
"I am the one who has a great deal to say to you, Christopher Howard," Roz stormed when the door closed again. "Just because you're an earl doesn't give you the right to take my ship. You haven't the right to give me orders in the first place. Orders, indeed! I'll see you tried in the Admiralty Court. I'll not stand for this." Roz ran around to plant herself in front of Kit but still he ignored her. It filled her with wrath to be dragged here in an unseemly fashion and deposited like a prize before him. And then to be treated like an imbecile, as if she had no rights. Balling her hands into fists, she prepared to unleash a string of unsavory oaths at him.
"Do you not even thank me for rescuing you from that Spaniard?" Kit put his hands on his hips. "The devil got away, you know. Turned tail and ran just as I was getting within cannon range."
Roz called him a name that was thoroughly unladylike.
Kit gave her a steady look. "Mayhap I shouldn't have -bothered rescuing you in West Lulworth. I told you to stay put, but you would not—"
"What do you mean, in West Lulworth?" Roz demanded hotly. "You were no where near."
"Wasn't I? Who do you think shot the admiral? It was much trouble, too."
Roz stared at him, overwhelmed by fury. He had rescued her in Lulworth, but made her think it was her brother. "Why you disgusting, boorish ..." she spluttered with indignation, "pretending to be the Beggar King, then tricking me into thinking my brother—" I
"On second thought," Kit headed for the door, "I would rather confront the Spanish than your temper. I will leave you till it cools. Mayhap we can talk when you're done with your tantrum. I never saw a woman in such a passion."
"I'm not in a passion. I'm logically, reasonably angry with you. You've—"
"Logical? Ha!" Kit threw back his head in that irritating way of his and barked with laughter. "A part of you may logical, Rozalinde Cavandish, but you've more passion in your little finger than most people have in their entire bodies. It's one of the things I like about you." He unbarred the door. "Just the same, I'll wait until later. Even I can get too much of passion."
"I'm not passionate. I'm not!" Rozalinde ran after him, threw herself before him and tried to make him listen.
He moved her firmly out of the way, gave her a stare she found shockingly lewd. "Aren't you?" His voice was low and silky, like the glide of smooth fabric against skin. "When I return, we'll see."
He went out. The door swung shut. Rozalinde was left alone to seethe and wait.
"You see, they follow us. I told you they would." Satisfied that the Swiftsure pursued them, George Trenchard moved away from the rail of the Gran Grifon. "Tell your men to lure them farther north. When we're well away from the Beggar Fleet, we'll take them on."
Lord Francisco DeVega remained at the rail, frowning at the English ship. He nursed his left arm, which was tied up in a white sling. "I am not certain this is wise. The weather is changing." He cast a glance at the sky, indicating the gathering black clouds that had accumulated in the last hour to the south.
Trenchard scoffed and straightened his new green doublet. "A little cloudy weather and you give up. And
after His Majesty assured me you were his most seasoned commander."
"A seasoned commander knows it is foolish to head into open water when a storm threatens," DeVega snapped. "We should seek safe harbor."
"Do you want this communique or no," Trenchard snapped back at him. "His Majesty expects it to be delivered to the Duke of Alva. I should think you would be eager to carry out his instructions."
"And I should think you would be more careful with such an important item. Leaving it in the room with that female—your weakness for her has put us in a difficult position. I will be sure King Philip knows how the problem came about."
Trenchard cast a baleful glance at the Spaniard. "The fact is, the girl's involvement will prove to our advantage. She wishes to go to Antwerp. We have only to capture this ship, put the men to the sword, and take her on to her destination. She will consider me her savior and allow me to serve as her escort while she unwittingly carries the communique straight to the duke. In the process, we will capture this English pirate who plagues your shipping and do away with him. We can best them easily with our superior size and cannon. It will serve both our ends."
"And her ship, The Chalice?"
"The Sea Beggars took it. They are pirates and she will have to believe the evidence of her eyes."
"And how do you explain our bombarding her ship?" DeVega queried, quirking one of his thick, dark brows at Trenchard.
"That is accomplished with ease," Trenchard answered, straightening his doublet. "I spoke to her father after she left West Lulworth. He knew she had gone—she left a letter. With his permission, I followed to see to her safety. We signaled her ship numerous times, indicating we required speech with the captain. Not only was there no answer, but the ship increased its speed and began to fire at us. You would agree it was my duty to do what was required to rescue her."
"Very smooth," admitted DeVega, moving forward to instruct his men. "No wonder His Majesty agrees to work with you. Very well, we move north. Weather or no, I want that communique."
Pirate's Rose Page 23
