Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  "Are you certain that messenger was trustworthy?" De-Vega's voice cut irritatingly into Trenchard's meditations. "I don't like to think—"

  "The good fellow will undoubtedly go to his grave car­rying our secret," Trenchard replied, not bothering to turn around. He'd never said anything truer, he finished silently to himself.

  There was a moment of quiet in the lavish room, during which the sound of the guard's cough resounded.

  "Will you ask the duke for a recommendation to His Majesty King Philip?" DeVega interrupted again.

  Trenchard swung around angrily, having been in the midst of another rehearsal of his speech. "You have that backward. The question is, will the duke heed His Majesty's recommendation? I should think he would."

  "Then you'll sail with me on the Gran Grifon when we rejoin the rest of the navy?"

  Trenchard snorted, deliberately failing to display appreci­ation for the invitation. "You need me for assurance. To save your hide again if need be."

  "I just want—"

  The door leading to the duke's presence chamber swung open. Two men in rich burgher's garments exited. The guard saluted them, then stepped forward to announce Trenchard and DeVega.

  Introductions made, Trenchard arranged himself before the duke and waited expectantly. He disliked standing at attention beside this underling. Yet he must do it to gain access. Here resided the seat of all authority belonging to the King of Spain in the Netherlands. The hardened Span­ish duke looked just as Trenchard had imagined—aging figure regal, lavish garments befitting a duke, the king's trusted appointee and a ruthless military commander. His many brilliant victories in the field attested to his power. And he was slowly, gradually defeating the plodding Neth­erlands burghers who understood nothing but the making and selling of ordinary goods and the continual need to drain their land so it would not be claimed by the sea. George noted the gray hair of wisdom at the duke's tem­ples, the quick, penetrating movement of his eyes as they entered, eyes that were alert, assessing. He was aware of everything about them. Now if only the duke would bid him speak.

  With impatience, Trenchard watched the duke turn back to study the papers before him, taking his time, making them wait. Finally he raised his gaze back to them. His praise was brief.

  "DeVega, you delivered His Majesty's latest communi­que. Well done. It has been translated." He sifted through the stacks of papers, withdrew a thick sheaf covered with close writing.

  DeVega bowed slightly and said nothing.

  Trenchard fidgeted, wanting to nudge the admiral with his right foot. Say something, fool, he thought grimly. Silence does not aid the man seeking advancement.

  "We are pleased the message via sea arrived safely," Alva continued. "But I am told the simultaneous messenger sent by land did not make his destination." The duke fixed his penetrating gaze on DeVega. "His body was found last night at Ghent, in the back room of a tavern. He had been drinking and wenching, a fatal combination. His message was not on his person, nor was it with his belongings in his inn room. We must assume he was robbed by our enemies, who may now learn our plans."

  DeVega stared, expressionless, and said nothing.

  Trenchard thought with satisfaction of a certain well-placed dagger. "Begging the pardon of Your Grace," he ventured, feeling emboldened by his successful treachery. He took a risk, speaking impromptu when the duke hadn't addressed him. The duke's gaze snapped to him instantly. "Anyone having the fortune to secure the message would be unable to translate it." He knew this for certes, for he'd tried himself. "They would never learn King Philip's intentions."

  "You are the Englishman His Majesty spoke of?" The duke's tone was neutral, noncommittal.

  "Aye, Your Grace, I am he. And prepared to make my­self useful." Trenchard gave his most graceful bow. "As I have done previously. His most sovereign Majesty has been most pleased with my contributions. And I, with his tokens of appreciation."

  The duke studied him with a deliberate eye, then turned back to the translated communique. "We determine that the time is ripe for confrontation with our unruly subjects in the Netherlands. Ships, troops, and supplies are all in readiness, awaiting the order. My network tells me the Prince of Orange moves north toward his stronghold cities in Holland and Zealand. The Gueux de Mer, his disorga­nized rabble of a navy, will unquestionably sail down the Zuider Zee in the coming weeks to meet him. His Majesty bids us seize the moment—we will move forward with our plans." His gaze roved back to peruse Trenchard, studying each line and curve of his face, penetrating his thoughts. "His Majesty specifies that he sends us special support. You offer what?"

  The muscle in Trenchard's eyebrow jerked. The duke acknowledged his potential worth as well as challenged, both at once. "As I assume His Majesty mentioned me in the communique, I am happy to say I possess special information about the composition of the Sea Beggars navy as well as details about their one English supporter." He spoke clearly, concisely, in his best accented Spanish. He could thankfully speak it better than he read it.

  Alva seemed to consider this for a moment. "We will permit you to sail with Lord DeVega on the Gran Grifon. Tomorrow there will be a meeting with our chief naval commander, Count von Bossu. Be there, both of you." He dismissed them, turning back to his papers, as if they were gone already.

  Trenchard backed out of the presence chamber, bowing, pleased with the outcome of the interview. He hadn't been able to give his speech, but the result was still favorable. Maximilian de Hennin, Count von Bossu, was a Dutch loy­alist supporter of the Spanish king and chief commander of the combined Spanish-Netherlands fleet in Dutch waters. Bossu would call on him for his information and include him in plans for the battle. He, Trenchard, would be part of a surprise, fatal attack on the Sea Beggars. And he felt confident the Spanish would win.

  Back off the coast of Jutland, Rozalinde found Phillipe shortly after leaving her cabin. He was on the quarterdeck, skinning a rabbit. Kit's hunting party had bagged several with bow and arrow and delivered them to the ship. Then they had gone out again, meaning to stock the ship's larder. Two or three rabbits were nothing to feed twenty hungry men... And one hungry woman, Rozalinde thought, stop­ping several yards off to watch the way Phillipe's strong hands deftly handled the blade. Rozalinde recognized the

  knife as one that usually hung in Kit's cabin, in a sheath on the wall. The metal flashed silver in the sun as he worked, peeling back the soft hide to expose the inner core of flesh.

  "Come here, Rozalinde, and talk to me."

  Phillipe's deep voice startled her. Apparently he knew she was there, though she'd come up quietly behind him, treading gently on the stair.

  Feigning a nonchalance she didn't feel, Roz circled around him, careful her shadow didn't block his work. Squatting down on her haunches, she settled herself. His face hovered over his work in concentration, the craggy features set in relief by the rays of the sun. She watched his bushy eyebrows knit together as he scrapped the cony,

  "You are chaffing, m'n dochter?" He sent her a brief, sideways glance.

  "No. Er, that is ... yes," she admitted, feeling miserable. "I don't want to go back."

  He stopped the skinning to scan her, then returned to the rabbit. After a few more minutes, he separated the pelt from the rest, in one clean piece. "If we could dry it prop­erly," he said, placing the brown fur on the deck and smoothing it, "I could have it made into a muff to warm your hands in winter. You would look heel bekoorlijk car­rying it. It would match your brown hair and eyes."

  A ghost of a smile haunted Rozalinde's mouth.

  Phillipe glanced up again, his blue eyes assessing her before he refocused on the cony and began to cut its carcass into pieces. "You are worried," he stated. "I don't blame you. You have more than your share of troubles. But you must lay your plans and move ahead. Brooding doesn't I help."

  Roz shook her head dismally. "I used to do just as I pleased. But now ... now ..." She couldn't bring herself to put words to her thoughts.

/>   Phillipe summed up for her swiftly. "Life will change when you wed."

  "Yes," Roz acknowledged. "That's it exactly."

  Phillipe's knife bit deeply into the rabbit's flesh, severing legs from body, quartering the parts. Rozalinde felt a raw clutching in her belly and bile rose in her throat. She couldn't face being married. The prospect made her ill.

  Phillipe seemed to sense something of the kind, for he finished with the rabbit and, setting aside his knife, wiped his hands thoroughly on a rag. Drawing Rozalinde to her feet, he encircled her shoulders with one broad arm.

  "Rozalinde, you will never know unless you take the risk. You must take the step fortune dictates. Otherwise you will wonder for the rest of your life about what might have been. And love is a precious thing—uiterst kostbaar."

  Roz rubbed her cheek against his shirt front. It felt com­forting in his arms, just the way it did when her father held her. "But marriage does not necessarily mean love," she said sadly, toying with one of his mother-of-pearl shirt but­tons. "Sometimes it means the man is the master; the woman, his property. It could be unbearably ... restric­tive," she said finally, unwilling to explain her fears more fully.

  "In truth?" Phillipe looked skeptical. "Is that how life was with your father? Restrictive?"

  "Of course not," Rozalinde said decisively. "My father and I work together. We have discussions. If we must make a decision and I have information, I share it with him. He shares any he has with me. He often tells me the history of a particular person or transaction so I will understand it better. We consider various options. Then we decide."

  "We?"

  "Yes, we," Roz said, feeling slightly impatient. "I don't work alone. We work together. Even if he's not there, I have him in my thoughts every moment, in everything I do. I consider how he would act or how he would think about a particular difficulty." She tapped the side of her head. "1 imagine I hear his voice, discussing the problem. I know what he would think."

  "In truth?"

  Rozalinde leaned back against Phillipe's arm so she could look into his eyes. "You don't mean to imply things might be that way between Kit and me? They can't be, you know. He's too controlling. When he tells me to do something, I'm to jump. If I don't, he chides me."

  "When did he chide you last?"

  "Just the other morning, about working with Wrightman. The fellow is dull as a post, but Kit has it in his mind that it must be this way. 'You both gain immeasurably by engag­ing in this activity.'" She mimicked the haughty tone Kit had used when he instructed her. "Tis a great jest, really, but it doesn't matter what I think," she went on in her own voice. "I'm to do what I'm told. If I didn't, I would end up in the hold with the bilge water and the rats."

  At that, Phillipe threw back his head and laughed. He looked and sounded so much like Kit, Roz pulled away from him. "I mislike your answer," she muttered, crossing her arms and turning away. "It's of no help."

  "I am sorry, m'n rozekleur." Phillipe obligingly turned his laugh into a cough, then stopped it altogether. "I do not mean to offend you. But does this Wrightman learn nothing?"

  "Oh, he learns." Roz retreated to the side of the ship and stood, clenching and unclenching her fingers on the top rail. "Though I have to beat it into him with a vengeance. He may be a dull post but even wood takes an impression if pounded long enough."

  For a second Phillipe looked as if he were going to laugh again. Roz turned away to examine the shore. "I've never liked teaching," she went on, picking out points of the land­scape as she spoke, thinking she saw a movement by the faraway trees. Perhaps the hunters were returning. "I'm too impatient. Numbers make perfect sense to me, but most people consider them a mystery. People fear things they don't understand."

  "You have the right of it. People fear the Beggar King, because he is a mystery."

  Phillipe's voice floated to her from behind but she re­fused to turn so she could see him. "They love him, too," she insisted, sounding petulant to herself but refusing to regret it.

  Phillipe chuckled low in his throat. "Those with a clear conscience love him. Those with evil deeds to their credit fear him because he's known to champion the rights of the weak against the powerful who abuse their strength."

  "I wish I could do that."

  "But you do." Phillipe leaned on the rail beside her. "You help Wrightman."

  The blood rose to Rozalinde's face. "I hadn't thought of it that way. You mean he'll have a worthwhile occupation if he keeps at it. Before, he was a common seaman with no special skill."

  "Ah, so he is learning."

  Roz nodded her head with some embarrassment, low­ering her gaze to the deck.

  "Do not be troubled, m'n vriendin." Phillipe's massive hand wrapped around Roz's where it lay on the rail, his touch warming. "We learn our worth and that of others through experience. But let me tell you. Wrightman is a changed lad since you began tutoring him. He works at his numbers all day, even when he is not with you."

  Roz ducked her head, discomfited by this revelation.

  "You didn't know, did you?" Phillipe smiled at her. "You also did not realize that he strives desperately to please you. Your approval means more to him than did his captain's, and that's saying a good deal. But then Wright­man is not a slow lad. He recognizes genius when he sees it and considers himself fortunate to study under you."

  Roz felt herself blushing furiously. "I have no such thing."

  "Do you not?"

  She turned back to him. "Whatever I have, it has gotten me in a great deal of trouble."

  "It will get you out again."

  "But I shall have to wed with Christopher, in which case I won't be able to use it. I would refuse him—"

  "—but you have already given him your promise," Phil­lipe finished for her. "I know. He told me. But think, my dear, what would you have without him?"

  Roz wrinkled her forehead. "Independence."

  "You have that already," he said gently. "You carry it here," he tapped his own chest, "in your heart."

  Rozalinde looked at him, frowning in her effort to under­stand. His words made sense when they discussed it, yet when she found herself alone with Kit, reason fled.

  The lookout in the fighting top yelled out a joyful greet­ing. Looking down on shore, Roz saw the hunters re­turning. The younger ones cavorted and capered. A fresh deer swung on a heavy branch, slung between two men. Fresh venison for supper tonight. The saliva rushed to Roz's mouth and she swayed on her feet for an instant, feeling faint at the thought of the rich food after their mea­ger fare.

  The meat was delicious, just as Rozalinde anticipated. The cook set to work at once, and everyone devoured their fill of food for the first time in a handful of days. All that afternoon, men sat, reclined, some even slept, scattered over the decks of the ship.

  Now it was early evening and Rozalinde sat on the quar­terdeck, having consumed two huge trenchers of stew until she thought her stomach would rupture. Everyone drank their fill as well, and though they had no wine, good cheer reigned. With a sigh of contentment, Roz gazed out over the heads of the men, realizing that for the first time there was no hostility from them. For their various reasons, be­cause of things she'd done and things she hadn't done, they had changed their minds about her. She was no longer bad luck.

  That was a relief, she thought, as she smiled at Tom, the young man with whom she'd shared her water. Jock, the old fellow who had eaten her bread, raised one hand to salute as he passed a bucket of water with a dipper among the men. Even Ruske acknowledged her from his perpetual post at the helm, sending her a friendly smile over the heads of the others.

  She continued her silent inventory, involuntarily seeking Kit among the men. He was up on the forecastle deck, mingling with them. As she watched, he turned, seeming to sense her looking at him. Their gazes meet across the distance.

  He made his way to her slowly, taking his time, chatting with this man and that, assuring himself of their comfort. At last he mounted the steps to t
he quarterdeck and paused where she sat, with her meager skirts spread, a cup at her side.

  "Mistress Rozalinde, would you grant me the favor of walking out with me?" He knelt on the deck in mock gal­lantry, put one hand to his heart. His other hand captured hers and he bent over it. His lips made a warm imprint on her flesh, and a quick shiver ran through her as he drew her to her feet.

  "I should like to walk with you," she answered, "but we cannot walk out. There is no out where we can walk."

  "There is," he said in her ear, leaning close. "Allow me to show you. This way."

  He led her to where the longboat waited, riding the waves in the leeward shadow of the Swiftsure. Gently he helped her down the rope ladder and into the boat. After seeing her safely to the prow, he seated himself and began to row.

  "Where are we going?" Roz twisted around to watch their forward progress.

  "You need not know everything," Kit chided as he turned the boat north.

  Rozalinde settled back to watch Kit. The oars moved in his powerful hands, first cutting graceful arcs in the dark water, then rising to pass through the air, leaving a shim­mering half circle of drops on each side of the boat.

  Roz sucked in her breath and held it. She felt acutely aware of him, sitting so near, only a few feet away. With his back to her, she could satisfy her wish to observe him— the way his fingers, well shaped and strong, closed over the oar grips, the beautiful tensing and bunching of his arm and shoulder muscles beneath his shirt as he leaned into a stroke. He had rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbow, baring his darkly haired forearms. Those muscles rippled, too, as he worked them. A giddy feeling swam in her stomach, as if she'd taken a dangerous draught of intoxicating liquor. His masculinity whispered ominous words in the growing dusk, words that frightened and thrilled simultaneously.

  He didn't stop until they reached a small stream. At first she didn't see it, its entrance was so hidden by water weeds. Kit forced the prow of the boat through the clogged path until they entered the clear expanse of the estuary. Here the stream widened as salt water changed to fresh. A full moon had risen. It shone on the broad stretch of water, turning everything to fine, shivering silver. Vegetation on the shore was drenched with light.