Birthright

by David Hingley

  ‘Ask Nicholas, perhaps. I need to sleep. I am too tired tonight to think on that as well.’

  ‘I will.’ He shuffled back, studying her face. ‘Much better.’

  ‘Thank you. I can manage now. And do not worry about this.’ She jerked her head at the mutilated book. ‘I will be quite fine.’

  ‘If you are sure. I am not far away if you need me.’

  He held her gaze for a second until he flicked down his eyes and pulled himself up, resting his hand on her shoulder for a moment longer than he needed – or was that her imagination? Only when he had gone did she allow herself to stop pretending that the violent warning had not truly scared her. Pleased as she was her plan seemed to be working, in truth she felt troubled at the stark confirmation her enemy could be known to her. But when she pulled the knife from the book – her book – and saw the damage it had caused, her uncertainty turned to conviction. This book was her birthright, and so too, much more so, was her house. Nothing and nobody would deter her from restoring it.

  Entrusting Daniel to Lady Markstone, next morning Mercia did what she had thought she would never do: voluntarily seek out her uncle. He was looking out to sea from the quarterdeck, cupping his chin with his gloved hands, his elbows on the rail.

  ‘Uncle,’ she called from behind. ‘We have not spoken much since you came on board.’

  He turned from his contemplation, observing her crossing the deck. ‘Ah, my wayward niece. Have you come to apologise?’

  She had known it would be like this. ‘For what?’

  He let out a sharp laugh. ‘Oh, for shaming the family, removing your clothing, talking back to Sir Bernard. Shall I continue?’

  She clasped her hands in a false gesture of contrition, bowing her head. ‘You cannot expect me to do nothing if my son is in danger.’ It was a barbed remark, referring to his appropriation of the manor house as much as yesterday’s events, but she laced her words with contrived respect. ‘As for Sir Bernard, you must surely understand I have no esteem for him.’

  ‘Or for Sir William, it seems.’ He shook his head, making his hat bobble in the wind. ‘He should be an easy means of providing you with the fortune you so lament. But now I do not know. His wife will make things difficult.’

  ‘How terrible of her.’

  ‘Perhaps there is still hope. I wonder.’ He looked away, his eyes roaming the sea. Then he jerked his head back round, the hurried action startling her. ‘Why are you on this voyage if not for Sir William? Do not tell me you have come all this way to keep that crazed old woman company.’

  The force of the question threw her, but she quickly recovered. ‘I wanted to escape for a while,’ she essayed. ‘Father’s death has affected me.’

  He pulled on the tip of his glove. ‘I suppose it would.’

  ‘Lady Markstone offered me the chance to come a long way away. It seemed reasonable. I have known her all my life.’

  He folded his arms. ‘And Keyte?’

  ‘Nathan wishes to see something of the world before he spends the rest of his life on his land.’ She turned the question back at him. ‘Why are you here, Uncle? I was not expecting it.’

  He sighed. ‘Because, Mercia, I am trying to keep our family strong. There is great opportunity in America. New Amsterdam lies at the very mouth of Hudson’s River, a gateway to all those commodities waiting within. Assessing such prospects will be a very lucrative enterprise, one the Duke seemed most keen for me to grasp.’ He smiled, the right side of his face arching higher than the left. ‘Besides, we both wanted to make sure you were safe.’

  She tilted her head. ‘Is that so?’

  His smug expression darkened. ‘You take that tone with me too often, child, so have a care. And listen to me now. Take Sir William as a lover. He will not disappoint either of us.’

  He strutted towards the chart house, inserting himself into a discussion the captain was engrossed in with the boatswain. Feigning nonchalance, Mercia sauntered down to the main deck, turning past the capstan and smiling at the pilot at the whipstaff as she strolled into the cabin area where the noblemen were lodged. She could hear movement inside one of the cabins, and what sounded like a woman’s measured scolding in another, but she had no inclination to eavesdrop for gossip. Checking nobody was near, she pushed open her uncle’s door.

  As she expected, the cabin was well ordered, everything in its proper place. It was easy to find the few pages of scribblings she was hoping he would have drafted during the brief journey from Piscataqua. Glancing continually at the closed door, she laid the threatening note alongside them. But when she compared the two, even allowing for attempts at disguise, she was not surprised that they did not in the slightest match.

  She had seen Nathan only briefly that morning, just after dawn. He had seemed in a hurry, scarcely pausing to tell her he would try to find some samples of Sir Bernard’s and Sir William’s writing before disappearing again. Wanting to know whether he had found anything out, she fetched Daniel and set off round the ship.

  ‘Did you behave for Lady Markstone?’ she asked.

  ‘She would not let me do anything.’ Daniel pulled a face. ‘She made me stay in the cabin the whole time, even when she went for a piss.’

  ‘Danny! Where did you learn such a word?’

  He shrugged. ‘The sailors say it.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Mercia frowned. ‘Perhaps you should spend less time with the sailors.’

  ‘The sailors are fun.’ He twirled round. ‘I want to climb the mast again.’

  Mercia bent down to him. ‘Yesterday you were terrified. You need to learn fear, Danny, or you will get into trouble.’ She sighed. ‘But no. You do not want to know fear.’ She stroked his cheek. ‘I want you to promise me you will be careful. We are about to get to a dangerous place. So I need you to be good.’

  Daniel nodded. ‘When I grow up, I want to be a sailor. It is much more exciting here than being bored in the cottage with Bethany.’

  She stood up and ruffled his hair. ‘Maybe so, but do not climb the mast again. Do you promise?’

  ‘What if Uncle Nathan comes too?’

  ‘Not even then.’ She looked around. ‘Uncle Nathan seems to be hiding this morning. Will you help me find him?’

  ‘I can do that!’ Excited, he ran off ahead, reluctantly skidding to a halt when Mercia bellowed at him to behave.

  They scoured the deck from forecastle to stern but Nathan was nowhere to be found. Nor was he in the cook’s room, or in the chart house, and peeping once more into the steerage area the only person there still was the pilot, taking orders from a navigator on the quarterdeck above. He interrupted his tedious task to confirm Nathan had been through earlier, before she had herself, but that he had immediately left. Back out on deck she crossed paths with Sir William, who made a poor feint of pretending not to notice her, probably embarrassed by the previous day’s scene.

  She realised she had not seen Nicholas either, and thinking Nathan might have gone to his hammock to ask him about the necklace, she decided to venture below. Leaving an annoyed Daniel once more with Lady Markstone, she descended the steps to the ’tween deck, the ship’s middle tier where the sailors slept amongst the cannons. It was sunny outside, but much more heat than light penetrated the sweat-filled space. In her heavy dress, Mercia felt immediately uncomfortable. She wondered how Nathan and Daniel, now relegated to a makeshift cubicle down here, were able to sleep.

  Knowing Nathan hated his new bunk, it was no surprise to find it empty. Tentatively, she peeked into the area where the sailors’ hammocks were stretched out at night, thirty of them nailed into the posts in a ramshackle manner, but they were mostly rolled up now it was morning, and aside from a few men dozing between work duties little was happening. Grime-stained sailors stared at her as she squeezed past the windlass used for raising and lowering the anchor, and then around the lower section of the capstan that hauled goods from the hold, but there was no sign of Nicholas or Nathan.

  Had she missed th
em on the main deck above? She hadn’t looked into the rigging, but while Nicholas might well be helping the sailors, there would be no reason for Nathan to assist in this calm weather. The gunroom was empty, so that only left the hold. A slight nervousness fluttered into life inside her belly as she walked towards the larger floor hatch that opened onto the vast dark space below. As she drew near it, the sailor who had made a pass at her all those weeks before scuttled past. For a moment her eyes met his in the semi-darkness. He opened his mouth in surprise before lowering his head and walking on.

  The gaping hatch was open. She called into the darkness: ‘Nathan, are you there?’ A couple of nearby sailors turned to look at her. She called again. ‘Nathan, if you are looking for supplies, come out. I want to talk to you.’

  There was no reply. Instinct told her something was wrong, or maybe it was the claustrophobia of these darkened conditions. Whatever the reason, the faint panic in her chest grew stronger. Peering through the hatch, she made out dark shapes of barrels and crates, but the blackness was too dense to see detail. She thought about going to the captain, but she did not want him to think her a fool. The top of a ladder stuck out of the hatch; she put one foot on the highest rung and began to descend.

  ‘Hey! You can’t go down there!’ One of the sailors shouted at her to stop, but too late – her head was already through the hatch. Each step down drew a darker veil over her eyes, but her feet soon felt the wooden planking that made up the hold floor, carefully laid over the cobblestone ballast that kept the ship stable in the waves.

  The irritated sailor called through the hatch. ‘What are you looking for? The hold’s no place for a lady.’

  ‘Do you have a torch?’ she shouted up, gripping a ladder rung with an anxious hand. ‘I will not be long. I need to … check on my belongings.’

  The sailor swore and vanished. Moments later he returned with a flaming torch that he must have lit on the cooking fire. Leaning down, he held it out to her; she reached up and grabbed it.

  ‘Be careful,’ he warned, his voice gruff. ‘I’ll wait here if you need me.’

  She turned away from the hatch, making her way deeper into the silence of the unfamiliar hold, her feet squelching through unseen puddles of water that would have leaked inside during the voyage. It was fiendishly hot, the summer humidity amplified in the confined, windowless space. The torchlight flickered off the various cargo, creating devilish shadows that intensified her panic. She felt trapped, as she had felt trapped under the table in Halescott Manor, eighteen years before. She began to have to fight her own fears to press on. Slowly she moved forward, repeating over and over that her anxiety was groundless.

  She ran the torchlight over every object she saw, the corners of her eyes making out blurry images that darted swiftly out of sight. They were small shadows, but her imagination turned them into sea demons. She gripped the torch harder but still she continued, sliding past barrels and ropes, boxes and blankets, chairs and chests, telling herself this was most likely a fruitless endeavour, that she had just missed Nathan on deck above.

  The hold seemed bigger from the inside than it looked from the face of the ship, but again she told herself this was her fear at work. She took care to stay on the wooden planks, avoiding the wobbling ballast that could make her trip. She was beginning to conquer her disquiet when halfway through the space, behind the wide bottom of the mainmast, a different sort of object loomed into sight, a slumped uneven mass strewn across the floor. Her panic intensified, increasing threefold. Sweating, she swept the torchlight across whatever lay at her feet.

  The torch nearly fell from her grasp. She beheld the figure of a man, dark and silent, his back to her, unmoving. Her heartbeat accelerated, pounding out an erratic thump. She stepped over him to look at his face. Then she gasped, and only a quick reaction caught the torch as it did fall. Worried something had happened to Nathan, she was not expecting this. She bent down to check the man was still breathing, and he was, but the tips of his hair were matted with blood. His blonde hair, for the man was Nicholas.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Holding the torch with one hand, Mercia used the other to try to shake Nicholas awake. When he did not stir she felt over his body, but there were no gashes evident in his clothing, no wounds discernible in his skin. It was only his face that showed signs of trauma, a small amount of clotted blood around his cheek. He looked more asleep than anything. Most likely he had been punched and left there.

  She gripped the still-burning torch and made for the ladder as fast as she could. ‘Quickly!’ she shouted to the sailor above. ‘There is a man down here! He has been attacked and will not wake.’

  ‘Attacked?’ came his voice. ‘Who?’

  ‘Nicholas. My manservant.’ She began to climb. ‘Here, take this torch.’

  The sailor reached down to help her up the ladder before running for assistance. Her breaths shallow, Mercia followed him onto the coolness of the open deck above. A strong wind was now blowing, filling the sails, turning the air about her cold.

  ‘Where is the barber-surgeon?’ the sailor was calling. ‘Nick Wildmoor has been beaten and left for dead.’

  As the news spread, a great clamour broke out on the ship. The crew began to congregate on the main deck. Some of the sailors went below with the barber, the ship’s doctor, to see what was happening.

  Mercia was leaning on her thighs taking in gulps of salty air when the captain appeared at her side. ‘They say Wildmoor has been attacked in the hold,’ he said, his face hard. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘Yes,’ she gasped. ‘The barber is with him now. Someone has struck him senseless, but there are no serious wounds. I think he will recover.’

  ‘Did anyone see who did it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

  ‘No matter.’ Morley looked over at his crew. ‘I wager I know who it was.’

  She looked up in sudden realisation. ‘I did see that sailor he has a rivalry with coming away from the hold.’

  ‘You have it.’ He stormed across the deck. ‘Jamieson!’ he cried. The sailors around him began to fall silent. ‘Jamieson! Show yourself!’

  As Mercia’s breathing settled, the young sailor who had spoken indecently with her at the start of their voyage emerged onto deck. Now she had calmed down it seemed obvious. Nicholas had only recently denied this man the chance to visit his mates on the Martin. It was perhaps one insult too many. Maybe he had followed Nicholas to the hold and struck.

  She noticed the noblemen coming out on deck from their quarters, Lady Calde with them, doubtless attracted by the noise; soon after, Lady Markstone too appeared, Daniel in tow. Not knowing what might happen, Mercia motioned at her to keep him where he was. She nodded, pulling him towards her. Daniel bounced left and right, eager to see, but Lady Markstone held him close.

  Under the mainmast, Jamieson was dragged in front of the captain, more of insolence than of panic in his eyes. He stood in the middle of the deck, obstinate in the glare of his captain’s gaze.

  Morley called for silence. ‘Nicholas Wildmoor has been found beaten in the hold. You were seen coming from there and are known to be his enemy. What say you?’

  Jamieson shrugged. ‘I say nothing. I’ve not done it. Though if he’s been beat I wish I had.’ He spat on the deck, defiant. ‘That shit deserves it.’

  The captain folded his arms, waiting. Finally Jamieson cracked. ‘Fine, I was in the hold. I found him there and left him. But I didn’t strike him. I’m innocent.’

  Morley narrowed his eyes, roving them over his crew, assessing the mood. The sailors were all grinning and shaking their heads, clearly as sceptical of Jamieson’s denial as he was.

  ‘Innocent,’ repeated Jamieson slowly, as if to a dull beast, accentuating each syllable, but the captain was in no mood to listen. An infraction had been committed on his ship and he needed to assert his authority. Mercia noticed Sir Bernard nodding approvingly on the quarterdeck. Swift justice, she thought, that
is what Sir Bernard is about. Swift justice, even when the evidence does not exist.

  She began to feel uneasy. There was no actual proof of this fellow’s guilt. Uncertain, she considered what to do. She did not want an innocent man punished, but neither did she want to tell the captain of the other suspicion that was forming in her mind, that Nicholas had been attacked by her enemy, in a further attempt to scare her off. If she said anything now in front of the sailors, in front of the noblemen, her secret could spread all over the ship.

  So she said nothing, hating herself for it. And where was Nathan? In vain, she looked through the crowd of people to see where he could be.

  The captain nodded to one of the mates, who beckoned over two sailors.

  ‘No,’ said Jamieson, taking a step back. ‘Keep away. I’ve done nothing.’

  Unheeding his plea, the two sailors walked across the deck towards him. He shook them off as they took hold of his arms, but at a nod from the mate they grabbed him more firmly and dragged him to the mainmast. Stripping him to the waist, they turned him about and tied him securely to the thick pole. He rested his head on the wood, closing his eyes, now resigned to the inevitability of punishment.

  The mate strode through the crowd into the captain’s quarters, re-emerging moments later with a sadistic device from which every sailor on the ship involuntarily recoiled, a long wooden stick capped by a series of leather straps. Alarmed that Daniel might see, Mercia looked over at Lady Markstone, but she was already escorting him away. Relieved, she turned back to Jamieson, and then away again as the mate pulled back his right arm to administer the first stroke. She winced as she heard the sharp sound of the lash fall. Jamieson cried out in agony; she peered through her fingertips to see his flesh cut in six bleeding diagonal lines across his back. The next time she forced herself to watch, holding her entwined hands over her mouth as the mate whipped Jamieson’s tortured back with a powerful strike.