by Mark Keating
‘Maybe you were right. This is madness.’
Manvell stood away from the body, opened the vellum cautiously against the rain and then understood why Howard had no fear to bring them out upon the sodden deck.
He passed them one under the other, again and again. Three times, like shuffling cards, hoping something might appear upon their blank sheets.
‘Did you break the seal, Thomas?’
‘He told me to. Should he not return. I do not understand. He charged them with such importance.’
Manvell looked at the halves of the seal. Symbols he did not recognise. He tore them loose, pocketed them and crushed the paper to the deck.
‘Never mind,’ he said.
The bosun, Abel Wales, had already draped Coxon’s cloak over the body, the blue and red face shrouded. Manvell nodded his thanks.
‘We’re going to take him home now,’ he said.
Devlin picked up Coxon’s hat. It fitted as poorly as all the others that he had never bought so that did not matter. Peter Sam stood beside him and Devlin held on to him.
‘I need Dandon,’ he said. ‘I need binding.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Peter pulled him up for the sight of the men. They would not see him weak. ‘We’re going back north. Back to the island. We need to repair. Right soon. Hartley has the stern guns should they want to warm. You sure they don’t have him?’
‘He’s slipped them. Like a dog in heat. Like we don’t have the gold.’
‘Not yet,’ Peter Sam hauled him towards the cabin, his strength keeping the limp body upright.
‘The storm and your past has wished us back.’
‘It’s the cross.’ Devlin spat his blood. ‘It don’t want to be left. I reckon that now.’
Peter Sam lessened his pressure as Devlin whimpered. He carried him softer.
‘Don’t be getting holy on me now, Patrick.’ He held the chin up as it fell, for no-one to see, and closed the doors behind.
Chapter Forty-Three
The Riberia Palace, Lisboa port. September 1721.
Two months later
The system of government by the Cortes was dissolved with the succession of King João V. He was absolute monarch, Prince of Brasil, and in less than two decades of his reign his country had dug and pillaged fortunes that Spain could not aspire to in four hundred years of exploration and exploitation. But no iron fist directed his rule.
Science and culture, religion and art were his principles; galleries, academies and libraries provided for his people. His empire was in its Golden Age, above even Spain, and now that the French, English and Dutch had squandered all their wealth into paper and companies Portugal’s affluence and influence became the mark of nations. Their trust still abided in the fruits of the earth: gold, diamonds, timber, and, with its wealth, architecture that would have made Rome envious.
Let the swine build exchanges and brothels. Lisboa climbed to the sky with cathedrals and opera houses.
But João’s last ambition remained unfulfilled. The wish, the need, to establish Portugal’s Catholic church with that of Rome and Spain; and for that he had bribed and courted cardinals and ambassadors with relics, diamonds and beautiful young nuns for years. But there had come no confirmation. Not yet.
The courtier outside the music chamber waited for the Cristofori pianoforte to pause and opened the door before the music sheets turned. He crossed to the plain instrument, His Majesty’s new toy.
‘What is it, Melo?’
The king, in a black and silver suit, contrasted with the solemnity of the instrument before him.
‘You seem agitated, Melo?’ He had not looked up from his page, the soft sound of the instrument enough to carry on conversation. A portly, pale figure, hair already receding at thirty-one, he wore his Ramilie wig even in bed.
‘Do not dwell on your words.’
‘Your Majesty,’ Melo bowed expertly, with his black cane mirroring the action of his foot backwards like a third leg. ‘I have great news from the ships.’
The palace was built adjacent to the port with the shipyard alongside, a maritime palace for the great explorers of the earth. Whenever an English or Spanish ship ‘discovered’ a new island they inevitably found generations of Portuguese goats and trees already planted. The Portos did not claim them. To their captains they were only larders and carpenters’ stores for their greater passages into the unknown.
‘What news?’ João paused only to tut and take a stylus to those of Scarlatti’s notes he disapproved of.
‘It is the Santa Rosa, Your Majesty, the ship that sailed with the Nossa Senhora do Cabo. She has come back.’
João looked at him now.
‘She was not lost with the other? The priest O’Neill is with?’
‘No, Your Majesty,’ Melo bowed again. ‘Some of the priests have come. But Father O’Neill is no longer amongst us.’ He sniffed and gave an almost Gallic shrug. ‘At least not alive.’
‘Speak, Melo.’ João returned to his corrections.
‘They have come with a tale of the loss of the Nossa Senhora to the pirates. They would also like to present to you the coffin of Father O’Neill. They are outside but . . . it is apparent that they have had some . . . “assistance” in their passage, Your Majesty.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I believe – by my understanding – as I follow the discourse with the brothers, that the priests are here by the mercy of . . .’ he hesitated to find a better word but none was forthcoming. ‘By the mercy of pirates, Your Majesty.’
‘Privateers? Our privateers?’
Melo winced.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I would believe them English, Sire.’ He gestured to the doors which opened on his command. ‘And not privateers at all. If except of their own device.’
Coffins are unmistakable objects when walked into a room, and unforgettable when carried on the shoulders of eight pirates.
Devlin and Peter Sam walked at the front, the coffin bright and freshly made, wide enough for two men, as plain and long as the pianoforte. They set it down heavily in the centre of the chamber with a puff of its wood dust and Devlin removed his hat – Coxon’s hat. The others stepped back and saluted as the priests they had fetched from Bourbon bowed into the room.
Devlin had stood in such rooms before. He knew enough to wait until spoken to.
João stood and Melo lowered his head as his king considered.
The one with the hat and long-coat was surely their leader and he raised his chin to him. The king spoke with an Italian accent to his English.
‘Melo says you are pirates? Is this true? Explain.’
Devlin put his hat to his thigh and stepped away from the coffin.
‘My name is Patrick Devlin, Your Majesty. I rescued your priest O’Neill. He died in service to you. I respectfully return his fellows.’
João saw the weapons at every corner of flesh.
‘You bring his body to us? And you come to us armed? Out of the same respect?’
Devlin grinned.
‘Just wanted to make sure we get out again, Your Majesty. And I never said I brought his body back.’
He kicked the coffin lid to the marbled floor. And the gold within lit the ceiling.
João and Melo came forward. They looked down at the gold cross emblazoned with the fist-sized rubies.
Melo was open-mouthed, crossed himself.
‘It is the Flaming Cross! The Goa cross! It is here! How is this possible?’
No such humour for a king. Not even an eyebrow raised.
‘The Cross of Fire,’ João affirmed. ‘Stolen by pirates. We ordered it made. We had thought it truly lost. How did you come by this, Captain?’
Devlin kept his eyes on the king.
‘O’Neill told that you sent him after this. He knew where the pirate Levasseur had taken it. He led us to it. I brought it back.’
João pursed his lips. ‘We did not send him. We have not seen him since he left with the ship and tho
ught him lost, as the ship, as the gold.’
Devlin looked at Peter Sam. The priest had been an adept liar. Kings had no need of lies. João saw the look.
‘No matter. This cross means much to our Church and our people. Do you know what it contains, Captain?’
Devlin ignored the piety of the query.
‘I don’t bring it out of charity.’
João scoffed.
‘No, of course. There should be reward. And what of the pirates that took it? This “Buzzard” and . . . Taylor? You are English. How do we know you are not he?’
‘I’m not English.’ He cocked his head to the priests. ‘And you can ask them.’
‘And The Buzzard? What of him?’
‘We saw him once. Not when we got this.’
They had coursed back to the island, made good their repairs to the Shadow and blasted through the rocks above to get down into the cave. Levasseur was not there. Only the ghost of him and his dead all around. A month of labour then back to Bourbon for the priests. And no Dandon, but his story recounted by the priests.
Coxon had taken him. That much true. Where he was now was their last mystery and the king had the same thought that Peter Sam had raised the night they left Bourbon for Lisboa.
‘But why would pirates bring such a treasure back to its home? You would be rich all your days.’ He took his eyes from the pirate and the golden coffin, walked the line of priests who bowed at his passing, Melo followed on his heels in exact step.
‘I want a letter of marque,’ Devlin did not turn, his admiration was on the pianoforte. He often forgot that men made beautiful things beyond the crudity of cutlass and pistol. He had seen nothing like it. Another world he had long passed from.
‘I bring your cross for my allegiance.’
João halted his inspection of the priests and Melo almost walked into his back.
‘You wish to be a privateer? For Portugal? We have no war.’
‘A man of mine is missing,’ Devlin faced him. ‘He’s in Indian waters. I could use papers for the ports.’
‘You seek one man?’ João came back to the coffin. ‘Is he a lover?’
Devlin felt himself blush. ‘No, Sire.’ He looked into a king’s eyes. ‘He is my friend.’
João smiled. ‘You would search the Indian sea for just one man, Captain? We have many friends. Many friends that do not deserve such an endeavour.’
Devlin hung a thumb near his pistol.
‘I don’t. And there is something else.’
João raised his chin higher, his brow shifting his wig.
‘The less you talk, Captain,’ he drawled, ‘the more you seem to say. Go on.’
Devlin took a breath.
‘I have had altercations with some of your governors.’ He tried not to say the name. It was not the pirate’s way to carry guilt against those dead by their whims, and Valentim Mendes had been no saint, but his death had come in that garden in Charles Town and Valentim had assisted him that day, if only in the hope to have the opportunity to kill Devlin himself.
‘I would hope that the cross, and my offer, may settle that. For me.’
João took in the lean form, uncommonly still, the dried blood on his boots and buckles, the sharp eyes watching and waiting on every word.
‘We know not of what you speak but take your word on it. Very well, Captain. Portugal can always use more men upon her waves. Melo will see to your papers. We are indebted to you for the return of our Church’s cross. The Cross of Fire will further our position in the eyes of Rome, as was our original intent. And we had faith that such an object could not hide from good men.’ He genuflected to the cross, no pride that his head was the lowest in the room; unseemly for a king and Melo lowered himself prone. João crossed himself as he rose, saw the cut in the heart where the axe had smited.
‘However, the Santa Rosa cannot be appointed to you. She belongs to her port. To us. And we understand it customary for privateers to sail their own ships. It is simple to arrange purchase for you if you wish? That is if you are in . . . “adequate” funds, Captain?’
‘I have my own ship.’
It is quite a feat to shock a king.
‘You have brought a pirate ship into our port? To our palace?’ He looked down at the water outside his window, the dozens of masts.
Devlin stood by Peter Sam.
‘As I said,’ he put back his hat. ‘Wanted to make sure we get out again.’ He bowed, slapped his men to leave. Melo led them to the door, Devlin tipped his hat to the grateful priests.
João went back to his pianoforte, tutted at more of Scarlatti’s notes, called back to the pirate.
‘Captain? What happened to the rest of the gold? The Virgin’s treasure. You have knowledge on this?’
Devlin held by the door, touched his hat that fitted better every day.
‘Most gone, Your Majesty. The ports say Taylor took his share to Panama. The Buzzard and his men had a disagreement. Mutiny. They left him and your boys here for dead. We only found The Buzzard. He had done for O’Neill.’
‘So they took it all? These mutineers?’ He touched a low key and let it hang. ‘These “other” pirates?’
Devlin brought his hat through his hands, his rakish grin giving all of the Irish rogue and the gypsy selling you your own horse.
‘Like I said,’ he nodded to the coffin. ‘I don’t bring it out of charity, Sire.’
João went back to the wooden keys, the soft touch sensual, the sound angelically peaceful compared to the hall-filling harpsichord.
‘We hope you find your friend, Captain,’ he waved a hand in dismissal. ‘We would almost fear for the world if you did not.’
Devlin squared his hat to his head. Kept the grin hanging like the pianoforte’s note.
‘Your Majesty.’
He closed the door. Left his new king.
Left to find his friend.
Epilogue
The uppers of Christopher Manvell’s shoes were deerskin, the soles shark leather. They kissed most floors, but the black and white tiles of the corridor echoed his confidence as he strode along.
The doors opened to his approach, a darkened room beyond. It was August but the room was cold as he crossed the threshold and the doors clicked softly shut behind him.
The candlelight from the table and the shuttered windows pricked at his eyes, their glow permitting his gaze to sweep the room. He saw the smutty outlines of paintings recently removed, liveried men with kerchiefs about their faces standing behind him at the doors. And the white masks coming slowly forward from the back of the long room.
‘Do you not announce yourself to your superiors, Lieutenant Manvell, when you enter chambers?’ A muffled voice. Manvell could not tell which mask spoke. He cleared his throat.
‘I have been sent from Walsingham House, sir. I do not know what this building’s official capacity represents, beyond victualling. Nor whom I address, sir. Not when they wear masks.’
‘It is called security, Lieutenant.’ The other white face now.
‘Yours or mine, sir?’ Manvell’s voice snipered from the dark.
‘Both, Lieutenant. Both. We understand that you return from your sojourn with Captain Coxon. Unsuccessfully we might add.’
Manvell was taller than them both and straightened himself even more.
‘Most unsuccessful, as the voyage ended with Captain Coxon’s death. Had you not heard? And why am I here? Who are you, sirs? I was told that I would receive my orders here.’
The masks turned into profile as they shared a look.
‘We are informed that you are the Duke of Beaufort’s son-in-law, Lieutenant?’
‘And that implies . . .?’
‘A great deal. Or nothing. You should understand.’
‘Then you misunderstand, sir.’ Manvell came forward. ‘I am a publican’s son. I married a good woman. Not for her nobility. You misjudge me. I have no society that grants me privilege. I work for my king. I will go to Walsingham House
.’
The masks froze.
‘You know, Lieutenant, that Walsingham – he whose face is etched above the door of your Board – was Elizabeth’s spy-master general? Even if you were not born a gentleman you surely have gleaned something from the horse you have spurred your heels into?’
Manvell’s hand gripped his sword.
‘You dare speak of my wife, sir?’
Silence. The masks came together, whispered together, then lifted in unison so that Manvell could not tell which one spoke.
‘She is due again, is she not? A birth lost before? Such a pity. And the duke has suffered considerably since the collapse of the South Sea Company. There is much you need to discover when you are home. The duke is one of many nobles who have suffered financial pain.’
Manvell did not loose his grip on his sword’s hilt.
‘I will go home when I am released from my ship. And I do not think that anything you have to say has any meaning to me.’
‘Not Devlin?’ one of them said. ‘That must have some meaning surely?’
Manvell let go his sword.
‘I have given my report.’
They moved to behind the table.
‘And Coxon’s orders not part?’
Manvell had nothing to hide.
‘There was nothing on them.’
‘Yet they were sealed. The seal broken. What does that mean, Lieutenant?’
Manvell went into his waistcoat, pulled out one half of the purple seal, sure he should keep the other. He tossed it like a penny to a beggar at the mask’s feet.
‘It means he was betrayed.’
A foot upon the seal. ‘No,’ a black gloved finger raised. ‘It means he knew the value of trust. Of secrecy. And of reward.’
‘Captain Coxon was a Norfolk parson’s son,’ Manvell extolled. ‘I am a publican’s. And just as provincial. You measure us both wrongly from your towers, sir. I am done.’
He put back his hat, turned to the door. The scarfed guards barred.
Manvell wrapped his fist to his hilt.
