The Iron Rose

by Marsha Canham

  “And here I was advised on very good authority before departing London that gales and high winds would subside if a naked woman stood on deck.”

  “Which is why most ships’ figureheads are of naked women. Nevertheless, you might want to take yourself below,” she advised, blinking as a fat drop of rain splashed her cheek. “I have no intentions of stripping down, and the wind can toss you about like a child’s toy if you haven’t a good pair of sea legs beneath you.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Beacom said, peering around from behind his master’s broad shoulder. “I was about to suggest that very thing to his grace: to retire below until this unpleasantness passes.”

  “Whereas I was thinking a bit of rain, a brisk bit of wind, might make for a stimulating change,” Varian said tautly.

  “Suit yourself,” Juliet said. “But if you end up riding a wave briskly over the rail, we won’t be turning about to fish you out.”

  Beacom made a sound in his throat, but Varian merely offered a small bow to acknowledge the advice, then turned to stare out across the boiling seas again.

  “Stimulating?” Beacom waited until Juliet had returned to the quarterdeck before he questioned his master’s sanity. “As stimulating as the storm we encountered off the Canaries on the voyage south?”

  Varian’s dark eyebrow twitched at the memory, for the gale that had battered them for four days and five nights had left the two men so weak from seasickness they would have welcomed a swift death at the end of a spiked bludgeon. Even so, the wench had thrown down a subtle gauntlet. Were he to retreat below now, with his thumb throbbing a reminder that she had lorded her superiority over him once already, it would suggest his legs were made of less stern stuff than her own.

  “Go below if you wish,” he said, squinting against the beads of rain. “I choose to remain here a few minutes longer.”

  The few turned into ten, and by then the blackest of the clouds were directly overhead, the wind was lashing across the deck, and rain was pelting down like needles. Varian was satisfied he had made his point.

  With Beacom’s teeth chattering too badly to express his gratitude, the two men began to make their way across the deck, but before they were safely through the hatchway, the planking shifted under their feet. The ship seemed to rise up beneath them, careening perilously to one side, tossing both Varian and Beacom hard against the base of the mast. Dazed, they could only brace themselves as a solid green wall of seawater crashed over the deck, beating down on them with enough force to carry them across the deck and flatten them against the bulkhead. The ship righted itself, then rolled in the opposite direction, sending Beacom skidding and sliding across the wet planking almost back to the rail.

  Varian cursed and went after him, managing to grasp hold of a bony arm and drag him back to the safety of the hatchway. Above them on the quarterdeck, Juliet was shouting orders to the helmsman, who was doubled over the whipstaff, his hair streaming horizontally into the wind. One moment he was there, his full weight pressed into keeping the rudder on course, and the next he was gone, flung against the rail, saved from being swept overboard only by the length of cable bound around his waist.

  “Your grace!” Beacom was screaming, hauling on his arm, but Varian could not move, could scarcely see more than a few feet in front of him. He tried to scrape the saltwater out of his eyes, but everything remained a blur. He could not see Juliet Dante. If she was still up on the quarterdeck, she was obscured by the sheets of driving rain.

  If she was still there.

  A thunderous crack startled Varian’s gaze higher as a bolt of lightning struck the top of the foremast. The jagged white streak seemed to hang in the air a moment before dissolving into a fountain of brilliant red sparks, some of which showered the heads of the crewmen who were working the lines. Weakened in the battle with the Santo Domingo, the top of the mast fractured in two under the fiery strike, and a ten-foot section came crashing down toward the deck, the shroud lines popping and snapping as it fell. The broken length of oak cannonaded into the planking close enough to where Varian was standing to lash his face with spray.

  “Your grace, I beg you: you must come below!”

  Beacom’s voice was frantic, but Varian’s attention was dragged back to the quarterdeck. There was still no sign of Juliet. The helmsman was on all fours, his face bloodied where his forehead had hit the rail. Varian shook off Beacom’s clutching hands and ran to the bottom of the ladderway. He vaulted up the steps two at a time and saw her. She was on the starboard side of the quarterdeck attempting to climb into the shrouds.

  At first he could not see why she would be doing such an insane thing, but then he looked higher and saw the boy with the peg leg hanging upside down from the ratlines. A cable was looped around his good ankle, and Varian guessed that when the mast had come down, the line had been pulled taut and jerked the boy off his feet and up into the tangle of rigging. He hung there helpless, being swung to and fro with the movement of the ship, coming ominously closer to the base of the mast on each swing.

  Doubled over against the force of the wind, Varian made his way across the open quarterdeck. He reached Juliet’s side just as another mountainous green wave crashed over the bow, nearly flinging them both down on the deck. He circled an arm around her waist and another around the four-stranded lanyard lines, and held them both against the shrouds until the wave passed.

  Unfettered lines snaked treacherously underfoot and the broken section of mast continued to pull on the rigging with each plunge and toss of the ship, snapping shearing poles, popping the chainplates out of the gunwall and freeing more cables to whip over their heads. Varian heard Juliet shout something in his ear, but his mouth and nose streamed saltwater, his hair was plastered flat to his skull, and he turned the wrong way just as the end of a rope whipped across his cheek like a cat-’o-nine-tails.

  The painful sting added to his blindness and almost made him miss Johnny Boy as he swung toward the shrouds. Varian reached up to grasp a flailing hand but he misjudged the distance by half an arm’s length and realized he had to climb higher to reach him. Pushing Juliet to one side, he put a foot to the rail and hoisted himself up into the shroud lines. He caught his balance in time to see the next wave before it struck, and turned his head to avoid the worst of it, but when he shook his head to clear the water out of his hair and eyes, the loose cable lashed him again. With a curse, he caught the end and looped it several times around his wrist, which was, he acknowledged too late, probably the most foolish thing he could have done.

  The ship plunged into a trough, and the yard around which the rope was bound swung forward with the motion, carrying Varian with it. He was yanked off the shrouds and found himself in the same perilous situation as the boy he had come to save. The two made brief contact as they swung in opposite directions; then St. Clare was bounced out and around the far side of the shroud. Being considerably heavier, with much more rope at play, he was sent spinning out over the side like a whirligig and for a full ten seconds, there was nothing under his flailing feet but empty air and churning water.

  As the ship reared to climb above the next trough, he swung back on board and this time was able to get a hand around the boy’s arm before they parted again. The rope he was holding cut into his wrist, and his arm was nearly wrenched from the socket as he caught the boy and dragged his weight behind his own, but before the ship careened again, he was able to shove the lad in the direction of the shrouds where Juliet was now standing high enough to snag him.

  Varian saw her reel Johnny Boy in. A second later, the duke was sailing outward over the side of the ship again, reaching the end of the arc with such a hard jolt, he felt the rope slide painfully through his hand. Fighting to claw his way fist over fist up the cable, he was caught by the next wave, his feet sucked forward by the force of the rushing sea. As the wave broke across the deck, his vision cleared long enough to see the solid shape of the mainmast coming up swift and deadly in front of him. A moment away
from slamming into the oak, he felt hands reach up to grab at his legs. Someone shouted at him to release the “farkin’ ” rope and when he did so, he was plucked out of the air and thrown by his shoulders and thighs through an open hatchway.

  He landed in the same wet heap as Johnny Boy, who had been tossed there only moments before. Nathan and Juliet stood glaring down at the pair a moment before closing the hatch behind them and returning to the haze of beating rain and sluicing water on deck.

  Another shadowy figure loomed out of the corridor beside them.

  “Mother, Mary, and Joseph,” Beacom cried. “I thought you were gone, your grace. Gone! What possible madness could have inspired you to venture out of cover in this tempest?”

  Varian’s teeth were clenched too tightly to offer any explanations and the boy had already disappeared into the gloom. He accepted Beacom’s help to rise first to his knees, then to his feet, but he shook off the older man’s offer of a shoulder to lean on and staggered on his own through the gloom of the lurching gun deck in search of the tiny, airless locker he had been banished to last night.

  After opening three narrow wooden doors and having sails, holystones, and spars fall on him, he swore and stumbled along another narrow companionway that led to the stern. The captain’s cabin was empty and relatively clear of sloshing seawater, and he stood there dripping like a great shaggy dog, his hair hanging over his face, his borrowed clothing sopping wet and clinging to him like a soaked layer of parchment.

  “Your grace … ?”

  The agony of his previously bruised shoulder and hip did not bear dwelling upon but when he looked down, the front of his shirt was covered in a wide red smear of blood with more splattering down each second. He remembered the end of the rope lashing his cheek and searched his face with his fingertips, gasping at what he found.

  “Your grace—?”

  Varian whirled around with a roar and slammed the door. Over further protests and pounding fists, he threw the bolt to lock it, leaving Beacom outside in the companionway.

  The storm battered the Iron Rose for another two hours before relenting and driving east. By late afternoon the rain had eased, though the wind remained at strength long after the thunder and lightning had been chased far out into the Atlantic. With the peculiar character of a tropical storm, the sky cleared enough by nightfall to offer a late glimpse of the setting sun where it sank like a coppery fireball beneath the choppy sea.

  One man had died in a fall from the rigging; another had been washed overboard. There were tangled lines and torn sails, broken spars and debris on all the decks, but that was not what concerned those who stood on the quarterdeck searching the empty horizon behind them.

  The Santo Domingo was nowhere in sight. With darkness rapidly descending, they did not even know in which direction to search; the sea appeared vacant for miles around. Juliet sent men with the sharpest eyes up into the crow’s nest and refused to leave the quarterdeck or even hand off the spyglass until a twinkle of light was spotted well down on the horizon. She gave orders to bring the Iron Rose about, and as a precaution, cleared her guns for action in case the lights were not the ones they were expecting. Another anxious hour passed before they had closed the distance enough to be assured it was the Santo Domingo.

  The galleon had been hammered, but the English crew had helped pull her through. When the Rose drew alongside, extra men were transferred aboard, including Nathan Crisp. With the seas rough, Juliet wanted to take no chances during the last stretch to Pigeon Cay.

  Coming about again, they resumed their steady south by southeast course and it was only then that Juliet took time to go below and search out dry clothes. While it was still daylight, she had ordered the galley fires lit long enough for the cook to bring his cauldrons up to the boil, and she did not know which she was more eager for, a bowl of hot mutton stew or a stiff glass of rum.

  The need to make a choice was delayed by the sight of Beacom standing miserably outside her cabin door.

  “What the devil are you doing here? Where is your master?”

  “He … he is inside, madam,” Beacom said, wringing his hands. “I did my best to deter him. However—”

  “He’s inside? He is inside my cabin?”

  “Yes, madam. I am afraid he is. And … and I am afraid he has locked the door behind him.”

  Juliet’s eyes widened. She approached the door, put a hand to the latch, and rattled it. When nothing happened, she moved back a pace and kicked the bottom of the planks.

  “Good my lord, you have two seconds to unlock this blasted door before I shoot off the damned hinges!”

  When there was no immediate response, and knowing full well her pistols were locked inside with the duke, she cursed and kicked the door again, this time hard enough to send splinters flying off the timbers.

  She was about to take a run at it with her shoulder when they heard the bolt slide across wood and the latch was turned from the inside. The door swung open half an inch before she hoofed it the rest of the way, slamming it with enough force it bounced off the wall.

  Juliet strode into the cabin, her eyes sparking with hot blue flecks. “How dare you! How dare you come in here and—!”

  She stopped cold and the breath left her lungs in a startled rush. Varian St. Clare was swaying on unsteady feet in front of her, his shirt scarlet to his waist, his breeches red to the knee. His eyes were so dark they looked like holes burned into his skull, part of which could be seen gleaming white where his cheek had been torn open to the bone.

  An empty bottle rolled to and fro on the floor below the berth. The cup that dangled in his hand spilled a few drops as he took a few halting steps back.

  “You seem to have acquired a fondness for my rum, sirrah,” she said quietly.

  He said nothing for a moment, then reached up and touched the flap of flesh that was hanging down his cheek. “I find myself requiring its effects more and more as the pleasantries of each new day in this tropical paradise unfold.”

  Juliet turned her head slightly and spoke softly to Beacom. “Go and fetch the ship’s sailmaker. No, wait. He isn’t on board, dammit!”

  Varian started to pitch forward, forcing Juliet to scramble fast to catch him up under the arms before his weight bore them both down onto the floor. He made a peculiar sound in his throat, followed by a belch that reeked of too much rum.

  “Puke on me, my lord,” she warned with a grunt, “and you’ll not live out the day.”

  “Is that a threat or a promise?”

  “Both.” She glared over her shoulder at Beacom. “Don’t just stand there gawping. Help me get him into the berth.”

  The valet fluttered his hands once before hastening forward. Together they manhandled the duke over to the bed and forced him to lie down. Juliet splashed some water into an enamel bowl and fetched some relatively clean cloths. She set Beacom to bathing the blood off his master’s face and throat while she rummaged through her sea chest and produced a small gold sewing case she had appropriated from some long forgotten ship.

  When she returned to the bed, Varian’s eyes were closed, an arm draped across his forehead.

  “Is he passed out?” she asked Beacom.

  “No, he is not,” Varian answered thickly. “Despite his every good intention.”

  “In this case, it might be better if you had succeeded. Shall we wait, or are you braced enough to bear up under a bit of stitching?”

  “That depends upon who is going to do the stitching.”

  “Unfortunately you are rather limited in your choices at the moment. The sailmaker is still on board the Santo Domingo tending the wounded from the Argus, and since you have expressly forbidden me to touch you without an invitation, that would appear to leave Beacom.”

  She held the needle out to the valet, who blanched the color of old ashes and quailed loudly enough to bring Varian’s eyes open again.

  “Oh for pity’s sake,” he sighed. “Touch me, kill me, sew my cheek to my foot,
it is of no consequence.”

  “Come now,” she said. “You were far too pretty anyway. A scar will give you character.”

  Juliet nodded at Beacom to bring a chair over beside the berth. She lit a lamp, then gave it to the valet to hold while she threaded a needle with silk. “Truth be told, I did sew two fingers together once—quite by accident, of course. The wounds were such that I could not tell where one digit ended and the other began.”

  Varian swallowed hard. “Perhaps I will have more rum.”

  “Faith, just try not to move. And if you feel the need to scream, warn me first so I do not stab you in the eye.”

  His chest rose and fell through a deep breath. The muscles in his throat constricted and his fingers curled slowly into a fist, remaining that way as Juliet eased the torn flap of skin gently back into place and began stitching the raw edges together with quick, efficient strokes.

  “ ’Tis a good thing it bled so much. The wound is clean and should heal without too much trouble. Furthermore, the stitching follows your hair and should only be visible within, oh, a hundred paces or so.”

  The midnight eyes opened and found hers only a couple of inches above his face.

  “Truthfully,” she said, drawing the thread slowly up through the puckered flesh, “it could have been much worse. You could have lost your eye, or your ear …” She worked for several more minutes, the tip of her tongue stuck at the corner of her mouth in concentration. When she was finished, she leaned back and frowned.

  “What think you, Mr. Beacom? Will his lordship’s sweet betrothed-to-be not find such a scar dangerously attractive? God’s love, man, you can turn your head forward and look now.”

  One of Beacom’s hazel eyes opened a slit, followed by the other. “Oh. Oh!” He leaned forward and almost smiled. “Verily, the captain speaks the truth, your grace. The cut is near the hair and the stitches are as fine as any I have seen on a silk gown.”

  After returning the needle and thread to the sewing box, Juliet replaced it in the sea chest. When she came back to the berth several minutes later, she carried a cloth soaked in some noxious tincture as well as a small jar wrapped in oilcloth.