“But then she died and James Stuart took the throne. He had no knowledge of the queen’s private dealings with men half a world away, or if he did he chose to ignore it. He had his navy, his treasure chest was full, and it was time to woo the Spanish monarch with his good intentions and order men like Father to haul in their guns. He had no control over the Dutch or the Portuguese, of course, but most of the English privateers drew back rather than risk being branded as pirates. They were wealthy, they had lived their adventures. A good many of them returned to England as ordered and retired to their country estates to grow fat and raise sheep.”
“But your father refused.”
She sighed. “He refused to walk away from everything he had fought so hard to win. This is our home now. Are we not supposed to defend it?”
“Defend it, yes, but—”
“Have you heard the phrase ‘no peace beyond the line’?”
“You refer to the imaginary line drawn by Pope Alexander VI that runs down the middle of the Atlantic and divides the world’s territories between Spain and Portugal?”
Juliet nodded. “It was drawn the year after Columbus discovered the New World, at a time when England barely knew how to navigate across the Channel, yet these are the boundaries Spain insists we must all uphold. It is the treaty Spain uses to defend their actions each time they attack and destroy one of our ships, regardless if that ship is engaged in lawful trade or simple exploration.”
“The kings of England, France, and the Netherlands are trying to change that, as is Philip III of Spain,” Varian said. “But the negotiations for peace and open trade will not, cannot be successful unless the guns on both sides are silent.”
“I am surprised you can even say those words with any measure of conviction after what happened to the Argus. To be sure, Father will never acknowledge them or the notion of peace with Spain.”
He leaned forward, the leather on the seat creaking softly as he did so. “I am more than just a little aware that I am well out of my depths here, Juliet. I admit freely that I do not understand your way of life, that I would likely be dead within a week if you were to set me adrift on an island where you, under similar conditions, could probably survive for a year. By the same token, I am a soldier—a damned good one—and I resent the implication that I would rather fight with words than deeds. Put me on a battlefield with artillery and cavalry, and I’ll fight your battles and I’ll win your wars. But set those battles at sea and frankly … it changes all the rules I know, all the certainties I have come to expect. There is no room for error. You attempt to surrender honorably and your enemy sinks you anyway. You lose a battle and you do not live to fight another day—you drown. In that respect alone, I cannot even begin to comprehend the strength and courage it takes to sail out of this harbor and know that there are bigger ships with bigger guns waiting just over the horizon to smash you to bits. Nor can I conceive of any reason why you would not support the king’s efforts to negotiate a peace.” He paused and sat back again. “As I said, I am trying to understand, but you make it difficult, to say the least.”
A lamp outside the window cast a ring of distilled light on the side of the carriage, swaying as the branch it hung on was moved by the breeze. The light touched her eyes, then receded, touched again and held until she turned her face away.
“In truth, there are times I don’t understand it myself,” she admitted finally. “But then I look at my mother’s empty sleeve and the empty seat at the dinner table where my grandfather used to sit, and I don’t have to think about it. That is all the justification I need.”
Varian studied her in silence, his hands clasped together, his forefingers steepled under his chin.
“So now you have your explanation,” she said. “You can see why you have been sent on a fool’s errand.”
“Would it make a difference if I said the king and his ministers intend to rescind all letters of marque, and that to refuse to obey the king’s orders will result in charges of piracy and treason being levied against your entire family and all those who sail on account with you? It would mean that your father would be hung like a common thief if he was caught.”
Juliet smiled. “They would have to catch him first, would they not?”
“Might I remind you,” he said softly, “that everyone is fallible?”
“And might I remind you that you are in no position to issue threats or point out fallibilities. We could as easily have marooned you with the Spaniards.”
“Yet you took me on board, you kept me”—his chin came slowly off his fingers—“as a prisoner? Or as a hostage?”
She shrugged. “Either way, your grace, you may consider whatever business you have brought from the king to have been lost at the bottom of the sea with the Argus.”
She raised a hand and passed a signal out the carriage window. Varian heard footsteps on the stone again, and a moment later, two burly men were standing at the door.
“I would not advise you to do anything foolish. You are here under my protection and as such you will be treated with any respect you are due. But you are on an island, there is absolutely no escape, and make no mistake, these men will kill you at the snap of a finger.”
The door opened.
Juliet disembarked first and, after murmuring orders to the two men, strode into the house without a backward glance.
Chapter Eleven
Juliet walked unaccompanied into the house, her sword slapping the heel of her boot with each angry step. The family was gathered in the great room; she could hear them before she could see them, and she forced herself to slow down, to relax her face into a more pleasant expression. This was, after all, a night for celebrations. She had almost forgotten all about the damned rudder design, something she and Nog had been tinkering with for some months, but its success was indisputable. The increased speed and maneuverability had allowed her to cut in much closer and faster to the Santo Domingo, bringing the Iron Rose under the arc of the Spaniard’s heavy guns before they could be put to good use.
Juliet arrived at the great room and stood on the threshold a moment while the warm familiarity of one world replaced the salty exhilaration of another. The musky scent of leather books and a crackling fire reminded her of the hours spent poring over lessons, learning how to chart the sea and stars, how to calculate wind speed and currents, how to mix and measure a prime charge of gunpowder.
At ten years of age, her classroom learning had been supplemented with time served on board the Avenger, where she had learned how to translate the practical knowledge found in textbooks into common good sense. When she turned sixteen, she could plot a course and navigate a ship from point to point within a few leagues of error. When she was eighteen, she had proved her mettle during battle by stepping over a crush of dead bodies to take command of one of the heavy thirty-two-pounders.
Two years later, she stood at the helm of her own ship, the Iron Rose.
Jonas had served his apprenticeship on the Black Swan. While he had mostly learned to control his violent urges under their mother’s watchful eye, he was too much like his grandfather and given to magnificent rages passed down through the Spence bloodline. Gabriel, on the other hand, had benefited from the tutelage of Geoffrey Pitt and therefore had come to appreciate the lethal difference a rational, clear-thinking head could make.
Her father stood with Pitt by the unlit fire in the hearth, the two men speculating, no doubt, on the stir it would cause up and down the Spanish Main when it became known a Dante had captured one of Spain’s most celebrated warships.
Isabeau, Gabriel, and Pitt’s wife, Christiana, sat together by the open french doors that led to the veranda. In all her life, Juliet could have counted on the fingers of one hand the number of times her mother had voluntarily shed her breeches and doublet for the more feminine trappings of a skirt and bodice. The surprise of seeing her dressed tonight in a gown of pale blue silk was surpassed only by the pleasure of seeing her father in full court regal
ia, complete with the decorative, gold-embossed baldric and the sword Gloriana had presented him following the demise of the Spanish Armada.
Gabriel was his usual cool and fashionable self, his hair curling in glossy waves over his collar, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Jonas had changed into dry clothes, but since his wardrobe rarely varied from brown breeches, leather doublet, and billowing white camlet shirt, there was little difference in his appearance.
The last familiar face able to put a faint smile on Juliet’s face was Lucifer, who after all these years, had still not acquired a liking for more clothes than he could remove with a flick of the wrist. He stood behind Simon Dante like a glowering watchdog, black as sin, dressed in half breeches and a striped doublet. He had been guarding the Pirate Wolf’s back for three decades and it was his bald head that turned now, his gaze drawn to where Juliet stood unobserved in the doorway.
Though his face seemed not to have aged in all the years she had known him, the patterns and whorls of dotted tattoos had grown and spread. From the earliest markings that had spiralled across his cheeks, the inkings had spread down his throat and across the gleaming black marble of his chest and shoulders. There were even characters etched on the pendulous bulk of his sex—a testament to his threshold for pain—a cobra’s head whose body swelled and stretched into layers of gleaming scales when roused.
Lucifer’s lips parted around a murmured word to his captain before widening into an enormous grin. It was a sight that normally sent grown men cringing, for his huge white teeth had been filed into wickedly sharp points. When she was a child, Jonas had told her he had sharpened them for tearing his enemies apart and eating their entrails. The truth was somewhat less dramatic, for the filings were the mark of a great warrior in the village where he had been born.
Some of that warrior-like bloodlust came through in the snarl that brought him striding to the doorway. There, he did something she had only seen him do on very rare occasions: he offered a deep and formal bow to salute the great victory of the Iron Rose and acknowledge the courage of her captain.
“You have done us proud, Little Jolly,” he said, addressing her by the nickname he had used since she was a child. “You have learned well on the heels of your brothers. So well they sulk and scowl now like mewling chicks.”
“We are not scowling,” Gabriel protested. “In fact, I stand in awe of our little sister,” he added, rising to his feet, “and have no doubt that in time, she will bring us back the entire Spanish fleet. By hell’s burning flames, we could probably send her to Spain and she would bring back Felipe himself, still seated on his throne.”
Geoffrey Pitt came forward and took up her hand, bestowing a gallant kiss. “Ignore the great buffoon. He is as jealous … and as proud … as the rest of us. Fifty-two guns, by God, and you took her with barely a scratch. The cannon alone are worth twice their weight in silver bars, for the Spanish are particular about the quality of brass they use in the castings.”
“I understand you deserve congratulations as well. Another boy, is it? You’ll have enough soon to fill the crew of your new ship.”
Over his blushes, she gave him an enormous hug and kiss, then walked over to Christiana. She was petite and dark haired, possessing the face of a cherub and the body of a waif despite giving birth to thirteen babes.
Juliet reached into her doublet and drew out a small, satin-wrapped packet that contained a large square-cut emerald Nathan had found on the Santo Domingo.
“For the new baby,” she said, kissing her aunt on both cheeks. “Have you named him yet?”
Christiana laughed and shook her head. “Alas, no. We have run out of fathers, grandfathers, uncles, and cousins to honor, so now we must just wait and see which name suits him.”
Juliet smiled, but she was distracted by the fact that they were the only two speaking. Everyone’s eyes were on her, some more expectantly than others, all of them tense with curiosity.
A further glance noted that the sack Crisp had deposited inside the doorway had not been opened yet.
“You show amazing restraint, brothers dear,” she murmured, then added casually, “Silver. There are more than fifty crates of bullion in her hold, along with an equal number packed with gold, pearls, spices, even a few hundredweight of copper plating. I’ve barely scanned the manifests myself, but by all means, help yourself.”
Jonas and Gabriel reached the sack in two strides. They had the neck open and the contents spilled on the desk before their father’s laughter had stopped echoing around the room.
The next hour was spent poring over the cargo manifest, toasting each new and incredible discovery—some Juliet was not even aware of—and making crude calculations as to the value of the prize. An accurate tally would be impossible until each crate was unloaded, the contents weighed and assayed, but as an extremely conservative estimate, Geoffrey Pitt put the worth at well over two hundred thousand English pounds, a staggering sum when held against the normal cargo of a treasure galleon, which averaged between thirty and fifty thousand.
There was silence again, as Pitt redid his sums, but even if he was generous by half, which was not likely, it was easily the richest single prize taken since Drake had raided the treasure train at Nombre de Dios.
It was also the practical side of Pitt that prompted him to refuse another refill of wine and exchange a frown with Simon Dante. “Why would a warship be carrying so much?”
“And of such variety,” Juliet added, thankful she was not the only one who could see past the dazzle of gold to question the nature of the treasure itself. “The gold bars were minted at Barranquilla, the silver at Vera Cruz, the emeralds from Margarita, and some of the spices are clearly off the Manila galleons. It’s almost as if she made a circuit of the Main and took on all the extra cargo the other ships could not hold.”
“What do we know about the captain … Aquayo, was it?” Simon asked.
Pitt searched a memory filled with countless volumes of facts and figures. “Diego Flores Aquayo. He comes from Seville. His uncle was the Duke of Medina-Sidonia, capitán-general of la Invencible Armada. A galleon of the Domingo’s size and worth would have been a plum appointment from the king, but I agree he wouldn’t have taken on so much cargo unless he was planning to return to Spain. I am somewhat surprised, however, that he would have risked it by attacking an English merchant ship, especially one that was not looking for a confrontation.”
“I suspect the attack was more the initiative of his first officer, the capitán del navío,” Juliet said. “He is definitely well seasoned. His name is Recalde,” she added, looking at Pitt. “Don Cristóbal Recalde.”
“The garrison commander at Nombre de Dios?”
Juliet nodded. “I didn’t realize it at the time, unfortunately, for we were a little busy trying to manage three hundred prisoners, but he seemed to know me—or at least of me. He called me la Rosa de Hierro and said I was a bitch, just like my mother. I took it as a compliment,” she said, smiling at Isabeau.
Isabeau frowned. “You said the Argus had already surrendered, yet this Capitán Recalde was continuing to hull her?”
Juliet nodded again. “We didn’t see the opening salvos—there was a thick haze that morning and a squall had just passed by, but the English lieutenant said that the galleon had turned deliberately off her course to give chase. By the time we closed, the Argus was in shambles, her crew was screaming to surrender, and the Spaniard had arquebusiers in the tops firing down on them like ducks in a pond. They were not intending to take any prisoners, and we found incendiary loads in some of the cannon, suggesting they were going to burn anything left afloat. It was almost as if …”
“Yes? As if what?”
Juliet shrugged and took a sip of wine. “As if they wanted no witnesses left behind to report seeing them in the vicinity. There was something else. Later that night, the men in the tops reported seeing lights riding very low on the horizon. They thought they counted at least seven sh
ips, headed north by northeast. I went up to take a look, but either they dipped below the sea line or spied us first and doused their lights, because I saw nothing. I didn’t dare risk closing for a better look, not with the Santo Domingo in tow.”
“It could give substance to the rumors we have been hearing for the past couple of weeks that the plate fleet is planning an early return to Spain,” said Geoffrey Pitt. “Some of our normal sources of information have been showing an unusual reluctance to accept our gold, but we have sent out a scout to have a closer look.”
“And what of this other treasure you have brought us?” Jonas planted his hands on his waist. “This … envoy from the king. What is it this time? A demand for Father to return to court and kiss his ring? Or does he want a larger share of the purse, perhaps?”
Juliet shook her head. “From what I have managed to pry from between the duke’s teeth, it would seem the king is seeking to uphold the terms of the peace treaty between Spain and England. He has sent our lord peacock with his fine plumage and threats to warn all the brethren against further hostilities while the king of England and the king of Spain negotiate the terms of a peaceful coexistence. He says if we refuse, we risk being branded as pirates and traitors.”
Jonas snorted. “In truth, I have never understood the differences between a pirate and a privateer save for a poxy piece of paper giving royal permission to ‘trade by force if permission is denied.’ I’m surprised you did not toss him overboard long before now.”
“He is annoying enough that I probably would have … had he not saved my life on board the Santo Domingo.”
Like bloodhounds scenting fresh meat, all ears perked in her direction and she felt an uncomfortable warmth spread up her throat to her cheeks.
“It was a trifling thing, of no account, and I repaid him tenfold by saving his mangy neck from the Argus.”
The Iron Rose Page 15
