The Iron Rose

by Marsha Canham

  “Comtesse,” he said, offering a formal bow. “Your servant.”

  “Comtesse? Beware of another stabbing, sir, if you address me thus again. You may call me Beau, and I shall call you … ?”

  “Varian.” He seemed startled by the instant informality, almost as startled as he was by his own dreadful faux pas in instinctively reaching for her nonexistent hand to kiss. “The honor and the pleasure is, of course, mine.”

  She studied his face through narrowed eyes. “I see my daughter has been practicing her stitchery again. You have improved, my dear,” she added, smiling over her shoulder. “And thankfully so, for it would have been a shame to mar such a handsome fellow.”

  Varian touched his fingertips to the wound on his cheek. Apart from one brief glimpse when Beacom had shaved him yesterday, he had deliberately avoided examining the wound that ran along his hairline. Handsome was not a word he would have applied to what he had seen in that reflected mess of knotted threads and mottled bruises.

  “As for the log,” she said, turning to her husband, “it reads like a travel journal. The captain sailed her from Havana to New León, in Mexico, then south to Vera Cruz, where he took on his cargo of silver coins. From there he continued on down the isthmus to Nombre de Dios, where he agreed to carry crates of spices from the Manila galleons that were in excess of what the merchant ships could hold. He also acquired Capitán Recalde and a hundred troops from the garrison. A week after they left Nombre de Dios, it appears the capitán del navío of the Santo Domingo had an accident—he fell off the forecastle deck in a rainstorm and broke his back—at which time Recalde assumed the post. They touched in at Porto Bello, Barranquilla, Cartagena, and Margarita Island. At each stop, they took on cargo and more soldiers who were bound for Havana. At their last stop, after heading due north to Hispaniola, the captain was relieved to find a large number of ships waiting in port—eighteen of them, to be precise. Some of the troops he had taken on earlier were transferred to these vessels to ease the overcrowding on his decks, which had at one point reached nearly seven hundred men.”

  “Seven hundred?” Juliet asked.

  “Not including the seamen. So you were even luckier than you realized, m’dear. If you had come across the Santo Domingo a week earlier, you would have been outnumbered six to one instead of just three to one.”

  Geoffrey Pitt was frowning. “Eighteen ships at Hispaniola? A normal count would be six or seven.”

  “And don’t forget the Dutchman’s report of seeing more ships than usual off Maracaibo,” Gabriel added. “You might want to ask our guest about that, however. He has an intriguing explanation about three fleets overlapping, putting as many as one hundred treasure galleons in Havana waiting to leave for Spain.”

  “One hundred galleons? There hasn’t been a fleet that size in—”

  “Over twenty years,” Varian said, saving Pitt the trouble.

  “I should think closer to thirty,” Isabeau said quietly. “That was the last time they ordered all of their naval ships, and most especially all of their warships, home, and no, it was not because of three fleets overlapping. It was in anticipation of launching la Felicissima Invencible—the biggest invasion fleet the world had seen—against England the following spring. Do you read Spanish, Varian?”

  “Why … yes, yes I do.”

  “Good. Then this should be of special interest to you.” She returned to the sheaf of papers she had left on the desk and raised the topmost sheet. It was a single page of heavy parchment bearing the remains of two wax seals and the florid signature of the governor of New Spain.

  “It seems the king has recalled all of his top ranking officials and ordered most of the troops and warships home to Castile. He also indulges in some bragging, stating that they have had great success in lulling the English king into believing they are committed to upholding a lasting peace, and that with the return of the Indies fleet to Spain, they will at last have sufficient men and ships, as well as the financial means, to launch another invasion armada in the new year, whereupon they will finally avenge the honor of their noble ancestors as well as eradicate the heretics from England once and for all, restoring the power and glory of the One True God.” Isabeau came forward and presented the document to Varian. “As I understand it, you have been sent here to convince my husband and the other privateers to keep their ships in port. Are you quite certain that is what you want to do?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Varian was invited to accompany the Pirate Wolf and Geoffrey Pitt to the chart room. It proved to occupy one of the largest areas on the main floor and was aptly named for the breathtakingly huge reproductions of continents and coastlines painted directly onto two of the sixteen-foot-high walls. The territories that comprised the Spanish mainland in the New World—the Spanish Main—occupied one full quadrant and included minute details of the coastline that flowed from the tip of Florida around the gulf coast to the New Kingdom of León, down to the Yucatán, Panama, and across the northern coast of Tierra Firme from Cartagena to Paria. Painted inside the great gulf were the islands of the Greater Antilles, the Baja Más Islands, and the Caribbee Isles. Each known city, port, cay, and islet was neatly identified, the sea-lanes and passages marked as well as the thin blue latitude line denoting the Tropic of Cancer.

  England, the western coast of Europe, and the Mediterranean filled another wall, while the third was filled with shelves of books, racks upon racks of maps, charts, astrological tables. The fourth wall was interrupted by doors leading out to the terrace, but between the two tall banks of doors was an enormous table the size of a dining board, on which had been built a three-dimensional map of the Spanish Main. It showed islands with any recognizable landmarks, channels, reefs, coastlines, and rivers. Forts were represented by small stone blocks over which flew tiny flags identifying the nation that controlled the island or port. Most were Spanish, but a surprising number of French and Dutch flags showed that inroads were being made, especially in the easterly Caribbee Isles.

  At either end of the room were desks, a drawing table, assorted chairs, and small reading tables, and—as Varian raised disbelieving eyes to the ceiling—suspended over all was a map of the star constellations identical to what one could see if one stood on the roof and gazed heavenward.

  “My wife’s handiwork,” said Simon Dante, waiting an appropriate amount of time for Varian to absorb the stunning details and close his mouth again. “She was as restless as a pirhana through all three of her confinements and I either had to find something for her to do or maroon her on an island somewhere for several months each time.”

  “I confess, I am speechless. I have never seen such extraordinarily fine work, not even in churches or cathedrals. The king’s admirals would ransom their souls to have a room like this.”

  Dante smiled to acknowledge the compliment and poured three glasses of rum. The evening meal had been accompanied by an extravagance of wines: a full-bodied Rhenish plonk with the soup course, a lusty Madeira with the plates of shrimp and lobster, and a dry, velvety Burgundy with the mutton and beef. French cognac had been served with platters of fruit and cheeses for dessert, after which sweet cane rum had been enjoyed on the terrace with fat Dutch cigars. Varian’s head should have been reeling, yet it was oddly clear and focused. Anger undoubtedly played a major role in his sobriety, for he had not only read the document Isabeau Dante had presented with such a cool flourish, but he had studied a dozen others that taken individually might have added to nothing but rumor and gossip. Taken as a whole they spelled treachery and cunning, deceit and betrayal. His shock, his confusion, had barely permitted him to enter into any of the conversations that had swirled around the dining table. He had noticed that Pitt and Simon Dante had exchanged more than a few quiet words between themselves, studying him while they did as if they were trying to gauge his true character. Thus it was with some interest—and wariness—that he accepted their invitation to join them in the chart room.

  “I unders
tand you have seen military duty.”

  “I served in the army for nine years.”

  “You must have purchased your commission young.”

  “I was sixteen. I had two older brothers who were more interested in business and family affairs. The army offered a handy escape.”

  “Your brothers?”

  “The eldest, Richard, died almost five years ago. Lawrence was killed in a duel.”

  “Which elevated you to your current status as duke? Yet it would appear you have remained in the king’s service.”

  Varian shrugged. “There were power struggles within the court. It seemed a poor time to show a lack of loyalty when the wolves were circling.”

  “Loyalty is an admirable quality in any man, regardless of the reasons,” Pitt said. “You must have excelled at your post to have found yourself promoted to Captain of the Royal Guard so young.”

  “I excelled in stupidity, if anything. I was handed a note one day warning of a plot to blow up the king when he opened Parliament the next day. I charged blindly ahead, searched the cellars, found the culprit, and tore the lit fuse out of the cask with only inches to spare.”

  Dante laughed. “No wonder the king has an aversion to Parliament now. Yet I doubt your post was given solely as a reward for plucking a fuse out of a cask of gunpowder. Old Gloriana had a keen eye for young gladiators as well. She could have ten bull-necked wrestlers stand before her and unerringly pick out the one with enough fire in his eye to win the match. Furthermore, anyone who can impress my son with his swordsmanship—you must show me this move he goes on about—does not wear a captain’s uniform only because he is pretty. Nor is he entrusted to sail several thousand leagues to persuade a few dozen pirates to lay down their arms if he has not earned the trust and respect of his peers. Trust, I might add, that seems well placed, for you hold your own counsel well. I have a thought that you would be a formidable adversary in a game of chess. But enough flattery. Tell me about this king. What is the climate of the country with a Scottish monarch on the throne?”

  “I warrant the people would prefer him over a Spaniard,” Varian said quietly.

  Dante smiled. “And you, sir. What would you prefer?”

  “I would prefer not to be put in the position of having to choose.”

  The piercing silver eyes narrowed. “Neither would I. So we’ll leave England to its fate, shall we? You can return to London boasting that you met the Pirate Wolf and with diligent and daunting conviction persuaded him to keep the peace. I, meanwhile, having been warned of the overwhelming odds against us, and threatened with the consequences of disobeying the king’s edict, will keep my ships in port and let the richest treasure fleet in a decade leave Havana unmolested.”

  Varian felt the knot in his chest grow tighter. Looking into Simon Dante’s eyes was like looking into a world of salt and sea spray, of endless horizons and booming canvas, of smoking cannon and bloodcurdling violence. He could only guess what kind of fortitude, cunning, and intelligence a man needed to survive for thirty years in the middle of the most dangerous waters on earth, but he could say with absolute certainty that neither cowardice nor caution had played any part in shaping his destiny.

  “If there was another choice to be made,” he asked quietly, “what would it be?”

  Dante’s eyes gleamed. “The way I see it, we have but two options. We do nothing, or we attempt to do something. The nothing part is easy. It is the ‘something’ that cannot be entered into lightly and might require more than some of us are prepared to give.”

  “If you are trying to alarm me,” Varian said, “you are succeeding.”

  “Good. Only a stupid man jumps off a cliff without looking first to see what lies at the bottom.”

  Pitt had crossed the room and was gazing up at the map of England. “The logical and practical thing to do is to send you home with all due haste, your grace, armed with as much proof as we can give you against Spain’s duplicity. It would then fall to you to convince the admiralty that Spain has no intentions of keeping the peace. Quite the opposite: Philip has every intention of mounting another invasion fleet and declaring open war.” He paused and glanced briefly over his shoulder. “Forgive me if I repeat myself, but it helps when I am thinking aloud.” He turned back to the map. “At best, a fast ship in perfect weather with strong northeasterly winds would take five weeks to cross the Atlantic. Once it arrived in London, any letters or documentation would have to be studied and interpreted by twenty wise, bewigged councillors, who would then have to argue and debate the wisdom of trusting the word of a handful of filibusters, who, it would be further argued, might well have written the documents themselves in order to justify their own guerre de course. Depending on your powers of persuasion, your grace, there might be some canny admiral who might—and I say might—dispatch a ship to spy along the coast of Spain, but that is highly doubtful … no insult against your integrity intended. I am sure you would argue long and hard and be quite passionate in your convictions. Nonetheless, the royal council chambers are filled with old men. We have a king who has been more engrossed with commissioning a new version of the Bible than he has the state of his navy and army. He will hesitate and cavil and unless he has more evidence than a few letters from a disgruntled cook in Nombre de Dios, he will pat you on the head and thank you for your observations, then send you out to your country estate to shoot pheasant.

  “Meanwhile, the Havana fleet will sail. It will arrive in Cádiz unmolested, adding roughly forty warships the size of the Santo Domingo and few dozen refitted galleons to their armada. They will then have the winter to prepare, to send flowery messages of harmony and goodwill to London, and in the spring they will launch a fleet full of the sons and nephews of the noble officers and valiant soldiers who died in the first failed attempt at invasion. They will sail with vengeance in their hearts, bolstered by the knowledge that England will not have a formidable force of privateers to come to her defense this time because we have all been commanded to keep the peace.”

  “You paint a rather bleak picture,” Varian said.

  “Can you find fault with it?”

  In truth, he could not. The king had been flattered and puffed up with self-importance when the Spanish ambassador had begun discussing the possibility of opening the Indies to legal trade with England, and with his being a Scot, it would require more than thirty barrels of gunpowder positioned under his arse before he would acknowledge the possibility he had been duped.

  “There is another option,” Dante said quietly, dragging Varian’s thoughts away from the royal council chambers. “It would demand a tremendous leap of faith on your part, and would likely result in charges of treason, sedition, and piracy. It would also require ballocks the size of thirty-two-pound iron shot.”

  Varian stared into the unwavering silver eyes. The silence in the room was so thick he could hear the muted hiss of the candles burning on the desk and the distant ringing of a ship’s bell somewhere out in the harbor.

  “You certainly know how to gain a man’s attention, Captain.”

  Dante acknowledged the compliment with a slow grin. “I haven’t even fired my heavy guns yet.”

  He crossed the room and pointed to the map of the West Indies, specifically to a cluster of dots just south of the Baja Más chain of islands and spine-chillingly close to Hispaniola. “We’re here, on Pigeon Cay. Scattered to the south and the east are more than a score of islands and harbors that serve as home ports for”—he hesitated over the wording a moment—“similar-minded gentlemen of misadventure. As you can imagine, the departure of the plate fleets in the spring and fall draw a certain amount of interest from these gentlemen and on average, we could expect ten, maybe fifteen captains to rendezvous at New Providence. The flota is due to leave Havana within the next four to six weeks. If we act swiftly, we can dispatch our own small fleet of pinnaces to the neighboring islands and ports, and if we offer the proper incentive, we could easily rouse the interest of thirty, p
erhaps even forty captains curious enough to hear what you have to say to them at New Providence.”

  “What I have to say?”

  Pitt walked past, clapping Varian on the shoulder. “You are the king’s emissary, are you not? You brought documents stamped with the royal seal offering all privateers amnesty in exchange for keeping the peace, did you not? Well … we shall simply reword those documents to offer them full pardon as well as claim to full shares of the profits for every ship they capture or sink or otherwise deter from reaching Spain.”

  Varian’s jaw went slack.

  “Half of them cannot read anyway,” Dante said, “so all you will have to do is brandish a scroll over their heads that looks official. The other half are noblemen who may have taken a turn down the wrong path at some time, but who are still staunchly loyal to king and country. We’ll have to fetch you some fine ducal clothes and put a curl in your hair, but my daughter assures me you are the very image of a royal envoy when there is silvered lace at your throat and a brace of purple plumes in your hat.”

  “But … I have no such decree, nothing that even bears the royal seal.”

  Pitt smiled and tipped an eye at the painted murals. “You will. And it will look authentic enough the king would think he wrote it in his own hand.”

  “More importantly,” Dante added, “you will have us standing behind you. Knowing the Dantes are committed, the captains will believe it and will join the enterprise if only to ensure they get their fair share of the prize. To that end, I can say with all honesty that unleashing thirty privateers on a fleet of treasure ships—especially if they are not burdened with the guilt of altering manifests to match the ten percent share they apportion to the crown—would produce the same results as throwing a handful of gold coins before a crowd of beggars.”

  “Can we not just tell them the truth? That Spain is planning another invasion and England needs their help?”

  “The same England that has threatened to declare them pirates and placed bounties on their heads? The same England that turns a blind eye when one of their ships is captured and the crew is forced to work as slaves in their mines? The same England,” he added quietly, “that let the last fleet of privateers who came to their rescue starve and die by the hundreds from typhus and fever on stinking ships anchored in the Thames? Have you ever been tarred and feathered, your grace?”