The Iron Rose

by Marsha Canham

  It had been a necessary evil to drink to each toast made in their honor last night, but as the evening wore on, the ale was bolstered by wine, the wine by rum, and it had taken all of her powers of concentration to make it back to the ship without falling out of the longboat. She did not remember climbing up the hull to the deck, nor did she remember getting from the deck to her cabin. When Johnny Boy had wakened her at four in the afternoon, she was still fully clothed, lying facedown in her berth with a thin string of spittle trailing out of her mouth.

  She had not bothered to do much more than splash her face with cold water and drink half a pitcher of water straight out of the jug before descending to the longboat again and rowing across to the Avenger. Varian St. Clare looked just as bleary-eyed as he sat in throbbing silence beside her, too miserable to do more than grunt when she remarked that more ships appeared to have arrived through the day, for the harbor was a forest of masts from one end to the other. It was either that, or her eyes were not uncrossed yet.

  Neither Jonas nor Gabriel had returned to the ship after their night of drinking, but Simon Dante met his daughter at the gangway with a cheerful, totally unaffected smile, despite the fact that he had swilled half his fellow captains under the boards before they swaggered out of the tent at dawn.

  Now she was standing in that same airless tent, swamped by the stench of sweaty bodies, old ale, and women who had been on their backs most of the night. She wore the clothes she had slept in and the velvet was stifling, the cape kept slipping off her shoulder, strangling her, and one of the scarlet plumes in her hat drooped annoyingly over her left eye.

  She adjusted the brim for the tenth time, and instead of thinking about how much her head hurt, she tried to concentrate on the discussions that were buzzing around her. Simon Dante had addressed the captains first, wasting no time on oratory. He gave details of the letters captured with the Santo Domingo, mentioned the various rumors from different sources concerning the strange numbers of ships in port. At this point, several captains volunteered their own eyewitness accounts of increased activity along the Main, and when they started to speculate over the reason, Dante introduced Varian St. Clare, his grace the Duke of Harrow, come all the way from London with the explanation and a lucrative offer from the king.

  Varian, taking his cue from the Pirate Wolf, kept his words to a minimum. His eyes had more red in them than white, and his mouth compressed into a tight line whenever there was an outburst of noise from the company, but he won everyone’s attention when he produced the royal decree that guaranteed complete amnesty to any privateer who was willing to aid in diverting the Spanish ships. When he added that the king was further prepared to waive the ten percent tithe due the crown on each cargo taken as prize, the tables rocked and jumped with the force of the pewter mugs thumping on the boards.

  Asked why the king was being so generous, he did not lie more than was absolutely necessary. Peace negotiations with Spain had broken down, he said, and the king of England wanted to strike a blow where Philip would bleed the most—in the Spanish treasury.

  Privateers were a suspicious, wary lot, and even though some of them could not read, they all demanded to inspect the royal Act of Grace, to frown over the embossed wax seal, to tap a thoughtful finger over the king’s signature. Some put their marks on the parchment without hesitation after being assured that the Dantes were committed. Some, who had signed private articles of privateering with two or three of the other captains, were bound by those articles to discuss all ventures among themselves before voting yay or nay, but it only took a word, whispered in the right ear, for the estimated value of the Santo Domingo’s cargo to sweep through the crowd.

  To a man, they signed and at the end of the meeting, there were thirty-seven signatures or marks, including the five that represented the Dante ships. There was still a long night of drinking and more debate ahead, but by the time the sun finally dipped below the dunes, Juliet’s head was on the verge of splitting. It was necessary for Varian to remain and weather the questions thrown out by the captains, but she moved discreetly to a seam in the canvas walls and ducked out into the clean night air.

  The first thing she shed was the cape, flinging it away in the sand like a twirling fan. The hat was next, after which she tore at the fastenings of her doublet, stripping it off and flinging it over her arm. The laces on her shirt were next. She parted the cambric almost to her waist to let her skin breathe, then took a knife to the annoying ruffles around the collar, casting the lace away in the soft sand behind her.

  She climbed the dune and followed it to the far end of the beach, where the noise was reduced to a distant hum. Tucked behind a low tumble of rocks she found a shallow tidal pool, and although the stronger currents and tall waves were just the other side of a narrow breakwater, the pool itself was calm, the long, smooth water rippling over the fine granules of sand.

  Dropping her doublet and hat on the beach, she sat on a rock and removed her boots, her sword belt, her pistols. With bare toes curling into the cool sand, she waded knee-deep into the water and just stood there, her head tilting side to side to work the tension out of her neck, her hands scooping water to splash on her throat and chest. Out in the harbor, each ship blazed with lamps hung from the rails and rigging. The moon would be late, but there were half a hundred torches flickering along the distant shoreline, and as the sky grew darker, stars began to appear, singly at first, then in clusters, glittering like pinpricks through some vast black cloth.

  Juliet raised a hand, tracing a fingertip through the bright stars of a familiar constellation.

  “That would be Sagittarius, the Archer. A fitting symbol, all things considered.”

  Juliet whirled around. Anders Van Neuk was stretched out on the sand, his hands laced behind his neck to support his head, his feet crossed at the ankles.

  A quick glance told her he was alone. A longer glance, augmented by a silent curse at her own stupidity, showed that he had placed himself within arm’s reach of her clothes, her sword, her guns.

  “I caught your signals, lass, and about time, too.”

  “What signals?”

  “Toffing your hat every time I looked at you. You could have just walked up and grabbed me by the arm—or aught else for that matter—and I’d’ve followed you just the same. Mind, I’ll admit this is a mite more romantic, for you look like a nymph freshly risen from the sea.”

  “Anders, it’s late and I’m very tired. If you thought I was signaling you to join in some romantic intrigue, you were mistaken. I was merely itching to get out of that tent.”

  “Itching? Aye, I know the feeling well,” he said quietly. “I’ve had an itch for you, lass, longer than I can remember. And if you put your teasing ways aside, you’ll admit you’ve had the same damned itch, one you almost let me scratch the last time we met.”

  Juliet bit the inside of her lip. She did remember a moment, scant though it had been, when her curiosity had almost got the better of her. She had been with Gabriel, and they had recognized the Dove at anchor when they passed French Key. The two ships had put in to barter a portion of their cargo to the Dutchman in exchange for sheets of copper plating, and a combination of foolish circumstances had placed the two of them on deck under the stars with his hands up her shirt and his tongue halfway down her throat.

  “That was a mistake. We had both been drinking, and—”

  “ ’Twas no mistake, lass. You were as hot for me as I was for you. ’Twas your brother who interrupted us, plague take him, but it’ll not happen again. I’ve taken precautions this time to ensure we’ll not be disturbed.”

  He raised a hand and snapped his finger. Almost immediately, the silhouettes of four burly men stepped out from behind the rocks and stood with their arms crossed over their chests, their grins showing through their beards. Four more appeared on the left and another two came over the crest of the dune. In all, they formed a protective semicircle around the little inlet, leaving no escape other than th
e sea.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid to have wandered so far down the beach.

  Stupider still to have unbuckled her sword and guns, leaving her with only her wits, which were in damned poor shape, yet sobering fast. She was a strong swimmer. It would be a hellish long pull through the currents that ripped across the mouth of the harbor, but with luck she would not be dragged out into the ocean before she had a chance to pour a few broadsides down the Dutchman’s throat.

  No sooner had the thought passed through her mind than she heard a faint splash behind her. Before she could react, a thick arm had snaked around her waist, another around her neck. Juliet twisted around and thrust two fingers in the direction she thought her attacker’s eyes should be. She hit one, feeling it squish against her fingernail, but was too far off center and missed the other. Even so, he howled and loosened his grip enough that she was able to turn and drive a knee into his groin.

  She broke free but heard more footsteps splashing through the water. There were five of them this time, converging on her like mongrels, laughing, reaching out to grab her arms, her legs, her waist. The first one to touch her had his nose smashed and the bones driven into his face by the heel of her hand. The second roared and spun away, his cheek cut open by the wedge of coral she swung up from the sandy bottom. She started to run for deeper water, but someone snatched her hair from behind and jerked her head back. Someone else clubbed her temple with a fist, causing an explosion of pain in her head that made her limbs turn momentarily to jelly.

  A moment was all they needed to lift her out of the water and carry her to shore. She was squirming and swearing by the time they dragged her free of the surf, but they only tightened their grip and lowered her onto the sand like a sacrificial offering. They stretched her arms out and pinned them flat, they spread her legs impossibly wide, and someone planted a boot firmly on her hair to keep her head anchored to the ground.

  Anders Van Neuk stood and brushed the sand off his breeches. He looked down at her, shaking his head as if he was terribly disappointed in her behavior.

  “We can do this one of two ways, lass. You can show a little proper enthusiasm, or you can lie there with all these fine lads watching. Either way, I’ll be between your thighs and I’ll be enjoying myself.”

  “My father, my brothers, will kill you,” she hissed.

  “Aye, that is a consideration,” he agreed, beginning to unfasten buckles and belts. “But I figure by the time they start to wonder what’s happened to you, you’ll be tucked up safe and sound on board the Dove and we’ll be underway.”

  “They’ll come after you. They’ll hunt you down like a dog and flay the skin from your body strip by strip.”

  “It’s your own skin you should be worrying about now, lass, and how much of it will be left when the Spaniard finishes with you.”

  “Spaniard? What Spaniard?”

  “Ah, now, there’s the beauty, you see, in flying the Dutch flag. Happens I was in Porto de Manatí not four days ago when a shipload of Spaniards came in, rescued off some small hillock of sand in the middle of nowhere. One of them was a real handsome fellow, no ears, no manners to speak of, but then show me a papist who does. At any rate, it seems he lost his ears on the Santo Domingo and was most anxious to make the acquaintance of la Rosa de Hierro again. So anxious, he’s offered to give the man who brings you back to him ten times his weight in gold—which in my case, is considerable, you will admit.”

  “You would sell me to a bloody Spaniard for gold!”

  “If it was just the gold, lass, I’d sell you back to your father for the same amount. But the thing of it is, the Spaniard is also offering a Let Pass, good for as long as we sail these waters, giving us the right to trade in any port, purchase any cargo, take away as much profit as we can carry in our holds. I grant you, it takes away the fun of blasting the bloody papists out of the water, but it saves my guns and my ships, and it will make me a rich, rich man. In truth,” he added, “it was my intention just to tap you on the head and take you back to Porto de Manatí trussed up like a guinea fowl, but …” He paused again and the hard green eyes roved down her body. “You look such a tempting morsel all wet and shiny, I’m of a mind I should sample the wares first … just to make sure it’s worth all the trouble.”

  His hands went to his waist and began to unfasten the leather thongs that bound his codpiece. Juliet twisted and writhed, she swore and spat, but on a word from Van Neuk, the hands clamped around her wrists and ankles tightened like iron shackles. A grunt warned her he was free of his breeches, and Juliet cursed again when she saw him drop onto his knees. His flesh was thick, jutting out at the base of his belly like a wooden club, and as he worked the foreskin back with one hand, he tore open her shirt and reached for her breasts with the other. His nails were long and ragged, the palms tough as leather, and she had to clench her jaws to keep from screaming as he scratched and kneaded and nearly clawed her nipples off her body.

  His men started to make lewd suggestions. One offered to hold her mouth open if he wanted to give her a taste of what was to come. Another offered to shut it with his fists to spare them all the steady stream of oaths and curses she spat at them. The Dutchman merely slapped her hard across the cheek to silence her, then took a sharp dagger to the inseam of her breeches. The point sliced her twice where her squirmings forced the knife to cut more than the cloth, but he was not deterred. His fingers probed her crotch and the knife was starting down the other leg when the sound of steel striking steel broke his concentration and he turned to search out the cause.

  Two men with swords were fighting up on the dune, and as Van Neuk watched, one of them—his own crewman set there to warn of any unexpected company—screamed and fell, clutching his belly with his hands. The swordsman whirled and came running down the beach, sending up clods of sand behind him. Two more Dutch crewmen drew cutlasses and charged to meet him, but a stab and a slash sent them screaming onto the sand.

  Anders growled and barked an order. The boot shifted off Juliet’s hair and she was able to raise her head in time to see Varian St. Clare meet his new attacker with a fierce display of cuts and strokes that sent the man’s weapon flying up in the air. Varian caught it and brought both blades slicing down across his opponent’s neck, nearly severing the head from the shoulders.

  Three more of the men holding Juliet leaped to their feet and ran into the fray. Juliet was able to make a grab for the knife Anders still held poised over her crotch. She caught his wrist and twisted it back, thrusting it upward toward his chin. He reacted, but too slowly to deflect the aim, and willing every ounce of strength into her fists, she jammed the knife up and in, feeling it cut through cartilage and bone, splitting the windpipe and scraping all the way to the back of his skull.

  Van Neuk’s eyes bulged. He clawed at her hand, trying to drag the knife out of his throat, but it was lodged too deep in his brain and he was already dying. Juliet rolled out from beneath him as he pitched forward onto the ground. She sprang to her feet and ran for her sword belt, drawing her blade, twirling in a spray of sand to meet the two men who were hurdling around the rocks and coming after her. Her rage was at such a peak that she pierced the first man straight through the chest, punching the blade clean through his spine and out the back of his doublet.

  The second brute managed a swipe with his cutlass before she dropped him, and when she whirled to find a new threat, the two shadows that had hung back against the rocks scrambled up the dunes and were swallowed into the night shadows.

  “Are you all right?” Varian ran over, wiping spatters of blood off his face.

  For a moment she was too furious to answer. Furious at herself, furious at Anders Van Neuk, furious at all mankind.

  “Juliet—?”

  “Leave me alone! Just … leave me alone!” She started to walk back down the beach, but stopped after only a few steps and stood there panting, staring at the lights in the distance. After all the talk, all the bravado, all the displays of skill and
strength to prove she was the equal to any man, a bastard with a penis could still have taken it all away from her.

  When she could trust herself to speak again, she turned and looked at Varian.

  “Where did you come from? How did you know where to find me?”

  “I saw you slip out of the tent. Then I saw the Dutchman leave right after. I thought, by the look on his face, he was up to no good, so I made some excuse and followed. Are you all right? Did he … hurt you?”

  She followed his gaze down. The one leg of her breeches was split and hanging from her thigh like a skirt, and where her thigh showed through, it was smeared with blood.

  “The bastard cut me. Other than that … no, I’m not hurt. I would not have let him hurt me either, so if you’re standing there waiting for me to thank you for saving me from being raped, you will have a long wait.”

  She brushed past him and leaned over the body of the Dutchman. There was no question he was dead. His eyes were wide, glazed, staring at the huge dark stain that had spilled beneath him in the sand, and his hands were still frozen around the hilt of the knife protruding from his throat.

  “He’s lucky he died so easily,” she muttered. She glanced around at the other bodies sprawled in the sand and pointed at one of the smaller ones. “That one will do. Help me get his breeches off.”

  A few minutes later, Juliet was lacing herself into the dead man’s garment. She was cold, suddenly, and thankful for the warmth of her doublet. Gathering up her belts and hat, she started back down the beach, but once again she stopped and retraced her steps. With Varian watching, she dragged the half naked body over beside that of Anders Van Neuk. She arranged it facedown with the buttocks in the air, then took her knife and sliced the other leg of her discarded breeches, leaving them clutched in the Dutchman’s bejeweled hand.