by J. P. Sheen
He’d find another way to get what he wanted.
Three long, horrible months dragged by. Out on the lawn, the green covering of the oak tree, where Blake routinely hid himself away, turned into a bright orange canopy. Then its leaves faded and slowly gathered below on the brown lawn below.
During that time, Blake worked hard to make King Jaimes’s reign a miserable one. He became such a terror to courtier and servant alike that Jaimes threatened to place him under room arrest. He sent his tutor scrambling for the palace gates before he so much as learned his ABC’s, and Jaimes didn’t bother to hire another one. He kept the palace guards in a constant state of wide-eyed alert. Then he’d decapitated an old stone horseman that turned out to be a palace heirloom. The guards caught him and escorted him like a condemned man to the King’s chamber. That was exciting, as Blake hadn’t seen much of Jaimes in a while. His Royal Majesty looked tired, years older…and, best of all, beside himself with fury. Blake smirked, and he kept the smirk on his face all during Jaimes’s tirade. With great delight, he watched Jaimes lose control of his temper, little by little, until finally his nostrils flared, his eyes lit up, and his hand flew back. Blake felt a sharp thrill and steeled himself for the blow.
All of a sudden, Jaimes caught himself. Blake’s smirk vanished.
Breathing hard, Jaimes lowered his arm. His breathing quickly steadied, and he calmly adjusted his lopsided spectacles. Blake couldn’t believe it. He screamed, stamped his foot, and tore out of the room. Storming back to his chamber, he stripped himself down to his underdrawers and set to work tearing the place apart. A maidservant was idiotic enough to knock and enter, but she stopped short when she saw the half-dressed boy smashing up a desk with one of its legs. Blake noticed her. Cheeks ablaze, he snarled, “Get out!”
The maid fled. It was not a coincidence that the King himself arrived but minutes later. At the sight of Jaimes’s appalled face, Blake stopped beating the table to bits. He glanced down at his chest and up at Jaimes. All his anger drained away. He dropped the table leg and sank down behind his demolished four-poster.
Jaimes came over and crouched down beside Blake. If Blake had been hoping for any brotherly compassion, he was doomed to disappointment.
“Blake, what’s the matter with you?” hissed Jaimes.
Blake stared hollowly at the golden grapevines on the wall.
“If you’re trying to prove a point, you’re going about it the wrong way. Look at you! You’re almost a man, and you’re acting like a child!”
Blake’s eyes didn’t flicker, not even when Jaimes cast a scandalized look at the shirt and breeches crumpled up on the floor.
“You took off your clothes?”
Jaimes sounded revolted. Like Blake was a freak.
“What on earth is the matter with you? Put your things back on at once!”
Panic made Blake’s heart knock against his ribcage. He shook his head, still staring straight ahead.
“That’s it,” Jaimes said disgustedly. He stood up. “I give up. I’ve had enough. You’re going away. I don’t even know where yet. But I can’t keep getting interrupted in my work to come and deal with you. And no, Blake. You’re not going to the sea. Your charming little tantrums aren’t going to get you what you want in the end.”
Blake stared at the grapevines. They swirled across the plaster like waves. To the sea, to the sea…
“You win, Blake,” Jaimes declared sarcastically, “I can’t take anymore of this.”
When Blake gave no indication he was listening, Jaimes wheeled around and stormed from the room, stepping over battered furniture, goose feathers, and porcelain chips as he went. When he slammed the door shut, Blake still didn’t move.
But the tear he had kept in check finally escaped and slid down his cheek.
The next person to enter Blake’s cell was Mr. Bull, who informed him that Captain Thornhill had been forced to make a difficult decision. The crew was on edge. Between His Royal Highness’s staggering exposé and Blake’s vicious, underhanded attack on Thornhill’s boatswain, things had gotten out of hand. Therefore, considering the circumstances, Captain Thornhill deemed it necessary to execute his mutinous crewman rather than risk any more violence at sea.
A troop of redcoats led Blake onto the quarterdeck, where the crew waited for him like they had never left. The morning pall had dissipated into a clear, sunshiny afternoon. Blake glanced behind the ship’s wheel at the polished black doors leading into the captain’s cabin. Eselder was in there. The poor lad was alone, and probably terrified for his life. Blake knew how that felt. He’d been there. He wished he could reassure Eselder that everything was going to turn out all right. Only, it wasn’t. Blake was about to die, and then Eselder would be on his own.
Blake felt a pang and looked away.
Lieutenant O’Shea wasn’t on deck. That gave Blake a bad feeling. As the highest-ranking officer after Captain Thornhill, the young lieutenant ought to have been the one reading Blake’s crimes aloud. In his absence, the job fell to Mr. Farrow, the acne-plagued midshipman. It took quite some time to read, for the list was very long. Blake Ransom had attempted to murder a crewman (which was true), had encouraged mutinous behavior among the crew (which was true), had threatened the ship’s captain (which was true), and had routinely demonstrated disobedient conduct toward the ship’s officers (which was true). When Mr. Farrow finished reading all of his admirable accomplishments, Blake was tempted to let out a rousing “Hip hip, huzzah!” but kept his tongue in check. Then Mr. Farrow solemnly read aloud his sentence: the convicted was to be drowned. Because that wasn’t specific enough, he went on to add, “Hung by the arms and suspended underwater until dead.”
Hearing that, Blake’s heart did a hopeful somersault. Captain Thornhill was more imaginative than he’d given him credit for!
An attentive crowd followed Blake as his guards guided him over to the foc’sle. A line had been draped over the bowsprit’s inner spar and back around to the bow. Now it hung there, awaiting its victim.
Several seamen stood upon the bowsprit’s grated platform, waiting to lower the rope (and its human anchor) into the water. One of them was Thug Kurzon, holding the rope’s end. The dreadlocked brute grinned at Blake, and Blake would have dearly loved to grin back. The joke was on Kurzon. Blake had the Lady’s gift.
To his surprise, Captain Thornhill was also on the foc’sle. He barely glanced Blake’s way as the pirate was led to the bowsprit. So, they weren’t hanging him by the yardarms. That was good. But after his “execution” was concluded, how would he convince Kurzon and Thornhill that he was dead…without them checking his pulse or shooting his limp body to find out?
Before Blake could figure this out, a marine escorted him onto the platform beside Thug Kurzon. At his prompting, Blake extended his arms, and Kurzon started tying his wrists together. When they locked eyes on each other, Blake was pleased to be looking down on the wicked bosun.
“That boy,” murmured Kurzon. Blake didn’t react. “I’d never have found out he was the prince if it weren’t for you. I wanted to thank you for that, before you take a dip in the sea.”
Blake grinned like a wolf, his blood boiling. “You think I give a damn about that boy? I’d think you, of all people, would understand.”
“If you don’t care about him, why did you try to save him?” Kurzon asked him softly. He tightened the knot.
“It gave me an opportunity to prove what a coward you are.”
Kurzon smiled. He replied, “And it gave me the opportunity I needed to get rid of you.”
They had a contest for the coldest-blooded smile.
“The boy,” whispered Kurzon, stepping back, “He goes next.”
Blake lost the contest. The bo’sun looked maliciously triumphant.
“Filthy son of a—”
A marine forced him to step off the bowsprit’s platform, and Blake swung out rather idiotically under the spar, like a puppet on a string. Back and forth he swayed and then d
angled over the water. Peering past his yellow toenails, he hoped there were no sharks trailing after the Swift or he really was about to die, and in a particularly grisly manner. Just as he considered this, Captain Thornhill shouted, “Submerge the convicted!”
Blake dropped lower and lower until cool water splashed his toes. An unexpected gaiety overcame him, such that was hard to keep playacting. These foreign waters meant him no harm! Here he was, being executed by the Royal Navy, and he was making the acquaintance of the Palean Sea for the first time!
When he was fully submerged, Blake laughed and greeted the Palean Sea. Its reply was warm, and its salty touch was soothing against his wounds. These waters felt young and carefree, unencumbered by the dark secrets the Giesting Sea guarded in her bosom. Blake felt again like the young vagabond who had traversed the high seas with little more than the clothes on his back and a compass pointing toward the horizon.
He nearly forgot, when the rope began hauling him back up, that he was supposed to be dead. How long had he been under? He didn’t know. Blake went limp, and if the Palean Sea had not charmed him into such a wonderful temperament, he would have had a horrible time wondering what his enemies planned to do with his corpse. Instead, he felt like he was sharing a great joke with the Palean Sea.
They think I’m dead, but you and I know I’m not! Ha ha!
Then Thornhill shouted, “Cut the line!” and Blake’s delight knew no limits. He heard a seaman sawing at the rope, and a few moments later, he plunged back into the Palean Sea. Blake opened his eyes and saw blue. He was free!
Blake had to remind himself not to get too elated. He was still stuck in the middle of the ocean with nowhere to go but back aboard the Swift, and sailors crowded her six decks like ants. Luckily, Blake knew where to go.
He swam clumsily to the ship’s starboard side, where a convenient barnacle allowed him to free his bound wrists. He was much obliged to Captain Thornhill for lowering the Swift’s anchors just to do him in. The man o’ war floated motionlessly on the water, giving Blake enough time to locate the starboard ladder and climb up it. Every movement made his back burst with fresh pain. Wincing and cussing, he reached the entry port without being spotted (or so he hoped). There was just enough room to sit sideways with his legs outstretched. To his left was a closed port, and to his right a long drop to the water. It was a precarious and uncomfortable hiding place, but it would do…so long as the Swift didn’t slew too far starboard. Then he’d no doubt tumble overboard. Be a mighty painful fall. Very amusing for those on deck though.
And if Thornhill happened to open the entry port and discover a dead man waiting for him…that’d be mighty amusing too.
Blake grinned and settled in, careful to keep his raw stripes from touching wood. With any luck, they’d arrive at Port Cokerne in a day or two. From there, he’d find a ship bound for Elioth, and he’d be back on course to stealing back his Crown. For a while, he played with the notion of rescuing Eselder. No one said he had to take the boy with him. That had been a preposterous idea in the first place, seeing as he was about to descend into a pit of crime and debauchery, seeking revenge and the Black King’s Crown. The Pirate’s Nest was not a wholesome place for respectable lads. Jaimes would kill him if he took his son there. Blake smirked. Of course, that made it rather tempting. But no.
On the other hand, he could help Eselder escape and then send him on his merry way to Kingston…before he did anything that scarred the young prince for life.
Agony flashed across Blake’s face. Then he shook his head. Too complicated.
“So sorry, Jaimes,” he murmured, “Your Navy just executed the man who could’ve saved your son.”
He grinned crookedly, but the smile didn’t last long. Could he really leave Eselder with the likes of Thug Kurzon and Captain Thornhill?
“In a heartbeat,” he muttered.
But the defiant words tasted sour on his tongue, and he didn’t really believe them.
18
The King’s Ransom
Eselder was back in a world of finery.
Well, it was no Kingston Court to be sure. But Captain Thornhill’s day cabin was still a spacious, luxuriant place. The prince’s eyes ran over the mahogany breakfast table, crystal goblets and decanter, well stocked liquor cabinet, and red velvet draperies framing a row of square-paned windows.
A plate of untouched beef and cheese sat beside him. From his place at the cabin’s window seat, he had a fine view of the ocean from his place at the cabin’s window seat. But Eselder looked down at the manacle clamped around his ankle. His gaze followed its thick chain to the tiled deck, and the enormous iron ball lying on it.
He wrapped his arms around his knees and buried his face in them.
His head shot up minutes later when he heard the doors to the great cabin open. Eselder quickly sat at attention and waited with a pounding heart until the day cabin’s double doors flew open. In walked Captain Thornhill, followed closely by Thug Kurzon. The bo’sun grinned at the wide-eyed boy.
Eselder’s blood ran cold. He addressed Thornhill.
“I t-told you to release him!”
The command came out as a tremulous whisper. He had absolutely no power here.
“Well, Your Highness…” Thornhill looked uncomfortable. “If that’s indeed who you are…we can’t know for certain…”
“Yes, I expect that’s why I’m in chains,” Eselder replied witheringly, “You seemed convinced enough on the quarterdeck.”
“Yes, well…” Thornhill swallowed and took off his hat to wipe his brow. “You see, Your Highness…or whoever you are…that man was a criminal.”
“What crime did he commit other than defending me from him?”
Eselder pointed furiously at Thug Kurzon. The bo’sun had poured himself a glass of gin and was now lounging in one of Thornhill’s chairs like he owned the man o’ war and everyone aboard her. Kurzon grinned at Eselder and drained his glass, smacking his lips with relish.
“I recognized him immediately, Your Highness,” Thornhill said ingratiatingly, coming over to clasp Eselder’s shoulder in a fatherly manner. His fingers were like hooks digging into Eselder’s skin, and warning bells went off in Eselder’s head.
“Mr. Kurzon told me the particulars. When that man enlisted into service....”
Eselder chortled. Thornhill ignored his guest’s rudeness.
“He revealed his own name. Doubtless he didn’t mean to…he was drunk at the time, apparently…and kept shouting that his name was Blake Ransom. Do you recognize that name?”
“Of course,” Eselder answered coolly, “He told it to me himself.”
“That is the name of a pirate,” said Thornhill grimly, “Wanted for crimes too dastardly for the imagination. As a loyal officer of the Eliothan Royal Navy, I did what I had to do. I confess it wasn’t an enjoyable task…it never is. However, my duty—”
“What did you do?” Eselder whispered hoarsely. He was hardly able to get the words out. His eyes were red and shining.
Before Thornhill could reply, Kurzon cut in harshly. “Your friend went for a dance with Jim Twining! And when he stopped jigging, we sent him to play with Keel Cutlass!”
Eselder stared at Kurzon, his face white. Thornhill began anxiously, “Now, Mr. Kurzon, that’s quite – ”
“He’s dead?” Eselder whispered.
Kurzon spat across the room. Then he refilled his glass and lifted it in a toast.
“You’re a smart lad,” he sneered, gulping down gin. Then he got up and filled his glass, along with another. Casually, he approached the pair. Thornhill released Eselder’s shoulder and backed away, which was a relief. Kurzon cocked his head and fondly observed Eselder’s defiant expression, as if the prince was his favorite nephew. Then he barked with amusement, showering Eselder with yellow spittle. He extended the second glass.
“To the extermination of all sea vermin,” he said bolsteringly. He glanced over at Thornhill. “That’s what you like to call them, ain�
��t it?”
Eselder didn’t take the proffered glass. Kurzon’s smile did not flicker.
“I’d take what you’re offered, boy, if you know what’s good for you.”
Eselder still refused, his face hard as stone. Kurzon’s smile became even more affectionate.
“You’ve got one more chance, boy.”
“Mr. Kurzon, please! If this really is His Majesty’s son—”
“Then he needs to learn his damn manners, don’t he?” Kurzon snarled at Thornhill and then at Eselder, “Take it!”
Eselder’s nostrils flared. He needed Thornhill and Kurzon to leave the cabin at once so that he could mourn Blake Ransom’s passing in peace. He was trying his hardest to remain strong for Blake’s sake, but he couldn’t restrain his grief much longer.
“I will t-take it,” he conceded, “But f-first, I want to clarify s-something.”
Kurzon’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“The vermin. I’ll drink a t-toast to their extermination. If we’re r-referring to those in this room.”
Kurzon’s gaze grew practically tender. He laughed like he genuinely appreciated Eselder’s wit. He reached out. Eselder flinched, but all Kurzon did was ruffle his hair like he was a precocious toddler.
“What a sharp tongue!” chuckled Kurzon, “I can tell we three are gonna have loads of fun on our voyage back home…”
Suddenly, Kurzon’s hand became a harsh fist. It grabbed Eselder’s hair, squeezing so hard that his scalp blazed with pain. Kurzon dashed gin in his face. Eselder cried out as his neck was wrenched back. He felt something cold press against his throat.
“Mr. Kurzon!” Thornhill cried in a horrified tone, “We don’t want the prince getting the wrong impression—”