by Cory Barclay
Sneering, he folded his hands on his lap. “Johannes was arrogant, but under my father’s tutelage he became a weapon against my family’s political rivals. Once, a man argued with my father about a land dispute. Next day—without my father asking him to—my brother built a stone wall to separate the land in question. My brother told the man, in open parliament, that if the man crossed the boundary, his house would be used for the stones to build the wall higher.
“In short, Johannes threatened to destroy the man’s land. Instead of being punished for his brashness, my brother became feared and respected.”
“You were jealous of him?” Dieter said.
Gustav scoffed. “I wouldn’t expect a rodent like you to understand the powers of fear and respect.” Then he shook his head. “Call it what you will. I was angry that Johannes was getting lauded, and I was getting forgotten. As the first son, he had every right to my father’s power and position, once my father died.
“But now, my brother is dead, and my father is still alive. Doesn’t it make sense that I would be next in line? Father doesn’t see it that way. I won’t get his blessing until I earn his respect. Bringing you two devils to him will show me in a new light. I will be the avenger of my brother’s death. My father will sing a new ditty once he sees the length I’ve gone to find you two.”
“Does your father know you’re here in England?” Dieter asked.
Gustav shook his head again. “I am not a bounty hunter, but you were easy to find. I couldn’t take action while you were in Queen Elizabeth’s court, but out here in the country is different. Your capture will be a pleasant surprise for my father—he’s currently overseeing some witch-hunt in a town I can’t bother to remember the name of.”
“And what if you father doesn’t give you the recognition you think you deserve?” Dieter asked.
Gustav narrowed his eyes on the priest. “He will, fool.”
A loud knock came from the roof of the carriage, startling Sybil. A face leaned in from the window, upside-down. It was Kevan. His brown hair rustled in the wind.
“We have company, my lord. A horseman on our rear.”
Gustav stammered. “What in God’s name,” he muttered. He leaned over Hedda and stuck his head out the window. “Should we kill him?”
“If you’d like, my lord. Or would you care to see what he wants first?” Kevan asked.
Gustav scratched his ear. “Not particularly.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Sybil stuck her head out the window opposite Gustav.
Her eyes bulged and she shrieked. “Don’t!”
Her head jolted back inside. She looked at Gustav with pleading eyes. “You can’t!”
“And why can’t I?” Gustav asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
Dieter wrinkled his nose at Sybil. “Who is it, Beele?”
“It’s Martin! With our child!”
“You say you’ve followed us this entire time? How is it only now that we’ve seen you?” Gustav asked, his pistol aimed at Martin’s chest.
Martin nestled young Peter in his arms, shielding the toddler from Gustav’s gun. “Wheel tracks are not hard to follow, my lord. I merely decided to stay out of sight until I realized where you were headed.”
“Where is it you presume we’re headed, boy?”
“To the sea.”
Gustav sighed. “Very perceptive.” He turned to Sybil. “I suppose I was wrong about the allegiance you gained from your friends. This is quite . . . remarkable.” He turned back to Martin. “So, boy, why shouldn’t I just kill you where you stand?”
Martin stammered. “P-please, sire, this baby belongs with his mother. Are you so heartless that you wouldn’t allow them to be together? Even in Sybil’s most dire time?”
Gustav paused. Then he laughed. “Even if I agreed, you’ve given me no reason to spare you.” He pointed at Sybil. “And as for the child, do you think I have any care for this whore’s feelings? Or her tainted offspring? She’s supposed to be suffering, you fool—she’s my prisoner.”
“You can take me with you, sire. I will be your prisoner as well. Willingly.”
Gustav’s neck jerked. He fixed Hedda with a perplexed look, then swung back to the boy. “That still doesn’t give me a reason to let you live.”
“He’s a fugitive as well!” Sybil blurted.
Gustav’s eyes widened, his mouth curved up. “You do all this for this woman, and she betrays you so easily. Ha! What loyalty. What is your charge, boy?”
Martin scratched the back of his neck with his free hand. Peter wiggled in his arm. “Murder,” he muttered.
“Say again? I didn’t hear you.”
“I killed my father.”
Gustav clapped his hands. “Ah, patricide! Egregious.” He rubbed his chin, studying Martin’s shaggy appearance.
Sybil started to speak. “He—”
“I don’t care what he did,” Gustav said. Then he thought more on it. “But perhaps he will fetch a nice bounty in the Netherlands. I hear the Dutch slave trade is going strong.” He eyed Martin head to toe. “And you seem to be a fit young man.”
Martin cocked his head. “A . . . slave, my lord?”
“I have no use for you in Germany. Now give the baby to its mother and put your hands behind your back so Kevan here can tie them. Or I’ll just have him run you through and we’ll toss you in the next ditch, just like my empty bottle.”
Martin complied.
As the sun peeked over the horizon, coloring the fringes of the sky with gray and blue streaks, the carriage rolled into town. Yarmouth was a quaint seaside village, its western shore abutting the River Yare.
Gustav had no time for pleasantries, tired as he was, so he simply restocked his purse with three bottles of laudanum, then slept for several hours at a local inn while Kevan and Paul watched the prisoners.
When he woke, a light rain had started to fall.
Stepping out from the awning of the inn, the rain streaks felt like linen curtains tickling his face. Of course, that may have had something to do with his early-morning laudanum haze.
After rallying Hedda, his soldiers, and his prisoners, he led the group to the docks. The overpowering reek of fish guts and salt made him gag, his insides even more upset than usual. He couldn’t wait to be rid of England entirely.
He walked up to the boat docked in front of them, called the Willow Wisp—misspelled, Gustav mentally noted. This was the small vessel Gustav had commissioned to sail them away. Addressing the one-toothed captain eyeing him from its deck, he said, “I trust we’ve given you ample time to prepare for our voyage?”
“Huh?” The crusty old man’s eyes were bloodshot and his beard was crusted with something disgusting. It looked like he’d been at sea for months, and hadn’t washed the entire time.
Gustav sighed at the man’s inexpressible intellect. “Are we ready?” he asked flatly.
“Ah, right-o, lordling. We is.” The stench of the man’s breath wafted all the way to Gustav on the dock.
Gustav turned his head. “Then let us not dawdle any longer.”
“Huh?”
Gustav spit through clenched teeth. “Let’s go, goddammit.”
“Ah,” the captain grinned. “Right-o. Let’s.”
The party of eight—Gustav, Hedda, Sybil, Dieter, Martin, Kevan, Paul, and young Peter—boarded the rickety old trading vessel. Along with Captain Jergen and his six shipmates, the ship was crowded, but seemed seaworthy enough to at least get them across the North Sea.
By mid-afternoon, the wind had cooperated, skimming them along at full sail, Captain Jergen looking every bit the seaman at the helm, his foot propped up on a stool. Even his raggedy hair and beard had taken on a somewhat majestic quality in the gusting wind.
After a while, the captain gestured toward Dieter, Sybil, and Martin, huddled near the rear of the boat by Gustav’s two soldiers. “Saw ya brought pris’ners,” he said, trying to make light chatter with Gustav.
&nb
sp; “Yes,” Gustav said with a firm nod, not wanting to continue the banter.
“Why bring the whelp?”
Gustav glanced at Sybil, holding her child close to her chest. He breathed in the crisp air.
“Dying woman’s last wishes,” he replied.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ROWAINE
The Lion’s Pride drifted along the North Sea. At the helm, Rowaine squinted from the blinding sunlight, unable to see the wool tradeship she’d been pursuing.
She shook her head, frustrated. If she couldn’t locate the ship, it would be the first time her navigational skills had failed her. She was certain they’d been following the correct path—assuming she’d been given correct coordinates from Amsterdam.
They’d been searching for almost a week. The crew was getting antsy but she didn’t want to give up. If the crew saw her fail at this very first pursuit under her command, it would seriously undermine, if not destroy, her leadership.
She knew she was stubborn—I get it from my father—but at some point she’d have to let it go and move on to other prey.
She motioned to the man stationed atop the lookout mast, but the man shrugged.
Daxton lingered beside her. He whispered, “The men won’t think any less of you if we give up the chase, Row.”
But Rowaine knew better. “They’ll see me as less of a captain. They already do—I see it in their eyes.”
“Can’t win all the time, captain,” Dax muttered, pushing out the last word with extra emphasis.
“Where’s Dominic? I’d like to speak with him.”
“Haven’t seen him all day. Maybe he’s locked in his room.” The carpenter shuffled his feet nervously, trying to be careful with his words. “You know . . . a first mate who spends all day in his cabin isn’t a great asset to the rest of the crew and—”
“I know that, Dax.” She turned to the carpenter. Sweat from the sun seemed to oil his bald head, casting a bright white reflection off his skull.
Rowaine put a hand on Daxton’s shoulder, then wandered away, down the stairwell below deck. As she walked through the tight corridors she felt the stares from some of the crew. Even a few leers. But she trudged along to Dominic’s quarters.
She rapped on the door, but heard no response.
“Dom,” she said, “I need your help. Or guidance. I’m . . . not sure what I need, but I need to talk to you.”
Still nothing.
Creasing her brow, she tried the handle. It rotated, surprising her, as Dominic always kept his door locked when he wanted to be alone.
The small room was empty. Dominic’s cot was nicely drawn up. Clearly no one had slept there in days.
“Dominic?” Rowaine called out, feeling foolish. She checked behind the door, then turned to leave. From the corner of her eyes, something caught her attention. She walked to the small wooden nightstand by the bed, picking up a crumpled piece of paper.
Rowaine felt slightly embarrassed at her nosiness, but unfolded it anyway. As she scanned the scribbled writing, her bottom lip began trembling.
For Rowaine—
I am sorry I could not be stronger. My mind has been awry since the torment Captain Galager put me through. No amount of ale seems to ease my anguish. If I were like you, I know I could have rallied back. But I am weak. And I am alone. If you are reading this, please do not come searching for me. It is too late. I made my decision while in Amsterdam, and I know you may never understand, and for that I am sorry. Perhaps I will be able to explain everything to you one day, when I see you again at the bottom of the deep blue. Until then, know that I love you. I always have.
Your favorite cabin boy,
Dom
She was barely aware of the hot tears rolling down her cheeks. She stared at the note, then re-read it. By the second reading her shock had set in.
Twisting her face, she tried to piece the puzzle together. She knew Dominic had come with her when they left Amsterdam. He was in bad shape, but he did board the Pride.
Where could he have gone?
She left the room—the crumpled letter still gripped in her hand—refusing to believe what her heart told her.
She rushed to the mess hall and called out, “Who here has seen First Mate Baker?”
There were three men at a table. They collectively shook their heads, eyeing each other. One of them asked, “Dominic?”
Rowaine nodded. “Yes. Dominic Baker,” her voice now frantic.
“Haven’t seen him all trip, captain. Figured he was locked away somewhere.”
Rowaine left the hall, proceeding to the adjoining room where she asked the same question, and received the same response.
She scurried up the stairs to the deck. If he left, there’s only one way to do it safely.
Jogging to the stern, she eyed the compartment housing the lifeboat, expecting it to be gone.
But it was still there.
Seeing Rowaine run to the back of the boat, Daxton rushed over. “Captain, is there a problem?”
Rowaine let the piece of paper slip from her hand. It floated to the ground like a leaf. Her mind raced, but she couldn’t hold a thought. Suddenly the weight of the world was heavy on her shoulders and she felt dizzy.
She couldn’t control her tears. “He’s . . . he’s gone,” she whispered.
Daxton put his hand on Rowaine’s shoulder. “Who’s gone, Row? What are you talking about?”
Rowaine’s knees grew weak. They buckled and she swooned. Daxton caught her, gently laying her down on the deck. He leaned across her, picking up the piece of paper and reading it.
“Shit,” he said, his head sinking.
Rowaine let the sun beat on her brow, blinding her. But she wouldn’t close her eyes. Let the sun blind me, she thought. So I can’t see what is true.
She spoke softly. “I should have known, Dax. It’s my fault. I should have noticed something was wrong when he apologized to me at Dolly’s. It seemed so strange then.”
“He apologized? For what?”
“For not being . . . strong enough.”
Daxton put his hand on Rowaine’s forehead. Members of the crew started crowding, curious to see what was wrong with their captain.
Daxton screamed at them, shooing them away. “Get out of here, you scoundrels! All of you! Get back to your positions!”
He looked down at Rowaine. Sweat dripped from his forehead and landed on her face as he spoke. “My condolences, Row. This is terrible. Poor lad probably sank himself in the ocean in the middle of the night, when no one would notice him missing.”
Finally, Rowaine closed her eyes. The familiar oranges and yellows and greens beat against her eyelids. She felt the wetness on her eyelashes, on her eyes, on her cheeks. He was so young . . . but so damaged.
A bell rang out.
Daxton snapped to. He ran his hand along Rowaine’s curly red hair, then jumped up, facing the main mast, where the bell was.
“Captain! We have company! A ship’s on the rise!” the shout called.
“Can you take care of it, Dax?” Rowaine asked.
Daxton cleared his throat. “Row, you’ll have time to mourn your loss. We all will. But your crew needs to see their captain. It’s the first ship we’ve seen in a week—the first impression these youngsters will get of you.”
He held out a strong hand.
Rowaine struggled, choking on her own spit. She took Daxton’s hand and he pulled her up. She coughed and wiped the tears with her sleeve. “You’re right,” she said, stern but weak. Strutting toward the aft of the ship, she drew her cutlass. Its steel glistened in the sun. She raised it to the sky.
“Man the cannons, boys! Train them on the ship! Let’s see what these bastards have to give us! Charlie, get those ropes and ladders ready. Jerome, get your needles and saws set—let’s see if they want blood.”
She could hear the crew cheering, but it all seemed hollow to her, like it was coming from beneath the sea.
The target boat was sm
all—much smaller than the Pride—with a blue and yellow flag.
Daxton moved alongside Rowaine. “By the wood and shape of the hull,” he said, “I’d say it’s from the English coast. Looks like a simple junk. Could be our fateful wool trader.”
Rowaine steadied her breath. “The tradeship we’re after is supposed to fly the yellow, red, and blue of Holland.”
The junk stopped dead in the water, apparently fearful of the approaching raiders and the cannons aimed at its sails. The possibility of a violent death was always a powerful threat on the open water.
“I’m not afraid to use these cannons!” Rowaine called out as the Pride closed in.
A man cowered near the main mast of the junk, his hands high in the sky. “We’re but simple traders, madame! We mean ya no harm!”
“Same can’t be said about us, friend!” she yelled, her fiery hair blowing in the wind. “We’re coming aboard! If you try to stop us or hide anything, you’ll be the first one to feel the sting of my blade!”
It didn’t take long for the pirates of the Lion’s Pride to set ledges and ladders to the other boat. Rowaine was the first to cross, still holding her cutlass as she edged her way over the plank-bridge.
The captain of the other ship wore a proper captain’s hat, with tufts of gray sticking out from the brim. His face was bright red.
Rowaine pointed her cutlass at the man. “Your name, sir?”
The man removed his hat and held it to his chest. “Jergen, m’lady. This here be the Willow Wisp.”
“I am Captain Rowaine Donnelly of the Lion’s Pride.”
Fifteen of her hardest men surrounded her. Even the boys who’d just recently joined her crew made themselves seem dirtier and angrier by painting their faces and teeth with charcoal.
Jergen’s eyebrows raised. Rowaine wasn’t sure whether it was because the man was looking at a female captain, or because he was aware of the Pride’s reputation. Or both.
“What are you transporting, Captain Jergen?”
Jergen smiled meekly. Obviously he wasn’t accustomed to being addressed as “Captain.” The few teeth he had were brown from rot. “Dyes an’ pris’ners, m’lady. Dyes an’ pris’ners.”