With a swift blow and the ring of metal, Baret sent the Spaniard’s sword flying from his hand to the courtyard.
Stunned, the young man gaped at his empty hand, then at Baret. There was bright fear in his eyes as he saw nothing between him and Baret’s blade.
For a moment their eyes held. When Baret did not thrust him through, his look of fear turned to confusion. He stared, then backed away, stumbling over a loose cobble.
The other two soldiers were more cautious. They came at him together, their expressions grim. They would kill him if they could. It was impossible for him to take them both.
Baret could feel the heat of the night. He blinked back the sweat.
The soldier on his right lunged, but Baret coolly, deliberately, halted his thrust and fought off his rush, their Toledo steel smashing, ringing in the sultry darkness beneath the white moon. The soldier proved an excellent swordsman, no doubt taught in Seville. He shifted his feet, feinting, and came again.
Baret pressed him harder, using the fencing patterns that he had learned from Erik. Erik! Levasseur! Where are they?
Baret’s sword point darted past his opponent’s and made deadly contact. The soldier drew back, wounded, was about to lunge but was now out of position. The opening was there. Baret took it, quickly thrust, and withdrew his blade. The man slumped to his knees, holding his chest.
Baret stood grimly. Only then did he realize that death should also have claimed him this night. Why had the other soldier not run him through?
He turned and understood. The Spaniard lay sprawled on the court, unconscious—as far as Baret knew, dead. But how …
He looked across the courtyard and saw the young soldier that he had spared. The boy was holding a rock, which he dropped with a small thud. “We are even, Señor,” he whispered breathlessly.
“You are a gentleman and a soldier,” said Baret.
The youth was grim as he stared down at his unconscious comrade. “Perhaps I am a fool. He will waken and wonder who struck him.”
“Perhaps tell him another heretic came from the trees to my aid. We took the prisoner and left.”
The soldier swallowed nervously, glancing toward the street. “Please, Señor, be quick.”
In a few strides, Baret was beside Lucca, but he was too late. Lucca was dead—the last witness to bear proof of his father’s innocence. The one man who could have told him if his father yet lived and where to find him.
Baret clenched his fist and muttered his anger.
“Señor! I beg! Be swift to fly!” hissed the young soldier from the dark olive trees.
Baret gently touched the old man’s silver hair and brought the cowl up over his head. As he did, he noticed his hand clutched against his chest. And hope sprang to life. He reached beneath Lucca’s tunic and retrieved a Bible.
But where was the letter?
Desperate now, he searched Lucca but found nothing.
He wiped the sweat on his forehead across his arm and glanced about the plaza. Could the two soldiers have discovered it?
He tensed. Two? Or that Marcos! Where was he? Baret stood, gazing intently toward the villa. Was the man yet in Lucca’s chamber? Why had he not come with the others? Or had he escaped to warn other guards?
“The soldier named Marcos,” he asked the young soldier. “Where is he?”
“He went to report to the viceroy’s captain. The old one is dead—you best leave at once, Señor!”
“Did Marcos carry a letter belonging to the prisoner?”
“I do not know. Perhaps he carried something—yes, a letter, I think. It will be brought to the English ambassador.”
His head jerked in the direction of the street. “Horses, Señor, quick!”
Baret too heard them. His jaw clamped. Marcos had escaped with the letter! And the letter would end up in the hands of Felix!
A groan sounded from beneath the olive trees, and he remembered the unconscious captain.
Horses’ hooves thundered over the cobbled street outside the courtyard.
Baret darted in the direction of the back wall, where olive branches overhung the street. A quick glance over his shoulder caught a glimpse of the young soldier who had aided him also making a speedy departure. At last—a Spaniard he liked. A Spaniard that did not wear the face of the despised Inquisitors.
Another groan from beneath the olive tree, and Baret disappeared over the brick wall into the dark night of Maracaibo.
He had not gone far when he saw a soldier sprawled prone in the shadows. Someone had run him through without giving him opportunity to draw his blade. Was this Marcos, who escaped with the letter from Lucca?
Heart thundering in his chest, Baret swiftly turned him over. The soldier was sorely wounded, yet still gasping for breath.
“Marcos?” he demanded.
A hoarse whisper gurgled in his throat. “Si.”
Baret searched thoroughly but found nothing on the man. He clutched his shoulders, whispering in Castilian. “The letter! Where is it!”
“Stolen.”
Baret’s dark eyes hardened. While he had been busy fighting for his life, either Erik or Levasseur had been lying in wait for Marcos. Or had there been a third man?
Had it been Erik’s plan all along to make off with the letter? Then did he yet serve Felix?
He glanced down upon the dying Spaniard. He has reaped the death planned for me, he thought.
And the pinnace hidden in the shallows to return him to the sloop—was it yet there now that the desired information was in hand?
What a fool I was to trust him.
There was little time! He must get to the shallows!
Once away from the courtyard, Baret melted into the dark night. Appearing in no hurry, he walked through the loiterers in the plaza to where the horses had been kept.
He had already noted several escape routes through the back alleys of the town. Soldiers were everywhere. It was crucial that the horses he had hidden behind the wall of the secluded coffee house be there. But was he not a fool to think they would be?
He quickened his pace as much as he dared.
It began to rain—big splashes wet the adobe and filled the warm moist air with the smell of thirsty dust. He lowered his Spanish hat and drew his cloak around him. As he did, his hand brushed against the Bible he had taken from Lucca. The feel of leather brought to memory the quiet, innocent years he had spent at Cambridge and the many times he had heard Sir Cecil expound the New Testament in Greek.
And thinking of those hard, disciplined years of training in Calvinistic theology caused Baret to think again of his father. With Lucca dead, the last hope of locating his father’s whereabouts had also died. Before he could confront his uncle, Felix would send an assassin to kill Royce Buckington.
The warm rain drenched him without mercy.
The shops were usually open until midnight in the tropical locale but now began to close early, the stalls being boarded up against the coming storm.
He turned a corner into a narrow cobbled street with a high wall. There was a little-used postern gate, and he quickly took it to where he had tied the horses.
They were gone!
So. He was trapped in Maracaibo.
He must find a horse and make it swiftly to the shallows.
Carefully he considered his position as the wind blew strongly against him. He quickened his pace down the wet street, keeping his hat low. He approached the entrance of the Spanish coffee house. Here soldiers and merchants did their business, lingering over thick coffee and wine. He might be able to obtain a horse for the right price before news of what had happened at the villa began to circulate. But he must act at once.
The coffee house was yet open and beckoned with golden lanternlight and the sound of guitars. He entered to be greeted by the pleasant smell of hot olive oil, onions, and garlic. A rosy glow from the torches fixed in bronze wall sconces wavered on the flagstone walls. Rows of small wooden tables and chairs faced a simple platform w
ith a single balcony, shadowed and sequestered. The tables were crowded. Amid the din came music from a group of guitar players.
Baret stayed in the outer shadows, distancing himself from the others. The doors swung open, and a group of Spanish guards burst through with hard eyes scanning the patrons. One shouted, “An enemy to the viceroy has escaped. A stranger in uniform, an Englishman. Has anyone seen him?”
Standing next to the shouting officer was the young soldier who had aided him in the courtyard. How long till he noticed Baret? Would his past friendliness continue?
Baret glanced to the side wall where the red drapes were drawn, partly concealing a flight of steps.
He felt no lack in his skills with the sword—and some would see his confidence as arrogance. But he was aware of his weaknesses too, and he knew the overwhelming odds against him, a lone man traveling through enemy territory even if on horseback—a nearly impossible journey.
In a moment the young soldier would see him. There was no choice but to make his move.
Swiftly he was gone, passing through the thick drape to where short, squat steps led upward. No one was in view. With hand on sword, he was mounting the stairs when the door at the landing flew open and a thickset woman stood there with tangled dark hair and bold eyes.
He raced up the steps and pushed past her into her room, shutting the door. He looked about for an exit. There was none.
He spoke in rapid Spanish. “The window—is there a ledge?”
She eyed him sullenly.
His mouth curved. “Señora, for your pristine silence, my heart—and this.” He lifted his left hand, where a sapphire gleamed, and then presented it to her.
Her eyes widened with delight. She rushed to the small window and threw it open.
Baret was beside her, feeling the wind-driven rain.
She glanced toward the door. “Hurry, Señor.”
He stepped out onto the small ledge, and the woman closed the window, snatching the drapes shut again.
The rain lashed against him as he inched his way along the narrow shelf, feeling the vines brush his face and snag his clothing, until he could climb down the wall into the alleyway. He was darting toward an adobe patio when a man appeared in the shadows with drawn sword.
Swiftly Baret unsheathed his blade.
Sir Erik Farrow stepped out. “You took long enough. I was beginning to think I must rescue you. This way.”
Surprised, yet cautious, Baret looked at him.
But Erik turned and ran ahead.
Baret cast a glance backward. Soldiers had entered the narrow street. He was swiftly behind Erik.
They darted this way and that, climbing low adobe walls and rushing through yards where chickens ran squawking for cover and mangy dogs barked and snarled at their heels.
At last Erik slowed and ducked beneath a low archway into a dark street, now abandoned because of the pouring rain and increasing wind.
Two horses were concealed behind flowering shrubs. Erik grabbed the reins of one and had started to mount when Baret took firm hold of his shoulder.
“Where were you in the garden?”
Erik’s fair brow arched. “Are you accusing me of treachery?”
“Only you would know. Lucca is dead. The letter stolen.”
Erik’s mouth hardened, and his cool gray eyes measured him. “When the skirmish broke out I was attacked by Sloane outside the wall. He was a poor swordsman but owned the strength of a bull. It took all my time and expertise with the blade to hold him off. By the time it was over, Spanish soldiers were swarming everywhere. I trailed you to the coffee house.”
Could Baret believe him?
In the moonlight peeping from behind the dark clouds, Erik wore a dour smile. “Come, your lordship, I could have attacked you in the alley if I were working against you. The letter is stolen, the treasure remains a secret. Yet I have brought your horse. For what reason would I do so except friendship?”
Baret believed him. His hand dropped from Erik’s shoulder, and he mounted, turning the reins to ride.
“Levasseur has the letter,” said Erik.
“Maybe not.”
“Who then?”
“Someone serving Felix is my guess.”
Erik mounted, frowning.
“You said Sloane was a poor swordsman.”
“He is dead.”
A moment later they were riding swiftly toward the shallows.
The great freshwater Lake Maracaibo, nourished by a score of rivers from the snowcapped ranges that surround it on both sides, was 120 miles in length and almost the same distance across at its widest point. It was in the shape of a great bottle, having its neck toward the sea.
Baret and Erik dismounted, walking cautiously forward, swords in hand. They hesitated, listening for any human movement but hearing only the sounds of nature. Baret stepped out, walking to the edge of the small cove, unusable by any vessel except the shallowest craft.
The rough wind-tossed water curled its foaming lips upon the shore where he stood in the darkness, gazing out toward the shadowy hulk of the sloop. It was still there.
Then from the concealing trees and vines, footsteps crushed across the leaves, and a moment later Levasseur appeared, his lean face in a rage. The two French pirates with him looked sullen and suspicious.
“Lucca is dead! The letter stolen! Where have you been?” demanded Levasseur.
Baret exchanged glances with Erik, and he could see that Erik was thinking the same thing he was. Levasseur’s fury gave him away. He did not have the letter.
“Where were you when the Spanish soldiers attacked in the courtyard?” demanded Baret.
Levasseur threw up a hand in exasperation. “You take me for a fool? When I saw Lucca was dead and you fought the soldiers, I searched him for the letter, of course!”
“You were there when two soldiers fought me and did not come to my aid?”
“Monsieur!” He winced as though Baret’s charge were of no account. “The letter was not on Lucca—only a Bible. I then climbed the lattice to Lucca’s room to search. Soldiers came, and I barely escaped with my life! I have waited here until nearly trapped! A storm comes!”
“And if you wish to live, my captain,” gritted Baret, “you will be wise enough to silence your tongue. The Spanish garrison is alerted to our presence and not far behind.”
Levasseur looked back over his shoulder, then scrambled after the crewmen who had already boarded the small boat and were putting muscle to the oars.
Baret’s eyes hardened as he looked out toward the strait between the islands of Viglias and Palomas, opening to the sea. The sloop waited in darkness to slip away unseen and bring them to the Venture.
He thought of Lucca. Now that the respected scholar was gone, he had no witnesses to prove his father’s innocence. And unless he recovered the information from the missing letter, he too would be wanted by the Admiralty.
Felix, he thought. There was no choice now but to confront Felix. Lucca’s letter would have been brought to the English ambassador and sent on to his uncle. But by the time he returned to Port Royal, Felix would have already learned the news of Lucca’s death.
There was nothing more to do now but rendezvous with Morgan at Tortuga.
34
THE PIRATE STRONGHOLD OF TORTUGA
Tortuga! So this was my place of birth! thought Emerald, overwhelmed with dismay as she looked about her.
Arriving at the island that headquartered the Brethren of the Coast aboard her father’s ship, the Madeleine, so named after her mother, Emerald came to shore with him and trusted members of his crew in a cockboat. Then she had been ushered by him into a palanquin and carried by four stout members of his crew into the island stronghold, her father walking beside her, wearing scabbard and pistols.
She had never see him in this role before and frowned a little, for he exuded much of the same reckless manner as Captain Baret Foxworth. She was surprised that so many of the pirates knew and hailed h
im from where they congregated on the sandy beach or on the boardwalks of the wooden taverns.
Emerald scanned the pirates and buccaneers that milled about, drinking or gambling or snoozing in hammocks slung between palm trees, fanned by mainly female African slaves, although she saw many half-castes as well and some full-blooded whites, either French or English.
The pirates were not greatly different from those she had seen in Port Royal, perhaps only more ruthless, if such a thing were possible. There were French and Dutch and, of course, English. All looked to her to be a rowdy lot, an untrustworthy band, wearing head scarves or wide-brimmed hats. All were decked with gold or silver, some with the largest pearls she had ever laid eyes on. Their clothing as usual had been confiscated from Spanish galleons or was French in gaudy style.
She saw lace, bright satins and velvets, feathers, and cuffed boots—yet there was no doubt in her mind that these were rugged men. However, if she believed them to be untrustworthy, her father seemed to have no alarm at bringing her, and this in itself caused her to wonder.
“They have their laws,” he said. “The Orders and Articles of the Brethren of the Coast are a strict code that we can count on. There’s not a one of them who’d break them lightly. And if he did, he’d answer to the hierarchy—same as any civilized country,” he said with a twinkle in his eye that made her laugh.
“I’m not so certain I believe you,” she told him.
“I’m counting on the Articles,” he said. “Ah, yes, little one, I’d not have brought you here if I didn’t know what I was doing. Only a short time and you’ll be on your way to London—and yes, you can take Minette with you. Now that Jonah be dead, God bless him, and Mathias too, all you have is each other. After I’ve seen to your bright future, it will be up to you to see to Minette’s. And don’t think you won’t have much say-so in the matter, for you will.”
Bright future? She nearly laughed and would have, except for a despairing glance that told her that he was convinced of his plan, whatever it might be.
With Minette seated beside her in the palanquin, Emerald looked about as they neared what looked to be an abandoned ship built on a high foundation and surrounded by trees and shrubs.
Buccaneers Series Page 40