The Queen of Swords

by R. S. Belcher

  The last fight her parents engaged in had given Anne herself back, thanks to her mother.

  “She can be whatever she wants to be, William!” her mother had said as Anne stood before them with tears running down her small face. “It’s a new land, a new beginning, and she won’t pay for our sins any longer, do you hear me!”

  Anne remembered her mother’s kind eyes, still young, set in a face worn before its time from lies, from running, from bearing the brunt of William’s rage and disappointment and his failures. Anne would remember that moment until the day she passed.

  “It’s your life, Annie, not ours, not theirs,” Ma said. “You make whatever glorious mess of it you will. Just don’t let anyone steal it away from you, my sweet girl.”

  Her mother won that day, and Da relented. For all the things she hated about William Cormac, Anne knew that he had loved her mother more than the breath in his lungs.

  The memory made Anne fight harder, ignore the bright pain in her side, ignore her lungs burning, clawing for more air. She killed another masked assassin and another. Nourbese was no longer behind her—dead, or swept away in the red tide?

  There were shouts from somewhere behind her, but Anne barely registered them. Stop the blade, hack another shoulder, parry and side-step, impale, spin the screaming dying man and use him as a shield. Kick him loose from her blade and have his body crash into his mates, use the momentary opening to advance. The chaos at her back was a shield, like she was an angel with wailing wings made of death.

  A tiny part of Anne knew this was futile, that all it took was one second of poor luck, one misstep, a moment of fatigue, pausing too long to think, and she was dead. She felt concern for her wee lord, her tiny son, alone in the world without her, then buried it before it could get her killed even quicker right now. She could control this, this moment, this tiny universe of violence. She could control her sword, her body, her will to live more than the masked men, to spit in death’s eye. Today, she would make them pay for her life. Today, their sacrifices would be dedicated to her.

  There was gunfire behind her, around her. The whine of a shot hissing by, the dull-meat thud of bullets piercing men. The churning sea of flesh surged and receded and Anne saw the king directing his bodyguards. She charged with a snarl, and cut her way closer to the Ooni, closer.

  There was a sharp, hot pain across her back; it would have severed her spine if she hadn’t been so quick to move. She ignored it as best she could. The stone floor of the throne room in the holy city was inch-deep in blood and hacked flesh, but Anne had kept her footing on the decks of ships, slippery with sea-spray and life-blood, too many times to count. She moved closer to the masked king, and now Ojigidiri saw her as well, covered in the blood of his warriors, an almost rictus grin on her face.

  Adu stepped in front of her. She almost struck him with one of her swords, but she recognized the mystic at the last moment.

  “The Ahosi have arrived,” he said. Anne noticed he was bleeding from multiple cuts and stab wounds, but he was not even sweating or panting. “Time to go!”

  “I want that bastard’s blood on my sword!” Anne screamed, and pointed to the Ooni. More cracks of gunfire, more screams of the dying. A Yoruba warrior charged at them. Adu’s sword lashed out like lightning and the man was dead, almost before Anne had registered his approach.

  “The trial is over,” Adu said. “You succeeded. If we stay we will be overrun, outnumbered and outgunned. Is killing him really worth dying? We have to go!”

  “Nourbese? The Hummingbird?”

  “Outside already,” Adu said.

  Anne let the anger that had ridden her slip away, felt the tremors in her body that she always felt after a fight. She nodded to Adu. “Aye.”

  The flight from the palace was not easy and it took the better part of the day to withdraw back to the city gate. The king’s bodyguard were as well trained and as well-armed as the Ahosi; however, the Amazons fought with a ferocity and focus that showed Anne they did truly live up to the name of the legendary warrior women.

  Once Anne’s forces had taken the main gate, they held there until nightfall and then retreated from Ife into the wilderness. They marched on through the night, finally stopping to camp north of the city, still deep in Oyo imperial territory. They had lost sixty-three of the Amazons in the fighting, and eight bearers. Belrose had, miraculously, managed to avoid getting wounded, but Nourbese, Adu and Anne all tended their wounds. They sat around the fire, stitching up deep cuts, passing around a jar of Adu’s healing salve and a bottle of the Frenchman’s beloved absinthe.

  “That was wonderful,” Belrose said, already a bit drunk.

  “Says the luckiest bastard I have ever seen upon this earth,” Adu said, wincing as Nourbese completed stitching up the sword wound on his side.

  “I owe it all to clean living, my friend,” Belrose said, “and never being entirely sober if I can help it.”

  “I don’t see how you hurt, let alone kill, anyone with that thin little skewer you call a blade,” Nourbese said. The Hummingbird shrugged.

  “It is not the blade,” he said, “but the swordsman.”

  “Says every man with a little skewer for a sword,” Anne said.

  “Jealousy ill becomes all of you,” Belrose said with a chuckle. “I shall chalk it up to a disagreeable mood from the pain of your injuries. To our brave captain,” he said and tipped the bottle toward Anne, who took it and drank. “She who pisses on gods and kings with equal contempt. Bravo!”

  “We lost good warriors, good friends of mine, today.” Nourbese rejected the bottle when Anne offered it to her. “I’d like to know why.”

  Anne took another drink of the absinthe and handed it to Adu, who actually drank some. “That’s fair,” Anne said. “I’ve been led about in the dark myself on this lark. I guess you and the Hummingbird deserve some idea of what’s going on.”

  “For the record,” Belrose said, burping slightly, “I’m really not interested in why, but I’ll listen anyway.”

  Anne glanced at Adu. The ancient man shrugged and drank more from the bottle before handing it to Belrose.

  “There’s a lost city,” Anne said. “Full of gold and treasures. I found a box with a map to it on a ship I plundered in the East Indies.”

  Nourbese sighed. “So I lost good women today so some white mercenary bishi can fill her coffers, go home to her own lands and tell tales of how she stole her fortune from us stupid savages. Thank you, I figured it was something like that.” Nourbese looked to Adu. “You, Adu Ogyinae, you are a legend among our people, a hero, and you let this European asiwere lead you about like a slave? Helping her, speaking lies on her behalf before kings who trust your counsel. For some mythical gold?”

  “The place is real!” Anne said. “It was written about on the wall of the palace in Agaja’s throne room, that covered mural … it’s very old and we’re headed there, but first I have to satisfy some god or bird-woman … whatever it is, that’s guardian of the place. And she’s the one insisting on these silly tests, like whatever the hell that was back in Ife. So at the end of this is enough booty for us all to be rich and retire as proper ladies and gents.”

  “You ‘retire’ to some faraway place,” Nourbese said. “For you, this land, its people, becomes an ‘adventure,’ an amusing memory. You’ll blot out the parts with the suffering and injustice and the slavery of our people that your people foster here. I have seen it my whole life. You whites take and take and take, like locusts, and when there is nothing left to steal, no ‘lost treasures’ left to plunder, no one left to put in chains, you will sail home and lament the terrible condition we have let our lands fall into.” Nourbese turned to Adu. “Don’t you have something to add?”

  “You are doing a fine job all on your own,” he said.

  “Your people, Agaja, your king, the Oyo, they all take slaves, sell them,” Anne said. “He could refuse, you know? Take a stand, you all could. I’m not going to defend fucking slavers,
but we didn’t start any of this.”

  “My people are not without blame,” Nourbese said, “but if we stand against your merchants, and the kings, the countries they secretly own, here and in your lands far away, we would be swept away in a heartbeat, crushed by our enemies and put into chains ourselves. Our choices are compromise or destruction. It is a very wicked game your people play, Anne Bonny, very wicked, and you’re correct, you did not start this, but what have any of you done to stop it?”

  Everyone became silent. Nourbese looked into the snapping, crackling fire.

  “What is the name of this ‘lost city’?” Nourbese asked.

  “Carcosa,” Anne said. The fire shivered and the wind picked up. Sparks, like wayward stars drifted away from the fire, darkened, and died.

  “Carcosa,” Nourbese said and looked to Adu. The mystic nodded. “It is the birthplace of all monsters, all evil, inhuman things that stalk across the world, that prey on the weak, and the innocent. They hail from Carcosa.”

  “That’s the place,” Anne said.

  “Oya, the goddess, protects the world from the spawn of Carcosa, and any foolish enough to seek it,” Nourbese said.

  “Oya,” Anne said, snapping her fingers, pointing to Nourbese, and taking another sip of the bottle. She was slurring a bit now. “That’s the bird trying to kill me, yeah. Oya. Bitch.”

  “Bishi,” Belrose corrected.

  “Adu, you are a powerful Bokonon, one of the oldest men alive,” Nourbese said. “How can you condone this, help this mu yo blunder into Carcosa? Do you have any idea the damage she might do?”

  “Ahhh-ha!” Anne said, slumping to the side a bit, “so now you believe it’s real!”

  “It is Oya’s will,” Adu said, “… more or less.”

  “Carcosa.” Nourbese rested her face in her hands.

  “That’s where we’re headed, luv,” Anne said. “Carcosa, city full o’ peggin’ gold … and monsters.”

  “Give me the bottle,” Nourbese said.

  19

  The Four of Pentacles

  Charleston, South Carolina

  May 21, 1871

  “Do you have any further witnesses you wish to call, Mrs. Mansfield?” Judge Davenkirk asked Arabella. Bella stood as she addressed the court.

  “I do, your honor,” Bella said. “I’d like to call Gibson Hall to the stand.”

  “Your honor, I object to this with the utmost vehemence!” Rutledge said, jumping to his feet. “Mr. Hall is a senior clerk at my legal firm! He’s my clerk, your honor!”

  “Mrs. Mansfield,” the judge said with a weary tone, “I have endeavored to be as courteous to you as I can possibly be, and to humor your attempts here, but the courtroom is no place for silly theatrics, madame.”

  Arabella remained nonplussed. “I was merely seeking to insert into the court record a chain of actions, your honor. I was also planning to call you to the stand and Mr. Rutledge as well.”

  “And now you see, your honor, what comes of this mockery of a legal proceeding,” Rutledge said, turning to address the gallery. “This woman has nothing left to present so she will waste the court’s and my client’s valuable time playing at the law like it was a parlor game!”

  “A house is built a brick at a time, your honor,” Arabella said calmly. “We can certainly forgo the questions I was going to ask you and Mr. Hall, but I will call Mr. Rutledge to the stand.”

  “Madame, this behavior is highly improper,” Davenkirk said.

  “Your honor, I’ll be happy to take the stand,” Rutledge said with a smile. He patted Martin on the shoulder. “Not to worry,” he said to his client.

  “Very well,” Davenkirk said. “You’re under no obligation to do this, Andy. You understand that, correct?”

  “I do, your honor,” Rutledge said. “If this gets us out of here by lunchtime, I’m delighted to play witness for the little lady. She needs the practice.” The gallery laughed. Grinning, Rutledge walked past Arabella, growling just loud enough for her to hear, “Welcome to the first day of real law school, bitch.” He took the witness stand and was sworn in on the Bible.

  “Mr. Rutledge,” Arabella said. “Would you please repeat for the court what you said to me just now as you passed me on your way to the stand?”

  “I beg your pardon,” Rutledge said. “I said nothing to you, madame. Perhaps you should see a physician about your hearing.”

  “Your honor,” Arabella said, “may I assume that I am permitted the latitude to consider opposing council as an adverse witness?” Davenkirk nodded.

  “Proceed,” the judge said. Bella walked over to her table and plucked a sheet of paper off of it. She presented it to Rutledge.

  “Mr. Rutledge, is this the contract that is in dispute in this matter?” Rutledge scanned the document.

  “Yes,” he said. “It is.”

  “And would you agree with me that the crux of this matter deals with my client’s ability to alter or exit this agreement, which was brokered between her father and her late husband?”

  “… and to which she was a willing party to, and a signatory thereof,” Rutledge said. “Yes, Mrs. Mansfield, your grasp of the obvious is astounding. How many farm animals have passed the bar in Iowa as well?” More laughter from the gallery. Davenkirk banged his gavel.

  “Andy, no need for that kind of talk. Answer the question.” He turned to the clerk. “Strike that last remark from the record, please,” he said to the court’s reporter.

  “If it please the court,” Arabella said, “I’d prefer it remain.” Davenkirk sighed and shrugged.

  “Mr. Rutledge, why was my client required to sign this document?” Bella asked.

  “The property and inherited wealth were granted to her by the late Bonnie Cormac,” Rutledge said. “So…”

  “… So this land, these properties, this money, all belonged to my client; they were hers and hers alone,” Bella said, interrupting Rutledge.

  “Well, yes,” Rutledge said, “Prior to her legal marriage to Mr. Arthur Stapleton. However, once they were wed, the property and inheritance became his to oversee and adjudicate, as he saw fit.”

  Arabella walked back to her table. Maude handed her another document. Bella returned and handed the document to Rutledge. “Will you attest to this document being a legally binding marriage certificate between Maude Claire Anderton and Arthur James Stapleton?”

  “Yes, of course it is,” Rutledge said. “This is growing tedious, Mrs. Mansfield.”

  “Well, perhaps this will liven it up a bit for you, Mr. Rutledge,” Bella said, still calm and cool. “Would you be so kind as to look at the date of the marriage and the date on the contract?” As Rutledge did so, his face twitched just a little, just enough for Bella to see it. It was delicious.

  “Mr. Rutledge, is something amiss?” Bella asked. “Read the date of the contract to the court, aloud, if you please.”

  Rutledge turned toward the judge. “Your honor, this must be a mistake, it is the silliest bit of fluff I have ever seen in a court of law…”

  Arabella raised her voice, which was perfectly controlled, like a whip in the hands of a master. It was sharp and loud enough to carry across the courtroom. It echoed in the now dead-silent gallery. “The dates, Mr. Rutledge, if you please.”

  “They signed the agreement … on September 12 of 1855,” Rutledge said. “They were married on October 15, 1855.”

  Arabella let the words fade and the silence sit in the courtroom for a moment. Even Davenkirk was slightly agape. She leaned in closer to the stand, her eyes locked on Rutledge when he looked up from the papers.

  “Mr. Rutledge, at the expense of ‘stating the obvious,’ would you tell the court what significance that has for the contract between Arthur Stapleton and Martin Anderton in regards to my client’s inheritance, if you please.”

  Rutledge was white with anger; his lips were pale, almost blue. He spoke each word as if it were being pulled out of him painfully, with pliers. “At the time t
he contract was signed by the parties, Mr. Stapleton was not yet married to your client.”

  Bella waited for Rutledge to finish. Maude looked over to her father and saw genuine confusion and concern growing on her father’s face. “Come now, Mr. Rutledge, a jurist with as much experience as yourself must surely have come to the other obvious conclusion of this finding. Even a South Carolinian barn animal could fathom it, sir.”

  Rutledge clutched the rail of the stand, his hands trembling with rage, but he said nothing.

  “Then allow me to educate you, sir,” Arabella said. “This contract is null and void, because as it clearly states it is an agreement between the husband of my client and her father, and at the time it was signed, Mr. Stapleton could not enter into any agreement as to the disposition of my client’s inheritance with her father, because he wasn’t married to my client. Isn’t that correct?”

  “The contract is still binding!” Rutledge said, almost standing up in the witness chair, but managing to control himself. “It’s still a binding agreement between a father and an unmarried daughter, a feme sole!”

  “I see.” Bella turned her back on Rutledge and walked toward the gallery. There were numerous shocked faces, some gasping like landed trout. Those same faces had been smugly laughing only a few moments ago. Bella froze the image in her mind, gilded it like a trophy.

  “The wording of this agreement is very specific, Mr. Rutledge. It mentions nothing about my client being an unmarried woman, but there are pages of statute and law explaining why as a married woman she is legally entering into this agreement with her father and husband, not fiancée, Mr. Rutledge, not husband-to-be-in-a-month, but husband, present tense. Is that not correct? A few moments ago, you seemed quite certain of my client’s legal status in regards to this agreement, so tell me, was she a married woman when she signed this agreement—a feme covert—or not? Since the status of her relationship to her late husband, as you so succinctly put it, seems to be the crux of the matter.”