Call of the Wraith

by Kevin Sands

  Leaving them behind wasn’t an option. I needed Sally along to prompt my memory. As for Moppet, she refused to leave Tom’s side, and there was no way I was going to the docks without him. If things turned ugly, we’d need his sword.

  So we all went together, our way lit by the glow from the lighthouse. Tom wore Eternity strapped to his back as usual, though he covered the hilt and crosspiece with a sheath of cloth.

  “Is that to protect the moonstone?” I said.

  “Partly,” he said. “Mostly it’s so no one will notice how nice the sword is. It was your suggestion, actually.”

  I didn’t remember making it, but I understood why I had. The sword was magnificent, craftsmanship fit for a king. Its name—Eternity—came from the inscription, a gold inlay on both sides of the blade: Ego autem non exspecto aeternitatem / Sempiternus sum. That was Latin, meaning “I do not await eternity. I am eternity.” Keeping the sword hidden made sense: It would be hard to explain what such a weapon was doing in the hands of a guard of a minor noble.

  I found it endlessly fascinating—as did Moppet. Though she kept well shy of the blade, she was utterly mesmerized by the moonstone. Tom explained that Eternity was a gift from the Templars back in Paris. I remembered its holy song, and just thinking about it made me feel safer.

  That feeling didn’t last long. The Blood and Barrel was everything Willoughby had suggested. The roads around it seemed to sour under the crudity of the songs that spilled through the crack in its door. Moppet covered her ears as we came down the path, trying to shut out the curses. By the time we’d reached the entrance, she’d buried her face in Tom’s neck.

  Tom was wishing he could do the same. “Maybe we should think up something else,” he said. Sally had gone a little pale; I think she’d begun to regret suggesting the letter. As for me, I’d have been happy to turn around and go. But we needed a boat. So I opened the creaking door and went inside.

  The parlor was packed, smelling of fish, stale beer, and even staler sweat. It was hot, almost sweltering, heat bleeding as much from the press of bodies as the fire in the hearth. The tables seemed ancient, etched with rude words—and even ruder drawings—carved into them by countless patrons over the years. The men were a fitting match: worn and scarred, with rough voices that cursed as easily as they cheered. Tom stroked Moppet’s hair, whispering soothing words into her ear. I wasn’t sure if that was to keep the girl calm, or himself.

  The moment we entered, all eyes swung toward us, strangers in their midst. The singers faded and stilled—except for one. A red-faced, bushily bearded man drawled on, sitting alone at a table by the fire.

  The innkeeper looked us up and down. “I think you’re in the wrong place, boy.”

  “We’re—” My voice cracked. I had to clear my throat and start again. “We’re looking for Captain Haddock.”

  The innkeeper hesitated. He looked us up and down again. Finally, he shrugged, as if to say, It’s your funeral, and pointed to the red-faced man in the corner.

  Tom pushed our way through the tables. The few men who shifted their chairs to let him pass did so resentfully, and I wondered what was forestalling violence: Tom’s size, or his sword.

  Captain Roger Haddock slouched in his chair, feet on the table. He was younger than I thought he’d be, thirty at the most, and possibly not even that. His hair was long and greasy, and his bushy black beard had something stuck in it—it looked like a piece of kippered herring.

  He stared into the fire as he sang, oblivious to the fact that everyone else had stopped. He waved his half-empty mug in badly kept time with the beat.

  In Amsterdam, there lived a maid

  Mark well what do I say!

  “Captain Haddock?” I said.

  In Amsterdam, there lived a maid

  And this fair maid my trust betrayed!

  “Captain Haddock? I’d like to speak to you about hiring your boat—”

  I’ll go no more a-rovin’ with you, fair maid!

  I felt a hundred eyes on my back, a mouse in a den of cats. Sweat trickled from my brow, but I didn’t dare wipe it away. Every moment I stood ignored was further encouragement for the captain’s men to turn on us. I wondered if Tom, hands full with the frightened Moppet, would even have time to draw his blade.

  But then a second voice joined Captain Haddock’s song. It was high and sweet and in perfect harmony.

  A-rovin’, a-rovin’, since rovin’s been my ru-i-in

  I’ll go no more a-rovin’ with you, fair maid!

  The pirate captain looked up, startled. Tom and I were equally astonished. It was Sally, singing along with him.

  Haddock’s eyes lit up. He launched into the second verse, the song turning slightly bawdy. Sally continued, hitting every beat. When he moved into the third verse—where the words became considerably more vulgar—Sally flushed. The pirate grinned and pressed on.

  And then the rest of the tavern joined them. Captain Haddock kept his eyes on Sally the whole time, as if daring her to stop. But though she’d turned as red as a tomato, she didn’t miss a note, right up until the end.

  I’ll go no more a-roooovinnn’ . . .

  With youuuu, faaair maaaaid!

  The room burst into a cheer. Curses and calls for more ale were followed by a half dozen songs from the different tables, filling the already sour air with a racket that made Moppet burrow further into Tom’s chest. Captain Haddock didn’t join them. Still grinning, he drained his mug and patted his thigh.

  “Come sit with me, little lass,” he said, “and we’ll sing the chill away.”

  I took the empty chair next to him, and he shifted his bleary-eyed gaze to me. “You, sir,” he said, “are not what I had in mind.”

  “Are you Captain Haddock?” I said.

  “I was when I came in here.” He belched. “Course, that was three weeks ago. I could be anybody by now.”

  “I’m Christopher, Baron Ashcombe of Chillingham.”

  “Good for you.”

  “We need a ship.”

  “Who doesn’t?” He stared sorrowfully into his mug. “This is empty.”

  “Why don’t I take care of that?” I said, and I pulled a half penny from my coin purse to call the barmaid.

  “You’re a good boy.” Haddock gazed at the server as she left. “Could you get me one of those, too?”

  “She’s not a mule, Captain,” Sally said tartly. “You can’t buy and sell her.”

  Haddock punched me in the arm. “This one’s got spirit, eh? If only I was thirty years younger. No, wait . . . then I wouldn’t be born yet.” He started counting on his fingers. “Twenty-seven . . . twenty-six . . . twenty-five . . .”

  Getting him to focus was going to be harder than I thought. When the barmaid brought his mug, I dragged it away from him.

  “Awww,” he said.

  “I told you,” I said. “We need a ship.”

  “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Don’t you have one?”

  “The Manticore!” he shouted.

  “THE MANTICORE!” came the reply from every man in the room.

  “England’s pride,” Captain Haddock said. “Finest ship on the waves.”

  “We’d like to hire it,” I said. “We need a courier taken down the coast, to Southampton.”

  “Come back in two months.” He snatched the mug from my hands and drank deeply.

  “We need it now.”

  He shrugged. “Life is full of disappointments. When you’re older, you’ll understand.”

  “What’s the problem?” Sally said.

  “The problem, my darling, is the weather. It’s cursed.” He leaned in. “The storms of late are unnatural. Like they’re called from dark places.”

  Tom shuddered. My own stomach tightened, as if I were riding those terrible waves in my chair.

  “Oh, I see,” Sally said. “You’re afraid.”

  Haddock scowled. “Afraid? Me? I fear nothing on the sea.”

  “Then
why not go?”

  “Because I’m happy here. It’s warm, it’s dry, the ale flows, and, once in a while, a pretty girl like you brings in the sunshine.”

  “There’s ale and pretty girls in Southampton,” I pointed out.

  “No doubt. But they are there”—he pointed eastward—“and I am here. And to get there from here would require getting cold and wet. No thank you. We took enough spoils from the Dutch to last two months. So come back in two months.”

  I thought about it. “How about three?”

  “If you come back in three, we’ll be gone.”

  “No, I mean: How about enough money to stay in Southampton for three months. I’ll give you another month’s worth of ale if you go.”

  He looked at me, and I caught a glimpse of something shrewd behind the dullness of the drink. “It’ll take a peck more than ha’penny to pry my posterior from this . . . I need a word that begins with p.”

  “Perch,” Sally said.

  “Ooo, that’s a good one.”

  I placed four gold louis on the table. “How about these?”

  He stared at them. “Those are French.”

  “They’re still gold. Each worth more than a pound.”

  “This is England,” he growled. “Nothing’s worth more than a pound.”

  “Either way, they’ll keep you and your men in cups for a month.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Double it, and you have a deal.”

  “I’ll give you six,” I countered.

  “You’ll give me eight, or you’ll find another boat.”

  “Fine,” I grumbled, and I threw the coins on the table. “You are a pirate.”

  He stood in mock indignation. “I, sir, am a privateer.” He snatched the coins, drained his mug in three great gulps, then kicked his chair aside. “Scroff! Where are you, you degenerate?”

  A bulky sailor answered from the next table. “No need to shout. I’m right here.”

  “Grease the old girl,” Haddock said. “We sail this evening.”

  “Sail? Tonight?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “The men are drunk.”

  “So am I.”

  “Well . . . what about the storms?”

  “Which would you rather face?” Haddock said. “Winter’s storms, or my boots?”

  Scroff sprang from the table. “Everyone up! The Manticore sails!”

  There was a great deal of grumbling, but Scroff hustled the men from the tavern. Captain Haddock watched them go proudly.

  “God love an Englishman,” he said.

  • • •

  The sailors scurried in the torchlight, setting the rigging, hoisting the sails. We watched from the shore until Haddock shouted from the deck. “We leave within the hour, Ashcombe. So if you want your courier to come, you’d best send him along.”

  That took us back to the Blue Boar, where I hustled the boy off to the Manticore with the letter for Lord Ashcombe. Rawlin, the man who Willoughby said knew about missing children, still hadn’t come in, and though we’d only eaten a few hours ago, I found myself starving again. Tom, I learned, was always hungry, so I bought us all a bowl of mutton stew, flavored with mint and barley.

  We decided to stay in the parlor, waiting for Rawlin to return, and as we ate, I noticed something odd with Sally. When breaking the bread to dip in the stew, she kept putting her spoon down to tear the loaf one handed.

  “Is something wrong?” I said.

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “You’re not using your left hand.”

  “It’s fine.” She hid her hand in her lap. “I broke a fingernail. It hurts.”

  “Are you bleeding? I have lots of—”

  “I told you—it’s fine.”

  I looked over at Tom, puzzled. He glanced up from Moppet, who clung to him like she was afraid he’d disappear if she let go. He shook his head, a caution. Leave it alone.

  I didn’t understand, but I let the matter drop. As for Tom, he was having troubles of his own. Moppet wouldn’t eat. Every time he brought the spoon close, she turned away and buried her head in his chest.

  “You have to have something,” he said. “How about some bread?”

  She wouldn’t take that, either. “I think the day’s been too much for her,” Tom said. “Can we go upstairs?”

  “Might as well,” I said, and I asked Willoughby to send the rest of our food up to my quarters.

  Even in the quiet, Moppet wouldn’t calm down. She clung to Tom more fiercely than ever. When he pulled her head from his chest, she was crying.

  “What’s wrong?” Tom said. “What is it?”

  Tom sat on the bed, Moppet so small and fragile on his knee. Sally crouched in front of her. I gathered Bridget from where she sat on the windowsill and handed the pigeon to the little girl. She took the bird almost desperately, hugging it to her chest.

  “You’re safe here,” Sally said soothingly. “No one’s going to hurt you. Will you tell us what’s wrong?”

  She reached out, but the girl recoiled from her touch. Tom rocked her gently. “It’s all right. These are my friends. You can tell them anything.”

  She looked up at Tom. Then she spoke, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Puritan,” she said.

  CHAPTER

  19

  TOM GASPED.

  “Puritan?” I said, confused. “What Puritan? Did someone hurt you?”

  She buried her head back in Tom’s chest.

  “Gently,” Sally chided.

  “But I don’t know what she’s saying.”

  “Maybe it’s another conspiracy,” Tom said.

  “Another conspiracy? What was the first one?”

  “I told you about it,” Sally said. “Last spring, with the Cult of the Archangel. When Master Benedict was killed.”

  I knew about the conflict between the Puritans and our king. Sixteen years ago, the Puritans had seized power, executed Charles’s father, and exiled the young king, ruling the country as the Commonwealth. Charles had only returned five years ago, when the Puritans themselves had been ousted. Since then, there had been several plots against the Crown—one of which, Sally told me, had murdered my master. “I thought we stopped the Cult of the Archangel.”

  “Some of them got away,” Tom said, nervous.

  “And you think they came here?” That would be an extraordinary coincidence. Besides: “What does this have to do with Moppet?”

  “I don’t know. But she got scared when we went to the Blood and Barrel.”

  “I got scared when we went to the Blood and Barrel. And if there’s one thing we can guarantee, there weren’t any Puritans in that tavern.”

  “You know,” Sally said thoughtfully, “the south of England had a lot of Puritan support during the Interregnum. What if she saw somebody in town who frightened her?”

  “None of the pirates could be Puritans,” I insisted.

  “It doesn’t have to be the pirates. It could be anyone we’ve seen. Someone in the parlor, downstairs.”

  Right. That was where she’d first refused to eat. “We should take her down again.”

  “No,” Tom said.

  “We need to find out what’s got her so upset. If she points to someone—”

  “You can’t ask her to do that,” Sally said.

  I frowned. “How are we supposed to figure out what’s happened if we can’t ask her to do anything?”

  “I don’t know. But she’s a child, Christopher. She’s lost, and she’s scared, and she’s not made for this sort of thing.”

  I wanted to laugh at that. I was lost, and I was scared, and, despite the stories Sally had told me, I didn’t feel made for this sort of thing, either. Nevertheless, I threw up my hands.

  “Fine. I’ll go. Though I don’t know what I’m looking for.” I leaned in and spoke gently to Moppet. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me anything else?”

  She just nestled into Tom.

  I sighed. “All r
ight. Puritans it is.”

  • • •

  I clomped back downstairs, frustrated.

  The girl told you something important, Master Benedict said. You need to listen.

  “I am listening,” I grumbled. “My problem is that I’m not understanding.”

  Silence.

  “Well?”

  “Pardon, my lord?” a high voice said.

  I turned to see a girl of around twelve, carrying a bucket. Willoughby’s daughter, judging from her round face and wide eyes. She’d been scrubbing behind the steps as I’d been talking to Master Benedict.

  I flushed. “Nothing. No, wait.”

  She stopped.

  “Are there any Puritans in town?” I said.

  The girl reddened and began to stammer. “W-we’re all faithful subjects of His Majesty, my lord.”

  Her sudden fear surprised me—and made me think of Moppet, terrified, upstairs. Willoughby came over from the bar, nervous at the sight of his frightened daughter. “Is there some trouble?”

  “I was just asking about Puritans,” I said.

  The innkeeper paled slightly. “You’ll find none of that here, my lord. We’re all faithful subjects of His Majesty.”

  I blinked. His daughter had just said the same thing—the exact same thing. I glanced into the parlor. There were fourteen people at the tables, mostly men, mostly in groups. Only one sat alone: an older man, sipping wine carefully from a glass.

  “Do you know everyone here?” I said.

  “Certainly. I promise you, none of them are Puritans. You can ask our Reverend Chatwick, he’ll tell you. Church of England, all of us.”

  “Have you seen anyone today who was a stranger?”

  “Just yourself, my lord. And the little girl.”

  “And there are no Puritans in town.”

  “I swear it.”

  “How about in the hamlets nearby?”

  “I really wouldn’t know, my lord. That Cromwell business was a long time ago.”

  The door opened, blowing cold air into the room. A man entered, shaking snow from his cap, running his fingers through his graying hair.

  Willoughby looked relieved at the distraction. “Oh! He’s here. Rawlin!”

  The man at the door looked over. He studied me with sharp, appraising eyes before ambling over, cap in hand.