The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series)

by Schulz, Marilyn M

  ”Seems the doctors cannot tell how long he’s been dead—many weeks at least, maybe months. Salted and sealed up like a side of beef, rest his soul.”

  “Months? Where did they find him?”

  “Stowed in a barrel in some merchantman’s hold.”

  Sir Edward prompted, “Which merchant ship?”

  “What?”

  “Where was it taken? From where did it sail?”

  He was thinking of the Wilde.

  The older man just shook his head. “Some Dutch merchantman running blockade. Why? Do you know something? No, if you did, you would not know what it is that you know. I have not told you all that I should have, only all that I could.”

  Brinkmanship could be a foolish game, and they both knew it. Sir Edward wished he was out of it now, could leave off this very minute. He would sail away tomorrow if it meant this game were over.

  Torture was one thing, not unexpected in war, especially with spies. But if the enemy didn’t want it known that the British spy had been taken, why not just bury the corpse or dump it into the sea somewhere?

  Was the body some sort of twisted trophy then? Or perhaps whoever did the deed planned on planting it later for some reason.

  Sir Edward didn’t like the way he was thinking. Twisted seemed like a good word for it. Even command of a new frigate was not worth this mess. Still, he couldn’t let Sir Hugh down.

  “So what comes next, sir?” Sir Edward said.

  “Inquiries have been made, lines of communications are being rebuilt. Everything is suspect, as I said. It will take time and perhaps that is what they want most of all.”

  The Vice-Admiral sat at his desk, then slid the globe nearer, and spun it around. They both watched it turn.

  “Perhaps this can work to our benefit,” Sir Edward said lowly and mostly into his liquor.

  Sir Hugh put his hand on the globe, stopping it abruptly as he said, “How so?”

  “They assume we do not know he is dead. It was a he?”

  “Yes, of course it was, who else? Go on.”

  “If whoever is feeding us information thinks that we still believe the source is intact, then perhaps we can use that to see where the information is going, use it as a conduit back.”

  Sir Hugh thought for a moment. “Make bait and see who bites, feed faulty information back the other way and see what happens on the other end. You are good at this game, though you would not admit it. I must confess that I was wallowing in self-pity so much that I did not think of such a thing.”

  Sir Edward set his glass aside. “Self-pity, sir?”

  “The man we found, the man we counted on for years now, he was a personal friend. Knew him at school, we played chess by post before— He was French, but still, a good man, knew right from wrong and I can see they have no use for that in France just now. A good man . . .”

  “More sherry, sir?” Sir Edward offered, holding up the bottle.

  “Hmm? Oh, yes, please. Enjoy it, it will be the last we see for a time,” he murmured, his finger tapping on the globe now, tapping on Spain.

  Sir Edward said, “Why is that? The sherry, I mean.”

  “I told you, my man is dead. He got the best liquor from France, Spain, and Madeira, even Russia if I wanted. Russian vodka can grow hair on a cue ball, it is said.”

  Smuggling liquor and secrets—why let war and intrigue get in the way of a good vintage?

  Sir Edward said, “Where was your man working at the time, do you know?” He meant when the enemy caught him.

  “Bordeaux, further south, or there about, though I have a clue they took him to Paris right away. Last missives, he’d been operating somewhere near the Pyrenees. Nice place, that—scenic, close to Spain. They have good spirits in Spain—if you can get past that damn sacramental wine all the time. Catholic, he was, but not a pest about it. He was not particular that way, cared more about people than politics or religion.”

  Sir Edward sipped and studied the large map on the Vice-Admiral’s wall, the one he had seen weeks before. Things hadn’t changed much since then.

  Close to Spain, he mused.

  Close to where they had last seen the Wilde.

  He pictured Kate Senlis at that moment. Her face was in the sunshine, the flecks in her eyes were the color of real gold, same as her hair. And the green of her eyes was as deep as the sea. She was smiling, maybe laughing. He wondered if she was laughing at him at this very moment.

  Sir Hugh said, “What have you got on your mind, boy? You have the most solemn expression on your face and I swear you are grinding your teeth. You do not like the sherry?”

  “The sherry is fine, sir. I was just thinking about my last excursion of futility.”

  “Hardly that, remember your prizes, and barring the flotsam that will come back with the Earl, I should said it was well worth your while.”

  He did not take it as insult. He knew that Sir Hugh understood duty as well as profit.

  Sir Edward said, “I was thinking of the other, sir.

  “Caught no spies, eh? Well, maybe you did, maybe you did not. If there was something afoot out there, you put a stop to it. A change in plan is sometimes all you need. The delay can often cost the whole battle.”

  Sir Edward leaned over and spun the globe. “What an interesting way to look at these things.”

  Sir Hugh raised his glass in toast. There was a knock on the door, and he called to enter.

  Dr. Llewellyn peered around the door. He looked out of place in the rich furnishings, though Sir Edward knew the man was from respectable stock in the West Indies. Plantation overseers, not top drawer, but the next drawer down.

  The surgeon had a troubled start in life himself, having been caught in something shady early on as a young man, but soon righting himself with a little help from the magistrate and the Royal Navy. Sir Edward had known him long enough and well enough to know why he was here.

  Sir Hugh explained anyway. “The surgeon has some comments on the Marquis and his friend.”

  Sir Edward knew that Dr. Llewellyn had spent a good deal of time with their guests, including Standish. The surgeon had a gift for listening more than he talked. He wasn’t surprised to see the surgeon here, only to see him here so soon.

  He was a clever man, and it wouldn’t be the first time the Admiralty had put Dr. Llewellyn to other work. Sir Edward figured this was some of the “not told you all that I should have,” to which Sir Hugh had referred.

  He didn’t take it personally; they all knew he did not like these kinds of games. Sir Edward said to his surgeon, “What do you know?”

  Dr. Llewellyn shrugged. “The Marquis is fond of wine, the Earl is fond of lamb. Their friend likes to stick to the shadows, I think, and might be here to keep an eye on them. I could not further discern his motives.”

  “A revolutionary?”

  “Perhaps. The Earl thinks the man might be related to the Marquis, wrong side of the blanket.”

  A bastard son is a son none-the-less, to some men anyway.

  “Does it matter?” Sir Edward said.

  “Depends,” Sir Hugh said.

  Depends on where their loyalty was leaning: towards family and the aristocracy—that is, the Royalist cause—or towards the Republic? If the man was a Republican spy, then it mattered very much.

  The surgeon added, “I think the Earl is just what he appears to be—for the others, it’s too little, too late. The Marquis has lost his title and lands in France. He has some valuables here, but no investments. He is rapidly burning through any wealth he might have recovered in his flight. I expect he will go to India with the Earl to seek a new fortune there.”

  “And the other?” Sir Edward said.

  The surgeon thought for a moment, glancing to the Vice-Admiral. Sir Hugh said quickly, “Forgive my manners, would you like a drink?”

  The doctor instantly flared red. Reporting to your superiors was one thing, socializing was another.

  Sir Hugh quickly amended, “Forgive
me, go on, Dr. Llewellyn.”

  But it changed the subject. Sir Edward wondered what it was that the Vice-Admiral didn’t want to be said in front of him. More secrets.

  The surgeon said, “There is no more, sir. What is your assessment, Captain?”

  Sir Edward felt there was intrigue involved here, but he didn’t think it involved the noblemen. He did not like the alternative, and he did not like that he cared either way. Kate Senlis came to mind, as did the man with the Marquis. Maybe they conducted their business on the voyage, and where was she now?

  Then it hit him: Maybe they had been working together.

  His gut began to churn, and he glanced to the other men to see if they had thought of the same thing.

  “I suppose it is too much to hope for that their chef is a master spy?” Sir Hugh said. “I could spend a good deal of time here interrogating a man of those talents.”

  “No,” they both said, and then wondered how Sir Hugh had found out about the French chef to begin with. Clearly they weren’t the only ones given a mission.

  But Sir Hugh laughed. “Pity, I could put him under arrest for the rest of the war and make him cook for me in the guise of testing his mettle.”

  The surgeon said, “You would have to fight the Marquis for his services, sir. I thought the man might starve to death without him.”

  “He came in with the Wilde,” Sir Hugh said.

  Sir Edward didn’t like the way the older man was looking at him when he said it.

  “The Wilde is in already?” Dr. Llewellyn said.

  “Two days ago. Seems your little side trips took more time than you thought,” Sir Hugh said. “Or the damage to that ship was overstated. But you examined it yourself, correct?”

  Sir Edward cleared his throat. “Was anyone on board, I mean—”?

  Sir Hugh was watching him. ”No, she was not.”

  “So the Marquis has his chef back,” Dr. Llewellyn said.

  “Hardly that,” Sir Hugh said. “Seems the French and the Scots have again become allies against us.”

  “Sir?” both sailors said.

  Sir Hugh laughed and poured them both more sherry. “Expensive habits are easy to come by, but hard to support,” he said. “Your French chef has left off the Wilde with the Scot bosun, it seems. God only knows where they headed, or why, but I’m thinking it is someplace up north. Lord knows they have need of him. Do not care to ever see another haggis. In any case, I doubt if we’ll see them again.”

  * * * * *

  The first thing that Ambrose Standish did when he made it ashore was to retch. Land legs, sea legs; any change served him the same. Then he paid a couple of wharf rats to do his legwork for him as he sat in the Blue Dolphin Inn and drank.

  It wasn’t long until they returned with news of the Wilde. It had indeed reached port before the Stalwart. Standish suspected it was long before. He flipped a coin apiece to the boys and told them to keep their mouths shut. He knew they would, because it meant a return of his business.

  Why not pay others to do the mundane? That’s what other people are for, he thought. When he was rich like Kate Senlis, rich off Kate Senlis, he would pay someone to retch for him. It made him laugh. He ignored the stares of the few other souls in the place.

  “Drunkards,” he said under his breath, then checked his watch.

  How long before he could sneak aboard and search for what it was that Kate did not want him to see? Not long at all when he considered how long he had waited so far.

  He laughed again, and this time when they stared, he roared, “Mind your own affairs.” And I’ll mind mine as well.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 19 - The Shrine

  Friendly Jose, the mule not the tree, grazed with total abandon as Kate munched her lunch of bread and cheese and dried apple bits. It was the best the Padre could offer, but fine with her. No beef, no biscuits, no seagulls to swoop down and check on her progress.

  She was only a few days in from the shore, but the terrain was rocky and steep. She couldn’t ride the mule much of the time, and her progress was slow. Overhead, a few large birds circled.

  “Bad sign?” She wondered if they were vultures up there, waiting for her to falter.

  The mule looked up and shook the flies from around his head, but it looked like Jose might be shaking his head no. Perhaps she was safe after all. Kate relaxed and took the map from the pocket she had sewn into her current petticoat. The stitches were neither careful nor holding very well.

  “But they will do,” she said stubbornly.

  This time, Friendly Jose ignored her babbling. She watched him a moment, but he did not seem concerned. She looked around and then closed her eyes to listen.

  Bees, birds, and the wind in the trees—she took a deep breath. Not much smell of the ocean, more of the earth.

  She liked the trees here. Lots of shade from their thick branches and lots of sound as the wind brushed through. Not as nice as the sound of a sail when it flapped in a steady wind, but she hoped there were no war parties here, no raiders to burst from the forest to invade her feeble camp.

  Dry land had always scared her that way. At least since that horrible day . . .

  Still, she felt as safe here on this remote and primitive trail as on the deep blue sea and under full sail. True, there were other things to worry about on land: wild cats, maybe bears, badgers, or snakes.

  Kate was used to looking to the horizon for danger, or to the sky to gauge her fate. Not to her feet, not to where she was walking. There were things that could bite, or twist your ankle or trip over.

  Or step on your toe.

  At that thought, Friendly Jose did look up and let out a three-toned trilling bray. She knew he wasn’t laughing. She knew he could not read her mind. Not all the time, that is. Something else made him stir. She slipped the map back into her petticoat pocket and grabbed the pistol from her pack. She heard a growl, then a yip.

  Coyotes? Wild dogs? Wolves?

  Was it native raiders after all?

  She tried to smile at her foolish notion, but she felt a shiver instead. In a moment, she heard the growl come even closer. It came from behind her. She rose part way up, turned on her knees and readied the pistol with both hands.

  Friendly Jose was pulling at his tether. She eased all the way up and went to stand beside him. His back legs were as good of a weapon as a twelve-pounder cannon, she figured. Plus, he had two of them, and they never needed reloading.

  In a moment, she heard the singing. Was she imagining? It was not her own tune, though for a second, her mind flashed-back to . . . something.

  Just like that, it was gone.

  Then came a little voice speaking in Spanish, “What have you found, you big ugly dog?”

  A huge yellow head appeared over the rise. Its big black nose was sniffing, testing first the air, then the ground, and gave no thought to Kate or Jose. The nose moved toward the stump near where she had been sitting. The rest of the big yellow dog followed, and it started digging at the base. Dead wood dust flew up in a cloud all around him.

  The little voice was nearer now. “Hector, you must stop that. You will get too dirty and Nana will not let you in.”

  The little girl was quickly on the dog, grabbing him by the collar made of rope. The dog was twice as big as the girl, but she showed no fear, no hesitation: She insisted in having her way.

  Kate figured the girl was about seven or eight. But she was very thin, and bare foot, so perhaps she was more mature. At least, it seemed so by the sense of self that she showed.

  The girl was also very pretty, with huge brown eyes and long dark hair that flowed sleek and thick down her back. She wore a peasant’s costume of a white short sleeve blouse trimmed in simple crocheted lace, a shawl, and a colorful skirt. The clothes were all a bit big, and the corner of her shawl was dragging on the ground behind.

  The child stopped her struggles with the dog when Kate moved to put the pistol back in her pack. The little girl called
a greeting, though it was tentative, as if she hadn’t seen Kate at first, and now that she did, didn’t know what to think.

  Kate held out her empty hands and tried to explain that she meant no harm and that her Spanish wasn’t very good.

  “You are not from around here,” the girl said without a bit of surprise.

  “No,” Kate agreed.

  “You must be a pilgrim looking for the shrine.”

  The yellow dog was sitting beside the girl now. The animal came nearly up to her shoulder. He was still straining at his collar and staring at the stump.

  Kate continued to speak in Spanish. “You know where it is then, the shrine of Germaine?”

  Germaine Cousin had been a sickly child, born in France in 1579 with a right hand that was deformed. She was fed on scraps, often beaten, and slept in the stables or under the stairs. She prayed very often and refused to miss Mass.

  She became a shepherdess, declaring her flock to be under the care of a guardian angel whenever she made it to church. It was said that sometimes she had to walk on the water of the Courbet River to get there.

  Though she was very poor, she was always helping others. One winter, her stepmother threatened to beat her for stealing bread. Germaine opened her apron at the woman’s demand, but instead of bread, summer flowers fell out and scattered all around her. It was then that people began to treat Germaine as a holy person.

  She was said to have multiplied food stores for those in need. She cured many ills, including blindness and deformities. Germaine Cousin was thought to be the patron of the abandoned, those abused and disabled, and people in poverty.

  In 1601, Germaine was found dead on her straw pallet under the stairs. She was buried opposite the pulpit in a church in Pibrac, near Toulouse, in southern France. When her body was accidently exhumed in 1644, her body was said to be incorrupt.

  Many believed, including Louis Dumars, that someday Germaine would be made a saint. He also told Kate that a few years ago, a revolutionary French tinsmith had desecrated Germaine’s remains. Kate didn’t know just how Louis would know—that is, until the promise she made when he died. It was then that he told her more about his own pilgrimages here: one as a boy with his mother—both on foot, one more recently.