The soldier was thinking.
“It’s a lot of money,” Standish added. “You can say you had the wrong man, say I was just a drunk, or that I tricked you. Say anything at all.”
“Well . . .” The soldier had dropped his guard just a bit and was rubbing his chin. “Where you got this gold?”
“Not far. I have cargo over there. I was going to ship out tomorrow morning. I have cargo just right over there.” He pointed to a warehouse nearby. “We can do this before your friend gets back. You don’t want to share anyway.”
His temples were throbbing, but Standish resisted the urge to show any weakness. What his grandmother said was true. He straightened his jacket, pulled down his vest. “Look, I’m a diplomat, it’s true, but also a man of business. Tell me if we can do business.”
“All right, just show me the goods, and nothing funny, my lad. I’ll be happy to run you through. Been in the war over there, know what it’s like, killin’ a Yank or two with my point.”
Standish glanced around, but he could see no one else. Nor could he hear that steady tramp of feet coming their way, the watch patrol. His grandmother told him to hurry.
He mumbled, “I am.”
The soldier said, “What’s that then?”
He motioned the soldier to follow. In the warehouse, he followed her voice as it threaded through a maze of crates until he found his own. It was small and lettered on the side with: Whale Bone Traders and Wholesale.
“What’s this then?” the soldier said, tapping the crate with his musket butt.
“Whale bone, they use it in ladies’ corsets. Would you think to look in there for gold?”
The soldier laughed. “Found heaven a time or two in a woman’s corset, but never no gold. More like I lost it a time or two or three.”
Standish forced a laugh and pried one of the boards from the top of the box. Inside, wrapped in wool right near the top, was a leather bag full of Spanish silver.
The soldier said, “You said gold. Can’t hide that much silver. You gotta do better, my lad.”
Standish said, “Just a disguise, in case there are thieves.”
“Gotcha. Think they got the treasure and don’t look down no more. That makes you more clever, but—”
More clever than you, Standish thought, but perhaps that’s not worth mentioning. He picked up the bag. Underneath was a smaller one from his last job as a courier to their contact here on Gibraltar. He put his hand in the sack and pulled out the small handful of coins. Then he scattered them around on the top of the crate for the soldier to see in the dim light that filtered in from the street lamp outside.
“Blimey, now there you go,” the soldier said and bent to pick up a coin.
Standish used the board from the crate to smash him on the head. The board was light, and it only threw the soldier off balance. It was enough. Standish ripped the musket free and turned it on the soldier, pushing with all his weight.
The man’s breath whooshed out. It smelt of onions. Standish fought back a gag and pulled the bayonet free. The soldier staggered. Standish stepped back, then gored the man again, in the throat, so he couldn’t call out.
This time, blood came out of the soldier’s mouth as he fell full forward onto the blade. A reddish bubble of spittle formed and popped, formed and popped at the hole in his neck as the man grabbed at the musket, then collapsed. Standish pushed the corpse away from his gold, then gathered up the coins and hurried away.
The guard had been right about one thing. It was too much silver to hide.
But he stopped at the door and looked back.
What if there was more gold under the body? “My gold,” he whispered and turned back.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 29 - The Garden
Sir Edward looked out the window of the den to the moonlit garden, enjoying both the quiet and the sherry. He was as tranquil as he could be on land. Standish was being arrested, perhaps this very moment, and that was an end to it. At least for me, he thought. Soon he would get his new command and be on about his business elsewhere.
A few days in comfort, a few days with Kate Senlis without the confines of duty—that’s all it would take to get her off his mind. Familiarity often breeds contempt. She wasn’t so different from any other woman, he was sure.
Then he saw the movement in the garden. He recognized the form well enough. Kate wore a dark cloak, but light patches of her dress, perhaps her petticoat again, showed as she hurried down the narrow pathway. He swore and quickly slipped out the patio doors to follow.
She disappeared into the heavier foliage past the edge of the formal garden. He didn't hear anything at first; only saw the last bit of movement in the branches there. He proceeded slowly, crouching low and looking around.
Then came a soft growling sound.
The back of his neck began to tingle.
Danger? Here?
He saw her then, standing not ten feet from a wolf. It was large, teeth bared, hackles up, ears back, and staring directly at Kate.
He drew his long knife and quickly stepped forward. "Get behind me," he said, very low.
She didn't move except to hold her hand out to stay him. "Leave off, she will not hurt me."
Kate slipped a small basket from beneath her cloak, pulled out a packet, and tossed it near to the wolf. It landed with a dull thud. The animal sniffed the air and soon stopped growling. For a moment, it didn't move.
Then it limped to the packet and began to lick. The wolf grabbed the packet with long white teeth and hobbled a few steps away.
"Her paw is wounded and she has little ones," Kate whispered, still watching the beast.
He said, "Nature takes care of those that are weak."
"She's not weak, she’s beautiful. Some kind of herding shepherd, I think. She was caught in a trap set by man, not by nature."
"She should be shot, and her pups, too."
"Why?"
"Why? Because wolves kill sheep and worse, sometimes man—“
"She’s not a wolf, and besides, so do you. The nerve, the arrogance—“
"Come away, Madam." He grabbed her arm.
She pulled away. "No, you'll hurt her, and I will not allow it."
"You will not allow it?"
He tried to step closer, but was stopped by the berry brambles at his side. They grabbed a hold of his jacket and his hand. He grimaced and glanced down. There was a long, thin line of blood oozing out of the wound. Fat drops of blood formed quickly, and they glistened in the moonlight.
Immediately, Kate grabbed a few berries from the blackberry bush that had attacked him and crushed them against the wound. She recited:
“Blackberry crumble and blackberry jam,
blackberry-currant mulled wine in a pan.
Pick the berries with care, as the thorns they will bite.
Use the pulp on your scratches and the wine drink at night.”
At least she didn’t sing it, he thought, fighting back an unbidden laugh.
But the cut now stung worse from the juice than the wound. He watched her as he put his hand to his mouth. Her eyes widened, and she slapped his hand back down.
“Leave it, now I’ll have to tend it again. You are no help at all,” she said. “Do you know nothing of medical matters, I wonder? The berry will stop the bleeding. Now I need some apple leaves to stop the inflammation, else we might have to amputate. Honey would do, but the bees here have a terrible sting. No, I don’t like bee stings, they are worse than that little scratch you have there, and Lord knows I’m no martyr.”
“Do you never shut up?”
She pushed more berries into the wound, but this time they did not sting so much, even though she was not nearly so gentle. “There, that’s better,” she whispered. She looked up, and he could see the gold in her eyes in the moonlight.
Or maybe I’m imagining it, he thought.
Her fingers gently brushed at the side of his mouth. “You have berry juice on your face.”
Then she put the same fingers into her mouth. He could not move. His hand was still in hers, and she was standing close. He tried, but he could not pull away, or even look away from her mouth.
Suddenly, her foot wrapped up and around and kicked at the back of his knees. He collapsed down to the ground before her, but only half in surprise, the rest was from the force of the blow. He meant to say something, do something, but her hands were immediately to his face, holding him firmly in place.
She looked into his eyes for only a moment, then she whispered so near to his ear that he felt her warm breath tickle there: "This is not your ship, you are no master here. This is the wild, a magical place. I am mistress here—Mistress of the Night. Here, you must do what I say."
Then she kissed him, once, then again for a very long time. And it was done like the French, or so she supposed from what she had heard from some of her crew, though none knew she had been listening.
Then she kissed him again, but not long enough by the look of him. She left him abruptly, and he was left there alone to get his bearings. When he opened his eyes, the she-wolf was gone. He caught the lightness of Kate's gown going further into the woods. He followed.
"Go back," she commanded, though he could not see her now.
It’s like talking to the forest sprites, he thought, glancing around trying to place her. He called out, "I will not leave you out here all alone"
"Then come along," she said from behind him. "But be quiet and stay out of trouble. Give me your knife."
"How did you get— I will not."
She studied him a moment. "Suit yourself. Come away then. But take that scowl from your face, or you will ruin all the magic. One must think good thoughts when they gather. Why do you think I call them goodies?"
She grabbed his hand and pulled him along. He felt strangely nervous and wasn't so sure it was from the difference in terrain. The rocky, uneven ground was not so different from his ship after all, but he felt out of place all the same—like an intruder. She was right; he was no master here.
Kate led him to a small stream. They made their way uphill along its banks until he heard the splashing sound of a small waterfall. As they emerged from the trees, he stopped in amazement at the shimmering cascade. It was a very pretty place—especially in the moonlight, especially with her.
“What are you doing out here anyway,” he said.
“Gathering, I said.”
“Gathering?”
She showed him her basket. It was now partly filled with sapling sticks, bush fronds, and some sort of seedpods. There were some flowers too that he recognized from the second Lady de Warrenne's garden that was kept well-tended by the third and present Lady de Warrenne’s gardeners.
"Why at night? Why here? What is this place?”
"Snitching Lady de Warrenne's ornamentals is not considered polite behavior for a guest. I found lavender, several varieties of mint, and even some feverfew. And lovely bark too. I can always use more bark. It’s cooler at night too and things don’t wilt so quickly."
"You could just ask her?"
"And have her thinking me some sort of a witch? No, and what would I say? Would you mind if I strip the bark from your trees? May I trim back your shrubbery? I must make some tea, and it's just not something you would ask of a lady. Besides, I hate explaining."
She sat on the biggest rock nearby and paid him no more attention as she watched the watery foam float by on the stream.
"I did not know there was a waterfall here,” he said.
"All these trees and plant were put here. The waterfall is man-made and seasonal. Diverted stream farther up, and there’s been rain lately, quite a bit. It comes best after a bad patch of weather, otherwise it just seeps."
“How do you now that? Have you been here before?”
“I asked a stable boy whose family has been here for a time. Who would know the secrets of this rock of Gibraltar if not for the little boys?”
“What do you mean?”
“All men are savages at heart,” she said. “Little boys are allowed their free rein to conquer and swash buckle in their spare time. If you had the chance, you'd all be adventurers."
Like her father, she thought, but Kate didn’t tell him that.
He thought for a moment, and had to agree, mostly. "Some of us do, and some of us are. Adventurers, I mean."
“Then why do you suppose it's any different for a woman?”
“Have we changed the topic?” he said.
She put her hands on her hips and refused to say anymore. He took it as the usual stubborn challenge.
“All right, he said, “Because women prefer comfort, home and hearth, family and socializing. They bear children and embroider hankies and take tea with their friends.”
“Do they? How convenient that some men do as well—prefer comfort, and home and hearth, that is.”
“Madam?”
“If women only bred with wandering adventurers, it might be more interesting, I grant you, but then none of us would know our real fathers.”
He flamed red. He was sure she could tell even in the moonlight. That his mother had the habits of a whore was uncommon knowledge outside the neighborhood where he grew up. His father had seen to that. It was an agreement between his parents, he knew. His mother limited her hunting to only the local game, and his father turned a blind eye, for he was often away.
In fact, Sir Edward wasn't sure the man was his father by blood. But he hadn't felt a lack of care all the same. He wasn't sure he admired or despised the man for it, so he made a point not to think of it often. And he had always loved his father anyway.
She continued. "If men thought they might be related to the next man on the street, perhaps mankind would not be so quick to go to war. Better to have relations to tap for a loan, or introduce you to pretty cousins, or things like that, what?"
She sounded very much like Sir Humphrey de Warrenne just then.
“Your logic is much too simplistic, Madam.”
She didn’t answer. He glanced over to see her expression, but she was not there. Then he heard her swear words come floating back on the breeze. She was farther up the trail. He hurried to catch up.
She knelt to the ground and was looking rather pathetic. He stopped just in time; otherwise he might have stumbled over the top of her.
She said, more to herself than him, "I stepped on all the best ones." When she blew her breath out, the hair on her forehead fluttered. “Oh well, no use crying over squished milk. I'll have to make do.”
“What is it then? Toadstools and henbane?” Sir Edward said.
"Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.”
“You know Shakespeare?” he said.
“Not enough to boast. A few phrases, just enough to be annoying. My father enjoyed such things, and I used to read to him in the end. My mother used to read to him sometimes in the evening too, I recall. I think I was a poor substitute, still my uncle said I reminded . . .”
She didn’t finish; he didn’t pry. Sir Edward studied her as she worked. She hadn't spoken so much of her parents before, but she said no more.
“What is that?" he said again.
“Sweet flag,” she said, and then pointed to the trampled patch. “And that I call wild, mountain ginger. These plants only grow in moist areas, rocky too, near springs. I was lucky to find them here. It’s not like real ginger, only the smell, but I like it well enough. Perhaps I will mix it with soapwort to wash out my hair. From what the stable boy told me, someone must have planted it here some time ago with the rest of these things. I don't think it grows here normally, it’s more of a tropical plant.”
He was not really interested in plant lore, but he couldn’t look away, for she made a charming woodland sprite there on her knees, digging away in the dirt.
“Sweet flag makes a soothing tea for a sour stomach. You should try it.” She grinned, and he could see her white teeth in the moonlight, along with the sparkle in her eye, and the streak of dirt o
n her cheek. He thought about reaching to touch it, to wipe it away, but he didn't as the words sunk in.
Sour stomach, indeed. “Sweet flag?” he said.
“Yes, it’s an American plant, I think, like the potato and corn . . . and tobacco too. Sweet flag, sweet grass, sweet root, muskrat root—lots of natives use it.”
He said, “You are inventing this.” Then in a moment, added, "What makes you think I have a sour stomach?"
“Mostly from your expression when you look at me. I was hoping it was discomfort of some sort and not just disapproval.”
You are a witch, he thought. You were right to come out here only at night where you could hide in the still darkness. There is no way I would drink something called muskrat root. Finally, he said, "How do you know of this place?"
“It’s like Eden, isn’t it? The stable boy told me of the wolf mother too. He said that there is a legend that some Moor built this place long ago to atone for killing so many Spanish Christians.”
“You said she wasn’t a wolf. This boy knows much for someone who mucks out the stables. Are you sure he was not making it up?”
“Being a wolf might be a state of mind.” She smelled some creamy white flower, and then tucked it behind her ear. “And I had confirmation.”
“Another source. And who told you so this time, the milk maid?”
"The moon told me."
The words held a strange lilt, like no accent he had heard before. He couldn’t place it, but he wanted her to say more. She did not.
"Better that than the wolf, I suppose," he mumbled.
"The moon might have told me, but the wolf showed me the way."
He smirked. "You’re right, it looked more like a wild dog than a wolf. A mongrel. I do not think they have wolves here anymore, if they ever did. Nor do I know if they have sheep, come to think— Some kind of monkeys, maybe, and birds, of course."
Still, she said nothing.
Finally, he said, "Why do you speak like that?"
"Like what?"
It was her regular voice.
"Sometimes you go off like an Irishman, or a Scot, and sometimes like a socialite from London or Boston. Other times, I have no idea where you come from."
The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series) Page 29