The Golden Dove

by Jo Ann Wendt

  "Go, Dove."

  "There now," she said hopefully. "Y'heard John, Lor' Dove."

  Peeling off his plumed, broad-brimmed cavalier hat," his coat, sword, and buckler, Dove absently suspended them in space. With a sigh, John caught them and tossed them aside. Dove had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

  "Lizzie, be fair," Dove coaxed. "Have I ever failed to pay for anything I've broken? Have I ever failed to make restitution if I got a slight bit foxed and a scuffle broke out?''

  "No, Lor' Dove."

  "Then I ask you, sweetheart!"

  Frustrated, Lizzie tossed her head and shook it. "Y'do bring to mind a bee's hive, y'do, Lor' Dove."

  "Hell's bells, John!" Dove stooped. "Take a close look at Lizzie. Why, she's the spitting image of King Charles's sister. They've both the same fair, silky hair. Lizzie! Are you sure you've not been deceiving us? Are you sure there's not a drop or two of royal blood in your veins?"

  John bit back a smile as Lizzie's hands shot up like a shield. She staunchly refused to look at Dove.

  "Don't you go sweet-talkin' me, Lor' Dove. Nor givin' me that heart-meltin' smile. John! Tell 'im to go."

  "Go, Dove."

  "Lizzie, it's my birthday!"

  "Y'told me that last week, Lor' Dove."

  "But this week it's true. I swear. God's soup, Lizzie, today's my birthday and it's John's birthday, too. We're both eighteen today. You trust John, don't you? Ask John."

  Taken aback, she stared at them, startled. John pushed off the wall and verified it. Suddenly uncertain, she shot wary looks between them. Then, her mind made up, she staunchly folded her arms on her bosom. "I don't believe you!"

  John and Dove glanced at each other and burst into laughter. Of all the tales they'd fed Lizzie, this one happened to be true. On the same day, almost in the same hour, Dove had exploded into the world in an elegant Arleigh Castle bedchamber that belonged to the earl and countess while John had been born downstairs in a room off the scullery that belonged to a footman, William Phipps, and his wife.

  Affronted by their laughter, Lizzie drew herself up with sweet dignity, and John and Dove quickly sobered and apologized. Then John coaxed on Dove's behalf, vouching for him.

  Sweet on John, Lizzie's anger dissolved like wet sugar. "Well, you can stay," she decided in a rush. "But only for one hour, Lor' Dove. And you got to be gone b'fore Herr Ten Boom comes back from the fort. I'll tell ye true, Lor' Dove. Herr Ten Boom, he's gone to the fort to lodge a complaint against you. With Governor Stuyvesant," she added in an awed whisper.

  Dove flicked a speck off his immaculate, snowy white shirt sleeve. "Gracious. I'm trembling in my boots."

  "And so y'should be," she scolded breathlessly. "I'll tell you true. The Company's not forgave you for what you done y'very first day in New Amsterdam. Land alive, sir! Leapin' up on the gallows wi' your sword and cuttin' down that runaway negro they was fixing to hang?"

  Dove's easy smile faded and the de Mont temper flashed. "For God's sake, Lizzie, the first rope broke under his weight! They were going to hang Black Bartimaeus a second time. There isn't a man in the world who deserves to be hanged twice. Especially not for the minor crime of running away from a whipping."

  "I know," she said with genuine feeling. "But y'cannot go tweakin' the Company's nose, Lor' Dove. 'Twill get you in terrible trouble."

  * * Dove, calm down.''

  Ignoring him, Dove was making a suggestion as to where the Company could stick its trouble when tankards began to pound table tops, and Lizzie had to rush back to her serving.

  When she was gone, Dove smiled in amusement. "So you'll vouch for me, eh?"

  "Against my better judgment."

  But as Dove's restless glances raked the room, John had misgivings. There was a fever in Dove's eye. He couldn't even stand still today; he twitched a shoulder, tapped a foot. Dove was spoiling for a brawl. John knew all the signs. He'd known Dove from the cradle. Damnation, he thought! How to distract him? One day the beloved reckless fool would hand his own head to Cromwell on a platter.

  Across the room, the rum-swiller who'd been trying to gamble his bondslave was still at it. "Kom, Kom," the loudmouth barked, spewing beer and wiping his greasy beard with a coat sleeve.' 'Who'll play me fer the big strappin' bondslave what's out there on the stoop?"

  John glanced out the open door. "Big and strapping"? He shook his head. Luckless lad, having a rum-swiller for a master. The boy's freckled cheek bore an ugly bruise. John angrily glanced at the lout's table, then at the lad again.

  An idea flickered. If Dove had something to distract him for the afternoon . . . And he would likely win. John touched Dove's sleeve. "Dove, look at that bruise on the lad's cheek.. He didn't get that falling out of no tree."

  Dove didn't look. He wasn't interested. "Hell's bells, John!"

  "Look."

  Irritated at the request, Dove made do with a brief, hostile glance. As he did, the child stirred uncomfortably on the hard floor boards. The sleepy eyes fluttered open for an instant before drifting shut again. The eyes startled Dove. They were wonderful eyes. A deep cobalt blue. So dark a blue they glowed purple. Velvet eyes. Feminine eyes.

  "If that's a lad," Dove snapped, "I'll eat my shirt."

  "All the more reason."

  Dove winged a glance at John. "Meaning what? No, don't bother to say it. It's written all over your face, plain as boot tracks in jam. The answer is no."

  "You wouldn't have to keep her," John countered reasonably. "You could sell her. At the bondslave market in the fort. To a decent master. Not to the likes of that scoundrel. Dove, a little girl . . ."

  "No."

  " 'Twould be a mercy ..." He'd pressed too far. He saw it as Dove's bright hazel eyes filled with glacial frost. The de Monts were not the kind who could be pushed. Dove gave him a cold look.

  "I'm not in the mercy trade." And strolled off into the revelry.

  Having planted the seed, John had to let go of it. He looked at the luckless child. If he himself had money . . . But he hadn't. Even if he had, he'd lose it quicker than a cat's wink at a gaming table. He was no gamester. He wasn't like Dove, lightning-quick of mind and hand, an expert in every goddamn game he sat down to play.

  An enormous dog crept up the stoop step and plunked down beside the child, resting its muzzle protectively on the child's hip. The dog was so ugly it made John smile. It had a coat like a porcupine's and one empty eye socket, which was ringed with black fur. Like a one-eyed pirate.

  John drew a regretful breath, then thrust dog and child out of mind. He'd done his best. More he couldn't do. Grabbing a tankard from a peg on the wall, he headed for the kitchen. With luck, he and Lizzie could steal a few minutes to go out back and kiss.

  Dove decided on skittles. Batting away the smoke, he slung a booted leg over a stool at the rowdiest table and shoved a skittles board at the best player there. Then, he slapped his wager down and applied himself to mastering a Dutch game that was as odd and pleasant as two other pastimes he'd discovered in New Amsterdam—bowling and skating. He especially liked skating, flying over a frozen pond in winter, flying faster than the wind, pitting his speed and nerve against others . . .

  He was soon absorbed in skittles and forgot about John's brat. That is, almost. Now and then, when his conscience pricked, he glanced at the child. A big ugly moose of a dog had curled up beside the brat. Dove shuddered and applied himself to skittles. He liked dogs even less than he liked children. In fact, he hated dogs. Children he merely loathed.

  He took two games, his opponent took two. Irritated at the noise from the rum-swilier's table—his obnoxious crowing as he won at cards—Dove's concentration broke and he lost the deciding game and the wager, five Dutch florins. Instantly, he cleared the board, slapped out another wager, and challenged again.

  Incensed with the whole situation—with John, with the braying of the rum-swiller, and, most of all, with being stuck in this backwoods hellhole on his eighteenth birthday—he stole an
other hostile glance at John's brat. Late afternoon sunshine was creeping across the porch. It had come to rest on the child's freckled cheek. As he watched, the sun highlighted a bruise that was the size and shape of a man's fist.

  That did it. Gathering his coins and his full foaming tankard, he got up. When his skittles partner raised a quizzical brow, Dove jerked a nod at the rum-swiller.

  "Watch 'im, Lor' Dove. He's a cheat."

  "Is he!" Dove gave him a dazzling smile. "Thank you. You have just made my birthday."

  Eagerly, Dove wove his way through the noise and smoke to the drunk's table and stood watching the play. The fellow was plainly a cheat. Dove knew it at a glance. Not for nothing had Dove lived two years, two of the bloodiest Cromwell years, in Holborn, a criminal sanctuary in London, hidden there by thieves loyal to the monarchy—cardsharps, pickpockets, coney catchers, countesses of the trade.

  Dove's lip curled in scorn as he took in the coat the lout wore despite the heat in the stuffy smoky room. An amateur's ploy, hiding cards up a coat sleeve. No self-respecting Holborn cardsharp would stoop to using such a simple, unimaginative trick.

  In addition to the rum-swiller, a half dozen noisy drunks occupied the table, some playing cards, some simply getting drunker. Dove chose the drunkest one, wedged a booted toe under his stool and upended it. The startled sot crashed to the floor and bellowed in surprised outrage, but when Dove slapped his own full tankard into his drunken paw, the lout was well-satisfied to go on drinking on the floor.

  Grabbing the stool, Dove righted it and straddled it. He eyed the rum-swiller coldly.

  "Are you as able at dice as you are at beating your bondslaves?"

  The caustic remark did its work. The man's head jerked up like a bull's. He was a swarthy, unkempt fellow. He stank like a shoat. Disgusting tufts of black hair quivered angrily in his nostrils.

  "You've a big mouth for a young pup."

  "Stop farting into the wind. Do you want to play dice or not?"

  Dove wrenched his money pouch from his doublet and shook out a shower of Dutch guilders and florins. The rogue's greedy eyes took in the coins and pouch. Folding his cards with a hairy paw, he slung them away and bellowed for the tap-house runner.

  "Bring the house dice," he bellowed. "Kom. Bring dice!"

  A cheat himself, he eyed Dove warily. "I warn ye, young pup. Ye better not have flashy fingers."

  Dove grinned at the other men. "Flashy fingers? How could you tell? You're so drunk you wouldn't know your finger from your pecker. Even if it peed."

  The men hooted, spraying mouthfuls of beer, and drew their stools closer, watching with anticipation. That was fine with Dove. The more watching, the better.

  Caught without a retort in his witless skull, the scoundrel hotly shoved forth his first wager. A single cautious guilder. Dove coolly matched it, then raised the wager, adding three guilders, dropping them one by one with separate silvery chinks. His opponent blinked, hesitated, then matched it.

  Dove had a plan. He prayed it would work. Already, his beloved "birds of Holborn" were hidden in his palm, tucked under his thumb while his hand appeared to rest casually on the table top in plain sight, fingers relaxed, casually tapping. His beloved "birds," which he carried in his pocket as a good luck talisman, had been a farewell gift from the people of Holborn.

  The house dice were brought on the run. Dutch West India Company rules decreed only house dice could be used in gaming houses, lest some cheat use loaded dice. As the taphouse runner tumbled the dice on the table, the rogue reached. But Dove was swifter and snatched them up in a flash.

  "Courtesy, rumpot. Mind your manners. / am the challenger. Challenger throws first."

  "Watch yer mouth, pup!"

  "You watch it. I'm occupied." Dove brandished the dice and shook them showily. He tossed. Smoothly, the house dice vanished up his sleeve and his "birds of Holborn" went rolling out over the pine table. He held his breath. Sweat prickled in his hairline. Would the switch be detected? He'd purposely grabbed the house dice fast, before anyone could get a good look at them.

  But dice were dice. The rum-swiller saw nothing wrong and gathered them up with an eager growl. Dove resumed breathing.

  "If it's a lesson ye want, ye mouthy pup, ye shall have it. I'll learn ye a lesson ye shan't forget."

  "Throw the dice, windbag. If I want a sermon, I'll go to church." Everyone laughed.

  "By Gottl" Incensed, face flushing an ugly color, the scoundrel took an angry swig from his tankard, shoved it aside and leaned forward. He smote the dice to the table top, concentrating on the roll with all his might.

  Dove leaned forward and concentrated too. He needed all the concentration he could muster. Controlling loaded dice was a difficult matter. It required a deft touch, a steady hand, and steel nerve. So as not to appear contrived, the number of dots appearing face up had to vary, had to appear random. And hell's bells! Each dice toss had to appear casually thrown, lest someone grow suspicious.

  It was hard work. Dove buckled down. Intently, he concentrated. Not on winning, but on losing. While the rum- swiller crowed like a cock, taunting him, jeering at him, Dove deliberately lost guilder after guilder, florin after florin. When the lout confidently pushed forth the bondslave indenture, Dove lost thirty guilders at a whack.

  Pretending to explode with frustration, Dove jumped up, kicked over his stool, wiped his brow, righted the stool and sat, then angrily grabbed his coin pouch and dumped the remainder of his guilders on the table.

  "Play, rumpot! My luck's sure to turn."

  The rogue sneered and patted his winnings. "So you ain't had enough, eh, pup?"

  They played on. When Dove had lost his last coin, he leaped to his feet in an explosive show of excitement and temper.

  "Bring a hammer! Runner, bring a hammer," he shouted excitedly at the top of his lungs. "Bring a hammer. This sot's playing with loaded dice."

  "The duivel I am!" Incensed at the accusation, the rogue lunged to his feet, his stool crashing. "I beat ye fair 'n square, ye mangy pup. Ay, bring a hammer," he shouted to men who'd abandoned their games and gathered to watch. "Bring a hammer. By the Virgin's tits, we'll test the proof o' this pudding. I beat 'im fair 'n square, I did. These dice be house dice!"

  The hammer was brought with speed, for this was a serious charge, a grave accusation. Men crowded around, murmuring. As accuser, Dove was awarded the hammer. He took it, sighed once for his beloved "birds of Holborn," then positioned the hammer head above one die and smartly tapped it. The die split in two, revealing a tiny telltale bead of lead artfully embedded in one wall.

  Murmurs rose to angry mutters. Utterly astonished, the rum-swiller stared at the dice, his eyes bulging. He looked stunned as a newborn babe. "But, I dinna. I swear I dinna!" As blank as a felled ox, he looked about for support, but found none. Men growled loudly.

  ' 'The house dice probably are in his pocket!'' Dove shouted over the growing tumult. With a swift, unexpected movement, he leaned across the table, plunged his hand into the dazed man's coat pocket. His hand emerged brandishing the house dice, which he'd smoothly shaken from his own sleeve. "The house dice!" Dove shouted, tossing them to the taphouse runner for confirmation.

  "Ay," the runner confirmed excitedly. "They's them. I 'member this wee scratch on one o' em." The crowd exploded in anger. Cheats weren't liked in New Amsterdam, nor in any decent tap house anywhere in the world.

  "You forfeit, rumpot," Dove snapped. "Company rule." Snatching up the indenture, he stuffed it into his shirt, then quickly swept all of the money into his pouch.

  For a moment, the rogue stood dumbfounded, slack-jawed. When comprehension sifted through, the color drained from his swarthy face, then rushed in again, as purple as grape.

  A growl curled deep in his throat and built to an enraged howl.

  "I'll kill ye," he thundered. "Ye damned coney catcher, ye conned me. I'll kill ye!"

  Dove had only a fraction of an instant to react, to kick the table over and
use it as a shield. For the rogue came lunging with a knife.

  Chapter Three

  Jericho awoke to a savage howl. Hard on its heels came a crash that shook the stoop. She reared up, dazed with sleep. Tables crashed. Men snorted and bellowed like bulls. Bodies slammed into walls, shaking them, bringing down bits of roof thatch on her head. Inside the tap house, the tap room was being knocked to smithereens!

  When a stool came hurtling through the small four-paned window and glass flew like rain driven by a hurricane, she snatched up her bundle. Leaping from the stoop, she ducked behind a woodpile in the sideyard and grabbed Pax. Just in time. The tap-house door shot into the wall like a musket crack, kicked so hard she heard wood splinter. Someone stooped through the low doorway, and for a moment Jericho forgot to breathe. For stepping out into the blazing sunshine, and outshining it as easily as day outshines night, was the handsomest young man she'd ever seen.

  Gold was her first confused thought. For he seemed to be made of it. Golden hair, golden-tanned skin, tawny eyes. His eyes blazing with anger, he strode across the stoop, jumped to the lane—knees almost buckling under the load he shouldered—and marched straight to the footbridge. Men came tumbling out of the tap house, laughing, hoisting tankards, egging him on.

  Only then did she see what he carried, and the sight made

  her pop up like a cork. For slung over his shoulder was the limp body of a man. It was dressed in greasy buckskin and a green serge coat Jericho had brushed only that morning.

  Master!

  Pax barked wildly.

  Without missing a beat in the cadence of his step, the goldenhaired man marched up the footbridge and out into the middle of the canal. The sharp bang of his step woke Master, made him stir. Master looked about, dumbfounded. When he saw where he was, he began to writhe like a snake.

  44Stoppen! Stoppen, ye young fool! I dinna swim!"

  "Learnthe young man snapped. Then, with an enormous grunt, he crouched and hove Master over the railing and into the canal. Master hit with a splash and sank like a stone. Stunned, Jericho stared at the whirlpool. Collecting her stunned wits, she ran to the canal.