Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  "How could you feel shame?" Kit started forward, confused by the unexpected despair in the man's voice. He felt a longing to banish it. "Look at all you have done and what you represent. You are the only hope of the people who pray the Prince's navy should rule the sea and free them from Spanish laws. You cannot give up. Not now, when victory lies so close."

  The Beggar King's answering smile rippled with pain. "How can I make you understand? You are onervaren—how would you say, young and impulsive. Once I was like you, the life inside me straining to get out. I believed my goals were pure. Yet over the years, I lost much, by my errors, those of others." He shrugged. "Some were small; I did not realize their loss. But others were such ... You cannot know how it is, to feel the age creep up—to know your time grows short. Still, I do not give up. I have sworn not to forsake the quest."

  Kit scrutinized the grim-faced man before him, trying to guess how many years he had seen. Two score and ten? More? "I honor you for your strength." He spoke boldly, knowing the respect he felt shone in his eyes. "For fighting on. I, too, have fought ..." He stopped, wondering what he was about to say, surprised to find he fought something. He'd thought he was completely free.

  "What is it you fight? Tell me." The Beggar King's words sliced into Kit's thoughts, forcing him to share them.

  Kit looked at him and was again overwhelmed by the feeling of transparency. "I think it is my past. It burdens me, but I cannot give in to it."

  "What is your past?" The older man approached, looked deeply into Kit's eyes. With a wrinkled hand he reached but, took Kit's fingers in a compelling grip. "I must know everything. Say thy name."

  Kit spoke his name, unable to hold it back. But as he said the words—told his family of origin—a change came over the Beggar King. The craggy features stiffened, his eyes glazed with pain. The change aged him, made him seem to carry an even heavier burden.

  "Howard." He pronounced the name distinctly, then let the silence deepen around them. "I thought so. Go on, lad. Tell me from whence you come?"

  "Dorset."

  Again the Beggar King's face contracted with agony. "Dorset. Yes, I knew. Tell me, Christopher, where is thy father?"

  "In his grave."

  "And your elder brother?"

  "Dead, too," Kit answered, feeling torn asunder by this man's anguish. "Just over a year ago."

  "And you ... you are the Earl of Wynford," the Beggar King went on, raising a tormented gaze to meet Kit's.

  Kit nodded mutely, wanting to help, but feeling so much pain himself, he could not. What was the source of this man's suffering?

  The Beggar King turned away, fell to pacing. His strides devoured the space in the tiny chamber as he muttered to himself, his tones confirming something. It went on for several moments, this internal struggle. Kit watched, fascination warring with respect. He wanted to interrupt but felt he had not the right. At last the Beggar King stopped before him. "I shall give you my name in exchange. 'Tis only fair."

  Kit wanted desperately to hear it, and yet ... "Do not tell me. It is too dangerous. You must guard your identity."

  As the Beggar King's gaze locked with his, Kit felt himself drawn into the other man's dark communion.

  "I have my reasons for what I do. If I wished to hide my identity, no power could force me to reveal it. But you, I trust, Christopher Howard. I know you'll not betray me."

  His words vibrated in Kit's mind, reminding him of another such promise. The one made at the cove by Rose.

  The Beggar King bowed his head for a moment, toyed with a small cross he wore around his neck on a chain.

  Then he dropped it, straightened, and drew himself up to his full height. "I was born Phillipe de Montmorency-Nivelle, and when I grew to be a man, I became the Count of Hoorne." He regarded Kit, appearing to measure how he took this information. "Ja, I was Knight of the Golden Fleece, Stadtholder of Gelderland, Admiral of the Netherlands, and supposed friend to Philip the Second. 'Twas I who took him to Spain in my own ship, after his father, the Holy Roman Emperor Charles the Fifth, gave Spain and the Netherlands to him. I was a trusted confidante."

  Kit's mind reeled. He sat down hard on the bunk, stunned by what he'd just heard. "But Philip killed you. Everyone knows that. You were accused of treason. The Duke of Alva had you beheaded in the town square of Brussels, along with the Count of Edgmont. Even though you were—that is, are—Catholic. It was to make an example so the populace would obey him. At least 'twas what I heard years ago."

  "It was 1565, to be precise." The count's voice was raw with emotion. "Eight long years ago. But I was not beheaded, as you can see. Some poor devil died in my place. I never knew who he was, but I owe him my life." He crossed himself quickly. "I was spirited out of Brussels by Prince William. Do you see now why I serve him?"

  Kit did not bother to hide his amazement. "It's a miracle. Your life is blessed. I did not know ... did not in my wildest imaginings think—"

  "Think you would meet someone snatched from the jaws of death." The count laughed roughly. "Niet, I am not sacred. Look at what I have lost. My ancestral home, my lands, my income, all forfeited to the Spanish crown. Someone else lives in my family home, someone else sleeps in my bed. Others collect rents from the people who served me. And my heir..." His voice lowered. "My heir is dead."

  Kit felt the impact of the count's sorrow pierce him like cannon shot. "You are bitter. For that I do not blame you. I, too, would be—"

  "No! Not bitter."

  The count's voice resonated in the tiny cabin, and for a second Kit thought he was furious. But he tempered his voice, controlled it before he went on.

  "Never allow yourself to be overwhelmed by bitterness.

  It avails you naught. In the beginning I felt it, but I learned I had to rise above it, to search for other things." He laughed wryly. "I know it sounds foolish. Like a school-boy's lesson. Or the ideals of some moldy philosopher who spends his time thinking but has never lived. But bitterness breeds nothing but more of the same, and I had already tasted the depths of despair when I thought I was to die. I refuse to live with it."

  The count's pain had lifted. His eyes were now clear. He crossed the room, swung a wrinkled hand and brought it own on Kit's shoulder in a gesture of warmth. "Together we will do our work. You shall keep my secret, and I shall give you aid. Come. We must find that communique."

  "I shall find it," Kit protested, suddenly wary at the change of subject. He drew back. "I need no help."

  "Neen?" The Beggar King's invasive gaze tore into Kit. Why are you here then? Let me tell you. Because you are seeking. Let me lead you." He held out one hand in a simple gesture.

  They went on deck into the vast bowels of the night. The wind had changed direction. Kit turned his masked face into it, judging its strength. They dared not tarry longer. Soon that same blustering wind would blow their ships apart, scattering them across the North Sea. The Santa Maria de la Rosa rode low in the water, waiting like a false courtesan, promising but refusing to deliver. By this time the two crews of the Dutch and English ships were wrangling furiously, the Dutch mad with jealousy that the others had the goods.

  "Let them share it all around," Kit told Courte and Ruske as he swept past them, following the masked Beggar King. "Each with equal parts. And do not let us be disturbed. The Beggar King and I wish to discourse." They entered the captain's cabin and Kit locked the door.

  For two full minutes the count surveyed the quarters, his craggy features fixed.

  "A lady's trinket," he muttered as he turned, spending a minute at each point of the compass. Kit gave him a strange look.

  "Of course I know how 'tis hidden." The count's mouth formed a bleak line as he returned Kit's scrutiny. "Have I not sought these communiques as well as you? You pre­sume to be alone in this task, but you are not. There are many after these valuable messages, even beyond us. But we shall have this one."

  Intensely he inspected the cabin, then turned to Kit. "You cannot find it?"


  "I searched the entire room. Every inch. These trinkets," Kit indicated the two demolished fans, "were all I found. And they do not conceal the communique."

  "Think, Christopher." The count's eyes bored into him. "Think of a lady's trinket. But not one that would be appreciated by most of the females you know."

  Kit removed his mask and squinted at him, not sure what he meant. But he moved around the room obligingly in search, while the count talked.

  "Most ladies would prefer the fans, naturally. But imagine a different sort of woman. One who likes things both practical and clever. One who—"

  "Women aren't practical," Kit interrupted, pausing by the desk. "Nor do they put their cleverness to any sensible use. They're self-centered creatures, in love with foolish gewgaws."

  The count made an impatient gesture. "Then imagine this other sort of woman, if you can't believe she exists. What sort of trinket would she like?"

  "A woman who prefers things both practical and clever would like ..." Kit turned to the desk, snatched up the compass box and held it aloft, "something like this. If it were made properly, a place beneath the compass chamber could conceal things. She could use the compass for its usual purpose, but in reality it would carry a secret." Kit looked in surprise from the box to the count. "There's a crack here, my lord."

  "Open the box."

  The box separated into two pieces in Kit's hands. But the little chamber under the compass was empty. Kit examined it. "Just as I thought. There's a false bottom." He pried at the delicate piece of wood, removed it, then held out the box in triumph.

  They had found the prize.

  The count took the folded piece of paper in his hand. "I am pleased to see it is in the usual code. I will teach you how to decipher it. And you must call me Phillipe, Christopher. I do not stand on formality with you."

  "Phillipe, then." Kit still marveled over the compass box. "Clever little thing. Beautifully constructed, the way it goes together—the join is almost invisible. I see now how I missed it. Most women wouldn't like it for storing their trinkets. They like these things covered with ribbons or lace or jewels if they can get them." Phillipe chuckled. "Not all women are the same. You should know that."

  Kit grimaced. "You have the right of it. Her Majesty, for instance, is certainly unlike other women. I must take this message to her immediately."

  "I will make a copy," Phillipe told him, "and you may take this one to Elizabeth. You will give her the Prince of Orange's greetings and request England's aid? We have urgent need of her assistance."

  "I shall," Kit promised.

  "And this ship?" Phillipe gestured around the cabin. "What have you done with the others you've taken? As you are no pirate, I imagine you do not sell the cargo."

  Kit shook his head, slightly embarrassed, irritated with himself for feeling so. "I only wanted the communiques, so disposing of the ships became an inconvenience. I could not bring myself to sell them—to profit seemed wrong in this situation. I took some prizes of value for the queen, but she cannot accept anything recognized as Spanish.

  Saving the ship adrift was too dangerous. It might be recaptured by the Spanish and they would discover I took the communique. So I have sent the Spanish crew with a message to King Philip. Informal, of course. The ship itself will be taken to—"

  "You must take it to Dorset," interrupted Phillipe, "give away the goods to the poor. After we have our share of food and payment for my crew, that is, and your men, theirs. You can help our cause by letting the English know Dutch are their friends. Your country must side with us, or we'll never survive."

  "I?" cried Kit, surprised. "I cannot take this ship to Dorset. Why don't you go yourself, if you wish it?" Phillipe sighed and again grew remote. "I have not been to Dorset in over five years. There are memories there ..." He shook his head heavily. "I'll not go. 'Tis you who must."

  "But they'll mistake me for you," Kit protested. "You've not been there of late, so you cannot know, but the people are wild with the legend of the Sea Beggars and their rebel leader, the Beggar King. You have no idea how such a story can spread."

  At these words, Phillipe's mood changed abruptly. He threw back his head and laughed vibrantly. For the first time that night he displayed genuine pleasure, and it emanated from him with passionate abandon. "Let them mis­take you," he cried joyously. "You are so full of lusty health, I want them to mistake you. Tell them the Beggar King has been reborn, that each time the Spanish seek to crush him with their torture and death; he will rise again like the phoenix, young and strong. You are the embodiment of our cause, Christopher. Go and spread our friendship, so we people of the Netherlands will no longer stand alone."

  His joy was contagious, and Kit found himself caught up in it, overwhelmed by the thought that they must stand together or die separately and alone. Kit found himself kneeling to the old man's hand, though he'd not meant to be won so easily. "You give me a sacred trust." He knew his voice throbbed with feeling, but he didn't care. For the first time since he'd become earl, he felt he moved toward a long awaited goal. "I do not know if I am worthy. But I accept. I will keep your secret. And I swear by my own honor to fight for England and the Netherlands, for our mutual cause."

  "And I," whispered Phillipe. "I swear to fight for thine."

  For a long time after the earl left, Rozalinde sat on the rock and wondered. The darkness seemed to thicken around her, growing heavier like the secret of his destina­tion. Where had he gone, this Lord Wynford? One did not just row out to sea in the middle of the night without a good reason. Shifting on the cold stone, she felt inexplica­ble curiosity about him rise within her. It confused her abominably, but she felt it just the same.

  He must be meeting a ship. Lady Mary had said he went off at all hours. True, she'd suggested he was up to something different. But there could be no woman to seduce in the middle of Lulworth Cove. And there was his mask.

  He would be navigating the channel by now, she thought with jealousy. It was where she belonged. Roz's thoughts leaped to her father's business—here was the earl, going off the middle of the night, when no one could stop him.... She sat bolt upright on the stone, stuck by an idea. She could sail to Antwerp for her father; she could handle the business.

  Immediately she stopped, gripped her knees. Her father would not like it; he would not agree ... Well, she would ask him. Be entirely forthright. But if he didn't approve, she would go anyway—slip off in the night when no one could stop her. She had done it before in London. The daring of the idea made her shiver with delight.

  Roz stood, squinted at the sky and tried to tell the time by the position of the moon. Clouds masked its silver face, but now it didn't matter. The night seemed full of magic, because she had done as Jon suggested, she'd found another way. Antwerp, she thought, stretching out her arms to it across the water. She would sail for her family's redemption.

  Exhilarated by these thoughts, memory of the earl's kiss returned. For what reason, she couldn't imagine, but her heart rose up on thrilled, throbbing wings.

  She began to walk. Back up the cliff path, along the heights. So much about Christopher Howard baffled her-for instance, his uncanny insight. Was he right to say George frightened her? Impossible! He wasn't frightening. She just preferred not to marry. She liked to manage her own life, and with a husband like Trenchard, that would be hard.

  Again her thoughts flew to the earl—why did she continually think of him? So much about him enraged her. He had too much experience with women, that was obvious, and he was a noble—a class her parents had taught her was useless. On top of it all, he had a secret.

  Trudging across the meadow of waving sea grass at the top of the cliffs, Roz pondered this secret, wanting to share it. Oh, he enraged her, but he intrigued her as well, and never had she met a man who kept her interest for longer than a minute. This one did. And because of that, because his kiss aroused so many intriguing feelings, she yearned to know what he was up to in his black mask. Suspicion tick­le
d her brain, and she turned west, taking the path that led to Lulworth Creek.

  Thirty minutes later she was crouched behind some bushes, looking down on the wilds of the creek where it joined with the sea. Over the years the creek had carved a wide bed to rest in, leaving a deep cleft through which a great galleon could be towed. This was the place she and Margery had spoken of—where local pirates unloaded their spoils, spirited them away to the town to be sold.

  "Hist, this way."

  Rozalinde's head swiveled at the sound of a voice—a woman's voice—calling her softly. Then a woman's form approached her through the brush.

  Taking her by the arm, the woman urged Rozalinde to her feet, pointed toward the north end of the creek. "You don't want to wait here. Come, we'll sit with the others."

  A shock ran through Roz, then another as she recognized the weaver's wife, who had eight children and lived in a tumbled-down cottage in West Lulworth's poorest part. She knew because the lady had once begged at their back door, saying her children starved. Rozalinde had bid the cook give the lady three loaves of fresh manchet bread. Later she'd had a large basket of food delivered to the weaver's home. Now, hurrying after her across the rough hillside, Roz felt growing excitement. Mayhap she would share Christopher's secret tonight.

  As they picked their way through wet undergrowth along the creek, Roz struggled with the branches and bracken. When her shoes stuck in the mud, she stopped to pull them out, peering around her, trying to discern who these other people were. But she saw no one. They climbed the steep hillside, around huge rocks jutting up from the earth. Far below, the creek lapped nervously against its banks.

  "Come along. Be quick with ye." The woman scolded her good-naturedly. "You've never done this afore, have ye? Did the chandler send ye? Well, well, we'll have plenty of victuals for all tonight, you'll see. 'Tis a rare night, mark ye." Motioning for Roz to hurry, she disappeared around an outcropping of rock.