Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  "I was underage. What could I do? As I sat in my lonely chamber, I had much time for thinking, and I realized kill­ing the betrothed would solve nothing. My lady was a great heiress and her father was set upon marrying her to an English noble. Still, I endeavored to send her a message, to tell her my love was true. She received that message. I knew that much for certes, because her father found it. He raised a great scandal about it before taking her away to England where he made sure she wed the titled man he'd chosen. Meanwhile, I was wed to the girl of my father's choosing. Eventually, when I had a son of my own and many duties to fulfill, I thought my first love was at an end.

  "I was wrong. Much later when I visited England on government business, without expecting it, I saw her. We were older then—she was five and twenty; I nine and twenty. And because we had both known married life and all it entailed, we succumbed to temptation and became lovers. It was only once. The shock of seeing each other after so many years, the ecstasy of knowing I still loved her and she, me, swept us away.

  "The next day she left for her husband's country home in Dorset, determined not to give way to temptation again. She was a woman who believed in honor, though she had little else in her life.

  "It was then that I began to visit her secretly at her home along the Dorset coast. She refused to engage in lovemaking with me, but I saw her often and we talked of many things, until the deep hours of the night. There was a secret room in her husband's castle where we met. My heart wept for her because her husband was a cold man. Oh, he treated her properly, in a manner befitting a count­ess, but he gave her nothing ... no emotion, no love, be­cause he was empty inside and had nothing to offer. And then there were his expectations for the children. They did not agree on the subject. It caused much dissent between them and misery on her part."

  Kit leaned forward in his chair, gripping its arms, en­thralled. "My life was much the same. My father was a cold man, unable to love my mother or any of us. He insisted we children be raised according to strict ..." He stopped, speechless as a flare of realization sparked to life.

  Phillipe nodded. "The woman I loved was your mother. She was my fair rose of Dorset, the love the legends say I sought, though you may not have heard them. And to me, she was simply mijn geliefde Anne."

  The blood drained from Kit's face. He stared down at his hands, saw them like things detached, the knuckles white where they closed around the arms of the chair. "Then she ... you ..." No coherent words came, but one hand jerked to his temple. He slumped his back. "I cannot believe it." He shook his head painfully. "How could she? She betrayed him. She must have—"

  "No!" Phillipe roared at him, leaping to his feet. "You think to blame her, to put her at fault. Yet she was not responsible for your father's cold nature, his unfeeling be­havior. She might have been untrue to him, but only be­cause she was driven to it. For five years we met secretly, yet I never touched her after that time in London. She would not permit it. Only later did she change her mind. I'll never know why, but five years after London she agreed to love me with her body as well as her heart." Phillipe paused, shook his head in a gesture of despair. "But it would never have happened at all, our meetings and loving, if your father had been kind to Anne. Despite his coldness she spent years doing her duty, trying to please him by bearing him children. And she refused to leave him, though I begged her to come away with me. I ask you, Christopher, what did he give her? What did he give you? Love? Affection?"

  "No, certainly not that, I ..." Kit stopped, longing to banish the unspeakable roar of pain pounding in his ears. He shut his eyes, wanting to forget his mother sitting at the table across from his father, her thin figure frail, yet proud and unbending. Her fading beauty came back to him, the softness that sometimes lit up her eyes when they rested on him. The storm lessened in his head.

  "There were months between our meetings," Phillipe told him, his voice strained, "days and hours she spent serv­ing the family name of Howard, doing her part as wife and countess because she believed in honor. But for me there was no other woman in my life save Anne. My own wife had died in childbirth years earlier. Yet Anne would not go so far as to leave your father. She bore him two sons— and two daughters. Yes," he nodded as he saw Kit wince, "I know about your infant sisters, the first one before your birth, the other after. Both died, and your father did not offer a word of consolation to your mother. He believed girl children were useless and better off dead. Anne thought their loss was her own punishment, because she could not love her husband. Only a woman of her nature would believe such a thing. But tell me, Christopher, tell me what your mother received in return for her suffering. You were there. What did you see?"

  A vision of his mother crystallized in Kit's memory for an instant. At first she was young and beautiful, but then the image faded, and he saw her ill and strained, lying in the huge poster bed in her chamber. He'd slipped in to look at her, been told by the maid that his mother had lost a child, that she was very ill, might die. The memory re­ceded and suddenly he felt a hundred years old.

  He shrugged wearily. "I concede I am wrong to blame her for events beyond her control. But I can't think why she didn't try to escape from my father. I did. I took the first chance I got to leave. And there was no secret room in our castle," he added. "A secret passage, yes, but no room."

  Phillipe gazed at him, an expression almost of reproach in his eyes. "I met her often in a concealed room deep beneath the castle. Your father did not know of it, so why should you?"

  "It was my father's castle. He would have known."

  "Not if his father before him didn't wish it. Apparently your grandfather didn't consider your father worthy of the secret during his lifetime. Or mayhap he was hiding some­thing himself. Whatever the reason, after his death, your grandmother told Anne."

  Kit shook his head and frowned, unable to grasp all this information. "She never told me about it. Not that she had a chance. I saw little of her as I grew older. She finally died of the smallpox only a year before my father." He looked up, studied the older man's face. "You knew that, didn't you?"

  Phillipe nodded slowly. "Many people survive the small­pox, but Anne did not. I believe she was worn out by the heartache of being wed to such a man. No, it is too painful to think on. I prefer to remember her whole and happy, as she was in my arms, each time we met."

  "I considered her weak."

  "Weak?"

  Kit heard the barely controlled rage seething in Phillipe's voice. It was the Beggar King who towered over him now, fists clenched at his sides. His eyes, which had previously softened as he spoke of love, grew cold and hard. "You covet the power of the Beggar King's mask," Phillipe's voice was dangerously low, "and dare to call another weak? You, who want the mask for all the wrong reasons? You think to sail away blissfully, to avoid commitment. But you cannot escape emotion by hiding behind a mask. Loneliness follows. It will pursue you like the hounds of hell, snarling and growing uglier each year. I know this for truth. I see it in your eyes."

  His expression was angry, and Kit stiffened against it, flinging back his own anger in return. "I hide behind noth­ing. I did not even want the mask, if you recall. You were the one who insisted I take it. It was your choice."

  The fury in Phillipe's eyes dwindled. The older man passed one hand across his face and looked away. "I did not mean to be harsh." He bent over the brazier, extending his palms to the heat. "I was overwrought. Forgive me. But you must heed my warning." He turned his head sharply to address Kit. "You like this role of the Beggar King too well. You imagine his life to be carefree and joyous, but it will leave you empty, just like your father and your brother. Eventually, you must give it up."

  Kit scarcely heard his last words. He was busy struggling with a new thought that had sprung into his head. "Tell me," he whispered, reaching to touch the count's sleeve. The heavy black fabric felt firm and tangible in his hand. "Tell me, am I your son?"

  "As I said, we made love only once before your birth
, your mother and I. Often I wondered myself, but you were born eight months later. The timing was wrong. Anne told me you were not mine. Yet there is a certain resemblance."

  Kit's gaze jerked to the small looking glass that hung on the wall of the cabin. He rose and went to stand before it, gazing into its murky pool of light. His own reflection stared back at him, looking strangely haunted. He turned back and studied Phillipe, making the comparison.

  "We will never know for certain if what we share is the tie of blood." Phillipe's expression was speculative. "But what does it matter? The important thing is to know yourself. Just now you are searching for your grail and I urge you to continue. You will eventually find it. But I predict you will know true freedom only when you believe in the kind of love I shared with your mother."

  Kit gripped the back of a chair, many thoughts warring behind his furrowed brow. Desperately he strove to grasp these new ideas, to reconcile their meaning with the torment of his past. "I must think upon it," he said at last, his breath coming harsh and labored. Leaning over the chair, he rested his head momentarily against one hand, struggling to find words. "I thank you for telling me the truth."

  Phillipe's answering smile was full of healing.

  Kit cleared his throat, groping to cover his unaccustomed awkwardness. "Of course I can appreciate the natural af­fection between comrades. I can accept that and still be free."

  "But I expect much in return." Phillipe's voice had a warning note to it. "I expect your confidence, your trust, and your guardianship of my role as the Beggar King."

  "All that I give gladly. I would give it without your asking."

  "There! Do you see?" Phillipe's mouth curved in a smile of triumph. "Love is thus. Between two men. Between a man and a woman. Such gifts are no burden because de­spite the sacrifice, they are given gladly."

  But still Kit felt unsettled. He turned away and stared unseeing at the looking glass, fighting off the phantoms of his past. Loving a woman means having things demanded of you, a needling voice told him. Things you do not wish to give. Love means forfeiting what is most important to you for things that are trivial and stupid.

  Kit's thoughts floundered as though in rough water. He had always had these thoughts, but now, in Phillipe's pres­ence, he suddenly felt a violent urge to toss them away. Were they his father's words? He couldn't remember. But his father was dead, and this man who stood before him— so vibrant, so full of heart—made him feel secure and cared for. They were feelings he'd never had from his father.

  "Come, let us pray for guidance." Phillipe indicated a silver cross hanging on the wall. "We have work before us, capturing the next communique. We must be ready when the Spanish ship comes."

  Slowly, Kit moved to obey, still shaken by his turmoil. They knelt, their high leather boots creaking. Phillipe crossed himself. Kit buried his face in one hand, his elbow propped against his knee.

  A distant boom shook the air.

  They both surged to their feet. The cabin boy burst in without knocking. " 'Tis cannon fire," he shrilled excitedly. "Lookout spied two ships."

  "Spanish?" the count barked, catching up his cloak and striding for the door.

  Kit followed, the cabin boy hurrying at his heels.

  "Don't know for certs, me lord," the boy answered. "Might be."

  They raced out into the afternoon light. From the stern deck, Kit surveyed the scene. He clenched his teeth and scowled at what he saw. At least a league away, so distant he could scarce make it out, a big galleon pursued a smaller ship. Kit pulled out his spyglass, scanned the high-charged vessel. He could make out the Spanish cross, etched in blood red on the pristine white sails of the big ship. His pulse began its familiar throb of anticipation. His hand fell to his rapier hilt, massaging it as his rage grew.

  "I shall go after our communique," he said to Phillipe, who had come to stand beside him at the rail. "You may take the other ship, if you please. She must contain some­thing of great value, else they would not bother chasing her. She looks English, from the shape of her hull." He squinted through the glass again. It was then his mouth went dry. His heart bucked violently in his chest. "Damn," he breathed harshly, clenching his fist over his rapier hilt.

  He should have expected this, he told himself. He should never let himself be caught off guard. But he'd been con­centrating on the Spanish. Now events in West Lulworth returned to haunt him. For he recognized that ship, as it followed through the water toward him. It was The Chalice, and Rozalinde would be on board. Raging memory swept in to claim his thoughts, forcing him to relive the moment at Lulworth Cove—how Rozalinde's lips had parted eagerly beneath his, returning his desire, how she had bestowed that heavenly smile when he entrusted her with his secret, the pulse-stopping sound of her last words, ringing in his ears—Mayhap I do care, but we should, never have met. The hell with her denial. He would not stand for it anymore.

  "Aye. I intend to take her," Phillipe said, not noticing Kit's tumult of feelings. "I could not permit it to sail to Antwerp, if that is where 'tis bound. I cannot let any ship trade there. And since the Spanish want her, I want her as well."

  Turning to his fleet captains who were huddled on the stern deck, waiting, Phillipe flung out the details of their attack. "Battle formation," he shouted. "Clear all decks. Ready the cannon, but only fire if I give the word. We will frighten this English ship, make it surrender. The Swiftsure will take on the Spaniard."

  Men ran in all directions to their stations. Sails were un­furled and the fleet adjusted its position.

  Kit banished all thoughts of Rozalinde. He would think about her later. Right now he had a battle to fight. With a quick command he sent two younger sailors running to lower a skiff.

  "I'm for the Swiftsure" he told Phillipe tersely, holding out his hand. "I wish you success."

  "And you." Phillipe gripped Kit's hand, then dropped it to crush Kit in his embrace. "Go with God."

  On board The Chalice, Rozalinde paced her cabin, de­bating what to do. Up and down she walked, agitation filling her.

  From the bunk she crossed the narrow room. Just before the table and chair, she turned and started back. Every few minutes she nervously checked the porthole. The Chalice had achieved full speed. It skimmed over the water like a bird, but it wasn't fast enough.

  Troth, she whispered to herself, tugging at one of her loose braids while her thoughts leaped with turmoil. She must do something. Someone must. A Spanish ship fol­lowed them. She'd seen it herself from the stern deck when she'd gone for her daily stroll. There it was—a mere speck in the distance at first, but following relentlessly. Now it bore down on them with terrifying speed.

  The Chalice, of course, could do no more than lumber. Its heavy cargo slowed them. Roz's heart contracted as she remembered the way the hull of the Spanish ship sliced the water in a razor-sharp furrow. She remembered something else too—the name painted on the hull. Dimly she had made it out through the captain's spyglass. The ship was called the Gran Grifon. Trenchard, she thought, squeezing her braid tightly in her sweating palm.

  A sudden ungodly explosion shattered the afternoon, fol­lowed by a thud that shook The Chalice from stem to stern. Heavenly Father, they were being fired upon!

  Catching up her cloak, Roz made a decision. Whirling the garment around her shoulders, she crossed the cabin and took up three items laid out neatly on the table. The short measuring rule and plumb lines went easily into her pocket. The third item she tucked under her arm, then arranged her cloak to conceal it. With a rush she made for the door.

  A brisk wind tugged at Roz's skirts as she stepped outside. Scanning the sky, she noted the clouds gathering to the south. Well, that meant nothing. It was usually cloudy over the English Channel. Hurrying along the deck to the helm, she found the captain and tried to get his attention.

  "You must fire the stern guns!" she cried, trying to make herself heard above the commotion of men who arrived for orders and dashed off again. "The Spanish are attacking. Sinc
e they draw nearer, let us bring down their masts."

  Captain Wellham looked over his shoulder distractedly. Seeing who it was, he turned away, yelling more orders at his men. From the moment he'd discovered this lass on his ship, he'd tried to convince her to go home. He'd even put in at Dover, which delayed them several hours while he pleaded and bargained with her. He'd begged her earnestly to accept an escort back to Lulworth, but she'd have none of it. No, she was bound for Antwerp, and she would not be put off. She'd offered him many gold pieces to take her

  to Antwerp, and, in the end, it was far too rich a prize for him to refuse.

  Lord have mercy, he thought glumly. He should have dumped her in Dover harbor. Now a Spanish ship was chasing them, firing its cannon, and the maid dared to leave her cabin. Was she mad? If the Spaniard didn't sink them,

  it would probably kill all the men and take her captive, but she didn't seem to care. She was tough as tanner's leather, this master's daughter. And admittedly she knew a thing or two about sailing—she'd already proved that. But he couldn't stop now for discussion. There was too much to do.

  "Captain, do you hear me?" Rozalinde demanded, then turned away in despair, realizing her words were lost in the confusion. He was too busy trying to speed the ship to listen to her pleas, but someone had to direct the firing of the stern cannon since their side guns were of no use.

  Roz hurried back along the ship's midwaist, ignoring the looks she received from the seamen. Grasping a ring on the hatch, she wrenched it up and all but fell down the ladder as another explosion sounded and the ship lurched. The ugly sound of splintering wood filled her ears.