Valentine

by Heather Grothaus

  Maria shot to her feet and all but flew to the corner where their bags and discarded clothes lay. She kicked the wet and ruined clothing aside before picking up the bags and swinging them over her own arm.

  “Come nearer the door,” she ordered. “I need to put out the light.”

  He obliged, and once the room was in darkness, Maria whispered, “An immediate right at the bottom of the stairs, straight through to the door we entered upon our arrival; the other entrances are barred. Do not turn your head, do not stop. If anyone calls your name, we run. Just so you are not overly shocked, if Hamish catches us, I shall have to kill him.”

  Then he felt her place something snug over his head, and thought it might have been the maid’s cap he just realized she’d been wearing.

  “All right, let’s go,” she said.

  He followed her down the stairs toward the brightness and noise of the kitchen, wondering why she would threaten Hamish’s life. Surely the food couldn’t be that bad.

  There was no more time for fevered musings as they swept through the kitchen. Valentine thought he heard the fat cook call after them, but they were out the door in a blink, the cool mist that had replaced the rain washing over his burning skin like angel kisses.

  “Ah.” He sighed, turning up his face.

  “No,” Maria insisted, grabbing his hand. “Come on—run!”

  He tried. The best he could manage was a hitching shuffle. Valentine realized they were proceeding down the wet and slippery hill toward the Elbe once more.

  “Maria,” he rasped, the air doing much to clear his head. “The raft, it is no more. We can no—”

  “I know,” she said impatiently. “I’m not seeking the raft.” Their feet clattered onto the wooden dock, and Maria released his hand when they came upon what seemed to Valentine at first to be a solid wooden wall. But then he remembered that they were on a dock jutting out into the river, so that couldn’t be right.

  He looked up and saw the towering mast of the cog ship upon which their raft had broken up.

  When he looked back to Maria, she was climbing the short rope ladder that led to the deck above.

  “Come on,” she called over her shoulder.

  Valentine stood there a moment, completely perplexed, watching her as she threw her leg over the side of the ship and then disappeared.

  “Maria?” he called up. “Do you know? This is a boat.” He shrugged and hoisted himself up onto the thick, swaying ropes.

  “Valentine!” she called from beyond the deck rail.

  His muscles were weak, shaking with effort. By the time he grasped the wooden rail and swung his leg over, he was sweating, shivering, and felt as though he might vomit.

  He tumbled over the railing, crumpling onto the decking in a heap, only catching himself with his palms the instant before his face would have smashed into the planks. His breaths heaved in and out of him.

  “I hope you know what you are doing, Maria,” he rasped and with great effort raised his head to find her in the dark and the wind.

  “I think she has done very well,” a man’s voice answered.

  Valentine blinked, shook his head, tried to clear his vision. The dark mass before him wavered, doubled, then revealed itself to be Maria, being held before a man whose forearm was around her throat. His other hand apparently held Maria’s arms behind her. Valentine focused on the dark oval of the man’s face, hidden by the wide brim of his feathered hat.

  “Francisco,” Valentine whispered.

  “Hello, cousin,” Francisco said. “We are reunited at last. Roland,” he called over his shoulder, but Valentine could feel that Francisco’s eyes never left him. “Let us ensure my beloved kin does no think to part our company so soon.”

  A dark shape emerged from behind Francisco and Maria, and Valentine recognized the unmistakable outline of a dagger, its blade piercing the dark woolen sky, checkered by rigging.

  “No!” Maria screamed. “Don’t hurt him! He’s—”

  Valentine never heard the end of her plea. The dagger struck him in the temple and, after the blinding flash of pain behind his eyes, all was black.

  Mary screamed as Valentine collapsed fully to the decking, and then she came to life, thrashing and kicking at her captor. She tossed her head back, seeking some part of him to bite, but he pushed her away from him, as if realizing her intent. She landed on the decking near Valentine’s legs.

  “No so loudly, Maria,” Francisco said, “lest you seek to summon the guests of yonder inn. I am no willing to turn loose of Valentine now that I’ve only so recently caught him.” He casually tossed overboard the kitchen knife he’d taken from her. “So kind of you to save me the effort of sneaking into the Queen later tonight.”

  Mary bent over Valentine, turning his head gently and leaning her face down close to his mouth. He was breathing easily, but she could not see where he had been struck. His servant’s cap had slid off, and a quick examination with her hands found a lump at his hairline. Thankfully, it was not sticky with blood. She eased Valentine onto his back and reached out to drag the sodden satchels she’d dropped close to place under his head.

  “How do you know my name?” she demanded over her shoulder.

  “I have been following the pair of you since Prague,” he answered simply. “Valentine is no the only Alesander who has learned to travel anonymously.”

  Mary made a show of checking Valentine’s person as she worked her way down to his feet. Once there, she turned her back to Francisco and slipped her hand inside Valentine’s boot, sliding his dagger free. Then she spun on her heel, turning and rising in one fluid motion.

  She pointed the dagger at Francisco Alesander. “I hope for your sake that he is not the only one able to travel quickly, either,” she said. “Call to your men to cast off. We must be away from here immediately.”

  The despicable Roland, who had dealt Valentine’s blow, edged closer to Mary’s side. “You want I should take it from her, Captain?”

  Mary adjusted her stance, glancing between the two men as she swept the blade from side to side. “You stay away from me!” she shouted, realizing that her voice held no tremble, her hand was steady. “Both of you! Come near and I shall slit your throats.”

  Roland’s eyes widened and he gave a low whistle. “Captain?”

  Francisco’s tone implied he was not at all concerned for the safety of his person. “By all means, Roland—let us oblige the lady.”

  “Aye,” Roland answered and turned his back on Mary. He walked into the darkness, calling out curt orders.

  Immediately, the deck of the ship seemed to come alive, shadows of coiled rope and stacks of cargo revealing the shapes of the men hidden among them. Mary stepped backward until she felt Valentine against her bare heels. She faced Francisco, who continued to watch her almost curiously, his feet braced apart and his hands on his hips.

  In moments the crashing and slithering sounds of miles of rope could be heard, along with the sloshing of the waves against the hull, and Mary noticed the skyline gradually shifting. She heard shouts above her head and dared to glace up, fearing attack from above, but instead saw men about their jobs high up in the rigging. They called back and forth to one another, repeating orders, confirming tasks, and Mary looked around, taken aback at the swift response to her demand.

  The ship crested a swale as it turned out into the Elbe away from the dock, causing Mary to sway and throw out her arms for balance, her stomach giving a familiar lurch.

  No. Please, no. Not now.

  But by the time the ship was pointed west and headed into the center of the river, Mary realized she was fine. Her feet were planted firmly, her legs limber, her head clear. Mary Beckham was standing on a moving ship, and she was fine.

  In her shock, she had quite forgotten about Francisco Alesander, and when she swung her head back around to find him, the place on the deck where he’d stood was empty.

  But now the ship was beginning to light up as, one by one, long tor
ches and hanging lanterns were lit. Mary realized that no one at all was paying her any mind, and so she felt rather foolish, brandishing Valentine’s dagger at the breeze. She dropped her hand to her side, the wind whipping her hair back from her face as she turned into it and looked past the aft castle of the ship to see the lights of Hamburg sliding past.

  Where would Francisco Alesander take them?

  “What have I done now?” she whispered.

  She sighed and then dropped to her heels at Valentine’s side once more. His breathing was still steady and even, but his face felt like a smooth coal—dry and searing with heat.

  “Valentine,” she said, running her palm over his forehead. “Valentine, can you hear me?”

  “When did he take ill?”

  The murmured question came from directly behind her head, and Mary jumped, whipping up the hand that still gripped Valentine’s blade.

  Francisco grasped her wrist before she could use it, although his grip did not twist or bruise. “I am no going to hurt you, Maria,” he said. “Either of you.”

  She jerked her arm back and, miraculously, he let her go. “You already have hurt him,” she shot back.

  “I did no know he was ill,” Francisco defended. “Although I should have known something was amiss when he allowed you to board an unknown ship before him. Had he been well, the only way I could keep him in one place was to render him unconscious.”

  Although Mary agreed, she gave no comment, only continued to watch Francisco warily. “He doesn’t have any gold, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “I do no want his coin.”

  Mary’s eyes narrowed. “And he didn’t kill his sister.”

  At this, Francisco’s handsome face broke into a gentle smile. “I know, Maria.”

  Mary was confused. “Then what do you want with him?”

  “I will get to that later,” Francisco said. “But first, let us move Valentine to a place where he can rest easily and where we can better care for him, yes?”

  Mary pressed her lips together for a moment. “Are you trying to trick me?”

  “I would never.” His smile returned, and in it, Mary could see the ghostly outline of Valentine’s own indulgent grin. “Vamanos, Maria.”

  Chapter 19

  His parched throat was the first thing to come to Valentine’s awareness. Indeed, the hot, sand-dry feeling seemed to fill up his mouth as well, and he tried to swallow before opening his eyes. The reflex only succeeded in triggering a hacking cough that would have brought tears had he any moisture at all in his body.

  Perhaps he was dead, decomposing, like one of the many bodies he’d seen half-buried in the desert along the road from Damascus. The corpses had resembled parchment stretched over bundles of sticks.

  But no—Damascus was a long time ago. He had gone on to Melk, and then—

  Maria, he thought suddenly, and his eyes opened.

  He saw dark planks of wood over his head—not very far above him, it seemed.

  Where was he?

  Where was Maria?

  “Good afternoon,” a man said somewhere beyond his line of vision. “Have you decided to live after all?”

  Valentine turned his head very slowly to the right, and soon the blurry outline of a person rose up and drew nearer. Valentine blinked. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out save a wheezy gasp.

  “Here,” the man said, reaching for something and then placing his hand behind Valentine’s head to raise it up. He felt a cup placed against his lips, and then cool liquid flooded his mouth.

  His throat constricted painfully as he swallowed, and he coughed most of the water back up through his nose and down his chin.

  “Too much?” the man asked while Valentine gasped for breath. His lungs felt afire. “Let us try again.”

  This time the water went down, and Valentine felt the liquid sluice through his innards like some magic elixir. The hand released him back onto whatever pallet he currently occupied and he closed his eyes again with a sigh as he wiped at his mouth.

  But he forced his eyes open once more. “Francisco?” he whispered.

  “Sí,” his cousin answered. “Do no trouble yourself to leap from your deathbed to embrace me.”

  “Maria,” Valentine rasped.

  “Maria is fine,” Francisco said. “Do you know, I think she would have tried to kill me? I have a feeling that is no her nature.”

  “I . . . kill you,” Valentine whispered.

  “That is no a good plan, cousin, since you and your woman are on my ship. Have another drink instead. Then you can threaten me with a clearer voice, yes?”

  Valentine nodded.

  “Bueno.” Francisco helped Valentine to another dipperful of water. When it was empty, he let Valentine’s head back down gently. “Better?”

  “Where is Maria?” Valentine asked.

  Francisco’s face was coming into focus in the gloom of the small dark chamber. His lips were curved in the faintest of smiles.

  “She is above deck,” he said. “I will fetch her for you as soon as we have had our talk, yes? She is a good sailor.”

  Valentine watched Francisco, and for the briefest moment the fact that Valentine had missed his cousin so much overshadowed the pain of their history. Francisco had aged well—the lines on his face that of a grown man, where once an idealistic youth had looked out. Francisco appeared healthy, confident.

  Of course he is confident, Valentine thought to himself. You are clearly in no condition to best him. He can do with you what he likes now.

  Then Francisco’s comment about Maria at last reached his consciousness.

  “If you think she is a good sailor, you have obviously kidnapped the wrong woman. Where is Enrique?”

  “Dead.”

  Valentine’s heart skipped a beat in his chest. “When?”

  “Two years.” Francisco shrugged and then shook his head. “Nearly three now.”

  Had Valentine the strength, he would have laughed. “And look at you—even after his death, you still seek to do his dirty work. What an obedient little jackal you became.”

  “Valentine, I am sorry.”

  “No as sorry as you will be when you discover I have no coin to shower upon you. The Alesander fortune—ha!” He turned his eyes back to the planked ceiling, as foreign, unpredictable emotions welled up inside him.

  “It was never about the coin,” Francisco said quietly.

  “No?” Valentine challenged, letting his head fall back toward Francisco again. His cousin’s elbows rested on his knees, his hands clasped loosely. His head drooped, showing Valentine only the crown of his curly head. “Then what was it about? Your great devotion to Enrique? The man you once said had brought dishonor to our family? Did you think that by aligning with him he would make you his heir?”

  “I never had any love for Enrique,” Francisco said. He raised his face then, and looked Valentine in the eye. “The love I had was for Teresa.”

  Valentine winced. “Teresa?” he whispered. “I do no understand what you are saying.”

  “The night—” Francisco paused, swallowed—“the night you left, I had gone to the sheik’s apartment at the villa. I was going to kill him. To save her, you see.”

  Valentine did not comment; he only watched his cousin closely.

  “But I was only a boy. And I was a coward. I failed, and so I sought to beg Enrique one last time. But before I could find him, I saw the blood.”

  “It was you who discovered we were gone?”

  Francisco nodded. “I knew by Enrique’s panic that he had no killed Teresa. It was easy enough for him to convince me in that moment that you had—especially because you had not included me in your plan.”

  “As you said—you were still so much a boy,” Valentine defended reluctantly. “I could no take you from your mother, and had I confided in you, Enrique never would have stopped torturing you until you told what you knew. How could you think—even for a moment—that I would do such a thing to
Teresa? You were the only brother I knew, Francisco.”

  Francisco had been nodding his head the entirety of Valentine’s speech. “All you say, it is true. But I knew how frightened for her you were. You had a better idea than I what her life would be like, and I knew that you would do anything to spare her the horrors that awaited her. You would rather see her dead.”

  “I did no kill Teresa, Francisco.”

  “I know that.”

  “Yes? And how did you come by this knowledge?”

  “Enrique told me on his deathbed. He had located her in Prague, you see. But he could no get to her. You had secured her in a place that a reprobate such as Enrique had become could no hope to reach her. He had no fortune, no title, no lands, no reputation. He was powerless.”

  “A deathbed confession, eh?” Valentine whispered. “Did you absolve him of his sins?”

  “It is Enrique we are speaking of. He was no looking for absolution,” Francisco almost spat. “He was charging me with finding you and exacting his revenge.”

  “Which you are doing now, yes?” Valentine said with a shrug.

  But Francisco ignored the question. “I did no believe him at first. A part of me—the part that had betrayed you—wanted it to be untrue. I went to Prague, to see with my own eyes. I found Teresa. And even before I spoke with her, I realized what a fool I had been. I understood at last what you had done. What you had sacrificed in order save her.” Francisco reached out a hand and gripped Valentine’s forearm. “And I am sorry that I was no there to help you. To help you both.”

  Valentine did not dare react to the hand on his forearm. He attributed it to his illness, but his composure was tenuous at the moment.

  Thankfully, Francisco continued. “I vowed from the moment I saw her—I vowed to her and to myself—that I would find you. And that I would make amends for my terrible betrayal. But then you vanished. Before, I would perhaps hear a tale or two about where you had been. Rumors. Stories. But that was two years ago. And then—” Francisco broke off.

  “Chastellet,” Valentine whispered.

  “Yes.” Francisco paused a moment. “I never believed it, no for a moment, and neither did Teresa. I knew that my only hope for redemption was to find you and help you.”