Twilight of a Queen

by Carroll, Susan

  He stalked closer, placing a cautioning hand on Pietro’s arm. “Just remember, we are not out to settle old scores. If these men surrender, I don’t intend for this to be a bloodbath. So keep your temper in check, my friend. We don’t want to horrify the good father here by behaving like—”

  “Pirates?” Pietro cut in.

  “I was going to say Spaniards.”

  Pietro bared his teeth in a grin. “I will answer for my temper, Captain. You just look to your own.”

  Something whistled through the air, a pistol ball splintering the wood of the mizzen mast. The San Felipe must possess at least one marksman or else someone had got off a lucky shot, coming close to putting a bullet through Father Bernard. The fool blinked, slow to comprehend his narrow escape.

  Xavier gave the priest a rough shove. “Damn it! Get below. Now.”

  The two ships were close enough for the grappling hooks to find purchase. The shouts, smoke, and chaos of battle intensified as Xavier drew his sword and led his men in a charge, scrambling over the side of the San Felipe.

  The Spanish crew was easily overwhelmed between their terror of Xavier’s reputation and the ferocity of his men. Even young Dominique gave a good account of himself. The boy held his own against a much larger opponent when the captain of the Spanish ship came up behind him. Before Xavier could roar out a warning, the captain discharged his weapon straight into the boy’s back. Dominique’s eyes flew wide, crimson blossoming on his white shirt as the boy crumpled to the deck.

  Bellowing with rage, Xavier cut down Dominique’s opponent and then rounded upon the Spanish captain. Their swords came together in a clatter and spark of steel. The Spaniard was a small dapper man, deft with his weapon, but Xavier beat him back with the sheer fury of his rage.

  The sounds of battle, the scent of blood, the Spanish accents triggered in Xavier hot flashes of memory. The smoking ruins of the French settlement, the charred remains of the bodies, men, women, and children. The chains chafing Xavier’s wrists raw. Arms aching from being bound to the bench of the galley, the stifling sense of being buried alive, the sting of the lash against his skin.

  He barely noticed the Spanish captain’s sword flying from his hand and sliding across the deck. The man’s bearded features were a blur as he sank to his knees. Xavier raised his sword to deliver the death blow, but was prevented by strong rough hands seizing his arm.

  Snarling, Xavier fought to shrug free of the grip. Pietro’s face swam before him, the Cimmarone’s cool accents penetrating the haze of his anger.

  “Captain! The ship is ours and that man has surrendered.”

  Blinking, Xavier saw the Spanish captain cowering at his feet, his trembling hand upraised in a gesture that was part protective, part plea. Xavier flushed, feeling suddenly sick and ashamed, but he saw nothing but understanding in Pietro’s dark eyes.

  Catching his breath, Xavier staggered to the deck rail until he managed to regain control.

  Gazing around, he saw the truth of Pietro’s words. The ship was indeed theirs. The Spanish crew had tossed down their weapons, their posture as abject as their captain’s.

  As Xavier regained his icy control, he took stock of his own men. He had lost but two. One was already dead and the life was swiftly ebbing from Dominique.

  That idiot priest had disobeyed Xavier’s orders and come over to the Spanish ship. Father Bernard knelt over Dominique, attempting to take the boy’s final confession and administer the last rites. But the boy had nothing to confess except those sins he had been led into by sailing with Xavier.

  Hunkering down, Xavier thrust the priest aside. Dominique clutched at Xavier’s hand, the boy’s pale face contorted with pain.

  “S-sorry about the flag, Captain.”

  “No matter, lad. We won. Your share of the cargo will make you a wealthy man.”

  “Gold? There—there was gold?”

  Xavier had no idea what was in the hold of the ship, but he nodded.

  Dominique tried to smile, ended up coughing blood. His grip on Xavier’s hand slackened, but he sought Xavier’s eyes with anxious desperation.

  “M-mother … sister.”

  The boy could scarce get out the words, but Xavier understood the reassurance Dominique sought. He pressed the boy’s hand.

  “You need not worry. I shall travel to St. Malo myself and see that they are looked after. I swear they shall not want for anything while I—”

  Xavier faltered, doubting that Dominique had heard his promise. The boy’s hand went limp, his eyes empty. Xavier felt for a pulse and realized Dominique was gone.

  Xavier knelt by him for a moment. How old had the boy been? Twelve? Thirteen? Xavier was hard-pressed to recall that he had been even younger than that when he had first followed his father to sea.

  As Dominique’s captain, Xavier supposed he ought to murmur some words over the boy. If he had been a praying man, he would have done so, but it had been a long time since he had any faith in a god. So long he couldn’t even remember.

  Releasing Dominique’s hand, he stood up, leaving Father Bernard to close the boy’s eyes and make the sign of the cross over him.

  As Xavier stalked toward the Spanish captain, the defeated man had regained his feet and was trying to recover his dignity. He flinched as Xavier bore down upon him, but managed to announce in a shaky voice, “I am Capitan Miguel Antonio Sebastian de Lopez.”

  Xavier sneered. “What a great deal of name for such a little man.”

  “I must protest your unwarranted attack upon my ship, señor. This is an outrage.”

  “Yes, it is.” Xavier gestured toward Dominique. “Is this your notion of honor, to shoot a boy in the back?”

  “No honor is required when dealing with pirates.”

  “How convenient. I am always astonished at how many codicils there are to the Spanish code of honor.”

  The little man bristled. “Am I to be criticized by a French brigand with no honor at all? I suppose besides robbing me, you mean to slaughter all of my crew.”

  “You and your men are my prisoners. Everyone shall be treated well enough. Except you, perhaps; I ought to hang you from the yardarm for murder.”

  Captain Lopez blanched at the threat. Overhearing it, Father Bernard emitted a faint cry of protest. Ignoring them both, Xavier strode away, snapping out orders for the transferral of the prisoners and the cargo to the Miribelle.

  The cargo proved to be a modest cache of silver and a load of brazilwood, not the treasure trove of gold that his crew always hoped for, but the wood would fetch a decent price back in the markets of Europe. Xavier ransacked the captain’s cabin for the kind of treasure that mattered most to him.

  With so much vast unknown territory opening up, maps were frequently inadequate. Xavier had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge of seas he had never sailed, lands he had never seen. As he gathered up what charts, journals and letters he could find, he heard the stump of Jambe’s wooden leg as his first mate came to report.

  “Last of the cargo’s nearly moved, Captain.”

  “Good. As soon as everything is secure aboard the Miribelle, set the San Felipe adrift.”

  “Seems a great waste.”

  “No doubt it is, but we don’t have enough crew to man her.”

  Perhaps he might have had, if he could have persuaded that French witch to have properly funded his voyage instead of—But Xavier checked the thought. There was little profit in continuing to fume over that.

  Jambe scratched his scraggly beard and frowned. “Beg pardon, Captain, but perhaps instead of foundering this ship, we ought to set the Miribelle adrift. This here is a sound vessel, more seaworthy than ours.”

  Xavier hesitated, knowing the old sea dog was right. The Miribelle had seen years of hard wear, the last of the small fleet his father had sailed out of France. Xavier himself questioned how well the ship would survive another violent storm. But the thought of scuttling the Miribelle tightened a queer knot in his chest.

&n
bsp; He shook his head. “The San Felipe is like too many Spanish vessels, designed on heavy, awkward lines. I agree we need to replace the Miribelle, but I won’t be abandoning our lady for a lumbering hulk like this.”

  “And what of all these Spaniards you’ve taken prisoner?” Jambe demanded. “What’s to be done with them if we sink their ship?”

  “I am sure I will think of something,” Xavier replied with a thin smile.

  XAVIER KEPT THE SPANISH IN SUSPENSE AS TO THEIR FATE FOR the next two days and had to admit he took a shameful pleasure in doing so. Perhaps he was becoming too much like the jungle cat he’d been named for, toying with his prey. He quieted his conscience with the thought that his was a mild form of cruelty compared to what the Spanish captain would have done to Xavier and his men if the situation had been reversed.

  The limited amount of stores aboard his ship did not allow him to continue the torment for long. By the third morning, he arranged to have the prisoners set ashore on a secluded cove of the peninsula La Florida.

  Xavier went with the landing party himself and pointed Captain Lopez in the right direction. “A day or two’s march that way will bring you to a Spanish settlement. You’ll find enough water and forage to sustain you en route.”

  As Lopez opened his lips to speak, Xavier cut him off. “There is not the slightest need to thank me for my generosity, captain.”

  “G-generosity!”

  The little man choked on his indignation. Since realizing he was to be spared, the Spanish captain had recovered much of his bravado.

  He glared at Xavier. “You have made a great enemy on behalf of your country.”

  “You are mistaken, señor,” Xavier replied smoothly. “I have no country.”

  “Pah! Don’t think to fool me. You are a Frenchman, as lawless and arrogant a corsair as any of these English pirates who have also been preying upon Spanish shipping. Well, the English shall be the first to pay for their insolence. They and their heretic queen, Elizabeth. Philip, his most noble Catholic majesty of Spain will—”

  Lopez broke off abruptly, looking so comical in his dismay over what he’d let slip, that Xavier laughed.

  “Don’t distress yourself, señor. You have not spilled any great secret. Even here at the ends of the earth, we have heard the rumors of Spain’s great enterprise, the vast armada being assembled in Madrid, your king’s hope of invading England.”

  “Not a hope, señor. It will soon be a reality. And when King Philip has dealt with the English dogs, he will turn his attention to punishing insolent Frenchmen like yourself.”

  “I shall await His Majesty’s coming all atremble. From palsy belike. I shall be an old man by then.”

  “You will never live to be old, señor,” Lopez snarled.

  “I daresay you are right. But this conversation waxes tedious, and you have a long walk ahead of you.” Xavier sketched a mocking bow, then turned and headed back toward the waiting boats.

  Lopez bristled, but rounded up his men. As they marched up the beach, Xavier could still hear the Spanish captain grousing. “His most Catholic Majesty shall hear of this iniquity. I vow he will.”

  As he clambered into the pinnace, Xavier could not resist getting in the last word. He called out, “I shall send a message to King Philip on your behalf. I will likely be in a better position to do so than you. I expect to be anchored off St. Malo six weeks hence.”

  Chapter Five

  XAVIER’S PREDICTION PROVED OPTIMISTIC. THE CROSSING of the Atlantic was smooth and uneventful but the Miribelle was yet some twenty leagues from the French coast when the ship was beset by something seamen dreaded worse than a storm. A dead calm, not a breath of air stirring. The Miribelle’s sails hung limp for days, the ship as motionless as if she had been riding at anchor.

  Xavier chafed with frustration, finding it maddening to be stayed this close to the end of his journey. But he knew it could be worse. He’d once been stranded at sea so long, he and his crew had been reduced to eating boiled leather. At least their stores were likely to hold out, although there was much grumbling among the men when Xavier reduced the rum ration.

  Idle sea dogs were rife for mischief, but Xavier trusted to his redoubtable first mate to keep the crew busy enough they did not end up at each other’s throats.

  Struggling to curb his own restlessness, Xavier retreated to his cabin, a narrow berth that scarce allowed him headroom to stand upright. The furnishings were sparse, his bunk, a small desk, his sea chest, and the wooden cage he had battened to the wall to accommodate that infernal parrot. Beyond the bars, Sea Beggar gave him the beady eye and set up a loud squawk.

  “Damn your eyes! Damn your eyes!”

  “The feeling’s mutual,” Xavier muttered. When Sea Beggar continued to shrill at him, Xavier flung his cloak over the parrot’s cage to silence the creature. Settling behind his desk, he updated his ship’s journal and then pored over the charts he had taken from the San Felipe.

  The maps proved mighty disappointing. Xavier had hoped for some detailed etching of the straits of Panama and what lay beyond, perhaps even a hint of a route to that fabled land Marco Polo had once written of, a place that the explorer referred to only as Beach.

  But the voyages of the San Felipe had been unremarkable, the Spanish vessel charting no land that Xavier had not seen for himself. The letters that Xavier had taken from Captain Lopez’s cabin proved of greater interest. One of these was written in code that intrigued Xavier enough to attempt to crack it, if for no other reason than that it afforded him entertainment during these days of enforced idleness.

  Much to his satisfaction, he finally succeeded in unraveling the cipher. The missive was from one of the recently appointed governors of La Florida to the Duke of Medina Sidonia.

  The governor began by congratulating his old friend, Medina Sidonia, on his appointment as admiral of the armada. The letter went on to explain how the cargo being transported by the San Felipe was destined to line the purse of a powerful French nobleman, François, the duke of Guise.

  … Monsieur le duc is a devout Catholic and most eager to help His Majesty in his quest to crush the heretic English and their queen. If only we could likewise count upon the support of the French king, but Henry Valois is a most erratic man. Indeed many say he is mad. In the past he has been far too lenient with Protestants in his own country. It is feared that Henry might take the notion to come to the aid of Elizabeth, something that must be prevented.

  His mother, the Dowager Queen Catherine, professes friendship to Spain, but we all know the Italian witch is not to be trusted. I have heard that her health is failing and she no longer possesses the power and influence she once did. Myself, I cannot believe it. I fear we shall have no peace from the intrigues of that Machiavellian woman until she is in her grave.

  Spain’s only hope for alliance in France lies with the duke of Guise. The duke has pledged himself to create a diversion that will prevent the French king from sending military aid to England even should he wish to do so.

  A diversion? Xavier frowned. What the devil did that mean? Guise’s actions struck him as outrageous. It was surely treason to do the bidding of the king of Spain, taking bribes from a country that was France’s most ancient enemy.

  But Xavier did not see what he could do to prevent it, even if he was inclined to bestir himself. During his sojourn in Paris, he had had a brief glimpse into the political intrigue and religious strife poisoning the court of Catherine de Medici and her half-mad son. Xavier had been glad enough to sail away and leave it all behind him.

  The letter made it sound as though the launch of the armada was imminent, perhaps as early as this spring. Xavier supposed he might make some effort to see that this letter fell into English hands, perhaps those of Sir Francis Drake.

  He had once sailed with Drake for the span of a year. Indeed he owed both his life and his freedom to Sir Francis and Xavier hated to be in anyone’s debt. But the letter was so vague, Xavier did not see what use i
t could be to Drake or anyone else.

  While he debated the matter, he was annoyed by the appearance of Father Bernard. The young priest peered into the cabin, regarding Xavier with a wistful expression.

  Father Bernard usually busied himself attempting to provide spiritual succor to the men and many actually welcomed it, the only reason Xavier allowed the man to remain on board.

  But he had developed an irritating habit of hovering near Xavier, as though he hoped to become his father confessor as well. Xavier had no use for a confessor and even less for anyone attempting to enact a fatherly role, especially a man younger than he by several years in age and a lifetime in experience.

  When Xavier ignored him, Father Bernard cleared his throat. “I—I hope I do not disturb you, Captain.”

  “Yes, you do,” Xavier said, without looking up from the papers sprawled across his desk.

  His curtness did not discourage the man. It never did. Father Bernard shuffled his feet and tried again.

  “I just thought you might want to know the wind has not yet picked up.”

  “Truly? You astonish me.”

  “Do you think it likely to do so soon?”

  “I have no idea. Second sight is not one of the gifts I acquired when I sold my soul to the devil. However, I do possess enough knowledge of the dark arts—I might attempt to conjure up a modest breeze for you.”

  Father Bernard gave an uneasy laugh as though he thought Xavier was jesting. Or he hoped he was.

  “I prefer to rely upon my prayers, Captain. I have earnestly beseeched the good Lord to send us a wind and I have every confidence he will do so soon.”

  “Far more likely he’ll send us a typhoon. In my experience, your god seems possessed of a devilish sense of humor.”

  If Father Bernard was shocked by Xavier’s blasphemy, he gave no sign of it. He said, “It occurs to me that our voyage will be over soon and we have never really had a chance to talk.”

  “No? Well, I am a man of few words, Father.”

  And most of those were curses. Xavier bit back the urge to swear as Father Bernard perched unbidden upon the edge of the bunk, looking like a man settling in for a long prose.