by Paul Butler
Easton and Henley talked of politics.
“The King,” Henley at one point proclaimed, “is in constant battle not only with the Scots but with Parliament, from which he demands money to wage his foolish wars.” Henley pressed his forefinger down so hard upon the table that the nail became red and the joint above it bloodless white. “It is madness, sir, madness,” he continued in a voice beginning to boom, “if he believes his war is a divine prerogative…if he believes he is doing the will of the Almighty, then would the Almighty not send him the means by which to pay for it?”
Henley looked around the table, giving a short laugh each time he caught one of his listener’s faces.
But Easton was pensive. “There is nothing wrong with the idea of divine grace, Captain,” he said languidly, fingering his goblet’s stem. “But in this particular case, the royal blood has been tainted by an effeteness and decadence that guarantees its failure. This King and the King’s father before him are the descendants of the whore the Scots called ‘Queen.’ Monarchs of England these days are sodomites and closet Catholics.”
Though his voice was soft, almost tender, the venom of his words took Fleet by surprise. Gabrielle too winced and then looked at Easton askance.
“Interesting, my lord,” Henley said. Then his pink face turned to Fleet. “And what does our young apothecary think?”
Fleet had been afraid of this. He knew he was too silent and that his silence might be read as disapproval. “I think that Parliament has more sympathy for the Scots than for the King,” he said quietly. “I think that now it is just a question of time. The King’s two enemies will converge and England will go up in flames.”
The table is silent for a moment.
“Well!” exclaimed Henley. “The young man is a veritable fount of wisdom!”
Fleet looked over to Easton, though he was not at first sure why. There he caught an expression he had not seen before—a slight smile, and eyes moist and fully engaged upon their subject. Easton seemed impressed.
Fleet felt a quickening in his pulse and a lightness in his chest.
Fleet now sits upon the edge of his bunk, holding the skull to his chest. A lighted candle on the floor throws an orange glow all over the bare walls. He feels like Guy Fawkes on bonfire night, surrounded by flame and the dancing shadows of imaginary taunters. The purse at his feet is ten sovereigns fatter already, and the gold peeps through its open mouth. He will have to store it all somewhere safe as it accumulates, he thinks. But it isn’t Easton’s gold that’s the problem.
He has fallen into the trap already, he realizes, the one about which he was most worried—he has allowed himself to care what Easton thinks of him. The feeling came unexpectedly, like a rising wind. It threatens to blow over every other concern the way a hurricane might flatten a grove of saplings. He must guard against it.
Laying the skull on his bunk, Fleet stands and makes his way, unsteadily, to the opposite side of the cabin where his stores are kept. The cabin sways a little, and Fleet has to lay his hand on the wall above the barrel on the left. A splinter catches in his palm, but he has drunk too much to feel discomfort. He leans over the barrel and pulls open the half-circle hatch at the top. The first thing that greets him is the curious smell—laurel leaves, mucus, and decay. There is a sound too, like a distant river, and he knows it is the creatures eating. He reaches into the barrel, and his fingers touch some cool laurel and the brittle surface of a shell. He bends, reaching lower until, finally, his hand comes into contact with the slimy surface of the barrel’s side. He presses his palm into the mucus then straightens himself, drawing out his hand.
He begins at the back of his neck, smearing the liquid onto the skin above his collar. Then he spreads it over his ears, forehead, and cheeks. He reaches into the barrel a second time, covering his palm again. He draws out his hand once more, and this time he covers his chin, mouth, nose, and the front of his neck. Finally he smears his dry hand all over with his wet one. Then he closes the barrel hatch. He will make the formula for his hair soon, he tells himself. Now he feels too tired.
Fleet stoops and picks up the candle from the floor. He makes his way back to his bunk and lies down upon it. He picks up the skull and blows out the candle flame.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dawn is almost here; the milky hue of the sky causes the stars to flicker and fade. We are sailing south toward the Channel; my cabin’s portholes face east and away from England. All night I have felt odd pulsations in my belly and brain. There is something growing inside me, waiting to be reborn. The masts have been creaking under the strain of the sails. For hours I have been holding back the urge to rush on deck and order the crew to tie up some of the canvas that has been slowing us down. The current is with us, but the winds swirl in every direction. Any experienced captain would have noticed this long ago. What do I think of this captain? I daren’t answer the question, even to myself.
My powers of decision are returning, and I can hardly believe I was so recently an invalid. There is a cord of sentiment uniting me still with that ailing creature who wept for the suffering of flies, but now my aching for the world has become focussed upon a single cause.
Sentiment is a luxury, I know. All the kindnesses and concern in creation are as nothing if you cannot impose your will upon the world; I found that out a very long time ago. Tenderness must lie only at the very core of a man, not in his extremities. I am here for sentiment’s sake, but until I reach my destination, I will remain a man of iron.
I think of Gabrielle. I play her soft voice in my mind and imagine the tender contours of her face and neck. Have I not sold her for guarantee of safe and swift passage? That’s what the reproach in her eyes seemed to tell me last night. Yet I have set her up well, and when she marries, I will dower her with some minor part of my fortune. The captain will no doubt retire as a gentleman; he was clearly not meant for the sea. Have I not then saved Gabrielle from a life of drudgery with some toiling farmer or brewer’s mate? Perhaps she does not understand yet that I am not selling her flesh; I am giving her as a lady, both honoured and dowered.
Now a glimmer of light appears on the horizon, kissing the distant waves.
I wonder at the pale young man, the apothecary. How penetrating were his eyes last night, how incisive his words when he chose to speak. It’s strange that such a fellow should be nestled in a London alley, dispensing cures. He defies the mould of common people in every respect. When offered gold in plenty to accompany me as physician, he seemed little more than indifferent. When given the chance to pay Gabrielle a compliment, he seemed distant and unmoved. No, it was more than that; he was aloof, as if beauty itself pained him. But there is something about the young man, a blend of hardness and integrity, that fascinates me.
I find myself thinking much about young people these days. Age bores and disgusts me. Youth makes me think of all that has escaped my grasp. I remember the child who eluded me thirty years ago. What are the chances he has survived all this time? My fingers tingle and I know the answer. I would not feel this pull back to Newfoundland if he were dead.
__________
IT IS APPROACHING NOON, BUT Gabrielle has not stepped from her cabin for fear of encountering the captain. Each creak and footstep beyond the door makes her neck stiffen and her heart race. Is this why I have private sleeping quarters? The question comes for the hundredth time since last night. Has the Marquis really traded me to play captain’s whore?
And yet the captain has not come, even though his lips were wet with lechery during last night’s dinner. She gazes through the porthole and watches the Channel’s grey water foam and ripple. Arching white cliffs, like natural fortresses, announce England’s southern coastline. The ship’s timbers groan and squeak, but there have been no difficulties that would require the captain’s constant attention. If she really had been traded, there is no reason why the captain would not have thrown himself upon her ages ago. No man yet created by heaven knows how to hold back for delic
acy’s sake.
She thinks again of their conversation at dinner, sees once more the captain’s pale eyes and the pink, damp skin of his forehead. If the Marquis appeared to encourage the captain, was this not just his old man’s view of gallantry? Were his smiles not perhaps flattery that the captain was taken with his servant? This possibility makes her suddenly feel lighter.
But why then was he pretending she was something more than his servant? And why does she have her own quarters? Gabrielle backs away from the window to her bed and sits. The whole thing seems less threatening now, but she still does not understand. The Marquis is satisfying some quirk of his nature, but to what purpose?
Gabrielle has been dimly aware that for some little while there has been a curious sound outside her door, as of someone shuffling their feet or perhaps walking in circles somewhere very close to her cabin. She ruled out the captain straightaway; the footfalls are far too soft for a large man. Now, wondering who it can be, she listens.
The sound ceases.
Quietly, she pushes herself off the bed and stands for a moment on the warm rug. The noise starts again—one shuffling footstep then a creaking sound. Whoever it is must be very close indeed to her door, perhaps even pressing up against it.
Gabrielle creeps along slowly. The boards beneath the carpet make next to no sound, and she hears no movement from the other side. When she is an arm’s length from the door, she braces herself and reaches toward the handle; she lets her fingertips rest on the cool iron, then she suddenly turns it. The door opens inward, and she hears a scurrying retreat down the corridor. She steps out quickly, just in time to see a grey-clad figure disappearing around the corner. She recognizes the dress and the clumsy gait. It was Philippa.
She listens to the uneven footsteps clomping up the three-step ladder, running along the passageway, then banging down the long staircase that leads to the servants’ quarters. Gabrielle takes a step back into her room and listens as the vibrations die away. How long was she waiting outside my cabin?
Gabrielle closes her cabin door and leans back against it. A sickly feeling swirls about her head. All those nights with Maria and Philippa, all that time pretending not to hear or care about their insults comes crashing like a wave upon her now. She was never indifferent, she realizes; she was just numbing herself because she had to. One day and one night alone and the promise of solitude have stripped away those layers of defence. Now she is as tender as a newly hatched chick.
Why is Philippa hanging around my door now? What does she hope to spy? She hardly dares think, but the answer comes unbidden in noises: the rhythmic creaking of a bed; the steady, repeating gasp of a lover. Why else would a servant have a single cabin? Why else would she be treated like a guest? Those questions she has asked herself, Philippa must be asking too.
Someone else’s footsteps approach the cabin now. They are steady, reassuring footsteps, not like Philippa, not like the captain either whose tread is heavy. There is a knock on the wood behind her. Gabrielle turns and opens the door. It is the young man who served them dinner last night. He holds a large wooden tray.
“I was asked by the captain to bring you some food and drink.”
Gabrielle smiles and backs off to let him in. The serving man crosses the room and places the tray upon the side table by the bed. There is white meat, bread, two small jugs, and a goblet. He bends to pour some wine from one jug, and some water from the other into the goblet.
“Thank you, but I am not a lady.”
The young man replaces the second jug on the tray. He looks at her quizzically.
“I am the same in status as Jacques, Philippa, and Maria—you know them?”
“Yes, lady.”
“So you can treat me no differently.”
Gabrielle notices that the young man’s eyes, which now fix on hers with transparent innocence, are exactly the same blue as his tunic.
“As you say, lady,” he says with a nod. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Gabrielle thinks of arguing with the man for a moment. He doesn’t believe her, it is obvious. But she gives up and smiles.
“No, thank you.”
The man nods again and leaves.
__________
FLEET EMPTIES THE POWDER into the cup and waits.
“Is my treatment to vary at all?” Easton asks.
“That depends, my lord,” Fleet replies, watching the powder soak. “This preparation seems to suit you very well. I have a large enough box of tricks, but a good practitioner knows when to keep things simple.
Clumps of wet moss power begin to fall, and froth appears around the edges. Fleet tips the mug from side to side, an action that mocks the sway of the cabin.
“How do you plan to amuse yourself on this voyage, Mr. Fleet?”
“I will work. I have experiments. I will perhaps examine the crew for signs of agues as yet unknown to me. Seamen develop strange rashes and growths. There are many odd humours that travel only by water. I hope to learn more about them. Here.” Fleet passes Easton the cup. Easton looks down at the frothing liquid, takes a deep breath then throws it back in one. He makes a disgusted noise and for a moment is motionless—his elbow crooked, his eyes closed, the back of his hand against his mouth. He looks like a statue of a warrior in battle, immortalized at the point of death. The cabin’s timbers groan as though also protesting the medicine.
“I can see much improvement in you, my lord, even in the last two days.” Fleet buckles up his sack then takes the cup from Easton’s hand. Easton grunts and wipes his mouth.
“You should have seen me before I started taking your physic,” he says hoarsely. “I was nearly paralyzed.”
“I am glad your girl found me.”
Easton looks up at Fleet.
“What do think of Gabrielle?”
Fleet hesitates and frowns.
“I think she is devoted to you, clearly,” he replies.
“No,” Easton says. “What do you think of her?”
Fleet throws the sack over his shoulder. “A lady of unquestioned character,” he says. He pauses for a moment, then he decides to say it. “She seemed somewhat distracted last night at dinner. Was she perhaps confused about her status on board the ship?”
Easton sighs and shakes his head.
“She is too good for him,” he mumbles.
“Excuse me?”
“What do you think of our captain, Mr. Fleet?”
“I have no measure by which to judge such things, my lord. I could not tell a great captain from a novice—”
“—I meant, as a man, what do you think of him?”
Fleet finds himself smiling. Why is he asking me? There is a rush of pleasure too, and he reminds himself to be wary.
“A man of quality, I am sure.”
Easton stares up at Fleet, his eyes narrowing. “A buffoon, sir!” he bellows. “And you know it!”
Fleet raises his eyebrows then glances at the floor.
“I am not sure I can cope with too many days or weeks on board the ship of such a man,” says Easton, stroking the arm of his chair and searching his cabin with his eyes.
“But…,” Fleet mumbles, “but…what choice do you have?”
Easton glares at him again, but the anger in his eyes, Fleet knows, is for the captain not for him.
“There is always a choice, Mr. Fleet.”
Fleet frowns and says nothing.
Easton sighs and shifts in his chair.
“In any case, I’m not sure I can let him have Gabrielle, after all.”
“Have her?” Fleet echoes quietly.
“Henley is looking for a wife. I was going to provide her with a dowry.”
“Oh,” Fleet says, allowing his surprise to show.
Easton looks up at him. “What did you think I was proposing?”
Fleet shrugs and finds himself colouring.
“This age makes me despair, Mr. Fleet. Where is your chivalry, your sense of honour, that you could even
think such a thing?”
He sighs and continues staring at Fleet as though bitterly disappointed. “Well, sir,” he exclaims suddenly, slapping the arms of his chair. “I need to pay you.” With a little effort, Easton gets up and goes to a panel in his cabin wall. He kneels, slides the panel open and pulls out a strongbox. He takes a key from his belt, turns it in the lock and opens the lid. He bends over, counting the coins into one hand, then he closes the strongbox, locks it again and places it back inside the wall. He slides closed the panel and stands.
“My friend,” he says, his voice much softer. “You can see that I trust you.” He walks over to Fleet. Fleet puts out his hand, and Easton drops the sovereigns into his palm one by one. “Even though your physic has made a thousand things possible that were out of the question before, I am not as I once was. I need you on my side.”
Easton’s dark eyes look into Fleet’s, and Fleet feels as though he is tipping into an abyss. Every ounce of his former resolution is in imminent danger.
Fleet lies on his bunk and stares at the candle-lit ceiling. The captain is entertaining his officers tonight, so he has been spared another evening like the last. An hour ago the young man in the blue tunic brought him a generous meal of carved meat, cheese, and shining apples. He has eaten but little of this; he has spent his time reliving his conversation with Easton, trying to place the precise moment when his shield gave way.
Was it when Easton first confided in him, asking his opinion of the captain? He remembers how it washed over him like a stream of pleasure, making his senses tingle. But he was aware of the danger and marshalled his defences accordingly.
Then came Easton’s disapproval. “What did you think I was proposing?” he said.
In that instant Fleet’s willpower wavered like a rope-walker at the Southwark Fair. He wanted to regain that which was forfeit. Let the pirate be disappointed with you, you fool! He tried to correct himself. And he would have been able to, had Easton not changed again, calling him “friend” and telling him he was trusted.