The Maid and The Cook

by Eris Adderly

  There. That should settle this. Brigit had already told him her father had snatched up the coin for her service to the widow. She’d come aboard with nothing. He lifted his mug and took in a mouthful of weak ale.

  “Mr Bone’s purse has yet to be opened,” the maid said. “He can meet my share.”

  John sputtered, choking back the drink so as not to lose most of it down the front of his shirt.

  “Picked up a wife in Bristol and you didn’t even know it, did you Bone?” Reeve put in from the far side of the group. “Three days in and you’re already parting ways with your fortune!”

  This brought further convulsions of snickering from all around, but the maid was still the eye of the storm.

  “Three out of four into the mast,” she said to Osbourne, “same as Mr Hawke, and double his purse if I do.” The man was agog, and then folded in half with great peals of laughter.

  “Double his purse!”

  Double? Is she mad?

  “Hellfire, I’ll give double my purse if she lands one,” Platt grumbled from his seat as he swished his drink around in its cup.

  Thank God he’d brought only a token purse above decks tonight, and left the bulk of his coin locked up in the galley. He sighed and shook the leather bag in the air, clinking the coins together for his answer.

  “Do we have a wager, Mr Osbourne?” she asked.

  The navigator assessed the maid with a cunning smile and a downward tip of his chin. “All right, Mrs O’Creagh. We do.” He handed the knives to her like Old Nick making a deal and flashed a set of teeth in her direction. “I’ll even let you throw against my earlier set, so I’ve no chance for the full four.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” she said, reaching for the blades. John saw her grip fumble, and two of the knives spilled from her grasp to the deck with a dull thud. She hopped back with a curse to get her feet out of the way of the falling steel points. The navigator bubbled with laughter.

  “Would you like a practice throw or two, Mrs O’Creagh?” he asked her, knowing indulgence dripping from his words. “Courtesy for a lady, of course.”

  The crew conveyed their loud amusement at this as Brigit bent to retrieve the two dropped knives. She turned her face back to him then and, hidden by her skirts and meant only for him to see, her fingers took up one of the blades with a nimble flourish. Amid the cackling and howling of the crew she gave him wink that all but curled his whiskers before standing again with the four knives in hand.

  Do you trust me, John Bone?

  He grunted to himself.

  What’s her game?

  “I imagine that’s wise,” she said to Osbourne, accepting his offer. “Two for practice then?”

  The navigator nodded with a smile and stepped out of her way, and she moved to stand behind the line.

  A knife was in her hand and she brought it back over her shoulder, a look of fierce concentration on her face. Brigit stepped forward and the blade flew.

  It wobbled across the distance in a clumsy arc and glanced from the right side of the mast, hitting the deck on its flat side and spinning a few feet farther away. John’s instinct told him to bury his face in his hands, but that scorching wink she’d sent his way made him keep his eyes open in morbid curiosity.

  Brigit shook her head and made a noise of displeasure, taking up another blade for her second throw.

  This one sailed with more force, but still with a similar lack of form.

  Thock.

  It bit into the wood, though, if just barely, and low. Perhaps at waist height. She screwed up her face at the result and walked the gauntlet of smirking men to retrieve the steel from the target herself, slipping past to gather up the blade that had flown wide, as well.

  Furious wagering was going on now all around them as the maid returned to the line, hands fidgeting with the bundle of knife handles once she stood there. John was fussing as well, with the tin rose and bull charms at the ends of his braids.

  Come on, girl. These men will eat ye alive.

  “Shall we let her stand on the near side of the line, lads, so she’ll have a fighting chance?” Osbourne was playing to the crowd, ever the gamesman.

  The maid already stood behind the line, as the men had, but she narrowed her eyes now at the man needling her and took a step backwards.

  “Oohh!” More cries went up from the men. She stepped back again.

  And again.

  A low whistle went up and now hushed voices rippled around the circle. John was still and tense in his seat, arms folded over his chest.

  “She can’t be serious,” Winters said, leaning in for a hoarse aside to the carpenter. Ellis George shrugged and shook his head.

  This had better be worth it, pretty girl.

  Every eye was on the cook’s new mate as she tucked three of the knives halfway into the waistband of her apron, while keeping one in hand. The navigator stood off to the side, opposite John, with a smug grin.

  “Are you ready, Mrs O’Creagh?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” she said, fingering the point of the blade in a considering manner.

  John realised he was holding his breath.

  Beneath layers of skirts and petticoats, it was harder to judge her stance, but as her hand came back to her ear he saw she held the knife by the blade instead of the handle, unlike her opponent.

  Is … is she …?

  The plump curves of the body he’d been crushing and squeezing with greed these last three days moved forward in a sleek momentum now, and it was at that moment John Bone knew the navigator was well and properly buggered.

  It was quick and graceful, the merciful taking of a life in battle. Her movements came in the same pattern as Osbourne’s had, only more fluid, more precise. A song of flying steel to the braying of an ass.

  The first knife no sooner left her fingers than the second was flashing in her hand, following the same, clearly practised arc.

  Thock. Thock.

  Holy Hell!

  She had the third one palmed before he even had time to tear his eyes away from the first pair planted stiffly in the mast. The final blade glittered past her cheek and was gone, following the straight path of her outstretched arm upon release.

  THOCK!

  A man could have heard a rat sneeze.

  There they were: one, two, three. The knives made a neat line down the mast, one beneath the other, several inches apart each, and handles straight out, as though she’d walked up and jammed them into the wood on a mark.

  “I believe I needed only three of the four, Mr Osbourne?” Her tone was casual, but the barest hint of satisfaction was rolling in at the edges. The navigator had stuck three in the mast as well, but his had been at all angles and here and about, not in an impossibly clean row.

  A riot nearly erupted on the deck. Howls of disbelief from sailors who’d lost coin, and barking, wailing laughter from those who hadn’t. The navigator could do no more than stand there with his mouth open, staring at the tidy array of blades. The row from the group was enough that John was surprised the quartermaster didn’t come storming out to lay into them about it.

  His face was in pain, and he realised it was from the size of his grin. She looked back at him over her shoulder and gave a cheeky toss of her head to go with the mischievous smirk on her lovely mouth.

  “Where’s the fourth one?” Hawke piped up over the din.

  It was true, no one had seen her throw the last blade.

  “That’s probably the one she missed,” said the cranky Platt, who’d just bet and lost his purse twice.

  John saw the gleam of metal plucked from her apron when it was already too late.

  Thock!

  The final blade flew and stuck, pinning the end of the red sash Platt wore at his waist to the front of the crate where he sat, inches from his pride, jutting from the wood in a plain statement.

  “I don’t miss, Mr Platt.”

  The cook swelled with pride.

  At this there was more h
ooting from the men, and some of them even stepped in to thump Brigit on the shoulder as though she were one of the crew. He levered himself up from his seat and got his stiff leg under him to move in her direction, not sure if he approved of other men touching her, even in this way.

  Platt glowered down at the knife once he’d started his heart beating again, and yanked it out of the wood with a snort of disgust. He handed it off to the still dumbfounded Osbourne and shook his head, standing and stretching. John could tell he was ready to find his hammock.

  “Christ, man!” Simon Grey put in, gesturing at Brigit, “Don’t let this one near the flats and sharps when she’s in a mood!”

  John arrived behind her and she felt his presence, stepping back to put her back at his chest and let his arms come around her.

  “You’ll want to collect from Mr Osbourne, John,” she said turning her face up and tugging him down by the braids of his beard for a bold kiss.

  At that moment, he wanted to collect from her.

  Brigit O’Creagh felt right in his arms. She had a filthy mouth. And apparently she was dangerous.

  I think I’m in love.

  “Where the devil did ye learn to throw like that?” he asked, chuckling as they broke apart from their kiss.

  “My da’s friends,” she said into the side of his neck, “Mum would send me to fetch him, but he’d be full as a goat half the time when I got to the pub, and passed out, and I’d game with his mates until he woke up. Or I’d win enough coin to pay one of them to help me cart him home.”

  “Ye certainly ‘had a game’ with Osbourne, pretty girl,” he said, moving his hands lower to squeeze her at the hips. Men were milling about now; the gathering had that tentative feeling where people suggested the hour and stifled yawns.

  She wriggled her backside against him and gave a satisfied little humph. “That man pisses more than he drinks,” she said, “It’s easy to boast when you’re not accustomed to losing.”

  The man in question was approaching them now, and Brigit untangled herself from his arms to step to the side.

  “Here, you old sea-crab.” The navigator dangled a purse at him from between two fingers, wearing a lopsided smile. “I should have known you were up to something.”

  “I wasn’t up to anything, Osbourne,” he said, as he took the full purse and transferred its coin to his own, handing back the empty bag. “If I knew she could handle a knife like that, ye think I would have handed her one on her first hour in my kitchen and told her to peel potatoes?”

  “Or tried to stand there and steal kisses all the while?” she asked, poking him in the ribs.

  “Hah!” the blond man barked, pocketing the purse, “Well I shall know to think twice when you’re eager to wager in the future, Mrs O’Creagh. I’m sure Mr Bone will be on his toes, as well.”

  “Aye, all five of them,” John said, thumping his peg on the deck.

  Osbourne wandered away shaking his head and John took the opportunity to press the small bag of coin into Brigit’s palm.

  “Ye earned it, pretty girl,” he said still wearing a disbelieving smile.

  “No need for all that, Mr Bone,” she said, folding the prize back into his grip. “What would I spend it on, any way? I only made the bet to see the look on Mr Osbourne’s face.” Her soft smile turned mischievous now. “And maybe yours, a bit.”

  “But ye could go anywhere,” he said, his conscience making him speak out against his selfish desires, “once we make port. Buy passage back home. Or to the colonies, if ye like.”

  She’d stepped close during his half-hearted suggestions and those green eyes looking up were yanking at things in his chest.

  “I don’t know that I want to go anywhere else, Mr Bone.” Her voice was low, lips slightly parted. He swallowed. Had there been a point in his life where he’d stopped to decide whether he had a firm opinion on the existence of witchcraft?

  The spell was broken, however, by the gunner, who had climbed up to stand on one of the crates, mug in hand.

  “Let’s raise our drinks, men, before we head below for the night!”

  There were nods and calls of approval, and men took up cups all around. Brigit slipped behind him and retrieved his own mug from beside the crate where he’d left it, handing it back to him in time for the toasts.

  That was kind; to save me the walk back.

  He pulled her to his side again with an arm at her waist, loathe to stand there and not touch her. She slid her fingers over the top of his, a silent approval of his gesture.

  “First,” Grey began from atop the crate, “to Edmund Blackburn! The captain chooses our battles well and keeps our purses full! A man could never want to sail on a finer ship than The Devil’s Luck!”

  “To the captain!” Drinks rose, tilted back.

  “And then, to Benjamin Till! Other quartermasters might forbid gaming on their ships, but not ours! And for that we’ve had a fine time of it tonight!”

  “To Mr Till!” They drank again, and he planted a noisy smack with his lips at Brigit’s temple, though she seemed content to watch without drinking herself.

  “To Hezekiah!” the gunner said, gesturing at the bosun with his mug, “Without sails and line we’d get bloody nowhere, and since that’s where we’ve all come from, I’m sure none of you louts are interested in going back!”

  More laughter and drinking. “To Hezekiah!”

  “To William Osbourne! He’s taken the bother to learn numbers and the use of a back staff, so the rest of us will never have to. And he pulls a fantastic face when a young woman bests him at knives!”

  The crew roared at this, and the navigator shook his head. “To Mr Osbourne!”

  “To Henry Adams! May the cooper keep all the barrels water-tight, lest they drain and we all have to take our turns inside!”

  John nearly lost his drink at that one. He glanced at the maid, but she seemed unaware. The cooper’s considerable gut wobbled with coughing laughter, and Winters had to slap him on the back.

  “To Mr Adams!

  Grey gestured at the carpenter, next. “To Ellis George, who keeps our fine ship in fine shape. Never did I know a man who could so well work the wood.”

  “To Mr George!”

  The carpenter smirked and made a rude gesture at Mr Grey, and Winters turned a conspicuous shade of red.

  “To Simon Grey!” the gunner said, and winked down at Brigit, “That’s me, lass.” She shook her head, and gave the man a roll of her eyes. “The ships don’t raise a white flag, but they’ve had the count of our guns. And you should all be honoured to sail aboard the ship what sports the longest gun on the Atlantic, my friends!” The gunner made a lewd grab at the front of his breeches to groans and jeers from half the men, though they laughed any way.

  “Christ, Grey,” John muttered as he repeated the gunner’s name, raising his mug with the rest, but not drinking as it was now emptied. The maid only giggled.

  “To John Bone!” he called out. Brigit looked up at him, smiling. “Without this great, bald bastard, we’d all starve before we made it to Nassau!”

  “To Mr Bone!” The toast was hearty and eyes were on him. The maid nudged at him with her hip.

  “And last,” Grey said, “to Brigit O’Creagh! Without her, the cook would starve before we made it to Nassau, and we can’t have that!”

  The men lost their minds at this, and to John’s surprise, Brigit was laughing as well. He felt her arm move ‘round his waist and then she had a handful of his backside.

  “To Mrs O’Creagh!”

  The sailors drank but, as John’s mug was drained, he turned to the young woman in his arms. The woman who swore, who threw knives, who fetched his drink to save him pain. Those green eyes were full of warmth, and the smile, the dimples … The cook was unmanned. He kissed her. Thoroughly.

  We’ve sailed off the edge of the map now, John Bone. We have, indeed.

  * * * *

  Brigit woke with a sudden intake of breath, her heart in her
chest, right hand gripping the edge of the narrow berth where she laid on her side. Her cheeks were hot, as though she’d been crying, but there were no tears.

  She let the air take its slow leave of her lungs as her growing familiarity with the surrounding hold came settling in around her like an embrace. It must have been some time in the wee hours of morning. The oil lamp burned on the wall near the stair, as it should. Sailors snored in their gently rocking hammocks, as they should. And a heavy, comforting arm lay draped across her waist.

  As it should.

  Wide awake now, and blinking into the dim light, Brigit furrowed her brow at the sense of … awfulness that had wrenched her out of her dream. Something foul, sullied, which could never be washed clean. The memories of any part of it that made sense were already dissipating beyond her ability to grasp at them and form anything coherent.

  There had been cannon fire, wood splintering. She’d stood at the gunwale of a ship, wearing breeches like a man, saying something weary to a young woman she’d never met. And then there had been a man. It was this image that had rattled her awake.

  Brigit didn’t know his face, but yet she did. His mouth had been wide in some silent scream, and a blade was buried deep in his right eye socket. Another was lodged in his moving throat, and a third stuck out from his chest. There was blood, and a great lot of it. And, in her dream, Brigit knew she had put those blades there herself.

  Take a deep breath, you’re awake now girl.

  She calmed herself again, and sniffled, louder than she might have liked. There had been knife throwing tonight, and her carrying on with a group of men, so why shouldn’t she dream of such things? The true rub was that now she was wide awake, and unlikely to fall asleep again any time soon.

  She shifted her hips and pointed her feet straight down in a carefully controlled stretch, trying to relax again and invite drowsiness.

  A male thigh moved against the back of her leg, and the cook’s forearm tightened around her. He stirred, making some low, nearly inaudible noise with his face in her hair, and she burrowed her body back into his, enjoying the movements and sounds of the man in his sleep.