The Red King

  “Not now, Etienne!” Rory warned, extending the lead and peering through it.

  The vessel was dead ahead, tacking to catch the wind and cut them off from the starboard side. “Hellfire,” Rory swore.

  Quiet tension returned to the deck. Ortega’s crew were efficiently preparing for battle; readying breeches for the small swivel cannons on the gunnel, preparing themselves for boarding. They did it without speaking at a pace that stunned Rory. This was well-trained seamanship, and he was vastly impressed. The only voice on the deck now belonged to one of his own. It sounded very out of place.

  “Yousef!” he called, distracting the man from tormenting Andrew with threats to his barely fastened britches.

  “Aye, Captain!” Yousef bounded up the steps and faced Rory, at attention.

  “Take this aloft, tell us what we face,” Rory ordered, handing him the spyglass.

  “Aye!” Grinning, Yousef tucked the glass firmly in his belt and ran to the shrouds. Ducking around Ortega’s men, he leapt up to catch the rigging high and pulled himself around to continue up the outside. He scaled to the top with ease, threw his arm over the yard, and extended the lead with his teeth.

  “I’ll wager my man can say who comes for us, first,” Ortega offered beside him.

  “I’ll take that wager. Pounds or dukaats?” Rory’s eyes sought and found the jack who dangled at the top of the foremast.

  “Bah! To hell with petty denominations,” Ortega said, disdainfully. “Twenty gold pieces.”

  Rory considered, cast his glance down to where Andrew and Malik were standing close, watching him. His mouth curled up on one side and he turned. “Your chair.”

  Ortega opened his mouth, the agreement ready on his lips, but stopped. “My chair?”

  Raising his brows, Rory waited.

  “That chair is worth far more than twenty gold pieces,” Ortega said, folding his arms across his chest.

  “So raise your wager.”

  “All right, one hundred gold pieces or my chair,” Ortega agreed. They shook hands. “Though where you’ll put it on that tender you head is well beyond me.”

  Rory ignored the insult, smiling a bit and shooting a glance towards Andrew and Malik. The big man held Andrew around his shoulders and was bent low as if they were speaking. As he watched, Andrew took Malik’s head in his hands and pressed a kiss to his broad forehead. Then Etienne and Laurent appeared, carrying boots, doublet and cloak, insisting on dressing Andrew completely, if not properly.

  “I can’t make out her bow, “Ortega said, squinting against the wind. “She’s square rigged, looks like a flush deck.”

  “A brig?” Rory asked.

  “Can’t be sure,” Ortega muttered. “A lone brig before the channel? Cromwell wouldn’t waste his time. He’d have a full line, not just one ship.”

  “A merchant wouldn’t fly the Ensign. A scout would certainly not fly its colors,” Rory added.

  “Curious,” was all Ortega said in return.

  There was a shout. “Ahoy! Captains!”

  Yousef was halfway down the shroud, holding on with one hand and leaning out to catch their eye. “She’s small and bluff, with a boltspirt and sail. Lateen sheets on all but the main. She looks like a polacca.”

  “A raid?” Ortega asked. “This far North?”

  Instead of answering him, Rory turned back to Yousef. “Get back up there and don’t come down until you can tell us what she is!”

  “There hasn’t been a raiding vessel in these waters in twenty years.”

  Rory felt his stomach clench. “Could Maarten’s fleet have heard already? Started sweeps on their own?”

  “Maarten’s fleet is cut down to three ships, mostly due to your efforts. They weren’t the cleverest of thinkers to start and would never leave the Mediterranean without an order.”

  “Damn,” Rory muttered, at a loss for what they faced.

  “Indeed,” Ortega agreed.

  They stood in silence, then, waiting. Rory cast a glance down, expecting to see Andrew and sundry clustered together at the starboard gunnel. All were gone except Malik.

  “Andrew tired, Ruaidhri,” the man answered before Rory could ask. “Etienne and Laurent took him back to rest.”

  “Go with them, lock the cabin, and don’t come out until you hear my voice,” Rory ordered.

  “But, Captain, I would stay here. Another back would be welcome,” Malik protested.

  Rory opened his mouth to berate his insubordination, but there was a shout and a crash behind him. Yousef rose from his landing crouch, having swung down on a buntline. He was laughing.

  “You need to see this!” he said, handing the spyglass to Rory. “You should be able to make it out from the bow.”

  “Do you know what it is?” Ortega asked, crossly.

  “Oh, aye, I do!” Yousef answered, laughing harder at Ortega’s disgruntled face.

  “Jakob! Come down!” Ortega shouted and jumped the steps to the deck.

  Rory followed, ran to the bow and leapt onto the gunnel. Wrapping an arm around one of the sheets, he raised the glass to his eye. He first noticed the oars stowed along the side. Then, he noticed the blue flag bearing St George’s cross lowering. He laughed, loud and joyful.

  Rising in the ensign’s place was a black flag with a crude rendering of a skull wearing a crooked red crown.

  “Stand down, men! Stand down!” Ortega ordered, collapsing his glass and handing it to his crewman. “Curse you, Jakob! You’ve cost me my chair!”

  ***

  “What have you done to my ship?”

  The crew of the Taibhse laughed and cheered their captain, who stood atop the railing and shouted down the noise to berate them.

  “And what are you doing here? Our rendezvous was yet two days off!”

  Joshua, left in command by vote, was opposite of him, leaning out over the water with a grin. “Sir, to be honest, the men were bored and restless. It was ‘twixt giving them something to do or letting them go ashore to Calais, and I did not think that decision wise.”

  “To what purpose were you running here? And with the ensign aloft?”

  “We ran the sail plans, Captain!”

  “All of them?” Rory asked. The plans in place to change rigging and sails when in need were numerous and difficult, only used in battle or dangerous weather.

  “Aye!” Joshua called. “We kept the ensign flying to be cautious, as per your instruction!”

  “Put the ensign up once more! I have need of that flag!” Rory shouted, too pleased to maintain his disgruntled manner. “Permission to come aboard, Captain?”

  “Aye! Granted!” This declaration received another hearty cheer, deafening despite their small numbers.

  The ships were met portside to portside with sea anchors lowered to ease their drift. Still, the water and wind conspired to separate them, even with sails pinched and lines tied off over each gunnel. No plank could be lowered to cross upon, making the quickest and easiest way to board the Taibhse also the most dangerous. They would have to swing from one deck to the other.

  Etienne was not pleased. “Ruaidhri, really, what do you expect?” he asked, bearing up under Rory’s scowl.

  “I expect you to hold onto the bloody rope and fly over to the Taibhse,” Rory answered.

  Glaring at him, the man said, “And when I drop into the sea to be crushed between your hull and this one, I will expect you to come rescue me.”

  “Not that this isn’t entertaining,” Malik interrupted, “but I can take you across.”

  “Thank you, Malik. That would be lovely,” Etienne agreed, readily. He cast a dark glance in Rory’s direction. “Would you be able to take Laurent, as well?”

  Malik thought for a moment, his forehead furrowing comically as he sized up first Etienne, then Laurent. “Not at once, but I could make two trips.”

  “Not sure your strength could carry us both?” Etienne teased, smiling.

  “I don’t know if the rope would hold us all,
Etienne. I amount to four of you, all on my own,” Malik said, his good nature and humor ever present. “I will do what I must, for if I left you two to argue we may never leave, and I do long for a bit of home.

  With a sigh of long-suffering, Rory said to them all, “Ready yourselves, then, and quickly. Open water does us no favors.”

  Turning his back on their laughter, he made his way to the Captain’s cabin once more. He knocked and entered without waiting, expecting only to find Andrew asleep. Instead, he saw Ortega standing with Andrew in the center of the room. The two of them turned, expectantly.

  “You’ve come to fetch him,” Ortega said, his smile at once both indulgent and mocking.

  “I’ve been forbidden to leave him without permission. I’m only doing my duty,” Rory replied, with a bow.

  Andrew watched Rory, eyes bright and brimming with happy relief.

  “I see,” Ortega said. He studied them in turn. “Andrew tells me that you are to grow apples.”

  “I will do whatever he wishes, so long as he’s with me,” Rory swore, his gaze only on Andrew.

  Ortega rubbed a hand over his face. “I understand, now, what Malik meant.”

  Ignoring him, Rory asked, “Are you ready?”

  Andrew nodded, reaching for the doublet settled on the edge of the bed.

  “Wait,” Ortega said. He moved around his table and pulled out a drawer. Lifting a sheathed dagger from inside, he tossed it almost carelessly to Andrew. “That is yours, left carelessly behind. Mind you don’t leave it again.”

  Andrew pulled the weapon clear and looked at it. It was the dagger Rory had given him. He turned to Rory with a smile, then sheathed it again and stuck it into his belt. When he faced Ortega he wore no expression, but held out his hand. Ortega took it and began to execute a formal shake, but Andrew stepped up close to him. He buried his face in Ortega’s hair and slipped an arm around the man’s shoulders to keep him close.

  They were still for a long moment. Andrew was insistent, Ortega unresisting. They separated in silence and Ortega looked at Andrew with surprise. Andrew exaggerated a frown, shrugged, and grinned.

  “That is,” Ortega said, still holding Andrew’s hand, “an interesting idea. I will consider it.”

  Nodding, Andrew released him and went to Rory.

  “I’ll have the chair brought up now,” Ortega told them before they could leave.

  Rory waved a hand. “Oh, never mind the chair. I’ll find another.”

  “Nonsense! You won the wager, it’s yours,” Ortega said. He stepped around them and opened the door. “I can find another just as easily. I stole this one, anyway. It was meant for Maarten, too.”

  Andrew mouthed Pirate at him.

  “I prefer the term privateer,” Ortega corrected, to which Rory gave an appalled snort. Ortega laughed and walked out.

  Rory paused, one hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “What did you tell him?”

  Andrew peered up at him, wondering.

  “I’m only curious.”

  A shy smile curving his lips, Andrew wrapped his arms around Rory’s neck. “First, I quoted Plato,” he whispered into Rory’s ear. “The price of apathy is to be ruled by evil men. Then I suggested he find it in his heart to care, else he will always be ruled by evil men.”

  Rory pulled back to glare at him. “You misquoted Plato.”

  Andrew shrugged. “I may have taken a small liberty.”

  They kissed through their laughter until Andrew drew away to breathe into Rory’s mouth, “Take me home, Ruaidhri.”

  The deck was loud. Men clamored at the rail of each ship, tossing items across as trades, shouting insults and dares and laughing. The mood was jovial and rowdy, and no amount of calling would calm it. Ortega pulled out a gold whistle, on a chain around his neck, and blew into it. The high-pitched wail had an immediate reaction; all of Ortega’s men froze in place for an instant, and then moved with alarming, impressive speed to line up in perfect formation. They stood in a straight line, shoulder to shoulder from bow to stern, facing midship only breaking line to file up onto the quarterdeck. Ortega tucked the whistle back into his clothing and watched them with a satisfied smirk.

  “You two,” Ortega pointed at the two men closest to his cabin. “Go fetch my chair.”

  He looked to Rory, who met his gaze impassively and asked, “Only two? Are you hoping they will drop it on the way?”

  Ortega just laughed and stepped closer to take his hand. “Be sure it is not dropped while on your felucca. It would fall all the way through and drag you to the depths.”

  “It’s a xebec, and I’ll thank you to stop insulting my ship,” Rory said, his grin toothy and his grip on Ortega enough to make the man wince even as he chuckled.

  The chair was hoisted aloft with block and line. With a shove, it flew across the water and over the deck of the Taibhse. Malik caught one of its legs and shouted for it to be let down.

  “That’s it, then. All that remains to go across is you,” Ortega said to Rory.

  “We will take our leave then, Captain. My thanks to you, again, for your assistance.”

  With a satisfied smirk, Ortega told him, “And to you, for your adequate compensation.” He turned to Andrew, hand extended. “To the spirit of the Scotsman. You do your countrymen proud.”

  Taking it in both of his, Andrew stared hard into his eyes. Ortega paid close attention to his lips when they moved. Take care. Choose wisely.

  “You gave me Plato; in return, I give you Socrates. The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.”

  Andrew looked at him, askance.

  “My learning has been stripped away,” Ortega explained. “I begin anew, Andrew, with an open, unfettered mind.”

  This made Andrew smile and hold his hand more tightly.

  “Harken to me now, Andrew.” Ortega placed his other hand over Andrew’s, and leaned closer. His face was somber, his voice surprisingly gentle. “Whatever you did, whatever sin you think so dire that you need erase your joy; you must release it.”

  Drawing back with a surprised gasp, Andrew cast his eyes towards Rory.

  “I know what that means for you Godly types; ever the faithful sheep and pious fools. You believe in forgiveness for mere mortals like myself or the Red King, but not for your own rarefied souls,” Ortega insisted, tugging their joined hands until he had Andrew’s attention once more. “You are only a man. Allow yourself this fundamental kindness.”

  Andrew frowned, staring down at their clasped hands.

  Ortega continued, “It will take time, of course, but do not forget.”

  “He will have time, as much as he needs,” Rory said. “And I will be there to remind him.”

  Nodding, Ortega released Andrew’s hands and straightened.

  Rory moved to the rail. His waiting crew sent a line to him and he grasped it, using it to steady himself as he climbed atop the gunnel. “Ready?” he asked, reaching out to Andrew.

  When Andrew was beside him, arms wrapped securely around his neck and shoulders, Rory whispered “Hold fast” into his ear and pushed out over the water. Between one breath and the next, they were caught by a dozen hands and set on their feet upon the deck of Taibhse. They were embraced, heartily and repeatedly, until every man had welcomed them back. Rory held Andrew close to keep the insistent press at a mild distance. Though greatly improved, Andrew was still weak, and the joyous welcome could only buoy him for so long. By the time Rory had guided them towards Etienne, Andrew was pale and sweaty and listing a bit leeward when he was released with a kiss.

  Rory sought Joshua, found him waiting at the edge of the gathering with the Red King’s flag in hand. “You’ll be giving up our standard?” the man asked, appalled.

  “For a ready and worthy cause, never fear,” Rory answered. The flag was rolled and only needed binding, so he cut one of the lines holding the ships close and tied it to the flag. Testing its tension, he returned his attention to the Rovfugl and saw her captain at the rail. “Ahoy, p
rivateer!”

  Ortega grinned and pulled the line, dragging the flag to him. “Many thanks, able seaman! This will fetch a royal prize!”

  “And assure those who care that the Red King is dead?”

  “Aye, sent to the deep and feeding the fish!” Ortega jumped atop the rail, holding the shroud with one hand and the flag in the other. He roared at his crew. “Cut and run, boys! Time to collect on good King Frederick’s bounty!”

  The lines were struck, the anchors raised and stowed. As the galleon began to move southerly, angling away to make the turn back north, Ortega called one last thing across the water. “When next we meet, I fully expect you to try to kill me!”

  “With pleasure!” Rory returned with a wave.

  There was a cough next to him. “What’s the word, Captain?”

  Turning, he found Joshua. Behind him, spread about the deck, was the crew. All eyes were on Rory. “Men, I am no longer your captain.”

  Laughter met his words. “You jest!”

  “I have relinquished the ship to my second in command. Malik is your captain now.”

  Now all were silent.

  Rory met each man’s gaze as they grew quiet. “The Taibhse has sailed her final voyage, for word will soon spread that she has been destroyed and her crew with her. Ortega goes to Denmark to relay the end of the Red King.”

  “Captain!” His men stared at him, disbelieving and distraught.

  “Your loyalty and courage have kept me alive and aloft for far too long.” Rory paused, struggling to find the proper words. “I have asked much from you and you have freely given, but my wish now is for you all to find your own way, together or to the man. We have been granted new life, my friends. With our holdings in Algiers and Tunis there is enough for each of you to go where you wish, find home and hearth, if desired. Finish your days with the happiness you deserve,” he finished, his voice thick with emotion.

  “And if we have no wish for home and hearth, what then?” Joshua asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ve made my place here, my family surrounds me now. I have no wish to leave it.”

  Others were nodding, affirming the declaration with emphatic ‘Ayes’.