Cross of Fire (55 page)

The courtier outside the music chamber waited for the Cristofori pianoforte to pause and opened the door before the music sheets turned. He crossed to the plain instrument, His Majesty’s new toy.

‘What is it, Melo?’

The king, in a black and silver suit, contrasted with the solemnity of the instrument before him.

‘You seem agitated, Melo?’ He had not looked up from his page, the soft sound of the instrument enough to carry on conversation. A portly, pale figure, hair already receding at thirty-one, he wore his Ramilie wig even in bed.

‘Do not dwell on your words.’

‘Your Majesty,’ Melo bowed expertly, with his black cane mirroring the action of his foot backwards like a third leg. ‘I have great news from the ships.’

The palace was built adjacent to the port with the shipyard alongside, a maritime palace for the great explorers of the earth. Whenever an English or Spanish ship ‘discovered’ a new island they inevitably found generations of Portuguese goats and trees already planted. The Portos did not claim them. To their captains they were only larders and carpenters’ stores for their greater passages into the unknown.

‘What news?’ João paused only to tut and take a stylus to those of Scarlatti’s notes he disapproved of.

‘It is the
Santa Rosa
, Your Majesty, the ship that sailed with the
Nossa Senhora do Cabo
. She has come back.’

João looked at him now.

‘She was not lost with the other? The priest O’Neill is with?’

‘No, Your Majesty,’ Melo bowed again. ‘Some of the priests have come. But Father O’Neill is no longer amongst us.’ He sniffed and gave an almost Gallic shrug. ‘At least not alive.’

‘Speak, Melo.’ João returned to his corrections.

‘They have come with a tale of the loss of the
Nossa Senhora
to the pirates. They would also like to present to you the coffin of Father O’Neill. They are outside but . . . it is apparent that they have had some . . . “assistance” in
their passage, Your Majesty.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I believe – by my understanding – as I follow the discourse with the brothers, that the priests are here by the mercy of . . .’ he hesitated to find a better word but none was forthcoming. ‘By the mercy of
pirates
, Your Majesty.’

‘Privateers? Our privateers?’

Melo winced.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I would believe them English, Sire.’ He gestured to the doors which opened on his command. ‘And not privateers at all. If except of their own device.’

Coffins are unmistakable objects when walked into a room, and unforgettable when carried on the shoulders of eight pirates.

Devlin and Peter Sam walked at the front, the coffin bright and freshly made, wide enough for two men, as plain and long as the pianoforte. They set it down heavily in the centre of the chamber with a puff of its wood dust and Devlin removed his hat – Coxon’s hat. The others stepped back and saluted as the priests they had fetched from Bourbon bowed into the room.

Devlin had stood in such rooms before. He knew enough to wait until spoken to.

João stood and Melo lowered his head as his king considered.

The one with the hat and long-coat was surely their leader and he raised his chin to him. The king spoke with an Italian accent to his English.

‘Melo says you are pirates? Is this true? Explain.’

Devlin put his hat to his thigh and stepped away from the coffin.

‘My name is Patrick Devlin, Your Majesty. I rescued your priest O’Neill. He died in service to you. I respectfully return his fellows.’

João saw the weapons at every corner of flesh.

‘You bring his body to us? And you come to us armed? Out of the same respect?’

Devlin grinned.

‘Just wanted to make sure we get out again, Your Majesty. And I never said I brought his body back.’

He kicked the coffin lid to the marbled floor. And the gold within lit the ceiling.

João and Melo came forward. They looked down at the gold cross emblazoned with the fist-sized rubies.

Melo was open-mouthed, crossed himself.

‘It is the Flaming Cross! The Goa cross! It is here! How is this possible?’

No such humour for a king. Not even an eyebrow raised.

‘The Cross of Fire,’ João affirmed. ‘Stolen by pirates. We ordered it made. We had thought it truly lost. How did you come by this, Captain?’

Devlin kept his eyes on the king.

‘O’Neill told that you sent him after this. He knew where the pirate Levasseur had taken it. He led us to it. I brought it back.’

João pursed his lips. ‘We did not send him. We have not seen him since he left with the ship and thought him lost, as the ship, as the gold.’

Devlin looked at Peter Sam. The priest had been an adept liar. Kings had no need of lies. João saw the look.

‘No matter. This cross means much to our Church and our people. Do you know what it contains, Captain?’

Devlin ignored the piety of the query.

‘I don’t bring it out of charity.’

João scoffed.

‘No, of course. There should be reward. And what of the pirates that took it? This “Buzzard” and . . . Taylor? You are English. How do we know you are not he?’

‘I’m not English.’ He cocked his head to the priests. ‘And you can ask them.’

‘And The Buzzard? What of him?’

‘We saw him once. Not when we got this.’

They had coursed back to the island, made good their repairs to the
Shadow
and blasted through the rocks above to get down into the cave. Levasseur was not there. Only the ghost of him and his dead all around. A month of labour then back to Bourbon for the priests. And no Dandon, but his story recounted by the priests.

Coxon had taken him. That much true. Where he was now was their last mystery and the king had the same thought that Peter Sam had raised the night they left Bourbon for Lisboa.

‘But why would pirates bring such a treasure back to its home? You would be rich all your days.’ He took his eyes from the pirate and the golden coffin, walked the line of priests who bowed at his passing, Melo followed on his heels in exact step.

‘I want a letter of marque,’ Devlin did not turn, his admiration was on the pianoforte. He often forgot that men made beautiful things beyond the crudity of cutlass and pistol. He had seen nothing like it. Another world he had long passed from.

‘I bring your cross for my allegiance.’

João halted his inspection of the priests and Melo almost walked into his back.

‘You wish to be a privateer? For Portugal? We have no war.’

‘A man of mine is missing,’ Devlin faced him. ‘He’s in Indian waters. I could use papers for the ports.’

‘You seek one man?’ João came back to the coffin. ‘Is he a lover?’

Devlin felt himself blush. ‘No, Sire.’ He looked into a king’s eyes. ‘He is my friend.’

João smiled. ‘You would search the Indian sea for just one man, Captain?
We
have many friends. Many friends that do not deserve such an endeavour.’

Devlin hung a thumb near his pistol.

‘I don’t. And there is something else.’

João raised his chin higher, his brow shifting his wig.

‘The less you talk, Captain,’ he drawled, ‘the more you seem to say. Go on.’

Devlin took a breath.

‘I have had altercations with some of your governors.’ He tried not to say the name. It was not the pirate’s way to carry guilt against those dead by their whims, and Valentim Mendes had been no saint, but his death had come in that garden in Charles Town and Valentim had assisted him that day, if only in the hope to have the opportunity to kill Devlin himself.

‘I would hope that the cross, and my offer, may settle that. For me.’

João took in the lean form, uncommonly still, the dried blood on his boots and buckles, the sharp eyes watching and waiting on every word.

‘We know not of what you speak but take your word on it. Very well, Captain. Portugal can always use more men upon her waves. Melo will see to your papers. We are indebted to you for the return of our Church’s cross. The Cross of Fire will further our position in the eyes of Rome, as was our original intent. And we had faith that such an object could not hide from good men.’ He genuflected to the cross, no pride that his head was the lowest in the room; unseemly for a king and Melo lowered himself prone. João crossed himself as he rose, saw the cut in the heart where the axe had smited.

‘However, the
Santa Rosa
cannot be appointed to you. She belongs to her port. To us. And we understand it customary for privateers to sail their own ships. It is simple to arrange purchase for you if you wish? That is if you are in . . . “adequate” funds, Captain?’

‘I have my own ship.’

It is quite a feat to shock a king.

‘You have brought a pirate ship into our port? To our palace?’ He looked down at the water outside his window, the dozens of masts.

Devlin stood by Peter Sam.

‘As I said,’ he put back his hat. ‘Wanted to make sure we get out again.’ He bowed, slapped his men to leave. Melo led them to the door, Devlin tipped his hat to the grateful priests.

João went back to his pianoforte, tutted at more of Scarlatti’s notes, called back to the pirate.

‘Captain? What happened to the rest of the gold? The
Virgin
’s treasure. You have knowledge on this?’

Devlin held by the door, touched his hat that fitted better every day.

‘Most gone, Your Majesty. The ports say Taylor took his share to Panama. The Buzzard and his men had a disagreement. Mutiny. They left him and your boys here for dead. We only found The Buzzard. He had done for O’Neill.’

‘So they took it all? These mutineers?’ He touched a low key and let it hang. ‘These “other” pirates?’

Devlin brought his hat through his hands, his rakish grin giving all of the Irish rogue and the gypsy selling you your own horse.

‘Like I said,’ he nodded to the coffin. ‘I don’t bring it out of charity, Sire.’

João went back to the wooden keys, the soft touch sensual, the sound angelically peaceful compared to the hall-filling harpsichord.

‘We hope you find your friend, Captain,’ he waved a hand in dismissal. ‘We would almost fear for the world if you did not.’

Devlin squared his hat to his head. Kept the grin hanging like the pianoforte’s note.

‘Your Majesty.’

He closed the door. Left his new king.

Left to find his friend.

Epilogue