Legends of the Vengeance : The First Adventure (9781310742866) (17 page)

“
Yes, but…” He swallowed hard. “Please
just kill me now. I cannot stand wondering and waiting for the
inevitable.” As terrified as he was, Robert wanted, more than
anything else at that moment, for the dread to be wiped clean—even
if it were with his own blood.

“‘
To Me
belongeth
vengeance, and recompence; their foot shall slide in
due
time: for the day of their calamity
is
at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste.’”
Joseph’s hate-filled eyes met those of the man he felt had betrayed
him. “You can live with it until the LORD comes upon you and gives
my family justice for your weakness, your cowardice, your crime
against the house of Joseph ben Saolomon. Until then, your memories
will be your jail and your conscience, the warden. May you live in
wretchedness until that day.”

Joseph scribbled something on a paper,
folded it, and passed it across the desk. In slow, measured tones
the older man said, “Now get out of my house.”

An hour later, Ingelby crept back to
Joseph’s house, desperate to find some kind of solace—forgiveness.
However, lamps flickered upstairs and even in the street he could
hear the wailing of Rebekah and Joseph as they mourned the death of
their son. Defeated, he turned back and tried to forget the words
of the half-crazed old moneylender.

“…
for the day of their calamity is at
hand…”

Voyage

The further west they sailed, the choppier
the ocean became. The crew grew tired. However, fresh food did have
its advantages. Full bellies equaled reasonable men, although they
spent their days battling the sea with the ship as their only
protection—their only weapon. At times it seemed as though they
would lose, but despite it all, each day ended with the ship aright
and the crew alive.

With perfect weather, it would take a month
to arrive. So much could happen in a month. Nicolo watched his son
practice fighting with Jaime, repeating movements without growing
impatient or cross. Pride welled in his heart. The boy’s tenacity
would serve him well if he learned the appropriate times to apply
it.

He left the wheel in Eduardo’s capable hands
and went to take over for Jaime. “Why don’t you rest? You were up
late with your stories again last night.” He turned to Sebastian
and nodded at the boy’s cutlass. “Show me what you can do.”

At first, Nicolo let his son push him up and
down the deck with moves that he could have disarmed in an instant.
Then a look came over the boy’s face. Nicolo recognized that look.
Understanding. “Now you see. Begin again.”

The boy charged, swinging wildly it seemed,
but Nicolo’s attempt to disarm Sebastian failed. In fact, had they
been using steel instead of wood, he would have sported a nasty
gash on his forearm. “Well played, son. Very well played.”

It seemed for a moment as if the two
fighters were equally matched, but once Nicolo recovered from his
surprise, he disarmed his son with a speed that discouraged the
boy. “That didn’t take you long.”

“No, but you managed to wound me. In real
battle, I would have had to switch hands. I should have done that
to be fair. You did well for your first time fighting me.”

They walked along the deck to the bow,
staring out over the ocean. “Papa?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you hear Jaime’s story last night?”

“Most of it, yes.” Nicolo allowed himself to
stare at his son’s profile for a moment. If he squinted, even in
the slightest, it would seem as if
she
were there beside
him.

Sebastian’s question jerked him from his
reverie. “Why did Joseph get so mad at the man—Ingelby? It wasn’t
Robert’s fault that the ship sank. His father lost a lot of money
too.”

Pain ripped into Nicolo’s heart afresh
before he choked out, “Grief.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

Nicolo gazed into his son’s eyes, steeling
himself against the next wave of pain that he knew would follow,
and repeated his answer. “Grief. People are not rational about
grief. When you lose someone you love that dearly, you crave
something that will soothe it. Joseph thought that driving Ingelby
from his life forever would help.”

“You don’t think it would?”

“No,” he snapped. “I know it would not. He
said that God would ensure that Joseph got his revenge. He was a
fool.”

“Why do you hate God, Papa?”

It took Nicolo some time to answer the
question. He pondered how much to say, and eventually decided that
simple honesty would be best, even if it prompted new questions. “I
do not hate God, Sebastian. It surprises me that you ask that, son,
but I think I understand why you believe it to be so. I have seen
much evil done in the name of the church.”

“But what does that have to do with
God.”

“The church
is
God’s people. I can’t
help but seem to reject God when I reject association with His
people.”

“But why? What is so terrible…?”

As his son’s question evaporated in the
morning sun, Nicolo realized his anger must have shown. Again.
Jaime said it would drive a wedge between them. Eduardo said it was
worse than a whipping. He’d ignored them and now it seemed as
though it were true. “Hector. Do you know why he is here?”

Sebastian shook his head, his gaze sliding
up to the crow’s nest where the lazy man huddled alone and
miserable. “No…”

“The church, son. The church is why I am
helping him. They tortured him.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Good,” Nicolo snapped, his hand slamming
against the rail. “You shouldn’t understand. It is wrong what they
have done to him. They took his land, his money in the name of
religion. They tortured him, demanding he recant heresies he was
not guilty of.”

“Why not just kill him?”

“Officially,” he spat, disgusted at the lies
that he felt the church spewed, “the church does not kill or even
draw blood. They merely torture mind and body until they believe
the person’s promises of faithfulness. If the person is found
guilty of the crimes they are accused of, they are turned over to
civil authorities who execute
for
the church.”

“Why does Jaime still go to church if that
is what it is like? He finds such peace there. How is that
possible?”

This question Nicolo had pondered many times
over the years. The young man’s answers when questioned had always
been unsatisfactory. “I think,” he began cautiously; “you should
ask Jaime. I cannot understand it, but I know he has found a way to
accept the Church as a whole while rejecting the Inquisition.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Inquisition. The word terrified him. It was
ominous—foreboding. Sebastian watched as the familiar melancholy
slowly shrouded his father. All his life he’d watched his papa
battle the despondency that came when people discussed God, family,
and especially his mother.

This despondency often kept him from asking
much about the woman he could not remember. Oh, sometimes, in the
wee hours of the morning when he waited for the sun to rise, he
thought he remembered a woman with long flowing gowns, jeweled
combs in her hair, and a voice that soothed him. He imagined that
he remembered a man throwing him in the air, tickling him with a
beard.

Someday he’d ask Jaime, but for now, he
would be content to know that his father didn’t despise God as he’d
always assumed.

Hector strutted past, dismissive of everyone
as usual. Despite the story his father had told him, despite the
pity the man should receive, Hector disgusted him. How could
someone who had suffered so much be so rude to the people who
risked so much to give him a new life? He couldn’t imagine.

A nudge at his elbow distracted him. “How
many men has Papa helped?”

“I can’t tell you—dozens—maybe even a
hundred.”

“Were they all—” Suddenly it didn’t seem
very diplomatic to attack the church his friend loved. “At odds
with the church?”

Jaime laughed at his not-so-subtle attempt
to change his question. “No. Your father helps anyone who has been
wronged. Remember MacPherson? He was in London—at the wrong place
just when it would look as though he killed someone. They threw him
in the Tower until his hanging day.”

“How did he get out?”

Grinning, Jaime sank to the deck and leaned
his back against the bow. He pulled out a carving knife and a piece
of wood and began carving—a bird. “The real murderer helped him
escape. He bribed a jailer, paid a ship’s captain to take him
south, and sent someone to ask your papa to give him a new
life.”

“But why would a murderer do something like
that?”

“Well, because he knew an innocent man would
die for his crime.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows drew together as he
tried to make sense of Jaime’s explanation. “But didn’t the
murderer kill an innocent man himself?”

“No, he killed a man—one he felt was guilty
of many crimes that would go unpunished. MacPherson was just in the
way.”

“I don’t think I understand, but I’m glad
Papa helped him. Didn’t we leave him at Algiers?”

“Yes. He has a good business there—raising
sheep, I think.” A long curl of wood dropped to the deck as Jaime
smoothed the edge of a wing. “What makes you so curious today?”

“I asked Papa about Hector.”

Though he nodded an acknowledgement of
Sebastian’s words, Jaime didn’t speak for some time. His knife
sliced through the wood, leaving curly shavings on his breeches and
the deck. “I know your father has told you, but I am telling you as
well. Stay away from Hector. I don’t trust him.”

“Do you think he’s a spy?”

A snort of disgust gave away his friend’s
opinion before he could answer. “Not in the least. But he’s a
coward, Sebastian. Cowards are sometimes the cruelest and most
dangerous people. Your father will find out before it is too late.
We have been fooled by others and paid the price. Nicolo is wiser
now. He will learn what he needs to know about Hector.”

“He listens whenever he thinks no one is
watching. He only does part of his work, and he does it slowly and
badly so that others will take over for him. He is lazy,” Sebastian
muttered.

“Men of means often have little
understanding of how the common man must work to earn his bread. I
don’t think Hector means to be remiss in his duties. He has just
never had to work on a consistent basis.”

“I could do his work better,” Sebastian
insisted.

“I agree. But could you endure months or
years of torture, not knowing what happened to your family, knowing
that even if you live, you’ll be all alone and with no money to
survive?”

Sebastian’s shoulders slumped. He stared at
his hands, not willing to meet Jaime’s eyes. “I don’t want to feel
sorry for him. I don’t like him. I don’t trust him.”

“That’s understandable, and it’s good
too.”

“Good? That I am that selfish?”

“No, good that you said you don’t
want
to feel sorry for him. It means you do have some
compassion. That is good.” Jaime handed up the carving—a
seagull—and added, “And I think it’s also good that you aren’t too
trusting. Your father is good, but he’s not infallible. He could
make a mistake.”

“It’s not likely.” Sebastian didn’t bother
to hide his discouragement. “It seems as if Papa never does
anything wrong.”

“I think it seems that way to every child
who has a good mother or father. I know your papa would tell you
that he makes many mistakes—daily, most likely.”

Sebastian pushed away from the deck. “I’ll
be back.” He hurried down the gangway to the quarterdeck where his
father stood at the wheel, holding steady in the stiff winds.

“What are you doing today, son?”

“Do you make mistakes?”

“What?”

Desperate for an answer, Sebastian repeated
himself. “Mistakes. Do you make mistakes?”

“Well, sure. Everyone makes mistakes.”

That wasn’t what he meant. Of course,
everyone made mistakes, but the idea that his father made mistakes
as often as he did was improbable in his mind. “I mean, like me—all
the time.”

“Well, I don’t make mistakes exactly like
you, and I hope not quite as often, but I make many more mistakes
than you probably realize. It’s just part of being human.”

“I bet you didn’t make mistakes to
disappoint your papa.”

Nicolo signaled for Giorgio to take the
wheel and led Sebastian to his cabin. Once inside, he seated his
son on the ledge and hunkered down on his heels. Gazing into
Sebastian’s eyes he said, “I broke my papa’s heart, Sebastian. I
don’t even know if he’s alive anymore.”

A lump filled Sebastian’s throat. He nodded
as if he understood, but of course, he didn’t. What would make his
father do something that obviously hurt his own papa? He mentally
scrambled for something that would comfort his father. “I am sure
that your papa understands—deep down, don’t papas usually
understand, even when they don’t like it?”

Without a word, Nicolo left the cabin.
Sebastian hesitated, wondering if he should follow, and then dashed
across the little cabin and flung open the door. His father was
nowhere in sight. He hurried to Jaime’s side and sank to the deck
beside his friend. “I think I hurt Papa.”

“Maybe. He understands.”

A new idea came to him. “Papa said he broke
his papa’s heart.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “That was
because of me, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Clouds darkened overhead, but to Sebastian
it was a fitting way to set the tone of his mood. The air cooled
and the wind blustered about them. Up in the crow’s nest, Hector
screeched about a storm approaching from the southeast. The crew
ran around them, frantically doing their jobs, but Sebastian hardly
noticed any of it. His eyes fixated on his father as Nicolo took
the wheel again.