Peril on the Sea (11 page)

K
ATHARINE HAD ALWAYS LOVED the way firelight and its diminutive cousin, candlelight, made the world look.

With the slow summer dusk coming on, the faces around her now were gilded and silent, intent only on her. Katharine was especially fascinated by the way Sherwin leaned forward, his eyes bright with encouragement.

Their predicament was easily described, and Sherwin's eyes grew brighter as he heard the details of the
Rosebriar
and the ship's likely route from the Azores.

“Her captain was born and bred in Cornwall, and he always hugs the coast there as he returns,” she continued. She took pains to delineate the character of Pevensey, and his representative, Sir Gregory. “We are offering you one-third of the value of the cargo to help us.”

“Sir Gregory,” said Sherwin, when her account was concluded, “should be beaten, my lady, and any of his men with him. And as for Pevensey—” Strong feeling made it impossible to conclude his thoughts.

“There is not a man here,” said Captain Fletcher, in a tone of sympathy, “who would not see the grasping nobleman whipped.”

“Indeed,” said Sherwin, “and worse than that.”

“Beating his lordship to a pudding,” said the captain, “will not fatten your purse, Sherwin, but a few plump prizes will.”

“Captain, if you please,” said Sherwin, “is there no aspiration more important than silver?”

“None at all,” said the captain. “But what makes you and your father think that, having taken the ship, Lady Katharine, I will share the prize with her rightful owner?”

“And what makes you think that, once you have stolen her,” replied Katharine, “my father and I might not report you to the Admiralty, and squeeze a reward from them?”

The captain gave a sly smile. “I would tell the Admiralty of your scheme.”

“They would not take your word,” Sir Anthony interjected, “over the oath of a baronet who has never stolen so much as a farthing in his life.” He kept his tone friendly, but with a decided edge.

“I know of a way,” said Katharine, “to ensure that the captain behaves honorably, and to make sure that Captain Loy of the
Rosebriar
understands our plan. After all,” she added, “we would not want Captain Loy to sink our Captain Fletcher's ship in earnest error.”

Her father straightened in his chair. “Katharine, I begin
to believe I anticipate your plan,” he said, “and I don't like it.”

“I shall go on board the
Vixen
myself,” said Katharine, “to see that Captain Fletcher lives up to his part of the bargain.”

“This is the worst plan I have ever heard,” said Sir Anthony.

The captain smiled. “No, she may have me pinned, your wise daughter. Because with her as a witness I will have to either turn complete scoundrel, and deliver her to the Devil, or live up to my word and help you to steal your own ship.”

Sir Anthony protested again. “I cannot abide such an arrangement.”

“And I shall be far away from the coast, Father,” said Katharine, “safe from any attack the Spaniards might loose on these estates.”

“Safe where?” said Anthony. “On the high seas with this distinguished rascal?”

“He is the man you trust with your future,” said Katharine. “Besides, my voyage will last only as long as it takes to intercept our cargo.”

“Katharine,” said Anthony ruefully, “you argue too well.”

“There is another reason,” said the captain, “that makes your idea, Lady Katharine, appealing from my standpoint.”

“What is that, Captain?” asked Highbridge.

Highbridge had not spoken during most of the meal,
and, after introductions had been made, he had taken in what was said and, Katharine thought, noticed what was pointedly not mentioned.

He was a lean man, garbed in black or the darkest possible blue. His beard was combed to a point, and he carried a lens of crystal on a golden chain around his neck. Just as Fletcher radiated an air of impish contradiction, Highbridge gave the impression of quiet single-mindedness.

“With this lady on board, Highbridge,” said Fletcher, “there is no question that we can take part in any fighting. We must stay out of the war—if in truth the war comes.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” sighed Sir Anthony.

“You'll not use my presence on board the
Vixen
,” protested Katharine, “to excuse yourself from fighting for our Queen.”

“My lady, I am reassured,” said Highbridge.

She would dread to take part in a battle, and would be quite pleased if any forthcoming war was forestalled indefinitely. But she bridled at the implication that she was a frail nestling, in need of protection. Furthermore, she could guess how a mariner like Highbridge might resent her presence on his ship, if it kept the
Vixen
out of her chance at glory.

“And the presence of a lovely lady, if you will permit me,” said the captain, with a gallant gesture in Katharine's direction, “might empower my historian to describe the
Vixen
and her captain in lines of poetry.”

“I have begun,” said Sherwin, with an air of hopeful modesty, “knitting such verses.”

“Let us hear a sample,” insisted the captain.

“They are fledgling lines only,” said Sherwin, “and not ready for flight.”

“We desire to listen to them,” said Captain Fletcher.

Sherwin touched a cup of sweetened wine to his lips and said, in his clear, pleasing voice,

“Our pikes like hedgepig quills, and our bright sails

Like morning's sunlight seconded from dawn,
If Heaven is content to lend us triumph,
In what torn vessel should we fear?”

This brief fragment of poetry—which to Katharine sounded very fine indeed—was met by a silence of anticipation.

Sherwin ducked his head. He felt profoundly stirred by everything Katharine had said, and keenly resentful toward Lord Pevensey and Sir Gregory.

“That's all I have finished just now,” he said.

“A sterling fragment, dear Sherwin, but a shard only,” said the captain with a happy laugh. “Think what glorious verse you'll be inspired to compose with this noble young lady aboard our vessel.”

Sherwin had the good grace, Katharine noted, to blush.

But any further conversation was interrupted by the distant sound of an approaching horse, adorned with bells,
judging by the sound. Additional hooves clattered in the dooryard, and Baines hurried into the room.

“Sir Gregory is here, my lords, with Cecil Rawes,” said the servant, “demanding to see Sir Anthony.”

Anthony looked alarmed. “You must hide, Fletcher, all of you.”

Captain Fletcher rose, and so did Highbridge and Sherwin, but they made no effort to leave the room. They did, however, fasten on their rapiers as Baines handed the weapons around to their respective owners. A sword was considered an item of dress, and some swords were purely ornamental. Few men sat at a table on a long evening, however, fully armed.

“Sir Anthony,” said Fletcher easily, “I am a thief, but I am no coward.”

“Captain,” said Sherwin, “if you will permit me, I want to confront this malevolent knight.”

“My dear Sherwin,” said the captain lightly, but with an air of skeptical concern, “do you intend to practice swordplay on this country man-at-arms?”

“If necessary,” replied Sherwin.

The captain found this answer very amusing.

“The
Vixen
could use a seasoned knight whenever we board a prize,” said Fletcher, when his quiet laughter was done. “Do try to spare this warrior's life long enough to convince him to join us—whether he wants to or not.”

There was a long tradition of sailors and fighters alike being kidnapped, tied up, and hauled aboard a ship, where they accepted their new duties with a good grace or ill.

Sherwin felt a pitiless but undeniable thrill as the men from the
Vixen
filed from the room, leaving him to confront Sir Gregory.

Not only would he profit by Fletcher's wartime adventures, and by his own pen, putting silver into his own purse.

Sherwin could even elude the law if he did what he would like to do now—stab Sir Gregory through the heart.

S
IR GREGORY,” said Sir Anthony, indicating Sherwin, “this is our guest, by way of the Inns of Court.”

He pointedly did not offer Sherwin's name.

Sir Gregory gave a nod, as though he was well aware of the omission. “Are you consulting a youthful lawyer, then, Sir Anthony, to mend your troubles?”

“Actually, that's not a bad idea,” said Sir Anthony with a puckish smile.

Katharine was out of sight, in another room. For all her aplomb and powers of communication, she had expressed the desire to set eyes on Gregory only when he was trussed and plucked—but Sherwin knew that she was overhearing every word. He could hear her feet whisper on the straw matting in the next room, and he had to believe that Sir Gregory could hear her, too.

“But I think you have had other guests this evening,” said Sir Gregory, “in addition to this young lawyer dressed like a ship's soldier.”

Sherwin was not prepared to like the man's character or bearing, and he did not. But the knight, who had been wounded in his right cheek at some point in the past, had the stance of an experienced fighter, steady on his feet and ready for whatever came.

He wore a heavy doublet of leather with high, padded shoulders, and tall boots. He carried a rapier at his left hip, and an elaborate dagger on his right, of the variety called a sword-breaker. Such weapons had deeply serrated blades. They were employed in the left hand and used to block or snatch rapier blades, and—sometimes—cause the slender blades to snap.

Another individual, one not introduced to Sherwin, lingered in the corner, out of the firelight, watching Sherwin as though he might prove to be a traveling conjurer, about to make a toad vanish. Sherwin gathered that this was the redoubtable Cecil.

“I am not here tonight to interrupt your feast,” said Sir Gregory, prodding the goose carcass with his gloved hand.

He put the forefinger of his glove on the griffinemblazoned wine mug Captain Fletcher himself had used, and Sherwin wondered how much such a man could guess. “I have received word of strangers on the land,” continued the knight, “and I have ridden out to warn you.”

“How thoughtful,” said Anthony. “You are most kind, Sir Gregory.”

“What sort of men are these supposed strangers?” asked
Sherwin, in an easy manner that sounded, to his own ears, entirely false.

“I know not,” said Gregory. He looked Sherwin up and down, like a man sizing up a market-day ox. He seemed like a man accustomed to forceful statements, and not happy to be speaking to a putative lawyer from London.

“Do you suspect that the Spanish have positioned spies and agents on the coast,” suggested Sherwin, “to tear down stiles and hedges, and prepare for an invasion?”

“I have just such a fear,” said Gregory.

“Or are you concerned that some other strangely disposed travelers might have set foot here?”

“You guess too well,” said Gregory.

“What do you suspect?” asked Sherwin.

“I suspect pirates,” said Gregory.

“Oh, no, that is impossible,” said Sir Anthony, no doubt sensing his great scheme dwindle to nothing.

By saying this, Sherwin knew, Sir Gregory had unwittingly forfeited any freedom he had. He had, moreover, ensured that a sea voyage was in his immediate future. No man who suspected pirates could be allowed to spread further rumors through Devonshire.

“You do not love Pevensey, Sir Gregory,” said Sherwin, “and I do believe you would prefer a more rewarding duty under a more adventuresome master.”

Gregory's next remark was nearly an admission that Sherwin was making accurate assumptions. It was a single syllable, voiced in a whisper. “Who?”

“Come with me,” said Sherwin, “and find out.”

Gregory was deeply puzzled, Sherwin reckoned, and resentful. He was also very interested.

“You can join a ship,” said Sherwin, “that makes a man rich.”

“And do what to win the money?” asked Gregory with a sullen stupidity Sherwin knew was false. Gregory was tempted.

Sherwin asked, “Are you so particular?”

“I am needed here,” Gregory replied, in a tone that was regretful.

Sherwin could see that Gregory might have been a worthy acquaintance at some distant past, and might be again. His duties had coarsened him, and he was disillusioned.

“Why?” asked Sherwin. “So you can threaten maidens?”

He had not been prepared for the quick fury of this knight.

The man's rapier was instantly out of its sheath, and the point was touching Sherwin's throat.

Sherwin blinked, having to retrospectively imagine an event he had not actually perceived—the hand on the hilt, the breathtakingly fast flourish, the arm unbending, until it was locked at the elbow and the steel point an inch, or less, from Sherwin's power of speech.

“Who are you?” rasped Sir Gregory.

Sherwin had studied swordplay with a series of masters, all of them one-eyed, and sporting eye patches of various
hues, as was common among such experts, and each with his own style of offense: the Genoan admiring the dagger, the Parisian swearing that only a footman would fight with anything but a single, elegant épée.

But the defensive maneuver proper when a blade was thrust against his throat was simple under any circumstances. Sherwin brushed the blade aside with his forearm, and grappled with his opponent, closing with him and striking him hard with the heel of his left hand, at the point of his chin.

The knight's head struck the edge of the table as he fell, and pewter dishes leaped and ran against each other.