Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (2 page)

And they are growing some small amount of food there, though it is mainly for the Negroes.”

“At least those poor souls shall be healthier,” I sighed, remembering how gaunt Fletcher had been when last I saw him. He had suffered from malaria, contracted most probably because the plantation was well inland and away from the clean breezes of the coast. Fletcher’s health had been further injured by his refusal to eat the native foods, though; and the ignorance responsible for that was not a thing one could cure with a tonic.

“And my Damn Wife, Lady Marsdale, does she yet live?” I asked. “Is she well? Is she still with child?”

The three of them shrugged.

“She lives. By all accounts she has begun her lying-in and should birth before the end of the year,” Theodore said thoughtfully. “We have actually heard little of her of late. Since she moved into her home, she has behaved in a ladylike manner and deprived the gossips of further fodder.” He frowned at me curiously. “Do you still truly intend to keep her if she bears a boy?”

I shook my head. Gaston and I had discussed it on occasion these last months. We had determined that we probably did not wish to keep – as it was not mine – any get she might produce. But if it were a boy, I could claim him as my heir and he could be the key to my inheriting the plantation and pleasing my father such that he might not wish to further meddle in our affairs. But, in that possible turn of events, could we be so uncaring – even to the get of her womb – as to send any child off to live with my father if he so demanded it? That was a fate best reserved for enemies: and the poor child, whatever its sex, had done nothing wrong.

“I know,” I sighed. “I should seek an annulment no matter which she produces. But… What will become of her? I feel some sympathy for her in the matter. She did not wish for this. And now, due to her foolish indiscretion, she is truly ruined.”

“You have more than adequate funds to set her up with a house somewhere in England,” Theodore said.

I shook my head. “Send her off to England where she will spread tales of my perfidy with few about to tell of hers? That plays well into my father’s hands.”

“Then petition for annulment and ensconce her at Ithaca,” Theodore said with a shrug.

“Perhaps.” I nodded. I knew it was what must be done, but I had little taste for it.

“Speaking of wives, or rather those who are not,” Striker said. “At the one damn ball I had to attend last month.” He glared at his grinning matelot. “I saw that girl you wished to marry.”

“Christine Vines?” I asked with true surprise.

“That be the one.” Striker shrugged. “She asked of you. We couldn’t speak much. She has a stepmother now, who doesn’t let the poor girl out of her sight.”

So Sir Christopher had married. And Christine had been caught and returned to him. As angry and distraught as he had been at her running away to Gods-knew-where after my proposal, I was not surprised he kept her under guard. I felt sorrow in that. I had rather fancied she had been traveling about Christendom all this time, dressed as a boy, practicing what little swordplay we had time to teach her.

“Is she married?” I asked them. “Betrothed?”

Theodore’s eyebrow rose.

“Nay, nay,” I quickly assured him. “I will not attempt to beat my way up that wind twice.” Gaston would not stand for it.

“Not that I have heard,” Theodore said.

I nodded. Perhaps she had dodged that thrust for a time, but it was a blade ever at her throat.

As this information had done much to diminish my mood, I thought perhaps I should hear Theodore’s real reason for coming, as it could not now make me feel worse. “And what other news?” I asked him.

“Well,” he said with a thoughtful mien. “The King has sent Modyford a man of war.”

“Oh bloody Hell!” Striker yelled.

Pete groaned and laughed: and I did, too, as Theodore shot Striker a triumphant smile.

“Aye, aye,” Striker said. “Our king sent our governor a man of war to guard the colony, the Oxford. She’s a true warship, all right: thirty-four guns and two hundred aboard her.”

He shook his head, and it was obvious there was something tempering his glee over this ship, which to my ear sounded like a boon for Jamaica. Then I remembered he had been raised as a pirate, and the presence of an English Naval vessel was likely not a thing he wished to countenance, even if most of his current pursuits were legitimate business ventures or encouraged by the Crown.

“The governor gave her over to Morgan,” Striker said. “And now our admiral wishes to sail against Cartagena or Havana. Though the Oxford might be able to face the guns of their forts, she’s still only one ship.”

Now I truly understood his concern. I did not like the sounds of it either, and we well knew Admiral Morgan’s ambitions. And then I could see other problems with the matter.

“Hold,” I said. “Modyford passed the ship, an English Naval vessel, to Morgan? How does the captain of this fine ship feel on the matter?”

“His name’s Collier, and he seems to accept it, for now,” Striker said with a shrug. “He’s the one they threw the ball for. And Morgan’s hauled him off to his plantations, and every other damn fool of any import has been quick to kiss his arse. But that good and proper naval officer has not seen the rest of our fleet, or our crews. I think he’s in for a bit of a surprise.”

I doubted the composition of the English Navy and the buccaneers were dissimilar. Both contained all manner of men from bondsmen to nobles, from all the nations of Christendom: all rakehells and ne’er-do-wells of some fashion. But whereas the Brethren of the Coast were comprised of free men who had escaped some enslavement of the spirit or body – and free armed men at that – the English Navy was comprised of conscripted men well-accustomed to the lash. It was likely this good Captain Collier would not understand how such a rabble could be commanded. I found amusement in that, and wished I would be about to see his face when the concept of the Articles was explained to him.

“So the fleet will sail in the new year?” I asked, though I well knew the answer. The Brethren, whether French or English, had been sailing against the Spanish in some manner every winter for over thirty years.

“Morgan wishes to sail to Cow Island to provision this next month, but it will be the New Year before we can get the lot of us together,”

Striker said with a sigh.

We would be some of the laggards, as our ship, the Virgin Queen, was off on a smuggling expedition. Or rather, perhaps Pete and Striker and the rest of our cabal would be the laggards: I did not wish to sail.

Gaston and I had been doing well enough alone here, so well we no longer kept a weapon in reach even in our sleep; and I liked living as we did now.

And then Striker’s words struck me with amusement. “Morgan wishes to provision?” I asked.

Striker snorted. “The colony has agreed to provision the Oxford, so there’s no need for it for that vessel. He wishes to gather as many men as possible, though; and that takes time, and those men must be fed.”

“He has at last come to this conclusion?” I asked.

Striker snorted again. “After many a night drinking with us captains, aye, he’s decided to humor us.”

“Now Enuff O’ ThisShite,” Pete grumbled and turned on Theodore.

“Why Be We’Ere?”

Theodore awarded him a patient smile and turned to me. “I am here to meet with Gaston and you.”

“Concerning?” I asked, my stomach already constricting. Though I could not know what the matter was, I could imagine a great many things I would not wish to hear. And though we had already covered almost all the possible sources of news, there was one we had not.

“News from my father?”

“Not unless he’s French,” Striker said.

“What?” I asked.

Theodore sighed and dug about in the satchel slung over his shoulder.

“A French frigate sailed into port a few days ago,” Striker said. “And a couple gentlemen came ashore and asked about for Theodore.”

Theodore handed me a thin missive. It was addressed to Gaston, or rather to Gabriel Denis Michel David de Sable, Gaston’s christened name. I recognized the arms in the seal. The letter came from Gaston’s father, or someone emboldened or empowered to speak for him.

“Gaston’s father, the Marquis de Tervent, wishes to see his son,”

Theodore said.

I could not breathe for a time: the air did not enter my lungs.

“He is here?” I gasped at last.

“Aye, he commissioned a ship and sailed here,” Theodore said.

“Hold,” Striker said. “Gaston’s father? Bloody Hell! Isn’t he the one who…?”

“Aye,” I muttered, and left them. I ran up the promontory. Fury gripped me. We had been doing so damn well. What kind of fool was I to think the Gods would let us be? Though never would I have envisioned this, even in my wildest nightmares. My father shattering our idyllic existence I could grasp readily enough, but this… this was not a thing I had ever expected.

Gaston found alarm in the rapidity of my approach, and stood to meet me, pistol in hand.

“Will?” he queried.

I could not breathe enough to speak. I thrust the letter at him. He read his name without taking it: his only movement was to touch the seal with a fingertip.

“From your father,” I gasped foolishly.

He nodded, without derision that I should say a thing so obvious.

“Read it,” he whispered, “and tell me of it.”

Though, I was, of course, greatly curious, and I had thought he would make such a request, I still waited to compose myself somewhat before breaking the seal and perusing the contents of the single page. It was addressed to “My beloved son, Gabriel,” and ended with a simple,

“Your Father”. However, the words between thankfully did not gush with such confusing sentiment. The Marquis’ language was succinct, if not somewhat timorous. As there was not a single letter out of place, or wavering pen stroke, I thought it likely this was a much-rehearsed final draft, or else the Marquis was a very organized man. As for the actual gist of it, the Marquis had indeed sailed halfway round the world to meet with his son. He hoped that Gaston still felt the forgiveness he had expressed in his letter from a year ago, and that they could at last lay the events of the past to rest.

“He is on a ship anchored off Port Royal,” I told Gaston, “and he wishes to meet with you and lay the past to rest – and he hopes, one could assume sincerely, that you still harbor forgiveness for him.”

Gaston collapsed to sit heavily where he had been standing. All pretense of control disappeared along with the strength in his legs. “He is here?” he asked with amazement.

“Oui, Theodore said as much. I do not think he has seen him, though.”

“He came here, he came here…” Gaston repeated dully while looking at the dirt and beginning to rock very slowly back and forth. He had retreated into the mask of the Child.

I cursed at the Gods and went to hold him. We had been doing so well.

“Hush, hush,” I murmured in his ear. “He can never hurt you again.

I will not let him.”

But my words were a lie. The damn man was already hurting him.

“I will not let him hurt me,” Gaston growled, and his shoulders tightened beneath my hands.

Resigned to the wild ride I knew would be my life until this matter was eventually behind us, I pulled back and regarded his face. He had not fully given the reins to his Horse: there was still some of the Man about his eyes.

“Do you wish to meet with him?” I asked calmly. Though I felt it was a thing he could not know with great certainty at this early juncture, I was curious as to his response.

My question brought the Child back to his eyes. “I am afraid,” he whispered.

“Of what?”

“That he will still hate me.”

I smoothed the letter, which I had crumpled in holding him, and held it up before his eyes. “I feel he is more afraid of you in that regard.

And damn well he should be.”

Gaston shook his head and looked away. He was chewing on his lip such that I thought he would draw blood.

I heard footsteps behind us. Theodore cleared his throat.

I did not turn to face them. “We need to be alone for a time,” I said firmly. “Perhaps you could make use of one of the other homes. I am sorry for the…”

“Think nothing of it,” Theodore said quickly. “We will await your decision as to what is to be done about the matter.”

“Aye,” Pete added. “We Be Fine. We Got Rum, An’ No Womenfolk About Ta Tell Us Na’ Ta Drink It.”

Theodore chuckled appreciatively.

Striker said nothing as they walked away, but I could feel his gaze upon us. I wished I did not feel such anger towards him over the matter of his undying concern for us, but it was one of those feelings that come of our Horses and hearts and not our thinking minds. I turned my attention back to Gaston and his wrestling with his bucking and frightened animal.

I did not know what to say to comfort him, or whether, indeed, he could be comforted. I tried to imagine the state I would be in if my cousin Shane, the one who had caused my scars, were to arrive here on Jamaica and express a wish to apologize. I could not envision it, though: if such a thing were to occur, it would surely be a ruse, and I would know it as such and not be lost and floundering in feelings of surprise or pain over the incongruity of his attempting to set things right. I looked at the letter I held. Was this, too, a ruse? Did the Marquis have some ulterior motive?

Our fathers were among the wolves of the world: they countenanced any necessity if it enhanced their survival or stature. What motives would a Marquis have for sailing across the sea? He had not heard from Gaston since exiling him here to the West Indies twelve years ago. Just as my father had not heard from me in the ten years I spent roaming Christendom. The Marquis had known of Gaston, though – that Gaston lived – from Doucette. He had sent a great amount of money to see that Gaston was well cared for. He had sent letters expressing regret. My father had been concerned I would return, which is to say I believe he wished I would not; and when I did, he had not known what to do with me, as I had upset his plans. The Marquis had already disinherited Gaston, though: had him declared unsound of mind and delivered him into Doucette’s legal custody. Gaston was no threat to him. But now…