Dark Before the Rising Sun

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Copyright © 1982 by Laurie McBain

Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover art by Alan Ayers

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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Originally published in 1982 in the United States of America by Avon Books, New York.

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prelude

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Epilogue

About the Author

Back Cover

For my brother and sister-in-law, Rob and Pam McBain, with love and friendship

No light, but rather darkness visible.

—John Milton

On the north coast of Devon, in the West Country, lay Merdraco. There was a timelessness about the stone towers rising starkly against a misty morn, as if destiny had decreed they stand sentinel throughout eternity. Although the towers of the ancient castle had been raised by mortal hand stone by rough-hewn stone, now there was only the endless sounding of the sea echoing along the time-worn battlements, climbing the stone steps spiraling into the towers.

At night the lonely hooting of an owl in one of the abandoned towers was the only sound. There was no ringing of emblazoned metal shields or battle-honed swords, raised in answer to the call to arms, no defiant battle cry cutting through the silent great hall. The lord of the castle was no longer there. There was only the restless whispering of the sea.

No footfall would disturb the stillness of a moon-shadowed passage. No impatient hand would destroy the intricate patterning of a finely spun cobweb. No human trespass would displace the gossamer coating of dust that had fallen soundlessly throughout the long years. There was only the insistent murmuring of the sea.

The many passing days had borne silent witness to the sun and the moon rising in the east. As their circling paths carried them across the skies above the windswept stone walls, the castle waited broodingly on the cliffs above the wild shore.

Slowly, centuries had passed. Each generation had lived out its life at Merdraco in both joy and sorrow. The descending sun, like one fallen from grace, had continued to fall to the sea beyond the towers of Merdraco while the vesper bells heralded the coming of eventide. And the moon, serene and proud, had continued to rise. But it too was destined to fall in its turn, gliding into the somber waters of a dawn sea while the song of the lark heralded the coming of morn, and golden streakings in the eastern sky touched the towers of Merdraco once again.

There was the sun and moon, the sea and Merdraco. Ever changing, yet forever constant.

Merdraco.

Created from stone and mortar, Merdraco was all that remained of a once great and noble family. Empty, now forgotten, it was still guardian of all that had once existed. So pervasive a feeling of melancholia was there about the deserted battlements and abandoned towers that it seemed as if life at Merdraco must surely only be in abeyance, and soon all would be as it once had been.

The tattered banner, faded by sun and spindrift, would once again flutter with majestic brilliance and the sepulchral descant from the sea would soon be drowned out by a trumpet's clarion call stirring the castle to life. Where there was only the harsh cry of the seagull there would soon be the frenzied barking of hounds and the jingling of harness and clattering of hooves on the paving stones of the courtyard. Mellifluous strains of flute and mandolin would drift on the wind with wood smoke rising to meet the sea mists swirling close to shore.

But the wind sighed, fading as if it had never been at all. An unnatural quiet settled against the cold stone of the castle while an enveloping gloom altered the shadows into more than dusky images until nothing was its true self, and the clarity of line was blurred until there were only indistinct shapes. The fleeting shadow of a bird became an advancing apparition from the past, and the heraldic dragons carved into the stone of Merdraco were no longer stilled as their soundless roar became that of the sea in tempest.

But the dragons of Merdraco remained imprisoned. Crouched in stone above the gates to Merdraco, their baleful eyes cast downward and their writhing, serrated tails poised above horned heads ready to strike, the stone dragons waited and watched.

There was danger in the stillness of this night of no moon, and yet there was none to raise the drawbridge or let the portcullis down. Nor could that have protected Merdraco from its unrelenting enemy, for time was the ravager of Merdraco.

Merdraco was defenseless against this enemy, vulnerable to the night that hides things, victim to days filled with yet another enemy's falsehoods, envy, and avarice.

And time abetted this implacable enemy of the family that was no more. It gave comfort to an enemy who knew no pity where Merdraco was concerned. And in the deepening abyss of time, that enemy began to savor victory, to exult in the downfall and ruination of the family and the ultimate destruction of Merdraco.

Who was there left to mourn the fading hour but the pale, fleeting shadows of ghosts from another time. And who was there left to sing the lament of past glory but the wailing winds of a dying day.

But in the dark before the rising sun, where there was only the quiet weeping of the sea, Merdraco awaited the coming of its master…

Happy he who like Ulysses a glorious voyage made.

—Joachim du Bellay

Black as a tinker's pot was the moonless night in early September of the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and seventy, but no blacker than the waters of the River Thames as it wended through the heart of London. The fog, like a confused and disembodied spirit, rose silently from the waters where the
Sea Dragon
, a Boston-built brigantine out of Charles Town, in the Carolinas, rode at anchor. Her square-rigged sails were furled, and the tall, stark masts swayed eerily in the mists engulfing the ship, but strangely visible was the figurehead of the grinning red dragon with the gilded tail and fins, its lolling tongue having mocked many an adversary unfortunate enough to fall afoul of the
Sea Dragon
and her captain, Dante Leighton, adventurer and privateer. To those whose ships had felt the fury of the fighting brig's guns the captain was little better than a bedeviling smuggler and much-damned pirate.

Dante Leighton was also, for certain people interested in his whereabouts, more than a mere ship's captain. He was also the Marquis of Jacqobi, and the last surviving descendant of a time-honored family. He was sole heir to all his forefathers had envisioned, and possessor of an ancient, once-revered title, one that had been held by men of honor and valor and by men who had been daring and ruthless enough to achieve greatness and found a dynasty.

But that was long ago, and now that glory was as faded as the flowers in the autumn of the year when the
Sea Dragon
and her master had at long last come home from the sea. Dante Leighton had returned to claim all that his father's fathers had bequeathed him.

He was lord and master of Merdraco.

But much had changed about the man who had fled England and his home so long ago. Dante was no longer the destitute young lord who had squandered his inheritance and gambled away his heritage during endless nights of debauchery.

He once had been so exquisite and graceful a young man. But his classically beautiful face had begun to bear the mark of libertine excesses. With the arrogance of youth he had continued his hell-bent course, contemptuously mocking those who counseled against the advice of false friends and pleaded discretion to the profligate young man.

Recklessly he had turned a deaf ear to the voices of those whom he could truly have called friends. And with a blind eye to his own image in the mirror, he had not seen the dissipation being wrought by a cunning hand. And with that elegant air of indifference that bordered on insolence and showed him to be a gentleman of breeding, he had abandoned himself to a rakehell's fate, still believing there would always be a tomorrow.

But the morrow had dawned cold and dark and a bewildered young man had faced the tragic realization that he had been cruelly deceived by the very one he had idolized, betrayed by that former friend's treachery, and brought to ruination and dishonor by that same enemy's hatred and depravity.

A chastened and despondent Dante had disappeared into the night while fleeing creditors and jeering friends alike, ashamed of his own name.

But before he had bid farewell to everything, he had gambled away his last guinea in one final and defiant, or perhaps desperate, attempt to reclaim one of the priceless family heirlooms which he had so foolishly let slip through his fingers. But he had lost. And what once had belonged to him, belonged to another.

It had been Dante's darkest hour. Death seemed a welcomed reprieve. And yet, unbeknownst to him, this was the beginning of his salvation. Dante certainly would not have believed that, for the man who had witnessed his final humiliation had been an ill-bred and scornful fellow, hardly sympathetic to a proudly disdainful aristocrat's misfortune. The man had been a common sea captain, churlishly bad-mannered enough to refuse a gentleman's word of honor to redeem his pledge. He had forced that indolent, silk-clad gallant to work off the debt by serving on board his ship, the
Perdita
.

And Captain Sedgewick Christopher's
Perdita
had been no lumbering, worm-eaten merchantman but a sixteen-gun privateer, her letter of marque authorizing her to harass with impunity any sworn enemy of the Crown. She pursued that course with unparalleled skill and zeal while the continuing disputes between the French and English escalated into the Seven Years' War.

An abashed young lord quickly found himself facing that eagerly sought-after death, and yet, once his ultimate destruction seemed imminent, he experienced a sudden determination to survive at all costs. With that vow pledged upon what honor he had left, Dante had accepted his fate, knowing that one day he would wreak his vengeance on his enemy and would give no quarter.

Those first, long years at sea had not been without hardship, but the man Dante was maturing into had borne them without complaint. Given no preferential treatment because of his exalted rank in society, he had cleaned the deck of blood and debris, working alongside the lowliest swabber. He had ridden the rigging, his fingers numb with cold while sky and sea blurred into one. He had been gunner, loading and priming the cannon while the crew cleared for action. And, when bone-weary and half dead with fatigue he had fallen into his hammock, he had fought off sleep while strengthening his will to survive with a carefully thought-out plan of revenge.

As the years passed and he proved himself worthy of sailing with the
Perdita
crew, Dante rose from efficient deckhand to foretopman, to helmsman, and, finally, to master. He had earned the respect of his fellow mariners.

But more than that, Dante had earned the respect and friendship of Sedgewick Christopher, a man not easily given to friendship. A dour man—even harsh, some might have charged—Sedgewick Christopher had been a commanding figure as he'd walked the deck of his ship, his narrowed, cobalt blue eyes raking sails, masts, and men while he'd roared his orders. He had been an uncompromising captain, but his crew would have sailed with none other than Captain Christopher for he was a fair man and, above all else, the finest captain any of them had ever served. Were they not still alive? That was more than many an unfortunate crew could boast.

And when the good captain had died in battle, his last words an order for the enemy to haul down her colors, the crew had buried him at sea with full honors. Even the most hardened sailor had grieved. But the first mate had grieved deepest. Captain Christopher had left to him, his friend and next in command, what few possessions he had valued. In a worn sea chest Dante had discovered the captain's much-prized sextant and compass and one other item, seemingly of little value. Only two people had treasured it. One had been the man who had kept it safe for so many years. The other was the man who now possessed what had once been his.

It was the portrait of a stunningly beautiful woman and a child. Flaxen-haired and gray-eyed, the woman was an ethereal vision in gold and alabaster rising from the virescent sea mists swirling around her. She seemed poised between sea and sky, a spirit caught by the wind and uncertain of its destiny. The child at her side, a boy of not more than ten years, was gazing into her face, his gray eyes filled with adoration. His small hand was lost in the silken folds of her gown, as if he sought to hold on to something that was elusive and perhaps fleeting.

It was the portrait of Lady Jacqobi and her son, Dante Leighton.

As Dante stared down at the portrait he had believed forever lost to him, he had known that his mother appearing before him in the flesh could not have surprised him more. For so many guilt-ridden years he had pondered the whereabouts of that portrait, only to have discovered that the captain had possessed it all these years.

But when Dante read the captain's last will and testament, he finally understood so many unanswered questions. He knew at last the truth behind the captain's actions that inglorious night so many years ago when he had rescued a dissolute young man from destroying himself. That young man had meant nothing to him, and Dante had always wondered why Sedgewick Christopher had cared.

It had been because of the portrait. Perhaps, as the days fled by, a lonely man who sailed the seas and had no family of his own, no loving wife awaiting his safe return to shore, had come secretly to cherish a woman who had existed only on canvas and in the memory of an anguished young man.

A gruff, sometimes caustic man had fallen in love with the painted image of a woman he could never possess. She had died before he had ever known of her. How often, when gazing longingly upon that pale likeness, had he wondered about the strange sadness in her gray eyes?

In silence Dante stared down at the hastily scrawled message addressed to him and the words blurred:

…and so I've waited too long to be tellin' ye this, for if ye be reading my words now, well, I've gone by the board and it doesn't matter anymore. Except, maybe, to ye, lad? And that is why I think ye deserve an explanation, not that I'm even understanding the wherefores and whys. Some might have said 'twas one of them chances of fate, what happened that day, and maybe 'twas. I've seen too many a strange thing to be questioning that which I do not understand.

All I'm knowin' about is what I felt that day so long ago. I'd been at sea a long while, and I had few acquaintances in London. I was alone until I happened past a shop window and saw the portrait of a woman and a boy. I couldn't seem to take a step beyond that portrait. I had taken root to the ground, lad, and when I stared into those soft gray eyes, I felt as if she were staring into my own soul. And she was beckoning to me, Sedgewick Christopher, and to no one else. Suddenly I felt as if I could do something to banish the sadness from those eyes.

Aye, I'm a foolish old man, and the shopkeeper thought little better of me when I inquired so vehemently about the lady of the portrait. Her name was Lady Jacqobi. She was a trueborn lady. Then I discovered that she had died tragically just months before my return to England, and I felt like I had received a mortal blow. The shopkeeper thought me a man crazed, especially when I readily paid the exorbitant price he was askin' for the portrait. Little did he realize that I would have paid ten times that amount for the portrait of that lady.

And with my purse far lighter, he was more than pleased to regale me with the gossip concerning her, and especially about that angelic-faced boy in the portrait. He was the lady's only son, and a wilder, more rakish young lord there wasn't in all of London. The innocent-looking boy of that portrait had become a scoundrel who had gambled away his fortune and his good name. Such wickedness, I thought, for even the portrait of his mother had been auctioned off to pay for this miscreant's debts.

I knew then what I must do. I sought ye out, lad. I think I must have been half-mad, and may God forgive me, but I hoped to find ye to be the cursed swine I thought ye to be. Then I would somehow have tricked ye into challenging me. I wanted to kill ye, boy, but when I sat across the gaming table from ye and stared into gray eyes so much like the lady of the portrait's, I could see only hers and I couldn't destroy her son.

Of course, ye weren't exactly what I had been expecting. Aye, ye were arrogant enough, but that was in your blood and the way ye'd been raised, so I couldn't fault ye that. But I could plainly see that your drinking and whoring were getting the better of ye. Ye looked like ye was staring death in the face. I would've left ye to your fate, lad, except that I saw something in your eyes.

I saw regret and sadness, and that same, strange expression of longing that had been in your mother's eyes. 'Tis a mystery still, the cause of that sadness, for she knew it well long before ye brought your share of heartache to her. But ye were her son, and she would have loved ye dearly, and for that reason alone, I took pity on ye that night.

I vowed that I would make a decent man of ye. Either that, or I'd see ye on the bottom of the sea. And truth be known, lad, I had my doubts those first months when your resentment and lack of spirit nearly cost ye your life.

But ye survived. She would have been proud of ye. I never had the honor of meeting the lady of the portrait, but I have loved her as I have loved no other. 'Twas madness, and I fear that it has been my downfall, for I have been content to live with but a dream these many years. Aye, I've played the mooncalf, but I'd not change one day of that devotion.

However, there is one thing I would have changed. It has made me little better than a blackguard, and most deserving of your scorn. I took advantage of my knowledge of ye and hid the portrait, never telling ye I owned it. I had convinced myself that I was doing it for your own good, that ye needed to suffer while wondering what had become of the portrait of your mother. I knew ye were desperate to recover the portrait, for I'd been back to that shop, thinking to purchase something else of the Lady Jacqobi's. The shopkeeper told me ye'd been in, and that ye'd threatened him, but that he could tell ye nothing about me, not even my name. I knew then that ye'd been gambling just to get enough money to buy the portrait.

And so I have unjustly deprived ye of her comforting presence these long years of struggle, and I do now humbly beg your forgiveness. 'Twas wrong of me, lad, but we all have our weaknesses. Your mother has been mine. How many times have I cursed the fates for their cruel mischief-making!

I only wish that…well, that's not to be now. I wanted ye to know the truth. I also wanted ye to know that I have come to think of ye as the son I never had. I could not have been prouder of my own flesh and blood. That is why I have left to you, Son, my share of the
Perdita
. She could have no finer a captain. I hope my partners in her will keep ye on as her master, but they're a sorry lot of greedy merchants and may not be willing to risk their investment with a young captain at the helm. If so, then sell out and get yourself a ship of your own. Ye've got the makings of a fine captain, lad, on that I'd stake my reputation. Ye've got your share of the many prizes we've captured. 'Tis a small fortune ye've amassed. I know ye've not spent much of it, but for what purpose ye've been saving it, I've no knowledge. That be your business and not mine. But if I were ye, then I'd be usin' it to buy that ship, and have it free and clear, with no meddling partners to interfere. Be your own master, lad.