Easton's Gold (10 page)

Why is Philippa hanging around my door now? What does she hope to spy
? She hardly dares think, but the answer comes unbidden in noises: the rhythmic creaking of a bed; the steady, repeating gasp of a lover.
Why else would a servant have a single cabin? Why else would she be treated like a guest
? Those questions she has asked herself, Philippa must be asking too.

Someone else's footsteps approach the cabin now. They are steady, reassuring footsteps, not like Philippa, not like the captain either whose tread is heavy. There is a knock on the wood behind her. Gabrielle turns and opens the door. It is the young man who served them dinner last night. He holds a large wooden tray.

“I was asked by the captain to bring you some food and drink.”

Gabrielle smiles and backs off to let him in. The serving man crosses the room and places the tray upon the side table by the bed. There is white meat, bread, two small jugs, and a goblet. He bends to pour some wine from one jug, and some water from the other into the goblet.

“Thank you, but I am not a lady.”

The young man replaces the second jug on the tray. He looks at her quizzically.

“I am the same in status as Jacques, Philippa, and Maria—you know them?”

“Yes, lady.”

“So you can treat me no differently.”

Gabrielle notices that the young man's eyes, which now fix on hers with transparent innocence, are exactly the same blue as his tunic.

“As you say, lady,” he says with a nod. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Gabrielle thinks of arguing with the man for a moment. He doesn't believe her, it is obvious. But she gives up and smiles.

“No, thank you.”

The man nods again and leaves.

__________

F
LEET EMPTIES THE POWDER
into the cup and waits.

“Is my treatment to vary at all?” Easton asks.

“That depends, my lord,” Fleet replies, watching the powder soak. “This preparation seems to suit you very well. I have a large enough box of tricks, but a good practitioner knows when to keep things simple.

Clumps of wet moss power begin to fall, and froth appears around the edges. Fleet tips the mug from side to side, an action that mocks the sway of the cabin.

“How do you plan to amuse yourself on this voyage, Mr. Fleet?”

“I will work. I have experiments. I will perhaps examine the crew for signs of agues as yet unknown to me. Seamen develop strange rashes and growths. There are many odd humours that travel only by water. I hope to learn more about them. Here.” Fleet passes Easton the cup. Easton looks down at the frothing liquid, takes a deep breath then throws it back in one. He makes a disgusted noise and for a moment is motionless—his elbow crooked, his eyes closed, the back of his hand against his mouth. He looks like a statue of a warrior in battle, immortalized at the point of death. The cabin's timbers groan as though also protesting the medicine.

“I can see much improvement in you, my lord, even in the last two days.” Fleet buckles up his sack then takes the cup from Easton's hand. Easton grunts and wipes his mouth.

“You should have seen me before I started taking your physic,” he says hoarsely. “I was nearly paralyzed.”

“I am glad your girl found me.”

Easton looks up at Fleet.

“What do think of Gabrielle?”

Fleet hesitates and frowns.

“I think she is devoted to you, clearly,” he replies.

“No,” Easton says. “What do you think of her?”

Fleet throws the sack over his shoulder. “A lady of unquestioned character,” he says. He pauses for a moment, then he decides to say it. “She seemed somewhat distracted last night at dinner. Was she perhaps confused about her status on board the ship?”

Easton sighs and shakes his head.

“She is too good for him,” he mumbles.

“Excuse me?”

“What do you think of our captain, Mr. Fleet?”

“I have no measure by which to judge such things, my lord. I could not tell a great captain from a novice—”

“—I meant, as a man, what do you think of him?”

Fleet finds himself smiling.
Why is he asking me
? There is a rush of pleasure too, and he reminds himself to be wary.

“A man of quality, I am sure.”

Easton stares up at Fleet, his eyes narrowing. “A buffoon, sir!” he bellows. “And you know it!”

Fleet raises his eyebrows then glances at the floor.

“I am not sure I can cope with too many days or weeks on board the ship of such a man,” says Easton, stroking the arm of his chair and searching his cabin with his eyes.

“But…,” Fleet mumbles, “but…what choice do you have?”

Easton glares at him again, but the anger in his eyes, Fleet knows, is for the captain not for him.

“There is always a choice, Mr. Fleet.”

Fleet frowns and says nothing.

Easton sighs and shifts in his chair.

“In any case, I'm not sure I can let him have Gabrielle, after all.”

“Have her?” Fleet echoes quietly.

“Henley is looking for a wife. I was going to provide her with a dowry.”

“Oh,” Fleet says, allowing his surprise to show.

Easton looks up at him. “What did you think I was proposing?”

Fleet shrugs and finds himself colouring.

“This age makes me despair, Mr. Fleet. Where is your chivalry, your sense of honour, that you could even think such a thing?”

He sighs and continues staring at Fleet as though bitterly disappointed. “Well, sir,” he exclaims suddenly, slapping the arms of his chair. “I need to pay you.” With a little effort, Easton gets up and goes to a panel in his cabin wall. He kneels, slides the panel open and pulls out a strongbox. He takes a key from his belt, turns it in the lock and opens the lid. He bends over, counting the coins into one hand, then he closes the strongbox, locks it again and places it back inside the wall. He slides closed the panel and stands.

“My friend,” he says, his voice much softer. “You can see that I trust you.” He walks over to Fleet. Fleet puts out his hand, and Easton drops the sovereigns into his palm one by one. “Even though your physic has made a thousand things possible that were out of the question before, I am not as I once was. I need you on my side.”

Easton's dark eyes look into Fleet's, and Fleet feels as though he is tipping into an abyss. Every ounce of his former resolution is in imminent danger.

Fleet lies on his bunk and stares at the candle-lit ceiling. The captain is entertaining his officers tonight, so he has been spared another evening like the last. An hour ago the young man in the blue tunic brought him a generous meal of carved meat, cheese, and shining apples. He has eaten but little of this; he has spent his time reliving his conversation with Easton, trying to place the precise moment when his shield gave way.

Was it when Easton first confided in him, asking his opinion of the captain? He remembers how it washed over him like a stream of pleasure, making his senses tingle. But he was aware of the danger and marshalled his defences accordingly.

Then came Easton's disapproval. “What did you think I was proposing?” he said.

In that instant Fleet's willpower wavered like a rope-walker at the Southwark Fair. He wanted to regain that which was forfeit.
Let the pirate be disappointed with you, you fool
! He tried to correct himself. And he would have been able to, had Easton not changed again, calling him “friend” and telling him he was trusted.

Fleet's purpose teetered and fell, crashing to the earth at high speed. For that moment and for half an hour afterwards, he was Easton's man. All the time he had spent watching and planning were like details remembered from a dream.

A short while ago, but for as long as Fleet could remember, the pirate was a dark rumour overhanging his life, a storm cloud upon which he could throw the thunder of his rage, the drizzle of his despair. Now Easton is flesh and blood. He has the power to reawaken forgotten chambers of Fleet's heart. He can breathe life into hopes and affections long withered.

Fleet lies still, the skull resting on his chest. He listens to the creaking of the ship's timbers. If this is Easton's effect on him in a day and a half, how will he remain true to himself for the whole voyage? Fleet closes his eyes, folds his arms over the skull and hugs it until the cranium pains his ribs. When his arms slacken, he begins to skim along the surface of a dream—he is looking into the dark eye of a raven. The raven seems to be talking to him, giving him advice.

With an effort, he pulls his eyes open and whispers a word. It is his word, one that has followed him like his own shadow through winter and spring, through sleeping and daylight, through misfortune and plenty. He waits for the timbers to reply.

Many times he has sought confirmation from the wind, the grass, the trees. He has heard his own thoughts echoed in the clanking of chains and has come to realize that, if he tries hard enough, the world will take on his burden. He listens carefully, and in a second, the dry, creaking sound seems to repeat the word over and over:
revenge, revenge, revenge
.

T
he foresail has been catching the crosswind all night, yet the fool still hasn't lashed it to the mast. The ship rocks and sways, and I can hear crew members run up and down stairs as though this were the year's fiercest storm off Cape of Good Hope. Dawn has risen and the sky is clear despite the breeze; and a breeze is all it is.

I stare through the porthole and watch the greenish-grey waves. Foam shows white on the ridges for a moment then fizzles into nothing. The serving boy said the captain advises us to stay in our cabins until calmer weather. I cannot believe the incompetence of the man. He could turn a bathtub into the deadliest of perils.

Three short knocks sound on my cabin door.

“Come!” I call without turning. The order makes me feel like a commander again, and I notice my voice has grown in strength. I could bellow orders from a deck if I needed to.

The door opens and closes quietly. Recognizing the style of entrance, I turn to see Gabrielle standing just inside the doorway, a sad, uncertain smile on her face. I realize how much I have missed the time we used to spend alone.

“My lord,” she says, taking a pace or two forward, “I need to talk to you.”

“Of course, any time you like,” I say softly, suddenly feeling much younger than I have in years.

“I do not understand what is happening on board this ship, my lord.”

Her fingertips fidget with her skirts as she speaks.

“Are things not to your liking, my Gabrielle?” I say. She smiles at my familiarity and seems already more comfortable.

“Why am I not being treated like the other servants?”

“You are not like other servants now,” I say.

I go to my desk, pull out the chair, turn it around and sit down. With a gesture I motion her to sit down on my bed. She does so silently and with such trust in her movements that I feel like a holy man about to give absolution.

I pause for another moment before speaking.

“Gabrielle,” I say quietly, “you have done too much to be looked upon as a servant. If the right gentleman can be found, I mean to bestow a dowery and promote the match.”

Gabrielle gives a short gasp, and her eyes meet mine for a moment. Then she looks down upon her lap. “I thought…I thought there was something,” she says softly, a furrow appearing upon her brow, “but I didn't think…that.”

“It will be hard enough to let you go,” I say smiling; the sentiment in my voice takes me by surprise. Who is this girl before me, after all? Neither daughter nor wife; a skinny young thing in my household in Françoise's time; since then, a more frequent presence in my bedchamber, fetching me water, emptying my bucket.

She looks up with a sweet, almost childlike smile.

“I am grateful, my lord, but I know nothing of marriage, nothing of gentlemen.” She looks about the cabin as though in search of something to prove a point. “I was raised by my mother and when she died, Françoise.”

“I understand,” I say softly, and a faint, piping note vibrates somewhere deep inside me, its quality painfully sweet, echoing a world of long-forgotten daydreams.

“I know about pureness and innocence,” I whisper.

Immediately, her expression changes. “No,” she says, frowning. “No, I am not pureness and innocence, my lord.” She shakes her head and I feel the strength of her defiance. “I do not even understand what this “pureness” is about. I am a woman. Why should I not know men?”

This is a Gabrielle I have not seen before. I want to go back to a few moments ago and rearrange her words so that they might deliver a different meaning. The picture opening up to me minutes ago was one of such exquisite delight; Gabrielle shy, fawn-like, needing my kindness and understanding.

“But, my dear…” I say slowly, shaking my head.

“My lord, who did you see that you thought I could marry?”

“I told you,” I say, “I was only
hoping
to find such a man.”

“Where, my lord?” She suddenly stands. Sinews stand out in her beautiful neck. “Where were you looking for a gentleman? In the middle of an ocean?”

“We are going to a new land,” I say quickly. “It is perhaps possible that among the planters there…”

But Gabrielle has stopped listening. She circles away from the bed and strides to the door, her hands folded over her chest.

“Temper does not become you, my dear,” I say, and immediately I hate the voice I hear. I sound like a petulant old man, and I resent Gabrielle for reducing me to this.

Gabrielle has turned toward me, her eyes alive with anger.

“You meant to marry me to the captain.”

“Gabrielle! What nonsense! How could you even think of such a thing?”