Authors: Laura Kinsale
I am sure you will wish your niece to live in comfort appropriate to her station. A general letter of credit would be sufficient for this purpose, made out in the name of Mustafa Effendi Murad and conveyed to Belgrade to be deposited in the care of the Turkish garrison.
You must not allow the location to cause you any undue concern that the princess herself will be allowed to cross the frontier to Belgrade and enter Plague territory; most assuredly neither of us will come near the city at all.
A Supporter
Olympia left the fens at first light, along with the wheeling curtains of water birds that rose from the shining water around. As the punt moved in silence beneath those great, reverberating masses of sound and life, the moving flocks were silhouetted against a brilliant dawn, almost blocking out the sun itself as they spiraled and spread and intertwined, heading toward the open sea.
Her breath sparkled in the morning transparency of a hard frost. She huddled in the boat, dressed in a set of heavy trousers and a thick blue jersey that Fish had given her years before. With wool wrappings around her palms for warmth, the trousers stuffed into a pair of thigh boots and an oversized sou'wester whose brim flopped down over her shoulders to hide her hair, Fish pronounced her "a proper fen tiger, then."
At that moment, she would have been happy to be a wildfowler, in fact, and spend the rest of her life in the immense bleak beauty of the washes rather than leave the only place she'd ever known for a notorious and uncertain future. She loved the fens. Fish had taught her that, schooled her to watch the birds and know their flight patterns. She could clean the punt gun and load it, and knew how to lie flat on her stomach in the bottom of the punt and move it along with the stalking sticks until the ducks were within range of the gun. She knew how to set a trap for eels and net plovers, wading far out in the flooded washes to retrieve the birds and slogging back again.
Julia was beautiful and sophisticated and charming. She was well read and well traveled; she'd seen London and Paris and Rome. Fish Stovall could not read or write, and he'd never been beyond the edge of the fens at Lynn. He lived alone in the middle of a wash, in a house that flooded every third winter.
Julia was Olympia's governess, but Fish was her family.
He said nothing beyond necessary instructions about the punt and the sluices for all the long trip down the canals to Lynn. The canal gave way to the straight, wide channel of the River Ouse, and Fish had to row as the water deepened. The punt glided past gangs of flat-bottomed coal lighters towed by patient horses on the bank. When Olympia saw the steeples and towers of Lynn in the distance, she bit her lip.
"Where are you to leave me?" she asked, breaking the silence at last.
"Greenland public house."
He said no more. Olympia worked her cold fingers, watching the river widen and the traffic grow heavy. Fish's punt began to seem very small amid the boats and busy lighters and the heavy smell of the sea. When she saw the tall masts of the collier brigs and commercial shipping, she pressed her hands tightly together.
"He won't be here," she said with conviction. "How will I find him?"
"If he ain't here, I'll take you home."
She turned and looked at Fish, at his wind-roughened cheeks and graying beard in the shadow of his hat brim. He squinted at her and nodded once, then stood up and began poling them into one of the canal streets of the city. Olympia jumped out onto the quay and helped secure the punt alongside the customhouse.
No one took any note of them: a nondescript fenman with three sacks of plovers slung over his shoulder, and a short, stout young lad, muffled to his ears by a moth-eaten scarf, carrying the excess.
Fish sold the plovers to a butcher in King Street. They walked together to the whalers' public house, The Greenland Fishery. Olympia's feet slowed as her heartbeat increased. She kept her face down. If she hadn't been following at Fish's heels, forced to keep up in order not to lose him, her pace would have dwindled to a complete halt.
At the door of The Greenland, she looked up for a moment at the ancient half-timbered inn with its red tile roof and tipsy lean. This side of the door, she was still uncommitted; she could still tug at Fish's sleeve and nod back toward the river, and know that he would turn around without a word and take her back. On the other side…
She looked at Fish. He only looked back at her, awaiting her decision. She wondered if he felt the same grief at parting, if his heart lay like hers, lonely and aching already for the hours spent in silent companionship out on the empty washes.
His dark gaze moved over her face in the keen, subtle way it moved across the marsh. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a small canvas bag. "There," he said. "That's yours, boy."
Olympia's fingers closed over the hard little rectangle of Fish's well-used harmonica. She opened her mouth to protest. Then she clutched it harder, unwilling to surrender one last tie with her friend. Tears threatened sharply. She wrinkled her nose, and remembered to wipe at it with her sleeve like a peasant boy.
She gave Fish one quick nod, hoping he saw all she could not say. He pushed open the old plank door.
Inside, he sat down in a chair near the fire. Olympia started to sit down next to him, but he jerked his head. "Over there, boy."
It startled her at first, the gruff note in his voice. But it dawned on her that in her part as a boy, she was due no special attention. It was Fish's courtesy to the house to relegate her to the coldest, least desirable seat. She sat down where he indicated, at the end of a table that suffered a draft from the door.
She'd never been in a public house before—most certainly not in one like this, filled with seamen and greasy smoke, the dim light tinged with green by the leaded glass window at her back. The air was thick with wet wool and fish and sweat and odors she could not even identify.
As often as she dared, she lifted her head from contemplating the table and snatched looks around at the booths and tables. She could not imagine Sir Sheridan in a place like this. The last time she'd seen him, he would have graced a palace. With a rise of panic, she wondered if Fish could have got the instructions wrong.
Fish drank his ale, tilting back his chair and staring into the fire. He offered nothing to Olympia, ignoring her and everyone else. She rubbed her fingers together in her lap, miserably watching him finish off his fourth pitcher. She dared not speak. She could only turn slightly every time the door opened and watch the feet of anyone who came in.
Fish was on his seventh mug when heavy boots sounded on the stairs from the private rooms. Olympia glanced up and looked away from the two strange men who descended into the taproom, heading for the door. The leader had already shoved open the wooden portal when the second one stopped next to her. She froze, staring at the oaken table.
"This your boy?" It was a grating, unfamiliar voice.
After a pause, Fish said, "Aye."
The sound of boots came closer. The slice of afternoon light disappeared as the other man let the door fall closed and leaned against the frame.
"He lookin' for work?"
There was another long pause, and then to Olympia's horror, Fish said, "Might be."
She glanced up at Fish and swiftly down again, her face growing fiery.
"Stand up, boy," the stranger said.
She threw Fish another agonized glance. He only nodded, emotionless. Olympia felt dizzy with fright. She pushed back the bench and stood up.
Though she kept her face down, she heard the other man leave his post by the door and move closer. His loose sweater and dark coat filled up her limited field of vision. He put his fist under her chin and lifted it. Olympia stubbornly kept her eyelashes lowered, trying to breathe slowly enough to prevent herself from fainting. The hum of conversation in the room dimmed as the patrons seemed to find a moment of casual amusement in the situation.
In a disinterested tone, the man who was touching her said, "Pretty."
Her eyes flashed open at the voice. She stared up, suddenly looking long enough to see through the dark stubble and grime to the gray eyes and familiar tiny scar above his left eyebrow. A wash of relief swept her, so profound that it threatened to collapse her knees. She stood trembling under his touch.
"How much?" Sir Sheridan asked, still in that detached and considering voice.
From the comer of her eye, she saw Fish shrug. He didn't answer.
"He'd go for a cabin boy. Light duty." As Sir Sheridan skimmed his fingers over Olympia's cheek, he smiled. "Very light duty," he added softly.
Hoarse chuckles erupted from a nearby table. "Mark 'im up dearly, Papa," someone said. "He's solid gold."
"Four pound." the man said who'd spoken to her first.
The offer was met with jeers from the table of onlookers.
Fish turned red. "I reckon that ain't enough," he mumbled.
"Six."
"The boy's mum won't like it. She be fond of him." Fish shuffled his feet. "What'll I say to 'er, then?"
"Tell her he's shipped aboard Yarborough's
Falcon
out of London. Twenty-two guns, bound for China." Sir Sheridan grinned. "Tell her he'll bring her back a nice silk shawl."
Fish frowned amid the guffaws. "You the captain, then?"
Sir Sheridan smiled and shook his head, as if that naive assumption amused him. "Mate."
"This
Falcon
make any money?" Fish's voice was sharp. "What's the cargo?"
"Opium. Very profitable, I assure you. And every chance of advancement for your boy if he can conduct himself."
"Not that he looks it," the first man said. "See that skin? Soft as a gel's, and he's fat as a bleedin' porpoise, too."
"Aye," Sir Sheridan said, in a much more appreciative tone. "I see it."
Everyone in the place roared. The first man curled his lip in contempt as he looked at Sir Sheridan. "Christ—don't you want a bit more spirit in a boy? He ain't never been out o' his mama's kitchen if he could help it."
Sir Sheridan just tilted Olympia's head one way and another, observing her with a fond smile.
"Well," the other man said with disgust, "for what
you
be needin', he might do. Ten pound for him, the little bugger. And that's all."
Olympia couldn't see Fish's face. The room grew quiet, waiting.
Finally, in a barely audible voice, Fish said, "Done."
The crowd in the tavern broke out in a babble of conversation, jeers at Fish for selling too cheap, congratulations to the new boy for getting a soft berth, and an undertone of something else, a strange sort of laughter directed at Sir Sheridan. Fish gave her name as Tom, and made his mark on some papers.
Before she even had a chance to say goodbye, the first man grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her into the street. She almost cried out, trying to break away and turn back. It seemed all too real, this callous transaction. But Sir Sheridan came through the door after them. She bit her lip on the protest.
He stood in the street and paid the man who'd bought her—twenty pounds for the papers Fish had signed for ten. As Sir Sheridan tucked the documents into his sweater, he put his arm around Olympia's shoulders and caressed her cheek.
"Fat as a porpoise, are you, sweeting? Let's hope we can keep you so."
The other man gave her an ironic look. "I always tell 'em: 'Obey your mate's orders, and you'll come off right enough.'" He didn't quite smile; the expression was uglier than that. "So—do whatever he bids ye. Ever'thin', mark. You aim to please; don't you fight him in nothing. Or he'll make sure you're the sorrier for it."
"Come, now," Sir Sheridan said softly. "You frighten the boy. Go on back to your hole, my friend, and lay up for the next customer." He propelled Olympia around as he turned away, keeping her pressed close against his body. Under his breath he added, "Pestilent bastard."
They walked in the direction of the river. After a few yards, he stopped and bought a bag of sweetmeats from a street vendor, never letting go of her shoulders. He leaned against the corner of a shop window and bent over, offering Olympia the treat. "You're doing fine," he murmured, glancing sideways back toward the public house as he rested his hand against the curve of her neck. "We're going to board a ship; just keep on as you are—yes…silly child, that's all right; cry if you want to, it's quite in character."
"Fish," she said with a little gesture. "I wanted to say goodbye."
"Here." He pressed a sweetmeat into her hand. "Eat that."
"I don't want it. Can't we go back for just a—"
His fingers tightened on her shoulder. She winced and tried to pull away from the painful grip. "That's not possible. Eat the damned sweet." The vicious low tone was at startling variance with the affectionate way he smiled down at her. "That filthy crimp's still standing there watching us. Do you want him to get another close look at you? If he didn't manage to guess the truth, then he just might overcome his Christian disgust of fellows like me and steal you back to sell to the highest bidder."
"Steal me!"
"Aye. And if you think I enjoy passing myself off as a sodomite, I don't. It doubled your price, for one thing."
Olympia's eyes widened.
"Eat," he said. "I want to get out of here."
She put the candy in her mouth.
"Good." He smiled and patted her cheek. "Don't say anything, to me or anyone else." He stood looking down at her for a moment, holding both her shoulders. Then he bent and planted a kiss full on her mouth. Olympia pulled back in shock, but he held her fast. His mouth opened a little over hers, the dark stubble of his beard scratching her chin. His fingers tightened on her shoulders.
Oh, God
, she thought, between terror and bliss.
He straightened. "There," he murmured ruefully. "That ought to ruin my reputation for good with the ladies in these parts."
Their cabin aboard the
John Campbell
was smaller than anything Sheridan had occupied for years. As a senior post captain, he'd had at least a few feet of open space, if not much in the way of luxuries to fill it. He kept his head down, avoiding the deck beams in the narrow companionway passage, and opened the cabin door to allow the princess to enter.