He shook his head and moved on, but then the laughter came again, this time punctuated by one sharp word. He couldn’t tell what word, but the voice sounded female.
It could be a ship’s lad being teased, or a whore, well used to this rough area. No concern of his.
But then he heard a few more words. Higher pitched, but almost authoritative. Not a lad. Almost certainly not a whore. But what decent woman would be down here late on a chilly October night?
Damn it all to Hades.
He’d been at sea for two cold days and nights and anticipated a fine meal and warm bed at the Compass and then home tomorrow.
He waited and heard no more.
There, whatever the commotion, it was over. But then raised jeers made him curse again and turn toward the noise. One of the misty globes probably marked the entrance to the place, but he couldn’t see more than that.
As he came closer he saw only two small windows, one on either side of a cockeyed door, covered by slat-ted shutters that let out mean slices of tallow light. Tobacco smoke slithered out as well, along with the smell of ale, new and old, and human stink. It was a port tavern of the lowest sort, a haunt for the roughest of sailors and shore workers.
A coarse voice sneered something about tits.
The woman didn’t respond.
Was unable to respond?
As he reached for the door he saw a roughly painted sign nailed above it indicating that this place rejoiced in the name the Black Rat.
“And a plague on the lot of you,” muttered Captain Rose as he shouldered open the warped planked door.
He’d been right about the smoke and tallow light, and it made the room foggy, but he could see enough.
The Rat was crowded, and most of the men were still sitting on their stools and benches, drinking from pots and tankards, but they’d all turned to watch the entertainment. In the corner to his right, five men had a woman trapped. Perhaps she’d been herded there as soon as she unwisely entered.
What in Hades had she been thinking? Even at a glance he recognized youth and good birth. Her brown-and-cream-striped gown had cost a pretty penny, and her hair curled out from a dainty cap trimmed with lace. And yes, the swell behind the fichu that filled in her low bodice suggested she had fine tits. One of her captors was teasingly trying to snatch away the filmy cloth, playing cat and mouse, but sure of victory.
She slapped at his hand.
The man laughed.
Rose looked around for allies, but saw no one he knew.
There was one other woman present, but she was a hard-faced forty or so and was guarding the big cask of ale. The tavern keeper or his wife, but showing no sign of interfering. She continued to fill pots and tankards as requested and take the coins. He was on his own against five, and now drinkers were beginning to notice his arrival, nudging one another and muttering.
Not surprising. He was as alien here as she. His dark suit was old-fashioned, but of excellent quality. He wore his hair loose to his shoulders and had days of beard on his chin, but these men would recognize rank and authority.
Rank and authority might help him, or it might get his throat cut. Easy enough to tip a body off the nearby quay and no one would be any the wiser. In places such as these, no one tattled.
Someone might recognize him—Captain Rose’s red neckcloth and skull earrings were meant to be noticed—but that wouldn’t protect him if they turned on him.
He saw neither recognition nor hostility as yet, only interest in a new actor on the stage and hope that he’d provide even more free entertainment. Rose turned his attention back to the scene in the corner. Yes, a lady. He knew by her clothes, but also by her carriage and the outrage flashing in her eyes. What—had she expected the habitués of a place like the Black Rat to be gentlemen?
Both haughty manner and generous figure were going to get her raped. Even these rascals might object to tormenting a terrified weakling, but such a bold piece would look like fair game to them, especially if she’d come in here by her own choice.
Had she been looking for this sort of adventure? Some ladies thought rough men exciting, but she’d have to be mad to sink this low, and despite an attempt at dignity, she was young. Perhaps not eighteen. Surely too young for such depravity. As a couple of the tormentors sensed something and turned to confront him, he wondered if he could use insanity to free her.
One of the two men was scarred and sinewy, but the other was an ox, all hard, beefy muscle, with a low, bony forehead. Getting the chit out of here without blood-shed wasn’t going to be easy, and the blood shed could well be his own. The shorter man had slid out a long filleting knife. It would be razor sharp.
Too late to rethink now. As with any feral animals, it would be disastrous to show fear, even if his heart beat fast with it. And in truth, he couldn’t abandon the foolish creature.
He strode forward, pushing his way roughly between tables. “So there you are, you dim trull!” he blasted in the voice he used to call instructions in a gale. “What in Hades do you think you’re doing, wandering about down here?”
None of the tormentors moved. Nor did their victim except to stare at him. He saw then how stretched her courage was. The whites showed around her eyes. He hoped his weren’t the same.
Play your part, damn you
, he thought as he assessed the danger around them.
Probably the only immediate danger was from the two who’d faced him, but at the slightest sign of fear they’d all be on him like a pack of mangy dogs. He had a pistol in his pocket, but that was only one shot. He had a blade too, but he didn’t fool himself that he’d win a knife fight, and to show either weapon now would indicate fear.
There was no way out of this but through it, so he brushed past the two men as if unaware of them, grabbed her arm, and snarled, “Come on.”
She instinctively pulled back, but then complied by one step. It probably looked right for a woman caught in folly by an angry husband or guardian. When Rose directed them toward the door, however, the two men moved solidly in his way.
“Yer little lady came a-visitin’,” said the ox, flexing his big hands. Clearly he thought them the only weapon he needed, and he was probably right. “Reckon she’s ours now.”
“She’s my wife,” Rose said in a weary tone he hoped would get some sympathy, “and half out of her wits, as you can see. Let us be.”
“I don’t mind if she’s a knock in the cradle,” said the man with the knife, “as long as she’s got big tits.” He showed dirty, broken teeth. “We want to see her tits.”
Ah, hell.
“I think not,” Rose said, and moved his left hand to his right wrist, then turned it, holding a knife.
The method usually impressed his foes, for he kept the knife in a cunning sheath on his right forearm so that its appearance seemed magical. In that moment of distraction, he took his pistol out of his right pocket. He was left-handed, but moderately ambidextrous, and the pistol was small and specially made so he could easily cock it one-handed. Too small for distance work, but it’d stop a man at this range.
The shorter man eyed the weapons through slitted eyes, wary but assessing his chances. The ox chewed the cud, clearly wishing he were grinding someone between his teeth.
Would they stop him again? He tested the situation by moving a step to the side. The two men moved to block him.
The knife man said to the others, “Come on, mates. He’s one man, and a fribbly type, from the look of those weapons. Call that a knife! Let’s get him!”
The group stirred but was undecided.
Rose raised the pistol to point directly at the knife man’s left eye. “You die first.”
Into the frozen silence, a voice rose at the back of the room. An elderly voice, but strong. “That’s Captain Rose, lads. Don’t know as I’d take him on, m’self.”
Most of the room turned toward the speaker, but not the two dangerous men. Captain Rose kept his eyes on them.
“A flower?” sneered the knife man. “I’ll pluck his pretty petals for him.”
His companions sniggered, but they shifted like wet sand, uncertain.
“Captain Rose of the
Black Swan
,” the same helpful voice called. “Broke the arm of the last man to pull a knife on him.”
The three other villains backed away a bit. Rose had no idea who the speaker was, but silently thanked him, though he hoped he wouldn’t have to live up to the billing.
Captain Rose and his ship, the
Black Swan
, were well-known along this stretch of the south coast. Most of the time the
Swan
engaged in general trade, but sometimes she sailed off on illicit business across the Channel. He’d made sure that people along the coast knew the
Black Swan
’s business didn’t benefit the French, especially during the recent war. Even the lowest Kentish sea rat wouldn’t take kindly to anyone who favored their ancient enemy.
All the local people knew Captain Rose of the
Black Swan
was a loyal Englishman and a good seaman, but he was known for other things as well. For enjoying a fistfight, and yes, for objecting to anyone drawing a weapon on him.
But there were two Captain Roses, and he was the other one.
He was the Duke of Ithorne, known to his friends as Thorn.
The other Captain Rose was Caleb, his illegitimate half brother.
Thorn was as good a seaman as Caleb, and perhaps even better, but he had no taste for meaningless fighting and little skill in a brawl. Other than that, Caleb and he were as close in appearance as two peas in a pod. The slight differences in their features were masked by dark stubble that sometimes became a beard. To make the illusion complete, Captain Rose wore distinctive clothes—an old-fashioned black frock coat and a scarlet neckcloth—and an earring in the form of a skull with ruby eyes.
People generally saw what they expected to see, so the outward trappings meant that the man inside was Captain Rose of the
Black Swan
.
Most of the time, Caleb was master of the
Swan
, but that being the case, his reputation stuck to Captain Rose, who was generally known as a gregarious womanizer and fearless brawler. He leapt into a fistfight with glee, especially when he’d been drinking, and then afterward drank cheerfully with his opponents—as long as they’d not pulled a weapon on him. He took knives as a personal affront and would leave the offender in pieces. Perhaps Caleb’s reputation would tip the scales here.
“I’m Rose, right enough, so heed the man and get out of my way.”
The ox’s brow lowered. “Ye’re still only one.”
“One of one can be more than one of another.”
The ox stared, baffled.
A nearby man said, “I’ve ’eard of Captain Rose, but never that he was married.”
“Not quite blessed by the church,” Thorn admitted.
Amid laughter one of the wary brutes sneered, “For that sort of lay, I’d pick a sweeter-natured ’un.”
“Perhaps I enjoy a wench with spirit,” he parried.
“Spicy in bed as well, is she?”
“Exceedingly.” He tossed it out simply to annoy the idiotic cause of this mess, but then recognized his mistake. New interest stirred in the room as a whole.
A pot flew by, spraying ale, and thunked into the side of the knife man’s head. He cried out, put hand to head, staggered, and then collapsed to his knees.
“Hey, that was my pot, woman,” someone protested, but weakly.
Thorn was cursing himself. That conversation had been a distraction and he’d fallen for it, but she’d kept her wits about her. He stepped back until he was by her side. “Good aim, ma’am.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said tightly, “but I have no more ammunition within reach.”
He passed her his pistol. “It’s cocked, so be careful.”
She took it, but as if she’d never handled a gun before.
“Point it upward,” he said hastily. “We wouldn’t want to kill anyone. Not by accident, at least,” he added deliberately.
Finally the men were backing away. Clearly the sight of a gun in the hands of a woman was more frightening than the same gun in a man’s, especially when the woman had no idea what to do with it.
Thorn fought laughter, praying the girl wouldn’t shoot anyone by accident, especially him. Just perhaps, however, the tide was turning in his favor. The knife man was still glazed. She’d hit him well. The ox seemed truly bovine without him.
He dug in his breeches pocket, feeling the coins there. What was the right amount for the situation? He didn’t want to inflame new greed, but he wanted to offer enough to get them out of here. He took out a silver sixpence and tossed it to the man who’d lost his drink.
“Thank’ee, sir!” the man said with a gap-toothed grin.
Thorn took out a crown and held it up to one of the other bully boys. “Ransom?”
The man hesitated a moment and then snatched the five-shilling piece. “Right you are, Captain! Worth it, I reckon, to see such a good throw. I’d get that pistol off her, though, and fast.”
“Excellent advice.”
He retrieved his pistol from her trembling hands and uncocked it, but he kept it out. The room was still crowded, its mood still uncertain. They could be grabbed, tripped, even stabbed before they reached the door. Money alone might be cause. Women were cheap and silver was rare.
Was he thinking too much, assuming too much hazard, as his friends sometimes accused him of doing? How did one not think in a situation like this? Thinking wasn’t creating a path out of here, however, and the knife man was beginning to struggle to his feet. Nearby faces were unreadable and could easily conceal a murderous interest in the contents of his pockets. . . .
Then the church bell began to toll.
Everyone’s interest shifted. It was too late for any service.
“The French?” someone muttered, and others picked it up.