The Pirate and the Pagan (63 page)

“You know the routine. Take off your clothes.”

Summer had done everything he’d demanded of her last time, answering each command with a submissive “Yes, Sergeant-Major,” and still he had tortured her with the hot iron. Perhaps the outcome would be no worse if she defied him. When she didn’t obey him immediately, however, he took hold of her breast and twisted it viciously. She cried out with pain and cursed herself for being weak. Slowly she removed her soiled clothes, almost glad to be out of them. When he ordered her to serve his dinner, the delicious smell of the food made her mouth water, then her empty stomach cramped painfully. She gathered her courage. “May I bathe, Sergeant-Major?”

“No, you may not,” he said pleasantly.

“How can you bear to have me serve your food when I’m so soiled?” she cried angrily.

“I am amazed that the first thing you beg of me is a bath. That tells me that cleanliness is more important to you than food.” He smiled. “The filthier you become, the happier I’ll be. When you are so begrimed with dirt that no soap will ever get you clean again, I shall be content, Lady Bitch. You may put your grimy rags back on now.”

This time she did not relax once she was dressed. She remembered too vividly what happened last week and expected him to have some cruelty planned again.

He finished his ale and surveyed her through narrowed eyes. “I
bet you thought you’d be able to bribe me with sexual favors. You don’t know me very well yet … but you’ll learn. I’ll bet your hair drives Helford mad with lust. Does he spread it across the pillows before he makes love to you? Too bad,” he said with mock regret, “regulations say I may cut your hair to stop lice.” He reached for a bone-handled razor and licked his lips with excitement as he chopped it so short it barely covered her ears. She knew if she struggled or defied him, he might shave her bald.

When Summer was shoved back into the cell, she saw sadly that the other women had suffered the same fate. Sidney said, “Bloody pervert!”

“Never mind,” Lardy said, “it’ll grow again. We were crawling with lice anyway.”

Summer took heart at their comments. It showed they were beginning to care what happened to one another. She had no time to mourn her lost beauty because around midnight Nellie went into labor.

    The moment the
Pagan Goddess
dropped anchor in the London Pool, Ruark Helford went directly to Lil Richwood’s house in Cockspur Street. He held up his hand in hopes she wouldn’t launch into a long list of his shortcomings. “Lil, before you say anything, I know it was wrong to take Ryan like I did. I want you to know I’m finished with all these damned silly games. I want to ask her … beg her … to come back to me.”

“That’s wonderful, darling,” drawled Auntie Lil. “Summer lost absolutely everything, you know—her house, her gold, all her clothes.”

Ruark was beginning to understand why she hadn’t rushed to Cornwall. “Then you think she’ll agree to come to Helford Hall?” he asked hopefully.

“Darling, she went. She was absolutely incensed with you for taking her son.”

“How could she travel without money?” he asked, a feeling of alarm growing steadily inside his chest.

Lil Richwood shrugged her elegant shoulders. “You know Summer, darling. I tried to tell her she couldn’t go off alone, but that was like waving a red flag at a bull!”

“I know how headstrong she is, Lil,” he supplied, both hope and dread warring inside him. “Tell me her plans.”

“She ‘borrowed’ a horse from the palace stables and was riding to Portsmouth to take ship for Cornwall,” said Lil.

“I knew she would come after Ryan, that’s why I took him, but where under heaven and hell is she?” he demanded. He felt Lil was keeping something back from him. Suddenly all the churchbells began to ring. The servants ran into the street to see what was amiss. Everyone knew it was an alarm signal of some sort. Since the disaster of the London fire everyone was alert to unexpected calamity befalling.

A footman came back into the house, ashen-faced. “What is it, man?” demanded Ruark.

“They say we are attacked! The Dutch have landed!” he cried.

Ruark clapped on his wide-brimmed hat. “I’ll go across to Whitehall and find out what this is all about,” he said grimly. He went directly up to the King’s closet and found Charles in his shirt sleeves with his brother James, Chancellor Hyde, and some men from the Navy Office.

“Helford! What news?” asked Charles.

It was one of the few times in his life he was at a loss for words and he felt his neck. “None, Sire. I had no indication aught was amiss last night when I anchored in the Thames. Rumors are everywhere that we are attacked,” he said with a question in his voice.

“The reports I received said that all last week we ravaged the coast of Holland with over a hundred ships. The Dutch lost six thousand men. Can you verify these reports?”

“I can verify them, Sire,” said Sandwich, who had joint command of the English fleet. “Unfortunately they sank the
Hector
and the
Mary
suffered damage and only managed to limp home, but I swear we only lost two hundred men to their six thousand.”

The Duke of York, who held joint command with Sandwich, but never bothered going to sea, was covered with shame at the moment. His face was very flushed as he cut into the conversation. “What of the rumors we are attacked?”

“Du Ruyter and a handful of his most reckless captains have followed us home and are trying to blockade us in the Thames and the River Medway, where our larger vessels are anchored.”

“A handful?” shouted James. “Why haven’t you sailed out of the estuary and blasted them out of the water?”

“Because rumor has it the French are standing off the coast of Dover,” said Sandwich simply.

James’s face went ashen. Charles saw his brother’s agitation and knew he would be useless to Sandwich in spite of his high command. The King exchanged glances with Helford. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking. We need Rupert.”

“I saw his ship
Henrietta
at Portsmouth yesterday. I want my old command back under Prince Rupert,” said Ruark without hesitation, caring little if he offended Sandwich.

Charles looked at his elderly chancellor. “Get them to stop ringing those infernal bells, man. We should be listening for gunfire.”

Edward Progers, His Majesty’s page of the backstairs, came into the King’s closet. “Sire, there are so many courtiers gathering I thought it best not to let any more up here, but now that Buckingham and Lauderdale are below, I can’t control them. It seems everyone wishes to volunteer his services.”

“I’ll be down directly. Ask the two of them to control everyone until I get there. They will relish the authority,” Charles said shrewdly.

Sandwich said, “We’ll stretch a boom across the River Medway to stop their ships.”

“If I know de Ruyter, a boom won’t stop him,” said Helford. “We’ll have to sink some ships to block them coming upriver.”

“We need our ships,” said Sandwich, glaring at Helford.

James said, “Upnor Castle has a fortress. It will defend the Medway.”

Charles said ruefully, “Upnor has been totally reglected since the Civil War. We should have built flanking batteries to raise its firepower. I don’t have much faith in a small fort rendering the tidal Medway impassable to a seaborne enemy.”

“Albermarle’s fleet at Chatham will be the most vulnerable,” said Sandwich, shaking his head, “if it’s not already destroyed.”

“Send all volunteers to Chatham under Albermarle, until Rupert can get here,” suggested Helford.

“I’ll go,” offered the Duke of York helpfully.

“James, you’d be more use here as liaison,” Charles said smoothly so as not to ruffle his feathers. “Draw up a list of ships and who commands them. I think Albermarle has
Sovereign of the Seas
and William Penn commands the
Royal Charles”
The King headed for his bedchamber. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Helford, attend me while I shave and make myself more presentable.”

Ruark followed him through the inner door of the privy closet which led to the King’s bedchamber. He grinned widely at the
disarray of the King’s enormous curtained bed. Sheets and pillows were strewn everywhere and two of his spaniels were having a tug-of-war with Barbara’s satin slipper, which she’d lost in her hurry to depart when the churchbells had sounded the alarm.

“I need the services of the
Phantom”
said Charles quietly. “You don’t think it’s trapped in the Medway, do you?”

“My brother has many shortcomings, but stupidity isn’t one of them,” said Ruark.

“Rory still uses the Isle of Sheppey?” asked Charles.

“Your spies keep you well informed, Sire,” said Ruark noncommittally.

“Oh, obviously.” Charles laughed, jerking his head toward the rumpled bed. “The Dutch attack and catch me with my pants down.” Charles sat down at a writing desk and dipped a quill in the inkwell. “I don’t believe the French are standing off Dover. I think they are enemies of Holland, not allies. I want Rory to confirm for me this is a last-ditch effort by de Ruyter. I believe their entire fleet is decimated and this farce is being staged to wring better terms from us in the inevitable peace negotiations.”

Ruark Helford knew the King was more shrewd than all his ministers rolled together.

“Ru, I’m entrusting Rory with two secret letters. One for Holland, the other for France. I must caution you this mission is different from the others.” Charles sighed. “Old Hyde will have to step down. He’s outlived his usefulness. I’m going to replace him with a cabal of four or five so that full power never rests with one man again.”

“Secretary of State Arlington?” asked Ruark. “Buckingham and Lauderdale?”

Charles nodded. “I don’t want any of them, not even my brother James, to know about these secret treaties with Holland and France. Not until they’re faits accomplis. They will give England the balance of power in Europe.”

“Accomplished by the grossest political chicanery,” said Ruark Helford grimly.

“God’s flesh, why can’t you be more like your brother Rory?” groaned Charles.

The two dark-visaged men glared at one another for a full minute, before their challenge to each other dissolved into laughter. Each knew they’d gone through too much together to walk separate paths at this late stage of the game.

N
ellie’s screams were enough to awaken the dead. When Bludwart came to investigate the hullabaloo, Cat said, “She’s giving birth. We can deliver her, but not without hot water and some clean sheets and blankets.” Bludwart knew the cell wasn’t even a fit place for the rats that came up the drain at night. He should never have put the women there, but Oswald had insisted. Someday someone with higher authority might come and inspect and he wanted no trouble. Everyone must be accounted for; he didn’t want the woman dying when she’d been there less than a month.

Cat knew young Gert would be useless and she didn’t fancy Granny the abortionist having a hand in the matter. She looked at Sidney’s face set in its hard lines and knew she wasn’t about to help anyone. It would have to be Lardy. When they got the bucket of hot water, they used it to wash Nellie from head to foot Bludwart had supplied one sheet and one blanket, and they knew it was a miracle they’d gotten anything at all.

They wrapped Nellie in the sheet and tried to make her as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances. Her cries grew fainter with the long labor, and by the time the small, bluish baby was delivered she seemed to have sunk into an exhausted stupor. Nellie had bled a lot and as a result the sheet was now saturated.
Cat washed the blood from the tiny baby girl, then dropped the fouled sheet into what now looked like a bucket of blood. They wrapped Nellie and the baby in the sole blanket and Cat stayed awake to keep the rats away.

When the gruel arrived in the morning, Lardy said, “I can live off my fat.”

Cat smiled at her. “She’s got to get her strength back or her milk might not come in.” They spooned the gruel into Nellie’s mouth, but she seemed completely apathetic and somehow detached. She didn’t speak, or look at her child, but at least she clasped the baby to her thin breast and they could hear it making tiny sucking sounds.

Cat kept another wooden spoon. Now she had three. Bludwart said nothing, but they got no more spoons. Cat knew she was much thinner than she had been a month past. She also felt so damned weak and weary she often wished she could sit against the wall and go to sleep forever. The smell of the place became a part of her. She soon adapted so that she could tolerate the abrasive company of the other women, and eventually when her stomach didn’t get enough food, it shrank and diminished her appetite. She experienced a dull gnawing in her gut which never went away but she trained herself to ignore it. She even began to get used to the dirt. If you resisted and railed against a thing night and day, you used up every last ounce of strength. The way to get through this ordeal, she told herself, if indeed there was a way to get through it, was acceptance. Quiet acceptance.

She used the power of her mind to free her from her cage. Each day and every night she spent long, pleasant hours in flights of fancy, far removed from the slimed wall of the dungeon she was propped against. She spent hours remembering her baby—the soft feel of the black down upon his head, the tiny black eyelashes forming crescents on his cheeks when he slept, the rosebud mouth which could smile or pucker or open in a rage to make a racket loud enough to raise the rent. And she remembered the sweet, clean smell of him and the way his dark green eyes followed her about the room, never leaving her.