The Pirate and the Pagan (64 page)

Sometimes she would sail the
Phantom
to warm climes while the swarthy, grinning crew played merry tunes on their tin whistles and concertinas. Rory must have gathered his men from all over the world, for they looked Spanish, Turkish, Moorish, Sicilian. Corsairs signed on at the waterfronts of Marseilles or Genoa. Black
Jack Flash—she could feel his hands covering hers while she stood at the ship’s wheel, feel his warm breath on her cheek and his rough beard brush against her throat. Whenever he had stood behind her, she had felt him quicken against her buttocks, then, oh how she’d enjoyed being carried down to the red, silk-draped bed. She could still feel his beard brush against her breast, her belly, her thighs. There had been no resisting Rory Helford and now she was glad she hadn’t resisted him. She realized that a woman never regrets the things she’s done in life; only the things she’s never done.

She would never be wholly imprisoned so long as she could picture him standing at the wheel on his slanting deck, his face wet with spray, his flash of hair wildly blowing in a gale as he trimmed his sails. A storm at sea exhilharated him as much as it did her, so she pictured him in that reckless way he had with his amused eyes laughing at something, everything.

One of her favorite escapes was on Ebony’s back. Their beach ever beckoned. The warm scented breeze, the azure sea, the coves where playful otters balanced crustaceans on their tummies. She could feel the soft velvet of Ebony’s nose, see his black, shiny flanks quiver to discourage an inquisitive wasp or dragonfly. If she ever had the chance again to greet the dawn astride her beloved animal, she would do so naked, in true pagan fashion. To be free—to be unfettered again would perhaps only come with death. She no longer feared death. Death was easy. It was life she feared. Living was hell. Except for the dreams, the daydreams.

The single most pleasurable thing she remembered in her entire life was Lord Ruark Helford. How he had loved to gather her into his lap so they could share a single chair. She could still feel the hardness of his mouth on hers, hear his words against her hair: “I love you, Summer, I love you with all my heart. I have never loved another woman.” When their mating was finished and his dark head rested against her breast and when he lifted his head to worship her with his eyes, she knew he was neither hard nor cruel. No one knows a man like a woman who shares his bed. The rare moments when she had caught the unfamiliar look of tenderness on his face, just for her, was enough to take her breath away. She remembered again and again how, in the dead of night, he lay deep within her, then spent the violence of his passion, unleashed and savage and never-to-be-forgotten. The single most precious memory was that rapt moment of silence when they looked into each
other’s eyes, their smiles faded away, and the aching fire sprang to life between them.

She didn’t really give a tinker’s damn what happened to her, for she had had it all. She’d felt his love words whispered against her throat, felt his dark head between her hands as she’d held it close to her breast. She’d known the exhilaration of bantering words and arguing with him—aye, and sometimes besting him. So long as he walked proud and free, his dark head held high with unhumbled arrogance and she knew that he lived and laughed, it didn’t matter about herself, for she was part of him and would be throughout eternity.

    Something woke Cat before morning had quite arrived. She was filled with an inexplicable dread, then she remembered this was the day of Oswald’s weekly visit. Her numbed mind became fully alert and she heard the squeaking and obscene rustling of the rats in Nellie’s corner. She sprang up and reached for the guttering stub of tallow candle from its iron bracket. She rushed to the corner, thrusting the meager flame at the long, sleek creatures, and fell back in horror. The baby’s body was covered by rat bites. She lifted the tiny blue body from its sleeping mother and saw that it had been dead for hours. Summer stood stunned and silent, biting her lips until the scream choking her throat subsided and did not escape. If she began to cry now, she would break, and she knew she must not break until after she’d seen Oswald.

When Nellie awoke, she seemed in a stupor. She simply set the little blue body aside as if it didn’t exist. Lardy was concerned about Nellie. She could see clearly the Grim Reaper hadn’t finished his business with them quite yet. Sidney’s face was set hard. “Death’s kingdom is the night. When the owl hunts, death reigns. The smell of death hovers like a charnel house.” Summer’s stomach heaved, but she had nothing in it to evacuate. After a few painful spasms the dry heaves ceased and she turned her face to the wall, trying not to think of Sergeant-Major Oswald.

By evening, when Bludwart came to remove the dead baby, Nellie had followed the child into the next world. Summer averted her eyes from the unpalatable sight of Bludwart dragging out her body. He showed great alarm and concern, but only for his own neck, of course. Sidney was in sole possession of Nellie’s blanket before her heels were dragged clear of the threshold.

Something inside Summer snapped. She went to the corner
where she had hidden the three wooden spoons beneath the straw. She wedged each one between the iron candle bracket and the stone wall until it splintered in half lengthwise. Only one did not splinter the way she wanted it to, but before she was done she had five jagged wooden stakes which, wielded in the proper hands, could become five ugly lethal weapons. The other women pretended indifference, yet she knew each was aware of exactly what she did, and why. Cat had only enough time to cover the stakes with moldy straw before Oswald unlocked their cell door.

She did not look at him, instead she looked Gert in the eye, then Lardy. She turned her eyes upon Granny and then finally she looked long and deep at Sidney. She communicated without words. The message was crystal clear in its simplicity. They would all die, one by one, unless they helped each other.

When they were safely behind the locked door, Oswald surveyed with satisfaction the wraith she had become. Where she had been attractively slim, she was now a thin specter. Her short, dirty hair stuck out at odd angles and her beautiful face, once exquisite, was now haggard. Her cheekbones stood out and beneath them were sallow hollows. She almost had the look of a village idiot.

“Remove your clothes,” he ordered smoothly.

Cat didn’t move. She’d never take orders from him again. He’d have to kill her.

He came toward her and pulled open her shirt to survey her breasts. They had shrunk in size and were marred by dying bruises, yellow and green and purple. “You look and smell like a street whore from the slums. Did you know it is within regulations for me to brand you with the letter
H
for harlot?”

When he uttered the word “brand” a raw burning pain streaked from her thumb straight to her heart. He rummaged through the cast-iron rods for the iron, growing angry because he could not find the one he wanted. “Tomorrow night I will fetch the brand which imprints the scarlet letter. I think I will put it upon your breasts. Yes, an
H
upon each. Two H’s. They will brand you forever as Helford’s Harlot!”

He shoved her through the door and she hurriedly buttoned her shirt before they passed by the male prisoners, though in truth they no longer cast her a glance. She knew her time was running out. If only the others would help her. He unlocked the cell door and pushed her through, then he noticed that the woman who had been
swollen with child was missing. He took an aggressive step through the doorway and demanded, “Where’s the pregnant bitch?”

Young Gert showed courage for the first time. “She’s dead … you killed her!”

His fist smashed her mouth so viciously he knocked her front teeth out and marred her young face forever. Then he heard the cell door crash behind him and at the same moment the old hag launched herself at him like a screaming banshee. Summer knew the old woman was no match for the burly Oswald. His big arm flung her off against the wall with a sickening thud, but when he looked down at his chest he was surprised to see a stream of blood coming from a small hole made by what looked like a pig sticker. He was off balance and fell to one knee. Lardy knocked him over and sat on him, jabbing him viciously in the throat with her stake.

Sidney handed Cat a weapon and she looked in horror at what he had done to Granny. Then she realized she had no choice whatsoever. If they didn’t kill him, they would all die. In unison, Sidney and Cat fell upon him and stabbed his face, his eyes, his throat. His screams of agony were terrible, then, when Gert stabbed him over and over between the legs, his screams rose in a crescendo of agony. Cat was beginning to despair. She knew he could not have sustained a mortal wound if he was making such an outcry. In desperation she felt for the vital artery in his neck. Then with her last ounce of strength and courage she plunged in the splintered stake to rip and sever everything it touched. Sergeant-Major Oswald made an unearthly, gurgling bubbling sound and began to twitch uncontrollably. The four women did not get off him until he lay absolutely still. Beside his body lay that of Granny in a grotesque heap. They had killed him, but not before he had taken another of their pack.

    King Charles was furious and humiliated. Dutch war ships had actually broken through the boom strung across the Medway and bold landing parties had silenced the guns of Upnor Castle. Upnor, which was thought to be formidable enough to guard the dog leg on the Medway leading from the lower estuary to where the English fleet lay at anchor in Chatham.

Charles loved ships and the sea and had a good technical knowledge. His navy had always been his pride. In just a few short years, years in which Parliament’s purse strings had been mostly closed, he had built a stronger and bigger navy. It was his plan and the
hope of his reign that England should sail supreme, unchallenged mistress of all the waters on earth.

The King’s cousin, Prince Rupert, had the best military mind of the age, and England’s finest soldiers and sailors had always clamored to serve under him. He preferred privateers to regular navy, so Ruark Helford’s
Pagan Goddess
joined Rupert’s
Henrietta
to fight off an attack on Sheerness.

The Dutch seized the
Royal Charles,
captained by William Penn, then sailed up the Medway and set fire to half a dozen man-of-wars. Rupert and Helford concocted a brilliant plan. Under cover of dark they boarded the burning ships, maneuvered them behind the Dutch vessels, and scuttled them so they sank. They made an effective barrier, neatly trapping the Dutch in the tidal waterway. It was rapidly becoming an impasse. The two navies were deadlocked and peace negotiations began in earnest.

The King signed a peace treaty with Holland which gave England all of the Guinea coast of Africa. The Dutch forts along that coast were surrendered to the English, who would now be able to bring out gold without being harassed. The Dutch also agreed to turn over the greatest port in the Americas to England; thus New Amsterdam was renamed New York after the King’s brother.

England yielded the Spice Islands to the Dutch and agreed to confine her eastern trade to India. Rory Helford negotiated two highly secret and private agreements between Charles and Holland, and Charles and France.

On the surface England and Holland drew closer together to form a common resistance to France. Charles, however, had always been friendly to France and accepted money from King Louis in return for a promise to desert Holland and allow English soldiers to join with the French army if war between France and Holland broke out.

He also made a secret treaty with Holland promising that in the event of war he would keep England neutral. An air of victory pervaded the whole of London in general and the court in particular. All things nautical became the rage and ladies wore navy blue sailor dresses with crown and anchor emblems upon them.

Barbara Castlemaine threw a private victory party for the King and her closest friends and caused quite a stir with her specially decorated cakes and confections. She had cakes in the shape of battleships and red, white, and blue victory flags, but Barbara, being Barbara, was not satisfied with merely a nautical theme. She
knew what would amuse her prurient-minded guests and ordered small round cakes with white icing and red cherries in the middle designed to resemble female breasts which she promptly dubbed “maids of honor,” and for the gentlemen she caused great merriment with cakes resembling a man’s cock and balls. Then she had the gall to pretend they were supposed to be cannons and cannon-balls.

Later, as she lay abed with Charles, he chuckled. “Nautical doesn’t mean naughty, Barbara. I’ll have to give you some English lessons.”

“Well, I certainly caught on to the French lessons you gave me,” she teased bawdily.

He reached for a delicious red apple from a bowl beside the bed. She snatched it from him playfully. “Oh, no you don’t, I’m not finished with you yet. I have other uses for that sensual mouth of yours.”

“Insatiable wench to make me satisfy your appetite before I satisfy my own.”

“Mayhap we can do both at the same time,” she teased, gripping the apple between her plump knees and lying back against the pillows. “Let’s see if you can finish the apple before a more delectable fruit distracts you.”

As Charles bit into the apple its sweet juice ran down from her knees to the insides of her thighs and his tongue tickled her as he licked it off. He finished off the apple, then lowered himself to lie full length upon her with a laugh and a sigh. “Barbara, you are a delicious baggage.” He kissed her then brushed the dark red curls from her brow. “Pretty too,” he murmured, observing her voluptuous beauty from beneath lowered lids.

“Pretty enough to pose for Brittania on the new Guinea gold pieces?” she asked.

Damn! he thought. Why do women always want something and without fail ask for it in bed? “The model hasn’t been selected yet,” he demurred.

“In that case, you can select me,” she pressed, using both hands to roll his large shaft between her palms.