Isle of Fire (8 page)

“You knew a great deal before you met us,” said Ross, completely awake now and curious.

“True enough, Captain, but I really appreciate all you—you and the crew—have done for me. You . . . you've become like family to me.”

This?
Ross wondered.
This is what you woke me up in the middle
of the night to tell me?
There had to be more, so Ross waited.

Cat sighed. This wasn't going to be easy. “All to say that, well . . . I've become quite fond of you all . . . Anne especially.”

Anne?
Ross thought urgently.
Wait just a moment. What does
Anne—

Cat continued. “I'm really not sure how to ask you this . . .”

Ask me what?
Ross sat up much straighter.

“I mean, I wouldn't move forward without your permission.”

Permission . . . Anne?
Ross gasped.
Oh, dear Lord, no. He's not—

“Captain, I'm not entirely sure how old I am, you understand,” Cat stammered, “with my memory and all, but I must be seventeen, eighteen at the least. I'm a man now.”

He is,
Ross decided.
He's going to ask for my blessing for him to marry
my daughter.
Ross stood up abruptly and paced around the room.

Cat watched the captain fearfully. “But, sir, if you'll just let—”

Ross scowled and held up a hand. His first thought was an emphatic
NO
. But then, as Cat fumbled for words, Ross looked him up and down. Cat was a natural sailor, a fine young man—much better than some Anne had taken a fancy to in the past. Of course, he was the son of a bloodthirsty—no, Ross decided, Cat was nothing like his father. He'd already saved Anne's life . . . he'd no doubt look after her well. Declan Ross closed his eyes and said the most difficult words he could ever remember saying. “Very well then, Cat, you have my permission.”

Cat was stunned. “But you haven't even heard what I'm asking.”

Ross raised a hand. “Oh, I think you've made your intentions perfectly clear. And I want you to know that I think it's right noble of you to ask me before you propose.”

“Propose?” Cat nearly fell out of his chair. “Wait, Captain Ross, I . . . I don't want to marry Anne.”

“What?” It was Captain Ross's turn to be dumbfounded. “Well, why not?” Then he turned angry. “I'll have you know my Anne is of the finest moral quality! She'd make a fine wife for any man—any man worthy of her, that is.”

“Well, it's not that someday . . . I mean, she's smart and beautiful, and I guess I like her quite well, but I don't think we're quite ready for—”

Ross rubbed his temples, shook his head, and grasped Cat by the shoulders. “Well then, what were you asking me, Cat?”

“I want to take leave of the crew,” Cat blurted out. “Father Brun has asked me to captain one of his ships.”

Declan Ross released Cat's shoulders and sat down across from him with a thud. “When Father Brun asked you to come to Saba, did you know then?”

“No.”

Ross nodded. “Cat, I . . . I'm not sure what to say. You want to leave the
Bruce
?”

“Not permanently,” Cat replied. “At least I don't think it has to be permanent. Father Brun wants me for a specific mission. They're going after a dangerous man called the Merchant.”

Ross shook his head. “I don't know that name,” he said. “And the Brethren rarely goes on the offensive. What's this fellow done that's got the monks ready to sail after him?”

“Father Brun told me the Merchant is kind of a supplier—like his name sounds—but he's been involved with some of the worst men who ever lived, many of them pirates. Father Brun calls him the enemy of the Brethren.”

Ross was thoughtful for a moment. “I can understand why Father Brun wants you to sail for him. Cat, the way you took command of the
Bruce
at the Isle of Swords—just a skeleton crew, the volcano blowing up all around, the
Raven
with a huge head start—and you didn't hesitate. You went after him and took him down. That's what I call a man, and that's what I call a real sailor. As I've told you before, I'll not be holding any of my crew against his or her will, but what I've got to know is, have you got your heart set on this?”

“I do, sir.”

Ross nodded. “It's settled then,” he said. “But you should talk to Anne. She'll be crushed to hear.”

“Captain Ross,” Cat said, “I want to take Anne with me. I want her to be my quartermaster on this journey.”

“Is that right?” Ross asked, his voice trailing off and his expression thoughtful and distant. Anne had always wanted to command a ship—she had it in her blood. Ross knew she'd make an excellent quartermaster. But still, since his wife Abigail's death, Ross had not willingly parted with their daughter for more than a few days at a time. “Has Father Brun agreed to house a woman on board? A woman in a command position? He knows if you go down, Anne would become captain?”

“He told me to get your permission, but if granted, then Anne would be my second-in-command.”

Ross wrung his hands in his lap. If he let her go, let her sail with Cat, there was always a chance that he would never see her again. Of course, keeping her aboard the
Bruce
as they sail about after pirates wasn't exactly safe. So far, they'd battled only weak, inexperienced pirates, but sooner or later they'd run into a Bellamy or . . . Bartholomew Thorne, if he yet lived. And what then? Thorne had almost killed Anne once. Ross knew the monks of the Brethren. He knew that, in spite of being men of the cloth, they were capable warriors. They would keep Anne safe. To let her go might just keep Anne out of harm's way and, at the same time, give her something she's always wanted.

“Before you decide, sir,” said Cat. “I want you to know that I would give my own life to protect Anne. But this man we're after . . . he's a terrible fiend. A monster.”

He's just a merchant
, Ross thought.
Compared to some of the devils
that sail under the black flag, how bad could he be?
Ross stroked his beard and made up his mind.

“This is not easy for me,” Ross said. “Anne is my greatest treasure—my life's blood. But I trust you, Cat. Sailing aboard the
Bruce
or not, you are one of my crew . . . and you always will be. You take care of my daughter.”

Cat's eyes brightened. “I will, sir.” He stood up and extended his hand to Captain Declan Ross. They shook, and Cat said, “May I go to her chamber? May I go tell her?”

Ross nodded, and Cat ran to the door. He was halfway out when he stopped and turned back a moment. “Captain Ross?”

“Yes, lad?”

“What you said earlier . . . about me marrying Anne?”

Ross's eyebrows bristled. “Don't press your luck.”

Anne answered the door, and Cat was struck by her sleepy beauty. Her crimson hair was all tussled, her eyes were crinkly and squinting, and her nightdress was creased and wrinkled.

“Cat, what are you doing here?” she asked, a lazy smile on her lips. She looked into the hallway both ways, feeling very suspicious.

“It's okay,” Cat assured her. “I asked your father first if I could come see you.” Cat smiled inwardly. He wouldn't dare tell her that her father had given him permission to ask her to marry him, but it was kind of funny. “May I come in?”

“Uh, yes . . . since my father said it was okay.” She left the door open and walked across her chamber. She seemed like a ghost, all in white, moving so slowly until she glided to a seat on a chair. She lit a candle and looked up at Cat expectantly. “Well?”

Cat followed her in and sat down across from her. “How would you like to have command of a ship?”

“What?” Anne rubbed the sleep from her eyes and squinted.

“A command,” he repeated. “Not just one of the crew, but a real command.”

“My father commands the
Bruce
,” she said.

“No, not the
Bruce
.”

“Cat, what are you talking about?”

“Well, actually, you'd be second-in-command. You'd be my quartermaster. Would that suit you?”

Anne tilted her head and looked at him slyly. “Yes, of course, that would suit me.” She laughed. “It's been my dream for longer than I can remember, but I'll never get the chance to—wait, what did you mean by saying I'd be your quartermaster? Cat?”

Cat had dragged it out long enough, so he told her. He told her about Father Brun's invitation to take command of one of the Brethren's three ships. He told her that he wanted Anne to be his quartermaster, and that her father had given his blessing. And he told her about their mission to find and capture the Merchant.

Anne was stunned. She sat very still except for her mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Are you sure, Cat?” she asked finally.

“Yes, of course, I'm sure,” he said. “I spoke with Father Brun earlier tonight and then with your father. They agreed to—”

“No,” Anne said, “I meant, are you sure you want me to be your quartermaster? You could probably have anyone from the
Bruce
, except Stede, of course. But my skills are—”

“Your skills are superior to most any man I know,” said Cat, standing and taking her hand. “I trust you, Anne. I trust your judgment. I trust you to tell me the truth even when I don't want to hear it. I've made my decision. Will you sail with me, Anne?”

Merry tears spilled down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered. It was all the answer he needed.

Cat bent down and gently kissed her hand. “Then, quartermaster Anne, I bid you good night. Sleep well, for tomorrow . . . we sail!”

Cat left Anne and was so buoyed by the night's events he practically floated back to his own chamber. But as he extinguished the candle and lay on his cot in the darkness, he began to wonder if choosing to sail with the Brethren had been the right decision. And now, he'd drawn Anne in as well. Wind whistled through his shutters, and Cat turned on his side. Somewhere out there the Merchant lurked.

6
DIPLOMACY

S
ir Nigel stared at the prowling red lions emblazoned on the tapestry that hung behind the tall throne and felt nothing but contempt for King George.
A German king on the throne of England—ah! It's a disgrace.
And on top of that, Nigel had been forced to wait days to gain an audience with the king—delaying Nigel's mission and infuriating Thorne. Now, feeling exasperated, Nigel looked up at the king waiting to see if His Majesty would respond to his proposition.

But the king did not move. He scarcely seemed to be breathing, although it was hard to tell with what looked like forty pounds of satin and silk draped upon his plump frame. The king simply stared out into the cavernous throne room. From Sir Nigel's position, the king's gigantic nose resembled a pig's snout. Sir Nigel imagined the lions from the tapestry chasing down and devouring the pig-king from Germany who dared sit on the English throne. But Sir Nigel kept his scorn concealed, thinking it best not to offend a man who, at the snap of his pudgy fingers, could have a person's head separated from his body.

A door somewhere behind a curtain quickly opened and shut, and a narrow man entered the room and knelt before the king. He had bulging eyes and a hawkish profile, and his powdered gray wig seemed to not quite fit. The king muttered something, and the other man arose and turned to Sir Nigel. “I am dreadfully sorry to delay,” he said. “I am Jacob Vogler. Please tell me what you want the king to know, and I will translate it for you.”

“Translate?” echoed Sir Nigel.

“Yes, of course,” Vogler replied. “His Majesty speaks English haltingly and prefers not to at all.”

It was only with great concentration that Sir Nigel managed to close his gaping mouth.
King of England . . . and he doesn't speak
English?
If not so thoroughly disgusted, Sir Nigel might have laughed. But at least that explained the king's silence.