Pirate Code (26 page)

Twenty

‘Cesca was already mounted on a drab looking flea-bitten grey mare. To avoid eye contact, she was tweaking the lay of her dark blue riding habit arranging the folds of skirt to fall elegantly over her immaculate boots. It did little to conceal the shape of her thigh. The groom holding the second animal, a scrawny bay gelding with a ewe neck and cow hocks, was busily picking his nose.

Jesamiah patted the animal’s thin neck, checked the girth cinch was tight – he had no intention of making a fool of himself by trying to mount with a loose saddle. “Hope you packed something to eat
Señora
, M’stomach thinks m’throat’s been cut.”

“If you had got out of bed earlier you could have breakfasted.”

This is going to be delightful
, he thought mournfully as he adjusted the stirrup length and settled in the saddle. He produced the bottle from his voluminous coat pocket that already bulged with a variety of acquired items and pulled the cork out with his teeth. “Want some?” he offered, waving it in her general direction.

Tilting her nose upward ‘Cesca kicked her horse into a trot, its shod hooves clattering on the cobbles. Taking a mouthful then tapping the cork into the neck and sliding the bottle back where it would be safe, Jesamiah encouraged his nag to amble after her.

On the corner, where the street began to narrow, a pie shop displayed a few sorry-looking specimens in a basket. Reining in, Jesamiah surveyed the limited choice. “
Qué es esto
?”

“
Cabra, Señor
,” answered the black slave boy half-heartedly brushing flies away with a horsehair swish.

“Got anything that ain’t goat?”

Chewing his lip, the lad solemnly shook his head.

“I’ll have goat then.“ Feeling in his pocket Jesamiah flipped the boy a sliver coin. “Make it two.”

The track rose up sharp and steep from the village, the going muddy and slippery after the rain, the horses squelching, fetlock deep, through the narrower areas between outcrops of rock. In the shade the mud would stay for several days, but with few clouds in the sky and the heat rising as noon approached, already some areas were drying into crusted ruts.

Taking his coat off, Jesamiah laid it on the horse’s withers. The animal was already sweating. So was Jesamiah; ‘Cesca looked cool and elegant.

How do women do that
? he wondered. Concluded it was because they did not have breeches, waistcoat, an array of weapons to carry and had thinner blood. Followed his musing by contemplating a lady’s undergarments. Did stays and such soak the sweat away?

She was an attractive woman, but very different from Tiola. Five inches taller, plumper, especially at the hips and bosom. Tiola had neat little apples. Why was he thinking of Tiola? Why couldn’t he set her aside as he did any other woman he encountered? The answer to that was simple. Because he did not love those other women.

Munching on the second pie, swilled down with more rum, he was pleased to discover the headache had almost gone, but within two miles his back was beginning to ache, and his thighs to protest. Riding, he mused was not congenial to a sailor who had not sat astride a horse in more than ten years. He was considering whether to get off and walk, would have done, but he reasoned his boots would rub and ‘Cesca would mock him.

Turning left-handed on to another track the view opened up below to show the wide sweep of the sea, the sun sparkling in all the varied shades of blue from sapphire to turquoise and azure. Looking down on the roofs of the village he could see it was spread out in a narrow, s-shaped ribbon, a busier place than he expected. The
Kismet
was safe at her mooring. His keen seaman’s eyes picked out a smudge on the horizon. Reining to a halt he hurriedly fished out his pocket telescope, extended it. T’gallants and tops’ls, the rest hull down. Disappointment ripped through him, for a moment he had thought it could have been
Sea Witch
. He couldn’t be certain at this distance, but had a nasty feeling it was the guardacostas. The guard ship.

He studied the
Kismet
. Men were aboard. As he watched the maincourse spilled from the yard. What the…? Ah, he remembered now, he had mentioned to the sailing master that he was not happy with the state of the canvas; it needed inspecting for worn patches. Good, he was being obeyed at last. He collapsed the telescope, was about to return it to his coat pocket but out of the corner of his eye caught a slight movement. Extending and raising the telescope again, he focused on two riders following in their wake along the lower level of the track. One wore an ostrich feather in his hat. Tiola liked ostrich feathers, he’d promised to get her an armful one day. Blue ones he had said, to match his ribbons. Waste of a promise.

“Many people visit this convent?” he asked as he persuaded his nag to move forward.

“I do not believe so. It is a small sanctuary of about thirty nuns. Columbus himself founded it in honour of his wife.” ‘Cesca was also observing the riders. They were ambling along at a walk, appeared to be dressed in no particular fashion – no sign of uniform or muskets. “I expect they will continue along the main track, not branch off as we have done. Unless you are seeking God or medical aid, there is little to draw people to the convent.”

“There’s virgin nuns,” Jesamiah retorted with a lascivious grin, baiting her.

‘Cesca ignored him. After the loss of her husband she had been tempted to join the nuns, not for any piety, more for the peace and the protection against the parade of men who had very soon taken an eager interest in filling his place. For the money she had been left, not for her. Had she known del Gardo would send for her one night eighteen months into her widowhood, she would have gone to the Sisters. She had refused him, claiming she mourned Ramon. He had appeared to accept her excuse, entertained her at dinner and provided a carriage to take her home. There she had discovered the house ransacked, the stables burnt down, her father-in-law bleeding and beaten, and her son taken. When Don Damian del Gardo next sent for her she did not refuse him again.

And now, here she was these long, weary years later, riding with the most handsome man she had ever seen, wondering how she was going to be able to betray him. She would have to do so, for she needed to stay in del Gardo’s good graces, and for her son to survive she would have to tell that fat bastard something relevant about Jesamiah Acorne, and the truth of why he was here.

The track remained steep but had become heavily wooded. Trees swarmed up the hill to their left and marched steeply downward on the right, giving only glimpses of turquoise sea through the rich, green foliage. The air was heavy with the smell of citrus fruit, exotic flowers, damp leaf mould and earth; was alive with the calls and trills of birds. Peering through a gap where several trees had been flattened by a recent hurricane, Jesamiah could no longer see the men below, but ten minutes later when the woods gave way to heavy scrub and barren rock, they re-appeared on the track lower down. They had not gone straight on where the tracks divided then.

“Why do I get the feeling we are being followed?” he asked casually.

‘Cesca looked over her shoulder and down through the tangle of shrubs and trees cluttering the hillside. She recognised the familiar bob of an ostrich feather. That man was such a fool. Why del Gardo used him as a spy she had never understood, he was hopeless at concealing himself. Well maybe he was useless at his job, but she was not.

“Maybe they are traders?” she lied casually. “The convent requires supplies, after all; or maybe they are making a pilgrimage? It is nothing sinister. Do you always see shadows Captain Acorne? Or are you just nervous because you are nursing a surfeit of drink and a tired pizzle?”

Tightening the reins as his horse stumbled, almost pitching him off, Jesamiah could not respond immediately. Once he had shifted his sore backside into the saddle again he turned to her. “I assure you Ma’am, it don’t get tired.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “No?”

“No,” he snapped back. “It just gets reluctant around governors’ sluts sometimes.”

He winced as he saw the look of dismay colour her face. What in the world had possessed him to say that? It was unkind and unnecessary. He liked the woman, it was not her fault del Gardo was using her, no more than it was his fault that he was in a bad mood because of missing Tiola.

She kicked her mare into a trot, pushed past and urged it to canter.

“I’m sorry!” he called, genuinely apologetic. “I didn’t mean it!” The wind took his words, sent them outward, floating down over the scrub and bushes towards the dazzle of the sea.

Her mare was thin and unfit, the hill rising steeper and she could only canter a short way. Soon, puffing and blowing, ‘Cesca had to bring her back to a walk.

Jesamiah bullied his tiring beast into a trot to catch her up.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’m sorry I didn’t share your bed last night. I’m sorry I’m a bastard of a lying pirate and I’m bloody sorry that the woman I love ain’t here to prove to you that I’m sorry!” It all came out in a rush.

“I had to leave ‘er behind,” he confessed. “The situation in Nassau made me choose between saving m’ship or being with her. I chose m’ship and I’m bloody regretting it. So I’m sorry I’m takin’ me anger out on you, but there ain’t anyone else ‘ere I can trust to talk to like this. Only you. And I ain’t certain I can trust you neither.”

“At least you had the opportunity to make a choice,” she answered tartly, “I do not.”

Assuming she was referring to del Gardo, Jesamiah forced the bay to trot a few more shambling paces to come up beside the mare. He reached across, took ‘Cesca’s hand. “You can always make a choice, darlin’. If you make the wrong one, all you have to do is find the strength to put it right.”

“Will you put your wrong right?” She meant his not making love to her last night, bit her lip when, misunderstanding, he answered:

“Don’t know if I’ll be able to. She’s gone back to ‘er ‘usband and my prick’s bein’ rubbed to a stub by this saddle, so there ain’t much ‘ope fer me is there?” As he had calculated, despite her annoyance, she laughed.

The track narrowed and they had to ride in single file. ‘Cesca was grateful for several things had began to occur to her. Those men following, the one with the ostrich feather the rebels had known about for months now, but who was the man with him? Was it the landlord of the
Sickle Moon
? What had Jesamiah called him? Scarface? Scar Soul would be as appropriate. He was a surly, bad tempered man, nothing like his elder brother. Emilio had been a gentleman. And he had been loyal.

Riding in silence she pondered on Wickham’s theories. He had been certain that Scarface was also del Gardo’s man, but they had never, yet, found proof of it. And there was a third person, she was convinced of that.

She had tried worming the information from del Gardo, but he never made any secret of the fact that he did not trust her. That was why she had to be so careful, that was why she had to ensure she told him just enough information to keep him sweet, to make him believe that she was serving him and not, where and when she could, the rebel cause. She peeped back over her shoulder, smiled at Jesamiah, tried to peer down the hillside but the woods were thickening again. It had just occurred to her; maybe those two were not following Jesamiah, but were watching her.

Del Gardo was planning something, she was sure of it. Once they reached the convent she would let the rebel leaders know of her suspicions, and when they made their move, they would have to be careful. Very careful indeed.

Unaware of her musings, Jesamiah had been making a few of his own.

“Angelita,” he said. “That’s an unusual name for a nun. Don’t they adopt saint’s names when they take their vows?” Hastily clarified, “Not that I know much about nuns.”

“Usually, but not always.”

“I had a governess called Angelita.” No answer.

“She lasted about a month. My brother didn’t want a governess, he was too stupid to learn anything. He had a habit of making sure they didn’t last long by hiding headless rats where they would do most damage. Angelita found hers when she dressed one morning. It was in her undershift. I got the blame, Phillipe always ensured I got the blame. Papa himself whipped me for that one.” Bitterly, he added, “Six stripes with a birch to m’backside. It wasn’t the beating I minded but the injustice. I’d tried to tell Papa it wasn’t me, but he always favoured Phillipe. He never believed my side of the story, never listened to me. He would say things like ‘be a man’ and, ‘you will never survive life by whinging, boy.’ He knew Phillipe was a bastard, I’m bloody sure he did, but he never did anything to stop it. Six stripes? Oh aye, and the other six Phillipe gave me for trying to tattle to Papa!”

‘Cesca turned in her saddle to stare at him, appalled. She nearly spoke, but what could she say?

“I liked Angelita, she was young and pretty and a good governess. I thought she’d liked me.”

That had been the real hurt, seeing her tears as she had left the house. “You betrayed me,” she had said to him. “Maliciously betrayed me.”

Scarface had said the same last night. “You betrayed Emilio.” Jesamiah had never betrayed anyone in his life, but it seemed, yet again, he had been accused of another’s deceit. And the beating for it had been as painful.

Emilio had not been a spy, but he had been a rebel and he had been a friend.

Jesamiah looked out to sea, the immense stretch of shaded blue, the silver line of the horizon where dark clouds were massing. That ship would be hull up now, if he was to get out the telescope and have a look. Why? It was not the
Sea Witch
. Why would he want to look? He closed his eyes, felt the chill of the wind on his face, smelt the sweet tang of citrus fruit, wet grass and earth, the warm, hay smell of the horse. Heard the wind sighing through the palm trees, the jingle of the bit rings, the occasional clink as the horses’ shoes rapped on a stone. The buzz of insects. He did not want this! He wanted to feel the woodwork of the taffrail vibrating beneath his hands,
Sea Witch
’s deck trembling beneath his feet; hear her rudder grinding and mithering, listen to the creak of the stays, the clatter and slap of the halyards and blocks. Wanted her lift and dip and roll, the boom of her sails.