Pirate Wolf Trilogy (35 page)

Sir
Francis did not return the salute. He was seen, however, to lean
forward and grip the rail with both hands as the
Elizabeth
Bonaventure
swept slowly
along the length of the
Egret
When they were directly abreast, he turned and snatched the
hailing trumpet out of his officer’s hand and lifted it to his own
mouth with a shout.

“Dante? Simon
Dante? Is that you, you whoreson bastard devil?”

Dante shunned
the trumpet and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Aye, it’s me,
you pale-livered son of a bitch! And an uglier dog’s face I could
not have hoped to see this fine morning! Bess has finally let you
off the leash, has she?”

“Let me off the
leash and given me enough powder to blow you to hell and gone!”

“You’re free to
give it a try, if you think your balls are big enough and your wick
long enough!”

Drake’s
answer was lost to the rush of the sea and the booming of sails as
the
Elizabeth
Bonaventure
glided past
and turned into the wind.

Dante laughed
and lowered his hands, then caught the horrified stares from Jonas
and McCutcheon, and, from up on the foredeck, a pale and
open-mouthed Beau Spence.

“He is a mortal
man, just like any other mortal man. He eats, drinks, and sometimes
even makes the mistake of pissing into the wind like any other
mortal man. If he still strikes thunder in your presence, picture
him stark naked— not a pretty sight, I promise you.”

No one
moved.
Nothing
moved
save for one of Spit McCutcheon’s legs squeezing against the
other.

It was Geoffrey
Pitt who leaned forward and murmured at the nape of Spence’s neck,
“Sir Francis’s second wife … Elizabeth Sydenham … is Simon’s first
cousin. He introduced them, as a matter of fact, and stood as
groomsman at the wedding. They like to pretend they hate each
other; it loosens bowels and gives them something to wager
over.”

“Now ye tell
me,” Spit bemoaned.

CHAPTER
TWENTY

“My God!” Sir
Francis exclaimed. “My good sweet God in heaven, it is you!” He
climbed the last rung of the gangway ladder and went directly to
Simon Dante, his arm thrust out like a pike. Clasping Dante’s hand
with one of his and thumping his shoulder with the other, El Draque
laughed and swore and laughed again, blinking continually as if he
could not believe his eyes.

“Elizabeth wept
for a week when she heard you were dead. Both of them did—my
Elizabeth and England’s Elizabeth. The proprietor of the Ship’s Inn
gave free ale the blessed day long and half the bells in London
droned in mourning! Most of Newgate’s brothels closed their doors
as well, or draped their beds in black sheets; I’m told Bess could
not even call for a cup of wine to drown her sorrows without having
it watered down with tears, so distraught were her Curt
ladies.”

“I am flattered
to know I was missed.”

“Missed?
Missed, by God? Where the devil have you been? We were told you
went down with all hands, somewhere off the Azores.”

Dante’s
eyes turned a cold, flat gray. “Obviously, only part of what you
were told bears truth. My
Virago
is, alas, gone, but as you can see, I am very much alive,
no small thanks to Captain Spence, who happened along at the
opportune moment and fished me and what remained of my crew out of
the drink.”

In honor
of Sir Francis Drake’s visit to the deck of the
Egret
, Jonas had hastily scrubbed his face and dressed
in his finest. He wore a forest-green doublet with embroidered
crimson stripes. The same fiery red lining showed through the
slashes in his sleeves and balloon breeches. He had fought for ten
full minutes with a starched neck ruff before a panicked hail from
McCutcheon had cursed it back into his sea chest. He had scoured
the fur from his teeth with a coarse, salted cloth, then pulled on
his gloves with their padded fingertips. His boots rose above the
knee and were cuffed to conceal the bulky strapping that held his
wooden peg in place. His chest was thrust out as painfully proud as
he could manage without the risk of putting out eyes with popping
buttons.

Drake was a
full head and neck shorter, but it did not stay him from walking
over to the burly captain and offering his hand.

“My pleasure,
Captain Spence. And my heartfelt thanks. Had this black-souled
renegade truly been bested by a damned pack of Spaniards, there
would have been no hope for any of us.”

Christopher Carle
ill had accompanied Drake across on the jolly boat and,
after introductions were made, offered a curious
observation.

“Captain
Bloodstone said he saw your ship go under.”

“He must have
eyes in the back of his head,” Dante replied mildly.

“He has been
telling the tale to whoever will listen, how the two of you were
attacked by the zabras and how you courageously sacrificed your
ship that he and his crew might make good their escape.”

“An interesting
version; you must tell me more.”

Carleill
was of medium build and height, no more than five and twenty years
of age, but with silver threads running through the dark brown hair
at his temples. He had been with Drake on several raids to the
Indies, and more recently had been given command of his own small
vessel, the
Scout.
He was a
cautious and keen judge of character, and because he often had to
play the diplomat around his commander’s fiery temper, he was able
to recognize when someone was saying one thing and meaning another.
He had always admired Dante de Tourville’s flamboyant style and
nerve, something he found sorely lacking in Victor
Bloodstone.

“He will
undoubtedly rejoice to hear of your return from the dead,” Carleill
said, matching Dante’s bland tone.

“As will Bess,
I warrant,” Drake interjected. “’Twill be like Mary Stuart’s head
rolling out of the basket and reattaching itself to her neck!”

“Mary Stuart’s
head?” Pitt asked, in the process of having his own hand pumped and
his shoulder clapped.

“Aye, the
Stuart bitch. Of course—you could not know. Her head parted company
with her shoulders oh … six weeks ago now. Nearing seven.
Walsingham caught her red handed, packing secret notes in wine
casks and dispatching them to a band of fellow conspirators who
were—on her specific written orders—to hire assassins to kill the
Queen. When he showed these to Bess, she had no choice but to brand
it treason and put the witch to the axe.”

“Christ Jesus,”
said Spence. “Has Spain heard the news?”

“
We did
not dally to wait until they did. Nor could the Queen afford to err
on the side of caution any longer. To that end she has … unleashed
us, as you say … to distress Spanish ships where we find them,
capture their seaborne supplies, and to do all we can to impeach
the gathering together of the King’s so-called
Grande Armada
Felicissima.”

“Those were
your orders?” Dante asked, intrigued. “Freely given?”

“Freely on the
Monday, aye. With penance on Tuesday and no doubt regret on
Wednesday. But by Thursday I was already vacating Plymouth and did
not look back over my shoulder to see if there were any couriers
trying to catch me up. The wind commanded me away and I
obeyed.”

Dante
exchanged a glance with Jonas Spence, for if it was true, then the
captain had nothing to fear in the way of fines or rebukes for
having attacked and plundered the
San Pedro de Marcos.

“The wind
appears to have commanded a good many ships to sail in your
wake.”

“Not so hastily
as it may appear.” Drake smiled. “Each ship, each captain, was
chosen by me for their stoutness of heart and quickness on the
guns. Among us we have nearly three hundred and fifty muzzles
searching to make havoc where we may.”

“You have a
strike in mind?”

“Asked with
such a lascivious glint in the eye, it leaves me to suspect you
have somehow stumbled across the King’s own itinerary.”

“Not the
complete plan, no. But we may have something that might interest
you.”

Drake’s eyes
narrowed. “As always, my cryptic friend, you leave me foaming with
curiosity. Do I beg now or can it wait until I moisten my throat
with some of this famed Indies Gold the lieutenant has been telling
me about?”

Spit had
anticipated needing something to wet Spence’s throat and he waved a
crewman forward, who bore plain pewter goblets and a jug of rum.
When each man had a cup and each cup was filled, Drake offered a
toast to the Queen and took a long, slow swallow, his hand on his
hip, his eyes rising with the heat in his belly, until he found
himself staring up at the forecastle deck.

Lucifer was
standing there, his enormous black body gleaming in the
sunlight.

Drake lowered
his cup and dabbed a cuff across his lips. “I see you still keep
company with cannibals. I am surprised he has not made a meal of
you yet.”

“I keep him
well fed with Spaniards.”

Drake’s gaze
wandered slightly to the left of the tattooed giant. “And that …
must be the captain’s infamous daughter? The one who signs her
charts with a black swan and makes eunuchs of men who trifle with
her?”

All eyes within
hearing distance turned toward Beau, and she would have shrunk back
against the wall of sailors behind her if Spence had not ordered
her sharply down to the main deck.

“Aye! This is
my daughter, Isabeau. Isabeau … have the honor and pleasure of
making the acquaintance of Sir Francis Drake.”

Beau was not
certain if she should attempt a curtsy in canvas breeches or tug a
forelock. She settled for doing as the men had done and thrust out
her hand, first to a startled dragon, then to a smiling Christopher
Carleill.

“A pleasure, my
lord, Mister Carleill.”

Drake pursed
his lips and eyed her with renewed interest. “I am told I have one
of your charts in my possession— which did you say, Mister
Carleill?”

“Grand Canaria,
sir. You were admiring it only the other day.”

“So I was, so I
was. Excellent work, Mistress Spence. You have a fine eye for
detail.”

“I was
remarking on that very thing not an hour ago,” Dante said, and
looked at Spence. “She broke the King’s code. It was not in the
letters, after all, it was in the paintings. I could have searched
for a year and not found it; Beau took one leisurely glance and
made sense of it all.”

“Paintings?”
Drake looked askance. “You have paintings … of what, may I
ask?”

“
The
King’s Most Happy Fleet. The
Armada Felicissima.”

Drake leaned
back in his chair, his hands betraying a slight tremor of
excitement as they closed around his goblet, filled now with ale to
keep his head clear. They had adjourned to Spence’s cabin and were
crowded around the table. The morning sun was streaming through the
gallery windows, causing Sir Francis’s hair to glow beyond orange.
The air in the cabin was hazed with dust, thickest where the beams
of sunlight poured onto the tabletop.

Drake had
insisted on seeing the paintings and the documents. He had studied
every last detail, and because Dante had been adamant about
recognizing Beau’s part in identifying the Spanish galleons, she
sat by Drake’s side as they went through all three pictures and
made a list of the ships they decoded.

“
You
believe this to be the
Girona?”
he asked. “But she is a galleass and I see no evidence of
oars.”

“
The
Girona’s
captain
is the Duke of Alicante. His family crest consists of a lion, a
cross, and”—Beau touched a fingertip to the carved grotesque worked
into the ship’s stern—“a ram’s head.”

Drake stared
and Spence grinned.

“My father
appreciates good wine,” she explained. “Some of the best burgundy
is produced on the Duke of Alicante’s estates. His bottles bear his
crest.”

Sir
Francis nodded slowly and looked back at the list of ships they had
compiled. He himself had contributed the
San Marin
, the
Saragoza
, the
Magdalena.

“By Christ, it
is all here,” he muttered. “A complete inventory of the ships
gathering in Spanish ports. And for what other reason than war?
Moreover, if the ‘harvest’ dates are correct, the King is intending
a June launch.” He lifted his head and scowled. “We are not sailing
into these waters a day too soon. Hopefully, not a day too late
either.”

Dante was
standing, lounging against the cabin wall. “You have the firepower,
all you need do is pick your first strike with care and purpose. Do
enough damage, you can set all of Spain back on its heels.”

Drake looked at
him expectantly. “I suppose you have the perfect target in
mind?”

The pirate wolf
grinned. “Cadiz.”

“Cadiz? Spain’s
principle seaport?” Drake arched an eyebrow. “Why would you not
just suggest we sail up the Tagus and attack Madrid … after first
laying waste to Lisbon, of course?”

“
Because,
if they are in any way anticipating an attack, they will be
anticipating it in Lisbon. Cadiz, on the other hand, is deep in
their own waters.” He paused and his gaze touched on Beau’s golden
eyes. “They will be as lax with their guard in Cadiz as they were
in Vera Cruz.”

Drake frowned
and tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “An intriguing suggestion,
Simon, and audacious, as usual, but we have no clear idea what
defenses we would be up against.”