The Emerald Storm (20 page)

There was a long pause. “I can’t tell you that.”

A loud silence filled the room.

Arista stood, clutching the blanket around her shoulders. She stared at Hilfred’s back until it seemed her stare caused him to turn and face her. When he did, he avoided looking in her eyes. He set out bowls on the table. She stood before him, blocking his way.

“Hilfred, look at me.”

“The soup is done.”

“I’m not huy. Look at me,” Arista repeated.

“I don’t want it to burn.”

“Hilfred.”

He said nothing and kept his eyes focused on the floor.

“What have you done that you can’t face me?”

He did not answer.

The realization dawned on her and devastated Arista. He was not there to save her. He was not her friend. The betrayal was almost too much to bear.

“It’s true,” her voice quivered. “You do believe the stories they say about me. That I am a witch. That I am evil. That I killed my father over my lust for the throne. Are you working for Saldur, or someone else? Did you steal me from the palace guards for some political advantage? Or is this all some plan to—to control me, to get me to trust you and lure me into revealing something?”

Her words had a profound effect on him. He looked pained as if rained by blows. His face strained, his jaw stiff.

“You could at least tell me the truth,” she said. “I should think you owe that much to my father, if not to me. He trusted you. He picked you to be my bodyguard. He gave you a chance to make something of yourself. You’ve enjoyed the privilege of court life because of his faith in you.”

Hilfred was having trouble breathing. He turned away from her and, grabbing his scarf, moved toward the door.

“Yes, go—go on!” She shouted. “Tell them it didn’t work. Tell them I didn’t fall for it. Tell Sauly and the rest of those bastards that—that I’m not the stupid, little girl they thought I was! You should have kept me tied and gagged, Hilfred. You’re going to find it harder to haul me off to the stake than you think!”

Hilfred slammed his hand against the doorframe making Arista jump. He spun on her, his eyes fierce and wild in a way she had never seen before, and she stepped back.

“DO YOU KNOW WHY I SAVED YOU?” he shouted, his voice broken and shaking. “Do you? Do you?”

“To—to hand me over and get—”

“No! No! Not now, back
then
,” he cried, waving his arm. “Years ago, when the palace was burning. Do you know why I saved you then?”

She did not speak. She did not move.

“I wasn’t the only one there, you know. There were others. Soldiers, priests, servants, they all just stood watching. They knew you were inside, but not a single person did anything. They just stood watching the place burn, but not me. Bishop Saldur saw me running for the castle and actually ordered me to stop. He said it was too late, that I would die. I believed him. I truly did, but I went in anyway. Do you know why? DO YOU?” He shouted at her.

She shook her head.

“It was because I didn’t care if I died. I didn’t want to live…not if you died.” Tears streamed down his scarred face. “But don’t ask me to be your friend. That is far too cruel a torture. As long as I can maintain a safe distance, as long as…as long as there is a wall between us—even if it is only one of words, I can tolerate—I can
bear
it.” Hilfred wiped his eyes with his scarf. “Your father knew what he was doing—oh yes, he knew
exactly
what he was doing when he appointed me your bodyguard. I would die a thousand times over to protect you. But don’t ask me to be grateful to him for the life he’s given me, for it has been one of pain. I wish I had died that night so many years ago, or at least in Dahlgren. Then it would be over. I wouldn’t have to look at you. I wouldn’t have to wake up every day wishing I had been born the son of a great knight, or you the daughter of a poor shepherd.”

He turned away covering his eyes and laying his head against the threshold. Arista did not recall doing it, but somehow she crossed the room. She took Hilfred’s face in her hands and rising up on her toes she kissed his mouth. He did not move, but he trembled. He did not breathe, but he gasped.

“Look at me,” she said extending her arms to display her stained asomehowrn kirtle. “A shepherd’s daughter would pity me, don’t you think? She took his hand and kissed it. “Can you ever forgive me?”

He looked at her confused. “For what?”

“For being so blind.”

As it had for days, the
Emerald Storm
remained on its easterly course, making slow progress against a headwind that refused to shift. Maintaining direction required frequent tacking which caused the top crews to work all night. Royce, as usual, had drawn the late shift. It was not Dime’s fault. Royce had concluded that the mainmast captain was a fair man, but Royce was the newest member of a crew that rewarded seniority. He did not mind the shift. He enjoyed the nights he spent aloft. The air was fresh and in the dark among the ropes he was as comfortable as a spider in his web. This afforded Royce the opportunity to relax, think, and occasionally amuse himself by tormenting Defoe, who panicked any time his old guild mate lost track of Royce.

Royce hung in the netting of the futtock shroud, his feet dangling over the open space—a drop of nearly a hundred feet. Above lay the dust of stars, while on the horizon, the moon rose as a sliver—a cat’s eye peering across the water at him. Below, lanterns flickering on the bow, quarterdeck, and the stern, outlined the
Emerald Storm
. To his left he could just make out the dark coast of Calis drifting lazily by thick vegetation punctuated by the occasional cliff, often marked by the brilliant white plume of a waterfall catching moonlight.

The seasickness was gone. He could not recall a more miserable time than his first week on board. The nausea and dizziness reminded him of being drunk—a sensation he hated. He spent most of the first night hugging the ship’s figurehead and vomiting off the bow. After four days, his stomach settled but he remained drained, and tired easily. It took weeks, but he forgot all that as he nested in the rigging looking out at the dark sea. It surprised him just how beautiful the black waves could be. The graceful undulating swells kissed by the barefaced moon, all below a scattering of stars. Only one sight could beat it.

What is she doing right now? Is she looking at the same moon and thinking of me?

Royce reached inside his tunic, pulled out the scarf, and rubbed the material between his fingers. He held it to his face and breathed deep. It smelled like her. Soft and warm, he kept it hidden—his tiny treasure. On the nights of his sickness, he had lain in the hammock clutching it to his cheek as if a magic talisman to ward off misery. It was how he fell asleep.

The officers’ deck hatch opened and Royce spotted Beryl stepping out into the night air. Beryl liked his sleep and, being senior midshipman, rarely held the late watch. He stood glancing around, taking in the lay of the deck. He cast an eye up at the maintop, but Royce knew he was invisible in the dark tangles. Beryl spotted Wesley making his rounds on the forecastle and made his way across the waist and up the stair. Wesley looked concerned at his approach but held his ground. Perhaps the boy would get another beating tonight. Whatever torments Beryl planned for Wesley were no concern of Royce, and he thought it might be time to scare Defoe again.

“I won’t do it,” Wesley declared, drawing Royce’s attention. Once more Royce noticed Beryl nervously looking upward.

Who are you looking for, Mister Beryl?

He unhooked himself from the shrouds and rolled over for his own glance upward. As usual, Defoe was keeping his distance.

No threat there.

Royce climbed to the yard, walked to the end and just as he had done during the race with Derning, slid down the rope so he could hear them.

“I can make life on this ship very difficult for you,” Beryl threatened Wesley. “Or have you forgotten your two days without sleep? There is talk that I wi made acting lieutenant, and if you think your life is hard with me as the senior midshipman—as a lieutenant it will be a nightmare. And I’ll see to it that any transfer is refused.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to. In fact, it’s better if you don’t. That way you can sound sincere if the captain questions you. Just find him guilty of something. Misconduct, disrespect, I don’t care. You put his buddy the cook on report for not saluting, do something like that. Only this time it needs to be a flogging offense.”

“But why me? Why can’t
you
invent this charge?”

“Because if the accusation comes from you, the captain and Mister Bishop will not question it.” He grinned. “And if they don’t—it’s your ass not mine.”

“And that’s supposed to entice me?”

“No, but I’ll get off your back. If you don’t—you won’t eat, you won’t sleep, and you’ll become very accident-prone. The sea can be dangerous. Midshipmen Jenkins lost both thumbs on our last voyage when he slipped with a rope, which is strange ’cause he didn’t handle ropes that day. Invent a charge, make it stick, and get him flogged.”

“And why do you want him whipped?”

“I told you. My friends want blood. Now do we have a deal?”

Wesley stared at Beryl and took a deep breath. “I can’t misrepresent a man, and certainly not one under my command, simply to avoid personal discomfort.”

“It will be a great deal more than discomfort you little git!”

“The best I can do is forget we had this conversation. Of course, should some unusual or circumstantial accusation be leveled against Seaman Melborn, I might find it necessary to report this incident to the captain. I suspect he will take a dim view of your efforts to advance insubordination on his vessel. It could be viewed as the seeds of mutiny, and we both know the penalty for that.”

“You don’t know who you’re playing with, boy. As much as you’d like to think it, you’re no Breckton. If I can’t use you, I’ll lose you.”

“Is that all, Mister Beryl? I must tack the ship now.”

Beryl spit at the younger man’s feet and stalked away. Wesley remained standing rigidly, watching him go. Once Beryl disappeared below, he gripped the rail and took off his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Wesley took a deep breath, replaced his hat, straightened his jacket, then shouted in a clear voice. “Hands to the braces! Prepare to bring her about!”

Royce had dealt with many people in his life, from serfs to kings, and few shocked him. He knew he could always depend on their greed and weakness and was rarely disappointed. Wesley was the first in years to surprise him. While the young midshipman could not see it, the thief offered him the only sincere salute bestowed since Royce stepped aboard.

Royce ascended to the topsail to loose the yard brace in anticipation of Wesley’s next order when his eye caught an irregularity on the horizon. At night, with only the suggestion of a moon, it was hard for anyone to tell where the sky ended and the sea began. Royce however, could discern the difference. At that moment, he noticed a break in the line. Out to sea, ahead of the
Storm
, a black silhouette broke the dusty star field.

“Sail ho!” he shouted.

“What was that?” Wesley asked.

“Sail off the starboard bow,” he shouted, pointing to the southeast.

“Is there a light?”

“No, sir, a triangle-shaped sail.”

Wesley moved to the starboard rail. “I don’t see anything, how far out?”

“On the horizon, sir.”

“The horizon?” Wesley picked up the eyeglass and panned the sea. The rest of the ship was silent except for the creaking of the oak timbers as they waited. “I’ll be buggered,” Wesley muttered, as he slapped the glass closed and ran to the quarterdeck to pound on the captain’s cabin. He paused then pounded again.

Te door opened to reveal the captain, barefoot in his nightshirt. “Mister Wesley, have we run aground? Is there a mutiny?” The captain’s steward rushed to him with his robe.

“No, sir. There’s a sail on the horizon, sir.”

“A what?”

“A triangular sail, sir. Over there.” Wesley pointed while handing him the glass.

“On the horizon you say? But how—” Seward crossed to the rail and looked out. “By Mar! But you’ve got keen eyes, lad!”

“Actually, the maintop crew spotted it first, sir. Sounded like Seaman Melborn, sir.”

“Looks like
three
ships, Mister Wesley. Call all hands.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Wesley roused Bristol who roused the rest of the crew and in a matter of minutes men ran to their stations. Mister Bishop was still buttoning his coat when he reached the quarterdeck, followed by Mister Temple.

“What is it, sir?”

“The Dacca have returned.”

Wyatt, who was taking the helm, glanced over. “Orders, sir?” he asked coldly.

“Watch your tone, helmsman!” Temple snapped.

“Just asking, sir.”

“Asking for a caning!” Mister Temple roared. “And you’ll get one if you don’t keep a civil tongue.”

“Shut up the both of you. I need to think.” Seward began to pace the quarterdeck, his head down, one hand playing with the tie to his robe, the other stroking his lips.

“Sir, we only have one chance and it’s a thin one at that,” Wyatt said.

Mister Temple took hold of his cane and moved toward him.

“Belay, Mister Temple!” The captain ordered, before turning his attention back to Wyatt. “Explain yourself, helmsman.”

“At that range, with the land behind us, the Dacca can’t possibly see the
Storm
. All they can see are the lanterns.”

“Good god! You’re right, put out those—”

“No, wait, sir!” Wyatt stopped him. “We
want
them to see the lanterns. Lower the long boat, rig it with a pole fore and aft, and hang two lanterns on the ends. Put ours out as you light those then cast off. The Dacca will focus on it all night. We’ll be able to bring the
Storm
about, catch the wind, and reach the safety of Wesbaden Bay.”

“But that’s not our destination.”