Easton's Gold (15 page)

The candlelight burns in Gabrielle's dark eyes as she listens. Fleet feels compelled to yield his story as if he were a spinning wheel and Gabrielle a weaver, tapping her foot patiently, pulling every strand together in her hands.

“Every move I made from the moment of my escape has led me to two things: justice and revenge. I want to break every chain that shackles the flesh of the innocent. I want to murder every man who trades in misery.” Fleet pauses; he notices Gabrielle flinch slightly. “I had to find the man who first made us outcasts. I had to find Easton.”

“To kill him?” prods Gabrielle.

A weary feeling comes over Fleet. He goes to the stool and sits. “That was the plan, yes,” he sighs.

“But you cannot,” Gabrielle says, looking down at her hands.

Fleet stares at Gabrielle. “How would you know that?”

“You have had so many opportunities already, yet the Marquis thrives.”

Fleet sighs and looks away.

“Don't tell me you are still waiting for a better chance. Revenge never waits.” Gabrielle is smiling now, perhaps sadly. “The Marquis tried to sell me to the captain, and I convinced myself he was doing it for my own good. Now he is arranging to have me drugged. Yet I cannot condemn him”

“Why?” Fleet asks feebly.

“Because we are orphans, you and I. Good or evil, he is the only father either of us have.”

Fleet feels as though his feet have turned to lead. “I was going to drug you properly the second time,” he mumbles, bowing his head.

“Of course you were,” Gabrielle says calmly.

Fleet cannot look at her, but he hears her shift from the bed and come over to his stool. Her shadow overhangs him for a second then descends. He feels first the warmth of her hand on his shoulder, then the prickle of her hair against his cheek. Fleet's hands reach blindly, touching her hot cheek. Slowly he pulls her to him.

T
he moonlight streams through the clouds, scattering its silver kiss over the multitudinous waves. The hiss and whistle of the storm comes from every direction, and the sting of salt water is in my eyes. I hold the wheel steady, and the ship rides forth with a constant, plunging rhythm. I have angled the sails to catch every breath.

If the young apothecary's medicine should work tonight, my access to the ship and its crew may be unlimited, and we will arrive on the shores of Newfoundland much sooner than expected. The captain has not appeared since dinner, and my hopes are high. The fool is quite lovesick enough to disappear into his cabin with Gabrielle for the whole voyage.

The ship plunges once more, and the masts creak under the weight of the pregnant sails. The ocean comes hissing along the deck again, scooping up the man on watch. He tumbles and slides twenty yards along the boards, coming to a thumping halt against the port deck rail.

“Mind your footing there!” I call. Then I notice he isn't moving.

Next time I see the first mate, I must ask for another watch.

__________

G
ABRIELLE COMES AWAKE TO A
loud disharmony of creaks and groans; the cabin is rocking. She reaches out quickly and holds on to the side of the bed with one hand and Fleet's shoulder with the other. Then she pulls herself up into a seated position.

Fleet groans, wakes and puts his hand around her wrist.

“There's a storm. We fell asleep,” she says as though the two facts may be somehow connected. “I should go back to my cabin.”

“No,” Fleet groans, hauling himself into a seated position. “Stay here. There's a storm in your cabin too.”

“I know,” she says, pushing his chin away with her palm, “but there are too many people watching us.”

She eases herself off the bed and straightens her clothes as she goes to the door. She opens it quickly, feeling a lump in her stomach. The corridor is quiet and empty. She turns and smiles quickly at Fleet, then she steps out of the cabin and closes the door.

When she reaches the upper deck levels, she sees the scattering of a golden dawn through the portholes. She winds her way along to the three-step ladder, her hip bumping against the side as the ship tips sharply. She runs down the ladder, turns the corner then stops. Seated with her back propped up against her cabin door is Philippa. Philippa turns toward her suddenly and, pushing herself up with her knuckles, tries to stand. But the ship sways to the side, and she loses her balance, falling back into the same seated position. Gabrielle approaches slowly, hoping she will run away as before. But Philippa doesn't try to stand again. Rather she turns and licks her lips, apparently getting ready to speak.

“I know it isn't your fault, Gabrielle.”

Gabrielle stops a few paces from her. It is the oddness of hearing her name on Philippa's lips, rather than the incomprehensible nature of her words, that causes Gabrielle to hesitate.

“What?” she says feebly.

“I know you must do what the Marquis says,” Philippa says, her gaze darting from Gabrielle's dress, to the corridor beyond and back again but never raising itself to Gabrielle's face.

“I don't know what you mean,” Gabrielle says tiredly, gazing past Philippa's head to the door handle she longs to be turning.

“I know that if you are with a man tonight, or any other night, it is because of the Marquis's plans, not your own free will.”

Gabrielle's face burns. It was bad enough being insulted by Philippa. To be forgiven by her now seems even more humiliating. Gabrielle shakes her head. “I did not lie with the captain tonight and will not, whether the Marquis wants it or not.”

“The captain,” Philippa says, suddenly frowning. “Yes, I know that. He was here looking for you.”

Gabrielle feels suddenly sick. “What did you say?” she asks.

“He was here looking for you. The captain.”

More than ever Gabrielle wants to get into her cabin and bar herself in. She lurches toward the door handle. Philippa cringes beneath her, as though she believes she is about to be struck. Gabrielle turns the handle, pushes open the door and steps over Philippa. She is about the close the door, but the sight of Philippa's wide-open, terrified eyes staring up at her causes her to delay. She holds open the door and gazes down at the woman.

“What is it you want from me?” she asks with at least some of the desperation she feels.

Philippa jumps forward on her knees and grabs hold of Gabrielle's skirt.

“Oh, please,” sobs Philippa. “I never hated you. It was never that.”

Gabrielle bends over, trying to peel Philippa's fingers away from her skirt. “Don't, it's all right, all right.”

“You're like the Virgin, just like the Virgin.”

“What virgin?” Gabrielle says, still trying to loosen Philippa's hands.

“Like the statue in the chapel. Your face…everything…”

Gabrielle remembers the château's chapel and how all the servants—Françoise, Maria, Jacques, and Philippa—used to pray there together on Sunday mornings, weaving their rosaries through their fingers and mumbling charm-like incantations. All eyes would be on the statue of the Virgin with the solemn, beautiful face.

“Philippa, I'm not the Virgin Mary, I promise you.”

Philippa's knuckles have turned white with the effort of holding onto Gabrielle's skirts. Gabrielle tries to ease her fingers away again and feels the warm dribble of Philippa's tears on her own hands.

“Philippa,” she says gently, and at last she finds the fingers letting go. “There'll be other statues. You'll find one wherever you see a church.”

“It isn't just the statue,” says Philippa, covering her mouth with her half-closed fists, “not anymore.” She shuffles away on her knees and, as the ship dips sharply again, grabs hold of a rail on the opposite wall. With one more longing over-her-shoulder glance at Gabrielle, she tries to get to her feet and does so at the second attempt. Then she is gone, her body thumping against the wall once, twice, then disappearing from view. Gabrielle hears her running up the three-step ladder and down the corridor beyond.

Gabrielle closes the door and sighs, looking for something heavy to put up against it. She knows the captain will be back.

__________

F
LEET DOZES, LISTENING TO
the creaking and tapping of the beams. The bed is still warm from Gabrielle, although she has been gone for some minutes. The rippling blanket feels like water washing him clean. Until last night he was suffocating in the multiple deceits of his own invention. Day after day, and for years, the garments brushing against his skin have been screaming “liar,” but he deafened himself to their protests a long time ago. Now, like a dead man rising, he feels everything with unnatural sharpness. He had been encased in a sarcophagus, and Gabrielle has cracked it open.

He turns on his back and listens to the woodpecker-like tapping from the beams above his head. But another sound—unwelcome and blundering—interferes; heavy footsteps are approaching. Fleet puts his hand on the dome of his mother's skull and pushes it further beneath the blanket. He raises himself on his elbows.

One more footstep—very near. Fleet swings his feet to the floor, pulls his breeches on under his nightshirt and stands, sliding into his shoes.

The door flies open. It is the captain, his face crimson, his hair damp and steaming.

“Traitor!” he croaks breathlessly. His bows low like a bull ready to charge; his eyes bulge white and burning around the rims.

“What's the matter?” Fleet replies weakly.

The captain's chest heaves. “You lying, treacherous whoremaster!” he gasps, trembling with rage. He takes a halfstep closer. “She left here not ten minutes ago.”

“Calm down,” Fleet says without much conviction. He takes a couple of steps sideways toward the medicine barrels. The captain's eyes widen even more, and he blunders further forward and scans each of the three barrels to his left.

“I'll have you in irons,” he spits, “and I'll take charge of your medicines.”

“You can't do that, Captain,” Fleet says as calmly as he can—the mention of “irons” has pricked his heart into motion. He hears a galloping in his ears. The captain moves closer, and his breath, heavy with sour wine, is overpowering. Fleet has to turn his face away, and then, before he has time to react, the captain's thick, strong hands are about his neck. Fleet can't breathe; he can barely even think. His knees buckle, and he is weighed down by the crushing power of the man above him. Fleet's right hand has a grip on the captain's left forearm, and he is trying to lever it sideways. But yellow stars are appearing before his eyes.

Suddenly the captain's grip loosens, then it leaves Fleet's neck altogether. The ship has pitched sideways, and Henley's footing is lost. He backs like an out-of-control horse, thudding against the barrel containing the moss powder. The barrel tips and then straightens again, and the captain skitters across the cabin, falling onto Fleet's bed with a grunt. Fleet first rolls to avoid being pounced upon then springs to his feet, steadying himself against the barrel with the snails and Easton's gold. The captain struggles, pushing himself up from Fleet's crumpled bed. His left hand emerges from under the bedclothes, hauling out the skull. His fingers grip it through its empty eye sockets.

“Put that down!” Fleet says, a heat rising in his head.

Henley turns and glares at him. “I'm sick of your medicine, boy!” He swings the skull against the bed frame, and there is a dry, splintering sound. Fleet gasps, bounds across the cabin, jumps high and falls down upon Henley, his knees coming into sharp contact with the captain's chest. The skull spins away on the floor. The captain, undefeated, grips and twists Fleet's nightshirt, tearing the fabric and wringing the flesh beneath. Crying out, Fleet grips the back of Henley's hair where it is thickest and pulls as hard as he can. He wriggles himself away from Henley's grip, allowing the nightshirt to come off in the captain's hands, exposing his own black torso.

Fleet manoeuvres himself so that he is standing above and behind the crouched captain, both hands still firmly gripping the thickest part of his hair. He pulls Henley foot by foot away from the bed and toward the barrel of brine. Henley struggles, his hands reaching for Fleet's face. He tries to stand, but loses his footing again as the ship tilts.

Cool him down. I must cool him down
. Fleet has come to the barrel at last. He twists Henley's hair very hard with one hand and reaches out with the other, opening the barrel hatch. The captain digs his fingertips into Fleet's forearm, causing him to cry out.

Fleet pulls the captain up hard with both hands and tries to wrench him over the barrel in the same movement. The captain seems to sense real danger; his fingers are in Fleet's mouth, his ear, and working toward his right eye.

Fleet stretches his neck as far back as he can while twisting Henley's hair and hauling and pushing his head until his face touches the water. The captain's arms stretch backwards, contorting like a crab, his fingers still gripping Fleet's face and neck.

“Calm down!” Fleet splutters, biting hard on the tip of Henley's finger. Hot blood trickles down Fleet's neck from his ear. He knows the captain can't hear with his head now submerged, but he says it again. “I'll let you go if you calm down!”

Henley's fingernails stop burrowing at last. His fingers slide slowly from Fleet's face, and his hand falls, knuckles bumping against the side of the barrel. Fleet quickly spits out the piece of flesh in his mouth.

“That's better. That's better,” says Fleet, gasping from the sting where Henley's fingernails scoured him. He holds the captain's head down for a few moments longer, until bubbles come to the surface.

Slowly Fleet untangles his fingers from the captain's wet hair; much of it comes off in his hands. He takes a step backwards, his heart hammering through the silence.