Minerva's Voyage (20 page)

“
‘The boat is too small,' said the French captain. ‘I barely
know how we will transport our own people. And then there's
Monsieur Plumsell to consider. I've already picked him up
from another wreck. I don't wish many English on board.
They make me uneasy. One is acceptable, two are conspir
ators.' Arthur begged and pleaded, but it availed him not.
‘We did not bring you here, and we shall not take you hence,'
insisted the captain.

“
‘I could stow away,' he told Plumsell privately, ‘if you would
help me by sharing your food so I don't starve during the journey.'

“
‘It would be more than my life's worth. And if you were
found, which would be very likely on such a small ship, you'd be
thrown headlong into the ocean, hundreds of miles away from
anywhere, and I would too. These men have few scruples, espe
cially when their own lives might be in danger.'
”

By now I knew well enough who the young man was, of course, but I said nothing. Fence, not the sharpest knife in the drawer, was sitting slack jawed and open mouthed.

“
Heartbroken, the young man returned to the cave and tried
to think of a plan. Just before the pinnace left, he gave Plumsell
a note written in his own blood on a large palm leaf, and asked
him to deliver it to the Queen so that she would send an expedi
tion in search of him. Plumsell took the note and tucked it into
his doublet. He didn't agree to deliver it, but he didn't say he
wouldn't, either.

“
Now in essence, it wasn't up to Arthur, it was up to Plum
sell, and more important, to Dame Fortune herself. Whenever
Arthur thought of Dame Fortune, he saw her dressed as the
Queen had been dressed on the one occasion he had been brought
into her royal presence, in magnificent black and silver robes,
with flaming hair and a coronet. She was his Dame Fortune
.”

He stood up. The cave was full of shadows. “I was that boy. I was that young man. I am Arthur Dudley, son to the Queen of England. And now you have found me. Or at least, we have found one another.”

C
HAPTER 37
O
N
H
IS
H
EAD THE
C
ROWN?

Fence gasped. “You are the son of the Queen? You, yourself?” Tempest was running around in circles chasing his tail as though he'd just discovered he had one.

“Yes I am.”

“So the crown in the cipher text represents you?” I was trembling.

“I believe it must. Plumsell must have composed the ciphers in hopes they would draw people here. He was an expert emblem and cipher maker. Perhaps he went to the Queen but she wouldn't help. After all, she acknowledged my existence only once, and only in private. Plumsell was the only person besides myself who knew the way to the cave.”

“He never published them though. They were still in manuscript.”

“That is a mystery. Perhaps he decided it was too dangerous to his own safety to publish what amounted to a treasure map to a crown prince of England. But it accounts for the fact that no one, until you boys, ever found me.”

“Admiral Winters says that the Isle of Devils is a terrible place for storms and shipwrecks,” said Fence. “That might also be a reason.”

“Just so. It's possible many may have set out, but to my knowledge no one ever reached here. I wonder if Plumsell ever did take my letter to the Queen. It would be a risky thing to do.”

Fence looked dumbfounded, and true it is, I was stunned myself. Amazement had been growing in me since the beginning of Dudley's story. Here was I, Robin Starveling, not pinching pies any longer, but perchance standing next to real honest to goodness English royalty. If things went right I would be set up for life.
Prince Arthur and his entourage
, I thought. That would definitely include me. But there were a few obstacles to overcome. First, I had to be certain in my mind that he was who he said he was. There were plenty of people around who were as barking mad — or perhaps I should say oinking mad — as Boors. And with Dudley there was, for example, the minor problem of the pronoun. “It's a strange story, true enough. But why do you refer to yourself as ‘he'and ‘him'?” I asked.

“It is all so long ago and far away. It seems to have happened to another man. I think of it almost as a fairy tale.”

Good answer, I thought. Chalk one up for the Prince.

Fence blinked, then rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Queen Elizabeth died more than six years ago. James of Scotland is King of England now.”

“I never thought of that possibility,” Dudley cried. “I imagined my mother still alive.” He threw his hands over his face, but after a moment he composed himself, let his hands fall to his sides, and drew himself up to his full height. “I cannot mourn her. I did not know her. But good God, if the Queen is dead and has been all these years, it is a fairy tale no longer.” Suddenly he didn't look as old, and his bearing was regal. “I never thought to see this day. I have long been Island King, but I ruled no one but myself. Now, as James is no more than distant cousin to the late Queen, I am the true King of England.”

I gulped. This was even more exciting. It was like watching a play. But it was perilous too. Who would dare to tell James he was not the real King? And what would happen then?

“Hoorah,” cried Fence, wrapped up in measureless content.

“James of Scotland is a fraud and a usurper. I must return right away to London and claim my rightful place as the son of the Queen. Are you with me?”

“Aye, aye, your majesty,” said Fence, saluting him. I saluted him too, though more than a bit nervously. A rebel
lion could prove very dangerous, and I preferred to keep my head connected to the rest of me.

“We must tell no one here and go with stealth. I don't want to run the risk of waiting longer, or being left on the island again by someone who might not believe me King, someone who would perchance consider me a lunatic or a traitor.”

Winters might well think that, I realized. “Is that why you didn't reveal yourself right away to everyone?”

“Yes. I had to make sure that the people who found me, or perhaps it would be truer to say whom I found, were of trustworthy natures. Not like your old and vicious master and his crony. As with the French ship, I bided my time.”

I put my right hand behind my back and crossed my fingers. One thing I wasn't was trustworthy. Not that it was my fault. It was the hand fate had dealt me.

“You might like gold, Robin Starveling, but from what I've seen of you when you're with Peter Fence, I'd say you are a trusty friend and a loyal ally.”

“He is a right good'un, sire,” said Fence.

Dudley smiled. “We will raise an army when we reach England. There is the small matter of a ship,” he mused, who despite what others such as Winters might think, appeared to be turning into a monarch before my very eyes. This was all happening a bit too fast. I couldn't believe he'd be able to raise an army. But although I'd had no time to consider it, I was pretty sure his story must be true. There wasn't a trace of the madman about him, except perchance in his idea that he and a ragtaggle group armed with pikes and pitchforks could defeat King James. And he did possess the Phoenix Medallion, which was to my mind the clincher that he was the son of the late Queen. He didn't have shifty eyes like Proule, or a deceitful air like Scratcher. He hadn't stolen it, I was certain now. But others might not be. And whether he wanted to go raise an army or not, I still believed our best bet was to get off the island first, and make decisions later. I had plenty of time, while we were sailing back to England, to try to change his mind if need be.

“I do feel that with some judicious planning we might work out where we could find a boat, sire,” said I, his new minister in waiting, “as your hollow tree trunk sounds much too small to carry us all.” There were two boats anchored close to shore. The pinnace had been built by Winters and his men, while the rowboat had been commandeered by Scratcher. The rowboat wouldn't get us very far and I would be terrified enough at sea without trying to outmanoeuvre the waves in a craft the size of a soup bowl. No, we would steal the pinnace, the pinnace that was meant to carry Win
ters to Virginia sometime soon. Swiping what belonged to others, was, you might say, my stock-in-trade.

C
HAPTER 38
O
UT OF THE
C
AVE AND INTO
D
ANGER

I poked my head out of the cave. It was growing late, and would be twilight soon enough, so I beckoned to the others. Tempest immediately rushed out, turned right, and got lost; that is, lost to us. I'm sure he knew where he was. It just didn't happen to be where we were. In a moment, Fence and Arthur Dudley slipped out and joined me, and we made our way through the labyrinth. Dudley was carrying a large sack of supplies, and Fence carried a lantern.

Soon we were treading quickly along the path that led towards camp, with me leading the way. We would skirt the settlement and head for the makeshift harbour. I was just imagining a cherry pie, its pastry brown and crisp, loaded with mountains of whipped cream fresh from the cow — funny it is, how I always think about food at the most inopportune times — when we ran smack into Scratcher and Proule. Or at least, we came within spitting distance of them. We quickly ducked behind palms, but the trees were spindly and didn't afford even such as us much cover.

For once, the two men were not making a sound. They were fighting, locked in a grim embrace. Behind them glit
tered a handful of shillings. The money sat between a small hole and a large rock. They must have just dug it up, or been about to bury it again. “Quick,” I whispered to Fence. “Take the cash and run. We'll meet up later.”

“It's not ours.”

“Now's not the time for goddamn philosophical discus
sions. Pick up the money and get. I'll follow as quickly as I can, but have Dudley to think of. Misfortunately he can't move fast.”

Scratcher and Proule had been in deadly combat for Scratcher's knife, but Proule must have heard us, and me especially, for as he fought on he fixed the tree behind which I hid with a demonic glare. My knees wobbled with fear and I almost fell over. I was probably the only person in the world he hated more than Scratcher. With a guttural shout he punched his opponent hard with his free hand, while violently jerking the knife out of Scratcher's fingers. He lunged towards the tree, circling round it so that he was directly in front of me. “Say yer prayers, cockroach, yer trai
torous bug, because I'm dispatching yer to heaven or hell right now. Then I'll take care of Scratcher.”

“Don't call me that,” screeched his opponent, near crazed with rage.

Proule rushed at me. Dudley, seeing my danger, dumped his sack and thrust himself between Proule's body and mine. “Leave the boy alone. He's under my protection,” Dudley rasped in his rusty-key voice. But the knife, which was meant for me, slid fast and sharp into him instead. He went down, first onto his knees, then onto his side. I cried out. Proule was thrown off balance for a moment and staggered backwards into the tree.

“No!” he yelled, for despite their earlier fearful and most dreadful struggle, Scratcher now had the advantage and was closing on the knife. With a savage wrench he pulled it out of Dudley. The old man moaned before falling silent. His chest and arm were covered with blood. Horrified, I knelt down next to him. For once I didn't care about my own safety. I had brought him to this.

Swinging around, as if performing a courtly dance, Scratcher whooped in triumph. He pinned Proule with the knife and plunged it deep into his belly. Then he twisted the blade. Proule shrieked and fell forward onto earth and grass, landing at Scratcher's feet. His head hit first, the impact pushing it around and up so that at least one eye still glared at me. The knife handle stuck out of his stomach at an angle, preventing him from falling flat, but he appeared quite, quite, dead.

“Waste of a good knife,” complained Scratcher. He turned Proule over and tried to retrieve it a couple of times After a third attempt, finding it was still jammed fast, he spat on the ground and kicked the body. Then he tacked towards the hole and the rock.

“Where are the bloody shillings?” he screamed. “God's Blood, where are they? They're mine, and mine alone,” He didn't care about anything or anyone else, not even about who Dudley was, or rather, who Dudley had been. Not even that Proule was dead. Not even that Scratcher himself was a murderer. “The coins were right here. I killed Proule on account of them and now they're gone.” With a whoop he realized Fence wasn't there either. “That foul coward of a cabinboy was here just a moment ago. I saw him. He must have taken off with them.” In a trice Scratcher disappeared after Fence.

My heart hammered. Should I go or should I stay here? I would run to find Fence, and try to keep us both out of harm's way, but I had something to do first, something that couldn't wait.

I was still kneeling next to Dudley, my tears falling onto his robes. Here was the only man besides Piggsley who had ever shown any kindness to me. Here was possibly the true King of England. He had saved my life. He lay dead on the ground. I crossed myself and cried even harder. But I had to accomplish my horrid task. Gritting my teeth, I reached beneath the neckband of his bloodstained robes until I felt something cold. A heavy chain. Lifting his head, I began to pull the loop of gold off him, sobbing all the while. The Phoenix Medallion. It was mine at last, but I didn't feel in the least triumphant. True it is, I felt like a traitor, but told myself that this was fair play, even by Fence's rules, as it could not be said to belong to Dudley any longer. But I never got it completely off him. Sure though I was that Dudley was dead, it turned out that he wasn't. His eyes opened and he grimaced.