Pirate (2 page)

Bishop's Lynn, Norfolk, England

October 9, 1216

T
he first flurries of snow fell from the gray sky, the temperature plummeting as twilight deepened. William the Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, reined his spirited stallion to a stop, the three knights behind him following suit. Around them, the forest turned into a menacing maze of rustling shadows, the path no longer clear.

When William failed to see the horsemen they'd broken away from earlier that evening, he wondered for a moment if they had taken a wrong turn. But no. There was the twisted oak on the left, as he remembered. He and the three knights with him had ridden ahead to scout the path for the others who would be following the next day, guarding the king's treasure. And though William had argued against the move, hoping to wait for more reinforcements, the king's advisers insisted that it was important to secure the treasure's safety—especially now that Prince Louis of France had taken London and was proclaiming himself King
of England. With half of King John's barons siding with Louis against him, he wanted the royal treasure out of the usurper's reach.

Robert de Braose rode up beside him and William looked over. “My men should have been here by now.”

“Perhaps the colder weather has delayed them.”

William held up his hand, demanding silence. The faintest of sounds caught his attention, and he strained to hear. “Listen . . .”

“I hear nothing.”

There it was again. A rustling that differed from the wind in the trees.

Beside him, a whisper of metal as Robert drew his sword from its leather scabbard. Then a cry as several horsemen emerged from the forest, their swords drawn. William's horse reared at the unexpected charge. He fought to stay seated. He heard the air swoosh as Robert's sword arced toward him.

Instinctively, he lifted his shield. Too late. The sharp edge of Robert's blade struck his rib cage. The tight chain mail of his body tunic absorbed most of the blow, though pain shot through him.

Had Robert mistaken him for the enemy?

Impossible, he thought as he drew his sword. He whirled about, then took out the horseman closest to him. The man's body landed near that of William's youngest knight, Arthur de Clare.

Anger surged through him as he turned to Robert. “Have you gone mad?” he asked, almost too stunned to believe he'd been ambushed by one of the king's handpicked men.

“On the contrary,” Robert said. He urged his mount forward, swung again, but he no longer held the element of surprise. Their blades collided, metal ringing. “I have finally come to my senses.”

“By attacking me, you commit treason against the king. To what end?”

“Not my king, yours. I swear fealty to Louis of France.”

The betrayal struck deep. “You were my friend.”

Robert kicked at his horse's flanks, sword lunging as he leaned forward, then pulled back at the last second.

William anticipated the feint, waited, then swung his shield, knocking Robert from his horse. The stallion ran off. Behind them, Hugh Fitz Hubert, also unhorsed, took down one rebel knight, then turned to find another riding off, leading the remaining horses away. Two-upon-two, and William the only remaining horseman. He liked these odds much better and he circled around, facing Robert. “I trained you. I know your weaknesses.”

“And I, yours.” The clouds parted, and a shaft of moonlight glinted off Robert's weapon of choice. A one-edged blade combined the power and weight of an axe with the versatility of a sword. The end curved slightly into a deadly point—one which William had seen penetrate tightly woven chain mail.

The heavier weight of the weapon gave Robert an advantage over the lighter two-edged longsword that William used. But Robert would tire easier, especially now that he'd been knocked from his mount. And no sooner had that thought crossed William's mind than Robert charged him, swinging his blade like a battle-axe, aiming for the horse's legs.

William retreated, realizing the greater threat. Take out their horses and, even if they did survive, they could never get back in time to warn the king.

A hard thing to do—giving up the advantage—but William knew it was his only chance. He dismounted, slapping his horse on its flank, sending it off. Fitz Hubert and the rebel knight squared off, swords clashing.

He faced Robert. The two men sidestepped, round and round. William examined Robert's metal tunic, hoping there might be some flaw in the mail. “Why?” he asked between blows. He needed answers. He intended to survive.

Robert eyed him, shifting the weight of his sword in his hand. “There is enough gold in the king's camp to fund an entire army—take back what was lost by
your
inept king's actions.”

“His actions are his to make”—metal sparked against metal—“whether or not you find them to your liking.”

“My family has lost everything,” Robert said, circling William, searching for an opening, waiting for the right moment. “The king has lined his coffers with our gold—with our blood. Imprisoned my half brothers.” He struck again and again. “That treasure belongs to us, and where it goes, we go.”

William's muscles burned, he was tiring fast. Robert was a formidable enemy. Younger and stronger. The two men faced each other, their breath coming hard and fast. He lost track of Fitz Hubert and the other rebel knight but heard them somewhere in the dark. “You
will
fail,” William said.

“Nay. The king is already dying.”

Fear coursed through William. And, with it, the strength to lift his sword one last time. His blade arced. Robert parried—as
William knew he would. William's sword glanced upward, and he used the force to bring it farther, thrusting into the chain mail beneath Robert's arm. With both hands, he drove Robert to the ground.

William stood over Robert, noting the mixture of fear and loathing on his face as he stomped on Robert's sword arm. He pressed the point of his blade against Robert's throat. “What say you now?”

“We have still won.”

“With your imminent demise?” It was a moment of glory. A heartbeat away from striking the deathblow to the traitor. Especially when he saw Fitz Hubert emerge from the trees unscathed.

But then Robert, his breathing labored, smiled at William. “Who do you think convinced the king to move his treasure for safekeeping, then set up this ambush? 'Twas I . . . Prince Louis, the true king, who sits now in London, will reap the benefits of your false king's greed . . . The treasure will be ours.” He sucked in a lungful of air. “We have spies in every court . . . Every last jewel in his crown, every last bit of his gold, will finance Louis's campaign. England will be his . . . You and your ilk will swear fealty to Louis before this week is through.”

“Not if I have aught to say about it.”

William drove the sword home, twisting to make sure the final thrust brought death. He left the body where it was, then eyed Fitz Hubert. “Are you hurt?”

“A cracked rib, I fear.”

“You heard?”

“Aye.”

They managed to recover only one horse, William's, and they
decided because of Fitz Hubert's injury, William would ride to warn the king. When he reached the encampment in Bishop's Lynn, he saw it on the faces of the others. John de Lacy met him outside the king's tent, refusing him entry. “The king is ill. Dysentery. He wishes to see no one.”

“He will see me. Make way or forfeit your life.”

“What—”

William pushed past him and entered the tent, his nostrils flaring at the putrid air. The king's physician and two stewards were in attendance. Candles flickered in their stands around the king's pallet, casting a dim glow about the still form. Too still. William feared the king might be dead by now. But as he neared, he saw his chest rise and fall with each shallow breath. “My liege.” William took to his knee at the king's bedside, bowing his head. “I have failed you.”

The king's eyes opened slightly. A sheen of perspiration covered his brow. “How so?”

“What I have to say is best told in private.”

King John said nothing at first, just stared at William. Then, a slight flick of his wrist. “Be gone. All.”

William waited until the tent was cleared. And, even then, he was loath to impart the news. “I failed to recognize a traitor in your midst. Perhaps not the only one. Robert de Braose. He told me you were dying. Before he possibly could have heard.”

“Dysentery.”

“I fear not.”

The king closed his eyes, and for a moment William worried that he would not waken. “Who would do this?”

“That, I do not know. But whoever has worked this evil, they
know of the royal treasure you bring with you. It is meant to finance Prince Louis's claim on the English throne. They know you are moving it. Your illness was to be the distraction needed so that on the morrow they could take it.”

“My son . . .” The king reached out, grasped at William's hand, his grip weak, feverish. “What of Henry?”

“He is safe. I will guard him with my life.” The king's oldest son, a mere lad of nine, was innocent of the dishonesty and treachery of the last several kings—his father and all his relatives included. If there was to be any hope for England, it would be through a monarch who was untouched by greed and murder. “I fear that the temptation of such a treasure will be too much for the young prince's reign.”

“He will need all of my treasure to finance his retribution. To win back our lands.”

“My liege. If I may be frank. As long as that treasure exists, there will be those who want nothing more than to possess it. Louis of France is only the first of many. And lest you forget, the rebel barons you have fought against these past several months cannot be trusted. Not while the lure of gold and riches tempts them.” He waited a moment to make sure his words were heard and understood. “A poor kingdom is far less desirable. Even more important, a young king barely old enough to rule a poor kingdom is no longer a threat . . .”

“What are you saying?”

“What if that treasure was lost this night while we were trying to move it through the quicksand of the fens? If you lose the treasure, you lose your son's enemies.”

The king remained silent, his breathing shallow.

“You are dying, sire.” Though he didn't want to believe, he knew the words were true. This was no dysentery. He'd seen it before. A slow poison that ate away at the gut. The king would last perhaps a week or more, his pain excruciating while he waited—nay, prayed for death. “This way, we know young Henry will be safe.”

“And if my son should need the treasure? When he is older?”

“He won't. As long as it remains lost, he will be safe.”

It was several long seconds before the king answered. “See that it is done.”

San Francisco, California

Present day

S
am and Remi Fargo weaved their way around the tourists crowding the sidewalk. Once they were through the green pagoda-style gateway of Chinatown, the throng much thinner, Remi checked the map on her cell phone. “I have a feeling we took a wrong turn somewhere.”

“To that restaurant,” Sam replied, removing his revered panama hat. “A tourist trap, if I ever saw one.”

She glanced at her husband, watching as he ran his fingers through his sun-streaked brown hair. He stood over a head taller than Remi, with broad shoulders and an athletic build. “I didn't hear you complaining when they brought out the moo shu pork.”

“Where did we go wrong?”

“Ordering the Mongolian beef. Definitely a mistake.”

“On the map, Remi.”

She zoomed in, reading the streets. “Perhaps the shortcut through Chinatown wasn't so short.”

“Maybe if you'd at least tell me where we're going, I could help?”

“It's the only part of this trip,” Remi said, “that's my surprise for you. You haven't even shared what you have planned.”

“For a reason.” Sam put on his hat, and Remi linked her arm through his while they walked. He'd arranged this trip because their last adventure to the Solomon Islands had not been the hoped-for quiet vacation they'd planned. “I promise you nothing but rest, relaxation, and a week of no one trying to kill us.”

“A whole week of downtime,” she said, sidling closer to him as a cloud drifted over the sun, taking with it all the warmth of the early-September afternoon. “Have we had anything like that in a while?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“There it is,” she said, spying the bookstore. The flaking gold-leafed lettering in the window read
Pickering's
Used & Rare Books
. “Just to show how very much I appreciate you traipsing all this way with me, I won't make you come in.” Remi was being facetious. Sam's late father, a NASA engineer, had collected rare books, and Sam, also an engineer, had inherited that same passion.

He eyed the bookstore, then his wife. “What sort of husband would I be if something happened to you in there?”

“Dangerous things, books.”

“Look what they did to your brain.”

The pair crossed the street to the bookstore. A Siamese cat, resting on a stack of volumes in the window, looked up in disdain when a bell tinkled as Sam opened the door for Remi. The place
smelled of musk and old paper, and Remi scanned the shelves, at first seeing nothing but used hardcovers and current paperbacks. She hid her disappointment from Sam, hoping they hadn't made the trip for nothing.

A gray-haired man, wearing gold spectacles, wandered in from the back, wiping his hands on a dusty cloth. He saw them and smiled. “May I help you find something?”

Sam's phone rang. He took it from his pocket, telling Remi, “I'll take it outside.”

“Perfect, since this was meant to be a surprise.”

He stepped out, and Remi waited until the door closed firmly behind him before turning to the proprietor. “Mr. Pickering?”

He nodded.

“I was told you had a copy of
The History of Pyrates and Privateers
.”

His smile faltered for the barest of instances. “Of course. Right over here.”

Pickering led her to a shelf where several identical volumes of
Pyrates and Privateers
sat. And while they were clearly reproductions, their faux gold-tooled leather binding gave them the appearance of something that might be found in a library centuries before.

He slid a copy from the shelf, used his cloth to wipe the dust from the top of it, then handed it to her. “How did you know we carried this particular volume?”

She decided to keep it vague—not wanting there to be any hurt feelings now that she knew the book was merely a reproduction. “A woman I work with knew of my husband's interest in
lost artifacts and rare books.” She opened the cover, admiring the detail that gave it an antiqued appearance. “It's a beautiful copy . . . Just not what I was hoping for.”

He pushed his spectacles up onto the bridge of his nose. “It's popular with interior designers. Less emphasis on lost artifacts and more on decorating a coffee table. I do, on occasion, run across old volumes of historical significance. Perhaps your friend meant the Charles Johnson volumes on
A General History of Pyrates
? That, I do have.”

“As do we. I was hoping for
Pyrates and Privateers
to round out our collection. My friend, no doubt, confused the two titles.”

“Who did you say referred you here?”

“Bree Marshall.”

“Oh. Well, that's—” A whoosh of air and the tinkling of the bell seemed to startle him, and he and Remi turned toward the door at the same time. Remi, expecting Sam, saw a much shorter, broad-shouldered man silhouetted against the light from the shop's window.

The bookseller eyed the man, then smiled at Remi. “Let me get the dust off of it and wrap it for you.” And before she could object, tell him she really had no interest in buying a reproduction, he swept the book from her hands. “I'll be right back.”

Her friend Bree had clearly misunderstood which book her uncle had in his shop. No matter. It was a beautiful copy and would look nice in Sam's office. He'd certainly appreciate the sentiment, she decided as she turned to browse the shelves while waiting, spying a copy of Galeazzi's eighteenth-century music treatise. It appeared to be a first edition, and she couldn't imagine why it was sitting in a simple locked glass case at the front counter.

“Do you work here?” the man asked.

She turned, caught a glimpse of dark hair, brown eyes, and a square-set jaw, as he moved from the backlighting of the window. “I'm sorry. No. He's in the back. Wrapping a gift for me.”

He nodded, then walked past the aisle out of sight. When Mr. Pickering emerged from the back room, he walked around the counter to the register. The man stood off to one side, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black leather coat. His presence bothered Remi, though for no reason she could determine except perhaps the way he seemed to be watching their every move—and that he never took his hands from his pockets. She didn't like it when she couldn't see someone's hands.

Mr. Pickering slid her brown paper parcel onto the counter, his gnarled fingers shaking slightly. Nerves or age? she wondered.

“Thank you,” she said. “How much do I owe you?”

“Oh. Right. Forty-nine ninety-five. Plus tax. No charge for the gift wrapping.”

Not quite the wrapping she would have chosen. Aloud, she said, “On the good-news front, it's definitely less than I'd anticipated.”

“Printed in China,” he said, offering her a nervous smile.

She paid him, then tucked the parcel beneath her arm. The Siamese, on its windowed perch by the door, peered over at her, its tail twitching. Remi reached down and petted it, the cat purring, as she stole a glance at the stranger, who hadn't moved.

He pulled a gun from his coat pocket and pointed it at them. “Lady, you should've left when you had a chance. Keep your hands where I can see them.”