Isle of Swords (36 page)
Several days after her encounter with Bartholomew Thorne, Anne awoke in her cell to the jangle of keys. Several of Thorne's men moved slowly away from the cell next to Anne's. She turned and saw that the other cell was no longer empty. The weak lantern's light revealed the still form of a man who lay on an uneven cot in the cell.
He wore a dirty white tunic and brown breeches that were too short for his legs. Anne recognized him, even without his brown robe.
“Padre Dominguez?” she whispered. “Padre Dominguez?”
“Anne,” he said, and as he turned, she saw that his cheeks were tear-stained. Fresh tears rolled as he spoke. “I am so sorry, Anne.
Sorry that I have gotten you into all this. I was foolish to put you and your father into harm's way.”
“No, no,” Anne said, reaching through the bars to touch his hand. “Thorne would have come for us anyway . . . after what happened with Chevillard.”
The monk nodded ever so slightly. “Nonetheless, I am sorry.”
Anne didn't know if she could bring herself to do it, or if she could, how?
If you can discover from him the rest of the journey, the way to the Isle of Swords, I promise I will spare your father's life.
A series of phrases came into her mind, a means to an end. And as she spoke the first, it felt like she had just sold her soul. “Padre, there's something that I don't understand.”
He stared at her curiously. “What is it, child?”
“The treasure, on the Isle of Swords,” she went on, carefully choosing her words. “It must be very great for Thorne to go to such lengths to get it.”
Never taking his dark eyes off her, he said, “It is. More gold and silver than ten galleons could carry and vaults of jewels. The Emperor Constantine had amassed wealth from every corner of the known world.”
Anne nodded. “But what I don't understand is, well . . . it's treasure. Greedy men like Thorne want it. My father even. But why . . . why you? Why the monks of your order? What do you care about such riches?”
The monk's eyes narrowed. “For hundreds of years, we have used the gold to buy freedom for thousands of slaves, to build monasteries like the one on Saint Celestine across the globe, and to spread the faith.” He was silent for a moment. “To let a devil like Thorne gain such riches . . . this we could not bear. But . . . the Isle of Swords holds something more important to us.”
“Padre, I need toâ”
“Tell me, Anne,” he interrupted. “What price did he offer you?”
Anne felt the prick of ten thousand icy needles all over her body.
Her mouth fell open, but she did not speak.
“Your life?” the monk asked. “Your father's life?”
Anne's head fell against the bars, and she wept. “Yes . . . yes,” she cried.
“You are forgiven, child,” he said as he reached through the bars and laid a hand upon her head. “But it is better for you not to know.
I alone must bear the burden of the Isle of Swords.”
“Welcome aboard my little sloop,” said Vesa with a slight bow to Commodore Blake and Sir Nigel. “I am Captain Vesa Turinen, and this is my quartermaster, Stede.”
“That's a fine boat ya b' gotten there,” Stede said.
“Thank you, Mister Stede,” Blake replied. “His Majesty's finest.”
“How many cannon, ninety, a hundred?”
“One hundred ten, to be precise,” said Sir Nigel. Stede whistled.
“May I show you my ship?” Vesa asked.
“Certainly, Captain,” said Commodore Blake. “Sir Nigel?”
“Actually, sir, if you do not mind,” said Nigel, “I think I'll go check on the lads in the hold.” The commodore nodded, and Sir Nigel went below.
Vesa led Commodore Blake fore and aft, boring him with details about the cleverly arranged rigging and sails. Just as they turned at the mainmast, another sailor ducked under the main spar and ran straight into Commodore Blake.
“Caiman!” Vesa exclaimed, aghast at his foolish deck hand.
“I am so sorry,” Caiman said. “I was distracted. I did not see you.”
“What's all this?” asked Sir Nigel as he came up behind Patrick.
“Sheep pen, sir,” he replied. “First time I've seen anything like this in the bottom of a ship. Like Noah and the ark, eh?” He laughed, but Nigel was not amused.
“Except Noah's ship had two of every kind of animal, not just these putrid-smelling sheep.” Sir Nigel stepped closer to the pen and stared. “An awful lot of straw for just these five creatures.”
Ross felt like Sir Nigel was staring right at him. He hadn't had time to throw extra hay on top. He wondered ifâ “Patrick, what do you make of that?” Sir Nigel asked, pointing into the pen. “See, in the straw there?” Ross's heart caught in his throat.
“I don't know, sir,” Patrick said, staring.
Something hissed. They both jumped. “What the devil is that?” said Nigel, staring at the dark space between two fallen crates to the left of the sheep pen. The hissing continued. Patrick stepped slowly backward, drawing a short sword as he moved.
A tapered, curving snout appeared, and then pale greenish eyes with vertical reptilian pupils. The creature's jaws opened, revealing dozens of irregular sharp teeth. Patrick dropped his sword. “It's a croc!” he exclaimed. He and Sir Nigel tripped all over each other trying to get away. They ran all the way across the hold until they slammed into Johann.
“Patrick? Sir Nigel?” he stammered. “What's going on?”
“See, I told you it's like Noah's ark in 'ere!” Patrick yelled. “That was a blooming croc, it was!”
“What?” Johann laughed nervously.
“In the back of the hold,” Sir Nigel said, regaining his composure. “There's a sheep pen and, apparently, a loose crocodile!”
“I've had a bit more luck up this end,” said Johann, stifling a laugh. “Ten barrels of salted meat, maybe more.”
“Lead the way,” said Sir Nigel.
The HMS
Oxford
had left Vesa Turinen's sloop without any further incident. The ship was now a few barrels lighter, and while that frustrated Vesa to no end, Declan Ross and his crew were just glad to be rid of the British.
As the sun set that evening, Cat found Captain Ross at the stern rather than the bow. “We'll get her back,” Cat said.
Ross nodded. But at that moment, he wasn't thinking of Anne, at least not directly. Instead, he wondered about a small piece of paper in Commodore Blake's pocket.
A
s far as Anne could tell, she had been a prisoner of Bartholomew Thorne for two weeks and four days. The ship had stopped moving, the temperature had risen, and the air was thick with humidity. Some of Thorne's men had come and taken Padre Dominguez away. She was not surprised when, minutes later, they returned for her. They led her to the main deck, and she shielded her eyes in the brightness. What she saw took her breath away. The
Raven
was docked among dozens of other tall ships, and each had its own pier that spread out from the island like a many-fingered hand. Every pier teemed with sailors. Some carried crates or casks, others led dark-skinned men in chains to a large plantation-style house just up from the docks. And high above it all, watching like a gargoyle from its perch on the rocky mountainside, was a dark fortress.
“Your new home,” rasped a voice from behind. “For a time.” Thorne's face appeared over her shoulder, and he leered as he strode around to face her. He reached into his coat and pulled out a rolled parchment. “I trust you can now complete this map,” he said, his lip quivering with expectation.
Anne looked away. “I . . . I tried,” she said, bracing for the sharp blow that would surely follow. “Padre Dominguez guessed your intentions. He refused to tell me the way.”
Thorne did not strike her. He did not seem angry. His face was expressionless, which was somehow worse. “Clever man,” he said. “So be it. There is due cause for the three of us to have a little party. A private affair, really. A select gathering. As soon as more of my fleet arrives and we make ready for the journey to the Isle of Swords, I will send out invitations. The three of us will attend, of courseâoh, my ship's doctor, Mister Flagg, will be joining us as well.”
“Two weeks and two days!” Vesa exclaimed. They had just tied off his sloop to a pier in Sines, a coastal city fifty miles south of Lisbon. “Never have I made such speed!”