Twilight of a Queen (7 page)

“Last of the cargo’s nearly moved, Captain.”

“Good. As soon as everything is secure aboard the
Miribelle
, set the
San Felipe
adrift.”

“Seems a great waste.”

“No doubt it is, but we don’t have enough crew to man her.”

Perhaps he might have had, if he could have persuaded that French witch to have properly funded his voyage instead of—But Xavier checked the thought. There was little profit in continuing to fume over that.

Jambe scratched his scraggly beard and frowned. “Beg pardon, Captain, but perhaps instead of foundering this ship, we ought to set the
Miribelle
adrift. This here is a sound vessel, more seaworthy than ours.”

Xavier hesitated, knowing the old sea dog was right. The
Miribelle
had seen years of hard wear, the last of the small fleet his father had sailed out of France. Xavier himself questioned how well the ship would survive another violent storm. But the thought of scuttling the
Miribelle
tightened a queer knot in his chest.

He shook his head. “The
San Felipe
is like too many Spanish vessels, designed on heavy, awkward lines. I agree we need to replace the
Miribelle
, but I won’t be abandoning our lady for a lumbering hulk like this.”

“And what of all these Spaniards you’ve taken prisoner?” Jambe demanded. “What’s to be done with them if we sink their ship?”

“I am sure I will think of something,” Xavier replied with a thin smile.

XAVIER KEPT THE SPANISH IN SUSPENSE AS TO THEIR FATE FOR
the next two days and had to admit he took a shameful pleasure in doing so. Perhaps he was becoming too much like the jungle cat he’d been named for, toying with his
prey. He quieted his conscience with the thought that his was a mild form of cruelty compared to what the Spanish captain would have done to Xavier and his men if the situation had been reversed.

The limited amount of stores aboard his ship did not allow him to continue the torment for long. By the third morning, he arranged to have the prisoners set ashore on a secluded cove of the peninsula La Florida.

Xavier went with the landing party himself and pointed Captain Lopez in the right direction. “A day or two’s march that way will bring you to a Spanish settlement. You’ll find enough water and forage to sustain you en route.”

As Lopez opened his lips to speak, Xavier cut him off. “There is not the slightest need to thank me for my generosity, captain.”

“G-generosity!”

The little man choked on his indignation. Since realizing he was to be spared, the Spanish captain had recovered much of his bravado.

He glared at Xavier. “You have made a great enemy on behalf of your country.”

“You are mistaken, señor,” Xavier replied smoothly. “I have no country.”

“Pah! Don’t think to fool me. You are a Frenchman, as lawless and arrogant a corsair as any of these English pirates who have also been preying upon Spanish shipping. Well, the English shall be the first to pay for their insolence. They and their heretic queen, Elizabeth. Philip, his most noble Catholic majesty of Spain will—”

Lopez broke off abruptly, looking so comical in his dismay over what he’d let slip, that Xavier laughed.

“Don’t distress yourself, señor. You have not spilled any great secret. Even here at the ends of the earth, we have heard the rumors of Spain’s great enterprise, the vast armada being assembled in Madrid, your king’s hope of invading England.”

“Not a hope, señor. It will soon be a reality. And when King Philip has dealt with the English dogs, he will turn his attention to punishing insolent Frenchmen like yourself.”

“I shall await His Majesty’s coming all atremble. From palsy belike. I shall be an old man by then.”

“You will never live to be old, señor,” Lopez snarled.

“I daresay you are right. But this conversation waxes tedious, and you have a long walk ahead of you.” Xavier sketched a mocking bow, then turned and headed back toward the waiting boats.

Lopez bristled, but rounded up his men. As they marched up the beach, Xavier could still hear the Spanish captain grousing. “His most Catholic Majesty shall hear of this iniquity. I vow he will.”

As he clambered into the pinnace, Xavier could not resist getting in the last word. He called out, “I shall send a message to King Philip on your behalf. I will likely be in a better position to do so than you. I expect to be anchored off St. Malo six weeks hence.”

X
AVIER’S PREDICTION PROVED OPTIMISTIC. THE CROSSING
of the Atlantic was smooth and uneventful but the
Miribelle
was yet some twenty leagues from the French coast when the ship was beset by something seamen dreaded worse than a storm. A dead calm, not a breath of air stirring. The
Miribelle’s
sails hung limp for days, the ship as motionless as if she had been riding at anchor.

Xavier chafed with frustration, finding it maddening to be stayed this close to the end of his journey. But he knew it could be worse. He’d once been stranded at sea so long, he and his crew had been reduced to eating boiled leather. At least their stores were likely to hold out, although there was much grumbling among the men when Xavier reduced the rum ration.

Idle sea dogs were rife for mischief, but Xavier trusted to his redoubtable first mate to keep the crew busy enough they did not end up at each other’s throats.

Struggling to curb his own restlessness, Xavier retreated to his cabin, a narrow berth that scarce allowed him headroom to stand upright. The furnishings were sparse, his bunk, a small desk, his sea chest, and the wooden cage he had battened to the wall to accommodate that infernal parrot. Beyond the bars, Sea Beggar gave him the beady eye and set up a loud squawk.

“Damn your eyes! Damn your eyes!”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Xavier muttered. When Sea Beggar continued to shrill at him, Xavier flung his cloak over the parrot’s cage to silence the creature. Settling behind his desk, he updated his ship’s journal and then pored over the charts he had taken from the
San Felipe
.

The maps proved mighty disappointing. Xavier had hoped for some detailed etching of the straits of Panama and what lay beyond, perhaps even a hint of a route to that fabled land Marco Polo had once written of, a place that the explorer referred to only as
Beach
.

But the voyages of the
San Felipe
had been unremarkable, the Spanish vessel charting no land that Xavier had not seen for himself. The letters that Xavier had taken from Captain Lopez’s cabin proved of greater interest. One of these was written in code that intrigued Xavier enough to attempt to crack it, if for no other reason than that it afforded him entertainment during these days of enforced idleness.

Much to his satisfaction, he finally succeeded in unraveling the cipher. The missive was from one of the recently
appointed governors of La Florida to the Duke of Medina Sidonia.

The governor began by congratulating his old friend, Medina Sidonia, on his appointment as admiral of the armada. The letter went on to explain how the cargo being transported by the
San Felipe
was destined to line the purse of a powerful French nobleman, François, the duke of Guise.

A diversion? Xavier frowned. What the devil did that mean? Guise’s actions struck him as outrageous. It was surely treason to do the bidding of the king of Spain, taking bribes from a country that was France’s most ancient enemy.

But Xavier did not see what he could do to prevent it, even if he was inclined to bestir himself. During his sojourn in Paris, he had had a brief glimpse into the political intrigue and religious strife poisoning the court of Catherine de Medici and her half-mad son. Xavier had been glad enough to sail away and leave it all behind him.

The letter made it sound as though the launch of the armada was imminent, perhaps as early as this spring. Xavier supposed he might make some effort to see that this letter fell into English hands, perhaps those of Sir Francis Drake.

He had once sailed with Drake for the span of a year. Indeed he owed both his life and his freedom to Sir Francis and Xavier hated to be in anyone’s debt. But the letter was so vague, Xavier did not see what use it could be to Drake or anyone else.

While he debated the matter, he was annoyed by the appearance of Father Bernard. The young priest peered into the cabin, regarding Xavier with a wistful expression.

Father Bernard usually busied himself attempting to provide spiritual succor to the men and many actually welcomed it, the only reason Xavier allowed the man to remain on board.

But he had developed an irritating habit of hovering near Xavier, as though he hoped to become his father confessor as well. Xavier had no use for a confessor and even
less for anyone attempting to enact a fatherly role, especially a man younger than he by several years in age and a lifetime in experience.

When Xavier ignored him, Father Bernard cleared his throat. “I—I hope I do not disturb you, Captain.”

“Yes, you do,” Xavier said, without looking up from the papers sprawled across his desk.

His curtness did not discourage the man. It never did. Father Bernard shuffled his feet and tried again.

“I just thought you might want to know the wind has not yet picked up.”

“Truly? You astonish me.”

“Do you think it likely to do so soon?”

“I have no idea. Second sight is not one of the gifts I acquired when I sold my soul to the devil. However, I do possess enough knowledge of the dark arts—I might attempt to conjure up a modest breeze for you.”

Father Bernard gave an uneasy laugh as though he thought Xavier was jesting. Or he hoped he was.

“I prefer to rely upon my prayers, Captain. I have earnestly beseeched the good Lord to send us a wind and I have every confidence he will do so soon.”

“Far more likely he’ll send us a typhoon. In my experience, your god seems possessed of a devilish sense of humor.”

If Father Bernard was shocked by Xavier’s blasphemy, he gave no sign of it. He said, “It occurs to me that our voyage will be over soon and we have never really had a chance to talk.”

“No? Well, I am a man of few words, Father.”

And most of those were curses. Xavier bit back the urge to swear as Father Bernard perched unbidden upon the edge of the bunk, looking like a man settling in for a long prose.

“Do you still intend to make berth at St. Malo?”

“Yes, that is my course.”

“It is a fine and noble thing you are doing keeping your promise to young Dominique—”

“There is nothing noble about my decision,” Xavier interrupted, “I never do anything that inconveniences me. I just happen to find St. Malo as good a port as any other to transact my business.”

Father Bernard smiled, giving Xavier one of those wise looks that suggested he knew better and which made Xavier long to stuff the priest out the nearest porthole.

“I believe an English port might serve your purpose as well and be a deal safer. You may find yourself less than welcome back in France. Monsieur du Bois told me all that transpired in Paris. Queen Catherine does not seem like the sort of woman to forgive one for ignoring her commands.”

Xavier grimaced, mentally cursing his chattering first mate. Jambe was worse than an old woman.

“I have slipped in and out of Spanish ports all along the coast of the Americas. I think I can manage to steal safely into St. Malo with the queen none the wiser. Trust me, the woman is not as formidable a witch as everyone fears that she is.”

Father Bernard fell silent for a long moment before saying, “Faire Isle is not that far of a sail from St. Malo.”

Xavier swiveled to regard the priest with frowning surprise. “Surely you are not suggesting that I carry out the queen’s command and abduct that young girl for her?”

“No! No, of course not.” Father Bernard hesitated, subjecting Xavier to one of his earnest soul-searching looks. “I just wanted to remind you that the queen was not the only one who desired you to sail to Faire Isle.”