Raven Saint (10 page)

Grace stepped away from the trail of shops and into a web of people and horseflesh darting this way and that as they went about their business. And like a fly caught in a web, she got the distinct impression she was about to be devoured by its occupants. She threaded her way through the crowd, bumping shoulders with a bare-chested sailor and barely missing being crushed beneath the wheel of a carriage. French words shot toward her from all directions, some tickling her ears with their beauty, while others jarred her with their harsh tones. She had no idea what the words meant and from the looks of their source, she preferred it that way.

The clank of chains drew her gaze to a black man clothed only in tattered breeches, bent beneath a huge barrel that balanced on a back striped with the punishing marks of his master. Iron shackles bound his feet together.

Grace swallowed the burning in her throat.
Lord, such misery.

Music bounced over her from an open tavern to her left. The smell of roast pig and bitter alcohol mixed with human sweat saturated the air.

Careful to keep her head down, she edged past the center of town and peeked at Captain Dubois, who had concluded his charitable business and was instructing his men to pick up the chest and follow him. She shook her head at the dichotomy. A rogue, a villain by all inspection, yet possessing a heart for the poor? She could make no sense of it and found herself staring at him as if the answer would come by her perusal.

He glanced up and stretched his back, their eyes locking. Heart in her throat, Grace tugged her floppy hat down and darted to her left.

And barreled into the iron chest of a massive man.

“Garçon stupide! Regardez où vous allez!”
He shoved Grace aside and she tumbled into the mud. The man spat on the ground beside her then snorted and swaggered off. Passersby wove around her, staring at her, but no one stopped to help. Placing one hand into the warm mud, she pushed herself to her knees and tried to collect her emotions. Fear threatened to crush her resolve to go on.

Then she saw him. Captain Dubois headed her way. His men proceeded along the street without him. She glanced over her shoulder to see what had captured his attention, but when she faced forward again, those smoky dark eyes were locked directly upon her. Did he know who she was, or was he only trying to help a boy? She didn't intend to stay and find out.

Leaping to her feet, she planted a hand atop her hat and dashed in the other direction, shoving her way through the crowd. Her breath strained in her lungs. Her legs burned. She bounded around the side of the tavern and into an alley littered with garbage and puddles of slop. Coughing from the stench, she splashed through the refuse, splattering it over the bottom of her breeches. She darted behind a stack of barrels and backed up against the wall of the tavern, listening for the sound of footsteps. Her breath heaved in her throat.

No thump of boots, no deep smooth voice. Just the clamor of the town. She peered around the barrels. The alley was empty. Leaning her head back onto the wall, she closed her eyes, caught her breath, and offered a prayer of thanks.

The click of a pistol cocking jarred her from her silent worship. She froze as every nerve within her tightened. The cold press of metal against her forehead forced her to open her eyes to the greedy sneers of two men. They spouted a string of French at her. Though she didn't understand the words, she knew what they wanted.

And she had no choice but to give it to them.

Rafe strode up to the front of the stone church, shouldered aside the wooden door, and entered the dim vestibule. A haze of smoke lingered in the air from the candles burning in their sconces upon the walls. Wind slammed the door shut behind him, echoing through the room and enclosing him in its shadows. He doffed his plumed hat. The odor of beeswax, mold, and aged parchment tickled his nose as the air, kept cool by the stone walls, refreshed his heated skin. As his eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, stained glass windows appeared on either side of another massive door that separated him from the sanctuary. Taking a step toward the glass, he peered at the blurred shapes of several people sitting upon wooden pews or kneeling at the candlelit altar, praying to a nonexistent God.

A waste of time, to his way of thinking—sending appeals upward in the hope some powerful being would hear and answer them. En fait, it was a selfish act. Better to spend one's days helping the poor and needy as he did. He took a step back and gripped his baldric. If everyone would follow his example, the world would be a better place, and there would be no need for useless prayers.

The side door swung open and in walked Abbé Villion. The elderly priest 's eyes lit up, and he opened his arms, the sleeves of his long gray robe swaying in the candlelight like apparitions. Taking Rafe in a hearty embrace, he smiled, his blue eyes sparkling. “Rafe, how good to see you! I did not expect you for another month.”

Still unaccustomed to his displays of affection, Rafe stiffened beneath the man's enveloping grasp. “My crew needed some time ashore before our next stop. And I have brought you some more supplies.” The door opened, and Father Alers peeked his gray head inside amidst a stream of sunlight.

“Come in, Father.” Abbé Villion waved his hand. “Unless of course you will burn in hell for entering a haven of heretics.” He grinned.

Father Alers chuckled and proceeded within. “I am no longer a Jesuit,
Révérend,
and even so”—he glanced around the vestibule, taking in the wooden cross atop the sanctuary door and the open Bible on a table to his left—“I believe we worship the same God.”

“Well said, Father.” Abbé Villion folded his hands over his gray cowl. “I wish King Louis held the same belief.” He shrugged. “But I suppose if his father had, I wouldn't have fled here. None of us Huguenots would have. And who then would help the poor on this island?”

Father Alers shifted his stance and looked away.

Rafe ground his teeth together. Would things have been different if his father had not also fled the persecution and brought his family to the West Indies? Non, sans doute, his father would have been the same hypocrite, the same monster, in France as he was here.

Abbé Villion grabbed Rafe's shoulders. “I am glad you have come, my boy. And you bring gifts just in time.” He exhaled a sigh of exhaustion, reflected in the deep lines on his face. “There are so many needs.”

“I will have my men take the crates around back. There are clothes, grain, corn, dried peas, as well as pearls, silver, and gold jewelry, which should bring you a good price.”

“I won't ask how you came upon such wealth.” The reverend's sharp blue eyes flashed a silent reprimand.

“It is best you do not.” Rafe grinned.

Father Alers coughed and lifted a look of repentance upward.

“But regarding the other matter I promised you.” Rafe scratched the stubble on his chin.

Abbé Villion's brows lifted. “The hospital?”

Guilt assaulted Rafe at his friend's exuberant look. Then anger burned in his gut—anger at Mademoiselle Grace and the spell she'd cast upon him. “Oui. There may be a delay.”

Abbé Villion turned and stared out the front window to the swaying palms and beyond to a group of mulatto children playing in the sand. “We lose so many each day. Sometimes up to five.”

Rafe clenched his jaw. “I promised I would build you a hospital, fill it with supplies, and bring a qualified apothecary from the Continent, and I will. Just not by the end of the year, as I had hoped.”

“It is not your fault, son.” The reverend's brows pulled into a frown. “I meant no dishonor. You have done so much for us. And all at great risk to yourself. My disappointment lies only in the thought of those who will die in the meantime.” He forced a smile. “Only God knows how many lives you have already saved with your generosity.”

Pride swelled within Rafe. In the three years he had known him, Abbé Villion had been more a father to Rafe than his own had been in six and twenty. “I wish I could do more.” He had to do more. He could not let this kind, gentle man down. His thoughts drifted to Mademoiselle Grace—five hundred pounds' worth of sweet cargo sitting aboard his ship, all his for the taking. Then why couldn't he take her to the don and collect it? Every fiber within him longed to do so, to tell Abbé Villion he would have his hospital by year-end.

But he could not.

The reverend laid a hand on his arm. “God will indeed bless you.”

Rafe winced as if God Himself had spoken to him—sealing His approval on Rafe's silent decision. A sense of peace, of acceptance, came over him so strong it felt as if someone else had entered the room. “I do not want His blessing. I wish only to help those in need, those whom the grand blancs have deemed unnecessary and unworthy.”

“He will bless you anyway.” Abbé Villion lifted one shoulder and smiled.

Father Alers snickered and reached for the door.

Suddenly Rafe was equally as anxious to leave the sacred place. “My men wait outside. Show me where you would like the goods stored, and I will be on my way.”

“Oui, you are no doubt tired from your journey.”

Rafe turned. “I promise I shall find a way to build the hospital.”

“We need it, oui.” Abbé Villion's eyes burned with concern. “But not at the cost of your life and not at the price of innocent blood.”

Father Alers coughed, and Rafe squirmed beneath another wave of guilt but said nothing. Better to not add lying to his list of sins.

Especially not in a church.

Grace huddled beneath an old ripped tarpaulin she'd found discarded by the docks and crouched against the back wall of the warehouse to shield herself from the wind.
Pound pound pound.
Rain dropped like round shot on the cloth, begging entrance to her makeshift shelter. But when not granted it, the water slid down to seek an opening, quickly found among the tarpaulin's abundant rents. The rain dripped onto Grace, saturating her already damp breeches. She sneezed and held her stomach against another grinding roar of hunger.

Three days had passed. Three days since all her money had been stolen by the two thieves, three days since she'd lost all hope of getting off this evil island, and three days since she'd had a bite to eat. Now she must endure another long sleepless night, hiding from both the small rats, as they rummaged through the refuse piled up in the alley, and the big drunken, two-legged ones—far more dangerous.

At least the thieves had not seen through her disguise, or she would have lost more than the livres Mr. Thorn had given her. She supposed she should be thankful for that. Although, covered with bug bites, consumed by a fear that left her numb, and a stomach that rebelled at every scent of food that remained ever out of her reach, she found it difficult to offer any thanks to God at all.

Hugging her knees to her weak body, she leaned her head atop them and allowed her tears to fall. “Why, God? Why have You abandoned me? I've served You my entire life. I've done naught but try to please You.” She waited, listening for the answer amidst the
pitter-plop
of the rain. Yet this appeal seemed to dissipate in the air above her.

She had contemplated sneaking aboard one of the ships, but she shuddered at the stories of what happened to stowaways. Out at sea, if she were caught, she'd be trapped with nowhere to run. She had even thought of signing on as a crewmember, but she couldn't speak French and had no idea how to work a ship. It wouldn't take long for the sailors to notice her incompetence. Not to mention what the crew would do with her should they discover she was a woman. She trembled at the thought. She had also searched for Mr. Thorn, but he must have remained on the ship, and she could find no one willing to row her back out to it for less than a livre. One tiny spark of hope ignited when she had convinced a young French sailor, who spoke a modicum of English, to take a post to her sister Faith in Charles Towne. Yet Grace was unsure of whether he understood her or even if the ship he sailed upon was actually going toward home.

She could, of course, try to find Captain Dubois, but she wondered if life as a slave to a Spanish don would not be worse than dying in the filthy alleys of Port-de-Paix. At least if she died here, she'd end up in a much better place.

A rat poked his twitching, whiskered nose beneath her covering, and Grace booted him away. “Find your own shelter.”

A crack of thunder hammered through the night sky, and she jumped. Puddles formed around her and began to soak through the bottom of her breeches. She hugged herself against the chill. “Lord, help me. Please help me....” The petition faltered on her lips as she drifted into a nightmarish half sleep.

Grace dragged her boots through the mud, wincing as pain from the blisters covering her feet shot up her legs. The sun drooped in the western sky, sinking behind the mounds of green that bordered the nefarious port town. And nefarious it was. Worse than the worst parts of Charles Towne, worse than she ever imagined possible. The things she'd witnessed in broad daylight—brawls, drunkenness, lewdness, thievery—were nothing compared to the nighttime activities. If she hadn't had a clear vision of hell some years ago, she'd swear Port-de-Paix was indeed that place.

But she knew what hell was like. And the memory of her vision never ceased to send her heart racing and her skin crawling in terror. If only these people could witness it as well, if only for a second. Surely, they would fall on their knees and never commit another shameless act. Grace spent her days seeking either a friendly face among the crowd or a morsel of food—both of which rarely appeared. Even the scraps tossed from the taprooms and boardinghouses were quickly gobbled up by dogs roaming the street. Grace was beginning to feel like one of the hairy beasts and could soon envision herself on all fours, growling and fighting for a bone alongside the pack of mongrels.

Winding her way through the crowded street, she searched the passing faces for any sign of compassion, any flicker of kindness. Yet most of them looked beyond her as if she didn't exist. Some of the ladies pressed a handkerchief to their noses and glanced back over their shoulders in disgust. Grace dropped her chin and sniffed her clothing. Damp linen and an odd sour odor met her nose. Certainly not offensive enough to garner such a snobbish reaction. Yet perhaps Grace had simply grown accustomed to the smell.

Lifting her chin, she met the gaze of a haggard man sitting in the shade of a tree beside the road, and she recognized him as the beggar she and Mr. Thorn had seen when they first arrived in Port-de-Paix. But this time, she did not shift her gaze away as she had done then. This time, she did not cover her nose from the smell, nor send him a look of disdain. This time she knew exactly what he suffered day after day, and a sudden remorse for her judgmental attitude consumed her. She nodded her greeting and offered him an understanding smile as she passed, and he tipped his floppy hat at her in return.

The scent of fish swirled around her, taunting her and sending her belly into a ravenous growl. Pressing a hand against it, she allowed her nose to lead her down the street to a cart laden with fresh fish and mangos. The owner, a woman with spiny hair and a flat face that seemed in a perpetual frown, stood braying out the value and price of her wares.
“Poissons frais, mangues pour la vente, deux denier.”

Grace ambled up to the cart and offered the woman all that she had—a kind smile.

“Qu'est-ce que vous
voulez?”
The lady ceased her calling and laid a knotted hand on her wide hip.

Pointing toward the mangos, Grace gave the woman a pleading look.

“Deux denier.” The woman produced an open palm, but Grace shrugged and held out her own empty hands.

The woman's mouth puckered into a dark hole that reminded Grace of a cannon.
“Allez-vous-en!”

Grace shrank back even as her stomach shriveled at this latest denial. Turning, she gazed out over the glittering bay, watching the ships swaying with the incoming waves. A blast of wind struck her, tearing away the putrid stench of the port and replacing it for a moment with the fresh smell of the sea—the vast, deep, magnificent sea, and all that stood between her and her home. She sighed. It might as well be a bottomless pit, for she had no way to cross it. Her gaze landed on
Le Champion,
and she was surprised to see Captain Dubois had not set sail. Had he discovered her missing? If he had, she'd seen no evidence that he had made any effort to find her.

Loud French words shot over her, and she swung around to find the cart lady in a heated argument with a man and his small son. The woman circled around her cart and with a pointed finger, spit a string of harsh words toward the man, who returned them with equal fervor. Numb and weak from hunger, Grace eyed the altercation as if in a dream. Her eyes finally latched upon the mound of mangos in the cart.

And not a soul around to guard them.

She glanced over the crowd and found everyone's eyes focused on the ensuing argument.

Just one mango. Would it matter if she took just one mango? She could almost taste the sweet, pulpy fruit. Her stomach lurched at the thought, and before she could ponder it another second, she dashed toward the cart, plucked a mango from the pile, slid it beneath her shirt, and sped away.

“Voleur! Voleur! Ce garçon a volé mes mangues!”
came the condemning shout behind her. Followed by the thudding and squishing of shoes on the muddy ground. Grace clutched her treasure as if it were gold and wove through the startled crowd with more speed and agility than she'd have thought possible in her weakened condition. A whistle blew. Behind her, boot steps drummed a guilty sentence like the pounding of a judge's gavel. A man reached out to clutch her as she passed, but she pushed him aside and barreled forward.