Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (28 page)

Eight

Tiola could see men stealing ashore. Ghost-like ships appearing out of the dark night, the movement of their oars rippling on the incoming tide, the moon-shadows from their dragon-prowed boats mean and menacing as the flat keels swooped through the waves and grated against the sand. Twenty ships, eighty men to a ship, their helmets, axes, swords and spears glinting in the moonlight as the raiders leapt nimbly over the sides, wading through the froth of the tide as they ran for the beach.

More men come to maim and kill? More death and bloody sacrifice in the past history of this harbour village set where two rivers met? Tiola turned away as the attackers ran towards the village. She could not face more carnage. Could not!

She had to. No matter how ugly it may be. What happened had happened, and it was her duty to witness it. Somewhere here would be another of Jesamiah’s ancestors, another boy who, without her past life aid, would be drowned either accidentally or deliberately as a sacrifice to Tethys.

The men stopped at the edge of the village, deciding what to do, how best to attack. There were two at the head of the small army, well dressed men with good, quality weapons; from their likeness, two brothers. Saxon Englishmen, with Saxon shields and armour. They had come to make a protest about a dispute with their King, an attempt to repair an injustice – to make their presence felt and to fight their way to a pardon. Only where was the justice for the common people who suffered because of the arguments of an earl wronged by his liege lord?

The villagers sheltered within their wattle and daub houses, too afraid to run or fight. They were fisherfolk, men and women who survived by what they could glean from the sea. One of the raiders reached for a bundle of faggots, held the sticks into the flames of a fire-pit and thrust them into the thatch of the nearest roof. A curl of smoke, a whispered rustle, and the dry reeds caught, went up with a whoosh of flame and scattered sparks. A woman ran out, a baby clutched in her arms. A boy, no more than eight years old, was at her side. A boy with black hair and a knife in his hand, determined to protect his mother and sister. One man laughed as he caught the woman around her waist, the baby falling, crying pitilessly to the ground. The boy shouted his anger and beat hopelessly at the man’s back as he fumbled at the woman’s gown. Another man cuffed the boy aside breaking his nose with the viciousness of the blow. A third scooped the boy up and carried him, as if he were a squealing pig, to the edge of the sea and, laughing, dropped him in.

Blood stained the waves, the boy’s anguish plain as he struggled against the pull of the tide sucking at his legs, the salt spray filling his nose and mouth. The man who had dropped him there raised his axe – and the Witch Woman was there, between him and the boy, her eyes dark with disgusted anger.

“So! Is this the way you treat women and children, my lord King? You expect to gain honour and respect from your people by slaughtering them?”

“I am no king, woman. I am the Earl of Essex, come to reclaim what was stolen from my father, Godwine, Lord Earl of Wessex.”

“Any man can measure his strength by cruel arrogance, my lord, but it takes courage to bind humility within the wisdom to lead others in dignity and honour. You will be King. One day you will wear the English crown, but you shall not achieve it with the blood of innocents on your hands. Why kill these people when all you need do is offer them your respect and protection? Would it not be wiser to ask them to serve with you instead of hardening their hearts against you?”

The man, the Saxon, Harold Godwinesson, looked at the woman, and the boy she now held in her arms while the sea frothed angrily around her ankles. The Earl knew she spoke aright. The madness of bloodlust fading from his eyes he lowered his weapon, and bellowed orders that the villagers were not to be harmed.

“You speak the truth, my lady,” he said, “for it is with King Edward in Winchester and his Norman friends that we have our quarrel, not with these good people of the land and the sea.”

She was tired, but Tiola smiled as she turned away from her bedchamber window. Another boy of the line of Jesamiah’s ancestors saved, and a good man turned from the blind wrath of senseless anger, to the wisdom of honourable leadership.

She lay on the bed, exhausted. If only she could sleep, wake and feel refreshed, but what little rest she had was haunted by dreams and fearful nightmares. By voices and faces from the past, and the fears of the present.

In her dreams she saw Jesamiah fall, saw blood around him, on his forehead, on his cheek, saw death by betrayal. There was nothing she could do to warn him. She did not have the energy to send her mind words across the great distance that was the ocean realm of Tethys. All she could do was watch and wait. And hope.

Nine

The one good thought that returned, again and again, to Jesamiah’s mind through the slow passing hours, was that he had not had Tiola aboard. If she had been with him… He groaned, suppressed the appalling images that swam in his imagination. She was safe in England, looked after by Rue. Only once had Tiola’s mind words touched him.
Sea Witch
had been rolling badly in the inclement conditions of northern Biscay, and even Jesamiah had felt sick at the uncomfortable motion. Tiola had asked if he was alright. He had sent the feeling of a heaving stomach back to her. He hoped that if she picked up any nauseous indications now she would attribute them to the self-same cause.

Overnight, the cell had been cold and damp. Jesamiah had alternated between huddling in one corner and walking about in an attempt to keep warm. With sunrise, the sun had bathed the cell in warmth, creating a false impression of pleasantness, but it was in shadow again now and the coldness was returning. Through the barred window the sky was a brilliant blue with only a few clouds; it looked hot out there, which was not a lot of help to Jesamiah.

The sound of feet and voices. Bolts being drawn back. Three men came in. One was a common soldier, a sword at his left side, a pistol at his right. He carried two chairs, set them down and with a smart salute, left, closing the door behind him. The second man was the rotund officer who had been aboard the Spanish ship, the other a civilian, but, Jesamiah judged, was probably of a greater rank in the hierarchy pecking order. Neither offered a name or courtesy. They merely sat on the chairs, legs crossed, arms folded, staring at Jesamiah who insolently remained leaning against the far wall, his own legs crossed at the ankles, and arms folded.

The blue-coated, gold-braided officer spoke first, in Spanish.
“You will tell us what it is you do here.”

“No speaky the Spanish shit,” Jesamiah responded in English, shrugging his shoulders.

“My companion here,” the civilian said, a slight amused smile twitching the corner of his mouth, “does not speak the English shit.”

“That’s ‘is problem then, mate, not mine.”

“On the contrary,
Capitán
, it is very much to your problem. General Cabanellas is not a patient man, and he has no liking for you English.”

“As someone from the Colonies of Virginia, I ain’t too fond of the English either.”

The General snapped something in Spanish.

“The General wishes to know why you are here,
Capitán
.”

Jesamiah considered a sarcastic answer, one along the line of
because you bloody incarcerated me here
, but decided on sticking to the truth. “I am here because I have a cargo of tobacco to sell. I am to meet with a man called Antonio Luis Calderón in Cádiz.”

After a translation, the General leaned forward and spoke in the nobleman’s ear, his hand making a chopping motion.

“The General does not believe you. He says you are an English spy.”

“I have a letter of introduction for
Señor
Calderón in the desk in my cabin.”

“Which will prove what?”

“That I am from England and have a cargo of tobacco to sell.”

The nobleman uncrossed and recrossed his legs. “But you said you were from Virginia, not England.”

Jesamiah took a breath to stem an oath and fixed a smile on his face. “I am from Virginia, I own a plantation there. I sailed to England to sell my tobacco, but could not find a buyer. I was recommended this Spanish contact.”

“I see. And who recommended this Spanish contact?”

“Sir Ailie Doone, Earl of Exmoor.”

That seemed to hit a mark. There followed some rapid translation and heated exchange, all of which Jesamiah followed with an impassive expression, pretending to examine the bloodstained and now even more dirty bandaging around his hand. His fingers were throbbing, and he felt feverish. He forced himself to concentrate, surreptitiously, on the argument between his two Spanish companions.

“He is lying.”

“General, why should he? We are expecting a message from Doone.”

“And this is not the expected messenger.”

“No, but perhaps something went wrong.”

“He is an English spy, we cannot take chances. The armada is almost ready to sail.”

“It is not ready, and we need to hear from Sir Ailie.”

“He is nothing. I have said all along that fool plan of yours is nonsense. We do not need these English turds who care not for their rightful Catholic King. This imbecile is a spy. He should hang.”

The imbecile in question half wondered if he should interrupt and announce that he understood every word, but it was more productive, and a little amusing, this way.

The General asked another question, clearly irritated and not willing to listen to rational explanation.

The nobleman translated, “My companion wishes to know, if you are not an English spy, or an English warmonger, then why does your ship carry so many guns?”

“Because I come from the Colonies and because the English Navy in the Caribbean and the vicinity of the Chesapeake is about as useful as a block of ice in the middle of the desert. Have you not heard of Blackbeard, Low and Roberts? Get chased by any one of them and you can kiss goodbye to your cargo, crew and everything else. I’m prepared to defend what is mine if I have to.”

The man’s gaze met direct with Jesamiah’s. “Yet I hear Blackbeard is now dead?”

Now how does he hear that?
Jesamiah wondered,
and what exactly has he heard?
Officially, Jesamiah had insisted on his name being left out of all records concerning the death of Edward Teach, but he had no idea of which tongue had clacked into what ear. He opted to make a neutral answer. “There’ll be someone to replace him. Jack Rackham is looking for a ship, or so I hear tell.”

“You seem to know much about pirates,
Capitán
.”

“Like I said, I come from the Colonies. Anyone who steps foot onto a boat in the Chesapeake Bay knows about pirates.”

Another exchange of Spanish. The General was becoming impatient.

“The General,” the nobleman said with resigned patience, “is convinced that you are a spy, not a merchant.
La Casa de Contratación
does not encourage free trade. Have you a government pass? Are you familiar with the import taxes demanded? Or are you smuggling this tobacco of yours as contraband?”

“No I ain’t,” Jesamiah snapped, “and even if I were I’d not be likely to admit it would I? I’m here legitimately. Tax an’ all. As I’ve already said.”

“It would be in your best interest to tell us the truth.”

“I am here with a letter from Doone to sell a cargo of tobacco. That the tobacco is probably a cover for the real reason Doone sent me I quite appreciate, but I have no idea – do not want to know – what it is.”

“
Mándalo a la horca.”

The General stood up, drew his finger across his throat, a gesture that needed no translation.

“Look,” Jesamiah said, pushing away from the wall and spreading his arms in surrender, “fetch the letter from my desk and inspect the cargo on my ship. All I want is a decent price for my tobacco. I have no interest in anything else that is going on. I am no spy.”

The nobleman reached into an inner pocket and produced a folded parchment. He opened it, read silently. “We have already accomplished both those suggestions,
Capitán.
I have your letter here.”

“Then you know I am telling the truth!” Jesamiah’s patience snapped slightly.

The Spaniard shook his head. “Unfortunately not. This letter is written in Spanish, and as you do not speak Spanish, you cannot be certain what is in it, can you?”

Jesamiah opened his mouth to protest, shut it again. Ah. He was starting to get a bad feeling about all this. “The man who wrote it told me the content.”

“Then he too is a liar. This letter is indeed to Antonio Luis Calderón, but he is no merchant, he is the Marqués de la Molina. And he knows nothing of you or your tobacco.”

“
Sácalo, tortúralo. Tenemos que saber quienes son sus dueños
.”

Finding it difficult not to react to this uniformed toad demanding to torture and hang him, Jesamiah tried again. “The Marqués would not know of me. I know nothing of him, but he does know the man who wrote that letter.”

“
Está mintiendo! Ya basta con esto
!”

“My friend, the General, says you lie. He wants the truth wracked from you. Anyone can pretend to know
Señor
Doone.”

Jesamiah spread his arms wider in exasperation, ignoring the renewed throb in his left hand. “I am no spy! I do know you are assembling an armada, – all England knows it, although from what I gather, the government is not in the least flustered by the threat. Your James Francis has already made several failed attempts at invasion, and as I recall the last time you tried an armada you failed miserably. The English do not forget their history lessons.”

“So, you know our business, yet you refuse to admit you are here to tally our strength of number? I do not believe you tell us the truth.”

“
He must not discover our intentions regarding the King
,” the General muttered in Spanish. “
That is why he is here, to uncover our secret plans for King James! No one must discover them! No one!”
He marched to the door and rapped on it with his cane. “
He is a spy.
We do this my way
.”

With a sigh, the nobleman returned the letter to his pocket and stood. “It is regrettable that you refuse to tell us the truth of why you are here,
Capitán
. The General intends to hang your crew, one by one, until you decide to be co-operative.”

“Then you will need to hang them, but will that not be a waste of men? If you are to sail to England and make use of every ship you can lay hands on – including stealing mine – then will you not need the men to sail these ships? I doubt many of my crew will relish serving the Spanish, but I would wager they would prefer that rather than dance at the end of a rope.” He shrugged. “I can tell you no more than I already have. If I must hang, then hang me, not my men, but before you do, I ask you to send word to this Marqués. Ask him if he knows Doone, that will prove I tell the truth.”

The soldier who had been waiting outside came in to collect the two chairs. The nobleman walked slowly to the door; paused before he followed the General through.

“I have no need to do as you suggest,
Capitán
. I am Antonio Luis Calderón, le Marqués de Molina. Any pirate could have obtained this letter. It holds no proof of your identity, or your reason to be here. I too think you are a spy.”

Unnerved, and starting to tremble now that he was alone, Jesamiah stared at the closed door, listening to the bolts being shot home. He was in the thick of something that had more dung in it than a pigsty muckheap. These fellows knew Doone, and knew damned well that he had sent Jesamiah to them for the purpose of assisting the fulfilment of some errand or other that involved this planned armada, an invasion of England by James Francis Edward bloody Stuart.

Several rude and extremely uncomplimentary words grumbled through his mind.