Chapter Forty-Nine, Of Eagles, Pigeons, Nightingales and Roses, by Corso

The Aigle is trapped between the two Spanish galleons, the Sagrio and the Rosario, his men fighting outnumbered, the ship overwhelmed, boarded from two sides.   He moves too fast for thought … seeing and not seeing, relentless, maiming, killing, an animal fighting for survival, mindless, instinctive, blocking… fist smashing, sword thrusting stabbing, dagger slashing… the ocean wind cannot blow clean the blood soaked air, he sucks it in, a metallic taste.  Men’s mouths are open, crying out in fury, fear, dying, begging for mercy.  There is no sound but the roaring in his head… 

Lucien slips on the blood soaked deck, a shambles of broken wood, tangled netting, dead and dying men, severed limbs and grisly parts.  Seizing an opportunity to capture a prize, the Belladonna attacks the Rosario, drawing it away from the Aigle.  Now the Sagrio fights alone, its men trapped on the Aigle, desperate to escape, but the Aigle crew is caught up in a fevered pitch of rage, no longer defensive, the Aigle men attack the Sagrio fighters with renewed ferocity and give no quarter.  The battling is vicious. A few Spanish fighters break free, leaping the gap back to their ship, trying to detach the gangplank, their remaining sharpshooters deliver too little cover as men rush aloft to drop sails, someone bawling orders, ‘Arriar velas!’   They do not need orders to know the sails must come down and fill with the wind for them to live.  They have lost control of the hell they unleashed.  The Sagrio is poling off, men hauling on rope, a man at the helm turning the ship to catch the wind.

‘They are running!’ Lucien bellows whirling in all directions.  ‘After them!  All hands! All hands!

‘Aye Cap’n,’ a man rushes up from below, sword in hand, shouting orders to the men aloft and to the helmsman ‘all hands aloft!  Ease the main and prepare to loose t’gallants, and st’sails! Now lads, now!’  He watches the men racing aloft, one hand raised to Bulle at the helm, blood soaked, hair slicked back with sweat, ‘hard to starboard!’  The ship pivots neatly.  ‘Steady now.’   The sails fill with wind, the ship turning, picking up speed to follow the Sagrio.

Lucien whirls to the man giving orders, ‘Pilot! Where in putain enfer is Odysseus!’

‘There Cap’n,’ Bulle manages to say, nodding his head toward the Belladonna and the Rosario, their crews locked into battle on the Rosario. 

‘What in inferno is he doing fighting on the Rosario?’  Lucien misunderstands, thinking somehow in the fighting Odysseus got caught as the Rosario came under attack by the Belladonna.

‘Not the Rosario Cap’n,’ Bulle looks pained. 

‘Odysseus is on the Belladonna?’ Lucien exclaims, astonished and unable to comprehend how Odysseus ended up on that ship, ‘comment putain enfer…’

‘He asked for parlay and went over to talk after we spotted the Spanish.  We thought if they saw the threat the same as we did, they might fight with us.’

‘He went alone?’  Lucien’s eyes are flashing, ‘who thought that was a good idea.’

‘We all did,’ Crotte steps up, ‘Odysseus did not want it to appear as a ruse for attack.’

‘Why did he not return?’

‘The fog came up,’ Poilu replies, ‘it seemed risky to row back to us.  In the morning … well you see how it went.  The Spanish started shooting.  He had to stay on the Belladonna.’

Lucien stares after the Belladonna and then turns to watch the escaping Sagrio.  He looks at the crew, the pilot is waiting for his orders.  ‘Will we be goin’ after them Cap’n?’ 

 ‘M Cusack, set a course for that putain Spaniard. He will regret the time he spent thinking of attacking us. They will try to outrun us.’

‘That’ll work so will it?’ pilot Cusack says in his lilting Irish accent.  Lucien nods in agreement, ‘it will not.’

He looks back at the Belladonna and the Rosario.  The Belladonna has seized control of the Spanish ship, and is loading the crew into a long boat to row themselves back to the beach. The fight must have been bloody, if only one longboat is needed to take the remaining crew to the beach.  It is also probable that some of the Rosario crew opted to stay with the Belladonna.  The captain has proven himself to be successful in bold strategy and capturing prizes.  Well done, Lucien thinks to himself.  He does not believe Odysseus is in any danger on the Belladonna.

‘We retrieve our sailing master after we teach these perros españoles a lesson,’ Lucien says grimly.  ‘M Cusack, set our course.’   He watches the men who are tossing dead bodies into the sea, pulling up buckets of sea water to wash the deck clean of blood.  The ship’s carpenter is already assessing the damage.  ‘I will have a report soon Cap’n.’

‘Tell Fou I have messages for Glenay,’ Lucien says to Loup and goes below to his cabin. 

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Glenay…

A man stands in front of the Glenay dovecote, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun.  The dovecote is past the outbuildings, some distance from the great house, gardens and courtyards. He is looking toward the top of the bordering trees.  He can hear the peep peep of the pigeon circling overhead. ‘C’mon Ailis, no dilly dally now lassie, into your loft.’   Brian Camran is the dovecote keeper for the Duchesse d’ Aiguillon.  He learned his trade from his father who kept the dovecote for a lord with a modest holding near Dundee, a proud man who traced his ancestry back to the Norman princes who rode with Willliam the Conqueror, but whose line was dying out, the only viable trade was his love for the birds.  His son, Brian Camran was still a lad when he sailed with an Irish privateer ship, eager to reverse his family’s fortunes.  But that ship went aground in a tempest near the coastal home belonging to a French duchess.  His injuries too severe to work aboard a ship again, the French lady offered him the care of her dovecote.  Brian Camran is a small man, bandy legged, a shock of graying hair above a weathered face, devoted to his birds and to the great lady who helped to rescue him and others that fateful day. 

The small bird lands on the outside ledge and hops into her private loft.  M Camran is waiting for her, speaking quietly in his soft Scottish burr, stroking her head and feathers with one hand while removing the small metal cylinder. A second pigeon shuffles forward head bobbing and trying to climb into the loft. ‘Ach William!’  M Camran scolds while gently returning the pigeon to his own loft, ‘leave the tired queynie alone mate, she be needin’ her rest now.’   He climbs down the ladder to remove the two scrolls from the cylinder, notes the names and hurries from the dovecote.

Sophia watches the dovecote keeper’s waddling gait as he walks with surprising alacrity across the courtyard toward the men’s barracks.  The message must be from Lucien.  M Camran would know to deliver any message from him to Yusuf or Martin first.  Only when that was done would he bring the second message addressed to her.  She understands it is to set their orders first to do what Lucien considers necessary to safeguard the family, regardless of any interference – that is, from her.  Glenay, Royaumont, their homes in Paris, are governed by his orders.  She knows Lucien governs others too.  He keeps houses or rooms in many cities and ports where his business offices are located, with orders to keep his accommodations ready for his arrival at any time.   The housekeepers, or inn keepers never know the precise timing, but when he arrives there is hot water, fresh linens, the fire ready to light and a tray will soon be delivered with savory food, fresh bread and the best wine.  She watches M Camran go into the barracks and wonders what else is ordered to wait for Lucien in these places – or who. 

She shoves that thought away.  There is nothing to be gained by tormenting herself and Lucien has little patience for her bouts of jealousy.  ‘Men think differently about these things…we cannot change a man’s nature..’  her friend Edith had counseled her years ago, ‘…you must not destroy the happiness you have with imaginings that may not be true…’

She turns away from the window, sits at a low table to finish dressing, setting one more pin to tame her hair. She lingers on her reflection, her eyes tracing the pronounced cheek bones, strong jaw and determined chin, her mouth too wide and lips too plump – all combining to defy the conventions of her class and beauty.  Her face vanishes as she shoves the mirror away. Self-pity, unfounded suspicions, disobedience to her husband and now vanity – today, she is accumulating sins rapidly.  She glances at the small vase on the table, placed by her maid Denise.  It is filled with red and white winter roses, still blooming in the late winter.  Last night, unable to sleep, she walked in the garden under a cloudless sky alight with brilliant stars and a full moon.  She breathed in the subtle earthy fragrance of winter roses and listened to the night songs of robins and nightingales.  She touches the delicate flower.  Denise is kind and knows her mistress’ disquiet.

She leaves their apartments to walk to the salon where she will wait for M Camran and the message Lucien wrote for her.  She sits on the sofa arranging her skirts.  A soft knock, and before she can answer, the door opens and Yusuf steps in. 

‘Oh!’ Sophia cries out, jumping to her feet, ‘I did not expect you.’   She pales and clutches her hands together, her voice rising in fear, ‘what has happened? Is he hurt?’  Why else would Yusuf come himself? 

Yusuf steps quickly to her, shaking his head, ‘I regret that I alarmed you kız kardeş’ he says in his deep quiet voice, ‘Lucien is not hurt or ill.’

‘Then why…’

‘To bring you this.’ He smiles as he hands her a small slim scroll. ‘And to ask if we might talk about M Roberval’s visit.’ 

He watches her unroll the scroll, her eyes lighting up at the sight of Lucien’s bold scrawl.  He lowers his eyes as she reads the brief message, not wishing to intrude on her private moment with him, even though it is only a few words on a scrap of paper.

‘I suppose you know his message.’ Sophia replies tersely, tucking the tiny scroll into her pocket. Yusuf understands her resentment and answers diplomatically, ‘if he writes of another delay, then yes, it is the same to me.’

For a moment neither speak.  Yusuf waits and wonders if she will ask what else is in Lucien’s message to him.  He has sensed her disquiet over the past few days, her silence at the dinner table, her preoccupation as she attends to the children and the household.  She is surrounded by family and friends who love her, yet late in the night, she walks alone in the garden, arms wrapped around herself against an empty loneliness.  She watches for the pigeons that deliver messages and the couriers that bring letters.  He will not tell her the true contents of Lucien’s message to him, because there were other matters and it was Lucien who suggested that Yusuf ask her to work on the details for Roberval’s visit.  Lucien is prescient when it comes to his wife’s unease during his absences, particularly if the time is extended and not explained.  Roberval’s visit provides an opportunity to engage her attention and not dwell on Lucien’s absence.  But if she knew it was Lucien’s direction, she would feel manipulated.

‘Does he say why?’ Yusuf asks her instead. Sophia’s eyes flicker with surprise. She laughs lightly but with an edge, ‘I believe you always know more than I do.’

Yusuf shakes his head, dark curls dancing, ‘a delay and asking about correspondence with Roberval.  Their arrival is a few months and must be on his mind.’

‘Yours too I would imagine,’ Sophia spars.   Yusuf nods and looks at the floor.  However tetchy she can be, he will not engage with it.  The days that stretch into weeks at Glenay have not been smooth or easy for her. Yusuf blames Marchal’s abuse.  Sophia’s sense of vulnerability heightens her fears for Lucien and fuels her imagination in paralyzing ways. He disagrees with Lucien’s restraint and waits for the time he is released to exact the punishment Marchal deserves.  He has taken a blood oath to avenge the dishonor to her and the family.  He waits patiently.

‘Well, then let us not waste the time we have,’ Sophia sighs at what she imagines is his silent reproof.   ‘There will be much to do at the house in Paris.  It has been staffed during his absence, but still…’  Her voice trails off as she begins to make lists in her mind.  Roberval is traveling with his wife Nuriye, two children and their servants.  The house is organized for a Muslim family, with salons to accommodate Western visitors.  The details are complex.

‘Do we have any idea of the true number in his party? How many of your family will accompany them?’  The women will bring their own servants and those who care for the children. They will all require separate accommodations from the men and private rooms to move freely.

‘Two of my brothers, Ahmet and Bekir. Also, my eldest son Kamuran and my youngest daughter Alya.  She will help Nuriye with the children.’

‘Alya is coming!’ Sophia exclaims delighted.  ‘Wonderful!  I am so looking forward to meeting her. You will advise which amusements I may take her, and we must find the best horse, you have said she loves to ride.  What else…’

Yusuf chuckles, grateful that Sophia’s true nature is restored.  ‘You are generous in considering Alya.  I do not know what to expect.  Her grandmother wrote to me about a noticeable change in Alya.  She is spirited, strong willed, yet always obedient and happy.  Both her mother and grandmother write that she has changed, rather suddenly, and is far more melancholy.  The family has discussed it and even my brothers suggest that this journey would be good for her.’

‘Oh dear,’ Sophia is concerned, ‘how distressing for you.’

‘I will be happy to see her,’ Yusuf replies, ‘it is time perhaps for her to marry.’

‘First things first,’ Sophia says briskly, ‘we must see the house and the entire compound.  The enclosures might need reinforcing.  I understand they will dock in Marseille and travel by carriage, so the stable will have more horses.   Yusuf smiles, watching Sophia’s mental lists increasing. ‘I will ask M Eduin to consider sending some of our stable boys, that way we have reliable help.  I should have our carpenter and stonemason at Royaumont to assemble men to …’

‘Shall I write anything down?’ Yusuf inquires politely, gesturing to the escritoire with paper, ink and quill.

‘Yes!’ Sophia says, ‘excellent idea, so nothing will be forgotten.  I can start writing letters immediately to get the work started.’

Two hours later, Yusuf has a stack of letters to send to Paris and Royaumont.  ‘The courier shall arrive soon.’  He bows to her and turns to leave.

‘Yusuf.’  He turns around.  Sophia is holding the tiny scroll in her hand.  She smiles at him, ‘thank you,’ she whispers.  He smiles and he bows to her.  As he crosses the yard he realizes he should have known she would see Lucien behind his overtures today.  They are of one heart.  He will deliver the letters to the courier and then take a little known path outside the walls to the dovecote, a path that cannot be seen from any window in the house. 

Sophia returns to their private apartments.  She sits near the fireplace, stretching her feet toward the warmth.  There are letters stacked on a small table.  One is a brief letter from   Marie telling her that they expect to return soon to Glenay.   Bianca is enjoying the sunshine and the beach.  The weather has been warmer than expected. She writes nothing more, but to Sophia, it seems the visit went well.  She unrolls the scroll again, her fingers touching the letters as though she touches the fingers of the man who held the quill.

…my heart, I am delayed again.  A letter arrives soon, my sweet lady … you hold all my love…

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Black night and a black sea rolls the Aigle gently.  The moon is full, bright among a density of brilliant stars dipping to the horizon. Stars and moonlight cast a pale light, shadows alter with the motion of the sea.  Lucien prowls the quarterdeck.  A soft wind ruffles his hair, as he listens to the wind in the sails and the dull clank of the rigging.  He breathes in deeply the sharp and pungent scents of a ship at sea and walks forward to the bow, peering intently into the dark, where a pinprick of light bobs.   

They are now south of La Rochelle and the wind has changed slowing their speed.  Still, he is confident that he can catch the galleon.  But he is less fevered about it.  Every day he spends in this pursuit is a day moving farther away from Athos and their search for Alessandra.  He should not have given up after he learned all he could get from Bellesdens.  There is always more to learn, others to ask, people not seen but who are there or saw something and did not know it.  He has people up and down the coast, in villages and towns.  They are his eyes and ears, they watch for him, ride the roads, talk to the locals, take note of strangers and those known who use the ports, the roads, the inns, the markets, the ships passing, long boats pulling up on sandy beaches in the night.  What did he miss?

He walks back to the helm and stands silently next to Loup and Crotte who has the helm. The pilot, George Cusack is with them watching the sails and the compass.

‘We should check the coves near Biganos,’ Lucien speaks quietly into the silence.

‘A good place to hide,’ the pilot replies thoughtfully.  ‘They could also slip into the Bordeaux estuary. There are other good coves between Biganos and where we are now.’

‘Hmm,’ Lucien sees a map of the coastline in his mind, hovering over the coves and tiny villages on headlands and beaches, the long estuary of Bordeaux and not far from there is Spain.  Could the Sagrio find allies in those waters? 

‘We look at coves near Biganos.   Then we go to Saint Malo and retrieve our sailing master on the way.’  Loup, Crotte and the pilot exchange startled glances. 

‘What will we be looking for in Saint Malo Cap’n?’  the pilot George Cusack asks for Loup and Crotte too.

‘Hell if I know,’ Lucien shakes his head, ‘I only hope I know it when I see it.’