The tavern door swings shut, every man’s eye watching the blonde woman sweep from the tavern, armed men in her wake. Renacer watches the door, as though expecting her to return and give him one last cold disdainful look. He chuckles to himself as he would not mind another glimpse of the arrogant tilt of her chin and flashing eyes. He swings his gaze back to the two men across the table and slams his fist on the table.
“Why in putain enfer am I here?”
The two men cloaked in black stare at Amon Renacer with stony expressions. The man directly across from Renacer is well into his middle years, with a lean face, weathered from a life at sea. Despite his age he is trim, his strong hands scarred from many battles and confident with his abilities. His eyes are alert, holding a sardonic gleam as he looks at Renacer with undisguised humor. Renacer ignores him.
He does not know the second man. He is also older, but heavier set, his hair iron gray, the corners of his mouth downturned by deep lines of worry from shouldering burdens of responsibility, which matches with his apprehensive stare of a suspicious nature. He confidence comes from his authority over the hard men surrounding him. Unlike his companion, he has no need for fighting capabilities as others handle those problems. What could this Spanish man want from him?
“My name is Sr Vargas.” The man waits for a flicker of recognition, but Renacer maintains a blank look. Vargas continues with an amused chuckle, “your name came to me as a man who could get things done.”
“What things?” Renacer asks while looking at the second unnamed man across from him, “who recommended the name of Amon Renacer.” The rogue has the audacity to smile.
“Your enemies. They are reluctant admirers of your abilities. You sunk the San Isidro and captured the Rosario. The Sagrio barely managed to escape. They say you are … inventive.”
“My ship was not the only one under attack.”
“The Belladonna was not under attack at all,” Sr Vargas counters. “You were given opportunity to escape, but you did not. The man in the pinnace…” Sr Vargas pauses, “was the captain of the Aigle, Lucien Grimaud, who with your help, maneuvered very well.”
“He was bold and lucky with the shot at the San Isidro.”
“Lucien Grimaud is a bold man,” Sr Vargas agrees, “he was in a position to save his ship and you saw an opportunity to take the Rosario, which you otherwise would not have considered.” Sr Vargas leans back in his chair.
“I am a privateer Sr Vargas,” Renacer reminds the Spaniard. “I have a duty to my men and my patron.”
“I applaud your sense of duty. Your actions were.. how can I put …imaginativo y ingenioso.”
“Un espía para España?” Renacer suggests. Vargas chuckles, “I am flattered by the comparison. I did not know you spoke Spanish.”
Renacer shrugs, “some, also English, Marseille patois and a little Arabic. Nothing formal, I make shift with it on the street.”
“I have a task for a man who can see an opportunity and make shift to get it.”
Renacer frowns looking pointedly around the dingy inn. “Am I to find this opportunity here?” he asks with a sarcastic laugh. “I have a ship Sr Vargas, and we are some distance from the ocean.”
“It is a ship for which I require your services Captain. The Santa Margarita, sailing from Veracruz to Seville is missing. I want you to find the Santa Margarita, her captain, crew and most importantly, her cargo,” Sr Vargas’ explanation is to the point.
“Missing from the treasure fleet? A ship gone from the flota? How is that possible?” Renacer is astonished. Spain maintains an iron grip on its treasure, from the moment it is flogged from the slaves toiling in the mines, to the heavily burdened mules whipped to exhaustion from a brutal pace struggling over rough trails through thick jungle and mangrove swamps, man and beast exposed to insufferable heat, fever, deadly snakes, and pirates, taking no rest until they arrive, barely able to stand, at the ports where ships wait in armed convoys to sail to Seville. Tight controls are maintained by unsmiling government representatives and lawyers demanding records and signatures of responsibility at every point of collection and transfer, from the foreman with the whip in the mine to the captain of the ship, to the dock in Seville and the transfer to the King’s treasury. Any deviation in this system resulted in swift accountability, often ending with severe repercussions for an offender and their entire family.
Sr Vargas shrugs, “apparently it is possible as one is missing. There were bad storms.” Renacer grunts. The Spanish ignore the seasonal shifts in tides and currents, also hurricanes and storms when sending out its treasure fleet. The Spanish King, who regulates all aspects of the trade, thought he could command the weather too.
“You expect me to sail around the open sea looking for a ship that likely sunk in a storm?”
“I have reason to believe it did not sink, nor was it blown away from the convoy in a storm.”
“How do you…”
“Recently, an unusual number of Oriental pearls were for sale in St Malo. Pearls of the same description were listed as cargo on the Santa Margarita.” Before Renacer can ask, Sr Vargas volunteers, “Seville presumes Captain Miguel Corzo was lost with the entire crew.”
“Then who sold the pearls?” Renacer scoffs, ‘the ghost of Captain Corzo? Who bought the pearls?”
Sr Vagas shrugs, “we do not know. The seller and the buyer have disappeared.”
“Captain Corzo may well be dead by now,” Renacer scoffs, “St Malo is not the place for a transaction over pearls. Plenty of experts at St Malo who will swear by fake pearls. What else was in the hold?”
“A considerable quantity of gold and silver.”
Renacer falls silent, weighing the story and finding enough truth in it to make it plausible. His gaze settles on the man across from him, who has yet to speak. “Who are you supposed to be?” The man raises his brow. “I am Miguel Ferreira.”
Renacer stifles his disbelief at the audacity of the man to use the name of a man closely linked to an infamous pirate. “Bold,” he mutters, “that name stirs a memory but perhaps it is only coincidence Sr Ferreira.” Renacer drums his fingers on the table, never taking his eyes from the man.
“What is your part in this?”
The man who calls himself Miguel Ferreira blusters well, smiling as he says, “you have connections and friends from Galicia. They might be helpful.” He has ignored Renacer’s question, but Renacer understands him perfectly. Sr Vargas glances quickly at his companion, trying to mask his puzzlement. Vargas is unaware that his man bears a false name…
Renacer scowls at Miguel Ferreira. He wants no part of Sr Vargas’ problem, but missing gold… He glances at his crew at the next table who are barely breathing so they can hear every word. Jabari and Anriquez are murmuring to each other, the others with their eyes fixed expectantly on him.
“What is it you want? The ship is gone, the crew is likely dead, and the captain and crew, if alive, know the creative nature of Spanish torture in their prisons. They will not be found easily.”
“How would you go about it? To find the captain?” Miguel Ferreria waves his hand, “as a matter of curiosity of course.” Renacer taps the table restively. The moment strikes him as similar to the moment on the Belladonna when he was prepared to retreat from the Spanish ships intent on destroying the Aigle. It was not his fight, and the Spanish captains made it clear he could escape. But Renacer had a glimpse of what he could achieve, and in a rare moment of unspoken understanding with the commander of the pinnace, Lucien Grimaud, Renacer knew the Aigle and the Belladonna would win that fight. The Rosario was open to him for the taking.
He looks at Miguel Ferreira. There is a deal to be made for the gold. But can he overcome the continuous threat of mutiny from Jabari and Anriquez, keep his ship, persuade his men to their common interest and finally sail for the West Indies? He looks at Vargas.
“I thought the King’s Treasury had their own people to oversee the exports of the flota. But you are here, Sr Vargas, so perhaps you know something about the captain of the Santa Margarita that Seville does not.”
Vargas’ eyes are cold. Renacer smiles mirthlessly at the affirmation, “allow me to tell a story. Using pearls was predictable but showing them in San Malo was a mistake. Plenty of charlatans of all kinds in St Malo. Pearls require a buyer who can verify they are not counterfeit and who can dispose of pearls. There are master jewelers or gem merchants trusted by traders who will verify pearls. What was traded for those pearls?” Renacer rests his arms on the table and leans toward Vargas, “tell me Sr Vargas, what worries you that has been purchased with your stolen pearls and gold? Why have you come to Normandy disguised in an enormous ship of the Inquisition? Why use a priest and his convocations as a ruse to get us to Maupertus?”
Vargas returns a look that shows Renacer he has hit a sore point. Vargas does not want his presence in Normandy or his reason for being here known. Renacer sits back, “Normandy is both blessed or cursed with excellent conditions on land, sea and harbor for smugglers. Once past the vigilant eye of the English, it is easy to evade the skiffs used by the marine patrols. There are few deep-water ports, and in the shallow waters and estuaries, the tides do the work of shifting the sands, creating new inlets and mazes of waterways with every new tide. There is a horrid truth to the wild beauty of the coves disguised behind deadly rocky wonders that hide shoals, caves and the narrow climbs to the headlands where it is not easy to trap a smuggler or find their convoys. Do not look to the people to help enforce the King’s law. Just outside this tavern are fishermen along the banks: men mending nets and boats, sharpening knives and axes. Burly men who earn their living at more than dragging nets for fish. Their clever wives design hiding places in their most intimate garments, their children know the best places to hide goods or people. They know all the pathways and the networks of sunken roads hidden behind hedges and under overhanging trees. In Normandy, smuggling and outwitting the tax collectors for salt, tobacco or fabrics is an act of common sense. Unlike what the blonde lady said, stealing from the King is not a crime here.”
Renacer takes a drink of the wine and grimaces at the taste. He studies Vargas’ impassive expression. “You are not interested in salt, or tobacco or fabrics. Certain treaties notwithstanding, the other smuggled import of high value are guns. Your pearls have paid for guns. But hiring men to use those guns requires gold or silver. Along the borders of Normandy are camps filled with mercenaries, willing to work for any cause that comes with payments in gold. Whoever the architect of this plan, he must be a true believer to risk everything to steal a flota ship. But is he one of your true believers.”
“That is not your business,” Vargas snaps.
“I agree, it is not my business nor do I care. But do you care if there were other captains in that convoy who looked the other way? One is a rogue, two is a conspiracy and it will roil Spain.”
Horses are heard in the outer yard, a voice of authority demanding entry. Vargas nods at the man called Ferreira and stands to meet the messengers that have arrived for him. Renacer follows Ferreira out into the yard. The two men fall into step together as they walk the perimeter of the yard.
“What are you doing here?” Renacer hisses, “interesting choice of name and if this is about…”
“It is only about you being able to make a great deal of money, which you will share with me for my silence.”
“I am touched by your concern Sr Ferreira or whatever you call yourself. What if I do not care for your silence?”
Ferriera makes a thin smile. “That may become true, but not at this moment. Find the gold.”
“Smugglers in Normandy know how to keep their mouths shut if they want to remain in business, let alone alive.”
“Vargas has reason to believe a rebellion is brewing here. Start with the woman,” Ferreira ignores Renacer’s objections.
“What woman? Not the one who blundered in here today.”
“The very one.”
“Her husband…” Renacer blurts out.
“You recognized her.” Ferreira looks amused and Renacer curses inwardly at himself for his slip. If he makes this gaffe with the wrong person, it could unmask him as an imposter. Just as he knows Miguel Ferreira is not who he claims. Renacer blusters, “I was in Paris for a time. Her husband is well known. Who would not recognize her?”
“I believe most of Normandy,” Ferreira replies calmly. “Le Maupertus did not know her, and I surmise that she has rarely been here, yet she chooses an interesting time and style of presentation and travels with mercenaries who imagine themselves also priests.”
“You may be wrong about her men and a knight of Malta was both,” Renacer mutters thinking about the blonde woman and not guards or mercenaries.
Ferreira grunts disbelieving. “Whatever you say but you cannot ignore her.”
I can and should.… but Renacer already knows he will not ignore her. Vargas signals for them to return to the inn. Renacer follows the two men back into the tavern to continue their negotiation. He sits at the table listening to Vargas, paying little attention to the details. He is thinking instead about golden curls and the arrogant tilt of a determined chin. He would like to see those cold blue eyes again. He realizes Sr Vargas is asking him a question.
“What do you say Captain Renacer? Are you the man I need to find a liar, a murdering traitor and thief?”
From the corner of his eye Renacer sees Odysseus’ imperceptible nod. He leans back in his chair, looking at the others in his crew who are watching him carefully. He knows their thinking but looks at Jabari for confirmation. The quartermaster inclines his head.
“Sr Vargas, you need a pirate.”
That same night, in the Paris court of miracles, darkening gray clouds, swollen with rain, move sullenly across the night sky, blotting out stars and moonlight. Rain falls steadily, mixing with street filth and running in putrid rivulets on the downslopes of a broken cobbled street. The inhabitants of the neighborhood: thieves, whores, beggars, gamblers, thugs, scoundrels and rogues of all kinds hurry for shelter. Children huddle together for warmth in doorways.
Lucien Grimaud, enveloped in a long hooded cloak strides down the center of the street, ignoring the relentless force of the rain. Women poke their heads from alleys to offer their wares, but one look at the passing man and they drift back into the shadows. He turns into a noisy tavern, not pausing at the door, using his booted foot to kick it open and hit the back wall. The loud bang of the door is enough to turn every head in his direction. He pushes back the hood, exposing his face and the scars that give him a cruel expression and hard eyes that now survey the room. The raucous cacophony drops to a dull roar and then to whispers and silence. In the corner, the fiddler drags his bow to a tuneless finish, dancers stop in mid step. Serving women carrying trays are motionless between tables. Men clutching tankards half raised stare at him as do the women sitting on their laps. Across the room Flea finishes filling a flask from barrels. Dreux is beside her, whispering intently to her, his black eyes on Lucien who flings his cloak over one shoulder. He is heavily armed, daggers and pistols held in leather straps crossing over broad shoulders and muscular chest, a basket hilted broadsword, double-edged, is sheathed at his side. The sword is huge, requiring extraordinary strength to wield it effectively in battle. He is tall with the bearing of a man who knows his own strength and his way around in a fight. In fact, he has every appearance of a man who looks for a fight.
Men who recognize him nod respectfully and look down, those who do not stare openly and with challenging eyes. He walks through the silent, crowded room, men in his path shuffle away, hauling others aside by grabbing an arm or collar or in the case of one drunken miscreant, his ear. The drunken miscreant yelps angrily, a grim whisper silences him, “shut your hole picaroon. You do well not to draw Grimaud’s attention tonight.”
“He does make an entrance.” At a rear table two men discreetly place their pistols on the table, daggers held in their hands out of sight. They watch Grimaud pass by their table, ignoring them and their weapons. He stops at the serving bar where Flea sets a flask in front of him.
“Where are they?”
Flea lifts her chin, “in the back room.”
“Send them out.” She starts to speak and he leans closer, growling, “send them out.”
He turns to face the room, lifting the flask and drinking deeply, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. Hooded eyes rake across the silent crowded room. Cautiously the serving women move quietly to tables waiting for food and drink. They retreat quickly to the kitchen.
“Why are you here Grimaud?” A challenge from a man that fills the open doorway of the back room. He is a towering figure, heavyset with thick muscular arms, his chest barely squeezes into a stained pale blue velvet doublet and breeches. He wears a matching velvet cavalier hat adorned with a wilting white feather. His thick neck draped in gold and beaded necklaces.
“You are no king here anymore Grimaud. We will not be ruled, ordered by you as to what we can do and where we are allowed to do it.” He rests one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other on a musket secured in a stained silk baldric.
“Who did you kill for those fine clothes Stefan?” Grimaud accuses with a pointed finger, “more evidence of the mess you have made. Your violations of territory have increased the violence between all of you and spreads where it should not. I am told you poach on territory and send your people into the streets belonging to others.” Grimaud looks at the four men lined up before him. “You compete to attack carriages and sedan chairs, steal horses and carry out brazen robberies in churches and the homes of nobility and threaten their people. You peddle the wares openly. The King has increased the royal watch and is charging the guilds to do likewise. Up until now the authorities have avoided the court, but your reckless and unbridled greed will force a change. Already, another of Cartouche’s kinchin coves was hung by a mob. Cartouche demands reparations and I demand you keep the agreements you made.” Grimaud takes another drink from the flask and waits.
Stefan scoffs with a mocking laugh. He looks around the room and bellows, “is he, our king? Or are we to grovel to the King’s dog…the Duc d’ Plessis?” A low murmur is the only response, and it dies quickly as three other men appear behind him, moving to form a single line. “You do not rule here anymore Grimaud. You are just another bastard like the rest of us.”
“You will not threaten the livelihoods of everyone Stefan. Address me as you please as I doubt it will any difference to the outcome here.” Grimaud’s sinister intent is clear. He takes another drink from the flask, sets it on the serving bar and strolls closer to the line of men arrayed against him.
“You would fight with us? With me?” Stefan laughs at Grimaud’s advance, “we all know your tricks Grimaud. I caution you to remember that the men in the rue d’enfer were not from this street. Here,” he makes a thunderous sound as he stomps hard on the wooden floor, “we know how to fight,” he roars swaggering and boisterous, his arms stretched wide to encompass everyone in the room.
“Yes, we do,” Grimaud murmurs, grabbing one of Stefan’s outstretched arms, yanking him hard off balance, his hand closing into a hard fist to punch him repeatedly in the face before dropping him to the ground. Stefan cries out, his nose broken, the cuts on his face bleeding profusely. Grimaud stands over the fallen man, “now, espèce de merde, die.” He raises his booted foot and stomps on the man’s neck, crushing his throat and windpipe. Stefan makes a gurgling choking sound as he desperately tries to breathe, his hands scrabble at his throat pushing weakly at Grimaud’s boot, eyes wide with shock. Grimaud makes a twisting motion with his foot and bones crunch sickeningly. The remaining men still standing are stunned into silent submission that the fight had not started before Grimaud ended it with speed and deadly force. He stands over the dead body, his sword held steady at their throats, the pistol pointed into the room.
“Anyone else want to teach me lessons in fighting?” He glares at the men staring at their fallen leader. “Get this merde out of here and do not make me come back.”
Hurriedly, they grab legs and arms and carry the body outside into the rain. Lucien Grimaud drops into a chair at a table occupied by Etienne and Gerard Mesneil and gives them a sour look, “what were you intending?” The pistols have disappeared from the table. The two men feign an innocent look and shrug. A serving woman brings a tray loaded with food and flasks of wine. Flea watches one of her kitchen maids cleaning up the blood left on the floor.
“Sorry for the mess,” Lucien grumbles in a sour tone. Flea snaps, “do not get snippy with me.”
“It had to be done Lucien,” Gerard says in a low voice, “it could have brought unwanted attention to the wharf and our entire enterprise. We could not risk you losing authority here.”
Flea softens, “it is over and no one here will miss the bastard. Stefan’s woman is probably celebrating while his men divide up his plunder.”
Lucien grunts and tucks into the food. It had been a bad end to a business that could only have gotten worse. Etienne is looking toward the door, murmuring, “Najih is here.”
“What?” Lucien looks up, “he is supposed to be in Cadiz.” They watch one of Lucien’s informants thread his way through the tables. Najih nods to the men and addresses Lucien. “There is news from Normandy.”
“I thought you were in Spain,” Lucien frowns.
“I was in St Malo. It is where I heard news of the Belladonna and the meeting.” Najih notes Lucien’s frown deepens and he hurries to explain. “The Belladonna is grapple hooked to an Inquisition ship, off the coast of Normandy, near Fecamp.”
“I already knew that. Gervais sent a letter.”
“Did you also know her captain, another officer, and several crew members were taken to Le Maupertus? They met with two men from the Inquisition ship.”
“A meeting in the establishment of Jehan de Chabot,” Lucien muses. It must involve smuggling, but what would be Spain’s interest that required an Inquisition ship for anonymity. Jehan has an extensive network. Lucien’s mind is racing to connect dots that seem terribly misaligned.
“There’s more,” Najih says. “Sparrow sent a pigeon post that caught up with me in St Malo. Gypsy attacks and interference with his smuggling teams.” Najih holds out a folded letter. “He says you might remember the name of their leader. Voivode.” Lucien raises his brow and takes the letter from Najih tapping it thoughtfully against his chin, debating if he should take men with him or depend on the local supply. “Quite a hive of activity in Normandy.” Neither Etienne nor Gerard looks amused, “you must talk with Martin before you go.” Lucien nods. He will talk to Martin who usually has some knowledge of the mercenary camps along the border. Idly he asks, ‘was anyone seen with Captain Renacer?”
“A tall blonde man.” Lucien thins his lips. Odysseus. He looks at the others, places his hands on the table and stands up. “Time for me to retrieve my sailing master.”
Twelve Years After 