“Every man is the artisan (or maker) of his own fortune…’
“What are all these lists?”
Lucien leans over Sophia’s escritoire to inspect the piles of parchment. “Shoo,” she says waving him away from her desk, “I have a system and you are making a mess of it.”
“Do sit down dear, you seem hungry,” Marie calls to Lucien and pats the settee. “Yusuf arrived last night. We are planning a dinner and thinking of who should be invited.” Lucien leans over to inspect the contents of a large tray of food deposited by the footman on a low table.
“I am always hungry,” Lucien mutters popping a savory puff pastry into his mouth and surveying the tray for more. Afonso pours him a generous quantity of wine and hands him the glass.
“I have never planned a dinner where the gentlemen and the ladies do not eat together, so I must plan two for the same night. I am just not sure about chairs,” Sophia frowns at the chair across from her. “Yusuf has me quite confused on this point. The Ottoman envoy certainly sits on chairs, would not the sister and daughter?”
“Could we not compromise and sit on cushions or a low divan just as the Ottoman ladies are accustomed?,” Suzanne asks, “we should strive for their comfort not conformity. Who are you inviting Mother?”
Sophia blows out a breath and looks pointedly at Marie, “who are we inviting Marie? Which of your elegant friends will enthusiastically sit on the floor and eat from communal platters with their fingers?”
“We already do that,” Layla laughs as she and Lucien enjoy a friendly competition of fingers to choose their favorites from the food tray. “You took the last sweet,” she scolds her father. He smiles sweetly at her and deposits the coveted sweet pastry in her hand.
“I sat on the floor in Spain with court ladies.” Layla licks the sugar from her fingers and regards the surprised looks of her family. “Yes,” she confirms, “in my very elegant gown, I sat on a platform with rugs and cushions, and we kneeled or sat cross legged. It was almost necessary with their hooped skirts. I do not know how I would have managed it in a regular chair.” She mimes the skirt flaring up before her. Rayya stifles a laugh, “you would have needed your musketeer breeches.”
“Where were the men?” Rosie demands, astonished at her sister sitting on the floor. Layla waves a hand, “over there, at a table sitting in chairs.” Rosie gasps, “extraordinary!” Layla smiles fondly at her youngest sister, “no dear Rosie, we must adapt, that is all.”
“We shall rely on Yusuf to guide us,” Marie says decisively drawing the conversation to a close, at least for now. “Cook will help us design a selection of wonderful Paris dishes for the ladies to try. We must show them the best of what Paris offers to visitors.”
“Bookstores,’ Lucien says, “Yusuf told me his daughter loves to read.”
“Music,” Suzanne says, “and galleries. We can take a river trip on Father’s barge.”
“Invite friends and have musicians,” Rayya exclaims. “It does sound fun,” Rosie adds.
“We could swim,” Samyar adds and pokes his twin sister, “what say you Rosie, shall you jump in with me?” Rosie gasps and swats his arm, “I will not. Ladies swim separately from the men.” She looks at him mischievously, “although you are my younger brother and not yet a man.”
“Younger by a bare five minutes,” Samyar declares, mocking indignation and tickles her until his father shakes his head at him. Lucien stands up, taking Sophia’s hand and pulling her to her feet. “I must be off now. As it is we will not reach Rouen until well past nightfall. Only a fortnight, I will be back soon,” he kisses his mother’s cheek. “Behave,” he mocks severity to Rosie, Samyar and Rayya. They giggle and jump up to embrace their father, Samyar standing straight and holding out his hand. Lucien solemnly takes his son’s hand and then pulls him into his embrace. “Take care of them,” he says quietly to Samyar. At the door he turns to Sophia and holds her close, kissing her, “I will see you in my dreams,” he whispers. He closes the door and starts to walk away when he hears the door open again.
He turns to Layla who is standing behind him. “I will walk with you Father.” There is a look in Layla’s eyes that tells him not to bother objecting.
“Where are you going?”
“You know where we are going – to Rouen. Your mother and I may be spending more time there with this…appointment from the King. I will look at a few houses.”
“Will you go to Normanville?”
“I have not really thought about it.” They have reached the courtyard and the stables and outbuildings behind the house.
“Where do you plan to go from Rouen?” Lucien stops and turns to his daughter, “why would I be going anywhere and why the suspicious tone to your questions?”
“I know you Father, there is more than looking at houses or being in Rouen. Where are you really going?”
“Just to look around…” Lucien answers vaguely. “There are rumors of bands of miscreants. As a newly appointed minister for the King in Rouen will it not be my duty to…”
“Stop it!” Layla commands him looking at Phillip and Martin who wait with the horses. The two men exchange a knowing look.
“We will talk when you return.” She starts to walk away and then turns around, “when is that? A week?” Lucien smiles and does not answer her.
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“I do not remember this place being so dreary. The stew…” Lucien tilts his spoon, the thin broth dribbling into the bowl. He looks around the inn, “has it always been the Crowned Bull? Seems slightly disrespectful.”
Martin chuckles, “for the crown or the bull?’ He is tearing off chunks of thick bread to scoop up mouthfuls of stew.
Phillip adds, “it could be a compliment too.” He spears another chunk of meat and chews thoughtfully, tilting his knife toward Lucien, “you never used to complain about your comforts so much, happy with a few bites of meat, stale bread and a dry deck to sleep on. I do believe you are getting soft with your years Lucien. When we get to Rouen you can have your pick of soft beds and better wine.”
Lucien grunts, signaling for the innkeeper to bring another flask. “Maybe more wine will improve the place.” He deposits a generous quantity of coins into the innkeeper’s hand, nodding at the man’s effusive thanks. “We are not going to Rouen.”
Phillip and Martin both look up at Lucien. He smiles and stands, “I think we should check on our horses.”
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Lucien munches on an apple and hangs his arms over the top of the stall watching Phillip add more oats to Jaaden’s feed. The big horse pushes his hose into Phillip’s chest. “That’s all you get,” Phillip scolds. “You want to get fat? There is work for you to do laddie.” It is not clear if he is talking to the horse or to Lucien.
“Does Jaaden have an opinion on this work?” Martin leads his warhorse Alaric to a roomy stall. Jaaden raises his head as Alaric passes by, cavorting and chuffing noisily at Jaaden who flashes his big teeth and neighs loudly. “Enough of all that,” Martin chides patting the stallion’s massive neck with affection.
“They always know,” Phillip observes coming to lean over the stall and holds out a palm full of oats to Alaric. He nibbles daintily.
“What do they know?” Lucien gives the rest of the apple to Jaaden.
“That trouble is brewing somewhere,” Martin says sagely, leading Alaric into the next stall.
“You are a wise horse,” Lucien murmurs to Jaaden who blows a soft breath against Lucien’s face. Lucien waits for Martin to settle Alaric into his stall. The three men sit on stools against the stable wall.
“Before we left, there was a pigeon post from the Sparrow.” Lucien pulls a small scroll from his doublet and hands it to Phillip.
“So, there is more to this journey than houses in Rouen,” Martin comments wryly.
“You are as perceptive as your horse,” Lucien smiles. “Aside from the ongoing presence of the Inquisition ship, the moaning crowds assembling for the priests, the marauding bandits, and the general mayhem always found in Normandy, the channel is choked with English ships stopping privateers. Cateret’s privateer fleet in Guernsey has been attacked. Sparrow advises me to meet with a man from Gothenburg.”
Phillip raises his brow. “Gothenburg? It must be John Maclean.”
“Not John, but his son Jacob. He will be at Le Grand Cerf in the port near Fecamp.”
“Who is this man and why the secrecy?” Martin wonders.
“John Maclean is a Scots nobleman by birth to the fifth Baron of Duart from the lovely island of Mull in the Western Isles,” Lucien answers as he rereads the message. “He protects the location of his son.”
“Mull?” Martin raises his brow, “Maclean knows the Western Isles?”
“And the Shetlands,” Phillip answers, “the Burla Negra used the coves in the Orkneys, which can only be done with local pilots. Maclean was also in the Stuart navy during the siege at La Rochelle.”
Martin leans back against the wall, “Buckingham,” adding a moment later, “as well as Benito.”
“Yes,” Phillip replies, “Maclean was in Buckingham’s expedition to relieve La Rochelle. We know how that went,” Phillip has a bitter tone. “No artillery and short ladders. None of those lords could organize their way out of their own front doors. Benito tried again, and this one here,” he cuffs Lucien’s head affectionately, “was still a pup when we and a few of the men went with Maclean to carry what we could on our backs, small loads of arms and food through the marshes into La Rochelle, but that was the best we could do.”
Lucien listens to Phillip and thinks about those terrible days, the first of many times he would be under fire, as the French guard, unable to see their enemy, fired randomly their shot smacking into the cold water of the marsh, the haunted faces of starving people and desperation of the men who took their bundles and disappeared into the fog. He remembers admiring the raw ambition behind the construction of the impenetrable sea wall. Richelieu proved to be the more formidable military strategist.
Martin looks puzzled, “when did Maclean go to Sweden?” Lucien shrugs, “not sure, but it might have been after the last failed effort for La Rochelle. As a Scottish nobleman John was able to marry into a prosperous family in the iron trade. He went into business with his wife’s brother, expanding their trade, built a personal fleet and is now a wealthy man and politically connected. He has been sending arms to aid Charles.”
“Maclean supports the English Royalists,” Martin says, “since the Scots crowned Charles their King, I suppose that makes sense. But is Sweden … ?”
“No,” Lucien says firmly, “officially, for many reasons, Sweden has taken the practical course of neutrality.”
“Politics,” Martin grumbles and jabs a finger in Lucien’s direction, “there is a reason we stay out of politics. Maclean has an understanding with his Swedish Queen, but his actions are not sanctioned.”
“Which is where I come in, unsanctioned as usual,” Lucien quips in a cheerful tone. Phillip looks at Lucien who lays a hand on the older man’s shoulder. Phillip had been born on the Ile de Re and any man who had helped in that cause was a man to whom Phillip owed a debt. Loyalty does not fade with time.
“Let me guess,” Martin says, “Maclean is looking for more ships not to be confused with Swedish ships or privateers.” Martin strokes his thick beard, “you are willing to get into this fight?” Lucien shrugs.
“Sparrow says Maclean has a coaster coming from Étretat, a man coming from La valleuse d’Antifer. We meet this man and hear what he wants. No harm in talking.” He glances quickly at Phillip and adds, “we will also want to see Maupertus.” Phillip curls his lip but says nothing.
“I told you we needed a few more men with us,” Martin grumbles at Lucien, “since when is Normandy is a good place for rambling and picnics.”
“We do not need guards,” Lucien scoffs, “who would bother with us? I am not looking for a fight.”
“Of course not. We hardly ever need to look for one.”
“I will need my ship.” Amon Renacer looks between Vargas and Miguel Ferreira. “I cannot hope to find the Santa Margarita without it.” They stare back at him with blank expressions. Renacer rakes a hand through his hair, exasperated, “I need my ship and my men if I need them.”
“That seems reasonable,” Vargas says, “Sr Ferreira and a few of his men will accompany you as you ride north.”
Renacer starts to object, but Vargas stands up, “you can hardly expect me to trust you to return my gold. Sr Ferreira will encourage you.” The Inquisition priest hovers nearby. Vargas sighs, “you will excuse me.” Renacer stands and beckons to Odysseus and his men to follow him. As they leave the tavernhe looks back at the spymaster and priest engaged in an animated discussion.
The crew find a comfortable ground under the trees to take a nap. Renacer, Sr Ferreira and Odysseus stand in the yard. Renacer is surprised as one of the men who had been at the back of the tavern approaches him. “I am Gervais Le Chabot,” the man introduces himself. “I will join you and Sr Ferreira to search for the Santa Margarita. I have lived here all my life and can be useful.”
Ferreira scowls and shakes his head, “that is impossible.” Gervais Le Chabot stands firm, “Sr Vargas has already agreed to my father’s request.” Ferreira’s scowl deepens.
Renacer barks a short mirthless laugh, “well, aren’t we just a jolly party.” He claps a hand hard against Gervais’ shoulder, “you look like a man who knows more about horses than I do, so would you see to their readiness. I want to leave immediately.”
Renacer and Odysseus stroll along the banks of the stream watching fishermen repairing nets, retying frayed lines and cleaning knives. Sr Ferreira trails behind them. The air is rich with briny scents of gutted fish mixing with the sweet, salty scents of oak from the smoker. A brazier is lit, a bubbling pot of pitch kept hot for the boats careened for caulking. A man wielding a wooden mallet hammers oakum into the seams between planks and seals it with a brush full of pitch. The men glance curiously at the passing three strangers, making the barest nod of acknowledgement.
“You and the crew will return to the ship. Only Jabari and Anriquez will stay with me,” Renacer says quietly to Odysseus. “I need you…”
“I apologize Captain, but you cannot trust those two men.” Odysseus interrupts and looks back, glaring at Ferreira, ‘three men Captain.” He jabs a finger at Ferreira, “I know who you are.” Ferreira merely shrugs and tilts his head to Renacer, “do does he.”
“Jabari and Anriquez cannot return to the ship without me.” Renacer turns Odysseus back to face him. “Besides,” he is sarcastic, “now I have Sr Ferreira to protect me.”
“He is not who he claims…”
“I know who he is,” Renacer lays a hand on Odysseus’ shoulder, “your orders are to return to the Belladonna as sailing master and take command of the ship.” Odysseus looks down unhappily, “what are you going to do Captain?”
“A good question,” Ferreira interjects, “what is your plan Captain?” Renacer scowls at Ferreira, “has Vargas told you anything more than what he said here?”
“No,” Ferreira admits, “but the Spanish are certain Captain Corzo came this way.” Renacer considers what he should do next. An idea flickers at the back of his mind, but he cannot fit the pieces together – not yet.
“Jabari can work a coaster and find the fishing villages closest to the shoreline,” Renacer says, “Anriquez stays with us. We ride along the headlands moving north. There are mercenary camps near Arras…”
His voice trails off as he stares out at the hills on the other side of the stream, the small valley curving around a thick stand of trees. He feels frustrated, his mind restless as he thinks of what he does next, rejecting one consideration and trying another. There are too many questions and no answers. But so far, he has succeeded in getting the Belladonna free from the Inquisition ship and Odysseus in command. Now he needs more time to consider the rest.
What did happen to the Santa Margarita? Why is Vargas looking in Normandy for his missing captain and ship? If not destroyed in the storms, it would make more sense that the ship was overtaken by pirates who killed the crew, stole the gold, burned the ship and all the evidence swallowed whole by the sea. But…what if that had not happened. What if the thieves knew to hide in the invisible caves under Normandy’s towering cliffs or to use the narrow valleys, the secret passageways between the land and the sea. Had there been a rendezvous on one of those beaches? He turns over another possibility – the Santa Margarita went farther north, through the Narrow Seas, as far as the Orkney Isles or even beyond.
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“This place is not so dreary,” Phillip is watching the buxom, handsome woman at the serving bar, auburn hair coming free from pins and ribbons. Her blue eyes are sassy and she has noticed his attention. As she refills flasks and stacks plates and tankards for washing in the kitchen, she steals glances at him and laughs when he winks at her.
Lucien tears off a large piece of fresh baked bread and cuts a substantial chuck of cheese. “A marked improvement over the horned cow.”
“Crowned Bull,” Martin corrects him, spearing another chunk of meat in the thick flavorful stew. They are at a back table, arranged so they have a full view of the busy tavern.
“Who is this?” Martin chews and watches a man approaching their table. He lays his pistol on the table, the other hand to the hilt of his sword. Lucien looks up.
“Gervaise Le Chabot!” Lucien sits back and regards Jehan Le Chabot’s son. There is a firm note of disapproval and Gervais shifts nervously. It is well known that Lucien Grimaud does not like uninvited visitors.
“Your father knows you are here?” Lucien questions. Gervais nods, “my father asks that you forgive my intrusion, but I have information he thought you should have immediately.” Lucien remains silent, studying Gervais who carefully keeps his hands away from his weapons.
“What is this information?”
Gervais reaches for a chair, Martin half rises, sword in hand and Gervais stops. Lucien lifts his hand, Martin moves back and Gervais sits down.
“There is an Inquisition ship…”
“We have seen it,” Lucien says tersely. They had seen it, from the headlands. The sails were furled, but the massive ship with its full cannon armament was unmistakable. As were the keening, moaning crowds of people, their hands held up in supplication clustered on the entire expanse of the beach and the rocky outcroppings. Black robed priests moved slowly in the crowd, stopping to lay their hands on bared heads and many of the faithful fell to their knees rocking and seeming to weep.
“There were two men from that ship who came to Maupertus.”
“Who were they?” Lucien demands.
“Sr Vargas and another man, Sr Ferreira.”
Lucien glances at Phillip who laughs and then mutters, “that putain dog.” He gives Lucien a meaningful look. A dog and the Spanish spymaster using an Inquisition ship to get to Normandy. Interesting.
“Your father knows who Sr Vargas spies for,” Lucien seems disinterested. “Le Maupertus should send his warning to his king in Paris, not to me.” Martin chuckles.
Gervais looks confused. “They met with two others from another ship at my father’s tavern.”
Lucien is indifferent, spreading his hands and shaking his head. Gervais plunges ahead, “they are looking for a ship with a cargo of gold.” He looks eagerly at Grimaud, “I thought you would want to know. I can help you. I know where they are going, because I am to travel with them.”
Lucien frowns, knowing that Gervais is leaving out many details. What is Vargas doing in Normandy, carelessly letting Le Maupertus hear his name? There must be some urgency in the situation, but it is impossible for him to figure it out. He drums his fingers on the table impatiently, aware of Gervais fidgeting under his stare. Finally, he says, “the names of the men Vargas met with?” Gervais nods readily, “I know one,” glad he can provide what Grimaud wants.
“Captain Amon Renacer.”
Twelve Years After 