The Eyes of Njuma (closed for Lady_Mornington)

[Randolph]

Dover, England, 12th March 1712

Ryan took a sip of ale. Over the rim of his cup he watched the man seated opposite him across the stained and pitted board. He was a slight, unkempt creature. Bloodshot eyes darted in a narrow, weasel-featured face as he shifted nervously in his seat. His hands had slid out of view beneath the table but Ryan was already very much on his guard.

“You’re lying to me Davey,” he told the man.

“Not I, Captain Ryan, not I!” the other replied squirming. “God’s truth, I swear it! Around midnight they’ll be ‘ere, Sinclair, Irish Joe – all the boys! Going to be a big game... high stakes…that’s what I heard.”

Ryan Van Volke leaned back stretching out muscular legs, sheathed to the knee in worn, flaring-topped boots. It was a busy night and the Golden Dawn Inn thronged with patrons. Pipe smoke arose in plumes from the tables and from the crowded bar to hang thickly beneath the low rafters. The din of rough voices, gusty laughter and the clamouring of tankards upon oaken boards came muted to the corner table by the gable window where Ryan and his companion were seated.
Captain Ryan Van Volke, master of the private carrack Lyr’s Daughter was always careful to choose this nook. With a solid wall at his back he could see the entire tap-room and the street outside. Anyone entering through the inn door would be hard pressed to spy him through the murk and yet he could see newcomer or newcomers clearly by the porch lantern. It was details like these that made all the difference in the life of a man such as he. Details meant the difference between liberty and ignominy - between the the freedom of the open sea and the gallows.

He also knew a liar when he encountered one. Ryan’s scrutiny returned to the repellent Davey. Lies he was accustomed to – after all the Golden Dawn was a den of thieves and liars. But he had yet to figure out why Davey was lying to him and that was his present cause for concern.

“I’ve been in town for three days now, three days!” He leaned forward, thrusting his face close to the smaller man’s, trying to ignore his appalling odour. “If there’s a game as big as you say been brewing, how comes this is the first I’ve heard of it?”

Davey shrugged, one black-nailed hand emerging to claw back a lank strand of hair that had strayed from under the battered brim of his hat. “They say you ain’t got the readies, cap’n. Ev’ry un knows that you took on a lot of French liquor just the other morning. They says you’re all spent up! Anyways where’s me manners gone,” he added quickly. “Must be my shout…”

Davey’s tongue darted to wet his thin lips. On the wharves and in the market they were saying a good deal more. The word was that Van Volke did not get a good price on his last cargo of Egyptian cotton because three galleons from the new world had just pulled in laden with stuff from the plantations. He was down on his luck and one hundred barrels of brandy were not going to set things right. Still, Davey was not such a fool as to dwell on the captain’s circumstances. Things were about to get a good deal worse and Van Volke was a powder keg with a short fuse. Davey had no intention of being around when the sparks began to fly.

Ryan grinned. His teeth flashed white against the wind-tanned leather of his face but dangerous lights danced like lanterns in the depths of his eyes.

“That’s what they say is it Davey? Well, perhaps they’re right, eh? After all, there’s a first time for everything!”

He’s trying to keep me here, the worm – and not for a game of cards! What’s he up to? The privateer saw the odious little thief glance for just a fraction of an instant to the door. Ryan’s scarred fist came to rest thoughtfully on the pommel of a long dirk upon his hip as he peered through the grubby panes of the window at the sky.

Dense cloud veiled the moon and rain had begun to fall upon the cobbles of the narrow street. He could not tell the hour though eleven bells had chimed some time ago. Whatever the nature of the web Davey was spinning for him, he knew now that at midnight the strands would tighten. Instinct told him that now was the time to leave. He drained his ale.

“Same again then cap’n?” Pushing back his chair, Davey reached across for Ryan’s cup, clutching his own to the greasy lapel of his coat. Beneath the table Ryan’s hand slid from the knife and balled into a fist. Then the inn door banged and a hooded figure entered.

All heads turned as a chill wind, streaked with silver gusted in from the nighted street. The newcomer shook rain from cape and cloak. As the door closed again, pale hands drew the heavy hood back and a hush fell.

A young woman stood revealed in the yellow porch light. No tawdry waterfront slut either for, though her raiment was hidden beneath her heavy travelling garb, her features were refined. Her complexion was pale and clear, her hair fell about her face in night-dark waves. Her cheekbones were high, her chin small but strongly made and the eyes that swept her shabby surroundings were lustrously framed and luminous. Only a tightening at the corners of her splendid mouth betrayed her trepidation.

Ryan was a good judge of women and this one he put at not much beyond her twentieth year. He sucked his breath sharply through his teeth – keenly aware that every man in the place was doing the same. By the Devil’s dancing shoes she was a rare beauty!

Squaring her shoulders, the girl walked to the bar. A corridor opened for her in the crowded tap room as the sailors gave way, dumbfounded. Conversations were resumed, though more muted than before, as she spoke to the bartender who pointed toward the corner where Ryan and Davey sat. Heads turned again and the muttering grew louder as the woman gathered her cape about her and began to pick her way toward them between the tables.

A shadow crossed Ryan’s brow as he saw the determined expression on her young face. But then his natural curiosity and opportunism took him over. Pointlessly he pulled at the ruffled collar of his shirt, smoothed his palms down his silk waistcoat and spread his lips in a smile.

“Why, the same again for me Davey old friend! Hurry back now and better bring something for the lady!”

 

[Lady_Mornington]

Julia de Lancey

The rain had been pouring down for the past four days, shrouding the city of Dover in a grey hue. Although a restless soul by nature, Julia had steeled herself to take the weather as a pretext to go through the leather-bound journal once more. Not that it was strictly necessary; she knew most of it by heart, she still adhered to the lesson her grandfather had instilled in her, to further acquaint herself with the matter at hand until there were no more riddles to solve.

She dipped the quill pen in the silver inkwell and made another note in the margin of the old document. For the past five years Julia had filled the journal with her own observations and theories, adding to the tale which unfolded itself on the yellowing pages. The account had been written by her paternal grandfather, Algernon de Lancey formerly of the Royal Navy. While he had been known for his devotion to King and Country and the Service, the journal had been a well-kept secret which he had told no one about save his granddaughter. Fifty years ago when de Lancey had served as a fresh-faced midshipman he had found himself shipwrecked on the coast of Africa. What passed after that was a tale of horror, death but also of riches.

It was the promise of wealth which had caused Julia de Lancey, daughter of the late Sir Hector and Lady Alexandra de Lancey to shun the, seemingly, sheltered life she was leading with her mother and her stepfather. On the surface she was of want for nothing but appearances could be deceiving. The young Lady de Lancey had never been able to see eye to eye with her stepfather James Hollingworth. In fact Lady de Lancey had developed quite the un-ladylike distaste for the man who had married her mother. James Hollingworth was a sordid character, who’s only interest in Julia had been to marry her off with one of his business associates to have her out of his hair. Thus a marriage had been brokered with the God-awful Willoughby Beckett.

Julia shuddered as she considered the alliance which her stepfather had drawn up to connect his own bustling business with that of the Becketts, Clearly it had been the one use Julia had had in James’ world. It was probably a blessing for him that she had departed the country house in Lancashire four days ago.

It was certainly not what one expected from a young lady of Julia’s class, but then again, Julia de Lancey was everything but an ordinary young lady of her class. As a child she had spent many evenings with her father, hearing the tales of the Hellenistic world. Sir Hector had taken great pains to indulge his youngest daughter’s interest in things other than growing up to become yet another carbon copy of her mother, or just about any other woman of her class. Sir Hector’s death had strengthened her resolve in following her own mind rather than the conventions of society. The ghillie of the estate, an old Scotsman and former trooper named Angus McKay had taken her under his wing, teaching her to wield both rapier and pistol, as well as mastering the finer points of things equestrian.

Over the years, Julia de Lancey had obtained a variety of qualities and skills, all which would be put to the test if she were to honour her promise to her grandfather. She had solemnly sworn to bring back the priceless treasures of Njuma, and whilst doing so visiting revenge on the savages who had tormented him until the night he died.

Julia’s features hardened as she put the quill down and closed the journal. The entire idea was spurned out of the need to redress the things visited upon her grandfather that was what she told herself. Yet the promise of the immense wealth tickled her imagination. With a fortune of her own she wouldn’t have to be suffering the guardianship of John Worthington, nor having to enter into marriage to Willoughby Beckett. The thought of entering into such a union with such a man was enough to make her feel physically sick. Not that Willoughby Beckett was particularly repulsive, in fact the man was quite bland, but there was something about him which provoked such distaste at the very core of Julia that she’d rather slit her own wrists than suffering that man to touch her.

She had tried reasoning with her stepfather, but the argument had ended much like expected. James Worthington had failed to see her point of view, and decided that the marriage would indeed go along as planned. Julia might not like it but she’d damn well walk down the aisle of the parish church and be joined in Holy Matrimony with Willoughby Beckett Esq. Julia’s mother had not been very forthcoming in voicing her support for Julia either, on the contrary she had sidled with her husband, and when appealing in what she probably felt was a logical way and failed, she had resorted to giving Julia such a hiding of the like she had not received since she was a wee lass.

The humiliation of physical correction had been the final straw, and that very night, Julia had left the estate, heading south. She had the plan all worked out; there were enough sailors who would be quite keen on lending her a hand in order to obtain a share in the treasures of Njuma. Yet she would have to tread carefully. Chivalry and all, but the lure of a King’s ransom was likely to make even a most moral person forget his pretences. Then again, the de Lanceys was an old Norman family who hadn’t managed to survive for as long as they had by being stupid. Cunning was a defining trait of the family, and Julia had gotten her fair share of such. Added to this was of no nonsense lessons she received from Angus McKay. She knew how to wield a blade, fire a pistol and musket and cuss like a Grenadier Guardsman. Therefore it was not too hard to see why the young Lady de Lancey had decided to leave the sheltered surroundings which had up until now been her home.

She stood up and glanced at herself in the full-length mirror which stood in the corner of the room she rented. The landlady was a distant relative, second cousin twice removed or something like that with the added benefit of not being to bright. She had accepted Julia’s explanation of her visit at face value and spared Julia having to tell more lies than necessary which was a good thing, seeing as she would need all her wits about her if she were to succeed in her venture.

The reflection which met Julia’s gaze was that of porcelain features, framed by a cascaded of dark brown curls and a pair of intense green eyes. She nodded to the mirror-Julia before she turned to the desk and opened the locked drawer. Inside lay a finely made pistol, a gift presented to her by Trooper McKay on her 18:th birthday. Julia had long-since mastered the art of marksmanship, thus the gun was more than a prop. Young lady de Lancey knew how to handle it should it come to that.

With a final glance at the room Julia silently made her way out, making sure to close the door with a barely audible click. She had no intention of disturbing her aunt by informing her of her plans, nor would it be conducive if the woman knew them. Julia’s visit was for all intents and purposes a purely social one, and it was best to keep the appearance at that. She had gone to great lengths to preserve the secrecy regarding her true intentions, even though it had been costly. Not that she was paying for it, the chest containing a number of purses had belonged to James Hollingworth, and the coin therein were now being put to good employ.

Julia had tipped the coachman of her aunt’s household to have the carriage ready for her, in addition to keeping an eye out for the right kind of person who’d be able to help her in her enterprise. The decision, based both on Jenkins the coachman’s assessment as well as the rather lose tongue of a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, had thus been made to approach the captain of Lyr’s Daughter. Ryan van Volke was not a person whom would ever be admitted to the circles where lady de Lancey had hitherto socialised, but then again she was not in need of the assistance of a be-wigged and powdered fop. No, what she needed was a man of resourcefulness, and from what she had heard, van Volke was just that kind of man.

***
The rain was strafing the docks and quays of Dover as the coach drew to a halt outside the disreputable tavern the Golden Dawn Inn. Jenkins had offered to accompany her, but Julia had declined the offer. She needed to approach van Volke herself, if nothing else as to keep the details of her mission from reaching too many ears. She pulled the hood of her riding cloak up, and nimbly stepped down from the carriage and out on the street. While still retaining the statutory dress, Julia had made one concession and substituted her slippers for a pair of riding boots. She felt the weight of the pistol as she took a deep breath and approached the door of the inn, walking briskly and avoided making eye contact with the drunken sailors and the whores huddling outside the tavern. Taking a deep breath, inhaling the salty smell of the sea, lady de Lancey pushed the door open and stepped inside the taproom.

She kept her eyes on the bar as she walked slowly through the throng of people while she pretended not to see the looks the patrons of the establishment were giving her, or the fact that the conversations had almost stopped entirely. Appearances were everything, or so Angus McKay had taught her. Not an expert on such issues, Julia still realised that if she let show that she was less certain of herself than she let show, then the whole venture might well end there and then. She did however make it to the bar without being interfered with, and she got the attention of the publican as soon as she placed her gloved hands on the wooden surface.

“What can I get your ladyship?” The barman offered her a toothless grin as he wiped his hands on his apron. “I’m looking for someone.” Julia said whilst fixing the barkeeper with a long emerald stare, and almost like an afterthought, she slid a shilling across the sticky wooden surface. “I’m looking for Ryan van Volke, where can I find him?” The publican quickly snatched the coin from the bar and deposited it somewhere in his apron before he leaned closer. “What does a nice lassie like you want to do with a beady-eyed bastard like van Volke?” The barman looked closely at her as he indicated a table in the far corner of the room. “There he is, but take my word for it. Van Volke is not someone you want to know.”

Julia didn’t respond as she turned to look in the direction indicated; while she had rebelled against the norms of the nobility there were a number of things which were too ingrained in her to be disregarded. Like servants who didn’t knew their place. She gave the barman a withering stare before she gathered her skirts and moved towards the table were van Volke was sitting, and stopping to give him a penetrating stare.

“I’ve heard you’ve outrun both the Royal Navy and the Spanish from Kingston to Portsmouth. That’s quite the feat, or so I’m told. What I wonder is whether you’re truly as good as your reputation.”

Julia sat down as one of the men sitting at van Volke’s table got up and held out the chair for her, and while she did so, she cocked the pistol which she kept concealed beneath her cloak. “I am looking for a man of your qualities Mr van Volke, and you wouldn’t find me lacking in gratitude should you chose to accept.” Julia fixed the privateer with her emerald stare as she slid a small purse across the table. She noticed that the bemused look van Volke had given her changed at the sight of the coins left within his reach. For a moment Julia thought she could see an almost imperceptible nod of agreement there. She offered him the smallest of nods in return as she declined the glass of wine which was put down next to her. “I think it would be prudent to save the toasts until after we’ve come to an agreement don’t you?” Julia continued her right hand holding on to the primed and cocked pistol. “Now how soon before Lyr’s Daughter is ready to sail?”

 

[Randolph]

“I’ve heard you’ve outrun both the Royal Navy and the Spanish from Kingston to Portsmouth.” The girl’s tone was brisk – almost offhand. “That’s quite the feat, or so I’m told. What I wonder is whether you’re truly as good as your reputation.”

Ryan was a man who seldom lost his poise and yet he found himself momentarily flummoxed.
The girl’s forthright manner- to say nothing of her considerable beauty - was breathtaking. There was steel and passion in the verdant blaze of her eyes, no question. But Ryan also detected something else; something he found even more compelling. Ryan Van Volke was a good judge of character. Often life depended upon an instant, incisive appraisal of the new or the strange. As he ran an approving eye over the girl’s porcelain features he could not help but notice the tightness of her jaw, the slight flare of her nostrils and the heave of her breast beneath her rain-sodden cloak. Her neck and shoulders were tense as she held one of her hands out of sight beneath her outer garment. It was not however fear that gripped her and drew him to her - in fact this girl was not nearly as afraid as she should be in such a dive at such an hour. No, he mused, it was not fear but... desperation!

Ryan Van Volke regained his composure and remembered his manners. “Please, Lady.” He gestured toward the seat that Davey, gaping stupidly, vacated for her. “You have the advantage of me. Forgive me if we leave the defence of my reputation until you have given me your name...”

He watched her as she sat; his eyes unable to leave the perfection of her face. Rain beaded upon her forehead, plastering her soft midnight curls to her pale skin. There was a smear of dark mud like a vanity mark on one smooth cheek. Her hand remained hidden and he thought he heard the dry clunk of a flintlock as she settled herself in the chair. A nerve jumped in his shoulder. Perhaps the woman was a part of Davey’s plot to keep him here! After all, Ryan’s fondness for women – particularly brunettes - was no secret around the waterfront taverns. However one further glance at Davey’s face allayed this suspicion. The grubby little cutpurse was every bit as surprised as he!

“I am looking for a man of your qualities Mr van Volke, and you wouldn’t find me lacking in gratitude should you chose to accept.” She regarded him down her finely-chiselled nose.

Still no name! But now a small, hand-decorated purse appeared and slid across the table toward him! Ryan resisted the urge to pinch himself.

Clumsily, Davey proffered wine, which was declined.

“I think it would be prudent to save the toasts until after we’ve come to an agreement don’t you?” she said. “Now how soon before Lyr’s Daughter is ready to sail?”

“Leave us, Davey.” Ryan did not take his eyes from hers as the thief vanished into the crowd. Ryan’s lips twitched with just the ghost of smile. The woman’s breezy self-assurance was persuasive; the hint of vulnerability (despite the secreted pistol), incredibly alluring. Inside his head, alarm bells were clanging louder than a Spanish wedding.

Wait! You’re about to go broke and possibly get your throat cut into the bargain when this vision of loveliness appears. She strolls into the pub as though she owns the place, gives you a look fit to burst your breeches and offers you a purse to sail off into the sunset! Steady, Ryan lad, the Lord must’ve dealt you someone else’s cards tonight. You know, this kind of luck can’t last ...

The door of the Inn burst open and armed, uniformed figures spilled through. Pandemonium erupted as men leaped to their feet, toppling chairs and overturning tables.

“Raid! Soldiers!” the cry went up. Drinkers staggered and collided. Some leaped over the bar and ran for the kitchen. Some cowered and dived for cover as the soldiers stormed among them with muskets levelled and bayonets bristling.

“Nobody move! Nobody leave. We execute the Queen's business! Make way there! Make way for the servants of Her Majesty!” A dark over-coated man in a plain tricorn hat emerged amid the red-jackets. His raised hand held a document with an official-looking seal. The other clutched a pistol, the long barrel pointing to the floor.

Ryan had not moved a muscle. Narrowly he glared at the soldiers as they began to shoulder their way into the room. The girl shot anxious glances between the soldiers and the tall privateer.

“It’s the bloody revenue!” They heard from a knot of men nearby who had jumped to their feet and now froze, uncertain which way to flee.

“Van Volke!” shouted the magistrate - for such he was. The official drew himself up, his eyes strafing the room above the heads of the unruly throng. “We seek one Ryan Van Volke. If you hear me sir, give yourself up! Anyone sheltering this man will be arrested!”

Ryan burst into action. He swept up his tankard from the table and hurled the heavy pewter full at the nearest soldier. The man reeled and swore, lashing out blindly with his rifle butt. A voice shrilled with pain and indignation and a fist knocked the trooper’s lacquered hat from his head. He raised his weapon but before he could bring it to bear he was down; submerged beneath a hail of blows. Then all hell broke loose. The Golden Dawn erupted as sixty or more drunken sailors fell upon the law men.

Bodies heaved, limbs thrashed, wood splintered and blood spurted. Ryan seized the girl’s arm and pulled her to her feet. His long knife glittered in his fist and then flashed from between his clenched teeth as he fumbled with the iron catch on the casement.

“Come on!” he growled, throwing the window wide. “Things are about to turn ugly. You’ve clearly sought me out for a purpose and we’ve yet to conclude our discussions. Do you want to stick around and answer some difficult questions, or are you with me?” Without waiting for a reply he climbed to the sill. He favoured her with a last, burning glance before vanishing into the rain-lashed darkness.

A horse whinnied. Landing in a crouch Ryan saw the soldiers’ mounts stood by the Inn porch; hides steaming in the lamplight. After the briefest moment he heard the girl’s feet strike the cobbles behind him. Moreover he heard the unmistakable rasp of steel upon toughened leather. Despite the peril of the moment he turned smiling to see a long, slender blade appear in her hand. The other now openly brandished a duelling pistol. There was clearly a lot more to this tall, bonnie lass than met the eye!

“Can you ride?” He asked in an urgent whisper. He knew what her reply would be before her terse nod confirmed it. Keeping low, they crossed to the horses. Ryan ducked under a swaying belly and came up in their midst, surprising the soldier who had been left on guard. Ryan’s knife flashed in his fist, drawing an oozing, scarlet line across the man’s throat and cutting off his screech of alarm. Carefully Ryan lowered the body to the ground.

“Here girl, quickly...” He cut a horse loose and leaped into the saddle gesturing that she should climb up behind him. The Inn door suddenly flew open as the fight spilled out into the street. A gunshot sounded, then another followed by a bellow of agony. After only a moment’s hesitation, she took his arm and allowed herself to be lifted up onto the horse’s back.

“Yah!” Ryan wheeled the beast, pointing it in the direction of the harbour and dug his heels into its flanks.

“You there, halt!” came a shouted command from the inn doorway. A musket cracked but the shot whistled harmlessly above their heads as they leaned forward over the straining animal. Ryan vented his relief in an ululating howl of triumph as the flying hooves bore them away down the street.

Darkened tenements flashed by in a haze of spray. The narrow street turned abruptly and then they were riding along the harbour with empty wharves upon one hand and the seawall upon the other. From beyond the wall, louder than the clatter of the horse’s hooves upon the cobbles came the shriek of the wind and the deep thunder of the sea.

“There, look! There she is!” Ryan bellowed over his shoulder, pointing. A tall mast loomed as a sizable ship hove into view among the bobbing, bumping hulls of the fishing boats. They rounded the black sweep of the stern. Lanterns burned in her portholes and gunwhales and light spilled down the gangplank from her deck. But Ryan’s heart sank as he saw the group of uniformed figures that waited on the quayside. He cursed through gritted teeth. He could have counted upon the customs men impounding his ship and cutting off his most obvious avenue of escape!

“Hold on!” he told the girl who clung to his muscular back. He saw that her sword was still naked in her fist. “And swing that thing, if you can!”

He snatched his own weapon, a curving cavalry sabre, from its scabbard and kicked the horse on. The soldiers had time only to raise their rifles and shout a challenge before Ryan was upon them. The foremost vanished beneath the flailing hooves as Ryan reared the mare, slashing down with the blade.

 

[Lady_Mornington]

Julia de Lancey

When Julia later tried to recollect what had happened in the Golden Dawn Inn it all seemed a blur. The leap from, what had to be described as a fairly normal conversation, to the pandemonium which followed had been instant, and so had the reactions of van Volke. While Julia prided herself as a decent swords- and marksman, she quickly realised that for all her abilities she had not yet had them put to the test. Thus the skirmish between van Volke and the bailiffs caught Julia by surprise. She watched how van Volke slammed his tankard into the face of one of the bailiffs, and followed it up by a well-aimed fist which hit the unfortunate fellow square in the face. The exchange was the catalyst for the tension in the taproom and within seconds the assembled patrons of the Golden Dawn Inn had fallen upon the bailiffs, raining blows upon the unfortunate soldiers.

She felt van Volke grab hold of her arm and dragged her to her feet. In his hand the privateer was holding a long-bladed dagger, clearly intending to use the weapon should the need arise. He stopped momentarily by the window, scanning the surroundings before slamming it open and coldly explained that her choices had narrowed down to two options; either go with him and continue their discussion or do some explaining to the lawmen. There was no need for van Volke to go into detail what such meeting would entail for Julia. At best it would be sent home to Lancashire and be forced into matrimony with Willoughby Beckett, at worst it would mean confinement in a wing of the hospital with the key chucked away.

Julia looked at the room one more time, seeing how the bailiffs were fighting an uneven battle against the clientele of the Golden Dawn Inn. By the look of things, the lawmen ought to have brought heavier reinforcements if they had been expecting to achieve in the venture. As things were, only two of the bailiffs were still standing up, and it would only be a matter of moments before they too would be overrun by sheer weight of numbers.

Lady de Lancey shrugged as she got up on the windowsill, mentally preparing herself to take the plunge but before she did she noticed the body of an unconscious sailor by her feet. The man was carrying an expensive-looking rapier, which he had currently no use for. Julia quickly bent down and pried the weapon from the man’s hand and thus armed with pistol and blade she threw herself out the window.

The commotion had spilt into the street outside the Golden Dawn Inn; a few bailiffs had been posted outside of the notorious public house, and it was one of them who strayed into an early grave, aided as he was by van Volke’s knife. Julia’s features hardened for a second. She’d heard her mentor, Trooper McKay describe scenes of death and gore from various battlefields, but to witness the act itself was a new, and admittedly galling, experience. Yet Julia understood that speed was of the essence and she followed closely behind the privateer as he cut lose one of the horses which the officer had ridden.

She heard screams from the direction of the public house and as she dared a glance she saw two bailiffs, muskets at the ready taking aim at her and van Volke. Spurred both by the sight and van Volke’s insistence that she’d hurry, she grabbed hold of his wrist and propelled herself up on the horse’s back, and accompanied by the buzz of musket balls the privateer spurred the mount on towards the quay.

Reaching the place where Lyr’s Daughter lay anchored should by rights have hailed their successful escape, had not the bailiffs of His Majesty’s Customs and Excise proved to be as daft as they were credited. As Julia and van Volke rounded a corner they came face to face with another group of armed men. Clearly the bailiffs would not allow van Volke an easy escape. Julia briefly wondered whatever the privateer had done to incur the relentless interest of the customs officials. While a random guess would point in the direction of the less salubrious trade of van Volke’s, she suspected that the real reason was to be found in the simple refusal to furnish the clerks at HM Customs and Excise with the necessary bribes to keep them off his back. Julia’s stepfather, John Hollingworth had explained the necessity of a sound fiscal system which had frankly bored Julia to tears. Back then she had not been able to understand his passion about such things as commerce and taxation. Until now that was. Being faced by four loaded muskets held by the men whose job it was to ensure that the revenue flowed into His Majesty’s coffers underlined the importance.

Julia gave a nervous laugh as the thoughts raced through her mind. Here she was, in cahoots with a wanted criminal, facing at best to be shipped home to Lancashire in shame, or at worst to be shot by the bailiffs and all she could think of was taxation. She heard van Volke growl something about using the edge of her blade as he spurred the horse on, seemingly impervious to the four barrels aimed in their direction.

“The point always beats the edge.” Julia bit back, the lesson having been drummed into her by her mentor, Trooper McKay. In a scrap the main thing was to use the blade properly, not waving it about as another flail. Lady de Lancey took a deep breath and as van Volke reined in the horse bringing it close to the lawmen who discharged their muskets. Normally such a volley would have been sure to hit the target, but it was evident that the men lacked the discipline and training of the army. Thus two of the muskets misfired, probably caused by the fact that the men had not covered the locks of their muskets from the strafing rain. The other two managed to fire their guns but the balls went well wide. The acrid smoke of gunpowder wafted across the quay as van Volke slashed down with his curved sabre, sending one of the bailiffs to the wooden planks with a deep cut to his shoulder. Julia followed on, discharging her pistol in the general direction of the lawmen. The gun kicked as she pulled the trigger, causing her to flinch, but at least it sent the two of the bailiffs to the ground for cover.

Julia felt, rather than heard how van Volke was issuing commands to the crew still on the ship as he got out of the saddle and, unceremoniously, lifted her down and grabbed her by the wrist as he ran up the gangway where the first mate offered the captain a greeting. Van Volke issued a string of commands, causing the crew to stand to, and within moments the Lyr’s Daughter was afloat, the moorings having been severed and the sails hoisted. The wind was in their favour and the ship made good speed as she left Dover harbour.

While being an assertive young woman, Julia found that seamanship was an area in which her knowledge was definitively limited. Besides she found that standing on the quarter deck in full view of the tars, clearly within earshot of the coarse comments the men uttered, clearly in an attempt to unsettle her, did if not shake her resolve then at least prove to be quite annoying. Fortunately van Volke seemed to have decided that their conversation was to be continued and he chivalrously escorted her to the captain’s quarters and called for wine, bread and cheese to be brought forth, stating that it wasn’t everyday that he had the chance of entertaining a young woman like Julia.

Lady de Lancey nodded thanks as the wine was served and then turned to look at van Volke as she took out the leather-bound ledger from her sabretasche.

“You have a way of making friends with everyone Mr. Van Volke.” She offered him an ironic toast and put the crystal glass down and fixed him with a piercing emerald stare. “Now before we were interrupted we discussed the possibilities of you doing me a favour.” Julia nodded as she looked out the windows of the stern. “As it is you don’t have much of a choice do you? I mean apart from slitting my throat and dump me in the ocean, but before you contemplate that, might I remind you that I did lodge a letter with one of the servants that I was in fact to see you. Getting rid of me would land you in an array of troubles Mr. Van Volke and since neither you nor I want that I suggest that you will agree to help me out with this little... “Julia once more smiled as she reached for the goblet, hoping that the beating of her heart was not discernable. Despite her appearance, Lady de Lancey was thoroughly terrified, but having been an apt student of old Trooper McKay she had long since learned that appearance was everything, and thus she pushed on. “quest of mine. Yes I rather think it’s an apt description. I shall gladly discuss the details when we arrive in Rotterdam; I suppose that’s where we are going. We do need to stock up on supplies and I need to get a new attire, seeing as your brush with the lawmen prevented me from fetching my wardrobe.”

She sighed as she pushed a strand of dark hair from her forehead. “I will take your cabin to avoid any rumours. I’m sure you can lodge with your first lieutenant, or whatever passes as such on this ship.” By now Julia had gotten to her feat and acting quickly she had ushered the unresisting van Volke to the door. “I shall speak to you tomorrow Captain.” She was about to close the door when the privateer managed to ask her name, which she had yet to offer the man.

“Oh I’m terribly sorry, where’s my manners and all.” Julia offered him a radiant smile, not bothering to hide the fact that she found the question highly amusing. “You may call me Persephone. Good night Captain.”

 

[Randolph]

Lyr’s Daughter was a stout ship. She was Ryan Van Volke’s pride and joy.

She was a three-masted Brig; square-rigged after the antique style of a Barbary pirate. Her black hull ran over 120 feet from stem to stern. Although old-fashioned in appearance, no sailor that had ever worked aboard her and no officer of His Majesty who ever tried to overhaul her would call Lyr’s Daughter quaint. Off the wind she was damned quick but to windward she was the very devil – the fastest ship east of the Indies and west of the Spanish Straits. The manuals said a Captain would need fifty hands to man her properly. Van Volke managed with thirty six – although things became more than a little hectic when all four of her guns were in play.

Ryan stood on the quarter deck staring upward. The ropes hummed and eleven sails filled; grey billowing spectres in the darkness. Beautiful she might be, but Lyr’s Daughter was no place for Lady and that thought brought his attention squarely back to the slim figure that stood in the torchlight before him. Around them the crew bustled about their duties. He could feel their eyes burning into him and his unexpected guest. The curses, jests and lusty singing which usually punctuated their labours were this night curiously absent.

“Bend to it, ladies!” the Captain bawled suddenly, his usual measured tone unrecognisable. “Mister Lewis, keep a man aloft until we’re on the open water - preferably a knave with two eyes who can keep at least one of ‘em open!” With a final shout for bread and wine to brought, he took the girl’s arm and ushered her into his cabin.

The door latched behind them. “Forgive the attentions of my men. You must understand that they ..that is we...do not often entertain ladies on board – and certainly none such as yourself.” Ryan found that his throat was suddenly dry and his pulse was throbbing in his ears. The close shave with the magistrate was clearly still playing upon his nerves. Where was that damned wine! He found himself surveying the spare comforts of his cabin with an unusually critical eye. The chart table was stained, the upholstery was old and worn. They were no curtains screening the stern windows...
A knock at the door prevented the heated silence from building. Ryan bent to open it. He took the tray and decanter from the mate and ignoring the gleam in the man’s eyes thrust the door closed. He hung a smile on his face and gestured that she should sit.

Scarcely a quarter-hour later he found himself alone, bewildered and lacking a cabin. How the Devil had she managed it?? And who, in the name of all the Saints, was she? Even now Ryan felt he knew no more about this woman than when she breezed into the tavern earlier that night. But now it seemed they were shipmates bound for Rotterdam together!

He poured himself another glass – rather larger than the one previous. Persephone, eh! A Lady on a quest?... He drank thoughtfully. A desirable Lady she was to boot and very much to his liking, but there was something that Ryan didn’t like about the whole business. He liked to be in control - of any situation. It was what kept him alive after all. Now it seemed that, in a heartbeat that evening, events had overtaken him. And not only events! Laughable as it seemed, he felt in danger of losing control of his ship!

Her hypnotic eyes haunted him. A perfect image of her perfect face formed in his mind. Her lips were moving but he recalled only snatches of what she had told him, instead he remembered only how they had lingered at the wineglass; how they pursed and parted as she sipped. A woman like this could make any man do almost anything. Almost! He drained his glass and set it down firmly. Ryan Van Volke was not any man. He scented danger like a wolf and acted with equal instinct. She would sail with them as far as Rotterdam. For curiosity’s sake he would indulge her, he would play the perfect host and keep her safe from the crew. As soon as they reached the Dutch port she was on her own.

 

[Randolph]

Ryan Van Volke

Ryan lay uneasily in the hastily slung hammock. Alongside him, not two feet away in the darkness, Lewis the first mate snored like a town drunk rolled under a hedge. Around him the aged timber’s of the mate’s cabin creaked and sighed. From outside the ship’s bell clanged dolefully; three notes that spoke to his heart of the fleeting futility of any rest that may yet come.

Cursing softly Ryan swung from the hammock, thrusting his feet into his boots and buttoning his great-coat over his shirt tails. Lifting a lantern from the hook by the door he departed the cramped cabin for the wind-tossed darkness beyond.

As soon as the spray hit Ryan’s face his weariness was forgotten. In an instant he no longer rued his fitful sleep, instead he begrudged those few hours he had wasted in mimicry of death. Precious hours squandered to unthinking, unfeeling oblivion; the very stuff and essence of life lost and gone, never to be reclaimed.

He strode to the rail and breathed deeply, sucking the chill, acrid air deep into his chest. Stars gleamed pale through ragged cloud. Below him the sea heaved and glistened like molten pitch.

“M-mornin’ S-sir,” A voice stuttered.
“Hello Nathan,” Van Volke replied. He turned to regard the lanky watch. “Quiet night?”
“Y-Yessir!” the boy assured him, his face long and pale his eyes round and gleaming.
“All’s well then.” Ryan gave him as smile as the boy sauntered off on his round.

Nathan had joined the crew the previous summer. He was a quiet, withdrawn lad but he could get around the ropes and rigging with an agility that belied his gangly form. In a tight spot he fought with silent but singular ferocity. Lewis had told the Captain of the abuse Nathan had endured in the infants’ home in Bristol from where he had eventually run away to sea. Ryan understood then something of the torment that haunted his young face and he put word around that any man found baiting or molesting the boy in any way would answer to him. Alone with his thoughts on the nighted deck Ryan felt anger building in the pit of his stomach. It was always the most vulnerable who paid the highest price for society’s failings. Why should an innocent child have to suffer such things – and at the hands of those charged with his protection? Ryan’s contempt for the authorities ran deep and stories such as Nathan’s only fanned the vengeful fires within him.

Ryan Van Volke had been raised on a Welsh hill-farm, the only child of a Dutch adventurer and a local girl. His early memories were good ones; blue skies, green grass, laughter... a child at play while his parents worked the land. But everything changed upon the day his father left.

Throughout what remained of his childhood his father returned on occasion, but it was not like it had been – there was shouting and weeping and gloomy silences. These visits became less frequent as Ryan grew until they ceased altogether and Ryan and his mother no longer spoke of him.
Ryan became tall and strong, his back broad from labouring on the farm. His mother seemed to diminish even as her son filled-out and soon he realised that she could not cope with the daily workload unless he took charge. Everything else then took second place to the farm. His schooling - always sporadic - became non-existent.

In truth, he had no regrets about his learning for he hated school on the rare occasions he had attended. The cramped schoolhouse, the interminable sitting, the patrician bullying of the masters... it was doubtless these experiences that first engendered his dislike of authority. It was not that the young Ryan loved farming - but it was their life! He did what his mother needed him to do. It was all he knew at that time, but it was a tedious and solitary existence – hard for a lad who was bright and inventive if not academic.

On countless occasions over the long years he fought the urge to throw down his tools and run fast and far over the hills. Perhaps it was in his blood, this urge. Perhaps it was the only legacy of a wayward father whose attempt to settle and put down roots had failed so abjectly. Perhaps again he just needed to see what lay beyond the mountains and valleys of his birth; to see for himself and to try to understand what it was that his father loved more than he loved wife and infant son. But Ryan was not his father despite what his mother said on occasion (and not just when she was angry with him)! He knew of the destruction and sadness that such action inevitably trailed in its wake. He saw it daily in his mother’s care-worn face and failing health. He would not do to her what her husband had done.

It was his mother’s premature death that finally released him. Consumption claimed her in the end but Ryan knew that her heart and spirit had been broken long before she took to her cot in the tiny cottage of stone and thatch that had been home for nineteen years.

He sold the farm and joined the Navy, lured by the promise of adventure. A war was brewing. England was supporting the Austrian pretender to the Spanish throne which the King of France had claimed in flagrant disregard of a long-standing treaty.

Ryan served for two years on a leading Ship of the Line. It was at this time he discovered his love of the sea (finally and grudgingly acknowledging his heritage in this regard). He also discovered that Her Majesty’s Navy was not for him. His resentment of authority had not diminished since he was boy and he despised the chain of the command, the casual cruelty of the officer class and the restrictions on personal freedoms. Inevitably he was labelled a rebel and brutally suppressed. Finally he deserted in order to avoid the flogging that would probably have cost him his life.

Fortunately he was able to recover his money from the sale of the farm - kept in trust by his mother’s solicitors in Cardiff - before the crown seized it. With a measure of the recklessness now typical of this strong and charismatic young man, he used it to purchase his first ship. He was to have this and then another ship sunk beneath him before he came to be the Master of Lyr’s Daughter.

She was a prize of battle, captured from the infamous Spaniard Captain Miguel Martinez – thenceforth Ryan’s sworn enemy. Lyr’s Daughter had a Spanish title but Ryan had re-named her as they sluiced the Spanish and English blood from her decks.

With the sky just beginning to brighten above the eastern horizon, a smile lifted the corners of Ryan’s mouth. For a moment he allowed himself to reflect on happier times – and there were no recollections sweeter than the winning of his beloved ship...