Chapter Two
Village of Perranporth
One-Eyed Whale Tavern
It was smoky and dark, even as daylight broke over the wilds of Cornwall. The windows of the tavern were small and didn’t do much to allow light or ventilation into the common room of the establishment.
It was a room that was strewn with the bodies of those who had spent the night in the small hovel of safety in a part of England that was said to be the most mysterious and dangerous of all. No one wanted to sleep outside in Cornwall, so the inns and taverns were usually full of both locals and travelers. Men were on the floor, on tables, but all of them waking as the tavern keeper and two wenches moved through the room, rousing men and demanding they either pay for a morning meal or leave immediately. There was no mercy in a place like this. It was pay or get out.
Out into the sunrise of a new day.
But there were three people who hadn’t slept on the floor or on the tables the previous night. They’d been some of the fortunate few who had rooms to sleep in, on dirty beds that were crawling with vermin. In fact, the woman hadn’t slept on her rented bed at all. The floor, although cold and hard, had been preferable. Her body was achy as a result on this dreary morning but that didn’t matter; she wasn’t here to seek comfort.
She was here because she had no choice.
Sitting on the hard bench, she clutched a cup of warmed wine in her hand, sipping at it. The tavern keeper had brought it around to her and her companions, and there was a chipped wooden pitcher on the table containing the cheap, steaming drink. There was also stale bread, left over from the previous night, and chunks of white cheese that had blue mold on it. She simply picked off the mold and ate the cheese, unsure when her next meal would be.
The day ahead was filled with uncertainty.
One of her two male companions sat at the table with her but he didn’t speak. He simply sat there, drinking his wine, looking to the door of the tavern expectantly. He was, in fact, expecting the third person in their party to come through that door at any moment, and as the room around them become more alive with coughing, farting men as they rose from a night’s sleep, the door to the tavern finally lurched open and a young warrior, clad in leather and heavy wool, came through. He headed straight for his companions, his foggy breath hanging in the cold air of the chilly tavern.
“It is as we have hoped,” he whispered loudly, claiming a seat next to the woman and nearly spilling her wine in his haste. “The ships have been sighted this morning, coming into the cove. The entire village is talking about it; le Brecque has been sighted!”
He spoke to the older man, the one who had been staring at the door in silence. When the older man heard the news, he heaved a sigh of relief.
“Finally,” he muttered. “We have been waiting for almost a week in this hellish place for the man to make an appearance. At last, he has come home.”
“I saw the ships myself!”
The older man sighed faintly, great satisfaction in that gesture. “Le Brecque will receive the lady’s missive when he goes to the castle,” he said. “He must come to the tavern to seek her after that.”
With that, both men turned to the woman, who seemed uncomfortable with their attention. In fact, she wouldn’t look at them, turning away as if cringing from their expectant gazes.
“I left the message at Perran Castle, as you instructed,” she said. “I asked le Brecque to meet me here.”
“And you mentioned why?” the older man demanded. “You told his men everything?”
The woman nodded. “I did,” she said. Then, she dared to look at them. “But it all depends on whether or not the information you gave me is correct. Your nautical commanders have paid money for information on Constantine le Brecque, so let us see if what they paid for is true, Lord Wembury. It all depends on that.”
Thomas Sherford, Lord Wembury, gazed steadily at the woman. She was, in truth, a lass of astonishing beauty with high cheekbones and big, blue eyes, but she was also a woman with a somewhat bold tongue. That wasn’t something he appreciated, not when she was such a key player in a plot that ran all the way to the halls of London and beyond.
There were very powerful men who had entrusted him with this scheme…
So much hinged on this one lone woman and Wembury didn’t like her sassy manner. It irritated him. Reaching out, he grabbed her by the wrist, squeezing hard enough so that she understood the seriousness of the situation.
“The information is correct,” he hissed. “Understand me, woman; our king has been trying for years to capture Constantine le Brecque. He has used my fleet in his efforts only to see great destruction of my vessels, and lives and money lost. But his pursuit of Constantine is not because the man controls the seas without regard to the King of England. Constantine is a pirate, pure and simple. He is a man who steals and kills. He is a murderer.”
The woman had heard all of this before and she didn’t like the fact that Wembury was hurting her wrist. “Everyone knows what he is,” she said. “Every child in this part of England has heard the rhyme – Up the hill, over the dale, along the seashore still; among the waves, the Sea-God lives, a thirst for blood and kill.”
It was a song that most children along the western shores of England and Wales had learned from their parents, warning them to stay away from the beaches for fear that the dreaded pirate le Brecque, often called the Sea-God, would rise out of the water and gobble them up. It worked, for the most part, but to the younger generation, it had given Constantine le Brecque a rather legendary status. There was something dangerous but admirable about the man.
And it was that legend Wembury intended to kill.
“He is no Sea-God,” Wembury grumbled, “and our move against him has little to do with his piracy. There is a much more serious reason – it is because Constantine is a viable threat to the one who will assume the throne of England when Henry has been removed.”
The woman had heard this, too. “I know,” she said impatiently, trying to pull her hand away from his grasp. “It is Edward, Earl of March, who seeks Constantine’s demise because of his claim to the throne. You have told me all of this.”
Wembury wouldn’t let her go. Her attitude seemed callous to the seriousness of the situation and that inflamed him.
“Listen to me, you simple girl, and listen well,” he muttered. “It is Edward who will succeed the throne, not the king’s bastard half-brother who calls himself a pirate and rules the seas as if they were his own private domain. Constantine le Brecque was born of Henry V’s loins, a liaison between him and a young noblewoman from the House of le Brecque. Although the woman was sent away to bear her child in secret, those loyal to Henry knew of his bastard son and told him. Constantine, therefore, fostered in the finest homes and was even given the title Duke of Cornwall for a time until Henry’s legitimate son was born and the title was given to him. Even so, le Brecque holds the title Earl of West Wales. Did you know that?”
The woman did; she’d heard it from her brother several times, the same man who was sitting next to Wembury and allowing the man to pull on her.
“I did know that,” she said through clenched teeth. “And let go of me. You are hurting me.”
Wembury held on to her a moment longer, giving her a hard squeeze before finally letting her go.
“You may know it, but you show little respect for your role in all of this,” he said, eyeing her with great disdain. “Le Brecque has more enemies than he can possibly comprehend. Not only has he made enemies in his piracy, but those who want his half-brother, Henry, removed from the throne also want le Brecque eliminated because his claim to the throne, to some, may be stronger than Edward’s. As the half-brother of the legitimate king, there is a faction loyal to Henry V that could put Constantine upon the throne and that must never happen.”
The woman sighed heavily as she rubbed her wrist. “This information has been repeated to me many times,” she said quietly. “It has been beaten into me, inked into my brain until I can think of nothing else. I know what I am to do and I know what I am to tell him; I am the daughter of the quartermaster who served under him, a man who died two years ago at the hands of the French pirates. Using that story, I am to bring him to Three Crosses Abbey in Wales where Edward’s men will be waiting for him. I know all of this and I will accomplish my task. You needn’t worry.”
Wembury’s gaze lingered on her a moment before sitting back in his seat as if finally satisfied she understood the seriousness of what they were about to undertake. Months, even years, of planning had all come down to this one perfect plan. Edward was to be the only successor to Henry’s throne, but that meant removing a man who was a very serious threat.
A bastard prince posing as a pirate.
“Excellent, Lady Gregoria,” Wembury finally said. Then, he looked to the woman’s brother, sitting next to him. “You have ensured she will be well-rewarded, have you not?”
Olin de Moyon nodded slowly, his gaze traveling to his stubborn, sometimes difficult younger sister. As Baron Buckland, a title he had inherited from a father who had been mentally ill for a very long time but had refused to die until only recently, he had a good deal of money and military might at his disposal and was determined to use it for the Earl of March’s claim to the throne. A politically ambitious man, he needed his sister’s help because he very much wanted to show his loyalty to Edward and he wanted to be in the man’s debt.
That was where lovely, virginal Gregoria became a pawn in her brother’s plans.
“I have promised her a home of her own and a garden,” Olin said. “That is all she wants. But she will not get it until she delivers le Brecque to Three Crosses Abbey. I have a beautiful little manse waiting for her near the sea, so the sooner she accomplishes this task, the better. She is well aware of what will happen if she does not see this through.”
Wembury looked at him with interest. “Tell me.”
Olin glanced at his sister as if to level off a threat he’d used against her on more than one occasion. “She will be exiled from my home without a penny. She will be destitute.”
Wembury smiled, a delightfully nasty gesture. “As she should be,” he said, returning his attention to Gregoria. “Do you hear? And I shall make it so that no good family will take you in. Do this task for us and be rewarded. Fail, and it shall mean your doom.”
Gregoria wasn’t thrilled with the threats, mostly because she knew these men meant them. She was fearful of being tossed out into the world without a cent to her name. She wasn’t an ambitious woman, and she’d never had any greater goals other than to live in peace with her dogs and her flowers. But the thought of being homeless and hungry genuinely frightened her. She knew she had no choice in any of this so it was best to simply see it through. For a woman with no political leanings, she didn’t see this as the destruction of a man. She simply saw it as her salvation.
“I will not fail,” she said steadily. “I will do as I have been instructed.”
Wembury cocked a bushy eyebrow. “You’d better,” he said, a hint of threat in his tone. “Now, your brother and I will retreat to another part of this room. You will sit here, alone, presumably waiting for le Brecque’s response to your message. If he does not come by nightfall, then you will go to Perran Castle and demand to see him. Is that clear?”
Gregoria nodded, tired of being bullied by the man. “It is,” she said. “You had better leave. You do not want to be seen with me.”
That was true. Even though a roomful of simpletons had seen the three together, Wembury was fairly confident that no one would talk. There was no reason that they should and, soon enough, Gregoria would be out of the tavern and well on her way to accomplishing her task.
Gathering the possessions he’d set at his feet, including an expensive broadsword, Wembury stood up.
“Remember your duty,” he muttered, collecting everything into his arms as Olin stood up next to him. “Remember your house by the sea. It shall all be yours if you succeed.”
Gregoria simply nodded, averting her gaze and hoping both men would get the hint and leave her alone. She was relieved when they wandered away, heading out of her line of sight to some other part of the common room. That was all she cared about; that they leave her alone.
Then, the anxiety came.
It had all come down to this, a terrible plot at this very moment. God, she had no idea how she found herself in this situation. She was a simple woman, after all, but she was the maiden sister of a baron who had become quite politically motivated as of late. That was her only crime, being related to a man who wanted the favor of the Earl of March, and now she was involved in his scheme.
God help her.
As the morning deepened, Gregoria sat at the table near the door, sipping on watered wine, waiting for the moment that Constantine le Brecque would come through the door so she could get on with her brother’s plans. Having grown up near Exmoor, she had heard of le Brecque and of his pirates. In fact, they’d even raided the coast near her home from time to time, although they’d never made it to Dunster Castle, where she lived. All she knew of le Brecque was the man’s reputation for pillage and plunder, so she reasoned that perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing to betray a man like that to his enemies. He was wicked, this le Brecque, a man with a dangerous reputation. Aye… perhaps she was really doing England a service in helping her brother and Lord Wembury.
At least, she kept telling herself that.
By dusk, however, Constantine le Brecque hadn’t made an appearance and Gregoria found herself taking the small road out of town, heading to the great bastion on the cliffs overlooking the ocean in her quest to meet with the great pirate who ruled these waters.
She had a task to complete and there was no time to waste, not even to wait for an errant pirate prince. She had to catch him before he sailed out to sea once again, perhaps not to return for months and months.
Therefore, she had to take the lead.
To trap a pirate.