25. The Death of a Pirate
THE DEATH OF A PIRATE
Copson’s crew had already descended on Robin’s ramshackle house.
Pirates swarmed the place, pocketing everything of value, of which there seemed to be little. As Cecily trailed behind Jack through the small home, she was reminded of what Frederick had said—if this man had such a treasure as rumor suggested, why would he live in a place like this?
A thick layer of dust coated every surface, and dirt was scattered over the creaking floorboards. There wasn’t much furniture to boast of, and what was there was broken and sagging.
The rooms smelled like old age and death.
They didn’t find the captain until they reached a bedroom at the back of the house, where Copson stood by a window with his arms folded tightly over his chest.
Cecily lingered by the door while Jack strode in. Until he found appropriate time to tell his father about their marriage, she would stay out of the captain’s way as much as she could.
A wet, rattling cough came from the corner of the room. An old man laid prone in a bed covered by thin blankets, his skin sallow and beard tangled. His eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.
Captain Robin, who’d allegedly stolen so much loot as to earn the hatred of two generations of Copsons, didn’t look so very evil as he lay dying with no one to care for him.
Her heart twinged at the sight.
“Nothing?” Jack said to Copson.
“Nothing,” the captain said, watching the old man.
“Threats?” Jack asked.
“Tried,” replied his father.
“Promises,” he suggested instead.
The captain shook his head. “Bastard.”
Robin coughed and sucked in a ragged breath. He’d opened his eyes and now glared at Copson. “You’re the devil—I’ll give yeh nothin’!”
Copson’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll wish I was the devil once you meet him,” he said, his accent so clean that the threat sounded like music against Robin’s rough words.
A hacking laugh. The old man’s eyes roved, then pinned on Cecily at the door. Copson followed his gaze.
The glare Copson leveled at her was cold enough to rival his son’s, but she faced him like a particularly brave mouse cornered by a cat, as though to say, I know you can kill me, but I’ll bite back if I must.
Her knives were hidden to keep from drawing his attention to anything worthy of his spite, but they bolstered her courage to look him in the eye.
Across the room, Robin’s dry lips twisted into a grin as he noted the way Copson looked at her. He lifted his shaking hand to point a gnarled finger. “Y-you,” he said to Cecily. “I’ll sp-speak to you.”
Copson began to speak, to command her, but Robin’s voice grew stronger.
“Alone,” the old man barked.
“No,” Copson ground out.
Robin smiled, revealing worn yellow teeth. “You’re a fool,” he croaked, and he rolled his head back and forth. “Fool. Fool. Fool. You’ll never know a damn thing.”
“Let her,” Jack said to his father, ever the stoic first mate. “She’ll tell you what he says.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “Will you?”
Cecily cringed under the attention, at the responsibility suddenly thrust upon her in a conflict that had nothing to do with her.
But with three pairs of eyes on her, each from a man who was powerful in his own right, she wondered if speaking with Robin might give her some kind of power.
More than she already had as the Copson heir’s wife.
Heart in her throat, she nodded.
Copson pursed his lips, on the verge of objecting. Then the old man coughed again, and this time it sounded worse.
“Fine,” the captain finally spat. He pushed past Cecily, retreating into the hall.
Jack followed a step behind, his hand grazing hers as he passed. “I won’t be far,” he whispered.
As soon as the door shut behind them, Cecily took a deep breath. The air was thick with impending death as Robin stared at her, his grating breaths loud enough to reach her.
Her father had sounded like that before he passed, and her insides twisted with vivid memories of sitting at his bedside, holding his hand, and praying and praying and praying he’d live.
She didn’t want to be anywhere near those memories or that death again. But regardless of how evil Robin might be, she didn’t think anyone should die alone, surrounded by people with hateful intentions.
And because she didn’t know him, perhaps she could find it in herself to provide a mercy by virtue of being unable to fairly judge him.
Steeling herself, she pulled a chair to his bedside and settled into it.
“You look nervous, lass,” Robin wheezed. “Is that for Copson or because you look upon a dying man?”
“I don’t fear death, sir.” She kept her voice low so as to not disturb whatever grim angel waited to take this man’s life.
“It be Copson, then,” Robin said.
“I don’t fear him either, though he certainly doesn’t like me.”
His chuckle was so hoarse that, at first, she mistook it for a gag. “If he doesn’t like you, it means you’re likely right.”
He coughed harder, and she grabbed his hand without thinking. It wasn’t like how her father had died, but it sounded close enough that her pulse quickened as familiar dread began to rise. Though logic knew the difference, her heart couldn’t discern so well.
Robin went on bitterly, “Copsons get drunk on revenge—they think of nothing else. So I’ll do him this last disservice and tell you what he wants to know.” His eyes were clear as he met her gaze. “But you mustn’t be foolish with it. You mustn’t give him everything he wants.”
What a cunning suggestion, and exactly what she’d hoped for. She leaned forward. “I swear not to squander it. Tell me whatever you wish, then be at peace.”
Robin’s head rolled again. “The map,” he said. “I will tell you…about the map.” He shut his eyes, and for a moment she worried he’d already died. But then he dragged in a breath and spoke, his voice even more haggard as though Death held his other hand. “The map is in a vase…bound for the king.”
“A vase bound for the king,” she repeated. “Of England? Right now?”
He nodded, then closed his eyes and tucked his chin into his chest. “It is a gift to ruin Copson…should the king know what to do with it.”
There wasn’t much time left. Cecily leaned even closer. “Will Copson know what that means? If I ever tell him?”
“If you ever tell him,” he said with a heavy sigh she supposed was meant to be a laugh. His voice faded, and his eyes didn’t open. “He’ll know.”
She smoothed her hand over his rough skin. “Alright then,” she whispered with a firm nod. She didn’t want to go yet, or to let Copson back in, so she wracked her brain for any way she might ramble without disturbing his peace. “Alright.”
His dry lips parted. “Don’t tell him easily. Make him wait. Make him…beg. We’re all…selfish bastards. I might’ve spent that treasure, but I hid it…‘cause Copson’s a…real devil and would no doubt curse me…for usin’ any of it.” He swallowed. “I’d not risk it.”
And she needn’t have worried about finding ways to stay with Robin as he swallowed hard and asked, “Will yeh…stay? Till the end?”
“Of course,” Cecily answered. “For as long as it takes.”
He gave a shallow nod. “Don’t let ‘im back in…till I’m dead.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
“Thank ya, lass…for sparing my last moments from the presence of a monster.”
And so she sat with him for several minutes, listening to the death rattle of his final moments. She didn’t speak—only held his hand until eventually, Robin sighed, and his chest did not rise again.
Jack was standing on the opposite side of the door when Cecily opened it a few minutes later, so close that he startled when she appeared.
She had waited to come out, feeling it was more respectful to give Robin’s body a few moments of peace before letting Copson back in.
Surely enough, the captain immediately appeared beside Jack, his face twisted with irritation, no doubt at her for some slight he perceived as greater than it was.
“He’s dead,” she said before Copson could brush past her into the room. In the house beyond, she could hear the other pirates milling about, but it was only the three of them in this hushed, secluded hallway.
“What did he tell you?” he demanded.
“He told me of a map.”
Copson’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “What of it?”
“That it exists.”
His expression darkened. “If you think you’re being funny by not telling me, I’ll flog you. This treasure is worth more than your entire damned life, and that man,” he pointed at the room behind her, “broke his word and stole it, leaving my family—”
“I’m not being funny,” Cecily replied evenly, though her insides withered at the threat. “And you won’t touch me.”
Copson loomed over her, his eyes bright with maniacal anger. “You think I won’t take a cat-o-nine to your back? I saved your life, you mutinous—”
“Mind how you speak to my wife,” Jack said, his low tone and predatory stillness like the threat of an approaching storm. Cecily went cold at his admission.
Copson’s eyes squeezed, and his face slowly began to redden as he turned to glare at his son. “Your what?”
Cecily looked at Jack too. It wasn’t the time—he’d said it wasn’t the appropriate time to tell his father, and yet…
The quiet violence in Jack’s expression suggested otherwise. “You won’t lay a hand on her,” was all he said, his voice still low but his words and eyes hard as iron. The implication was clear—any threat against her was a threat against him too.
And though it was surely sooner than he’d intended, Jack did nothing without reason. While she charged ahead into whatever whims felt right, he always had purpose, and perhaps this was the only way he could get his father to leave Cecily be.
Copson intended to flog her, and he needed to know that absolutely wouldn’t be happening.
“You’re a fool,” Copson spat. “But if this is the mistake you wish to make, so be it. If she is your precious wife and you two are so very close, then get her to tell me what she knows.”
Jack huffed a laugh, though his humor was edged. “I don’t make her do anything. I’ve made my peace with her. If you want the same, achieve it yourself.”