Chapter 8 Port Quinby
Port Quinby
From the high ridges of the cliffs, a troop of men looked at the Sea Hawk as she glided smoothly into harbor at Port Quinby. Three quarters of her massive sails were furled, yet she still appeared majestic as she skimmed the light waves before her shirtless crew brought her to dock.
Matthews, clad as always in black, stood with a booted foot cast arrogantly on a high rock, his elbow resting upon his knee as he watched the scene. That the Sea Hawk had now docked made the misery he had endured to reach this squalid port town well worth the effort.
He had barely slept as he pushed himself and the troops, given him by the crown, to the limit of human endurance.
He had been certain that the storms at sea would force Treveryan to seek harbor.
He had traveled over fifty miles most days, and Matthews had remained certain all the while that God was guiding him.
Never had he pursued a witch with such a vengeance, but never before had he met quite so frightening a witch.
The girl had power; she had haunted him, she had come night after night to torment him in his dreams.
Oh, bless God, who was about to deliver the enemies of heaven to his feet!
At last Matthews turned to Lord Darton, commander of the troops. His eyes held a fevered gleam that made even Darton uncomfortable.
“You see, Darton, that devil traitor does seek harbor, as I prophesied.”
Darton shrugged. “Luck has been with you, Matthews.”
“Luck? No, never luck!” Matthews exclaimed fanatically.
“It was the Lord who sent him to my snare! The Lord, Who will suffer not his witch to live, nor allow that messenger of Satan himself to draw breath upon the morrow!” He had not known that he would catch Lord Treveryan in southern England, but he had prayed fervently each and every evening that he might do so.
Darton appeared startled. He was a military man, accustomed to battle, and to the law.
He knew that village hags who dealt with potions and the like were sometimes executed for witchcraft, but to accuse a man such as Treveryan?
It seemed most implausible. “You cannot mean to burn Treveryan, sir! I do not doubt that witchcraft exists, but I cannot believe that Lord Treveryan consorts with the devil!”
Matthews looked at Darton long and hard, then sighed. “They hang witches, here, sir, and I do, indeed, intend to see the man hanged. Be not fooled, my Lord Darton, by the appearance of the man! He has been bewitched, and has fallen to the devil himself.”
“I have known Treveryan,” Darton said stiffly. “He is a powerful man with a will of steel—and the courage and strength to pursue his will.”
“Strong men are ever better tools for their master, the devil. Satan is clever and cunning. You must understand, Lord Darton. Satan has imbued his servant with the power to seduce even such men as yourself. I tried to save Treveryan, but the Scottish witch delivered him into the arms of the devil. And see! See how he comes to me now. God has given me the power to seek His vengeance. It is His will that I cast those sinners this day into their rightful place in hell!”
Matthews waited for Darton’s response.
“I will not see Treveryan led to a noose without a fair trial—if,” he reflected, “we are able to bring him to trial.” He glanced sternly at Matthews. “I do assume you intend fair trials for Treveryan—and the girl?”
“I will prove her a witch! Do not be seduced by the beauty of her face; she is the devil’s own mistress,” Matthews vowed earnestly.
For she was a witch. He saw her day and night when he dared to close his eyes.
She had cast a spell on him and he knew his only release would be through her death.
He turned abruptly and sought his horse.
“Come. We will pay our visit to the lord mayor of Port Quinby and set our trap for Captain Treveryan.”
Darton followed suit, but not at all happily. Treveryan was a better man to call friend than enemy. The man did not need the help of any devil to be a formidable foe.
Within fifteen minutes Matthews stood at the doorway to the lord mayor’s attractive brick residence. The serving girl who answered his pounding greeted him nervously, informing him that the lord mayor was at breakfast.
Matthews pushed his way through the door and stalked through the house until he found the portly lord mayor, a jovial man, about to savor his second serving of kidneys.
“What is this interruption?” he demanded in a fluster, and not without a certain nervousness, as Matthews in his raven-black and ten of the soldiers filed into his sunny breakfast room.
“King’s business!” Matthews bellowed, tossing a document before the man’s nose.
“The sea devil and Welsh traitor finds port here today. It is known, Lord Mayor, that you have a fondness for the man. He will come here today, and if you value your own health, my friend, you will be ready to welcome him—as my men will be.”
The lord mayor nodded slowly and set down his knife and fork as ten swords were drawn and angled toward his neck.
Matthews did not notice that the lord mayor gazed beyond him—to the girl who had opened the door.
The lord mayor’s nod to her was imperceptible to the others. She slipped out of the house just moments before Matthews’s boots rang clearly upon the cold stone behind her.
“Darton—I leave you in charge. See that Treveryan wears chains as soon as he enters. Remember that he is the spawn of Satan—and a dangerous man.”
“Aye, I’ll remember,” Darton replied broodingly.
He was well aware that Treveryan was a devil—with a cutlass at least—and he feared for the lives of his men.
He was not happy about arresting one of his peers, especially when it seemed that Matthews was sure of conviction before the trial.
How Darton despised this duty to which he had been assigned!
He sighed. How he despised Matthews. The gleam in the man’s eyes—it was almost as if he were not quite right in the head.
And yet few men were qualified to deal with matters such as witchcraft, and Matthews had been given his commission by the king.
Matthews was leaving. He called a division of twenty men to follow. “Where are you going?” Darton demanded, irritated that he had been set to such a task by a fanatic not willing to be a part of the bloodletting sure to follow.
Matthews halted in the entryway and faced Darton with red-rimmed eyes that seemed to gleam with greater fever. “To seek the girl,” he said with a smile that was so chilling that Lord Darton felt fear ripple along his spine.
He would be glad when this day was over.
When they had docked, Sloan left Paddy with only a skeleton crew aboard ship. Port Quinby was a friendly town. Trade with the Continent and sailing men of many nations had given her a worldliness lacking in many a larger city. Her streets were full of markets, taverns, and brothels.
His men, Sloan decided wryly, were well in need of an afternoon in the company of women. Some good strong ale would be in order, and a little revelry to ease the tempers that were too quickly rising.
Those left behind were to have liberty as soon as their tasks were completed.
Sloan expected no trouble in Port Quinby, but he had ordered the men to choose between two neighboring taverns for their sport.
He had learned in his travels it was always wisest to band near—and to keep one’s cutlass always at one’s side.
George followed him about with an expense ledger as Sloan first paid a visit to a number of merchants, ordering shipments of fowl and dried beef, vegetables, and several crates of provisions.
At last all purchases were complete, their delivery in progress.
Sloan glanced up at the sky. It was cloudless.
The beauty of it somewhat eased the darkness of his soul.
“What now, Cap’n?” George queried. If he had felt any rancor toward Sloan for his night in the brig, he gave no sign.
Sloan shrugged. “Enjoy yourself, George. The Wild Boar Tavern offers good stiff drink—and round, cheerful maids!”
George shuffled his feet. “And what of you, Cap’n?”
“I should see the lord mayor—”
“And if I may suggest, Captain Treveryan,” George interrupted a little nervously, “you should drink a pint with the men.” George blushed as Sloan stared at him, startled by this familiarity.
“It’s been rough sailing, lately, Cap’n,” George continued, trying not to stutter.
“I just meant to suggest—I mean, you’ve a loyal crew, Cap’n, but they enjoy the sight of you, the feeling that you are one of us. ”
Sloan burst out laughing and clapped George affectionately upon the shoulder. “George, my boy, if you ever get over that stuttering, you’re going to make one hell of a sailor! Come along, and we’ll definitely down a pint or two!”
Or three or four, Sloan added silently to himself.
He would love to get roaring drunk. Maybe he could clear his head that way and convince himself that there was nothing special about the lass who had so captivated his heart.
She was a woman like any other; arms, legs, breasts, hips. In the darkness it was all the same.
But it wasn’t. No other woman had eyes so beautifully blue; no other had skin as soft as Oriental silk. Limbs so wickedly long to move against him, breasts so full yet so firm to tease his fingers and chest. A voice that touched his soul with a whisper.
He scowled as he walked beside George, thinking that bedding wenches was a seaman’s sport—each offered the same, and each offered something new.
Joan had been his mistress, yet he had never owed her loyalty, and every port offered a comely lass willing to ease a captain’s needs. Brianna … she was just a woman.