Clive Cussler: Pirate

“Not if I have aught to say about it.”

William drove the sword home, twisting to make sure the final thrust brought death. He left the body where it was, then eyed Fitz Hubert. “Are you hurt?”

“A cracked rib, I fear.”

“You heard?”

“Aye.”

They managed to recover only one horse, William’s, and they decided because of Fitz Hubert’s injury, William would ride to warn the king. When he reached the encampment in Bishop’s Lynn, he saw it on the faces of the others. John de Lacy met him outside the king’s tent, refusing him entry. “The king is ill. Dysentery. He wishes to see no one.”

“He will see me. Make way or forfeit your life.”

“What—”

William pushed past him and entered the tent, his nostrils flaring at the putrid air. The king’s physician and two stewards were in attendance. Candles flickered in their stands around the king’s pallet, casting a dim glow about the still form. Too still. William feared the king might be dead by now. But as he neared, he saw his chest rise and fall with each shallow breath. “My liege.” William took to his knee at the king’s bedside, bowing his head. “I have failed you.”

The king’s eyes opened slightly. A sheen of perspiration covered his brow. “How so?”

“What I have to say is best told in private.”

King John said nothing at first, just stared at William. Then, a slight flick of his wrist. “Be gone. All.”

William waited until the tent was cleared. And, even then, he was loath to impart the news. “I failed to recognize a traitor in your midst. Perhaps not the only one. Robert de Braose. He told me you were dying. Before he possibly could have heard.”

“Dysentery.”

“I fear not.”

The king closed his eyes, and for a moment William worried that he would not waken. “Who would do this?”

“That, I do not know. But whoever has worked this evil, they know of the royal treasure you bring with you. It is meant to finance Prince Louis’s claim on the English throne. They know you are moving it. Your illness was to be the distraction needed so that on the morrow they could take it.”

“My son…” The king reached out, grasped at William’s hand, his grip weak, feverish. “What of Henry?”

“He is safe. I will guard him with my life.” The king’s oldest son, a mere lad of nine, was innocent of the dishonesty and treachery of the last several kings — his father and all his relatives included. If there was to be any hope for England, it would be through a monarch who was untouched by greed and murder. “I fear that the temptation of such a treasure will be too much for the young prince’s reign.”

“He will need all of my treasure to finance his retribution. To win back our lands.”

“My liege. If I may be frank. As long as that treasure exists, there will be those who want nothing more than to possess it. Louis of France is only the first of many. And lest you forget, the rebel barons you have fought against these past several months cannot be trusted. Not while the lure of gold and riches tempts them.” He waited a moment to make sure his words were heard and understood. “A poor kingdom is far less desirable. Even more important, a young king barely old enough to rule a poor kingdom is no longer a threat…”

“What are you saying?”

“What if that treasure was lost this night while we were trying to move it through the quicksand of the fens? If you lose the treasure, you lose your son’s enemies.”

The king remained silent, his breathing shallow.

“You are dying, sire.” Though he didn’t want to believe, he knew the words were true. This was no dysentery. He’d seen it before. A slow poison that ate away at the gut. The king would last perhaps a week or more, his pain excruciating while he waited — nay, prayed for death. “This way, we know young Henry will be safe.”

“And if my son should need the treasure? When he is older?”

“He won’t. As long as it remains lost, he will be safe.”

It was several long seconds before the king answered. “See that it is done.”

Sam and Remi Fargo weaved their way around the tourists crowding the sidewalk. Once they were through the green pagoda-style gateway of Chinatown, the throng much thinner, Remi checked the map on her cell phone. “I have a feeling we took a wrong turn somewhere.”

“To that restaurant,” Sam replied, removing his revered panama hat. “A tourist trap, if I ever saw one.”

She glanced at her husband, watching as he ran his fingers through his sun-streaked brown hair. He stood over a head taller than Remi, with broad shoulders and an athletic build. “I didn’t hear you complaining when they brought out the moo shu pork.”

“Where did we go wrong?”

“Ordering the Mongolian beef. Definitely a mistake.”

“On the map, Remi.”

She zoomed in, reading the streets. “Perhaps the shortcut through Chinatown wasn’t so short.”

“Maybe if you’d at least tell me where we’re going, I could help?”

“It’s the only part of this trip,” Remi said, “that’s my surprise for you. You haven’t even shared what you have planned.”

“For a reason.” Sam put on his hat, and Remi linked her arm through his while they walked. He’d arranged this trip because their last adventure to the Solomon Islands had not been the hoped-for quiet vacation they’d planned. “I promise you nothing but rest, relaxation, and a week of no one trying to kill us.”

“A whole week of downtime,” she said, sidling closer to him as a cloud drifted over the sun, taking with it all the warmth of the early-September afternoon. “Have we had anything like that in a while?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“There it is,” she said, spying the bookstore. The flaking gold-leafed lettering in the window read Pickering’s Used & Rare Books . “Just to show how very much I appreciate you traipsing all this way with me, I won’t make you come in.” Remi was being facetious. Sam’s late father, a NASA engineer, had collected rare books, and Sam, also an engineer, had inherited that same passion.

He eyed the bookstore, then his wife. “What sort of husband would I be if something happened to you in there?”

“Dangerous things, books.”

“Look what they did to your brain.”

The pair crossed the street to the bookstore. A Siamese cat, resting on a stack of volumes in the window, looked up in disdain when a bell tinkled as Sam opened the door for Remi. The place smelled of musk and old paper, and Remi scanned the shelves, at first seeing nothing but used hardcovers and current paperbacks. She hid her disappointment from Sam, hoping they hadn’t made the trip for nothing.

A gray-haired man, wearing gold spectacles, wandered in from the back, wiping his hands on a dusty cloth. He saw them and smiled. “May I help you find something?”

Sam’s phone rang. He took it from his pocket, telling Remi, “I’ll take it outside.”

“Perfect, since this was meant to be a surprise.”

He stepped out, and Remi waited until the door closed firmly behind him before turning to the proprietor. “Mr. Pickering?”

He nodded.

“I was told you had a copy of The History of Pyrates and Privateers .”

His smile faltered for the barest of instances. “Of course. Right over here.”

Pickering led her to a shelf where several identical volumes of Pyrates and Privateers sat. And while they were clearly reproductions, their faux gold-tooled leather binding gave them the appearance of something that might be found in a library centuries before.