Amanda McCabe - High Seas Stowaway

Aye, terrible for him to die before she could get answers—or kill him herself! “Beautiful or not, Delores, we don’t have time to be mooning over him,” Bianca said, suddenly deeply impatient with Balthazar, Delores, the world and especially herself. “We have too much work to do.”

Delores nodded, turning away from the now-blazing fire to start peeling and chopping cassava. Despite the fact that she did rather like to giggle over handsome sailors, Bianca had to admit Delores was a good worker who actually seemed to enjoy the workings of a tavern.

“Especially with all the people seeking refuge from the storm in town. I heard there was even a Spanish contessa at the fortress! But I think we need more meat, señora, if we’re to feed everyone,” Delores said. “I used the last in the stew.”

“I will go to market myself this morning, then,” Bianca answered. She suddenly felt a deep urge to run away. And if she could not go to the jungle, to the tangled interior of the island, she could at least go to the market on the plaza. The warm morning breeze would help clear her confused mind, and she would be away from Balthazar. “You keep an eye on our wounded customer.”

Delores brightened. “Oh, yes, señora! ”

“Not too close an eye,” Bianca warned. She left Delores to her tasks, carrying the tray of water and bandages upstairs with her. She lingered outside the door, listening closely for any signs of movement. After what had happened last night, she wasn’t at all sure she could trust herself with Balthazar, even in the clear light of day.

Bianca scowled at the memory of the humid darkness, the feel of his sea-roughened hand on her naked skin. It seemed the armour she had built so carefully around herself, link by impenetrable link, over the long years was more vulnerable than she thought. But she couldn’t allow that to be. She couldn’t be vulnerable.

All appeared silent behind the door, the heavy quiet of early morning. She slipped into the room, finding Balthazar sound asleep in her bed. It had not been a quiet sleep; the bedclothes were tossed and tangled, his arms thrown wide as if he fought a battle in his dreams.

She remembered his shouts and murmurs in the night, the monsters in his nightmares. She set the tray down on the table and tiptoed to the bed, gazing down at him in search of any sign of dangerous fever. A fierce frown creased his brow, but he seemed to sleep deeply. The wound had seeped through the bandage, a reddish-brown colour untainted by yellow infection.

She carefully smoothed the tangled hair back from his sun-browned face, watching the glint of light on the small gold hoop in his ear. She remembered the pearls and diamonds he had worn in Venice, the riches that set off his fine looks to such perfection.

Bianca glanced at the clothes tossed over her chair, the leather jerkin, the torn shirt and scuffed high boots. The fine silks, too, had been cast away with the jewels.

“What have you been doing all these years, Balthazar Grattiano?” she whispered. “And what in St Iago’s name are you doing here ?”

He groaned in his sleep, rolling away from her on to his side. Bianca drew the sheet up around him, careful not to wake him. Much as she wanted, needed, answers to her questions, she couldn’t face him again quite yet. Not until she had repaired that chink in her heart’s armour.

She quickly washed her face and brushed out her hair, confining the unruly curls in a knitted caul. She dressed in a plain brown bodice and skirt of light wool, and a pair of sturdy boots. She was certainly no fine lady of Venice, she thought as she studied herself in the looking glass, tying on a wide-brimmed straw hat. Balthazar would surely never have kissed her if he saw her now, as she truly was! But she would do for the market.

And when she returned, hopefully she could also know what to do about that man sleeping in her bed.

Bianca hurried out of the tavern, her basket over her arm, and turned towards the town’s central plaza. The street of her establishment, and indeed most of the streets of Santa Domingo, were narrow, closely packed with houses and shops, but they were cobbled like those of any European city. In the morning light, the yellow stones and red brick of the buildings gleamed, and the air was cool and clear with the tang of salt. Only later, when the sun rose overhead, would the thick heat set in and the shutters of the houses be drawn closed.

She descended the sloping streets, answering the greetings of her neighbours as they opened their shops for business. Later she would have to stop at the bakery, and look in at the office of her sugar supplier, who brought in goods from the inner-island plantations. But for now she was intent on her errand. The cathedral bells had rung out long ago, and soon the plaza would be crowded and the best meat and vegetables gone.

At last she emerged from the maze of streets into the open, central part of town. Santo Domingo was built atop a hill, to give a natural defensive position against any who would try to attack. The governor’s fortress, the storehouse of treasure and seat of the cabildo, sat at the highest point, locked behind thick walls and guarded walkways. There was no sign of any Spanish contessa there this morning, though, as Delores claimed. As Bianca gained the ramparts, she could see the ragged, green-black mountains that hid the island’s jungle interior, which she had never visited. A soft breeze swept down from the lush mountains, carrying her on her way.

She hurried past the gallows, blessedly empty of swinging bodies today, and found herself gazing down at the harbour. The mouth of the Rio Ozama formed a natural port, with anchorage for dozens of ships. Usually, unless the flota was in on its way to Spain, there were not so many vessels as that. But the storm had driven many to seek shelter. The sapphire-blue waters were crowded with a forest of masts, the ships’ decks crawling with the rush of activity. From her place on the ramparts, Bianca could hear an indistinct chorus of shouts and sea ditties.

She paused to stare down at the crowd of vessels, wondering which one was the famous Calypso. They had said the mainmast was damaged, but many of the ships were undergoing such repairs. Surely such a one would stand out, like the flagship of a mighty fleet. It would bear the mark of magic.

Yet she saw no such thing, only the usual caravels and carracks, tiny pinnaces, weary after the storm. As she watched men climbing the riggings, swabbing down the decks, she remembered her voyages with Juan Montero. The endless creaks of a vessel at sea, the wide open vistas of the shimmering water. It had not been an easy life, but the freedom of it all, the vast mystery—oh, it had been glorious!

“Señora Montero?” she heard someone say, the words jolting her from her daydream of the high seas. She turned to see Mendoza, Balthazar’s quartermaster, hurrying towards her.

“Ah—Señor Mendoza, yes?” she said.

“Yes, indeed. I was just on my way to your tavern. How fares the captain?”

“Well enough. He was sleeping when I left, and has no sign of fever. My maidservant is watching over him.”

A smile actually broke across Mendoza’s glum, rough countenance, glowing through his thick beard. “That is excellent news, señora! The men will be relieved to hear it. They have been praying for the captain through the night.”

“Have they?” Bianca said. “No doubt they fear to lose their wages and their posts, if the captain were to die.”

Mendoza looked startled. “Not at all, señora. The men will be paid no matter what, and there is always a berth for an honest sailor in the Velazquez fleet. But there’s no other captain we’d be as proud to serve under as Balthazar Grattiano.”