DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters created by Marvel, or this concept created by Neil Gaiman. This story is not intended for profit.
NOTE: This is based as a sequel to the wonderful Marvel 1602 story by Neil Gaiman and Andy Kubert and does not follow Marvel's attempted continuations.
He drifted through the night air like a shade risen from the grave solely for this midnight hour. The deep violet of his silk cloth marked him as a Knight of the Garter and thus a man of considerable wealth and power. However, he wore it contemptuously as it only signified him as man unable to enter Parliament or leave his bright mark across the world….yet. But all that was of ill importance, for now was the hour of conspiring.
The ghoulish man entered a London tavern that was empty—at least of anyone that mattered. At this time only working drunks and the worthless artisan class would appear. The bar maid, a woman whose life experience had aged her beyond her years nodded and directed the man to a backroom. He removed his cloak as he entered. He cut a dashing figure in an emerald green suit, complete with corsage on the codpiece. The pretty peacock grimaced when he saw his audience consisted only of an intoxicated bug sitting slouched in total darkness, save for the lone flickering candle on the table.
"Master Gargan, I presume," the visitor said as he scratched his immaculate goatee.
"Sir Osborn, I don't believe I've had the pleasure," the drunkard responded with barely a mumble. Sir Nathaniel Osborn waited for his company to rise. When he did not, Osborn pulled an unsteady three-legged chair out and sat down across from the man. Osborn used his handkerchief to hide his sneer.
"It is not often that I meet someone with such influence over our Majesty," Gargan snorted. "Much less see him frequent a brewery of this….renown?"
"Are the preparations, complete?" Osborn asked, weary of conversing with the cretin longer than necessary.
"Aye, Sir Osborn. Thanks to your reputation and rapport with His Majesty—long may he reign—the London Company has received its charter several years earlier than what may have been. The Susan Constant, the Godspeed and the Discovery with a 144 souls aboard will set sail for the New World in but a fortnight."
"And what of the other ship? The Hessian?"
"Bah, German mercenaries hired to destroy a renegade colony alone in the wilderness. I still do not understand why that was one of James's requirements for the voyage's undertaking. We are in a business seeking to create a colony that gathers revenue and prestige for His…"
"It was my idea, Master Gargan." Osborn put his face directly above the candle in the table's center, giving off a twisted, otherworldly glow to his smile. "Call me a man ahead of his time."
"I'll call you a naïve, as we speak in privacy. Favor and total destruction go hand-in-hand around the monarchy. The Scottish king makes the Tudors look quaint when he has poor Sir Walter in the Tower for supposed treason. He'll likely die there or under the executioner's blade. What are the fortunes for a little goblin like yourself to not meet such a fate?"
"Perhaps," Osborn said with an ominous grin, "I'll meet Raleigh's fate." Osborn took the grog from Gargan's hand and consumed what was left in a slow, steady gulp. "But fortune favors the bold. Is it not bold to save the world from a colony inhabited by Witchbreed? A colony self-governed by monsters as an act of defiance to His Majesty? Like those Ancient Greeks whom Carlos Javier emulates, they will soon be lost. A lost colony and a lesson to history about rebelling against a crown."
The two men sat in silence for a moment as shadows created by the candle danced around the walls.
"So, will Herr Schmidt's ship be ready?" Osborn again pressed.
"Aye, the damned Ottomans will be crewed."
"Don't be so hard on them, Master Gargan. England has much to contend with as France and Spain all but consummate their marriage in the papal bed. These good, true Christian soldiers King James has retained, at little cost, will bring order to the New World."
"To order," mumbled Gargan as he looked for any remaining sips of whiskey in his bowl. Osborn rose from the table, satisfied with the night's excursion.
"One last thing Master Gargan….Don't get in Schmidt's way. He is going to kill them all."