PRICE OF RESURRECTION

Chapter 1 – The Crown's Displeasure/2

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Turner blinked, mouth dropping open in silent protest. "This is what you would ask of me?"

"In part," Bentley returned quietly, but his panicky friend's objection drowned the words.

"I know little of the lass, but that she's betrothed to an honest youth of simple means." How could he admit to Bentley that he had abandoned his own wife and child in England? "Would that I knew how, yet I cannot in all conscience—" He broke off, realizing that the big Irishman's gaze had not shifted from the table full of charts.

"Bentley?"

"Yes, simple means," he echoed, distracted. "I'm afraid, my friend, there is no longer hope of a wedding between my sister and this boy of no discernible promise," he determined in solemn finality. He released Turner to bend and push aside half-rolled charts as if seeking something he had long misplaced. "Our poor Jeannine's loss has made certain of that."

"Wait! Your other sister - she's died?" Turner hadn't expected to hear that sad news.

Bentley stopped moving, bowing his head. "I pray God forgive Mother's ambitions," he said with quiet regret. "Jeannine wanted to please her, but she was… frailer in carriage than Angelia, and not fit, so it would sadly seem, to birth… a child."

"I'm so sorry, Bentley."

The Irishman nodded in gratitude, allowing his silent grief to pass. "Cutler, I must warn you, will not only forbid a union with the rootless son of a common merchant seaman, he will assuredly condemn and sabotage it once he becomes privy to it."

"Have you told this to Lady Angelia?"

"She will know," he said evasively, and then suddenly brightened. "Ah, yes! It's here!" The Irishman had uncovered a small canvas bag tightly tied in rawhide cord. He lifted it reverently and let its slight bulk drop box-shaped to the bottom in a muted clink of metal. "Mother, you see, will have taught her wretched creation the convenient value of a prosperous marriage - with or without an heir - and he'll be promising his own sister to half the King's deviant court."

"That cannot be!" William eyed the canvas bag with trepidation. "Bentley, you have already blessed that union! Your sworn word is as binding as law to this company!!"

Bentley sighed. "Without my father's protection, I fear I must answer formal charges. William, I have no one that I can trust with the care of my sister – or this."

"What is that?" Turner took a cautious step backward from the canvas sack, eyes widening warily. "Bentley, that's not your sister's dowry, is it?"

"Please, you must take it." Bentley Beckett smiled without mirth, holding the bag out. The box shape inside, Turner noted, was no bigger than a man's fist and didn't appear to move on its own or make threatening noises. Well, not so far.

"Why me?"

Beckett narrowed his eyes slightly in impatience, forearm outstretched. "I've always deemed you an honest man, William; a man to trust with a secret – as is this. Please take it far from here and hide it away safely as it can never be claimed by the Crown."

"Hi-hide it?" Turner stumbled. "From what, er, who?"

Bentley groaned. "From Cutler, of course. I truly wish I had time to explain. I can only say that that those whom long ago entrusted my father with it wished it to be gone and long forgotten. My father and I both failed to honor that promise. Suffice it to say that should I not return from England, my brother must never know of it or he would hound you to the very ends of the earth to retrieve it!"

"Hound… me?" Turner managed through the tightness in his throat, struggling with a sense of horror and frustrated curiosity. "No, wait! If you don't… return?" He felt his right arm lifting, but couldn't make it reach out for the mysterious bag. Even hearing the loud stomp of boots and rustling whisper of drawing weapons, he still hesitated. "Bentley, you can't ask this of me!"

"Lord Beckett, it's time, sir!" Norrington declared behind the half-open door. "Your escort awaits!"

A fleeting look of desperate uncertainty crossed the Irishman's face. He grabbed Turner's hand and shook it fiercely in sorrowful farewell. "Heed this, William, the lady awaits you at Tassley Road, the Brim and Crock," he said, barely audible, stuffing the bag inside his friend's open coat before he could move or protest. "At dusk today. Please take care of her, my good friend and yourself, as well. And I beg of you, speak of this conversation to none. Goodbye."

"Goodbye…Bentley," Turner murmured, fingers unconsciously pressing the small bag into his ribcage when an armed red-coated marine appeared at the entry. He could only watch, numbed, unable to follow as his old friend and former ship's captain walked with a stiff gait out through the polished wood doors of his stripped office for the last time. "Right. Dusk today. The Brim and Crock Inn… on Tassley Road."

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TBC