Disclaimer: I own no part of the Pirates of the Caribbean. Original characters and plots are owned by me.
A/N: This story is part of the King's Messenger series, and is the sequel to POTC: Barbossa and the King's Messenger and How Many Miles to Babylon?
Naught But a Humble Friar
The roiling mob swept me along, pulling me sideways and scraping my back across the rough wall behind me. Unable to free my arms, I blinked helplessly through the sweat that ran down my face and stung my eyes. My only thought was survival. Any attempt to turn forward in that swaying mass would risk a fatal stumble, and a hundred rough boots and knees would make short work of me.
Balance was impossible. With each lurch forward, the press of people jostled me closer to the floor. I could see how this would end, and fear was followed by a sense of inevitability. My fatigue had a voice, and it was urging me to let go, to just give in. I couldn't keep fighting. It was too much. I was no King's Messenger. Hector was right – I was only a daft baggage.
His old insult, long forgiven, suddenly jolted my pride and anger. I would never bow to that scornful judgement – I would prove him wrong if it took my last breath! Neither the Bitters nor the Teagues had ever produced a daughter who was a daft baggage, and I was damned if I would be the first.
Thrashing and kicking, I managed to stay upright. Close by, a nasty stairwell made a dark hole in the granite, and the surging flow of rioters was dragging me in that direction. I kept close to the wall, gritting my teeth and wrenching anonymous hands out of my hair. The granite wall rubbed across places where my skin was already raw.
As I came abreast of the stairs, the pressure of the swelling crowd popped me into the stairwell like a cork from a champagne bottle. Gasping, I tripped and sat down hard on the lower steps.
The stairs were nearly empty. Everyone seemed to be on the ground floor, caught up in the mob. For a moment I remained where I was, elbows propped upon a higher step, until a small stampede of perhaps forty well-shod, stockinged legs rushed down the steps and nearly ran over me as they joined the people below.
I jumped to my feet and sprinted up to the next floor.
At the top of the stairs, I stopped and held my breath, listening. I drew my scimitar and held it with both hands as I stepped carefully through the dark wards. But they were evidently not in use, and most cells were locked. At the end of one passage, light spilled through an open door. I came up to it stealthily, trying to stay in the shadows. There was silence. I leaned through the door; the cell was deserted.
Still in the passage, I again felt the peculiar crunch underfoot and glanced down. My stomach heaved. In the light from the cell, I could see what I had been walking on all this time.
"Crawlers!" The passage was alive with them. I jumped onto the relatively cleaner floor in the cell, stamping my boots to shake off the lice, shuddering with disgust.
Before surveying the cell, I forced myself to take a few calming breaths.
It was undoubtedly a rich man's cell, reserved for a Lord or merchant who could pay the gaolers for amenities such as fine furniture and windows to let in fresher air. A table was laid for ten or twelve guests, but the chairs had been toppled and victuals discarded, likely by the men who had rushed down the steps.
I discerned a change in the noise of the mob outside; the rioting horde must be moving towards the main entrance. There would be violent attacks up and down the street on that side; it would be safer to try another way out.
I stared at the cutlery; small knives were always handy. I collected four, and used a fork to pry a good-sized nail from the floor. My uncle had taught me very well indeed.
Through the cell's window I glimpsed a narrow side yard and beyond it, a spiked outer wall twenty feet high. Getting over the wall looked quite arduous, perhaps impossible. As I debated whether to look further, I noticed the faint odour of smoke. Had someone started a fire in the prison? The yard and the wall began to look quite attractive.
I seized the tablecloth, sending dishes flying as I tore it off the table. Then I ran.
A staircase at the far end of Newgate brought me to an outer door. It was locked, and there was almost no light; but lock-picking is not done by sight. Using the nail I had pried up, I worked by sound and touch, and the lock yielded to me.
I crossed the empty yard at a run, and reached the wall. Testing the edges of its granite blocks revealed little crevices where my fingers could grip, but few places for a foothold. The old wooden gates offered nothing, but their iron hinges were more promising – four of them, bolted into the wooden gateposts.
I wedged one of the knives in the crack between the post and the gate, just over the lowest hinge. It stuck fast, and held my weight. I wedged a second knife farther up, as I clung to the wall and the hinge, then hoisted myself higher. Working slowly, I finally reached the top, with fingers torn bloody and muscles burning from the strain.
Perched with a leg on each side of the wall, I tore the tablecloth into two strips which I tied together and secured on one of the wall's palings. I lowered myself down the cloth as far as possible, and then dropped to the street. Weak and out of breath, I propped myself against the wall with one hand.
"Oi! You!"
I turned towards the cry.
Jack was approaching from the main road, accompanied by the friar, who was still shackled and cowering under the hood of his habit.
Relief washed through me and I stumbled towards them. "Oh, Jack - thank God! You've found him!" Then I stopped; my prisoner was much shorter than I recalled. I peered at his face, then yanked off the black hood.
Garbed in the monk's habit, wearing my manacles on his wrists, Lazaro Bolivar "Smith" showed his crooked yellow teeth in a delighted grin.
The blood drained from my face. "You? You! . . . how . . ." But it was quite obvious how. I planted myself squarely in front of Jack.
"Where is my prisoner?" I demanded. "Do you know what you've done?"
"Lazaro was t' swing tomorrow, love," Jack replied. "So I fixed it. Told 'im I would."
"And what did you tell me, Jack? 'I'll help you get him, love', wasn't it? The King ordered me- I had a bloody warrant..." I broke off, patting my filthy clothes. "Brilliant! I've lost it!"
Jack pulled something from his pocket and jerked a thumb at Lazaro. "Couldn't get 'im out without a warrant, savvy? Here y' go, safe as houses."
He held out the document, but I crossed my arms. "What's the point of it now? Do I save it for my next trip to Newgate?"
"Ah, it's not as bad as all that, mouse," he said, coaxing me. "By the by," he went on, throwing an arm across my sore shoulders, "You made quite an impressive escape! They say no one breaks out of Newgate."
"Oh, do they now?" I shrugged off his arm. "Evidently they forgot to tell me or Brother Sombra, since we both seem to have managed it."
Jack held up both hands. "Alright, alright, darlin'. I'll help you find 'im. Fair enough?"
"No! Our ship's already gone! I was to take him to Cuba!" I put my hands over my face for a moment and sighed. It was no use. Jack didn't understand; it was time to take him into my confidence.
Composing myself as best I could, I told him everything: my orders, the need to reach Cuba, the exchange, the royal agent's mission, the gold, recovering the lost ship, and how Jack's rescue scheme had brought everything to smash.
My brother listened, frowning. When I finished, he tilted his head back, and studied me with half-closed eyes. "You said . . . a vast amount of gold?"
I stifled an urge to laugh. As always, it came down to profit. "Yes, vast. Staggering, in fact! And I'll share it if you help me. For a start, I need to arrest this friar and take him to Havana."
Jack quickly sealed our accord with a handshake and sent Lazaro off to the Pearl, to tell Mr Gibbs that Captain Sparrow would arrive in a few days. I was handed the bundledup habit.
Jack walked with me as far as the Golden Lion, where he persuaded me to join him for a tot of rum. "To celebrate our venture," he said.
"You'll have to pay for the both of us," I said. "My last sixpence went for passage to the Indies and I can't get it back. I've no money left."
A red-haired young wench brought a bottle and two tankards to our table, and lingered, giving Jack beguiling looks until he shooed her away. Once our tankards were full, he turned to the matter at hand.
"Now . . . Brat . . . I know that you know there's no English ship that can take you to Havana. Spain keeps a tight grip on that prize. They'd blow us to pieces before we laid eyes on the harbour." He took a long swallow of rum. "So, you were planning to go . . . where?"
"Someplace near enough that I can slip over to Santo Domingo and board a Spanish ship." I resisted naming the someplace, knowing what he would say.
"So it's Tortuga, eh?" The corners of Jack's mouth turning up in a wry smile. "Any plans t' see your dearly beloved? He's sure to stop gallivantin' once you turn up."
I narrowed my eyes and Jack saw the storm brewing in them.
"No worries, darlin'. Tortuga it is," he said quickly. "I've got the Pearl anchored near Brighton." He couldn't hide a grin. "Just like the old days, innit?" I saw him wink past me at the red-haired lass, who was observing him from a distance, swaying her hips.
He promised to meet me the next morning to search for Brother Sombra, and we bade each other good-night. I knew that morning would come late for Jack, after he made a night of it with the comely barmaid, but by noon I still had no word from him.
I grew more and more restless. How could I permit Jack to baulk me in this way? I was doing nothing while my prisoner was getting further from my grasp every minute.
All I had was the bundled up habit Lazaro had given me. Perfect - Brother Sombra would be dressed like any ordinary Londoner by now, melting into the crowd, never to be seen again.
Brother Shadow, indeed.
I tried to think what Captain Harry would have done, and my useless pacing ceased when I arrived at the answer: my uncle would have made it his business to learn everything he could about the friar.
I eyed the bundle, then quickly unfolded it and shook out the habit. There was nothing more than the habit itself and the rope used to tie it. Oddly, there was no rosary, no cross, nor anything of a popish nature. Was my prisoner really a friar? Then it struck me that he had never actually spoken to me. Did he even understand English?
I sat at the writing table and eventually I had a short list of questions before me. At least one could be answered by a certain author whose works included a guide to London.
Defoe welcomed me into his front room, which resembled nothing so much as a disorderly study. It was difficult to avoid staring at his collections of desiccated fruits, carved masks and odd seeds from the farthest corners of the earth.
"Do forgive the interruption," I told Defoe. "I have urgent need of help, and I believe you can provide it."
He was discreet enough not to pry. "Of course; you have only to ask."
"Are there any popish abbeys or monasteries hereabouts?"
His eyes widened and he shook his head, no.
I thought for a moment. "Then, what about other places where a Spanish friar might feel safe from arrest? Churches? Embassies?"
"Quite a number," he replied. "Can you give me anything more?"
I hadn't got much, but there was one more detail. "Not too far from Newgate prison."
He looked up at the ceiling, then pushed out his lower lip as he looked back down at the floor. "Latinate tongues are similar," he said. "The Sardinian embassy lies near Lincolns' Inn Fields." He brightened. "On a property once owned by the Franciscans, in fact. There is supposed to be a Roman chapel behind it." He looked through a few sheaves of papers from which he produced an address and a little sketch.
I breathed a sigh and felt my shoulders relax. Everything began to fit – this was surely my best hope. "I'm so very obliged to you, Mr Defoe," I said, and made for the door.
"Wait!" he cried. "I had forgot something given me by Captain Bitter for safekeeping." He opened a small box and removed something loosely wrapped in plain paper, which he handed me.
I opened the wrapping enough to glimpse a much damaged, leather-bound volume. "Please keep it safe for now," I said, handing it back. "I shall collect it as soon as possible." Then I rushed back to my rooms.
Still no Jack. I checked my duffel once more. I needed answers from Jack, and I vowed to wrest several more answers from the friar once he was in my custody. This prisoner exchange was nothing like the usual process; nothing was adding up properly.
At midnight I was awakened by Jack's knock at my door. He stepped into the front room as if it were a rolling deck, clutching a bottle of rum in each hand.
"Provisions, love," he informed me. "Very important."
I bit back several remarks that entered my mind, and quickly put my questions to him. Did the friar speak English? Yes, but with a heavy accent. Where were the usual rosary beads and cross? Jack had granted his request to retain them.
"Perhaps he's praying 'e don't get caught," he suggested with a smirk.
I armed myself, then handed Jack the address and sketch. "Let's start here."
We left the Minories and made our way down Tower Hill. London wasn't truly sleeping, it was tossing fitfully with the noise and bustle of people working, carousing, whoring, fighting, and engaged in mysterious and secret ventures, as were Jack and I.
The odour of fish grew stronger as we walked along Thames Street. When we reached Billingsgate, fish were already being laid out upon benches to be ready for the morning market.
Jack nudged me and nodded at the fish-jousters – stout, pipe-smoking women shouting back and forth in rough voices amongst the little stalls. "Good with knives, the lot of 'em," he advised me. "Mind yourself."
Putting the fish market behind us, we travelled along Cannon Street past the Lord Mayor's house. At the beginning of Fleet Street stood the grisly Temple Bar. One look, and I lowered my gaze from the spikes that crowned it and the gruesome burdens impaled there.
"Almost there, love," said Jack in his breezy way.
A little further and we found ourselves in Lincoln's Inn Fields. The Sardinian Embassy stood at the end of Portugal Row, and backed on to Duke Street. It was not an imposing edifice by any means; it almost seemed like a private house.
We circled around to the back, and discovered the door to the chapel. "Now for it," said Jack.
I gripped my pistol, almost touching the trigger, but did not draw. I was suddenly fearful that we were on a wild goose chase. The law of averages would prevail. The chapel would be empty.
Jack eased the door open and we entered quietly.
A cry, cut off almost instantly, came from the front of the chapel amid groans and the muffled sound of a dull blow. Darting forward, we came upon a friar crouched over the unconscious body of Brother Sombra. The attacker glared, and the flash of a blade caught my eye. He leapt towards us. Jack and I both fired on him, and he fell to the floor.
"Rum sort of chapel," Jack muttered.
I held out a hand for silence. "Listen." We both strained to hear. "There's no one, anywhere. Don't they have chaplains or something?"
Jack gave a low whistle. "Well, that's unusual." He was looking at the floor where the contents of the strange man's pocket had spilled: ten gold cobs. "Robbin' the poor box, I suppose?" He scooped up the coins and glanced at the man's feet. "Bloody expensive boots."
They were very fine indeed. With the barrel of my pistol, I lifted the hem of his habit. He was dressed in sumptuous clothes that no friar would have worn or could afford. I counted the weapons I could see and looked up at Jack. "He's no friar. He's a paid assassin."
"Look!" Jack cried out. My prisoner had lunged to his feet and was running towards a door to the right of the altar.
I chased him as though my life depended on it. He would have escaped, but beyond the door was a long flight of steps. As he descended awkwardly, his habit trailed behind him. I lunged at the hem, banging my elbow as I skidded down the steps. One swift yank, and I brought Brother Sombra down in a heap.
Out of breath, and furious at the trouble he had caused, I made him sit against a wall, my weapon pointed at his nose. "No te muevas, Hermano, o te voy a matar." I grinned at his evident alarm, and yelled over my shoulder. "Jack!"
Jack was already on his way down to us, and together we put my shackles on Brother Sombra. We led him back up to the chapel, but stopped at the door.
The chapel was empty. If not for the pool of blood on the floor, I would have thought we had imagined the assassin. I turned to my prisoner and spoke in English. "Who is that man? Who wants to kill you? Apart from me?"
"No one," he replied. What a foolish lie to tell me. But now I knew that he understood my language. I would need to watch my words around him.
I reloaded my pistol as I instructed him. "We have some distance to walk. I advise you against making any effort to escape. If you do, I may let you go."
I looked straight into his eyes, willing him to take my meaning. "And if you go, then you will be all alone when the next assassin turns up."
We set out for the Minories, walking almost the entire way in silence with my nowdocile prisoner between us. It was just before daybreak when we arrived.
We allowed the prisoner a few hours' rest on the campaign cot. First Jack stood guard and I slept on the settle, then we traded places. Watching my prisoner sleep, I wondered what sort of odd exchange this could be.
Who would exchange a simple friar for a dangerous and privileged royal agent? Why was it being done so secretly, and who had tried to kill him? What was this agent's mission in the Caribbean? I have always hated unanswered questions, and so many were plaguing me that I was quite relieved when Jack's snoring awakened Brother Sombra.
I pulled a chair close to the cot. My uncle would have asked easy questions first, I knew. He would have put this fellow in an agreeable humour before mentioning touchier matters.
I smiled, trying to look as though I meant it, and handed him a tankard of rum. "Good morning. Not exactly a featherbed, but I'll wager you slept better here than at Newgate." I could not read the expression in his eyes as he downed the rum.
We watched each other steadily. "Are you hungry? I can send to the tavern for food." "Gracias, señora. Mil gracias," he nodded, murmuring into the tankard.
"Does your head hurt? That was quite a blow that fellow gave you. Do you want me to bind it?"
"No necessito – ah, perdone: it is not necessary, thank you," he replied.
"Here is your other habit." I placed it on the cot. He regarded it warily but said nothing.
"I know more about you than you think," I said in a conversational tone. "I know you are a thief and a clever man, and you fear being handed to the Spanish authorities. Why don't you tell me your version of events? Why are you in my custody? Who are you?" "Hermano Sombra, as it says on your warrant—" he began, but I interrupted.
"Yes, I know what's on the warrant." I leaned forward intently, my hands gripping the seat of my chair. "I meant, when you are not posing as a friar." He darted his eyes away from me, but I was not finished.
"Be assured that, as matters now stand, you are going to Havana, where I will hand you over."
I leaned back, tilting my head to the side. "Perhaps King Felipe thinks a Hanoverian agent is worth trading for a humble friar. But I don't think so. And simple friars are not killed in church. Unless you claim to be Saint Thomas À Becket."
My prisoner was showing signs of discomfort, breathing a bit harder and shifting his weight back and forth. It was time to make him confide in me, and I addressed him earnestly. "This may be your only chance to show me you're something more than a thieving, lying miscreant. Show me – and I might decide to help you."
He did not answer right away. He gazed at me with dark, melancholy eyes, then shrugged. "I was never skilled at lies," he said with a rueful smile. "I took Holy Orders long ago, but . . . " He shook his head. "I am Padre Augustin Maroto."
I stopped him. "Did I understand you to say you're a priest?"
He looked pained. "For some time, my life has taken a different path. But if you insist on turning me over to Spain, who I am will matter very little, save on my headstone."
"Why? Did you steal something from your King?"
His dark eyes flashed indignation. "Do you think a crown makes a man good?" he retorted. "They want something from me, something they have no right to."
My hopes of getting at an answer were dashed just then by a series of knocks upon the door. Jack opened his eyes, and looked at me.
"Probably Mr Singleton," I said. Jack rose and opened the door a crack.
He slammed it shut, spun about and leaned against it with his back, white-faced. "No one there."
More knocks – angry this time. "Jack! Open the door!" Elizabeth's shouts were muted.
"Wrong house - Jack's not here," he answered in a fair imitation of a lady's voice. The door thudded. "Now she's kickin' the bloody thing," he complained. "If you let her in she'll break up the room."
I pushed him aside. "I thought you were friends."
"We are," Jack said darkly. "But it's always trouble when she turns up."
I opened the door.
Elizabeth was dressed nearly as roughly as myself. She picked up the bag at her feet and swept into my rooms. "I'm not here to see you, Jack," she told him.
Then she turned to me. "I'm going with you to make your prisoner exchange. I refuse to remain alone in that house. It's being watched by one or more people, and I don't like the look of them."
I glanced at Maroto. "Are they Spaniards?"
She shook her head. "English, as far as I can tell."
Jack cleared his throat. "I regret to tell you that you can't go with us, love. We'll be sailing on the Pearl – of which you recall I am the captain – and two passengers is my limit, not three."
"I won't stay where it isn't safe - I'm expecting a baby!" she said indignantly.
"So technically it's four," Jack replied with a flourish of his arms. "Even worse." Ignoring him, Elizabeth handed me a heavy leather purse. "That's the money from the diamonds and my investment as well – the amounts are tallied on a receipt in the purse."
I seized on my chance to escape. "I'll just take this up to Mr Singleton." As I ascended the stairs, I could hear Jack and Elizabeth continuing to argue. If this was merely the beginning of my errand, I could scarcely bring myself to contemplate what else might lie ahead.
Next: En route to the West Indies, Nina begins to sense that Jack may be in danger.