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?

A Glimpse of the Past

Defoe's grown daughters sometimes visited him, and I was not surprised when the door was answered by a young woman with an infant in her arms. "Father had a touch of gout this morning," she said. "I'll fetch him for you."

She saw the curious looks I gave her young charge. "His name is Samuel," she smiled. "Would you like to hold him?"

Her offer startled me, but I could not refuse a proud mother's generosity. She handed him over and went to fetch Defoe.

I stood immobile, gingerly holding a baby for the first time in my life. But as the little one settled his weight peacefully into my arms, something very odd took place.

Gazing at Samuel's mild little face slowly calmed my nerves. Something was working upon my mood that was utterly alien to me. It took a moment to grasp its name, but at last I knew - it was hope. My usual belief that the worst would always happen subtly gave way to the idea that the world might not turn out so badly after all.

I only realised Defoe had appeared when he spoke to me from the doorway. "Young Samuel seems to approve of you, Mistress Bitter," he remarked. I looked up, very discomfited, and handed the little one back to his mother.

I gave Defoe all of Elizabeth's money and most of mine, keeping some back for my travelling expenses. He promised to send our share of the profits to The Faithful Bride, and then made sure I understood the practical aspects of my messenger orders.

"Do your companions understand the obligations and trials of such a journey?" he asked.

I glanced at the floor and smiled, thinking of Jack. "One of them does." Then I quickly bade him farewell and hurried downstairs to finish my preparations.

In the front room, Jack and Elizabeth were still arguing. "There's no reasoning with her," Jack complained the moment I arrived.

I invited Elizabeth out to the hallway and explained the duties that bound me.

"What I'm obliged to do may prove too arduous for an expectant mother," I said, ticking off each duty on my fingers. "Once I begin my journey, I am expected to keep the quickest pace possible, hellish weather or no, until I am too exhausted to go on. Also, I'm to guard my prisoner day and night, or pay others to guard him. I shall be a target for robbers and murderers. When I reach my destination, it is my duty to place myself under the orders of the nearest King's representative – and I have no notion of what I may happen after that."

"And?" she replied, raising an eyebrow.

I struggled to find more reasons. "We will be riding horses tonight, somewhere between ten and sixteen hours, all the way to Brighton without a stop. It will be freezing cold, probably stormy. We could be waylaid by highwaymen . . . your horse could fall in the dark . . . and there's . . . paperwork."

This last reason made me feel quite stupid, but I had run short of arguments.

She looked unimpressed. "I can guard your prisoner better than Jack and you know it. Why take him and not me?"

I raised my eyes to the ceiling. "To begin with, Jack has a ship! And Jack – well, Jack knows all the rules. Foreign service messengers always take a trusted companion who can act in their stead. My uncle and father worked that way, and Jack and I shall do the same."

She thought a moment, then offered a compelling inducement. "Jack may have the Pearl, but I have a coach and four at the Golden Lion. You'll get to the Pearl much faster. But you must agree to my going as well." The prudent choice was to use a coach and she knew it.

I sighed. "Very well." At least she had not tried to use her authority as the Pirate King to order me about.

We returned to my rooms where Jack waited, looking hopeful. I shook my head. "You've lost. Elizabeth is coming with us."

I strode past him ignoring his protests. The air was getting colder, and I rummaged through my uncle's belongings to find anything that would ward off the chill. I found a flannel-lined, long-skirted riding coat and a Turkish shulwar kameez or two, which I took down to Mrs Hutson to be cut down to a more reasonable size. In the end, I drew the shulwars on over fleecy stockings and cotton and chamois drawers, and tucked the cut edges into my boots. I wore the kameez under my riding coat, and girded myself with as many weapons as I could carry. Around my neck I tied a warm shawl that could be drawn up over my head. My lighter clothes were packed in the duffel.

Jack whistled at the strange figure I presented. "All you need is a bit of dirt and grime an' you'll look a proper Tatar," he grinned.

At about four o'clock the sun was setting, and we were ready to depart. Jack remained with Maroto while Elizabeth and I directed her coach to Rosemary Lane. As soon as it drew up, Jack, Elizabeth, Maroto and I ran towards it through the alley and jumped in. The moment the door banged shut, we were off to Brighton at a very smart rate.

Just after crossing London Bridge, there came the noise of a heavy downpour pelting the coach. I peered out the window at a curtain of icy rain, through which I could dimly make out the wind-tossed branches of trees in the darkening night. I looked over at Elizabeth. "I'm in your debt. The roads must be awful by now. Without your coach we'd be having quite a time of it."

Jack instantly qualified my expression of thanks. "No need for modesty, Brat," he said, "You know we've come through worse." Then he fixed Elizabeth with a superior smile, and added, "In fact, we love bad weather. If you're followed, it's generally obvious, because no other traveler-"

He glanced out the back window and stopped talking. When he settled back into his seat, I could read the look in his eyes.

"How many?" I said.

"Just one. On a horse. And don't go askin' me if it's an Englishman or a Spaniard." He drummed his fingers for a moment, then settled down to stare through the side window.

After a short time, his manner became cheery. "Half a mo'. Anyone hungry? Let's stop here."

He thrust his head out the window and shouted for the coach to stop. As we drew to a halt, the outlines of a post house were visible through the downpour.

Elizabeth balked. "We've barely started! I'm not hungry."

"That's a sure sign that, in fact, you are hungry," Jack explained briskly, throwing open the door. He practically pushed us out, yet he remained behind, crouched down in the coach. As we crossed through the mud to the taproom, Elizabeth started to look back.

"Don't," I cautioned her. "He's up to something. Act as if we were the only passengers."

We sat at a table with Maroto between us, and ordered supper. Only one man came in after that – most certainly he was the horseman Jack had spied following us. He looked around and, appearing not to notice us, strode to the bar and ordered a bottle.

"That's the one?" asked Elizabeth, without turning.

I nodded my head. "I think so."

Twenty minutes later, I saw Jack weaving a path across the taproom with a thin leather cord in his hand, only to vanish about halfway across the room. "Like a bloody magician," I muttered under my breath.

After a few moments, Maroto coughed and spoke to me in Spanish. "Creo que tu amigo quiere que nos vayamos."

I looked up and saw Jack directing a meaningful stare at me. He tilted his head towards the door, and then quickly left the room.

"We're off," I said to Elizabeth and Maroto. "Now!"

I feared that our pursuer would be upon us before we got out the door, but I needn't have worried. As we rushed out of the taproom, I heard a terrific crash, and glanced back to see an upturned table surrounded by angry patrons, and the mysterious man trying to free his boot from a thin leather cord.

As we set off in the coach once again, I thanked Jack. "But he won't be stopped for long. He'll catch us again."

"No harm in 'im trying, love," Jack grinned. "He should get well down the road before he loses his saddle. If the reins don't go first."

We made Brighton in nine hours, and the rain had cleared by the time we arrived. Jack took us into the Druid's Head, where we found Lazaro and Mr Gibbs. Several empty rum bottles on the table revealed how they had passed the time whilst awaiting our arrival.

We seated ourselves, save for Jack, who made ready to order more rum. He rubbed his palms together, and turned towards the bar, only to pivot back instantly. With a slight lurch, he grabbed the table's edge with both hands, his black-rimmed eyes wide with alarm.

"Time to weigh anchor, Mr Gibbs!" he snapped. "Step lively, all of you!"

He hurried us out of the taproom and into the longboat, even taking oars himself to ensure our departure was as swift as possible. Elizabeth and I exchanged puzzled looks, but no explanation was forthcoming.

Once on board, we locked Maroto in the brig and settled into our quarters. Jack strode about the Pearl's deck calling orders, and the crew lost no time in setting her sails and heaving up anchor. At last, with the jib hoisted and the topsails sheeted properly, we set off with a fair, rattling breeze, bound for the Indies at last.

I stood on the deck for a long time, peering forward into the dark, as if my longing for Hector could somehow increase the speed of our ship. Then I fetched a bottle of rum from the captain's stores and made my way to Jack's quarters.

When I entered the day room, I found my brother engaged in poring over Sao Feng's maps. Elizabeth had already retired to her cabin, which left the way clear for a frank discussion with Jack.

After a few minutes, he looked up from the map. "Maddeningly unhelpful, still."

"Perhaps it'll look better in the morning." I shrugged and poured some rum into his tankard. "Or there's a trick to working it. That's often the case."

I watched as he tossed down the rum. "You know, I don't think I've ever known you to leave a taproom without having a drink."

Our eyes met and I saw that he understood my unspoken question.

"You mean the Druid's Head," he replied. I was surprised to see how uncomfortable he looked.

"I don't suppose you noticed anyone there that looked…Seville-ish?" he ventured. "A…female Sevillian…of the opposite sex?"

A light dawned on me. "You thought you saw one of your damsels! How do you even remember them all?"

"Aye, and I don't," he said, answering both questions at once. "But-awkward circumstances, y'know…"

"And who made them awkward?" I laughed and shook my head. "Oh, Jack, this world is littered with the broken hearts you left behind. I wouldn't be in your shoes for anything."

"Just imagining things, I expect, then. But this is most definitely not imaginary." He pulled something from his pocket and set a small gilded rosette on the table. "From the bridle of our follower. A double bridle. You know what that means."

The rosette bore the royal cypher, surmounted by a crown. I looked quickly at Jack. "The royal stables! I mean-all you can really say is that the bridle comes from the royal mews."

He nodded. "Aye. But then, where did the horse and rider come from, I wonder. The king? Unlikely. Someone at court?"

I sat staring at the little rosette, and Jack leaned towards me. "If you want to know who your prisoner really is, darlin', find out who's hunting him. Someone's got their eye on Maroto."

Jack's words kept me tossing and turning that night, and when I finally slept, I dreamed of Orion once again. Dawn found me pacing the deck. My prisoner, Jack's map, even my nightmare – all pressed me for answers, and I was beginning to be concerned for Jack's safety. Perhaps it was Jack, not Maroto, who was being hunted.

At last I decided to leave unworldly matters to sort themselves. I resolved to discover Maroto's story.

He looked a bit green when I arrived with his breakfast, and so I had him released and brought up to the main deck. For those who are unfortunate enough to suffer from sea-sickness, any location below deck will bring on their dreadful ailment. Poor Maroto could only lie upon the deck at first, but he gradually recovered enough to be coaxed into walking a bit, with one hand upon the rail.

This wouldn't do at all. I reproached myself for not being sufficiently attentive to my prisoner – who, after all, was only required to be transported and guarded, not punished by poor accommodations. I roused Jack, Mr Gibbs, and the Pearl's carpenter, Mr Cheesewright, and called a council in the captain's day room. By dint of moving one partition, adding another, and putting some of Jack's stores in a lazarette beneath his cabin, we created a tiny cabin for Maroto at deck-level with a door that could be locked.

I promised Maroto plenty of time to take the air on deck each day, but told him he would always be under guard. This seemed to improve matters, and, hoping to gain his trust, I made it a point to walk the deck with him whenever possible.

On these promenades, we chatted together in Spanish, and I gradually formed a good opinion of him. Maroto's ability to sympathise with those around him extended even to pirates, and his manner, while refined, was easy and unaffected. Half-joking, I asked him one morning if it did not trouble a priest to find himself in such dangerous and debauched company.

My question brought a gentle smile to his face. "But where do you think a priest should go?" he asked. "Wherever there are souls in darkness, there lies danger. And that is exactly where I must be. I am not needed where there is no danger."

The only topic upon which I could not draw him was his family. He spoke vaguely of being the son of a great captain who had made a fortune as a Spanish privateer, and having an ancestor who had committed un mal significativa, but beyond that he was elusive. I decided to practice my Spanish, hoping to improve my skills as a questioner. I began to spend time in my cabin, translating the little journal I had been given years ago by Edward Teague.

I had kept the note tucked inside, "For dear Nina, who loves the study of language. Practice makes perfect. From her loving Father." How many changes had taken place since then! Feeling guilty that I had neglected it for so long, I opened the journal and began deciphering the faded ink.

I have served the Royal Crown faithfully in these parts of the Indies, by order of the Catholic King, and now favours are to be given to me because of my present impoverished state.

I translated the date on the page. Ten days of the month of February of one thousand five hundred and twenty-one years.

That explained everything - the writing, the peculiar style, and the misshapen, mildewed binding. Why had I been given it? To challenge my language skills? "Practice makes perfect" indeed, especially if I needed to converse with any two hundred year old Spaniards. I sighed and decided to trust my father, at least for the moment.

The first few pages were concerned with some secret accord between the writer and a noble who acted for King Ferdinand. There were many references to a Diego Colòn, who appeared to have been some sort of political adversary, and perhaps this was the reason for the secrecy. The writer was planning to take a small ship on a voyage to discover some tonic for the miserable health of the Spanish workers, so that the riches from the Indies could be produced quicker for Spain.

My eyelids had begun to droop. Reading this would be no easy task, and I hoped things would become livelier once the explorers set sail. I put the book aside and went in search of Jack.

"Find out who he is yet?" Jack asked the moment I entered the day room.

I dropped into a chair, utterly frustrated. "All I know is that he's damned determined not to be handed over to Spain. I can't understand why – he definitely appears to be Spanish."

"Perhaps he's a heretic," Jack suggested with a grin.

"I did get one thing out of him. He said something about his ancestor committing a great wrong." I stared idly at the map on the table and waved my hand at it. "Still not working?"

"Seems neither one of us is getting anywhere, don' it?" He tipped a rum bottle over his tankard and two or three drops fell. "Hmmh. Tell you what – you have a look at the bloody map while I find Gibbs."

Alone with the map, I moved its layers round and round. The map did not resemble the ones by which we sailed – the land masses were all distorted and nearly unrecognizable. I looked up at the sound of the door and saw that Elizabeth had just entered the room.

"If you're looking for Jack, he's gone to find Mr Gibbs." I looked back at the map, expecting her to leave, but she stared at the table and came closer.

"Sao Feng's map! I might have known," she said. "Has he discovered how it works?"

"Apparently, it doesn't," I replied. "But Jack thinks it leads to the Fountain of Youth."

"It leads many places," she said very seriously. "I'm not sure even Sao Feng himself knew all of them. But you can't just use it like a regular map."

I moved the circles around again. "So I see."

"No, I mean there's more than the map at work," Elizabeth explained. "Somehow it uses things like fate and chance. It hides and reveals things according to your destiny."

"So if you're not meant to get to the Fountain, it won't lead you there?" I sat back. "There's no use my trying to read it then. Have you made a study of these things? Magic and all?"

"No. I was thrown into it when Barbossa came after the medallion," she said. "Everything I've learnt came after that."

Perhaps she knew something about dreams. That would resolve at least one worry for me. "Can you tell the meaning of dreams? I've had the same troublesome dream about a constellation for years. Am I supposed to sail by those stars or something?"

"I couldn't say. What constellation is it?" she asked.

"Orion."

"Well, that certainly makes sense, given your close ties to the sea."

I looked at her blankly.

"But don't you remember?" she asked, surprised. "Orion was the son of Poseidon."

Next: Maroto begins to give up his secrets, and the Pearl reaches Tortuga.