An Heir | Chapter 2

    It had been a while since the last time you had experienced a dream vivid enough to remember and doubly so in the case of a nightmare; however, your sleep was interrupted by something that bordered on the edges of both.

    Arthur stood before you, looking much younger, the weight of war and the crown seemingly lifted away from his shoulders. He smiled radiantly, a sight you had not been able to enjoy for an obscenely long time, and stretched his hand out to you, curled fingers beckoning in an intimate invitation as strains of music filled the air, brocaded strings coiled with vibrato-laced reverberations.

    “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

    Sudden happiness flooded your body and you took your husband’s hand with a smile as airy, bright lightness spiralling through your veins until it seemed as if you were floating. “This dance, and perhaps more,” you answered coyly, your skirts swishing against your legs with a soft rustle as you stepped forward.

    Arthur inclined his head as his right hand found your waist, the curve of his palm fitting smoothly against your bodice; his left hand’s fingers clasped yours gently as the strings began a slow, charmingly sweet waltz. The notes shimmered like milky pearls of thick moonlight, strung on a clean rhythm of stardust slurs and ties, diamond grace notes sparkling like fleeting sips of champagne.

    Your body swayed with Arthur’s as your feet followed the pattern of steps effortlessly, the dance engrained in your soul rather than just your mind. He drew you closer, his right hand drifting farther over your back as if trying to keep you from flying away.

    A soft, spring-smelling breeze ruffled Arthur’s hair, the wheat-hued strands fluttering against his endearingly strong eyebrows; matching smiles touched both your lips as you danced on. His eyes were mesmerizing; it was as if spheres of polished English jade had been set alight. His pupils were lost in the sparks of serpentine, swallowed by the passionate viridian incandescence.

    His breath was almost uncomfortably heated on the shell of your ear as he whispered, the timbre of his voice low and grainy, “We wedded not out of love, ______, but I swear to you, I will love you wholly.”

    Feather-light lips grazed your cheek as Arthur’s hand pressed you into his chest, your feet still carrying on the waltz with casual grace although shock widened your eyes and drew a soft, sharp exhalation from your lips.

    “Such a cover makes the brightest of jewels dim in shame, for they cannot hope to match your beauty,” Arthur whispered into your ear; you took an unsteady breath as his words wafted into your ears. He had said this exact phrase in the early days of your marriage, followed by more poetic, eloquent endeavours to win your heart; your eyes shut softly, allowing your world to become composed solely of Arthur’s velvety voice gliding into your ears and filling your mind. This was your Arthur, the true Arthur; this was the man who had wooed you gently into loving him after a marriage arranged purely for political benefit. This was your king.

    “But as exquisite as the cover is, it is but a shield for the treasures within. The words penned upon fair pages, a script uncopiable by mortal hand, they weave an illustration of the soul. I intend to study every word, every page, and savour the book, as a book of love that I yet know not, until I have tasted the divinity of the final word upon my lips.”

    Sweet breath puffed onto your skin as Arthur’s lips pressed briefly against your face, just under your eye; as his lips parted company with your skin, heat flared at the spot, almost unbearably intense. The pain was forgotten as his voice continued to hypnotize you with memories that waking life made you wish you had forgotten:

    “I know that you trust me not, for I have done nothing to win your heart, but I can only confess to you the depths of my devotion; within your pages slumbers the secret of my existence. I wish only to show you my love in tender measures until your soft-beating heart rests with mine in a dance to make the winged seraphs above gaze down with jealousy.

    “My heart beats on a limited measure and you are the timekeeper; it is with your life that I continue mine, but every curve of your lips, like the delicate roses that a man such as I dares not touch, sends me a glimpse of heaven. It is in your eyes that I see the reflection of my soul and in your voice that I find the sound of my heart’s gleeful laughter. I should be content with admiring from afar, but fate has smiled on me today. I find myself in an everlasting reverie, an eternal gilded cage that I have no desire to escape from. My dreams are canvases that your presence paints masterpieces upon and my days are mantras that you compose.”

    Tears trailed down from your reddened eyes as you raised your gaze to meet Arthur’s, the emerald fire burning fiercely as his lips swooped down to yours. His kiss was molten lightning; sharp flashes of writhing electricity paralyzed your lips, tingling fire racing down your veins. Time’s chains ceased to command you until Arthur pulled away, a shadow of satisfaction writhing in his eyes.

    The slim band on Arthur’s finger brushed coolly against your skin, its twin glinting on your left hand; your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on his as the wedding ring seemed to slip away from your touch, sequestered by the larger, raised edges of his crown rings. The crest of the king pressed insistently into the skin between your fingers, leaving a starkly white imprint on your flesh for a moment until blood surged back and returned normal colouration.

    The metal of every ring abruptly adorning Arthur’s hands seemed to burn you as the music twined on, the twinkling melody suddenly seeming eerily disconcerting. Arthur’s smile widened, his ivory teeth seeming to grow brighter. You stumbled for the first time as Arthur twirled you, but you could have sworn the orchestra had skipped a beat, the notes speeding up dissonantly.

    You clutched at Arthur’s shoulder for support, attempting to ask if you had heard correctly, but your throat narrowed and your words choked you, a thin, incoherent syllable the only thing that managed to turn into sound. He laughed, the rolling sound echoing for far too long in your ears, and asked, his voice sadistically tender, “What troubles you, my love?”

    His touch seared your flesh, silent screams dying at your lips and dragging back down into your throat, suffocating you as the sound ripped at your mind, agony paralyzing you. Arthur’s fingers tightened painfully on you, crushing your hand as the fingers on your waist seemed to burn through the fabric, suddenly clutching your bare skin with a death-grip of scorching iron.

    The music was askew, notes splattering the air like bruises; great flowers of discordance bloomed around you, their dark petals unfurling like devilish wings, only to wither and collapse seconds later before they were replaced in an epileptic cycle. Still, your feet moved in time, your muscles burning as your motion spiralled out of control; the demented song slashed at your ears, plodding notes dragging you back while the ever-swelling theme whirled on at a sickening speed, tearing you apart as Arthur’s voice rose above the howling dance.

    “Does this dance displease you?”

    Salt seeped into your mouth as your voice refused to cut through Arthur’s merciless, sonorous laugh. The venom of his fire claimed your entire torso, piercing your skin to inject your lungs and heart with an explosive pain while his lips seized yours, his teeth slicing at your lips and tongue like needles and drawing blood to drip stickily down your chin.

    He pulled back from what couldn’t be called a kiss as a broad smile carved itself over his lips, your blood smeared across his smooth skin, shockingly bright in contrast to the void surrounding you. You stared in pain-ravished, wide-eyed devastation, the flames crawling up your legs as your feet continued to keep pace with the defilement of music, your legs flying in an intricate pattern around Arthur’s, trapping you in his grasp.

    The firestorms in Arthur’s eyes blazed higher into crackling serpentine infernos, mimicking the false halo you had seen the night before in the mirror as he called gleefully over the cacophony of mad notes, “Do I have your heart yet or shall we dance for another song?”

    A shrill, bloodcurdling scream echoed through your chambers as you shot up in your bed, heart pounding as a cold sweat chilled your clammy skin and utter terror shocked your blood like ice in your veins. When two maids rushed into your bedchamber breathlessly, shaky hands wielding poker irons, they found you sitting up in bed with a hand pressed to your chest, breathing raggedly, your unfocused eyes staring glassily into the distance as your lips trembled uncontrollably.

    After your heart rate had returned to something close enough to normal, you dismissed the two girls; as they were about to turn and slip through the hidden entrance, you ordered with a deadly glint not unlike Arthur’s in your eyes, “Speak of this to no one. If word is spread, I shall know exactly where it originated.”

    They nodded and curtsied their way out with hushed murmurs of assent, leaving you with lingering memories that haunted you for the rest of the night; sleep evaded you and you greeted the sunrise with weary eyes.

    During your morning meal, one of Arthur’s personal manservants came and delivered a distressingly glorified piece of paper, folded in half and sealed with a blob of wax that nearly made you shriek in horror; pressed into the wax was the crest of Arthur’s signet ring. He had used his personal seal rather than the one used solely for political matters, which you supposed should have been a sign that you were beginning to reconcile, but it had been this seal that had branded you in your dream. Unreasonable fear, impossible to banish but overwhelming by nature, crashed over you, freezing you for a moment as you stared with dilated pupils at the creamy, pure surface and its mark of moulded crimson wax, like a sculpture of blood.

    You exhaled heavily through your nose as you took the letter, splitting the seal with your thumb instead of the flat paper-knife set beside you just for that purpose, earning you a quick, curious glance from Arthur’s man. Ignoring him, you hesitated, your finger already under the flap of paper. You glanced again at the freshly broken wax, a jagged crack running through the design.

    “Has my husband ordered you to wait for a reply?” you addressed the man, careful to keep your voice uncoloured.

    Almost immediately, he answered, keeping his eyes averted, “No, Your Highness. I was told only to deliver the king’s words and see to it that they were received.”

    You blinked and slowly drew your finger out from under the paper, pressing it firmly closed again as you said calmly, “You may tell him that they were.” After a short pause, during which Arthur’s man opened his mouth, closed it again, and shuffled his feet uncomfortably, you added, “I wish to finish my meal first.”

    The man’s eyes followed your gaze to the nearly untouched food on your plate. He hesitated for a moment before bowing and saying, “Yes, Your Highness.” You watched him leave before slanting your eyes at the letter; with a sigh, you pushed it away and continued eating. You had promised Madeline to ride with her today and you had no intentions of ruining your word with any residual thoughts that might slip out.

    Your food disappeared relatively quickly and you were soon on your way to the stables, a short, light riding frock replacing your usual heavy skirts. The few servants you passed said nothing; you had always been fond of riding and your change of outfit was nothing shocking, whether or not one compared it to the other events transpiring in the castle.

    Madeline was waiting for you outside the stables; her eyes sparkled quietly with unrestrained happiness as she greeted you. You returned her bright smile, glad that she didn’t seem to suspect anything.

    As you walked with her into the stables, your smile gradually grew more and more genuine as the warm, musky smell of sun-warmed hay, horses, and wood erased the troubles clinging to your mind. You nodded along as Madeline began to chatter happily about her favourite pastime; it was good to see her like this instead of her usual shyness-imposed reclusiveness. Amelia often overshadowed her in other aspects of life, especially the social ones, but riding was Madeline’s domain.

    Her proud excitement was infectious and you found yourself grinning as if the years had melted away until she called enthusiastically, “Francis! Come out, you must see who has come to ride with me!”

    Your eyes widened instantly at the sound of the name; as you mentally reassured yourself that it couldn’t be the same person, Francis Bonnefoy the silver-tongued gardener poked his head out of a nearby stall, bits of straw stuck in his golden hair like a scarecrow’s crown. His eyes met yours, an inexplicable streak of pity flashing through those brilliant azure irises for a split second before vanishing so quickly you could easily have imagined it, as he bowed his head respectfully and said dutifully, “Greetings, Your Highness. It is an honour to ride with you today. I humbly apologize for my appearance. Had I known you were to join us, I would have attempted to make myself presentable.”

    It only took a moment for a sudden rush of anger and desperate nervousness to surge to your head; narrowing your eyes ever so slightly, your voice took on the edge of a frozen razor as you said, “My eyes do not judge.”

    You turned to Madeline, effectively shutting Francis out, and smiled, barely allowing the sheen of happiness to reach your eyes. “We should ride together more often, Maddie. I can’t believe how skilled you’ve become.”

    A shy blush blossomed on your daughter’s cheeks as her smile widened and she walked ahead of you to the stall where Adelard was waiting, tossing his head impatiently. You swallowed and went into your own favoured mare’s stall, silently thanking the heavens that it was a few away from Adelard’s as Francis followed you.

    You paused a moment as you realized he had tacked your mare already. Your lips pursed and you said quietly without turning, “I see I have in my service a gardener of many talents, Francis.”

    There was a moment of silence, broken by the rustling sounds of the horses, before Francis answered, his eyes fixed on you, “I never said that I was a gardener, Your Highness, only that I was a humble man.” His voice was unbearably gentle as he continued, “My deepest apologies for any grievances you may suffer.”

    Your eyes flicked to his, meeting a steady gaze; Arthur’s eyes, their sharp malachite edges so different from the heavenly azure that presented itself to you now, flashed before you terrifyingly, a disembodied echo of the king’s demented laugh writhing in your ears. You snapped your head away, laying a hand on the mare’s warm side and wishing it didn’t tremble so much. You wanted to reprimand Francis, but remnants of your nightmare were still lingering in your mind like shards of glass, your thoughts bleeding out and making your hands shake.

    Stepping quickly, you led the mare out of the stables and waited for Madeline outside, the fresh air doing nothing to quell the angry flush on your cheeks. Wordlessly, you mounted, noting the slight rise of Francis’s eyebrow at the fact that you weren’t riding side-saddle. Frigidly, you told him, “I despise being forced to do things because I am a woman. If I can ride just as well as a man, why shouldn’t I?”

    His only response was to bow once again, only offering a soft murmur of “I do not know, _____.” You drew in a sharp breath yet again at his words, managing to control your facial expression as Madeline came, leading Adelard. As she neared you, you said stiffly to Francis,

    “If you are riding with us, it would do you good to have a horse.”

    A slight dip of his head and he was off, trotting smartly towards the stables again, entering the stall reserved for the trainer’s horse. A whitewashed smile curved your lips upwards as Madeline rode nearer, her own face brightened by a genuine article of happiness.

    It was not long until Francis returned, a dusty-coated bay horse by his side. He mounted quickly, a fleeting smile on his face; he gestured to Madeline, the mentor-like familiarity in his gesture taking you by surprise.

    With a crystalline laugh that you wished you heard more often, Madeline took off over the rustling grass plains, hoof-beats trailing behind her like a rhythmic tempest. You cast a swift glance at Francis before spurring your mare onwards, leaning over her neck and into the wind. As you left him behind, it felt suddenly as if you were finally running away, fleeing from Arthur’s iron rings and the crown’s alluring lies.

    For one sparkling, glorious moment, your present life melted away and you became a girl of fewer years again, a daughter rather than a wife. The wind sang in your ears, the thrum of the mare’s hooves on the ground like a second heartbeat; the wild scent of the moors swept broadly across your skin, filling you with the smell of bracken heather and moss, faded sunlight sweetening the wind’s kiss.

    Then another horse’s hooves fell upon your path, the beating hammering unevenly on the existing rhythm; you turned your head and greeted Francis with a curt nod.

    The edges of his lips hesitated, halfway into forming a word, before he lowered his gaze—a gaze that, just moments before, had contained pools of sympathy, quietly stagnant in wind-roughened eyes. Your blood chilled and your breath paused as the realization hit you like a blast of icy wind: Francis knew.

    He knew about your dream, knew why you were acting like a skittish wild horse today. Yet he had stayed silent, would still stay silent, evidently. It was enough to make your head, permanently painted paranoid and dappled with lies, spin like a dervish.

    Your throat convulsed twice as you swallowed anxiously, suddenly glad for the broad, comforting warmth of the mare’s back beneath your legs. Quietly, as Madeline came laughing back on a galloping, nickering Adelard, you addressed the grass at Francis’s feet.

    “I adore the sound of silence.”

    It was not as subtle as you would have liked, nor was it witty or especially well-wrought, but that short phrase was all you could think of to convey your acknowledgement of his knowledge. You raised your eyes to his, unsure of how much to harden your gaze; unpretentious, quietly intelligent pools of cerulean met you as Madeline drew to a stop before you both.

    So quickly and yet smoothly, Francis turned to her, an approving smile on his lips. “You grow more skilled every day, Princess,” he said, adding a few silent claps to the end of his sentence. Madeline, rather than her usual blush, returned the smile and thanked him, the slight hesitation she usually carried at other times evaporated.

    You watched the exchange with a slightly raised eyebrow, wondering exactly how high in regard Madeline held Francis. As if sensing your questioning gaze, Madeline turned to you and exclaimed, “I must thank you again for Master Francis! After Master Joffrey’s accident, I was so afraid that I’d lost the best horseman in the kingdom!” A small laugh streamed from her lips as she shook her head and continued, “But I’ve not lost an hour’s worth of skill with Master Francis.”

    The happiness shining like oil over her eyes was beautiful in a horribly guilt-inducing way; you vaguely remembered the old horse master passing in a riding accident, but you had never actually gotten around to taking a new one into service. You had assumed Arthur had taken care of it, since you had heard a few mentions of the trainer coming to the palace, but never pursued the matter further; you had deemed it best not to prod a sleeping dog, and Arthur had become more of a lion as of late anyway.

    Now, however, you offered Madeline a gentle smile and a nod. “I’m glad to hear that, but do not thank me.” You swept a hand out towards Francis in an attempt to hide how badly your other was shaking. “This is your father’s work, my sweet. He was distraught at the news and didn’t even offer me another choice!” You laughed to validate your claims, but it sounded tinny to your own ears.

    Madeline’s eyes widened slightly before her smile brightened and she took a deep breath, obviously trying to contain some surge of emotion. “Then I am grateful to my father,” she stated, the simplicity of her words ringing in your ears like a heavy blow.

    You blinked quickly a few times, forcing your smile to remain steady. Your eyes burned, invisible needles stinging at the surface; Madeline turned away slightly, murmuring something about taking Adelard through conditioning, her figure soon shrinking over the moors. You watched her go with an odd sense of wistfulness; there was an almost tragically free beauty in the way that she rode, flaxen hair streaming like a pennant behind her. The pain of knowing that she wasn’t so free, would never be truly free, weighed like a thousand slabs of marble upon your chest, as if you would be physically crushed by knowing that however fast or far Madeline rode, she would never escape the dual life of curse and blessing that she had been born into.

    Simultaneously grateful for Francis’s company and wishing he weren’t there at all, you kept your eyes on the swaying line of grass at the horizon, pretending to watch Madeline, although she had long disappeared over the edge.

    Finally, he broke the silence, clearing his throat before saying quietly, “I admire the sound of silence as well, ______, but I prefer the music of a duet, harmonies winding together as two halves of one seamless whole.”

    A sharp inhale mustered your spark again and your eyes flashed as you turned to Francis and asked, your voice low but swift, “Who are you, Francis Bonnefoy? You work at the palace under many titles, yet you call yourself nothing but a man. You speak like someone with blood of the skies, but I can taste the darkest scarlet edges of your veins. Who are you?”

    His eyes widened a fractional amount before a slight smile touched his lips and Francis breathed in, bending his head so that you could barely glimpse the glint in his eyes as he answered, “I am, as you said, nothing but a man. That is the only answer I can offer you, ______.”

    Your eyes narrowed as you said calmly, “You dare. Any other person in my service would have cowered at the first order I gave you, yet you…you followed it without hesitation. Do you not fear me? Does death not make you tremble?”

    Your fingers tapped lightly on the reins as you nudged the mare into a slow trot.

    “Francis, how is it that you can possess such infallible, foolish-hearted bravery?”

    A soft laugh mingled with his words as he answered, “What sort of parrying riposte do you expect from me? If I displease you with my words, I may as well kiss the gallows.”

    It was with a small, twisted grin as you continued to leisurely ride towards the beckoning moors and replied, “No, I’d not give you such an end. For you, the finest swordsman in the kingdom would be called. A quicksilver end to match your quicksilver tongue.” Perhaps you would manage to wield fear again.

    Surprisingly (or perhaps not so much, given his past reactions), Francis didn’t pause before dipping his head and quietly murmuring, “If it so pleases you, then so be it.”

    What did take you by surprise was the entirely flat, lifeless tone he uttered the words in; something like disappointment shaded his voice, thinly colouring the words. The quadruple beat of both horses stopped, the endings staggered, as you turned and looked at Francis, suddenly aware that he had allowed himself to slip a few steps behind you and to the left after you had spoken, assuming the traditional servant’s position.

    The lustre had vanished from his eyes, leaving them cold and bleak, but in a way that reminded you of a raw blade; unpolished and unproven, but razor-sharp, with deadly potential. Yet, as you stared on, mesmerized by the crushing beauty of the difference in Francis’s eyes, you found a trace of fear hiding behind the wolfish jags there. He was afraid, but not nearly as much as he should have been; it was almost as if the muted emotion there was purely instinctual rather than conscious.

    Your musings were interrupted by Francis taking in a slow, contemplative breath and remarking, “I live and die for you, _____.” He nodded towards your left hand, where the band on your ring finger caught a few glinting beams of sun. “Those hands hold the strings of my control. I can only be thankful for what is. A life in the service of royalty is a gamble with death in itself, so I beg forgiveness for any insolence.”

    Your grip tightened on the reins, your knuckles blanching as you nodded and rode on, allowing a curtain of silence to fall between you and Francis. After a few steps, you said quietly, “Ride beside me. I have no liking for leading you on.”

    Wordlessly, Francis nudged his horse forwards to keep pace beside you, his eyes firmly fixed on the wind-blown grasses. The whisper of the wind brushing over the rolling moors kept time in a lethargic version of seconds, as if the two of you were floating in a sideways hourglass.

    When the silence had ceased to be a thick wall and had transformed into more of a comfortably permeable layer, you said, your eyes locked on the horizon, “You seem to know about me. Tell me a story.”

    You felt his curious eyes on you; when you offered no explanation, Francis said hesitantly, “I am no storyteller, ______.”

    You turned and looked at him with a small smile. “I don’t care. You have many talents and I wish to experience them all. What good is a servant if I know only a handful of his abilities?”

    That brought the corner of his lips up, curling into a half-grin. “Very well. What sort of story would you like to hear?”

    You paused and pondered for a moment, your head tilted and your lips parted as you considered. Finally, you smiled and said, “Tell me a story about pirates.” Your eyes drifted to the ring on your finger as you continued, “Make it a tale children would never hear from their parents. I want a petty satisfaction, Francis; I want a story with an ending worse than mine.”

    There was a moment of silence before Francis spoke, his voice taking on the same gingerly gentle tone it had at the stables. “_____, your story is not yet over.”

    You drew in a jagged breath before saying flatly, “Your gifts disappoint me.”

    Francis sighed, the sound breathy and short, before beginning, his accent growing stronger, “They say that the men living on the sea know no law, that they obey only themselves. This is only true if you have spent your life on the land.”

    The pale, smooth sky before you seemed to fade as Francis’s voice wound into your mind, painting vivid pictures of the ocean’s thousand outstretched arms and grand ships, sails unfurled.

    “On the ocean, there is a law. It is unspoken and unwritten, to be seen only in spatters of blood on black flags and stained sails. It is the code that all pirates follow in their hearts, only to betray it with death. The life of a pirate is the life of black-blooded royalty, the illegitimate heirs to land’s crown; on dry land, they are scum, the darkest of criminals, but at sea…at sea they are kings, wearing crowns of shadow and salt.

    “A crew and its captain do not exist; it is simply the crew, for the captain is no different from the rest. They fight together, plunder together, and live together, but they do not die together. They die the same, sinking to finally feel the water’s embrace in a shifting grave, but they do not die together.”

    You almost forgot that you were riding on a horse; Francis’s words transported you, spiriting you away from the windy moors to the rolling seas, a spray of cool salt-infused water seeming to pepper your face.

    “When a pirate dies, he inevitably shatters the law of the ocean; she gave him a new life and he is expected to repay it. You would think that death and an eternal slumber in her arms would be enough, but her blasé waters are greedy.”

    Francis’s eyes flicked to yours as he edged closer, the crash of waves upon a shore accompanying his words, his voice no more than a throaty whisper.

    “Every pirate cheats her of his treasure; never has a pirate been buried at sea with his worldly prizes. Fabulous jewels, piles of gold bright enough to blind you when the sun falls directly upon them, and medallions from ages past…a pirate will either hide his cache somewhere, or the choice will be made for him. Mutiny is not as romantic a story as it seems, _____, never forget that. But in the end, a pirate dies alone with no riches to accompany him.

    “The sea is a vengeful mistress. She sends waves a hundred times your height to destroy the ships of men who have stolen what she claims as rightfully hers, and no one but a god can pay her price. She calls her brother the wind to whip a ship into shreds, and woe betide every man aboard. Only when she is satisfied will the tempest calm.”

    His voice dropped even lower, the grainy bass timbre breaking through his composition of mellifluous baritone like the keel of a ship scoring furrows in sand. You were barely aware of the mare between your knees tossing her head and nickering as he continued,

    “There was once a ship called the Soif de Vivre. She was a magnificent wench, with masts unbowed by any storm. Her crew were salty shades, every last one of them. Her captain was not what you could call a good man, but he took care of his mates, and they prospered for many years.

    “One day, they got too greedy. It was a madman’s heist; a plot that never would have worked. But these men’s egos had been inflated by the sea, and they all were lost à la folie. They planned to take a royal ship for their own, you see, to expand their kingdom on the sea. It seemed a grand plan, victorious by nature, to end in marvellous bounty and treasure.”

    Francis’s eyes darkened as he continued, the wind rustling ominously under his oddly emotionless words.

    “But they failed. They set a course to intercept a ship from the Royal Navy. Intercept it they did; there was a moment of attack, when the pirates leapt aboard the other, screaming and swinging their swords. Three dozen navy men fell within five minutes, _____. The pirates had the gall to rejoice, still on the blood-stained deck. However…they were tricked. The Navy had known of their plan; they sent a second fleet of swift ships to capture the band of pirates, for these scum of the sea had worked their way up this foreign coast, raiding villages and taking what they liked. The king himself sailed out to do battle with the pirates, for he had to do what kings must.”

    Francis’s eyes were like glass as he turned to you and finished quietly, “The pirates all hung at the gallows before the day was up. Every last one of them swung from the same rope their sails had been tied with. And their bodies were tossed to the dogs.”