Toby strode into the rectory, his boots thudding against the wooden floor. Brian soon caught up with him, clapping him heartily on the back as they entered and shut the door.
"Who's the blond lad you've got tied up like an Ecce Homo in the middle of the village?"
Toby asked, dropping into a wooden chair that creaked under his weight.
"Long story, short version: an infiltrator," Brian replied.
Toby's mouth fell open in surprise.
"We're about to find out," Derek said, frowning at Brian. "Who's watching the prisoner?"
"Two lads keeping an eye on him. Believe me, he's not going anywhere… Did you bring rum?" Brian asked.
Toby grinned.
"A couple of barrels from Barbados, one from Jamaica… and I got hold of a bottle of that fancy wine the Frenchies in Kayona fight over," he said, pulling a bottle from a leather satchel.
Everyone started talking at once, eager for a taste.
"Gentlemen, let me remind you those barrels are already spoken for—orders from the Viceroyalty itself," Derek said. "As for the bottle… it's Rafael's." He took the wine and set it on the table.
"In Xul-Kan the storehouses are full," Toby added. "Before we came, several Spanish canoes carried barrels to their fishing villages, and a pair of schooners smuggled some to Trujillo and Puerto Caballos."
"Well, the nuns ought to thank us for their eggnog," Brian quipped.
"I'd say we have competition," Derek muttered.
They all burst into laughter and began talking over each other again.
"What news from the Caribbean?" Rafael asked calmly.
The men all spoke in English, assuming Magdalena couldn't understand. But contrary to what they believed; she understood every word. A whistle was heard; at the sound, she rose and slipped into the office. With a snap of his fingers, Derek ordered her to fetch drinks and some food. She hurried to the kitchen, sliced bread and ham, and returned with a tray. She laid it on the table, poured wine for Derek and Rafael, and served beer in ceramic tankards for Brian and the newcomer.
She slipped out silently, leaving them laughing, drinking, and joking. The stale smoke of their pipes soon filled the air, while Derek recounted the profits from their latest venture, locked away in the chest they had brought.
"What's the talk in Nassau? Still whispering about us?" Brian said with a sneer.
Again, laughter erupted. Magdalena listened with pale eyes, a shiver running down her spine.
Red-haired Toby wiped foam from his beard and grinned, showing crooked yellow teeth.
"There's plenty of gossip. The first tale—spoken from Nassau and Tortuga clear to Bermuda, and I don't doubt already reached Madagascar—is the attack on a fleet galleon carrying the Viceroy's daughter of New Spain: the Santa Carmen."
"They kidnapped her?"
"No. Word is she fought like a wildcat and held her ground. She's already a legend among the women of the Caribbean."
"And who attacked it?" Rafael asked.
Toby paused to drain his mug.
"Some say Kid Harlow, others Teach… maybe even Skippy."
"Skippy left these waters years ago," Rafael muttered.
"He's back in the game," Toby said.
"That pompous bastard… I can't stand his cold airs, strutting like a nobleman," Brian spat.
Rafael sneered.
"In any case, it could have been the Carioca."
"I doubt it," Toby countered. "Word is he was involved in the assault on Isla Negra—on the Spanish side."
"Repeat that," Rafael demanded, frowning at him.
"That the Carioca helped storm the British stronghold on Isla Negra."
"Who said so?"
"Survivors from Tiburon Bay who escaped to Jamaica aboard the Swan of Fat Sally."
"But on the Spanish side? He's raided their ports more than once," Rafael objected.
"If memory serves, the Spanish Crown even put a price on his head," Derek added.
"Apparently, they struck a bargain. He helped take the Queen Ann fortress and handed Hawk over to the Spaniards."
Rafael listened in silence. Then a broad smile spread across his face, and he lifted his cup with a laugh.
"Amen to that. And I suppose, knowing the Spaniards, they'll have betrayed him already, and he's swinging at the gates of Tiburon Bay."
Toby cleared his throat.
"On the contrary, chief. Word in the Caribbean is that for that service he received a letter of marque from the King of Spain himself, and some even say he was made a marquis or a count of Potosí or Salamanca. He's so powerful that in Kingsport he burned Aunt Betty's mansion to the ground after being poorly received."
"Bloody hell!" Brian cursed.
A hush fell. Rafael stood, fists clenched, and muttered a stream of words no one could understand, though they knew well they weren't scripture.
"You realize how dangerous this could be," he said at last. "The Carioca, free to operate with royal blessing… He could disrupt us." Rafael paced, hands clasped, before turning sharply to Derek. "That so-called Jesuit could be his agent… Toby, tomorrow you'll take Brian's letter to Chucky, and in Xul-Kan they must be on guard for any sudden assault."
"We'll see to it, chief. Don't worry," Brian said, his mouth full.
"Still, the Carioca never struck me as the treasure-hunting type," Derek said.
"Then why the operation at Isla Negra?" Rafael pressed, visibly intrigued.
Toby drained his mug and whistled for Magdalena to refill it.
"Well, the story goes Hawk kept certain incriminating charts. The Spaniards learned of them through a novel that passed from hand to hand."
Rafael froze.
"A novel sparked an entire operation?"
"So, they say. A gossiping old crone escaped on the Swan to Jamaica. Her nephew was kin to the granddaughter of the writer who lived on Isla Negra. According to her tale, the Inquisition had him seized by mercenaries—at least, that's what the survivors believe."
"Wasn't it Balin Van Buuren?" Derek asked.
They all shrugged.
"I can't read," Toby said flatly.
"Me neither," Brian added, chewing.
"Who is he?" Rafael demanded.
"A writer of pirate adventures," Derek replied.
Rafael's face twisted in disdain.
"There is no book but the Bible. Don't forget it," he warned, draining his cup, visibly unsettled.
"Well, the word is the Inquisition holds him in some prison," Toby went on.
"And what was this novel about, to stir such trouble?" Rafael asked.
"Supposedly, the search for Verbeck's treasure," Toby said.
They all laughed—except Rafael.
"Anyone can write about that scoundrel," Derek scoffed.
"Not enough to land a man in the Inquisition's hands, nor to spark an operation of such scale," Rafael said grimly.
After a moment he pressed his lips together and shifted the talk to finances and trade. At length, they rose from the table. Toby went to the barracks behind the building, Brian returned to the square, while Rafael and Derek spoke in low tones.
"Tomorrow, we'll put him to torment," Rafael said. "He must tell us his purpose here."
"Don't worry. Samuel knows tricks he learned aboard the Black Skull," Derek replied, heading out. He turned back at the door. "Do you know anything of those charts?"
Rafael met his eyes.
"You know the story: we boarded that galleon, and then…" He broke off at the sound of footsteps. Magdalena quickly sat on the floor by the door. Brian came in, arguing about his watch. Voices rose, then he stormed back to the square, Derek following.
"Sorry, orders are orders. Keep watch on the Teuton," Derek told him.
"Anyone could do that," Brian grumbled.
"It's Rafael's command," Derek said, hands on his hips.
Brian pressed his lips together and left. Derek strode to the barracks.
The girl was left alone in the corridor, trying to piece together all she had overheard. She crept to the door, made sure no one was near, and peered through the keyhole. Inside, Rafael lingered alone, rifling through Hans's belongings, especially his journal. Then he went to a cupboard, unlocked it with a key he wore around his neck, and drew out a bundle of documents, which he examined at length. Checking the clock on the mantel, he stowed the papers in the satchel and locked it away again.
He rolled back a carpet, revealing a trapdoor to the cellar. Unlocking it with the same key, he took the chest and the bottle of wine Toby had brought, and descended. Magdalena did not miss a detail. Minutes later he returned, closed the hatch, replaced the carpet, and hung the key back around his neck. He seized a candlestick with two nearly spent tapers dripping wax and made for the door.
Catching sight of her, he cast Magdalena a hard look. She pretended to be curled up on the floor.
"Anyone comes near… you tell me," He ordered, before heading off to bed.
Magdalena was left alone in the corridor.
******
Hans, meanwhile, struggled at his bonds, but the trick worked only in pirate novels. With a sigh of despair, he lifted his eyes heavenward.
"Spirits of the forests and the high mountains, may my prayer reach the peaks of the Rhine… I know I trouble you often, but help me now, for I am truly lost," he murmured.
Suddenly a blow struck his head—Brian, returning from the rectory.
"You'll pray when you're told, vermin," the man sneered, before slumping back into his chair and fanning himself with his hat.