Under flat eyebrows, two dark eyes weighed her, as fingers scratched a long nose. By any measure, he was an ugly man, but, unlike Chamberlain Vos, he radiated power. Every word out of his mouth felt like it was being etched into history; every glance contained a subtle rebuke, an invitation for others to measure themselves against him and discover the ways in which they were wanting. By merely living, he thought himself an instruction manual in good breeding, discipline and values.
‘My wife,’ he said in a tone that could easily be mistaken for pleasant.
His hand jerked to her face, causing her to flinch. Pressing a thumb to her cheek, he roughly wiped away a clot of powder. ‘How unkind the heat is to you.’
She swallowed the insult, lowering her gaze.
Fifteen years they’d been married and she could count on one hand the number of times she’d be able to hold his stare.
It was those ink-blot eyes. They were identical to Lia’s, except her daughter’s glittered with life. Her husband’s were empty, like two dark holes his soul had long run out of.
She’d felt it the first time they’d met, when she and her four sisters had been delivered overnight to his drawing room in Rotterdam, like meat ordered specially from the market. He’d interviewed them one by one and chosen Sara on the spot. His proposal had been thorough, listing the benefits of their union to her father. In short, she’d have a beautiful cage and all the time in the world to admire herself in the bars.
Sara had wept all the way home, begging her father not to send her away.
It hadn’t made any difference. The dowry was too large. Unbeknown to her, she’d been bred for sale and fattened like a calf with manners and education.
She’d felt betrayed, but she’d been young. She understood the world better now. Meat didn’t get a say on whose hook it hung from.
‘Your display was unbecoming,’ he rebuked her under his breath, still smiling for his courtiers. They were edging close, wary of missing anything.
‘It wasn’t a display,’ she muttered defiantly. ‘The leper was suffering.’
‘He was dying. Did you think you had a lotion for that?’ His voice was low enough to crush the ants crawling around their feet. ‘You’re impulsive, reckless, thick-headed and soft-hearted.’ He flung insults the way rocks had been thrown at Samuel Pipps. ‘Such qualities I forgave when you were a girl, but your youth is far behind you.’
She didn’t listen to the rest; she didn’t need to. It was a familiar rebuke, the first drops of rain before the fury of the storm. Nothing she said now would make any difference. Her punishment would come later, when they were alone.
‘Samuel Pipps believes our ship is under threat,’ she blurted out.
Her husband frowned, unused to being interrupted.
‘Pipps is in chains,’ he argued.
‘Only his hands,’ she protested. ‘His eyes and faculties remain at liberty. He believes the leper was a carpenter once, possibly working in the fleet returning us to Amsterdam.’
‘Lepers can’t serve aboard Indiamen.’
‘Perhaps the blight showed itself when he reached Batavia?’
‘Lepers are executed and burnt by my decree. None are tolerated in the city.’ He shook his head in irritation. ‘You’ve allowed yourself to be swayed by the ramblings of a madman, and a criminal. There’s no danger here. The Saardam is a fine vessel, with a fine captain. There isn’t stouter in the fleet. That’s why I chose her.’
‘Pipps isn’t concerned about a loose plank,’ she shot back, quickly lowering her voice. ‘He fears sabotage. Everybody who boards today will be at risk, including our daughter. We already lost our boys, could you really stand to …’ She took a breath, calming herself. ‘Wouldn’t it be wise to talk to the captains of the fleet before we set sail? The leper was missing his tongue and had a maimed foot. If he served under any of them, they would certainly remember him.’
‘And what would you have me do in the meantime?’ he demanded, tipping his chin towards the hundreds of souls sweltering in the heat. Somehow the procession had managed to edge within eavesdropping distance without making a sound. ‘Should I order this procession back to the castle on a criminal’s good word?’
‘You trusted Pipps well enough when you summoned him from Amsterdam to retrieve The Folly.’
His eyes narrowed dangerously.
‘For Lia’s sake,’ she continued recklessly. ‘Might we take quarters aboard another ship, at least?’
‘No, we will travel aboard the Saardam.’
‘Lia alone, then.’
‘No.’
‘Why?’ She was so confounded by his stubbornness she failed to take heed of his anger. ‘Another ship will do well enough. Why are you so intent upon travelling –’
Her husband slapped her with the back of his hand, raising a stinging welt on her cheek. Among the courtiers there were gasps and giggles.
Sara’s glare could have sunk every ship in the harbour, but the governor general met it calmly, retrieving a silk handkerchief from his pocket.
Whatever fury had been building inside of him had evaporated.
‘Fetch our daughter, so we might board together as a family,’ he said, dabbing the white powder from his hand. ‘Our time in Batavia is at an end.’
Gritting her teeth, Sara turned back towards the procession.
Everybody was watching her, tittering and whispering, but she had eyes only for the palanquin.
Lia stared out from behind the tattered curtains, her face unreadable.
Damn him, thought Sara. Damn him.
4
Oars rose and fell, sunlight sparkling in the falling drops of water as the ferry made its way across the choppy blue harbour to the Saardam.
Guard Captain Jacobi Drecht was in the centre of the boat, a leg either side of the bench on which he was seated, his fingers absently picking out flakes of salted fish from his blond beard.
His sabre had been unhooked from his waist and laid across his knees. It was a fine weapon, with a delicate basket of metal protecting the hilt. Most musketeers were armed with pikes and muskets, or else rusted blades stolen from corpses on the battlefield. This was a noble’s sword, much too fine for a humble soldier, and Arent wondered where the guard captain had come upon it – and why he hadn’t sold it.
Drecht’s hand lay lightly on its sheath, and now and again he would cast a suspicious glance at his prisoner, but he was from the same village as the ferryman, and the two of them were talking warmly of the boar they’d hunted in its forests, and the taverns they’d visited.
At the prow, chains coiled around him like serpents, Sammy fingered his rusted manacles wretchedly. Arent had never seen his friend so dejected. In the five years they’d worked together, Sammy had proven himself vexing, short-tempered, kind and lazy, but never defeated. It was like seeing the sun sag in the sky.
‘Soon as we board, I’ll talk to the governor general,’ vowed Arent. ‘I’ll put sense before him.’
Sammy shook his head.
‘He won’t listen,’ he responded hollowly. ‘And the more you defend me, the harder it will be to distance yourself once I’ve been executed.’
‘Executed!’ exclaimed Arent.