Chapter 3
Depending on the press of business, Beckett continued to call on Norrington in the afternoons, before he departed to change for dinner or whatever function he was engaged for that evening. They played cards, usually, but also talked, for hours at a time, on subjects as diverse as the classics and the latest society gossip, which reached them through the now-regular East India Trading Company ships. Norrington was surprised to find that Beckett was widely-read and could find an apt quotation to suit almost any occurrence.
On one such afternoon they had become so involved in play and conversation that Proudfoot came looking for his lordship to enquire which clothes he wished set out for that evening's function.
Beckett bit his lip. "Oh, it will have to be the blue damask, I think. And the new wig."
"The gold waistcoat, milord, or the cream?"
"Gold."
"Very good, milord." Proudfoot bowed himself out.
"What is it this evening?"
"A ball. Sir George Standfast."
"Well, at least his wine will be relatively good."
"Thank heavens for that. I was beginning to think that they all had their palates addled by rum. I don't think I've had a decent glass of wine since I arrived in this god-forsaken island except it came from my own cellar."
"Too true, alas." They played another hand in silence, then Norrington said, "I'm surprised that you haven't given a ball yourself, to show off the magnificence of the East India Trading Company."
Beckett looked mildly incredulous. "But how can I give a ball when I have no one to act as hostess? Had I a wife - or even a sister - with me, I should have given one, of course, but as it is I am restricted to hosting the senior planters and merchants to dinner and conversation."
"I can see that it is a great misfortune to you."
"Well, it is an inconvenience. Never underestimate the power of the memsahib - the wives," he added, for Norrington's benefit. "You would be astonished to find that the most truculent of merchants is as putty on the hands of his wife. I have learned the value of paying close attention to these matters."
"I'm sure you have. But surely you do not talk of trade matters with wives?"
"Of course not! But it is truly a marvel to see how a judicious word of flattery to a plump matron, or a few flowery compliments to a plain daughter can tip the balance in favour of the company when it matters." He grinned, conspiratorially.
Norrington couldn't help but smile back. "You are truly a student of Machiavelli," (1) he murmured.
"Why, I thank you. There is many a man who would benefit from the study and understanding of his works. There are far too many who believe that there is nothing worth learning after the death of Augustus."
"That sort would not rise far in the Navy. Latin and Greek may have their place, but our very lives depend on invention and new information. Imagine how we would go astray if we limited ourselves to the maps drawn by the Greeks or Romans! We need the very latest charts and measurements if we are not to run our ships aground. And the recent refinements to our navigational instruments have proved invaluable - the chronometer, for example, allows us to estimate our longitude when used in concert with trigonometry. I find it fascinating that the length of a day is not a constant when travelling east or west."
Beckett waved a hand. "Alas, I leave such matters to the ships' masters."
Norrington shrugged. He loved the intricacies of calculation himself, but he recognised that it was an interest not held by many people. Instead, he changed the topic to one that he predicted would be of more immediate interest to Beckett. "So, do you fear match-making mamas?"
Beckett smiled. "No more than the next man. I must marry some day, of course, and sooner rather than later, now my father is dead, but there is no real urgency, and I am not eager to change my state in the immediate future. I confess, however, that the interest in my putative matrimonial prospects is keener here than in was in India. I suspect that my accession to a minor barony may be the cause of that."
"Undoubtedly. It never ceases to amaze me that, in a woman's eyes, a title - no matter how minor - can overcome the most serious deficiencies of in a man's intellect, looks or income."
"A sad but true statement. You may have noticed that the same phenomenon attaches to rank in the navy or the military."
"Not always," he said, as the thought of Elizabeth - so beautiful, so lively - arose in his mind's eye. He still loved her, and suspected that he always would. It still hurt to know that she had chosen a penniless blacksmith over him.
* * *
The next day, Beckett stormed into the room and poured himself a glass of wine, tossing it down his throat as if it were water.
Norrington essayed a wry smile. "Pratchett again?" he asked.
Beckett nodded, his face sour. "The man gives me no peace at all. He wants to use East India Trading Company ships to take his goods to London to sell through his own agents there - as if we would stoop to act as common carriers!"
Norrington almost laughed at the man's indignation.
Beckett continued. "I've told him I'll buy his crop outright, but he doesn't like my price. No matter. We are no ordinary trading company, and he'll find out soon enough that the situation has changed considerably from last year."
At Norrington's enquiring look, he explained further. "His Majesty has granted the East India Trading Company exclusive trading rights for the next decade. If Mr Pratchett thinks he can send his sugar to London via any other ships but ours, he is mistaken. And my price for his crop will go down with every passing week." He sighed, then gave Norrington a beatific smile. "It may not be quite a gentleman's sport, but I find that trade is just as exciting as hunting or gaming."
"If I am to understand you, it is indeed a form of gaming: you wager against both the markets and the vicissitudes of weather."
Beckett looked delighted with that summation, and nodded his head in agreement. "Indeed we do, Mr Norrington, indeed we do. Our stakes are high, but the profits can be stupendous for those who can read the markets and the Exchanges."
"I take it that you have been more successful than most."
Beckett gave a sly smile. "I have had some success, yes. Enough that I may look forward to a comfortable old age and a degree of influence at court when I return to England. I may even improve on my father's efforts and purchase myself a viscounty." (2)
"That will no doubt bring the maidens flocking."
Beckett made a face. "If I have to marry, I'll marry well, and Viscount Beckett will do much better than a plain baron."
"You are ambitious."
"Why not? There's no disgrace in wanting to improve one's station in life."
"I suppose not." Norrington wondered if his own station in life would ever improve. So far they had carefully avoided any discussion of his current status. He hadn't been given any orders, and he hadn't ventured any petty disobediences. He hadn't tried to leave the room since he'd woken up there more than a week before, and he'd resisted the temptation to call for help from one of the windows that looked out onto the busy street.
He had no doubt, however, that he was still a captive. Now that he was able to rise from his bed for an hour a day, Beckett had stationed a pair of militiamen outside the door - he glimpsed their blue and gold livery whenever Beckett entered or left the room. Never mind that it would be at least another fortnight before he could walk more than a few yards without collapsing. Beckett was being cautious, and that meant he had to be equally cautious ... and equally adept at dissimulation.
* * *
The next morning, Beckett strolled in before noon, obviously direct from the stables. He did not appear as much to advantage in the plain brown jacket as he did in his embroidered coats, but he was slim and well-proportioned, if still shorter than the average, and he was attractively flushed from the exercise.
Norrington, already semi-hard from a dream that had involved him, Beckett and Elizabeth, in varying states of undress and wantonness, found himself taking a sudden, unexpected inhalation. He coughed, hoping that Beckett hadn't noticed either his gasp or his erection.
"How are you this morning?" he enquired.
"Much improved, thank you."
"Excellent."
There was pause, and Norrington saw Beckett's gaze flicker to the bedclothes, which were slightly tented over his groin. He felt himself flushing, and manufactured a fit of coughing to give himself a reason for a red face. It also allowed him to change his position, sitting up slightly and rumpling the bedclothes so that the offending protrusion was disguised.
"You should come riding with me one morning," Beckett said blandly, though the twitch of his lip and the hint of a smug smile betrayed the fact that he was quite aware of what Norrington doing.
Norrington raised an eyebrow. Prisoners were not normally - in his experience, at least - invited to go riding with their gaolers. Apart from the risk that he would take the horse and bolt, there was the likelihood that they would be seen together, and that might engender some talk, since he hadn't been seen in the town since his departure for Tortuga many months ago. "I am an indifferent rider, I fear," he stated, calmly, "and would not appear to advantage beside you. You would be forever urging me to catch up, and scolding me for walking around obstacles that any novice would find easy to jump."
Beckett laughed. "I think you underestimate yourself, Mr Norrington. I am sure that you are a competent rider, if unpractised. I shall not insist, however, but shall leave it to you to change your mind if you wish." He approached the bed, his eyes taking in the outline of Norrington's body. He trailed a hand up Norrington's leg, brushing over his groin (and smiling a little as he felt the hidden erection stirring under his touch), and then up his abdomen. He took hold of the bedclothes and pulled them back, revealing Norrington's body, barely concealed by a linen nightshirt. He gestured, and Norrington, to his own amazement, found himself pulling up the nightshirt, baring himself to the waist.
Beckett nodded his approval. "I have first-hand experience of your talents in another form of riding, however, and I can say, quite honestly, that they are exceptional." His hand closed around Norrington's cock, and this time Norrington didn't even attempt to disguise the gasp. A few slow strokes, a thumb brushing over the tip, and Norrington lay back, all voluntary thoughts and actions negated by the intensity of the sensations flooding through his body. Oh, the man had skill! If only he would keep doing this, Norrington had no doubt he'd agree to anything he wanted.
He was starting to move his hips in response, and spread his legs a little, hoping that Beckett would take the hint and stroke his balls. Instead, Beckett's hand moved up to the head, where beads of fluid betrayed his eagerness. Long, elegant fingers massaged the foreskin and smeared the sticky wetness over the emergent head. It felt wonderful, but he wanted more - he wanted that firm hand around his shaft; he wanted fingers fondling his balls; he wanted, above all, that sweet mouth closing around him. He'd beg, if necessary - he was beyond shame at this point.
Without warning, Beckett withdrew his hand. Norrington gaped at him, trying to work out why he'd stopped. As awareness returned, he registered the sound of voices below, and realised that someone had come to call on the Agent.
Beckett looked annoyed. "That'll be Mr Pratchett. He said he would call on me today. Again." He rose and touched the tip of his finger to his tongue. "Hmm … interesting." He fetched a handkerchief out from a pocket, shaking it out with a flourish and then using it to wipe his fingers clean. "I expect to be closeted with the tedious Mr Pratchett for at least an hour. When I finally free myself of his presence, I am going to be in urgent need of some … release." He looked around before dropping the handkerchief on the table.
The doors opened, and Norrington scrambled to pull up the covers.
Mercer, giving no indication that he had seen anything out of the ordinary, addressed himself to Lord Beckett. "Mr Pratchett has called to see you, milord. I have shown him to the study. I believe that Proudfoot has your lordship's change of clothing laid out ready for you."
"Thank you, Mercer. Tell Proudfoot that I shall be there directly."
Mercer bowed and left, closing the doors behind him. Beckett leaned in close to Norrington and spoke in a low voice. "When next I enter this room, I expect to be able to drop my breeches, climb onto the bed and enter you in one long thrust. I also expect you to be ready for me. I suggest you use the time wisely." He straightened up and walked to the door, turning back to say, "Don't think you can bring yourself off now and then recover. I want you to be hard for an hour, and I'll know if you've disobeyed me." He left the room without another word.
Norrington contemplated his situation for a couple of minutes. The door was unlocked, but he remained too weak to run away. He would have to submit again and hope that it wouldn't be too painful. He rang the bell, and Susan, the maid came in to see what he wanted.
Norrington paused. Heaven only knew that this was going to be difficult enough to say, without letting Beckett's mistress know that his lordship was planning on taking him as a catamite in less than an hour. But he needed oil, and someone would have to get it for him.
He cleared his throat, and said, very rapidly, "I need some oil."
"What's that?"
She obviously hadn't understood. He tried again, a little more slowly and clearly. "I need some oil."
"Some oil?"
Norrington nodded.
"What sort of oil?"
"Any type of oil. For - for skin."
"For skin?"
"Yes. For … " he forced himself to say the word, "for Lord Beckett … for Lord Beckett's pleasure." He closed his eyes, mortified beyond belief.
Susan, by contrast, seemed unperturbed by his embarrassment. "Oh, you want his Sunday morning oil," she said. "I'll get that for you, don't you worry."
With that, she left, leaving him to the task of maintaining his erection until she returned, some minutes later, and placed a small vial of amber oil on the bedside table. "You want me to put it on you?" she asked.
"No!" he cried. "That is ... no, I can manage on my own, thank you."
As soon as the door had closed behind her his hand went under the bed clothes and pulled up his nightshirt again. His shaft was hard, the head gleaming. He wanted to bring himself off - he wanted that so badly it almost hurt - but he had no doubt that Beckett would be able to tell if he did, and he had no wish to incur any more punishments.
Sighing, he picked up the oil, poured a little onto his fingers and started the slow and laborious process of stretching himself.
It wasn't quite an hour later that Beckett returned. Norrington had need frequent pauses in his preparations, and had only just reached the fourth finger when the door opened and his lordship walked in, calm and serene in appearance.
Beckett's calm façade disappeared the moment the door closed behind him, and he looked lasciviously at the sight in front of him, one hand palming himself through his breeches, the other tugging at the buttons that secured the garments to his frame. He freed himself and approached the bed. "On your hands and knees."
Norrington complied quickly, trying to tell himself that it had nothing to do with any eagerness on his part; he simply believed that it was not the right moment to test Beckett's limits of self-control.
Beckett sounded pleased by his captive's obedience. "I've just spent an hour with the most boring man in the whole of Jamaica," he muttered, climbing onto the bed. "The only thought that kept me from throttling him was the knowledge that I'd be doing - this - as soon as he left." So saying, he placed his cock against Norrington's arse and gave a slow but steady push until the head broke through, then paused, caught his breath and slid himself home.
Norrington surprised himself by giving a groan of pleasure as Beckett entered him. It didn't hurt nearly as much as the previous times. It wasn't only that he'd had time to stretch and oil himself; it was also that Beckett wasn't quite as brutal as he had been in the first few days. As Beckett gradually increased his pace, his erection, which had only flagged slightly, revived and became another source of stimulation as it brushed against the sheets.
They moved in counterpoint, each one adjusting to the other, until they achieved a perfect rhythm, in and out, through and around, each perfectly complementing the other's movement.
Beckett slowed his pace, as if he wanted to prolong their pleasure, and Norrington was ashamed to hear himself whimper. He tried to lift a hand to pull on his cock, but it was batted away and replaced by Beckett's hand, which gripped him firmly and squeezed so that he groaned.
"That's right, James," Beckett whispered behind him, "moan your pleasure for me. Tell me I'm the best you've ever had."
God help him, he did, just before he climaxed, long and hard, making truth out of his lie.
* * *
The following day, an East Indiaman arrived in Port Royal, and as a result Beckett was exceptionally busy, discussing business with the captain for much of the afternoon. Norrington didn't see him until the evening, when he called in only to say that he was off to dine with the captain and other dignitaries. Norrington told himself that an evening without his captor was something to be relished, and tried hard not to feel lonely as the evening progressed with nothing but his own thoughts for company. Even the inestimable prose of Mr Pope could not compare with Beckett's caustic wit and shrewd commentary on the foibles of the human race as exhibited in Port Royal.
As the night dragged on, and Beckett did not return at his usual hour, Norrington realised that he was becoming anxious. He's a grown man, he chided himself, and he's certainly capable of spending a few hours with his colleagues without getting into trouble. He forced himself to concentrate on his book, and only gave up when the candles started to splutter beside him. He fell asleep and dreamed of buggering Beckett over the helm of the Dauntless.
It must have been well after midnight when the door opened and Beckett entered the room, dressed only in his nightshirt and carrying a single candle to light his way. Norrington woke up with a start and blinked at the light of the flame.
"Oh, good, you are awake." The candle was set down on the bedside table and Beckett climbed in. Norrington moved over without a word, somewhat astonished at the man's calm expectancy of cooperation.
"To what do I owe the honour of such a late visit?" he asked, more calmly than he felt.
"I'm feeling bruised. (3) The food was bland, the wines were execrable and the company was worse. Pratchett was imbecile enough to air his grievances against the company, and it took a great deal of self-control on my part not to run him through on the spot. Then Standfast made some joke about his daughter wanting to become Lady Beckett - as if I'd marry a snaggle-toothed girl who can barely see three feet in front of her face! I cannot believe the man's insensitivity." He sighed. "Now all my senses are disordered, and I can't sleep."
"What do you want me to do? I'm neither nursemaid nor physician."
"No, but a good shag will go a long way to making me feel better."
Norrington thought about refusing - he wasn't shackled, after all, and might just be able to crawl his way out of bed - but, as usual, Beckett forestalled him, saying, wearily, "Don't fight me, Norrington, not tonight. It's just a shag. I'll even prepare you, if you want."
Norrington shrugged and rolled over, pulling up his nightshirt. "Be generous with the oil. And don't thrust in so fast - I want to have a moment to adjust when you enter me."
If Beckett was surprised by Norrington's instructions he gave no sign, just reaching for the oil he'd left in the drawer beside the bed.
His fingers were surprisingly gentle as he prepared Norrington, liberally coating his fingers with oil before inserting them, stretching the delicate skin carefully and thoroughly. He eased himself in with much less force than usual, and Norrington tried his hardest to stay relaxed.
"Oh, I needed this," breathed Beckett as he started to move. "You feel so good."
Norrington, for once, had to agree. A non-violent Beckett was a truly skilled lover, and he allowed himself to relax and enjoy the sensations that washed over him. His own climax preceded Beckett's by about a minute, and he marvelled at how deep and intense it felt. When Beckett collapsed on top of him, he was actually smiling to himself, but he managed to bring his expression under control before Beckett moved and he could roll over.
To his surprise, Beckett did not rise and seek his own bed, but curled up against him, one arm over his chest. He lay, motionless, trying to work out if he should sleep himself, or if he should stay awake so as to rouse Beckett before the servants came up in the morning.
"Stop thinking, James. Sleep."
He gave a mental shrug. They were Beckett's servants, after all, and he appeared to trust in their discretion. In any case, it would probably be Susan who came in first, and she already knew, so there was little to be gained by worrying.
Beckett's thumb brushed over his collarbone. "Sleep."
He obeyed, and slept peacefully through the night, though he was gratified to find that he woke at dawn and was able to convince Beckett to return to his own bed before the servants found them.
* * *
After a few more days, Norrington had improved in strength to the point where he spent most of the day on the chaise longue that lay along the bay window. He sat there for hours, looking down over the wharves and the street, keeping to the shadows so that no one could see him. He knew that his presence in the house was to remain a secret for the foreseeable future, but it no longer troubled him. At one stage he would have recklessly taken the chance to broadcast his plight to the passers-by below, but his fever and the consideration that Beckett had shown him since he had been brought down from the attic had mellowed him, and he was content to lie and observe. Once he had his strength back, then he'd think about escape. Until then, the best thing he could do was to remain quiet and allow his body to recover, however long it took.
Beckett continued to visit during the day as well as at night, and their conversations grew in depth and breadth. Beckett was well-read in the classics and the newer works of literature, but he had little interest in philosophy or science. Norrington, on the other hand, had only such knowledge of the classics as he had managed to acquire in his brief years at school, but he had a passion for science and eagerly devoured the volumes of the Proceedings of the Royal Society that Beckett managed to procure from the Reverent Thompson. In spite of their divergent interests they found much common ground, and it was not unusual for Proudfoot or Mercer to have to come and call his lordship away to some engagement, so engrossed were they that the passage of time had gone unnoticed.
Late one afternoon Beckett came in to find Norrington lying on the chaise longue, dozing in the golden light. There was no longer any need for Susan to sit with him - he was strong enough now to get around the room on his own - and Beckett took full advantage of their privacy to slide a hand underneath the dressing-gown and fondle his cock.
"Good afternoon, James, you look well-rested."
"Hmm," Norrington gave a sleepy smile and stretched.
Beckett gave a smirk and leaned forward, saying, "One of these days I'm going to bend you over that window-sill and bugger you in view of the entire population of Port Royal."
"Always the exhibitionist."
The laconic reply was not what Beckett was expecting. He cocked his head to one side and regarded Norrington with a disappointed air. "You're not afraid of me any more."
Norrington stopped himself from grinning. He wasn't afraid of Beckett as things stood at the moment, but there was always the possibility that Beckett could order him back to the attic and the daily torment he had endured there - or, worse, ask for his parole. (4) "Do you want me to be?" he asked, as neutrally as possible.
Beckett thought about that for a minute before shaking his head. "No. Not at the moment, anyway: I find your insolence more amusing than your subjugation."
Norrington heaved an inward sigh of relief, but it was a timely reminder that this fragile semblance of freedom depended on the caprice of his lordship, and that the privileges he had enjoyed since his recovery from fever could be withdrawn at any minute. He had to find a way to escape.
He'd think about that later. For the moment, he turned his attention to the very interesting way in which Beckett was coddling his balls, and hoped that they wouldn't be interrupted until they had reached a mutually satisfying conclusion.
* * *
Ironically, it was Beckett's own headache that revealed the whereabouts of the medicine cabinet and, more importantly, the key that unlocked it. They had been playing cards again, this time in Beckett's bedchamber (where he had summoned Norrington earlier that afternoon), but the sultry air and his late return from a dinner the night before had combined to make Beckett's head ache, a fact which he grumbled about until Norrington told him to take some laudanum and lie down for a while.
"I don't take laudanum during the day."
"Why not?"
"It makes me sleepy."
"Well, you're hardly awake now. I'm about to beat you and you know how bad I am at these card games."
Beckett regarded the points sourly. "You're winning."
"I know. Tragic, isn't it?"
"It's more than a tragedy. I hate losing at cards."
"You hate losing at anything."
Beckett grinned. "True." He stood up and pulled the bell-cord. It was Mercer who responded, and Beckett frowned. "I rang for Proudfoot."
"Your lordship gave him the afternoon off."
"Did I? How tiresome. I ought to have known I would need him." He dismissed Mercer, saying, "No matter, Mr Mercer, I'll manage on my own." He pulled out a small ring of keys from his pocket, and sifted through them until he came to the one he wanted - a small plain key, with nothing to mark it from its fellows but a red woollen thread knotted through it. He stood up and turned to the large armoire that stood along one wall, before abruptly turning back to Norrington and ordering him out of the room.
Norrington went without protest. It didn't matter, after all - he'd already learned the two pieces of information he needed. Unless there was some peculiar oriental trap to the medicine chest, he could open it with the key from Beckett's pocket and take whatever medicines he wanted - including laudanum.
* * *
It was another three nights before he was able to put his plan into effect, and during that time he was very careful to give no hint of what he was planning. He feigned a continuing lethargy, and took to sleeping later in the morning. He cautiously started to exercise a little - difficult in the confines of his room, but not impossible. He was still weak, in truth, but not quite so much as he pretended.
That night, Beckett dined in his own chamber, engrossed in reading some papers that had just arrived from England, and summoned Norrington to attend to him there. He remained somewhat distracted during the meal and explained that there had been several ships attacked by pirates in the past few weeks, and he was concerned about an overdue convoy from England. They discussed the pirate problem (carefully avoiding any reference to the Black Pearl or Jack Sparrow) and the success of the measures taken by King George and the Royal Navy in reducing the numbers from several thousands down to a few hundreds. Tortuga remained a problem, of course, but it was easily contained and, after all, it was better to have all the miscreants in one port rather than scattered throughout the islands.
With Beckett so distracted, it was easy for Norrington to ply him with drink and "accidentally" brush his fingers across Beckett's hand as he reached for the glass. It had the intended effect - Beckett soon insisted on bringing conversation to a close and dragged Norrington onto the bed, where he proceeded to demonstrate that the best part of two bottles of burgundy had no effect on his stamina whatsoever. Following his release, however, he quickly dropped off into a deep sleep, and Norrington took the opportunity to extract the small key from his coat, open the medicine cabinet and add several drops of laudanum to the remaining wine.
After that, it was simply a matter of rousing Beckett sufficiently for him to pour more wine and drink it, and then to tuck him up gently in the large bed as his sleep deepened into a stupor.
A scant half-hour later Norrington was dressed and making his way quietly down the back stairs to the kitchens. He unlocked the door, lifted the latch, stepped through and closed it behind him. He crept down the stairs to the alley that led to the main road and the wharves. With luck he'd be able to find a ship or a boat to carry him away before the hue and cry was raised. He had gold in his pocket and a knife at his waist, and would do whatever he had to do to get away.
He scanned the harbour, wondering which, if any of the vessels would be most suitable for him. The pickings weren't good. He looked the whole length of the wharves and sighed - one merchantman and a few dinghies, but nothing in between. He decided to check the point, where the buccaneers and fishermen sometimes careened their boats. He cut back through the alley and headed down the High Street, keeping to the shadows as he headed west. He reached Fisher's Row without encountering anything more sinister than a cat, and looked down over Turtle Crawls. Nothing - at least, nothing seaworthy. All the small vessels that would best have suited him were out, probably fishing.
He sighed. He didn't want to go back to the house - there might never be another opportunity to escape. And yet, there was no point in taking a rowing boat - the furthest he would get would be across the harbour neck, and he'd be lucky to survive a week, even if he didn't get killed by the Maroons. (5)
Something glinted in the corner of his eye and he turned at once. At first he could see nothing, but then, out of the water, he caught a flash of moonlight on metal, and gasped. A ship was pulling around the point, and not a ship that he recognised, either. There was something not quite right about it - apart from the fact that merchants and naval vessels berthed in daylight - and he cursed as he realised that it was pirate or privateer. Not the Black Pearl, thank the Lord, but a pirate ship nonetheless. How she had sailed into the harbour without being spotted from Fort Charles he had no idea, but that was no longer his problem.
He watched the ship for a few moments, feeling the wind, and realising that there was no way she'd be able to come alongside with the ebbing tide. She'd have to lower the boats and row her men in if they wanted to attack, and that gave him a few more minutes to plan. He reviewed the options that lay open to him: he could slink away and hope to avoid both pirates and marines; he could throw in his lot with the pirates, betray the town and hope to live long enough to enjoy whatever portion of plunder was allotted him; or he could raise the alarm and hope to return to live through the ensuing attack.
There was one further complication: Beckett was drugged and unconscious, and would be useless for several more hours. There was no way the man was fit to defend himself or the house. Loath as he was to return, or to assist the East India Company in any way, Norrington could not, in all conscience, leave Beckett helpless to face a mob of pirates. He'd seen the aftermath of pirate attacks, and he knew that a man of Beckett's position, if found defenceless, would suffer the full brunt of their brutality. He couldn't leave him to face that. There was something particularly distasteful about the - it was the sort of thing a pirate would do. It was something that Jack Sparrow would do. No, Norrington would not stoop to that level, not even if it meant a thousand more thrashings.
The creak of the blocks drew his attention back to the ship. The boats were being lowered and he knew he had to make a decision now. Sighing to himself, and cursing his bad luck and his sense of honour, he turned around and started to retrace his steps. He'd have to hurry - the house was one of the largest in the town and was certain to be among the first to be attacked. He had at most ten or fifteen minutes before the pirates could reach the town, and he'd need every second.
He ran back along the side streets, no longer caring who saw him, and let himself in through the side door, locking it and sliding home the heavy bolt - not that it would prove to be much use against an axe. He made his way quickly up the stairs and into the main landing. He really had to find Mercer, but he had no idea where the man slept.
He shouldn't have worried. With Mercer's uncanny knack of being precisely where he was needed most, he appeared from nowhere and spoke in a low voice, "Out for a stroll, Mr Norrington?"
"Yes, I was," snapped Norrington, "and a damned good thing, too. There's a pirate ship hove to in the harbour and the boats will be alongside any minute. The town must be roused."
"Pirate ship? Is it Sparrow?"
"No. Well," he elaborated, "it's not the Black Pearl, at any rate. More than that I can't tell."
"I'll wake Lord Beckett immediately."
"I'll do that - you get the weapons."
Mercer raised an eyebrow, and Norrington bristled. "Oh, for heaven's sake, man, I came back didn't I? I won't harm him."
Mercer gave him an appraising look, then nodded and moved off. Norrington ran up the stairs to Becket's room, finding his lordship just as he'd left him, but now snoring softly. Norrington shook his shoulder, but there was no response.
"Wake up," he said, shaking the man a bit more vigorously. "Wake up, Beckett."
Beckett groaned and opened his eyes blearily. "Wha-?"
"Wake up! There are pirates in the town! We're under attack!" He slid an arm under Beckett's shoulder and helped him to a sitting position.
Beckett gave a lazy smile of recognition. "Norr... Nongt'n."
"Yes, it is I. Now, will you wake up? We have to fight."
Beckett smiled drunkenly and turned his head, pressing his lips to Norrington's cheek. "Come back to bed."
Norrington cursed. Laudanum had obviously addled the man's brains, and there'd be no sense in him at all until it wore off, which might be several hours. He certainly couldn't fight in this condition - he would have to be hidden away safely, so the pirates couldn't find him.
He hauled Beckett out of bed, ignoring his protests, and dragged him into the small dressing room. Beckett's clothes were neatly arrayed on shelves, his gorgeous coats hanging from wooden coat-hangers along the back wall. Failing a priest's hole, it was the best he could do for the moment.
Just then he heard a commotion downstairs and realised that the pirates had broken into the house. Hoping that Mercer had managed to get away to raise the alarm, he dragged Beckett behind the coats and huddled with him in the corner. Ears straining for signs of the pirates' approach, he tucked Beckett's feet in close, hoping they wouldn't be seen, hoping that the pirates would be fooled.
Beckett leaned against him, boneless and weak under the influence of laudanum. His eyes tried to focus on Norrington's face, but what it was that he actually saw, Norrington had no way of telling. Beckett smiled sleepily, like a small child, and turned to rub a cheek against Norrington's coat.
Heavy footsteps were coming closer. They entered the room and Norrington could hear them searching through the bedding and furniture. He held on to Beckett tightly, hoping that the man would stay quiet.
Of course, Beckett had to choose that moment to give a little giggle. It wasn't much - just a soft, warm chuckle - and Norrington prayed that the searchers had been making too much noise themselves to hear it. Nevertheless, he placed a hand over Beckett's mouth, hoping to quiet him. The next minute he had to stifle a cry of his own, as Beckett's tongue slid over his fingers, a warm, wet, wriggling feeling that was as disconcerting as it was unusual - at any other time he would have called the sensation delightful, but in the present moment it was a distraction he could ill afford.
Beckett startled to struggle, and Norrington removed his hand, gingerly, pressing a finger to the man's lips, hoping that Beckett would feel it and understand, hoping that he'd be quiet. Beckett was smiling dreamily, relaxed, sprawled over Norrington's lap like a limp rag, wanton and willing. He looked years younger - so closely resembling the eager boy he'd been in India that Norrington felt himself stirring in spite of himself. He cursed under his breath and tried to ease himself surreptitiously. He couldn't afford to become aroused now - there was work to be done and escapes to be planned, and no man in the world could run with an erection the size of a bow-sprit in his breeches.
As Beckett mumbled something and gave another chuckle, he pressed his hand over the man's mouth, but Beckett again started to struggle. Norrington had to think of something, fast. In desperation, he pressed his lips to Beckett's, hoping that a kiss, combined with whatever dream the man was having, would keep him quiet. Beckett gave a hum of contentment and opened his mouth, his tongue teasing at Norrington's.
For the next few minutes, the world could have ended and neither man would have noticed. The kiss was everything that Norrington had been dreaming of - soft, open, sensuous and delicious. He lost himself in the exploration of Beckett's mouth, tasting him, learning him, feeling him.
He felt Beckett's hand stroking his cheek, briefly, before it fell back as he succumbed once more to his drugged sleep. The lips became slack, the eyes closed, and he turned his cheek into Norrington's shoulder.
Norrington let out a sigh of relief. The room had fallen quiet and he hoped that the searchers had proceeded through the mansion while his attention had been diverted.
He was mistaken: all at once the door to the dressing-room opened and someone began rummaging through the clothes and effects. Whoever it was approached the back of the room, and Norrington held his breath. Beckett, unfortunately, did not, and his soft snore attracted the attention of the searcher. The coats were drawn aside, and Norrington looked up into the reddened and scarred face of a pirate.
"Oh ho!" the man crowed with delight. "Nobby, look what I've found!"
"What?" The second man entered and stood behind his companion. "Ooh, what do we have here?"
"They were hiding behind the coats."
"So they were, Jemmy, so they were. Let's get them out where we can have a little chat." Nobby held a pistol in his right hand and a sword in his left. He kept the pistol aimed at Norrington while the two men were hauled to their feet and prodded through to the bedchamber. Norrington had to place an arm around Beckett's waist to assist him to stand and walk, and even then the man slumped against him.
"Now, then, which of you two is Lord Beckett?" asked Nobby
Norrington glanced at his companion, but he doubted that Beckett had even heard the question. He looked the pirate in the eye and said firmly, "I am." He hoped fervently that he could carry off the imposture for the minutes or hours that would elapse until the marines could fight their way back to the house.
Unfortunately, the pirate didn't look as if he believed him at all. He was shaking his head sadly. "Now, we was told that Lord Beckett is a fine gentleman, but wery short. This gentleman what is swooning in your arms is short. You, on the other hand, is wery tall. And furthermore, you is dressed in plain linens and he is in a dentical fine nightshirt. I think you was trying to lead us astray."
"Astray, that's right," said the other pirate. "But Nobby's too smart for that, see."
Nobby nodded. "Smart, see. That's what matters." He glanced at the half-conscious Beckett and asked, "I would say you're one of his lordship's servants."
Norrington sighed, but there was little to be gained in trying to explain the precise nature of his position in Beckett's household - the more so as he didn't really know himself. "You're right, I'm a servant here. I was just trying to protect his lordship. He's not well."
"What's wrong with him?"
"A contagious fever." Norrington wasn't sure if they'd believe this lie, either, but it was worth the attempt.
Unfortunately, Nobby was smarter than he had anticipated, for instead of looking afraid, as Norrington had hoped, or even coming close and allowing Norrington to make an attempt on his weapons, he gestured to his companion. "Jemmy, you put your hand to his forehead and see if he feels feverish."
"Why me?"
"Because I'm holding the pistol, that's why."
"But what if he's got a fever? What if I catch it?"
"He hasn't got a fever, Jemmy. That's just this feller trying to bamboozle us."
"Oh." Jemmy appeared to be thinking about Nobby's explanation. "You're sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. Now just you do as I told you and put your hand to his forehead."
Jemmy stepped forward, somewhat hesitantly, and touched his hand to Beckett's forehead. "He don't feel feverish to me."
"There, what did I tell you? This feller's trying to frighten us off, but we don't scare so easy."
"No, we don't."
Nobby dragged the ornate chair from its place beside Beckett's writing desk and gestured to Norrington, making sure that the pistol was aimed squarely at his midriff and staying well out of reach. "You set him down here, then stand back."
Norrington complied, seeing no alternative but cooperation for the moment. As soon as he had set Beckett down he was pulled away and dealt a savage kick in the guts by Nobby. He doubled over, gasping for breath, and took a second blow to the kneecap. He collapsed to the floor, in agony, and barely heard Nobby saying, "That's for lying to me twice, you low-born scum." He watched Norrington for a few more seconds then directed Jemmy to drag him to his feet. "Now, Jemmy, you make sure you keep your sword at this feller's throat while I question his lordship."
Jemmy raised his sword and moved to stand just behind Norrington, holding the blade close to his throat, effectively preventing him from making any attempt to escape or to help Beckett. Norrington knew he'd be useless for several minutes anyway, and stood as still as he was able, trying to catch his breath and ease his bruised muscles.
Nobby turned his attention back to the man in the chair, gripping his chin tightly and tilting his face up. "So, my pretty, are you Lord Beckett?" There was no reply, and Nobby responded by giving the man a harsh slap across the face.
The pain appeared to revive Beckett a little, and when the question was repeated, he answered, curtly, "Of course I am, you dolt. Who else would I be?"
The answer appeared to satisfy Nobby, who smiled and said, "Well then, your lordship, you'll no doubt be holding the keys what will open the treasure chests of the East India Trading Company."
"There are no treasure chests."
Nobby hit him across the face again. Beckett made no sound, but his eyes burned and Norrington realised that the pain was bringing him out of the laudanum-haze faster than any cajolery on his part could have done. Furthermore, Beckett was now blazingly angry, which did not bode well for the pirate in front of him, no matter how advantageous might be his current position.
"Every company has treasure chests," said Nobby, almost sorrowfully. "They'll be in the cellars, like they always are. Now, you hand over the key to the treasury, nice and easy like, and we'll let you go. Can't say fairer than that."
Norrington hurried to interject. "Don't listen to them, milord, they'll take your keys and then cut your throat for sport." He grunted at a retaliatory blow from his captor, and hoped that Beckett would understand all that he had implied.
"Thank you, James, I am well aware that criminals are rarely trustworthy." The words were cutting, but they reassured Norrington that at least Beckett had recovered his wits.
"Criminals, he calls us. That's harsh, that is." Nobby shook his head. "We're adventurers, just like you are, hostages to fortune."
"I doubt that our fortunes are remotely comparable."
"Well, that's just it, you see. They aren't. We aim to balance our fortunes by taking some of yours and adding it to ours. Now, are you going to tell us, or do we have to beat it out of you?"
"Damn your eyes for impudence! I'll see you hanged from the highest gibbet in Port Royal and your rotting corpse caged in irons for a year!"
Nobby flashed in annoyance. "You didn't ought to have said that." He reached into a pocket and fished out a short length of rope, knotted twice three inches apart. That both Norrington and Beckett recognised it at once could be told only from their complete stillness.
Nobby laughed at Beckett's discomfort. "You've seen the Rosary before, I'll wager."
"I've seen its results," he said, drily, his eyes fixed on the rope.
"Then I don't need to tell you how painful it is, how it can squeeze a man's eyeballs from their sockets, and pop the very bones of his skull, then, do I?"
Beckett turned a little paler, but his voice was firm as he said, "Not at all. I am quite familiar with the principle."
"And will you change your mind now, my pretty lord, and give me the key before I make you a beggar and a cripple?"
"Never, damn you to hell!"
Nobby gave a ghastly grin and handed his sword over to Jemmy, who shuffled them both closer. Now Jemmy was standing behind Norrington, his right hand holding a knife to Norrington's throat, and his left hand holding the sword that forced Beckett to hold his chin high.
The two Englishmen looked at each other. The thought that it might be the last time they saw each other alive could not have escaped them, but neither betrayed the smallest weakness in their demeanour. Then Nobby put the rope around Beckett's head, and he closed his eyes as the knots pressed into his sockets. Nobby pulled the ends tight and started to twist them, increasing the pressure on Beckett's eyes and skull.
Beckett remained silent throughout the torture. Norrington was impressed at his fortitude. He did not think that he himself could have withstood the pain and terror and knowledge of what would happen with so much composure. Beckett's fists and jaw were clenched tight at the pain, but he did not move or make a sound.
Norrington cast a covert glance at his captor, who had relaxed his hold somewhat, his attention wholly engaged by the spectacle of torture enfolding in front of him. The avid gleam in his eyes sickened Norrington, but he swore to make use of the man's inattention before Nobby could inflict irreparable damage upon Lord Beckett. In a trice he had twisted and thrown the man to the ground and he gave the pirate such a kick to the head as would have him seeing stars for a week. He wrenched the sword from the man's hand and turned to Nobby, who had let go of the Rosary immediately, believing, with some accuracy, that Norrington proved the greater danger.
Norrington threw himself at the pirate, trusting in his speed and agility to overcome the man before he could draw his knife or pistol. In this he was successful, but not entirely so, for as they fell to the ground the pirate twisted in his grasp and evaded his hasty gropings. To his horror, Norrington found himself looking down the barrel of a primed and cocked pistol. He sat back, slowly and carefully, on his heels.
Nobby glanced at his colleague in infamy, now lying insensate on the rich carpet and swore a vile oath, after which he took careful aim at Norrington's head and pulled the trigger.
Footnotes:
(1) Niccolo Machiavelli (1469-1527). Florentine statesman, wrote The Prince while in exile. Back
(2) "Cash for honours" is not exactly a new concept. Back
(3) Yes, it's a line from the jam scene in Gosford Park (well, actually the line is "I'm feeling a little bruised"). I couldn't be bothered changing it when I realised where my subconscious had grabbed it from. Back
(4) When an officer was taken prisoner, he was generally given the option of giving his parole - that is, his word of honour that he would not try to escape. Having done that, he was then treated as a guest, with a room, food and clothing provided, and no locks or shackles. If, however, he refused, he would be locked up and treated much more roughly - but he was also able to plot and carry out an escape. Back
(5) The Maroons were originally slaves of the Spanish, who were released or escaped at the time of the English invasion in 1655. They were joined by more escaped slaves and became brigands, raiding the English settlements for the next 100 years. Back