†
Renoir never made it back to the Inn to kill the Fat Wife. The slow cranial bleed Ravan gifted him with on the practice grounds sent him sliding from his horse eight days later. The animal made its way to a farm after a few weeks of wandering and learned to plow a field. Renoir, quite alive but barely able to move, could not defend himself at all when the wolves came…
* * *
Time passed, and Ravan fought. Whenever and with whomever Duval wished for him to fight, he fought. Day after day on the training grounds, Ravan was defeated. Every time he hit the ground, he rose again until he could rise no more, and LanCoste would half carry the boy back to his quarters. It was body and mind numbing, and it served to help Ravan displace the pain in his heart. Renoir had not yet returned with the head of the Innkeeper’s wife, but of one thing he was certain—Duval would have his way. She was dead.
In Ravan’s mind, the Fat Wife had been murdered, and it was his fault. He would not make the same mistake again—would not allow it. There were the orphans, Avon, and the Old One to think of now. He was determined that others, including himself, would suffer long before he would allow those he loved to endure the same fate as she.
Ravan was isolated at the fortress. There was no outside contact, no information, and no communication. A man without mercy had forced him into a position that afforded no options. It was an imposed job and a dreadful one. He was a servant of oppression, allowed nothing other than training, eating, and sleeping.
As the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, his wounds healed, and his strength returned. More seldom did the young man hit the dirt on the training grounds, and one by one, his opponents backed away. One evening, when LanCoste looked him over at the end of battle training, Ravan shook his head and returned to his quarters alone.
The boy disappeared, and in his place stepped a man—his body hardened and strong, his demeanor fierce and cold. From the outside, the man was unflinching. From within, however, his heart was fractured and beyond repair.
Ravan swallowed his hatred like rancid bile, closing it away into his core, locking it into a place where it could not escape. Caged, his antipathy only grew stronger, filling in short time the recesses meant for love. The salve he spread upon it was the ferocity with which he fought. It was the true armor he wore; the shell of the chain mail and plates only dressed it out.
He knew it was unacceptable to kill even one of Duval’s men, but he brutally thrashed any sparring partner LanCoste now paired with him. In no time at all, the thin, half-starved adolescent became a tempered and polished soldier. He ate ravenously, his body greedily replacing thready sinew with heavy muscled mass. His reflexes became lightning quick, his hands deadly, his mercy…forgotten.
His hair grew long, and he braided it into a single rope down his back. With his maturity came a dark mask on his face, his beard adding a sinister element to his already stoic and primitive nature. Coupled with his uncanny instincts, Ravan had become in very short time Duval’s deadliest mercenary. Before long, none sparred with him other than the giant. There was no need, and none were compelled to take him on.
Again he lapsed into silence, speaking only when absolutely necessary. He was alone. Even the initial friendship he thought might develop with the giant was only a splintered possibility. In his sleep, Ravan dreamed of the Innkeeper’s wife. He would awaken confused with wet eyes and a cold, tear stained face.
As always, there was the memory of Pierre, somewhere in the shadows, watching from the corners of his subconscious. He wondered if Pierre had helped Renoir murder her, unable to prevent the horrid fantasies from invading his head. This only served to compound his grisly ruminations with visions increasingly graphic as time went by. Before long, Ravan intended that revenge must be served. It was a death task—something to be completed before he died.
Sitting alone next to the smith’s fire, Ravan was tempering arrow tips when this thought of sweet revenge brought the glimpse of a rare and fleeting smile to the unhappy face of the young mercenary. Carefully he laid the barbs into the bed of coals with the smith’s tongs, allowing the metal to turn a deep, glowing red.
The fire warmed Ravan’s face on this, one of the last cold days of spring. April was gone, and May was whispering softly to the trees as the boughs sagged heavily with warming snow. Winter held long this year. It had been that way for several years, and people suffered for this as crops grew poorly. Ravan, however, didn’t notice this. Now, his soul forever dwelled in the eternal dark despair of winter.
Hammering the steel carefully, he glanced up as another slough of snow fell from an overloaded branch to splat upon the ground nearby. The sun was faintly warm on his back, and he wore only his battle leathers, his chain and plating hanging nearby.
He went back to his task, intent on detail. There were iron smiths within the compound whose tasks were simply to make weapons. Ravan found them inadequate and rejected their work. They didn’t even rival the arrows he'd fashioned as a boy back at the orphanage.
The hammer struck again, sparks giving way to perfection beneath. Concentrating, he created a masterpiece, whetting the edges of the arrow tip on the stone before meticulously placing it into a poplar shaft that he’d hand picked and then honed until true. The swan feathers were placed with precision, seated into the fine grooves he’d filed, and finished with glue. Then came the filaments, wound perfectly with not one thread overlapping.
As he finished the arrow, he tested the weight and balance of it, standing casually to look down the length of it to a distant target. Methodically, he stepped out from the smith’s shed into the sunlight, pulled the yew bow from his back, and seated the arrow with mechanical precision and swiftness. Without hesitation, he let it fly. True as its maker, it rose into a speeding arc, descended like a sliver of death, and found the heart of the practice target.
He did not notice as more than a few of the mercenary soldiers paused to watch in silent awe. With his expression unchanged, Ravan turned matter-of-factly back to his work to temper the next tip. By day’s end, the target would carry a quiver’s worth of the deadliest weapons ever fashioned.
* * *
Duval watched from a vantage point on the tower, nodding his approval as the young man worked. He had, a month earlier, witnessed Ravan effectively and methodically disable five of his best men. It was unnatural. He knew that none other than LanCoste sparred with the mercenary now, and no one but the giant could even draw Ravan’s bow.
“He is ready, LanCoste. It is spring. I wish to send Ravan to battle,” Duval announced as he studied his mercenary in the courtyard below.
The towering LanCoste regarded his master dispassionately and only nodded.
“I will send him to Calais,” Duval continued. “The Duke of Flandre has need of troops there but is destined to be victorious. Ravan will have opportunity to amply test the waters of his new skills.” Greeted without response, Duval looked up into the blank eyes of the giant. “Do not fail me, LanCoste. I have invested much.”
Silence and an unreadable expression were agreement enough. The giant turned and left to prepare a battalion for Paris.
* * *
Nicolette arrived at Adorno’s massive and elaborately decorated room as per Moulin’s order. She tapped softly on the door with her fingernail and stepped elegantly into the room. Glancing slowly about herself, she again noticed the beautiful but macabre pieces of art which Adorno chose to decorate his sleeping chamber.
Nearby, on top of a dresser, was a caged bird. She walked purposefully to the cage, reached a thin white hand within, and grasped the dove, cradling it as she went to the nearest window. Shoving at the exquisitely bejeweled rose window with the heel of her other hand, she thrust open the sash, fracturing one of the gemstone mounts as she did. The emerald fell twenty meters, shattering upon the stone walk below. She watched, expressionless, then looked to the sky and released the bird. It found its wings, swooped slowly down, and disappeared into the forest below.
Leaving the window ajar, as though the cold was of no concern, she turned, walked slowly to one of the walls, and passed a pale hand over one of the paintings. There were wretched portrayals of the fall of man, beasts fornicating with humans as they descended to hell, men coupling in godless orgies.
Nicolette recognized the theme of death, sadism, and torture, and the underlying masterpiece of the works. She even recognized the signature of some of the artists and mused that nowhere was there a piece of simple beauty. Paintings of children were not allowed. Nicolette wasn’t shocked at all by this, and neither was she disturbed by it. Instead, she was oddly detached. It was simply an observation.
She turned from the paintings and found herself in front of a very rare, floor-length, Chinese amalgamated mirror. She paused, regarding the woman that gazed back at her with the thin, pointed jaw and uncommon eyes. They were astonishingly dark, damp, and bottomless, and seemed to consume her face as she peered more closely. It was not a moment of vanity—just merely consideration.
In the reflection of the mirror, she saw the bed. Turning, she looked it over and concluded that it was all things Adorno aspired to be: ornate, enormous, and vulgar. It was immense—an imported four post Baronial Tudor of blackest mahogany with satin ropes on each post. The bedding was imported Yuan Dynasty silk—very expensive and rare. The bed skirts were finished with ermine. It was lavish, obscene, and utterly predictable.
On the bedside table was a book. She ran a delicate finger across the text of Cent Antoine de Garmeaux’s Nouvelle Nouvelles, which lay opened and face down. It would appear her master required inspiration when it came to eroticism—just another observation.
Younger than Adorno, hardly even eighteen years, Nicolette belied her youth with a very strange and otherworldly carriage. She was oddly mystifying and provocative in an effortless way. She truly seemed to be untouchable, with an extraordinary detachment that many thought nearly frightening. She not only did not belong here, she belonged nowhere.
It was peculiar the way she shrugged to no one in particular as she pushed the rare book gently to the edge of the table, allowing it to fall to the floor. She stared at it then stepped upon the erotic volume, cruelly breaking the spine. Nudging the damaged book with the toe of her slipper, she slid it beneath the bed skirting, an annoyance for Adorno later.
She knew Adorno, knew his small heart and his dirty little soul. She questioned it not, only observed it like one might observe a dreadful accident involving people they did not know.
Nicolette wasn’t like the onlookers at the executions—fascinated, drawn in, horrified and morbidly curious. She was detached and, even though trapped within his castle, wholly outside of Adorno's jealous grasp. This queer aloofness made people whisper. It also made Adorno insanely possessive and bedeviled of Nicolette. He must own her completely. There were many he could have instead of her and many that he did defile, but he truly wanted only her. His obsession was not lost upon her, and she was well aware that it consumed him.
She turned only slightly as Adorno stomped from the bath chamber, his servants in tow. Adorno stopped in his tracks, instantly taken aback as he always was by the strange and ethereal creature standing before him. Her hair was unkempt, hanging long and disheveled; she so often refused to have it properly coifed. But why did this only serve to excite him?
Without words or the notion of foreplay, he advanced upon her like a jackal. He was immediately aroused and fairly desperate. Nicolette had heard of the murder of Jamner, knew that her master would have been thinking incessantly of her for the past hour—ever since he’d murdered Jamner. Equally sudden, the servants hastily shuffled from the great chamber.
Nicolette knew Adorno’s timing; she knew that his ability to consummate the act wasn’t always predictable. Lifting her chin, she tilted her head only slightly to examine the length of him. She was fully aware that she unnerved him, for she had a way of putting him immediately off guard, and she could do it with a mere glance.
This only served to mildly enrage and excite Adorno even further. Without words he shoved her back onto the bed and pounced upon her, roughly and ineptly stripping her of her clothes. He flung the expensive, torn garments to the floor. Then he tied her to the massive frame, yanking the bonds, spreading her legs far enough apart so that he could see the wet and delicate folds between. She appeared so frail on the enormous expanse of the bed, but her eyes…they burned.
He remained totally clothed, only revealing the small, pale penis he’d forced on so many others. None, however, aroused him as she did. Mounting her, Adorno thrust himself desperately in and out, grunting as he tried to coax a climax from himself. She knew his act was one of desperation, but he could never own her. She would have it no other way, and never flinched as he dug his fingernails into the transparent white flesh of her shoulders.
Entangling his fingers into the inky blackness of her untamed hair, he yanked himself in and out of her. Even as his crowning excitement fast approached, she knew he could not completely capture his domination of her, and this brought a silent satisfaction to her, a slight curl to the corner of her lips as he shrieked. His face finally contorted, his desperation complete as his orgasm peaked. Grunting, he squealed his rapture and finally pulled from her to collapse onto the bed.
Bound, Nicolette lay there, looking away from him—looking out the still open window. The white flesh of her shoulders exhibited the red welts of his clawing battery, and several even seeped blood. She watched two starlings as they lit upon the sill, intending to nest there.
“Tell me what you feel. Tell me that you are satisfied!” he demanded.
“Beyond compare, my lord,” she said dully, turning back to him with a coy smile.
Her eyes haunted him as she seemed to blink too slowly. She controlled him even as she lay there naked and fettered to the bed. Adorno seemed mesmerized by her, as though she was an addiction he could not be rid of—a sweet poison he desperately needed in his veins.
Despite her rape of only moments before, Nicolette was aware that he'd done this to many others but never more than once—she knew that it was her he wished to own and command completely. Yet never in his many efforts had Adorno produced a child. This fact did not surprise Nicolette at all.
He slapped her cruelly across the face. “Do not look at me so long!”
Her head jerked harshly back, fragile upon the thin, pale neck that carried it. She relaxed against the silk coverlet again. “Yes, my lord; as you wish,” she whispered, slowly opening her eyes. The silken smile played so subtly upon her lips; her eyes remained steadfast on him.
“You mock me! I know you do!” he raised his hand again.
“No, my lord. I simply desire you again.” She murmured and spread her legs even more, inviting him back into her. Adorno might have been aroused, but he would not be capable again for at least a day. This, Nicolette knew.
He jumped from the bed, securing his trousers as he stormed from the room and motioned for his guards to release her once he’d left.
* * *
Moulin entered to free her of her bonds. He was embarrassed by the sounds that he’d only moments ago been privy to and by the degradation that lay before him. Pulling the bedcover quickly over her nakedness and closing his eyes as he did, he tended to her modesty before loosening the bonds.
Nicolette had turned her attention back to the nesting birds and only noticed, as a matter of circumstance, when the coverlet was pulled over her. As the bonds fell gently away, she casually peered into Moulin’s distressed eyes.
“Monsieur. Lovely afternoon, is it not?”
“I…uhm, yes, my lady. It…it is beautiful today.” Moulin was dumbstruck. He could not take his eyes from her. When she swung her thin, white legs to the edge of the bed and sat up, staring again at the birds, the small of her back was shown bare. He knelt to collect her gowns from the floor, averting his gaze as he did, but he’d already noticed the scratches on her. It enraged him somewhere to the core of his being that he should defile her so.
“Do you pledge your alliance to him?” she asked suddenly. Nicolette turned, bewitching him again with her gaze. It was blank, impassive, only a bit curious.
“What? My lady, of course I…” he trailed off.
“You lie as a matter of preservation?”
“I…your highness,” Moulin struggled. “He is your betrothed.”
She frowned. “So you ally yourself to him as a matter of principle.” She said it more than asked it.
Moulin looked at his feet, utterly overwhelmed.
“Mmm. Oh, I see—and thank you for releasing me.” She passed a hand across a frail wrist and said it almost as an afterthought.
Moulin nodded, still looking down, and laid the gowns across the foot of the bed. Then he backed from the room.
* * *
Adorno recalled that distant afternoon’s events with Nicolette as his party of close to two hundred approached the enormous timbered gates of Duval’s compound. Witch! he thought to himself. She’d vexed him thoroughly, and he would rid himself of the whore upon his return. This he told himself again and for the hundredth time.
It took but a short while for the guards to check clearance. Adorno’s forces were required to remain outside of the compound, but he, Moulin, and two assistants were allowed to enter. From the fortress walls, Duval’s soldiers stood at the ready, bows loaded and pointed at the army below.
Aware of Duval’s infamy and fortune, Adorno was extremely curious of the goings-on inside the vast compound. He’d heard of the extraordinary power and deadly mercenaries Duval possessed. Great power intrigued him, and he wondered of the man’s methods. Truthfully, he had no desire to replicate the hard work which had gained Duval such power; he simply coveted it.
The smell of the compound offended him as did the conspicuous absence of any female. He wished he'd brought Nicolette. He tried hard to ignore a momentary pang of desperation as her fleeting memory triggered an awareness of his inability to truly possess her. He considered that she would have been glorious to dangle in front of Duval.
In actuality, Adorno did not consider her beautiful. Beauty was not what drew him to her. It was something much more than beauty that drew men to Nicolette, something forbidden—the ultimate satisfaction to the most undeniable starvation. Again, he wished she was there with him, for all must want her after laying eyes upon her. In truth, most did.
Nearly two years before, when Adorno had gone to England to the “ball” that had been arranged to show Nicolette to her suitors, he’d been immediately obsessed with her. Her parents, mother and stepfather that is, were so immediately offset by the peculiar and seemingly menacing Adorno, with his massive wealth and intimidating air, that they retracted the offer of her betrothal arrangement.
Adorno, however, would have none of that and was determined to have her. Finally, at their insistence, he was gone. That very night, however, Nicolette’s parents were awakened by the screams of their eleven year old son. The boy’s dog had been killed and strung up over the child’s bed, blood dripping and saturating the sheets.
Someone had been here, had gained access to the boy’s room as he slept—someone the dog trusted for it did not bark. They knew then, knew that it was him, that he’d found a way in. That was the final nature of the agreement. If they’d not agreed to send Nicolette to wed him, Adorno would kill their son.
Now, as Adorno was allowed into Duval’s compound, he delicately avoided contact with anyone or anything as he was escorted to meet with the master of this intriguing, if not repugnant, court. If Duval was as vastly wealthy as rumor had it, where were the excesses? Where was the fine dining and lavish furnishings—the elegant chambers? Where were the servants, and most importantly, where were the women? It was difficult for Adorno to comprehend that Duval’s wealth was spent on power of a different sort.
* * *
Duval’s coffers were full of gold, and he maintained many land holdings elsewhere, but his primary purpose was in the maintenance of an army of significant size, outfitted to the extreme. He craved power, and his purpose was to squash outbreaks, destroy campaigns, and remove “problems.” This he did with considerable appetite and finesse despite the meddling of provincial law. Training, provisions, and board for such endeavors required tremendous resources.
The mercenary king remained seated as Adorno entered the massive hall with great flourish. He raised one eyebrow and scrutinized his unusual visitor at length. The fair little man, with his perfectly manicured nails and immaculately tailored satin and Kashmir velvet clothing, was a sharp contrast to the other men in the room. It was almost as though he’d fallen from a fairy-tale.
The mercenary guards stood alert, frozen at attention, their hands callused from wielding their weapons. They were robed with the heavy leathers, armor, and the stench natural to a mercenary’s life and glanced at each other as Adorno and his small troop whisked by.
Mildly amused and somewhat annoyed that his time should be wasted, Duval held him steadfast with his eyes. He’d known for some time that Adorno was approaching his compound and was curious about the vanity of a man who traveled with such force. The man might behave like a candied tart, but his reputation was one of cunningly creative cruelty. His reserves were also substantial—this the mercenary also knew.
“What is it you wish?” he confronted Adorno straight away.
With a sweeping bow, the small man presented himself. “Monsieur, I am Adorno Benedict Antoine de Bourbon IV from the Bourbon township and—”
“I know who you are, and your reputation precedes you.” Duval cut the little man off as easily as one might separate an over boiled clam. “What is it you wish of me? I haven’t time for trifling banter.” Duval’s expression was unchanged—casual—as if he were bored in advance. Nevertheless, he was more than the tiniest bit curious about the cockscomb preening before him.
Adorno froze, his smile fading to a barely perceptible sneer which he quickly and wisely replaced. He gestured dramatically. “I have need of your services, monsieur.”
“You have need of my services,” Duval repeated and paused. It was a statement, not a question. He kicked his chair away from the table and crossed his arms across his chest. “It hardly seems you have need of armed forces for you evidently employ a sizable army.” He gestured with one arm in the direction of which the outside army might be camped. “True, it may be forced from the very people who feed you…not that I take offense to a working model.”
Adorno hesitated. The jib was completely lost on him, and he shrugged, choosing to remain the ever gracious visitor. “It is not for my army, monsieur. You are correct; my army is satisfactory.” He embellished with his arms outstretched and began to walk slowly and deliberately down the length of the great table. “It is more a…personal matter shall we say? I have need of, to put it delicately, protection.” He spread his arms in a dramatic display and bowed slightly.
As he approached the head of the table, one of Duval’s men stepped forward, extending his lance to stop further advance from the odd visitor. Adorno glared at the weapon, then at the guard, but refocused on his host. He delicately placed his gloved index finger on the tip of the lance and made to lift it, but the guard remained steadfast.
“Protection?” Duval smirked. “Are you so despised that you worry you will be killed from one of your own?” He chuckled. “Lack of such control is a grave weakness. Would you not agree?” He was quite enjoying baiting him now. “It is reasonable that your employ might hate you, but to sacrifice respect is a sign of…” He allowed his voice to trail off. “…Impotence.” The insult was more than obvious.
Adorno clenched his fists behind his back, but his demeanor remained silken. He reached up to smooth back his perfect, starkly white hair. Self absorbed Adorno may have been, but he was not unobservant.
“All men of power are vulnerable.” Adorno paused for effect. “Even you…it would appear.” He mocked his host openly and nodded toward Duval’s arm, at the horrible wound that rose from it.
Years ago, the gash from Ravan’s arrow had infected his master’s arm terribly and drained for several months, finally healing as a raised and ragged scar. The proud flesh had gnarled unnaturally—a shiny, purple wound, hideously distorted. It had seemed for a time that Duval might lose the arm, and it still pained him years later. The defect also compromised his ability to draw a bow. No matter; he hadn’t much need of hand-to-hand combat himself and preferred the sword anyway. Still, it maddened him now that Adorno noticed. He pulled his tunic sleeve down to cover the offending mark.
Ravan had been the only one of Duval’s men to ever successfully attack and injure him—and the only one to survive such a mutiny. It had been sheer luck that Ravan hadn’t killed him. Duval knew by now the uncanny archery skill of his favorite mercenary and thought again of his own good fortune.
At first, the assault had bothered him terribly. He’d been violated and came very close to destroying the possession for which he'd sacrificed so much. Had it not been for LanCoste, the boy would’ve died.
He had no remorse at having so quickly sent for the Innkeeper’s wife to be killed. Duval was, however, infuriated that she and Renoir had evidently been taken by the plague before his man had a chance to carry out the order. Damn the plague! It had marked more than a handful of his men at times, and it pained him to have to rid himself of them when it happened.
Duval let Ravan believe the act had been done, though. Dead was dead, and it served him to allow the young man a degree of despair; his insubordination would not be tolerated. His mercenary needed to be broken before he could be rebuilt, even if it meant killing his kindred or leading him to believe that he had.
Despite the grievous insult to his arm, as time went by, Duval had come to appreciate the killer Ravan had become and the brilliance of the young mercenary. He’d never experienced a recruit like this one, not in all his days, and he prided himself fiercely on his acquisition. Ravan, as a mere boy, had led his men on the chase of their lives. He’d cost Duval precious resources but had more than liberally returned the losses with the skill in which he now fought. The man was feared, and his reputation had begun to grow.
Nevertheless, Duval always sent LanCoste with Ravan so he could be monitored. The younger appeared to carry a silent respect for the giant, and so it was good security to keep them paired. LanCoste was faithful to Duval at all costs. And so, it had become a subtle means of controlling Ravan. But it still troubled Duval that Ravan remained such an enigma. He seldom spoke and never participated in the revelries or camaraderie of the other mercenaries. Instead, when not at battle or in camp, Ravan stayed alone, isolating himself in battle practice. He spent most of his spare time refining his weapons or simply retreating to his quarters and that damnable silence.
Once, Duval had surprised the young man, walking in on him only to find him sitting in the corner of his quarters, arms wrapped around his knees with his head buried in them. He was clutching that simple, silver chain with the copper ring on it. Duval had observed how sometimes he idly slid the ring up and down the chain as if mesmerized by the silky, grating sound it made.
Duval would never understand Ravan because he simply had no capacity to. But no matter. It was enough for him to believe that time would diminish and ultimately erase any chance of rebellion. For now, he was satisfied that the young warrior had fallen into a routine, obeying orders and carrying out his missions as they were given to him. As long as the campaigns he sent Ravan on were successful and the coffers continued to fill, it was enough for Duval.
He turned his attention back to his guest. “I have no extra men at this time. I’m sorry but I cannot be of help to you.” Standing up, he closed his ledgers as well as the conversation. It was pride that caused him to dismiss Adorno so quickly; he just didn’t like him.
Adorno raised his hand before he could be excused. He knew that even with his army he had no chance against Duval’s forces, but he was used to getting his way. The army was simply a show of force—a stage representation. However, taking no for an answer was not an option.
“Perhaps we could sweeten the arrangement.” Motioning to Moulin, he nodded toward Duval.
Moulin, with the help of another man, stepped forward with a heavy chest, depositing it with some difficulty onto the table. The weight of the chest was apparent as they set it down with a dull thud.
Pulling from beneath his laced vest his thin, Rondel blade, Adorno created an immediate stir within the room. The room rung as Duval’s men drew their swords all at once. It was almost comical, the massive show of force against the preening fop with his little knife. Adorno looked dramatically from one of them to another, seemingly quite amused and enjoying himself immensely. Casually, he began to clean his fingernails with the delicate weapon. Then, as if in afterthought, he motioned with the blade for Duval to open the chest.
Duval’s expression remained serious, unchanged. He did not like to be toyed with, and this child-man was playing with him—indeed a risky game. His instincts told him Adorno was unbalanced, and this made him dangerous, like a small creature that one doesn’t realize is deadly poisonous until moments after it has stung.
Nodding, Duval motioned to the chest, and one of his men approached it, flipped the catch, and tossed the lid back heavily. There before them, even in the subdued light, glistened close to one-hundred and eighty pounds of Spanish reales—solid gold. The coins cast a bright and golden contrast to the darkened room as though they seemed to radiate their own light. All eyes focused on the fortune. It was an enormous treasure by any standard and commanded the attention of all present.
Remaining seated and to his credit, Duval’s face did not betray his surprise. If his mind could have been read, however, it would have revealed another scenario altogether. This was a king’s ransom! He was completely taken aback. So the dandy backs his rhetoric with coin and with Spanish gold at that!
The treasure was enough to feed his troops for several winters, buy the raw ore necessary for many weapons, or pay for the armors and cl