The Devil and the Dark Water

3

Under Batavia’s burning sky, Sara Wessel walked the length of the procession, feeling the scouring eyes of the courtiers, soldiers and sycophants upon her. She went like a condemned woman: shoulders square, eyes down and fists clenched by her sides. Shame reddened her face, though most mistook it for heat.

For some reason, she glanced over her shoulder at Arent. He wasn’t hard to spot, standing a clear head and shoulders taller than the next man. Sammy had put him to work inspecting the body, and he was currently picking through the leper’s robes with a long stick that had previously been used to carry baskets.

Feeling Sara’s gaze upon him, he glanced at her, their eyes meeting. Embarrassed, she snapped her head forward again.

Her husband’s damnable horse snorted, kicking the ground angrily as she approached. She’d never got along with this beast. Unlike her, it enjoyed being underneath him.

The thought drew a wicked smile, which she was still wrestling from her face as she came upon him. His back was to her, his head bowed in hushed conversation with Cornelius Vos.

Vos was her husband’s chamberlain, foremost among his advisors and one of the most powerful men in the city. Not that it was obvious by looking at him, for he managed to carry his power without charisma or vigour. Neither tall nor short, broad nor thin, his mud-coloured hair topped a weathered face devoid of any distinguishing features, beyond two luminous green eyes that always stared over the shoulder of whoever he was speaking to.

His clothes were shabby without being ragged, and there hung about him an air of such potent hopelessness one would expect flowers to wilt as he walked by.

‘Is my personal cargo boarded?’ asked her husband, ignoring Sara.

‘The chief merchant has seen to it, my lord.’

They didn’t pause, didn’t acknowledge her in any way. Her husband couldn’t stand being interrupted and Vos had served him long enough to know that.

‘And matters have been arranged to ensure its secrecy?’ asked her husband.

‘Guard Captain Drecht attended to it personally.’ Vos’s fingers danced at his sides, betraying some internal calculation. ‘Which bring us to our second piece of important cargo, my lord. May I ask where you wish to store The Folly during our voyage?’

‘My quarters seem appropriate,’ declared her husband.

‘Unfortunately, The Folly’s too large, sir,’ said Vos, wringing his hands. ‘Might I suggest the cargo hold?’

‘I’ll not have the future of the Company packed away like an unwanted piece of furniture.’

‘Few know what The Folly is, sir,’ continued Vos, momentarily distracted by the splashing oars of an approaching ferry. ‘Even fewer know we’re bringing it aboard the Saardam. The best way to protect it might be to act as though it is an unwanted piece of furniture.’

‘A clever thought, but the cargo hold remains too exposed,’ said her husband.

They fell silent, puzzling the matter over.

Sunshine beat at Sara’s back, thick beads of sweat gathering on her brow and rolling down her face, clogging the white powder Dorothea applied so liberally to conceal her freckles. She yearned to adjust her clothes, to remove the ruff around her neck and tug the damp material away from her flesh, but her husband hated fidgeting as much as being interrupted.

‘What about the gunpowder store, sir?’ said Vos. ‘It’s locked and guarded, but nobody would expect something as valuable as The Folly to be housed in there.’

‘Superb. Make the arrangements.’

As Vos walked towards the procession, the governor general finally turned to face his wife.

He was twenty years older than Sara, with a teardrop head, which was bald except for a tonsure of dark hair connecting his large ears. Most people wore hats to shield them from Batavia’s harsh sunlight, but her husband believed they made him look foolish. As a result, his scalp glowed an angry crimson, the skin peeling and collecting in the folds of his ruff.

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.