Free Birds of Prey by Wilbur Smith Page B

shirt, its wide fashionable sleeves slashed with green.
    At the sight of Sir Francis, he froze in the act of stuffing the ship’s books into a weighted canvas bag, then snatched it up and rushed to the stern windows. The casements and glass had
been shot away by the Lady Edwina’s culverins, and they gaped open, the sea breaking and swirling under her counter. The Dutch captain lifted the bag to hurl it through the opening but
Sir Francis seized his raised arm and flung him backwards onto his bunk. Aboli grabbed the bag, and Sir Francis made a courteous little bow. ‘You speak English?’ he demanded.
    ‘No English,’ the captain snarled back, and Sir Francis changed smoothly into Dutch. As a Nautonnier Knight of the Order he spoke most of the languages of the great seafaring
nations, French, Spanish and Portuguese, as well as Dutch. ‘You are my prisoner, Mijnheer. What is your name?’
    ‘Limberger, captain of the first class, in the service of the VOC. And you, Mijnheer, are a corsair,’ the captain retorted.
    ‘You are mistaken, sir! I sail under Letters of Marque from His Majesty King Charles the second. Your ship is now a prize of war.’
    ‘You flew false colours,’ the Dutchman accused.
    Sir Francis smiled bleakly. ‘A legitimate ruse of war.’ He made a dismissive gesture and went on, ‘You are a brave man, Mijnheer, but the fight is over now. As soon as you give
me your word, you will be treated as my honoured guest. The day your ransom is paid, you will go free.’
    The captain wiped the blood and sweat from his face with his silken sleeve, and an expression of resignation dulled his features. He stood and handed his sword hilt first to Sir Francis.
    ‘You have my word. I will not attempt to escape.’
    ‘Nor encourage your men to resistance?’ Sir Francis prompted him. The captain nodded glumly. ‘I agree.’
    ‘I will need your cabin, Mijnheer, but I will find you comfortable quarters elsewhere.’ Sir Francis turned his attention eagerly to the canvas bag and dumped its contents on the
desk.
    Hal knew that, from now on, his father would be absorbed in his reading, and he glanced at Aboli on guard in the doorway. The Negro nodded permission at him, and Hal slipped out of the cabin.
His father did not see him go.
    Cutlass in hand, he moved cautiously down the narrow corridor. He could hear the shouts and clatter from the other decks as the crew of the Lady Edwina cleared out the defeated Dutch
seamen and herded them up onto the open deck. Down here it was quiet and deserted. The first door he tried was locked. He hesitated then followed his father’s earlier example. The door
resisted his first onslaught, but he backed off and charged again. This time it burst open and he went flying through into the cabin beyond, off balance and skidding on the magnificent Oriental
rugs that covered the deck. He sprawled on the huge bed that seemed to fill half the cabin.
    As he sat up and gazed at the splendour that surrounded him, he was aware of an aroma more heady than any spice he had ever smelt. The boudoir odour of a pampered woman, not merely the precious
oils of flowers, procured by the perfumer’s art, but blended with these the more subtle scents of skin and hair and a healthy young female body. It was so exquisite, so moving that when he
stood his legs felt strangely weak under him, and he snuffed it up rapturously. It was the most delicious smell that had ever set his nostrils a-quiver.
    Sword in hand he gazed around the cabin, only vaguely aware of the rich tapestries and silver vessels filled with sweetmeats, dried fruits and pot-pourri. The dressing table against the port
bulkhead was covered with an array of cut-glass cosmetic and perfume bottles with stoppers of chased silver. He moved across to it. Laid out beside the bottles was a set of silver-backed brushes
and a tortoiseshell comb. Trapped between the teeth of the comb was a single strand of hair, long as his arm, fine as a