Although I had long been haunted by a singular dream, I never thought it portended disaster. In fact, I blamed it all on Jack and the tales he told me when we were growing up.
On this particular night, the dream began as it always did.
I was floating languidly in the midnight blue ether above the earth. Around me were countless stars, each a tiny orb of brilliant white, surrounded by a nimbus of ever-shifting colours. They appeared close enough to touch, but I merely gazed at them contentedly, knowing they were far beyond my reach.
Directly overhead was a constellation I knew well - Orion the Hunter. Seen from earth, he appeared no larger than any other group of stars; but here in the heavens, Orion was a colossus.
According to Jack, the legendary Hunter is holding up his sword to defend against the sharp horns of angry Taurus. Sirius, his faithful dog, rushes to his master's side, but who will triumph?
The final outcome can never be known, for constellations are fixed. Orion is frozen forever and the battle will never be fought.
I drifted onward, like a swimmer in placid waters, but the stars around me began to move and darken, and I was seized with a violent, ominous intuition. I tried to shout a warning, but no sound came from my throat. The Great Dog was barking wildly, and I struggled in the heavy ether, unable to reach Orion.
In the midst of this turmoil, Hector spoke, his voice close at hand, calming me. "Nina," he said distinctly, almost in my ear.
I awoke with a start and reached for him---but then, of course, I remembered.
Amsterdam. I was in the port of Amsterdam by my own choice, miserable and alone.
The morning air in my room was frigid. It had blown through the open window all night, carried on the same unseasonable winds that were sweeping the North Sea.
And outside, a dog was barking insistently.
On a table near my bed lay the terse royal summons to London, but at the moment I was powerless to obey it. The Dutch merchantman I travelled on had been damaged in a storm and put into port for repairs. For three days, I had been waiting impatiently to board a dispatch boat - a fast Bermuda sloop which would put to sea as soon as possible.
Shivering, I pulled the bedclothes up to my nose. The mattress might as well have been an ice floe. I curled up, craving the shelter of Hector's warm embrace. But the barking continued, making my head throb.
"How can it be so blessed cold in here?" I complained to the empty room. After testing the icy floor with my foot, I made my way to the window.
I reached out to pull down the window sash, and saw the source of the barking: a wretched little dog in the street below, thin and solitary. There was a half-eaten hard roll left from supper, and I tossed it down to him.
A disapproving cough came from the doorway as someone entered the room.
"You should not feed him, Mistress Bitter, it gives encouragement," said Mrs Geel, looking at me with a long face. The innkeeper's tall, angular wife had come to start the fire.
I turned back to the window just in time for the roll to strike me full in the face. The monkey who had thrown it screamed and scampered up to the roof.
I spat out the crumbs, wiping butter off my nose. "Devil rot you!"
A muffled laugh told me Mistress Geel was secretly enjoying the spectacle. "If you mind their pranks, you might have been happier at another inn. We're not called het Aepjen for nothing."
She regarded me with a pinched look as I threw the roll to the dog once more.
I was about to remark that I thought one of the creatures was quite sufficient, instead of the scores that infested the inn, but our conversation was interrupted by a timid knock at the door. Wrapping the bed-clothes about my shoulders, I bade whoever it was to enter.
It was Miep, the inn's barmaid. "Beg pardon," she said with a little nod, "You are sailing on a dispatch boat? Captain Gillette is downstairs asking for you."
I dressed hurriedly and greeted him at the foot of the stairs. "Good day, Captain. Good news, I hope?"
Captain Gillette was a tall man whose sharp eyes and darkly handsome face bespoke an active intellect. This morning, he was brisk and confident. "HMS Guernsey sails in two hours, madam, but I warn you to expect a rough crossing. I had thought perhaps you might care to dine with me this evening, but I fear food will be the last thing you'll want."
In truth, I was so bereft of companionship that I would have dined on deck in the midst of a tempest for the sake of a good conversation. "Rough seas don't trouble me, Captain. A congenial dinner tonight will please me almost as much as the sight of London tomorrow."
I packed my few belongings in less than ten minutes, threw on my cloak (purchased the day before at a Dutch rag fair), and made my way to the harbour. Once aboard, I retired to my small cabin to read, but in a short while my thoughts were drawn back, as I knew they would be, to the same doubts and regrets that had plagued me since receiving the summons.
It all boiled down to this: I was caught like a hare in a thicket, trapped in the life of a King's Messenger.
Not three weeks earlier, I had been aboard HMS Royal Oak, newly married to an infamous pirate who had won my utter devotion, and expecting to return with him to the West Indies. Now we were separated by thousands of miles, and I longed for his touch with every beat of my heart.
"Oh, Hector, what have I done?" I murmured. "How could I make such a devil's bargain as this?"
In London I would be given a confidential errand for the King; more than that, I did not know. But whatever it was --- delivering a treaty or perpetrating sabotage --- I cared not a louse. I resolved to finish it quickly and rejoin my husband. In my present state, I was split in half: my heart still in Hector's keeping, whilst the rest of me journeyed on, empty and spiritless.
The sloop had begun to heel in earnest, and the floor of my cabin tilted to leeward, as the Guernsey bounded over the swells. She seemed to be making good headway, and I needed a restorative to my low spirits. Why not venture on deck for a better look at her? I hauled myself up to a standing position, and lunged towards the cabin door.
Once on deck, I found that we were sailing at perhaps a forty-degree angle of heel in heavy seas and strong winds. The crew were handling her very well, clearly proud of their vessel and keen to maintain the dispatch service's reputation for speed. Although I have always loved sailing in this sort of turbulent weather, I returned to my cabin after a short time, lest my presence on deck hinder their work.
That night, my supper at Captain Gillette's table was managed with some care, since any unguarded dish or cutlery was liable to take flight as we crossed the wind-whipped North Sea.
After the usual small talk, he said: "I won't pretend to indifference regarding your presence on what is, after all, a naval vessel. I don't suppose you can enlighten me?"
I pretended ignorance. "I am answering the summons which I presented to you, Captain, but I know nothing more of its nature."
"If you were a man, I might suspect you were in the Messenger service," he said, plainly intrigued. "They're the only ones I've ever heard of requiring this sort of accommodation."
His clever guess made me uncomfortable, but I laughed. "No one can charge you with a want of imagination, Captain. I'm no more a Messenger than I am a naval officer, although I was once engaged to a fine lieutenant, now sadly deceased." Even as I said these words, I could have bit my tongue off for letting them spill out so carelessly.
Gillette was instantly alert. "My condolences, madam. What was his name? Perhaps I served with him."
Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. I had forgot the strong bond that unites the officers of the Royal Navy, but Gillette was a member of that fraternity, and it would not do to avoid his question.
"James Norrington." I held my breath, praying the name would be unknown to him.
"James Norrington!" he exclaimed. "Why -"
"It was many years ago," I interjected.
"I sailed under Captain Norrington," said Gillette, "and never knew a finer officer. The Dauntless was his first command. Many of us followed him from that ship to the Endeavour."
Then he began to recount tales of James' service in the West Indies --- his pursuit of Jack Sparrow, and his actions in the War Against Piracy. Poor Gillette! He was a good man and must have thought his words would console me.
I listened to all of it without betraying my emotions, but as I calculated how many lies would be necessary to hide my past, I began to feel like Peter in the high priest's courtyard.
I managed a smile as supper ended. "I am so very grateful to you, Captain, for sharing your reminiscences. Surely you will be serving on a first-rater again, very soon."
This seemed to please him, and we bade each other a friendly good-evening.
Alone in my cabin, I took hold of the fine chain around my neck, and drew a small pendant from under my shirt. There was not enough light to see it, but I knew it by touch - a shark's tooth like the one Hector wore on his ear, caged in gold filigree. I lay in my berth and closed my eyes, lulled by the motion of the ship.
Perhaps we were not so divided after all. The world's many oceans were really one, weren't they? The same water I was sailing on would find its way to Hector's ship. Yes, the sea united us and would carry my love to Hector. I fell asleep, the shark's tooth in my hand.
The next day, rough seas had given way to the smooth waters of the Thames. As we travelled up the river to London, I roamed the deck trying to get my bearings. We were approaching a low cloud of soot, and though we were still miles from the city, the air carried the unmistakable smell of coal, mixed with other odours. There was a deal of traffic on the river, and frequent shouts could be heard from seamen bringing great merchant vessels to port, watermen ferrying passengers, and a host of others who made their living on the river.
London seemed to be growing at a monstrous pace, and its whole aspect was one of bustling commerce. Everywhere there were coaches of people and wagons of merchandise rumbling to and from the warehouses and inns that lined the riverside, whilst scores of new buildings sprouted in every direction, and it seemed that even the little villages lying east of the city were reaching towards the west, eager to clasp hands with this great centre of England. Amid the prodigious mass of new buildings, one could still observe houses of an older sort, with half-timbered walls, projecting upper storeys, and haphazard shingle roofs with gables set at odd angles, which had probably survived the Great Fire of the last century.
As I gazed at these marvellous sights, our bosun shouted orders to set the anchor and Gillette approached with two of his crew. He carried a dispatch case, and I realised we were near the Whitehall Stairs and the Admiralty, where he clearly had business.
We descended to the boat and were rowed to the Stairs, where Gillette gallantly handed me out of the small craft. "And how do you propose to travel all the way to Kensington, Mistress Bitter?" he asked.
He had no sooner spoken than a man in the uniform of a postilion came towards us. "Nina Houlton Bitter?" he enquired.
I nodded and he waved me in the direction of a post-chaise, to the great confusion of Gillette.
"Farewell, Captain Gillette!" I called back as I ran to the post-chaise. "It would seem I'm to be driven to Kensington."
The postilion bundled me into the carriage along with the small sack of my worldly goods. "No proper bags to go on the luggage platform?" he asked disdainfully, and without waiting for an answer, he mounted the drawing horse on the left, and I was off to Kensington Palace.
I drank in the scenery as the majestic palaces and government offices gave way to square after square where the fashionable houses of London society stood proudly. I quickly looked away as we thundered past Tyburn's three-cornered gallows, and then we were flying down the King's Private Road through Hyde Park towards Kensington Palace. I glimpsed the beautiful landscape and graceful tree-lined avenues along which people rode or walked, and then my carriage stopped before the magnificent gilded gates through which could be seen the royal residence.
I stepped down and gave my fare to the postilion, upon which he drew a small, folded paper from under his coat and handed it to me. Assuming it to be a ticket or receipt of some kind, I stuffed it into the pocket of my breeches, and the post-chaise rattled off quickly, leaving me standing at the gates.
Before I could hand my summons to the gate keeper, he pushed me aside to clear the way for a large carriage to pass through. Instead, the vehicle halted and I heard a murmur of conversation and laughter from within it. A young man poked his head out of its window and said to me in a very superior tone, "The tradesman's entrance is that way, wench."
I stood very straight and spoke sharply. "I've not been summoned thousands of miles to be sent to the tradesman's entrance."
He pulled his head back into the carriage, and after a moment, steps were unfolded and the carriage door was opened by a footman. An older man of small stature, slender and cat-like, emerged from the carriage and approached me. He was very finely dressed in the latest fashion, with a neatly curled wig that might have been French, and a complexion whitened by a heavy application of paint and powder. His expression was pleasant and easy in repose, and the curve of his mouth would have lent sweetness to even the most severe visage; but the slight crease between his brows and the sharpness of his brown eyes suggested a guarded and perceptive intellect.
"Give me the summons," said this oddly girlish man, extending long, delicate fingers. I obliged, and he read it over. His eyes flicked towards me once before returning to the document.
"'Bitter', is it?" he asked lightly, handing the document back to me. "Wait here, I shall send someone."
I softened my expression. "Thank you, sir."
My benefactor raised an admonishing finger. "Thank you, Your Lordship," he corrected me. "That is how one addresses the Lord Privy Seal."
My face flushed, though I saw traces of a cynical wit in his eyes. "I do beg pardon, Your Lordship." But he had already turned his back, and his footman shut him up in the carriage again without ever glancing in my direction.
As the carriage rumbled through the gate, I turned to the gate keeper. "Who was that?"
"Lord Hervey," he replied with a knowing look that I was at a loss to interpret.
I waited for what seemed a long time. At last, having nothing else to divert me, I withdrew the receipt (as I supposed it to be) from my pocket to read it. I was surprised to see nothing but an unfamiliar address scrawled on one side:
Golden Lion, Goodman's Yard
A few moments later, none other than Lord Hervey himself came strolling towards me with a fashionable and affected gait.
"His Majesty has no taste for company today," he told me with a touch of asperity. "He finds himself in an ill-temper, and will see you when it improves. You may count yourself among the fortunate in that regard."
This was very bad news indeed. I knew from my uncle's experiences that I was expected to hold myself in readiness until summoned again, be it in hours, days or even weeks. I had little money, and no acquaintances or lodgings in London, and now it would seem that I needed all three.
As I stood speechless, Lord Hervey noticed the paper in my hand, and laughed.
"By God, is that a billet-doux you are holding?" he asked, lightly mocking me. "There is more to you than meets the eye, Mistress Bitter. You are not in London half a day, and I perceive you have attracted an admirer."
In my present humour, I had no stomach for silly banter. "It would seem a poor sort of love letter."
He took the note from my hand without asking and read it, raising his brows very slightly.
"You do know that they are no longer debtors' sanctuaries, do you not?" he said with a little smile.
My blank expression told him that I failed to grasp his jest.
"The liberties of London, of course," he explained.
I shook my head. "Sorry-"
"My, my, you are green enough to plant in his Majesty's gardens!" he exclaimed.
Then, to my surprise, he beckoned to his carriage. "Well, Mistress Bitter, shall we discover what awaits you at the Golden Lion in Goodman's Yard? I confess I have had my fill of ennui for the present and feel an inclination to pry coming on."
Something in his manner suggested that the King's ill-temper had contributed to Lord Hervey's ennui. In any event, we settled ourselves in his carriage, and set off for the area called, as I later learned, the Minories.
Lord Hervey kept up a most diverting conversation with me as he pointed out houses, streets, pleasure gardens and the like, until at last we turned off of a broad street into Goodman's Yard.
"You will do, Mistress Bitter, you will do," he suddenly remarked. "If you keep your wits about you."
I suspected that he sought to discover my situation by making me think it was already known to him. Therefore, I pretended to misunderstand. "My wit is no match for yours, Your Lordship, but conversing with you has been a delight and a privilege."
He received this with a short laugh. "I see you're no babbling fool," he said as the carriage stopped, "but remember that even the most skilful may want intelligence, and will be generous in return. That is my advice to you."
He smiled as his footman opened the door, and I stepped down next to a little knot of people who stared at the shabbily-clothed girl who had been sharing a carriage with such a finely-dressed, foppish courtier.
As soon as Lord Hervey departed, I was approached by a lad of ten or so. "I'm to take ye to yer lodgin's," he announced. When I hesitated, he added, "Bitter, right?"
I nodded.
He led me out of the Yard and down a busy street near the Exchange, which suddenly narrowed into an alley where older houses crowded together with dilapidated shops, farriers and a cooperage. He stopped at the door of an establishment whose sign proclaimed, J. H. Hutson - Tailor - Dealer in Piece Goods.
A woman answered the boy's knock and glanced at me. "Are you sure-"
"'Course it's 'er," replied the boy very rudely.
"Then you'd best come in," the woman said to me, as she cuffed the boy about the ear. Then she called up the stairs, "Mr Singleton! She's 'ere!"
Footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs, and a very aged, clean-shaven man entered the shop. He was dressed like a merchant and wore a long wig. For several moments he said nothing, but stared at my face in silence.
"I cannot doubt that you are the niece of Harry Bitter," he said at last. "I see you received my communiqué." He took a key from his pocket and turned to the stairs, adding, "Follow me, please."
So bewildering had my day been that I had quite given up trying to make sense of it. I followed Mr Singleton meekly up the stairs to the second storey, where he unlocked a door and waved me inside. When I entered and looked about me, I had a great shock, for the dusty, abandoned rooms had evidently belonged to my late uncle.
"He used it as a sort of headquarters," said Mr Singleton from behind me. "A bolthole when on the King's errands. You may change it of course, and make whatever use of it you require as a member of the Messenger service. You will find the highest level of discretion here."
I turned to him quickly. "What makes you think I am, or ever could be, a King's Messenger?"
He returned a grandfatherly smile. "There's no cause for alarm Mistress Bitter. You see . . . Edward Teague told me."
This news jolted me even more. "You claim an acquaintance with Edward Teague? But I have never heard him mention anyone named Singleton."
My benefactor sighed. "I live here under that name to avoid my creditors, I'm afraid," he answered, "but for many years I was a trusted friend of both your uncle and your father." He let that sink in for a moment, then said, "Outside of this house, Mistress Bitter, I am thought to be dead. My true name is Daniel Defoe."
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Next: An old acquaintance re-appears, and the King's temper improves.