Chapter Text
"Reskator agrees to accept our delegation on condition that it is made up of women only," Legal wiped his forehead, wet with perspiration, and looked around the Larochellles crowding around him. Their faces stretched out in amazement, which then gave way to indignation.
"What? " Master Bern barked, his hands involuntarily clenching into fists.
"No, we are talking about something completely different," Legal hastened with explanations. “He says that if any of us or the Spaniards appear, he will not be able to keep his people from reprisals. He also demanded that Madame Angelique be among the parliamentarians."
According to Reskator's recommendation, the ladies were supposed to crawl through the hatch and then use a rope ladder to reach his personal cabin.
"What inappropriate quirks this fellow allows himself," the residents of Larochelle were indignant, but the matter did not go further than disgruntled grumbling.
They doubted the successful outcome of the negotiations since they did not have much confidence in the diplomatic talents of their women. No one could explain why, but they pinned their hopes on Angelique only.
After a short dispute and bickering, Madame Carrer and Abigael entered the delegation. And since Rescator always treated Abigael with respect, the Larochelles secretly hoped that he would listen to her.
“Don't make any concessions,” Manigot said. "Life and freedom - they will not get more from us."
Going downstairs, the women at first found themselves in complete darkness, but soon they saw a small light in the depths of the side passage. Boatswain Erickson came and led the ladies into a rather large room, where, apparently, almost all the members of the besieged crew were accommodated.
Gray daylight seeped through the open side hatches. The sailors played cards and dice or swayed in hammocks. They greeted the arrival of the women calmly, almost indifferently. When Angelique saw how few weapons they had, she realized that in hand-to-hand combat, Manigot's people would not fail to take over. Was it pleasing to her? Was she scared? She wasn't sure.
Reskator's voice reached her from behind the open door of the provisions cellar. Despite the danger of the situation, her heart beat like crazy, and her cheeks flushed with a treacherous blush. When they were invited to enter, Angelique quickly lowered her eyes so that the owner of the Goldsboro would not notice her excitement, but nevertheless, she surreptitiously watched him, and this gave her some strange pleasure as if she were doing something forbidden.
There was something unapproachable in the entire appearance of Reskator with his face hidden by a mask as if he were not a man, but a part of his ship, carrying them to no one knew where. Having politely greeted the three ladies, he, nevertheless, did not invite them to sit down, and himself remained standing with his arms crossed over his chest, immediately causing anxiety among the women. In the corner, Nicolas Perrault was smoking a pipe, his eyes half-closed. He had such a detached look as if what was happening did not concern him in the least.
"Well, mesdames, your husbands brilliantly portray warriors, but, it seems to me, they are beginning to doubt their navigational abilities?" he said, and hearing his sarcastic tone, Angelique immediately realized that they should not hope for a successful outcome of the negotiations.
No one and nothing could soften this heart, bound by impenetrable armor. Angelique hardly listened to what Rescator was talking about with Madame Carrer - she knew both what she would say to him and what he would answer, so the pirate's verdict did not come as a surprise to her:
"Well, then we will all die together."
Then Reskator turned to the window, from where the incessant roar of waves was heard madly rolling on the hull of the ship carried away by the current. Angelique, having heard an almost death sentence fell from his lips, suddenly realized with surprise that she was experiencing similar feelings. She despised her recent friends for their betrayal, and the sense of justice that had always been so strong in her suggested that Reskator had made the only right decision in this situation. And only the memories of the children, who were destined to die because of the stupidity and ingratitude of their fathers, gave her unbearable pain. They, so weak and defenseless, seemed to be part of her being. For adults, she did not have the slightest compassion...
As if reading her mind, Madame Carrer said in a trembling voice:
"Have pity! Oh, have mercy on my eleven children!"
Reskator turned sharply.
"You should have thought about it before. You did not hesitate to make them victims to the consequences of your reckless venture. Thus, you agreed in advance that they would have to pay for your defeat. It's already too late. Everyone chooses for themselves... You want to live. I would rather die a hundred times than succumb to your threats. This is my last word. Pass it on to your husbands, your pastors, your fathers, and your children."
Madame Carrer and Abigael were so shocked by these words that Nicolas Perrault had to accompany them as they left, head down, almost blinded by tears.
Angelica lingered.
She wondered why, but she suddenly thought that she would still manage to come to an agreement with Reskator, that not all the arguments had been used and not all the cards had been played.
“Go, madam, I have nothing more to say to you,” she heard Reskator's even and even somewhat indifferent voice as if there had never been an angry tirade that had just made the women feel so stunned.
“Forgive my insolence, monsignor,” she began and then hesitated. Cantor's childishly plump face suddenly appeared before her eyes with incredible clarity. “Mom, save me, protect me,” the voice of the little troubadour, who had perished forever in the depths of the sea, rang in her ears. Very soon, a similar fate awaits her. The voices of Laurier and Severine, Martial and Jeremy were added to the voice of her son... And of course Honorine, her poor baby, whose life would end as soon as it began. This choir groaning in her head drove Angelique crazy. "You can't let them die," she told herself firmly. "I'm ready to do anything, even crawl on my knees in front of him, just to prevent this."
“Monsignor,” she repeated, gathering her courage, “I am deeply indignant at the ingratitude shown towards you by the passengers whom you, at my request, took on board, and I know that their actions must be punished by death. But together with them, you doom innocent children to death. Why did they deserve such a terrible fate?" She closed her eyes, and a lonely tear rolled down her cheek. "Your decision is fair, I do not argue with that, and until recently I reasoned the same way as you - blood for blood, life for life... I was obsessed with revenge and anger, and in the end, I lost everything: my lands, fortune, titles, name, honor, my sons..." Angelique's throat caught, when the pale face of her child Charles-Henri, cruelly killed by the dragoons, flashed before her inner gaze, and the dark eyes of Florimon, burning with gloomy determination, when he, repeated to her: "Mom, I must leave, we must leave, Mom...". Angelica involuntarily pressed her hands to her chest. "I no longer have anything but a daughter, over whom a curse hangs, and the hope that those children whom I have doomed to travel across the ocean, wanting to save them from a fate worse than death, will finally find happiness in the New World. Don't take that away from me, monsignor,” she whispered. “Don't make me feel like a monster guilty of their deaths..."
Reskator looked at Angelique, without uttering a word, and then stepped towards her.
"Why did you warn me about the riot?" he asked unexpectedly, bending down to her very face and looking into her eyes. "After all, if I had died yesterday at the hands of your friends," he deliberately emphasized this word, making Angelique frown as if from a toothache, "you would not have to ask me for the second time now to save their lives," Reskator lowered his hands to her shoulders and squeezed them tightly. “I paid dearly for yielding to your persistent pleas to take these men aboard the Goldsboro in La Rochelle against all reason. And I will not repeat this mistake again. Even for the sake of the children, for mercy to whom you are crying. Even for your sake.” His voice became a little quieter. “Can you imagine me rowing in a boat, trembling at the sight of the muskets of the rioters who have captured my ship, and rowing to the deserted shore with a handful of people loyal to me? I think you thought me to have no idea of honor!"
Angelica lowered her head. He was crushingly right in his reasoning, and she had nothing to argue with him. She turned to leave, but he held her back. A mocking smile crossed his lips.
“I don’t recognize you, madam. Where has your persistence gone? Why do you give up so easily? Perhaps you have something to offer me.” His hand wrapped imperiously around her waist.
"The current situation does not dispose to such kind of conversations," Angelique answered, lifting up her eyes, darkened with excitement, like an ocean raging overboard. She was outraged, shocked by his obscene proposal, especially after all his reasoning about honor and dignity, which he had spoken with such genuine sincerity just a few seconds ago.
"And what does it dispose to?" he inquired insinuatingly, carelessly running the tips of his other hand over her cheek.
"To prudence," Angelica freed herself from his embrace and, taking a few steps back, rested her back against the partition.
"Commendable quality," Reskator agreed willingly. “It’s a pity that women like you don’t have it.”
"What makes you think so?" she tried to speak calmly, but her voice trembled treacherously, all the same, betraying her confusion.
“Because otherwise you would not have stayed here with me now,” he paused for a moment, thinking. "Why did you warn me about the riot?"
Reskator asked again, coming close to her and cutting off all escape routes.
“I… I don’t know,” she whispered. "Please, let me go."
"All the long way from La Rochelle you poured cold and contempt on me, and here such a touching concern! Doesn't it seem strange?" a hidden tenderness was suddenly heard in his voice, and his hand slid up her shoulder and, froze at the base of her neck. "Answer me," he lifted her chin and looked into her eyes.
“I didn't want you to be killed,” she said, fascinated by the look of his black eyes sparkling in the slits of the mask.
"Is it so? Why?" Reskator brought his face close to the face of the young woman.
Now they were separated by only a few inches of space, which could be traversed in a split second, and Angelique suddenly wanted Reskator to kiss her. She recalled a recent dream in which she was rushing somewhere, clambering up endless steep ladders swaying in the darkness of the night, and the wooden steps turned under her fingers into man's firm shoulders, which she clung to in exhaustion. And she knew who they belonged to - to him, the only man who could become her support, who could save her...
Her legs were weakened, her head was spinning, and Angelique realized that she was about to lose consciousness. She swayed forward and felt Reskator catch her, hugging her tightly.
“Just don’t try to faint,” she heard his voice, in which irony was intertwined with genuine alarm.
Angelique shook her head in protest, but even this slight movement made her sick. Lord, what's going on with her ?! The world revolved around her, the night surrounded her, as then, as if in a dream, the strong hands of his, tightly and painfully held her on the edge of unconsciousness.
"I see you are ready to do anything, just not to answer my questions, madam," with these words Reskator sat Angelique on a chair and raised a glass of wine to her lips, which, as if by magic, appeared in his hands.
“It's probably because of the pitching.” She took a sip of wine and coughed. Her eyes went dark again.
"You are so sensitive, who would have thought..." he said thoughtfully. "Honestly, all these stiff Protestant saints, whom you imposed on me along with their troublemaker husbands and snotty children, are no match for you!"
Angelica sat up straight in her chair.
"Leave your sarcasm, sir! You and I are now not in a position to offend each other."
"Undoubtedly," nodded Reskator. “I offer you my humble apologies, Madame Abbess, for the irony inappropriate in this situation. Are you feeling better now?"
Angelica raised her hands to her temples.
"A little."
"Then, perhaps, you wish to leave?"
She made an attempt to get up, but immediately sank back into the chair. Her legs did not hold her.
“I see,” he chuckled. “You desperately want to leave the society of the despicable pirate, but your body resists it in every possible way. Perhaps you should listen to it, madam? What if it thinks more sanely than your mind?"
"When you are saying so, you are disgusting to me," Angelique pursed her lips, insulted to the depths of her soul.
"And if I speak differently?" Reskator openly mocked her.
“I won't believe a word you say,” she blurted out.
"Then why did you save my life?" He bent over her again. “Mind you, I will not let you go until you tell me the truth,” Reskator paused a little. “And I may have to resort to torture."
With these words, he grasped the pale face of the young woman with his palms, on which the traces of recent anger were still clearly visible, and pressed his lips to hers...