A Light Off the Starboard Bow

By Amanda Morgan

A mysterious stranger led archaeologist Jill Reade was led to a cave by the banks of a fast-flowing river. She and her crew then excavated for two seasons but found nothing that would merit further research.

She is reluctantly packing to leave when the apparition appears again. Now she’s convinced there is something here by the riverbank—something so important a man would twice leave his grave to expose it. And is the evil arsonist just as determined to keep that secret hidden?

Jill’s quest for answers has taken her from the northern Cascade Mountains to the Abaco Islands in the Bahamas and to the plantations of Charleston where she learns of political intrigue, pirates, booty, and ....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amanda Morgan
• Release date: Mar 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370689378

Amanda Morgan

In her character driven inspirational series, LEGENDS OF THE SANCTUARY TREE, archaeologist Amanda Morgan uses family stories and local legends to weave a saga of ordinary people; of their struggles and triumphs; of making choices and accepting the results. She endows her heroes with no more attributes than the desire to do right and a willingness to grow then she uses homespun humor to demonstrate that growth. Childhood memories of a campfire story told by her father prompted the idea of using a tree as a place of Sanctuary—“some place to stash this burden, somewhere to rest”—and each novel has situations in which characters are helped by a tree—an angel wearing camouflage. Amanda’s writing reflects the parable-like stories with which she was raised. If you are looking for words of wisdom you will find them couched with a little bit of humor in the mysteries, the benevolence, and the tears. You won’t find them by searching for can’ts or shoulds. And if you happen to miss them, that’s okay. These are still charming stories—tales about strong women who refuse to see themselves as victim.

Book preview

The darkness dragged at her skirts; pulled her deeper into the icy depths. Unrelenting. Merciless. Death waited there. How much further? She saw the Devil Himself, dark and bewhiskered. He boomed with laughter before flicking her from His shoulder.

She shot upwards through the brine, into the chaos of a raging battle. She gasped for air; one quick gulp of life before He rethought His earlier act of … benevolence? She caught one quick look at tattered sails flapping in a vivid blue sky before the weight of her garments sucked her back into the abyss. Her frozen fingers picked vainly at the knotted ties securing her heavy petticoats. Again she began the slow inexorable journey to the ocean floor.

Then the arms were there. Warm. Gentle. First slowing her descent then lifting her towards the surface.

The same one?

Her affirmation was more spasm than nod and she rested in his arms, content to hold and be held.

Shall I make tea?

What time is it? she asked then groaned softly in answer to her own question. Too early to get up, too late to go back to sleep. You get more sleep if you can. I want to write down every detail because I see a little bit more each time I dream it. The strange thing is, Lane, when I go back and read what I wrote the last time there are things I don’t remember dreaming—or writing—as if I’m remembering more than the dream.

I’ll go brew a pot, he insisted. Talking about it might help you remember. But I think it has something to do with blood sugar. We eat too late or too early and eat the wrong things so your blood sugar spikes or dips at about this time some mornings.

Oh Lane. I wish it were that simple. I could do something about that.

But you think it’s something different. It was a statement rather than a question.

She ran her fingers through her short hair. It’s me, Lane. It’s me long ago. I saw the ships this time. They’re old-timey … wooden things … with sails … cannon holes … whatever you call those openings. It was way back, but I know it’s me.

The good news is, Sweetheart, your being here means you didn’t drown, he said softly with a grin.

No. But what did happen to me?

ONE

Emmeline pulled the heavy quilt up to her chin and squinted into the dimly lit room from the warmth of her bed. In the early morning stillness, tiny orange eyes winked from the fireplace. Pale satin bed curtains hung on ornate loops from the upper bed frame. Velvet ropes were twined and tied to keep the curtains secured to the bedposts. They were intended to keep the draft off her shoulders and for that they were useless tied back in this way but she insisted they stay open. Heavy brocade tapestries covered the cold stone walls and overlapped at the one tall narrow aperture through which she could, should she choose, view the world outside the castle.

A solid oak insert had been especially made to seal that window, indeed all of the like-sized openings throughout her father’s castle, but she hated the darkness—the closed-in feeling of her suite when the shutter was put in place for the winter. She’d watched Roberge, the workman, install it and when he was finished she’d asked him to take it out again.

In the event you are asked whether you have installed my shutter, you can quite rightly say you have done so.

He was not surprised by her boldness. Everyone, including she, knew how her father adored her. One would never try to guess which might be more life threatening—defying the baron’s order or resisting his daughter’s wish. The workman shook his head in wonderment but did as she directed.

He worked in silence, not daring to look at the sharp-eyed young woman though he knew she was watching him, and thanked the fates it was to her rooms he was typically assigned. The atmosphere in her elder sster’s chambers, across the hall, was one of dread and fear. That one, Margaret, had thoughts only for herself, never thinking those charged with catering to her every whim might have thoughts or wishes of their own.

Shortly after Emmeline was born a nameless carver, one of the army of castle minions, had carved a rustic angel from the trunk of a gnarled old plum tree. The purple core of the heartwood contrasted sharply with the buttery yellow sapwood to create natural shadows and give uncommon depth to the life-size statue. It was to overlook the children’s garden but Margaret had named it ugly. After a few summers she could tolerate it no longer. She demanded the graven image be burned.

But from early childhood the baron’s younger daughter, who had no concept of idols, had insisted the angel keeps scary things away. When she learned the angel was to be banished she asked, and was given, permission to have the figure moved to the nursery. Since then the statue had stood beside a window in whichever room the girl slept.

Would something so small as to make it through so narrow an opening so high in the castle wall test an angel’s power, he wondered? And just what would be life-size in regards to angels? And how could an incredibly ugly, malformed, gnarled piece of tree trunk be seen as beautiful in the eyes of the child who had truly become the lovelier of the daughters of Louis, the Baron of Liles?

Roberge continued to tap and chip at the stone around the opening to make sure the shutter, should it be needed, would slip easily into place. How would the baron react to the news of his daughter’s rejection of the shutter? Roberge knew the baron would hear of it—if not today then tomorrow or tomorrow. The scullery maid would complain to the cook about the chill in M’Lady’s room; the under-footman would complain about carrying the extra wood needed to heat a room with an open window. Roberge was certain there would be a confrontation; one the girl would surely lose.

The angel was heavy and her base broad so he slipped the unused shutter between her and the wall. Please not to let that fall on Your Mistress’ toe. It is heavy but with a second set of hands, it can be readily slipped into the opening.

She smiled and tilted her head in acknowledgement.

He patted what he took to be the outstretched hand of the statue then surprised himself making the prayer hands of the Protestants. Flustered, he crossed himself in the way of the Catholics then looked from the angel to the window and back at the statue, all the while hoping the girl hadn’t noticed his first gesture. Before she could accuse him of being a Protestant he picked up his kit and hurried from the room.

That evening he asked his wife to make a bolster. One side would be the piece of embroidered damask she had labored long to complete for their own small stark hovel, the stuffing would be the down they’d saved from the goose so recently butchered for the lord’s feast-of-something-or-which. Their goat had long ago been taken for the same frivolous reason, though in celebration of something entirely different he supposed. Its beautifully tanned hide would make the perfect backing of the pillow. Roberge and his wife were grateful their lord had allowed them to keep both the goat hide and the goose down. They would gladly share some of each with his daughter, especially if it would keep her quiet about the forbidden religion they practiced in secret.

Many years ago a group of worshippers had renounced their Catholic faith to follow the teachings of a man named Calvin. Almost immediately wars had broken out between the two factions and now each side could point to savage, barbarous atrocities enacted by the other—all in the name of religion. Now it was illegal to practice Protestantism and the law required all French children to be educated in the Catholic faith by Catholic tutors.

Roberge and his family supported the Protestants—derisively called Huguenots by the Catholics and the government. He suspected the baron did as well and knew the slightest hint of suspicion uttered by this daughter, no matter how young and beloved, could send them all to the guillotine.

Most of the country, with the exception of this mountainous region here in the south, had been purged of the Protestants. Those able to do so had fled, though emigration too had been made illegal. Roberge had watched them flee. At peril to his life, and possibly his soul, he’d even lent aid to a few he had once called friend. And since that last great uprising such a few short years ago the economy had withered—the Protestants had taken with them their skills, training, and ambition. Laborers could no longer find work; apprentices could no longer find masters. Families starved or accepted a life of servitude with the likes of Louis, the Baron of Liles.

Roberge was sent from time to time to several neighboring estates and he knew the baron was far from the worst of the aristocrats who dotted the province. Louis had managed to keep religious beliefs from pitting his serfs one against the other simply by forbidding the overt practice of any religion by either side. The too real fear of ouster—and ultimate starvation—seemed to keep those bound to him from openly defying the order but Roberge wondered how long the tenuous relationship could last.

He thought himself lucky. Immediately after the castle’s master-builder slipped into the forest to seek a life outside France, Roberge presented himself to the baron’s overseer with an offer to trade his life as a free merchant for one as serf to the baron. His skill with wood had, at an earlier time, impressed the baron so Roberge the Tradesman, became Roberge Charpentier and, with his wife, moved in the hovel once occupied by his friend, Mahon the Carpenter. Many men with greater skills had since approached the gate looking for a similar chance but the baron had as yet seen no reason to replace Roberge. If the baron saw the removal of the shutter as an act of insubordination or if the girl told her father of his instinctively clasping his hands, would the baron remain so generous?

When the pillow was finished Roberge took it to Emmeline’s room. He had measured the slit in the wall, designed for castle-defending archers, by placing his hands side-by-side this and that many times, and he was pleased when the bolster fit securely into the opening. Now she could wedge the pillow into the fissure to keep the cold at bay and take it out to enjoy the brief periods of weak sunlight that might briefly filter into the room.

Emmeline stole from the warmth of her bed and skittered lightly across the frigid stones to kneel before the fireplace. She picked a few twigs from the wood scuttle and laid them carefully around the few remaining embers. She crisscrossed the twigs with tiny sticks to form a roof of sorts then gently fanned the little structure.

Her maid was always flustered by Emmeline’s early rising and annoyed—or frightened—by her feeding the fire. Emmeline’s solution has been simple. I refuse to lie abed until the entire household stirs, so come in earlier to kindle the fire, or continue to accidentally leave twigs and sticks in the scuttle when you tuck me in at night. The maid had done both. Even so, no matter how early she slipped into the room Emmeline was by the fire reading one of those books her mother railed against, or peering out her window at the morning stars or the early birds swooping across the fields.

What will M’Lady wear today? Will we be attending the newly arrived guests?

Emmeline started. She’d been engrossed in coaxing the flames slowly to life, watching them grow in size and warmth as they consumed the fuel she’d fed them.

Oh, bother! The expletive escaped unbidden and she eyed the maid over her shoulder. "Excuse my lapse, Clarice. I must make better my vow to curb my tongue.

I have no taste for the way my sister pretends to be elegant—no patience for her self-importance or her idle chatter. I should like to do as I always do on market day—tour the stalls and gossip with the vendors who have things of substance to say. Shall you accompany me or are you pressed into other service?

I am My Lady’s servant, Madame. I shall do as you bid. Perhaps, if I may be bold, your sister might also be interested in touring the stalls?

Oh bother! Oh dear, Clarice. Again, forgive my loose tongue. Have you seen her? Is she Very Tropical? Is she still agile or has our Lady Margaret grown round like Mama? You are right of course. It might be troublesome but I shall be a dutiful hostess and make the offer of an outing at the breaking of our fast, though I seriously doubt she will be interested. She has always shown so strong a propensity for inertia.

I beg your pardon Mistress. You use words I do not understand.

Emmeline smiled. You could say I have a propensity for using big words. I love words, Clarice. I enjoy using them in every which way—big ones to mean something small and small ones to mean something much larger. It is a game I play with myself to tease others. One might accuse me of pretending to be clever just as my sister Margaret pretends to be elegant. But do not mind me in this. I was simply saying the woman has always been lazy. A sentiment often heard below-stairs no doubt?

Madame. I cannot say so.

"Of course you cannot. Oh, Clarice, I have just had a very great thought. Mama reminds me that I am the daughter of a baron. Hence, it matters not what others want. Oh, but wait! My sister is now the daughter-in-law of a viscount, is she not? Oh-h-h. It must be abuzz below-stairs … whose maid is more important? … which footman comes through first? … it could be very confusing to some but they know, do they not? To a T they know the order of importance. And now, because her father-in-law outranks my own Papa, I must needs address her as Lady Margaret and it would be rudeness itself if I were to visit Papa’s serfs while she desires I should attend her in her quarters.

Clarice, I shall don my outside togs and be prepared for a morning walk through the market stalls in ill weather. Perhaps my sister, seeing it is a dull day, will insist on staying abed until the fires have warmed the sitting room. With luck, that could take all day!

Emmeline’s maid had been bringing articles of clothing from the next room and placing them on warming racks around the now-blazing hearth. She paused, as she did on so many occasions, and chose to take no notice of Emmeline’s slur. Wordlessly she pulled the nightdress over her mistress’ head and reached quickly for her undergarments.

I envy them the luxury of growing plump, you know—Mama and Margaret. They have husbands. Their fate is sealed. No longer do they worry about making themselves attractive to a man with taste—or money. Much better the money than the taste, I suppose. But, dear Clarice, imagine spending long nights in an empty castle alone with a companion who has no conversation, no wit, no interests save his coffers. Or worse, perhaps; one who cannot be content with silence.

At the maid’s lack of response, she spun to face the woman and demanded, Well?

Madame?

"Well, what think you? And do not say to me Yes, Madame or No, Madame. Have you no thought on the matter?"

Madame will please not pose a question that might, if answered, put the fate of one’s maid in jeopardy.

Clarice, Emmeline whispered in disbelief. You came to me as a child of twelve years. I was but four. We have no secrets from one another. I am now, more than the moment before, desirous of your answer.

The maid hesitated then spoke slowly, picking her words carefully. I do spend nights with a man who has no conversation, no wit. But he has neither coffers nor a castle with which to soften those shortcomings. It is perhaps fortunate our nights together are not long. If I may be so bold.

How came you to choose such a man?

Begging your pardon, My Lady. The man was chosen for me by your father.

You should have refused Clarice! Why did you not?

The two women stood toe to toe, each gaping into the eyes of the other, each realizing she’d had a brief glimpse into an alien world—into a world she could not comprehend.

Emmeline, with her feet now in warm mules, straightened her dark cashmere dress over her plain woolen undergarments then went to the window and stepped onto the padded bench beneath it. She pushed aside the heavy curtains and pulled the beautiful pillow from the opening. The goatskin was wet though not yet icy. Still, it would be a miserable market day. She sometimes wondered which was worse for the vendors, the cold snow or the pouring rain. The snow froze their feet and made walking a misery but it didn’t leak through the cracks in the stall roofs and soak them through to the skin. She shivered at the thought of either.

She passed the pillow to her maid then leaned far out, as far as the aperture would allow, and watched the carters and waggoners gathering at the castle gates. She wondered how early they must rise, be lined and ready when the gates opened, in order to claim one of the prime stalls. Was this early-rising what Clarice meant when she said her nights were short?

Had her perspective changed as she aged? It seemed, when she was much younger, the trundles were filled to the point of breaking an axle. But the carts hadn’t looked so full this past year; maybe not so full the past few years.

Some of the farmers had brought garden herbs, the last of the season’s root vegetables, or caged fowl. A few, those with nothing to sell, brought only their families with them; most brought both. She could see little tykes scampering from one cart to another, renewing acquaintances and building friendships. She envied them those moments of abandon.

She was surprised to see, waiting behind the vendors, a stunningly beautiful creamy-white coach. Two like-colored horses danced and pranced, anxious to get to the stables they guessed were inside. Emblazoned on the door was a crest. She couldn’t make out the symbol but it was a striking shade of blue with tiny black accents.

Clarice! Come quickly. Look at this coach. Tell me what is being said below-stairs of more guests arriving.

The maid stood on the bench and leaned far out into the fall air. I see no coach My Lady.

Lean further. It’s white with two white horses. There’s blue on the door. Who is it?

Clarice stepped down and looked at Emmeline with doubt and a degree of resignation.

Emmeline knew that look. She jumped again to the bench and stretched her head through the window. Nothing appeared outside the gates save the carts, with the vendors and their families, awaiting the opening of the castle gates.

To Emmeline’s great relief, Margaret and her husband, the Viscount Pettijean, had found the journey from the island of Barbados to the south of France as exhausting as all had predicted it would be. They would, therefore, keep to their private quarters until midday, perhaps later. However, the youngest of Margaret’s maids wished to accompany Mistress Emmeline and her maid to the market. Her own lady had torn a glove and the maid was in hopes of finding a glover able to repair the damaged attire.

The market was sparsely attended and the atmosphere was as somber as the rain. As she did early on every market day, Emmeline chatted with her father’s serfs drawing smiles and good wishes. She asked about family members, remembered ones who were absent, and thanked those who had been of particular service. She purchased a little something from a few of the vendors though she knew the housekeeper and the castle cook would receive the castle fare at the back door of the kitchen. Again she was struck by the meager offerings of late.

Their stroll took them first past the stalls where hard goods were sold and it was here the visiting maid left her lady’s glove. The women made the turn at the far end of the market grounds and walked back towards the castle along the food stalls: the herbalist, the meat cutter, the dairyman, the spice merchant.

The wind was coming from their backs now and the two maids lagged behind the Mistress, chatting in quiet tones. In a moment of incaution, Clarice raised her voice in disbelief then quickly lowered it. Curious, Emmeline strained to hear what was being said.

"It is truth. I overheard my Lady discussing it with my Lord. There are no titles—no serfs. The peasants—they call them farmers—own their land and keep what they earn from it save a per-hundred they pay in increments called taxes."

If they have no Sire, who provides for them … gives them food? A home? Animals for their farms? Who protects them from invaders?

I cannot say. I believe my Lord said they purchase things as they choose—some more, some less. And they protect themselves. They all carry long guns and shoot at will when they are attacked or when they see a hare or a pheasant; even a stray hart!

They freely poach the stags?

"If I am not mistaken, it is not poaching if the stag is taken in what they call public lands. They are allowed to shoot it and keep it, too!"

All of it?

All of it.

And they are not hanged for it?

Nay.

Clarice was skeptical and again spoke too loudly. You are but a child. Perhaps twelve years? You are likely mistaken. If it is as you say, why then has your Lady Margaret returned to her family here rather than go to this new America?

"Something my Lord calls politics. I freely admit I do not clearly understand all of what I hear. I listen at cracks so am not at liberty to ask for clarification when something puzzles me. But my Lord says the peasants here are getting bolder in their demands. They are no longer content with a liege who says he will protect his serfs; who promises to give them houses and food and fuel as their needs decree in exchange for a portion of the fruits of their holdings. But the portion kept by the lords grows ever larger and leaves less and less again for the serfs. My Lord is afraid the serfs are getting angry. He fears for the safety of the baron and his family. He believes everyone should leave France. He wants the baron should go live at Her Ladyship’s estates in England or buy land in the new world."

Who then would be our Master?

I know naught of that.

What of my mistress?

Have you not heard? Your master has promised my lord’s brother the hand of your Mistress Emmeline. My Lady Margaret traveled all this long way only to be here for the nuptials.

Stunned, Emmeline kept silent but strode ahead towards a seething confrontation with her father.

TWO

She paused with a hand on the latch of the dark, heavy door. The voices coming from within were raised in agitation. Her brows rose in wonderment then drooped into a frown. Her parents were usually mindful about servants listening at keyholes. What could be the subject of so