Isle of Swords by Wayne Thomas Batson Read Free Book Online Page A

pure cerulean. Two wisps of pure-white clouds hung over the rising sun like the brow of some great jolly face. Captain Ross stood at the prow of the Wallace and breathed deeply of the sea air . . . and freedom. Nothing tasted as good as freedom, especially to Ross, who had for a dark period of his life endured the harsh yoke of slavery.
    Ross looked forward to the hospitality of the monks. It had been over a year since the Wallace last made port on the island monastery of St. Celestine. It was a place of refuge for pirates, and over the years he and his crew had become friends with the small order, and sometimes brought them spices from afar. The monks there hoped to lead pirates away from sin and into Christianity through their charity and provision. They had huge gardens and orchards. They made the most hearty breads and savory cheeses. And, aside from the buccaneers of Barbados, the monks had the only fresh beef in the Caribbean. They washed it all down with the finest port wine that could be had west of France. This they gladly shared with even the most ruthless of scoundrels. And never once did the monks aid colonial or royal navies in their quest to capture these same pirates. For this reason, it was common fact—even written into most ships’ pirate law—that St. Celestine was off-limits for pirate attacks.
    So it was an unhappy surprise that greeted the crew of the William Wallace when they pulled into port at the holy isle. “Give me the glass,” said Ross. Even as he brought the spyglass up to his eye, a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He scanned the shoreline and saw the statue of Mary kneeling at the water’s edge, blessing the sea and all who travel upon it. There were row upon row of wooden stakes attached by gossamer white twine—the vineyards, and beyond them, the orchards and the dark stone of the abbey. But in the foreground left of the monastery, stabbed deep into the sandy shore, was a black flag. Upon its sable field were the white silhouette of an hourglass, a skull over crossed swords, and a raven taking flight.
    â€œIt’s Thorne,” Ross said. “He’s put his death’s-head flag upon the shore to warn them. He plans to take the island.”
    â€œThat madman!” Stede exclaimed. “What does that mon think he b’ doin’? Attacking the monks is against the code.”
    â€œHe thinks he’s above the code,” Ross muttered. “This is no longer a safe haven.”

    â€œWelcome, Captain Ross,” said Father Raphael Valentia, the chief of the order of St. Celestine. “Your return is an unlooked-for blessing.” He glanced behind Ross at the Wallace . “Your ship is in need of careening, I see. We will do this for you and supply you with fresh provision.”
    â€œThank you, Father.” Ross stood on the deck near the bowsprit. “As always, we appreciate your kindness. But that flag makes me think we won’t have the time. When did the death’s-head show up?” Ross gestured toward the Raven ’s flag.
    Father Valentia grimaced, and the group of monks gathered there murmured among themselves.
    â€œCaptain Thorne’s warning defiled our shore before the sun rose yesterday morning.”
    â€œThat gives you only two more days before he returns and attacks,” Ross thought aloud. “Have you made arrangements to get to the mainland?”
    â€œWe are not leaving our island,” said Father Valentia.
    â€œWhat?” Ross exclaimed. “You must leave. Do you not realize what that flag means? He’s marked Saint Celestine—claimed it as his. He’ll kill everyone. Do you understand—EVERYONE!! Father, we are old friends. I’ll grant passage to you and the Brothers to sail with us. The Brothers and my crew will be able to quickly prepare the Wallace , fill up our barrels and crates with food and drink. We will leave tonight for Santo Magherito. From there