Easton Read Free Page A

softly beneath them and the cabin sways almost imperceptibly.
    But Easton hasn’t even winced. Indeed, his smile broadens slightly and he catches Richard’s eye as if to say they must both humour the young man.
    “Young captain,” Easton says, “I find these days people are offended no matter what the decoration on my ship. When they behold the gifts of foreign princes, they think me a traitor who barters his honour for silk. When they see the cross of St. George upon my mast, they think me a hypocrite.” He is quiet for a moment and smiles almost sadly. “I have learned not to try to please anymore. In any case, England, much as we love it, has its limitations for men of taste.”
    There is a sharp sound from the corner of the cabin opposite the main entrance. A large hatch creaks open, revealing a dark and narrow doorway. Richard watches as the figure of a woman emerges through it. She is carrying a tray and is dressed in the style of a serving wench in plain white tunic, bonnet and skirts. First Richard thinks it must be the darkness at the other side of the door that creates a curious illusion. But as she steps into the full candlelight he sees it is real. The woman’s bare forearms, and even her face, are dark chocolate brown in hue. She is clearly a slave, but dressed respectably like a serving woman. She approaches with a golden tray which she places on a serving table by her master. Without looking directly at anyone, she fills three goblets with the quiet, expert efficiency of a matron, then keeping an arm’s-length away and still averting her eyes, hands one to each guest. All the while silence reigns. Easton watches with barely concealed amusement.
    Dawson’s eyes stare in fresh indignation as he takes the goblet, his fingers almost touching those of the slave. This is his clumsiness, not hers. Richard, in turn, takes his drink more deftly than his young friend. Then she turns to Easton, her face for the moment no longer visible to Richard. Easton does touch the woman’s fingers, deliberately it seems and in a slow, lingering fashion. His smile never leaves his face and for a moment appears to be directed at the slave, giving the fleeting but undeniable impression of intimacy.
    It is difficult to tell with her head turned mainly from him, but Richard seems to catch a momentary smile on the slave’s face too, as she leaves the jug on the serving table and slowly turns to leave.
    Richard notices his young companion stiffening dangerously; it is that intense scabbard-reaching manner he has come to recognize through decades of battles and brawls and the company of military men. He reaches out quickly and touches Dawson’s forearm while Easton turns and watches the hatch close. The reminder is enough. Dawson calms. Richard hears him sigh—a slow, deliberate self-calming exercise—as Easton turns back to them and raises his goblet.
    “To friends and good company. May they not easily be parted,” Easton proclaims with a grin, and sips deeply. Richard does the same and is surprised at the rich and mellow taste, tingling with the merest hint of effervescence. The colour of the wine seems deep red and the temperature is perfect, slightly cooler than the warm cabin. He feels as though many long dead sensations have been revivified in an instant. “Please taste it, young captain,” Easton urges.
    Dawson raises the goblet to his lips.
    “How do you find it, Admiral?” Easton asks Richard.
    “It is excellent. Really excellent,” he responds.
    “Better, I’ll warrant, than the wine that survives the journey to the blustery shores of this New-found-land. I hardly think the merchant would allow his best to come the way of a straggling bunch of soldiers and fishermen.”
    “Honest toil is rarely given the best rewards,” Dawson says, his stiffness and red face returning.
    Richard flashes a glare in his direction, but it is too late.
    “May I ask,” he continues, “where you got yours?”
    There is the