Page 24 of A Prince Among Pirates
Though… I like to think it was the green eyes that did him in.
I pull my ledger out of the top drawer of Captain Sharpe’sdesk and flip through it as I walk back out on deck. It took about three pages of scribbles, but I figured out the maths on my planned trade. So long as I am able to haggle for what I deem to be fair prices, I will have more than enough to pay for new pillows and blankets for every man aboard.
Armed with that knowledge, and with land in sight, I make my way down below to the galley to chat with Cook.
I don’t know the man’s given name—everyone seems to just call him Cook. I swear, he’s got to be at least fourscore and five, but he’s sturdy for an older man. Not like my father or Prince Henry.
His black hair is long, though he keeps it tied back with a strip of softened leather. His skin is bronze like mine, and he has a coarse beard and mustache, which he keeps surprisingly tidy for a seafarer. He wears his shirtsleeves rolled up from the heat of the fire, exposing numerous tattoos along his forearms that seem to extend up under his shirt. I dare not ask to see them in full, but I can’t resist the urge to stare at them whenever he isn’t looking my way.
“Whatcha want, lordling?”
I wince as I lean against a support post by the hanging pots and pans, which rattle as they sway against one another. “Ah, I do love that nickname.”
“Until ya’ve earned another’n, it’ll stick.”
“So it would seem.”
“Get out, I’m busy.”
His tone is mild enough that I decide to be unconcernedwith how busy he is. “When we reach port, I plan to do a bit of haggling for some extras on board the ship.”
“That so?”
I smile at him. “It is indeed.”
“Best take Rodriguez with ya.”
My smile falters. “My Spanish is perfectly adequate,” I insist.
“Maybe so, but yer a foppish-lookin’ little shit, and they won’t care how well ya speak Spanish if yer lookin’ down yer nose at ’em.”
“Rodriguez doesn’t much like me.” At that, he laughs but offers no further advice, so I decide to press on. “Anyway… I know you have your usual allotment, but is there anything extra I can find for you that isn’t on whatever arrangement you’re used to?”
Cook raises one brow at me and gives me a slow once-over. “Campaignin’ fer head boy, are ya?”
Head boy. Very cute. I smile again and open my ledger. “I could ask Martel instead. I have it on good authority that Frenchmen have exquisite taste when it comes to fine dining.”
“Yer a right shit,” Cook says, and motions towards my ledger. “Get me some chickens.”
“Chickens?” I ask. “As in… live ones?”
“We used ta keep ’em below with goats fer fresh eggs and milk.”
“Is there a particular reason we no longer do?” I ask warily.
“Got caught in the doldrums too long year past,” he explains, as if any of that means anything to me. “Never replaced ’em.”
“Right—how many do you want?”
He considers. “Near on two hundred’n forty men… Forty. Fifty if ya can.”
“Fifty—my God. Have we a place to keep them?”
Cook nods. “I can get the lads to clean it up right smart again.”
By “the lads,” I assume he means Tristan and Trevor. I nod and set my ink on a shelf, then open it to dip my quill so I might take notes. “I assume we’ll need feed for them as well… I should have enough for it. I’ll do my best.”
“See thatcha do, lad.”
