As he charged with a roar and Don Enrique waited to impale him with his precision dueling weapon he heard a small voice speak in English off to his right, “By the Furies Hempstead, the painted savage be a Christian, a wild Scott thinks I!”

He drew the thrust and beat it aside with the scabbard, and then cleaved savagely into the hip joint of the man, which ruined the don and sent him crippled to the hard mud bank. He stood above the man relishing his work, not wanting to end his suffering yet.

The don was groaning in Spanish to the robed figures behind him. The fourth farthest to the left, was a nun. The other three were some kind of monks. He could smell man sweat and semen on her. He knew then that she wasn’t really a nun and was just the wench used by these hypocrites who were no doubt trying to conceal her from the English, who would surely haul off any simple prostitute, while they might show mercy on a nun and leave her be.

The monks came close and stood at the don’s head as he pleaded with them. He then looked to Jay. “You have slain me heathen. I plead only for absolution.”

“Well hefey, I don’ now whad dat big word is. But if it means somehow not goin’ to da Man Below den I’m thinkin’ I’d like yer company when I ged dare.”

On a sudden wrathful impulse Jay ripped an extended forehand slash that cleaved through all three of the thin monks at the waste. As the bodies and legs began to fall and spurt in separate directions and the woman screamed in horror, he rotated his five-foot weapon into a reverse grip with his left on the ricasso ahead of the crosspiece and the palm of his right hand on the pummel and plunged it through Don Enrique’s bowels and left him to lay groaning among those who he had thought would pave his way into Heaven.

As the woman fell to her knees vomiting he turned to the sounds of the English voices and saw an unlikely crew. Standing before six burly sailors and a well-dressed servant, was a miniature gentleman, a gaudily dressed boy with curly blonde locks that could have been no older than twelve—not even beginning puberty. The boy looked at Jay with astonishment as one of the sailors behind him swore, “By God, there be three less papist dogs to trouble ole Uncle Calvin me-Lord.”

The boy then approached Jay boldly, not even five feet tall. He removed a dainty ruffled glove and extended a delicate hand. “Well done man! I am Lord Pendleton Shaw, late of Dover, ward of Frederick Henry, Prince of Orange, Stadthouder of the Dutch Republic. It is a pleasure. To what highland clan, may I ask, were you born, and how came you to this heathen shore?”

Jay did not want to get mixed up with these people, but did need the use of their boat. He sheathed his claymore, leaned on it as the woman continued to cry and choke behind him, and regarded the spoiled little brat before him for a second before shaking his little powdered hand. “Given name is Jay Brant Bracken—were born ta dis lan’ Sir. I’ll tell ya all ‘bout it while yer men row me ta yon’ shore ta recover ma prisoner. I could swim it again but I’m haulin’ freight now.”

He turned to the woman in the nun’s habit, grabbed her roughly by the arm and dragged her to her feet. She looked up searchingly for a mercy that she did not expect. She was a pretty big-eyed Spanish-Algonquian mix. He opened her mouth and checked her teeth—teeth are always a big question mark with primitive chicks—then felt her small full breasts and slapped her butt to make sure she was fit. She faked some tears for the English, but he could smell her submission despite her disgust, “Bwayno Chakeyta.”

He then heaved her over his shoulder and turned to Little Lord Shaw. “Well Lord Shaw, iz id a deal?”

They managed about twenty minutes of question and answer as they sat in the jolly boat crossing the river while the sailors rowed. The little lord wrote down his every word with an ink-dipped quill in a sheepskin book bound in fine leather. The boy was initially concerned about the burning of Porto Soto, the battle and the pursuit. As Jay discussed these things with Lord Shaw he was reminded of various conversations about his prizefights with fight fans. Perhaps, like many of his time, this boy was a fan of war, the pastime of his aristocratic class.

They pulled up onto shore and made a little ceremony of escorting him out of the boat. He even walked through two short files of oarsmen standing at attention. The Spanish pike-man was now sitting up attempting to bind his knee. Jay set down the girl and motioned for her to aid the fallen soldier. He then walked over to the pike and helmet hung with near two-hundred colorfully adorned scalps. Little Lord Shaw sucked in his breath in amazement at the sight of the savage headpiece. “May I Jay?”

“Sure Lord Shaw, try it on if ya like.”

The boy and his manservant examined the piece in detail, the boy even beginning a sketch. “Just for the proportions you know—a mere moment. I can complete it from memory. Don it please Jay.”

Jay posed briefly with the helmet on his head and scalps draping his upper body as Lord Shaw sketched furiously. He then grabbed the pike and handed it butt-first to the little rich boy. “Dare ya go Lord Shaw, sometin’ ta take home. I need to be headin’ back to my people now.”

As he said this he handed his helmet to the woman and heaved the soldier across his shoulders.

Little Lord Pendleton Shaw was excited. “Chief Bracken, if I may name you so, I intend to pen a mariner’s guide regarding this land. What advice might I offer in your words, for those doughty English and Dutch souls who might venture upon these shores?”

“Tell them Lord Shaw that my sons and I will see that it’s just a visit—and a bloody one at that, just like we did for Old Don Tinoco, Frank Drake and Big Don Enrique. Thanks for the ferry across.”

He then turned to his recently acquired woman and slapped her on the rear end. “Undalay Chakeyta, undalay.”

Behind him he could hear some of the discussion between Pendleton and his manservant before he began tuning his ears and nostrils into the wild world he was plunging back into. “Have you ever seen such a savage sight! He be the very image of our ancient ancestors. A descendent of Prince Madoc he be. I wager Hempstead, that a turreted keep rises in this hinterland somewhere. To think Hempstead, a race of White savages ruling the heathens—what treasures they must have hoarded!”

“Aye me-Lord, a frightful shore this be…”

He felt a pair of great wings beet above him just before they entered the forest. He looked up and saw nothing, not a wing in the sky. A chill then played down his spine.

I suppose Don Enrique wasn’t such a satisfying meal for the Man Below as you supposed. He’s still got his eyes on you hillbilly.