‘Tie him up. We finish up here, then take him to Simon’s ship.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘OUT OF THE way, rat.’
A thoughtless hand shoved Violet backward, shutting her out of the spectacle on the deck. Pushed and jostled, she craned her neck for a glimpse. She couldn’t see much past the shoulders of the sailors, the press of their bodies thick with the smell of anticipation, brine and sweat, so she scrambled up onto the ratlines, wedging her arm into the knotted rope to hold herself in place. Her first glimpse of Tom was over a crowd of caps and kerchiefs, the sailors encircling him on the deck.
It was Thursday, and Simon’s ship, the Sealgair, was moored on the crowded river. Heavy with cargo, its main mast flew the three black hounds, Simon’s coat of arms. Violet wasn’t supposed to have snuck aboard, but she knew the ship from the work her family did for Simon, a great source of pride for them. The oldest son of the Earl of Sinclair, the man her family called Simon had his own title: Lord Crenshaw. He oversaw a lucrative trade empire on behalf of his father. They said his reach was farther than King George’s, stretching out across the globe. Violet had glimpsed Simon himself once, a powerful figure in a rich black coat.
Today there were men with pistols guarding the railings, others barricading the pier. But everyone else was on the quarterdeck, the work of loading and securing cargo halted. From her perch high on the ropes, Violet could see the tense jostling among those crowded in a rough circle. These hard men were all gathered to witness one thing.
Tom was going to be honoured with the brand.
He was stripped to the waist, his head exposed, his dark auburn hair falling about his face. He knelt on the planking of the ship. His bare chest rose and fell visibly: he was breathing quickly, in anticipation of what was about to happen.
The air of those watching was expectant – partly jealous too, knowing Tom had earned what was about to be given to him. One or two of them were drinking whisky, as though they were the ones who would need it. She understood how they felt. It was like the ceremony was happening to all of them. And in a way it was, like a promise: Do well for Simon, please Simon, and this is what you will get.
A shipman came forward, wearing a brown leather over-apron, like a blacksmith.
‘You don’t need to hold me down,’ said Tom. He had turned back anything he was offered to help him deal with pain – alcohol, blindfold, leather to bite down on. He simply knelt and waited. The cord of expectation pulled tighter.
At nineteen, Tom was the youngest to ever take the brand. Watching, Violet swore to herself, I’ll be even younger. Like Tom, she would do well in the world of trade, bringing back Simon her own trophies, and then she too would be promoted. As soon as I get a chance, I’m going to prove myself.
‘Simon rewards your service with this gift,’ said Captain Maxwell. He nodded to the shipman, who moved to stand near a brazier of heated coals that had been brought out onto the deck. ‘When it’s done, you’ll be his,’ he said. ‘Honoured by his brand.’
The shipman pulled the branding iron out of the hot coals.
Violet tensed as though it were happening to her. The iron was long, like a fire iron, but with an S at the tip, so hot from the coals that it glowed red, like a moving flame. The shipman came forward.
‘I swear this oath to Simon,’ said Tom, ritualistic words. ‘I am his loyal servant. I will obey and serve. Brand me.’ Tom’s blue eyes looked right at the shipman. ‘Seal my pledge into my flesh.’
Violet held her breath. This was it. Those with the brand became part of the inner circle. Simon’s favourites: they were his most loyal followers, and it was whispered they got special rewards – and more than that, Simon’s attention, which was its own reward for many of them. Horst Maxwell, the captain of the Sealgair, bore the brand, which gave him authority even above his station.
Tom held out his arm so that the clean skin of his wrist was visible.
The only other time Violet had seen a man take the brand, he’d screamed and spasmed like a fish on the floor of a boat. Tom had seen that too, but it didn’t seem to faze him. He met the shipman’s eyes determinedly, holding himself in place with his courage and his will.
Captain Maxwell said, ‘That’s it, boy. Take it well.’
Tom won’t scream, Violet thought. He’s strong.
The men were so quiet now that you could hear the lap of the water against the hull. The shipman lifted the brand. Violet saw a sailor turn his head, not wanting to look – less brave than Tom. That was what Tom was proving. Take it, and show you’re worthy. Violet gripped the ropes tightly, but she didn’t look away as the shipman brought the cauterising brand to the skin of Tom’s wrist.