CHAPTER 39

THE SOUND WAS LOUD ENOUGH TO STOP THE fight in its tracks. The English and the French froze in the middle of battle.

An English duke cowered in a barrel. A French countess stopped assaulting the captain. A gang of English footmen dropped their French foe.

“I will have my WAR!” Lord Witloof bellowed. He was standing on the poop deck next to a smoking cannon.

“Non!” a French courtier shouted, pointing at Le Bateau Fantastique.

There was a smoking hole in the French ship. In response, a hundred cannons suddenly appeared through gunports in its side: a hundred iron mouths ready to spit fire.

Everyone on the galleon gasped.

“Zey will not attack us!” a French courtier shouted at Lord Witloof. “Our keeng ees on board!”

Lord Witloof took his cannon by the muzzle, as though it was a dangerous dog, and dragged it around to face the French king.

“He won’t be on board for much longer!” he thundered, shoving gunpowder into the black O of the cannon’s mouth, and brandishing the long rammer at an advancing English footman. “Stay back!”

The crowd retreated, leaving King Louis blinking in the middle of the deck.

“Your Majesty!” Princess Georgina tried to pull him out of the firing line. In response, the king dreamily stroked her hair. “Louis!”

Cordelia wove through the horrified crowd and began to climb the rigging.

Lord Witloof grabbed a cannonball and fed it to the cannon.

“Please move!” Princess Georgina begged the king.

Cordelia chose her rope carefully.

Lord Witloof struck a match.

Cordelia took aim—

Since King Louis would not move, Princess Georgina stood in front of him. Right between the king and the cannon.

Cordelia pushed back with her legs—

Lord Witloof touched the match to the gunpowder fuse.

—and she jumped!

Wind whirled around her as she sailed in a graceful arc through the air, clinging to the end of the rope.

With a thud, Cordelia collided with the triumphant lord.

He staggered backward, flipped over the wooden railing, and disappeared over the side of the ship.

Cordelia hauled the cannon with everything left of her strength as the fuse sizzled down inside the iron fusilage. The cannon kicked like a carthorse, throwing her onto the deck. Smoke and iron blasted out of the metal mouth and seconds later she heard the cannonball splosh into the sea.

“That was close,” Cordelia croaked.

The deck thundered with footsteps as the crowd rushed to the railings to see Lord Witloof floundering in the waves.

“Oh, bravo!” a French baron cried, then helped the English duke out of the barrel.

Suddenly, all over the royal galleon, French and English courtiers were bashfully dusting each other off, muttering apologies in timid English and hesitant French. An English sailor released a French Maker from a headlock and straightened out his clothes. Lords and courtiers shook hands. Ladies and sailors smiled sheepishly as they disentangled themselves from their opponents.

“Fetch Lord Witloof out of the sea,” the princess ordered.

A looped rope was tossed over the side and Lord Witloof was hauled up, dripping with seawater and fury. He was deposited on the deck at Princess Georgina’s feet and immediately surrounded by a bristling circle of guards, all leveling their glinting halberds at him.

“Lord Witloof, you are evil,” the princess declared. “And you are also defeated. England and France are at peace.”

The lord pulled a wriggling fish out of his wig and flung it at her. “I’m not evil, I’m a good businessman!” he snarled. “War creates fear. Fear makes money. It’s a very simple equation.”

He lurched to his feet, water pooling on the deck around him. His fine clothes were sodden and his wig was plastered over one side of his face.

“It’s an equation your blasted father the king refused to listen to,” Lord Witloof went on. “So I got him out of the way. And that French blockhead kept writing you love letters—”

Lord Witloof jabbed a furious finger at King Louis.

“So I burned them,” Lord Witloof leered. “And forged some new letters to stir up talk of war.”

“You burned zem?” King Louis bleated.

“Love letters?” the princess repeated, rolling her eyes.

King Louis blushed and batted his eyelashes.

“My Ironfire Cannon Factory was READY TO BEGIN!” Lord Witloof roared. “It would have made me SO MUCH GOLD!”

His wild eyes lit on Cordelia and he became very still, like a snake about to strike.

“Still, there are other ways to make gold,” he hissed, quiet as poison being poured. “War is the simplest, but there are greater and more terrible ways to do it.”

He lunged at Cordelia through the circle of glinting halberds. Cordelia twisted out of his hands and, in a heartbeat, five guards had the lord in their grip. His nose was an inch from Cordelia’s and she felt his sour breath on her face.

“I will have my gold, Miss Hatmaker,” Lord Witloof whispered. “Gold is power. Your father could not stop me and nor shall you.”

“What?” Cordelia gasped. “What do you mean about my father?”

“Throw this villain in the hold with the bilge rats!” the princess commanded magnificently.

The guards dragged Lord Witloof across the deck.

“If I’m going in the hold, she’s COMING WITH ME!” Lord Witloof bawled, pointing at a French lady’s maid in the crowd.

All eyes turned to the lady’s maid, who was hiding behind a wide fan.

“Moi?” she said innocently.

The king’s poodle bounded up and snatched the fan out of her hand, revealing—

“Miss Starebottom!” Cordelia cried. She turned to the princess. “Your Highness, she’s working for Lord Witloof!”

“Working for that devil?” Miss Starebottom spat. “No!”

She swaggered forward, flourishing her cane. “I have only ever worked for myself, Miss Hatmaker.”

With a violent thrust, Miss Starebottom shoved a guard aside with her cane. He fell back, bleeding.

Only when the glinting point of the cane quivered an inch from Cordelia’s nose did she see what it truly was:

A swordstick.