Marisol de Sansal

"Of course, m'lady. Please follow," Thomas whispered closely. He led the pair past his office and through the back hallway. Thomas unlatched the door and covered his head against the downpour. "Just this way," he shouted over the pelting rain. They scrambled across a small courtyard to a covered walkway and a short staircase. The innkeep beckoned as his two companions looked apprehensive. He waved them forward and hurried up the stairs. Within moments, they were at his heels. Thomas fumbled for a key and easily popped the lock. He entered first and lit a candle immediately to his right. "This is my personal dwelling. Please feel free to use it as your own. Young Edward Sullivan will be dispensed momentarily with a basin of hot water." Thomas lit a few more candles and a shaded lantern closest to the bed. "I have much work to do at the Neede. I will stay there this eve." Thomas drew the flimsy curtains that hung from the windows overlooking the courtyard. "I hope this will suffice m'lady," Thomas bowed slightly. He turned to her companion, "Sir." "Oh, Mr. Neede, I did not require you to give up your private rooms. This is a most generous offer. And for the hot water, I am inclined to promote you to the status of saint." She smiled warmly at the man, grateful beyond measure. "My guardian, Ahmet, now needs to return to the derelict vessel on which we arrived, in order to retrieve the rest of our trunks before the ship sinks into the harbor. Afterwards, he will sleep on a pallet by the door, which he has done for many years in my service." She stepped forward, and placed a pale, graceful hand on Mr. Neede's arm. "Truly, you have been most kind, and I will be most generous in compensation, and to make up for my previous rudness."

Marisol looked up at the man, and smiled gratefully. “Yes, a room is required, both for myself and my guardian. Is such available? And, I apologize for my earlier remarks. I beg you, blame it on my extreme fatigue.” She stood, and Ahmet stepped protectively to her side as a loud crash from the opposite side of the room started another round of fighting. Apparently one of the whores had emptied a mug of ale over a sailor’s head, and he had thrown her off his lap for wasting the booze. In falling, she had upset a table and other mugs of ale went flying, much to the annoyance of those who had paid for them. With a sigh of despair, Marisol looked once again to the innkeeper. “I see your house is busy tonight, but...I would be willing to pay extra for our rooms, especially if by some miracle you could provide a basin of hot water. If not, cold water will do.” At this point, Marisol was so tired she would be thankful for a straw pallet on the floor, especially if the room was on the opposite side of the building from the noisy common room.

The card game was beginning to bore her. She had to work hard at not winning all the games, and therefore riling her fellow, and very male, players. Card games at the French court were a true test of skill, and she had held her own over more than one noble French fop. Besides, it was getting late, and she was tired. She longed for a hot bath and cool sheets. However, the likelihood of getting either of them here was pretty dismal. Marisol slapped her last hand of cards down on the table, deciding she wished to win, and then leave the game. The brawl had been broken up, and the combatants were now arm in arm, drinking heavily, and singing a very bawdy song. So far, the owner of the Sinner’s Neede had not reappeared, and until he did, she could not rent a room. Putting on her most winning smile, Marisol swept the male players a coy glance, and asked, “Are any of you fine gentlemen acquainted with Mr. Neede? If so, I would be most grateful if you could intercede for me, and procure me a room, and also one for my guardian. I fear my long voyage of the previous week has tired me more than I thought.” Unfortunately, the fact that she had just won all their money did not make them too disposed to help her. Instead of leaping up to assist, they just glared at her and demanded another round of cards.

Marisol continued to quietly play cards, winning some hands, losing others. She was becoming more and more aware of the attentions of the man who had given her a seat, and also of the young lad across from her, who seemed to be winning most of the money. She wished Mr. Neede would return to the common room so she could acquire a room, but now that the impressive female ship captain had gone to the back, she would be forced to wait even longer. It wasn't that she found the company of rough men disagreeable—they were entertaining in their own way. But this was not the life she was accustomed to, and cursed again the bad luck that had stranded her and Ahmet on this island. A roar went up as the Welshman won the latest hand. She smiled at him. His manner and way of talking were educated and she wondered what had brought him to Port Royal. Trouble, no doubt, as the place seemed a haven for every sort of miscreant. Her thoughts were interrupted by shouting, as a fight broke out at another table. Two men hurled themselves at each other, and ended up wrestling on the floor. Bystanders laughed, cheered them on, and poured beer on the pair. Others were clearly placing wagers on who would win the bout. Ahmet stood protectively behind her, like a pillar of dark marble. "It appears the tavern has now become a sporting arena," she said, then accepted her number of cards for the next hand. "Should I bet on the cards, or on one of two gentlemen currently on the floor?"

Marisol looked up at the young man who had spoken. Her experienced eye noticed the finer features, the lack of facial hair or shadow of beard, the slender wrists, and wondered what the woman was up to. If she chose to disguise herself as a man, it was no business of Marisol's, but she had no intention of succumbing to the crude proposition. "Yes, I see it is my play." Marisol withdrew a card and placed it on the table. Then she smiled at the lad. "But I fear that is the only play you will receive from me, surrah, and I will thank you to stop offering me money for something I do not sell." The other men at the table chuckled, and one cuffed the lad on the shoulder in fun. "Best stick to cards, laddie," he chided.

Once outside the Sinner's Neede, Marisol paused, suddenly undecided. Although the rain had stopped, the lane was a quagmire of mud and filth. Dusk was settling in, and the stench of oil lamps and torches added their acrid perfume to the dense, humid air. Overhead, gulls screeched, and dove over the road, plucking up bits of refuse. One bird, misjudging it's soggy prize, dropped the revolting carcass of a dead rat almost at Marisol's kid-slippered feet. It was not, she decided, a good time to be wandering the streets of an unfamiliar city. Reluctantly she spoke again to Ahmet in his native Turkish. "It is no use, my friend. We must return to the Sinner's Neede. At least for tonight. A room there cannot be more dangerous than the coming darkness and these fetid streets." Ahmet let his hawk-like gaze sweep over the wharves, the spiked masts of the ships like a forest on the water. "I cannot agree, Mistress. We are too near the docks, and the rabble who frequent them. You remember what the sailors were like aboard the Dante?" She wrinkled her nose. "Yes, I remember all too well. But we are as babes in the cradle here, and do not know where would be the safest place to find refuge. Or even if there is such." It was clear to her Ahmet was not in agreement. "I do not like the Sinner's Neede, but if you order it, Mistress, I will obey, as you know." "I think of us both, Ahmet. Better we stay in safety behind a locked door, than be garroted in a dark alley." He bowed his head briefly, then turned and led the way back into the tavern. When they entered, the noise and pipe smoke engulfed them. Marisol, her eyes squinting against the tobacco haze, looked for the familiar form of Mr. Neede, but could not find him. Also, all the tables were now full of laughing, drinking sailors. Suddenly, a dark-haired man rose from a nearby table and gestured to her. She did not know him, but he motioned to his chair, clearly offering it to her. Smiling, she approached him, while the other men he'd been playing cards with regarded her with both annoyance and admiration. "Please," the man said. "Take my seat. I was losing the game anyway." "You are very kind," Marisol replied, and took the offered chair. Ahmet stood silently behind her. "I don't think your protector likes me very much," the man said. Marisol smiled. "Yes, he can be quite fierce, should the need arise. But I can see that you are all gentlemen, and would give him no reason to pull his scimitar to defend my honor. So, at what game do you play? Perhaps I might join in? At least until Mr. Neede returns and I can arrange for a room."

Marisol stood quietly, assessing the situation. So far the encounter had not drawn much attention from the other patrons, but that could change. And although Mr. Neede blocked their way, he did not appear to be threatening in any way, except maybe for the avaricious glint in his eyes. Ahmet, like a pillar of stone, stayed between Marisol and Mr. Neede, but he did not draw the scimitar. Like her, he must have sensed it would only escalate the situation. With fluid grace Marisol moved around Ahmet and spoke directly to Mr. Neede. “My guardian and I had thought to stay the night here, but I see that you are not equipped to meet the needs of one such as myself. Therefore, we intend to seek accommodations elsewhere. You will forgive me, and take it as no slight to your own establishment, for though I am no princess, I do have certain requirements. Call it the frivolity of a woman used to being spoiled. I am sure you understand.” She smiled at Mr. Neede, knowing that he was fully aware of what she was. Men always knew, no matter how refined she was, or how costly her dress. Even that simple ship’s crewmen had known, and accosted her as if she were a lowly streetwalker. Well, she was no common whore, nor would she be treated like one, or live like one. She was trained for better things, and better men. Men with money. “If you please, Mr. Neede,” she said politely. “Step aside so that we may leave.”

The common room was becoming more and more crowded. A tall woman dressed in fine men’s clothing entered, a young man with her. They stood at the counter, still waiting for the illusive Mr. Neede to appear. When another young man approached her and propositioned her, she put on an appearance of shocked indignation, which was kinder than telling him he could not afford her. “You forget yourself, sir." she said. "I am here to rent accommodations for the night, or at least I was. But now that I observe the less than savory nature of this place, I am of a mind to seek lodgings elsewhere. As soon as the rain has stopped, my guardian and I will be leaving.” A commotion in the back room had the two brothers following another man into the private area of the tavern. Marisol supposed that Mr. Neede had finally returned, but since she had no desire to stay in this place longer than necessary, it was no longer important that she speak to him. Ahmet touched her arm and gestured to the door. A new patron had entered, but the open door revealed that the rain had ceased. Again, he spoke to her softly in Turkish, “We should go now, before there is trouble.” “I agree.” She stood, collected her skirts about her, and following her guardian, who was tense and prepared to defend her, should any of the rough men in the room make advances. “Come quickly,” he said. Together they threaded their way between the tables, heading for the exit.

Marisol appraised the two men as they entered the tavern. Beside her, Ahmet came to attention, his black eyes fixed on the pair, while his right hand casually reached across to the scimitar at his belt. Calmly she touched his arm and shook her head. Ahmet’s grip on the hilt of the wickedly curved blade loosened. “Mercenaire?” Marisol whispered. “Non. Assassin,” Ahmet whispered back. Switching from French to Turkish, Marisol said quietly, “As soon as the rain has stopped, we will leave.” “I would be glad of that, Mistress. I do not like the feel of this place.” Once again she turned her gaze on the two men, whom she guessed to be brothers, for they looked so much alike, then spoke softly to her guardian, “Neither do I, my friend. Neither do I.”

When she entered the Sinner’s Neede, Marisol wrinkled her nose. It was less than she had expected, smelling of beer, tobacco, and harsh spirits. However, it appeared to be moderately clean. The few patrons looked up as she entered, their eyes widening slightly, as they moved their gaze from her to Ahmet. She ignored them, and continued her way toward a heavy counter, where she assumed the proprietor would be stationed. There was no one. Frustrated, and not at all sure this was the type of establishment to suit her purpose, she decided to ask one of the scruffy men staring at her, where she might find the tavern keep. “Pardon Monsieur, ou’ e le proprietaire?” She received nothing but a lurid grin, and, “No speaky Frenchy here, lady.” “Faleant,” she muttered, then switched to English. “Please, where can I find the owner of this establishment?” The man scratched his beard, then gestured toward the door. “Was out on the street a minute ago. I ‘spect he’ll be along soon. Care to join me? He won’t mind if I serve you myself.” It was all Marisol could do to keep from laughing in the man’s face. She forced a tone of regret to soften her voice. “Alas, maybe some other time. I have had a long sea voyage, and would like to acquire a room in order to rest.” One of the other patrons pointed at Ahmet. “Aint likely Thomas will allow a heathen to stay here. He’ll have to sleep in a stable or sumthin.” Ahmet leaned in and spoke to Marisol in Turkish, “Are these men being disrespectful?” She shook her head, answering him in the same language. “No, they are saying you must sleep with the horses. Personally, I would sooner sleep with horses, than with these swine. However, I do not know this town, and may hap this is the best we can hope for until another ship arrives, which will take us back to France.” “What’s all that gibberish?” the bearded man growled. “We won’t be having that foul heathen talk in here. We speak the King’s English, by God, and so will you, if you know what’s good for you!” “My apologies, and forgive our ignorance. Of course we will speak English, as is proper. And to make amends, I will purchase for you another drink. Will that suit?” “Best show us the color of your coin, first,” the other patron, a fat man with greasy gray hair, rose from his table and stood threateningly close. Marisol nodded to Ahmet, who pulled a Spanish coin from a pouch on his belt, and handed it to the bearded man, who had also risen from his chair. The bearded man took the coin, bit it, examined it, then grinned. “Well, it’s a good day when you can spend Spanish silver on good English ale.” “With my compliments,” Marisol replied, then she and Ahmet moved to a table in the far corner of the room and prepared to wait for Mr. Thomas Neede. She only hoped the Dante wouldn’t sink before she could get a room, and return to the vessel and retrieve the remainder of her baggage.

Port Royal was not where Marisol de Sansal had intended to be. It stank. It was crude. She had not seen such filth since leaving Istanbul. No, she had hoped for the refinements of Paris, or Venice, (she had disdained London, the English being so prudish) where she could ply the trade to which she had been so artfully trained, to those who could pay the most. And she could only blame the wife of her former Spanish lover for her current stranding in purgatory. Marisol had been forced to leave Cartagena, albeit with a sizable monetary recompense. The Dante (she'd had no forewarning the name would be prophetic) had become so riddled with worm, that her captain—a scurrilous fellow with foul breath, and a lecherous nature—was forced to wallow the Dante into Port Royal or risk the ship sinking. With a day's sailing still to go, the bilge had filled with over six feet of water. Rats sought shelter anywhere they could find it, which had included her small cabin. She had dispatched two of the creatures with the stiletto always hidden within her bodice, and with their carcasses wrapped in a spare face cloth, had pitched them overboard. There was no hope of the ship sailing any time soon, or ever again. Captain and crew had disappeared into town as soon as the ship was secured. The only other passenger, a trading agent looking for new contracts, had bid her a surly farewell, his lack of gentility brought on by the fact that he could not afford her. And the fact that Marisol's partner and guardian, Ahmet, had prevented him from contesting the point. So here they were, stranded on this pitiful island, with no immediate means to leave—she had checked the few outgoing vessels, and none were heading for Europe, or at least, none that she would risk her person on. However, she had not progressed far when she noticed the sign above one of the dockside Inns. Sinners Neede. Well, she thought, sinners have many needs. Perhaps it is an auspicious omen, that sign. She turned to Ahmet and spoke to him in Turkish. "Let us see what the Sinner's Neede holds in store, shall we?" Ahmet nodded, straighten the scimitar at his side, and followed her into the inn, while the locals of Port Royal ogled the site of a highborn, exotic courtesan and her fearsome protector.

Marisol de Sansal — 26 years old, black hair, amber eyes. Illegitimate daughter of an Italian father and Turkish mother. Left Turkey when a child of seven, and raised in Italy. Returned to Turkey at the age of thirteen and trained as a court courtesan, where, among other things, she was taught several different languages to enhance her usefulness. She, and her guardian, Ahmet, were gifted to a wealthy Parisian diplomat and spent four years in Paris. They were subsequently gifted to a Spanish ambassador from Cartagena. Six months later the ambassadore's wife discovered her husband's little love nest, and put her foot down. Marisol and her guardian, Ahmet, left Cartegena intending to go back to Paris. Things did not work out as they had planned.