Chapter 21
Gentleman Pirates
Pilbrick flipped up the ends of his robe and sat on the courtyard bench.
“Thank you, dear,” he said to his daughter, who filled his glass and set the pitcher next to the soup in front of him. He settled in, took a sip while examining the ledger on the table, and shook his head in disgust.
A small pouch landed on the ledger with a heavy thud that shook the table and sent him tumbling backward off his bench. He looked up and saw a figure towering over him.
“There, that should make up the balance, I would think,” Mastan said.
“Do I know you?” Pilbrick asked, scrambling to raise himself to his knees.
“Yes and no. You sent a young man to kill the Dread Pirate Roberts, did you not?”
Pilbrick started to stand. Mastan put his hand on his sword hilt, and Pilbrick slowly put up his hands while regaining his feet.
“I trained the young Guilderian, yes.”
“Not nearly well enough. I hope Max’s potion didn’t set him back much, it wasn’t worth the price he paid.”
Pilbrick’s hands fell to his side and he turned, murmuring, “He’s dead. I’ve killed him.” He sat heavily on bench, and a look of despair fell over him.
A small smirk came to Mastan’s lips. “You haven’t asked who I am yet.”
Pilbrick looked at the pouch on the table. He picked it up and marveled at the gold inside, picked out a coin and examined it. “A pirate, no doubt.”
“And how can you tell?”
“Foreign currency.” He spun the gold coin with the Florinese imprint. “Surely you stole this from someone in Florin.”
“You know your pirates. I’ll give you that. But every one of those was earned, I assure you.”
Pilbrick set the coin down, stood, and faced Mastan.
“So, who are you, and why are you here?”
“My mission is threefold. Roberts sent me.”
Pilbrick lowered his head and was silent for a moment. He nodded and said weakly, “I understand.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
“Please…” he looked in Mastan’s eyes, “spare my family.”
Mastan laughed and removed a letter from his pocket. “Roberts summons you. You apparently already know where to find him. He’s chosen to spare you and your family. In fact, he has a lucrative offer for you, though I can’t imagine why he thinks you’re worth it. The details are in there.”
Pilbrick examined the sealed envelope, confused.
“The gold is from Trajan.”
A look of astonishment washed over him. “Trajan?”
Trajan stepped out from behind a haybale and Pilbrick almost fell over.
“Can it be?” He regained his composure, walked slowly toward him, and put his hands on his arms. “You survived. How?”
“I had a lot of help. The gold is repayment.”
Pilbrick smiled. “But you owe me nothing. Your mother paid me already.”
“Not nearly enough. Roberts – Westley, that is – will see you are fully rewarded, in accordance with my wishes. That should get you and your family there with money to spare. But mind who you speak to along the way, and if anyone should ask, Roberts is dead.”
“You’re right. I don’t understand.”
“You will, in time. Pilbrick, meet Mastan, my father.”
Pilbrick gasped, and then looked again at the man who had thrown the gold at him. He bowed.
“A pleasure, though you must give me the details of this marvelous turn of fortunes.”
“I’m afraid those questions will have to remain at present,” Mastan said, “but you’ll recall I said my business here is threefold.”
“Yes, so what is the third matter? I can hardly imagine what else—”
Mastan punched Pilbrick so hard he fell on his back, bleeding.
“And that, sir, is for all the blows you levied on my son’s head. Now we shall call it even.”
“Father!” Pilbrick’s daughter ran to his side. “Trajan?” she asked, puzzled.
Mastan walked away and Trajan followed, turning to address her as he departed.
“Beg your pardon, ma’am.” He gestured toward Mastan, then smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Pirates.”
Mastan took a deep breath and entered the cottage. He saw the back of a woman rocking in a chair before the fireplace, mending a tattered garment.
“Throw it in the fire, dear.” A familiar voice boomed from behind her. “We shall purchase a new one.”
The woman jumped to her feet, dropped the cloth, and covered her mouth with her hand.
“Satin, velvet, whatever your heart desires.” Mastan took slow steps toward his wife. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“How is this possible?” Then she noticed Trajan. “Son!”
Her knees gave out and she fell, but her men were there to catch her. She wept and laughed. “How? Darlings, how? Please God, say it’s not a dream.”
Mastan kissed her. “This is no dream.”
She hugged Trajan and clung to him as a shipwrecked person clings to their rescuer. “How?”
“It will take some explaining, I’m afraid.”
“But we have all the time in the world to tell it,” Mastan said. “And I, for one, shall never leave your side again, my dear.”
Much has been written about those genuine displays of true love that history’s scribes have cataloged over the ages. The scene that played out between Mastan and his wife in their modest Guilderian cottage that day was another of these. Few have the giftings necessary to adequately describe them to the reader, and so we will have to content ourselves in the knowledge that their reunion was another of those noteworthy displays of romantic love poets drone on and on about. But that is merely one kind of love, and as beautiful as that version is, there is another, not more powerful but perhaps not less. It’s a love that suddenly emerges, gradually matures, frustrates and inflicts hard lessons, and often breaks men, but just as often heals and restores them: The love between a father and his son.
The End
She closed the book, set it on her nightstand, and turned off the light.
The next morning her father stood at the kitchen counter, typing on his laptop and sipping his coffee. She dropped the book next to him.
“You finished it in one night?”
“Yeah,” she said, turning to look in the fridge.
“So, what did you think?
She closed the fridge after taking out a bottle of tea.
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
She shrugged her shoulders while taking a drink. “The first one was better.”
Thank you for reading The Dread Pirate Roberts. I hope it has blessed longtime fans of The Princess Bride as well as newcomers to the genre. If you liked this story please share it with your friends and family, and consider subscribing to receive other writings, both fiction and non-fiction, or whatever God tells me to write about that week. New writings are usually posted on Wednesdays here and at vinceguerra.com.
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