There was time when a man's long hair did not mark the difference between prince and rogue. It was oftentimes a symbol of nobility and rank, and the man who sat in the tavern with his quill and ink was a prince at heart.

He was a writer, a soldier in the king's army whose violent life did not extinguish his talent for poetry. He endeavored to keep this hidden, however, for artistic pursuits were not considered a manly trait for those in the service of the king.

He had the sort of beauty that angels might be jealous of. He had a chiseled face, soft, laughing mouth, and straight teeth a shade of white that most men of his day could only hope for. His long, soft brown hair was beautifully kept, which made some of the more jealous soldiers call him womanly. His face belied his youth- a man's face on a boy of twenty. Many of the tavern women giggled about him together after their night's work, hoping for a quick night of passion with this handsome soldier. They hoped in vain, for love and eternity possessed his mind more than torrid affairs.

He sat at the table, puzzling over his work. It was rather difficult to write about love when one hadn't any. He touched the rapier at his side. He had hoped life in the army would bring him adventure, which it had; and love, which it hadn't. Apparently, women were foolish the world over...and he had noticed that he couldn't say much more for men.

'There he is - the tortured artist, waiting for his muse!' came a broad, friendly voice behind him.

He looked up and smiled.

'How goes the kingdom, Anders?' he asked his friend.

'It goes, my friend, it goes,' Anders replied. He threw himself into a chair at the table, and winked at one of the serving girls. Anders was an imposing, rather unattractive man whose only vice was women. He became fast friends with everyone he met, and had an incorrigible personality, which was infuriating and charming all at once. His blond hair, blue eyes, and large build made him look like a Viking. Although his looks were nothing to speak of, women often returned his advances based upon his expansive personality.

':So, Joseph,' Anders said, grinning, 'How are you faring with the women?'

Joseph rolled his eyes at his friend and smiled.

'When I meet a real woman, I'll tell ye, Anders,' Joseph said.

'What is wrong with you?' asked Anders, 'There are plenty of real women right here.'
'These women are fools, wanting to bed down with every man they see,' said Joseph, 'I am not interested in them.'

'They seem interested in you,' Anders commented, appraising the serving girls who were staring at his friend.

'Aye,' said Joseph, 'and they are all the more fools for it.'

'They're good enough for me,' said Anders, beckoning to one of the women and ordering wine, 'Your ideals are too high, Joseph. Your sensitive thoughts are unbecoming in a man.'
Joseph looked at his friend, exasperated.

'I don't have to behave the way other men do, simply because I'm a man,' he said.

'So - have you decided to leave the king's service and run home to Scotland?' asked Anders, 'It appears that adventure is not all that you want out of life.'

'Perhaps I am looking for a higher meaning in life,' Joseph said, 'but adventure is enough for me at the moment. However, I had thought belonging to the English army would have been more exciting. By the by, tell me, how fares our 'traitor' king?'

'Something the Scottish and English agree upon at last,' said Anders, smiling, 'I'm not sure how he is. Or where he is, for that matter. We'll be Cromwell's army before the year's through, I'll bet on it. Since the king surrendered himself to the Covenanters back in 1646, everything has been upside down. I don't know how Stuart will make it through this alive.'

'King Charles is a Scotsman,' said Joseph, 'He'll hold his own.'

Anders laughed.

'Ever a proud people, you Scots,' he said, shaking his head, 'What can one man do against Cromwell and his army?'

'Ye have no concept of the Scottish constitution,' Joseph said.

'Yes, I do,' Anders replied, 'I know you- that's enough.'

Joseph laughed, nodding.

At a table in front of the tavern, a fight broke out. Joseph and Anders smiled at each other, and stood up from their table. They drew their swords in a simultaneous whisper of steel.

'You accuse me of cheating!' cried a small, effete man, who stood with his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

'Don't deny it!' cried the other man who sat across from him, 'I was watching you!'

Anders and Joseph advanced, the tavern's candlelight reflecting off the steel of their swords. The small man looked at them, and a cruel smile spread across his face.

'So, this is the service Charles' soldiers perform?' sneered the man, 'It is no wonder the king has to hide like a common criminal. They shouldn't allow Scots to rule England.'

The man gave Joseph a contemptuous look, waiting for the insult to sink in.

'Cease this fighting,' said Joseph calmly, ignoring the jibe.

The small man began to draw his sword when he felt the sharp point of Joseph's blade against his neck. He looked at Joseph nervously, as if seeing him for the first time. The Scotsman's eyes were calm, but the threat in his gaze was unmistakable.

'I'll cut your throat for such a bold statement against our king,' said Joseph quietly, 'Now, sit down and go back to your game.'

'Bloody Scotsmen,' muttered the man.

'I will not ask you again,' said Joseph. The man looked at him and made no response.

Joseph sheathed his sword and Anders followed suit. They turned back towards their table. Behind them, the man drew his sword and made for Joseph. Before the man could attack, Joseph had turned, sword drawn, and disarmed the man in one fluid gesture. The man's sword clattered to the floor.

'Out!' Joseph commanded, and the man ran from the tavern into the night.

The man who had accused Joseph's attacker of cheating would not look at the two soldiers, and went back to his game. Joseph smiled at everyone in the tavern, and he returned to the table with Anders.

'Impressive,' said Anders as they sat down, 'Your talent is rather wasted in the king's service, I think.'

Joseph nodded as he filled his cup with wine.

'I learned to fence in Scotland,' he said, 'I was champion at fourteen. My father thought a military career would suit me, but I haven't had much opportunity to use my abilities.'

'Be patient, Joseph,' said Anders, 'an opportunity will present itself soon enough.'

* * *

Joseph surfaced in the river, pushing his long hair back with his hands. He enjoyed the feel of a good swim, and bathing had always been something he enjoyed. He was aware that the water washed away the smells that drove away disease, but Joseph didn't care. He had nothing better to do, since he and Anders had been assigned to a city that had little need for military protection. The incident at the tavern the night before had been the first time in weeks he'd drawn his sword for anything other than practice. He wished he had a claymore; he liked the powerful Scottish broadsword more than his simple rapier, but the English army he had joined was only interested in his fencing prowess.

He looked around himself in quiet reverence. He loved the solitude of the wilderness, and felt at home in the forest. He admired the lush, green surroundings and the loneliness of it all; it reflected his heart. It was late spring, and everything was in bloom. Occasionally, he wished he could quit soldiering and simply become a woodsman, but his family ties made him feel rather pressed into a military career.

Joseph was a member of the royal family of Scotland. His lineage could be traced back to Robert the Bruce, and he had taken the surname as his own, although he was in actuality a member of the Stuart clan. He was therefore related to Charles Stuart, who was the Scottish king reigning Britain. Since 1603, when the two countries had been united under the Scottish crown, the armies of England and Scotland had been joined. However, since the king's abject refusal to accept the religious Covenant of Scotland, many factions began to oppose him. The tide was turning against the king, and it was difficult to decide whether to side with him, or with the Covenanters. Joseph had no opinion one way or the other; he had never been a patriot, a royalist, or a rebel, and he ignored most conversations about current events. Despite the loyal display he had made in the tavern, he knew next to nothing about Charles Stuart and felt he had merely done his duty as a soldier.

However, Joseph did have what he called a hereditary dislike for the English, mostly because he knew something of Scottish history. Still, he had to admit that some of his southern neighbors had grown on him- Anders, for instance. Since the English viewed the Scots as vulgar, Joseph had always thought that his prejudice was justified, but his friendship with Anders had caused him to rethink his beliefs. They had met in 1646, when Joseph had joined the army. Anders' personality had entranced Joseph like anyone else, and the two became best friends. The mutual dislike they had carried for each other's coutries was put aside, and their cameraderie was often commented upon. They had finally agreed that blanket prejudice was the highest of follies, but had relapses now and then when they had disagreements. All in all, their friendship was a close one, and Anders often told Joseph that he might have quit the army long ago if he hadn't found such a friend. Though he didn't say so, Joseph felt the same way. Still, the Scotsman knew the blood of a warrior coursed through his noble veins, and he rather enjoyed military life. Even if he hadn't met Anders, he probably would have remained a soldier. It was, all in all, an uneventful career, and gave him time to write verses.

A hearty laugh suddenly echoed through the forest, shattering Joseph's thoughts. He glanced sharply in the direction of the sound, hoping Anders hadn't followed him out to the river and stolen his clothes as a prank. It had happened numerous times, and was an endless source of amusement to his friend.

'Anders?' he called cautiously. When his friend didn't answer, he swam to a rock in the river, where he had placed his rapier for easy retrieval. Sword in hand, he stood in the water, scanning the forest with his eyes.

A low, appreciative whistle came from behind the trees.

'Show yourself!' Joseph commanded, and heard the laugh again.

'You're a lucky man,' called a voice, deep but unmistakably female, 'Your beauty has saved your life.'

The bushes rustled, and the forest was silent. Joseph stood in the water, confused. Eventually, he relaxed and went onshore to dress. What kind of woman, he wondered, threatens a man bathing in the forest?

* * *

Later, he posed the same question to Anders as they walked the streets of the small English port town they were stationed in. It was a clear, warm night, and everyone seemed to be in high spirits.

'Maybe it was a tavern wench, come to see what they've all been missing,' Anders suggested.

'I doubt it,' said Joseph, shaking his head, 'I've heard the way those women laugh, and this was different. The voice was deep and resonating.'

'I hope you're not about to fall in love with a disembodied voice,' said Anders, laughing, 'It was probably just one of the other soldiers having a laugh at you. I swear, you become more and more like a woman every day. Forget about it, Joseph. Look at the people out tonight to have a good time. Let's join them.'

Anders was right - all around them; people were reveling in the night. The stars glittered in the English sky like so many jewels. Joseph had never seen so much drinking and singing in the streets. Beautiful whores beckoned from darkened doorways, couples laughed together in drunken happiness, and the spring night was warm and inviting. Joseph felt truly wonderful for the first time since he had arrived in England.

As he and Anders passed by a local tavern, he heard strange, exotic music. He took Anders and danced with him around the courtyard outside the tavern. Anders laughed with him, as they frightened away some mongrel dogs that were occupying the plaza. After a few turns, they fell to the ground, laughing and tired.

'Well, my friend,' said Anders, 'You seem to be in high spirits.'

'Aye,' he replied, 'This is a wonderful night. Let me buy you some of your favorite wine, Anders, and we'll celebrate my good mood.'

'Perchance you will find a woman tonight,' said Anders, 'I have never seen you like this, Joseph.'

Smiling, Joseph helped his friend to his feet, and they brushed themselves off. Suddenly, a loud, deep laugh that Joseph was familiar with came from the tavern.

'That's it! That's the woman from the forest!' cried Joseph.

'Well, then!' Anders said, 'Perhaps my prediction was right. Maybe you will find a woman tonight. Let's go and see this mystery person.'

The tavern was dark and a fire roared in the fireplace, though it was a warm night. The only light in the room emanated from it, casting tongues of light across the tables and walls.

The jubilant, foreign music turned out to be Arabic. Before the fire, a woman dressed in a Middle Eastern dancer's costume performed before the fire, her movements flowing together like ocean waves. The coins on her outfit jingled musically and reflected the firelight as she danced for a group of appreciative men.

As he stood with Anders, enjoying the spectacle, Joseph realized that some of the women in the tavern were eyeing his clothing. He wore the attire of his native Scotland, since he had abjectly refused to don an English officer's uniform. His commanding officer allowed Joseph this luxury only because of his amazing ability with a sword. He had become accustomed to the mockery he received from the English, but wished people would leave him alone and find something better to do.

Joseph smiled at the girls good-naturedly, hoping they would move on to something more interesting. He continued to look around the tavern, wondering who belonged to the voice he'd heard in the forest.

Unfortunately, the serving girls were still interested in him. He waited for the insults that tended to come from the English.

'I wonder what a Scotsman wears under his kilt?' asked one of them, giggling. Joseph rolled his eyes at the unoriginal comment, disgusted that most people couldn't even think of a clever insult.

'I know,' said a voice from the fireplace, the voice Joseph had heard that morning.

Joseph looked in the direction of the voice, and saw a smile in the eyes of the dancer. Most of her face was obscured by a mantilla, which was an Arabic scarf that covered a woman's face from the bridge of her nose to her chin. Still, it was obvious by the smile in her eyes that she was the woman from the forest.

'You?!' asked Joseph, incredulous, 'What business had you threatening me in the forest?'

Anders laughed. Joseph's mystery woman was a tavern dancer - no better than a whore, in Anders' opinion. Perhaps Joseph would be more humble now.

'I did not threaten you,' said the woman, 'I assured you that you would be safe.'

The preposterousness of this made Joseph indignant. He was about to say something rude when Anders stepped in.

'May we ask your name, mi'lady?' he asked, nudging Joseph, who remembered his manners and bowed.

'Angelique,' said the woman, and Joseph noticed her English was slightly accented with French.

'A Frenchwoman?' asked Anders, highly amused by Joseph's flabbergasted reaction.

'Why were you watching me in the forest?' demanded Joseph, unable to hold his tongue any longer.

'French and English,' Angelique told Anders, and then looked at Joseph, 'Who are you, Scotsman, and why does my voyeurism surprise you? Many women in this very tavern would love to see you as I've seen you. Your beauty is unparalleled in any country.'

Joseph felt his face flush. He was unused to such bluntness in a woman. He had long since decided that women were ridiculous creatures who could do nothing more than stand in corners and giggle.

'I am called Sir Joseph Bruce, mi'lady,' Joseph said, as politely as he could, 'of the noble family whose forefather liberated Scotland.'

'By the Treaty of Northampton in 1328,' Angelique recited, and when she saw Joseph's jaw drop in astonishment, she said, 'I have a great deal of knowledge about history. I have...traveled for many years. Being an English soldier must be rather difficult for you, Joseph.'

Joseph looked at her, astounded. Her words echoed his heart, and she was an Englishwoman! Or Frenchwoman. Either way, she was not from Scotland, and he rarely heard such sentiments from those outside Scottish borders. She was also beautiful to him, but not in any usual way. Her beauty was wild, untamed, indefinable- unlike any woman he had ever known...the kind of beauty he wrote poetry about.

'Ahem. My name is Anders, mi'lady,' Anders interjected. Normally, he would have been offended at Joseph's forgetfulness and put it up to the crude behavior of the Scots. Tonight, however, was the first time he saw his companion interested in a woman, and paid Joseph's behavior no heed.

'Forgive me for not introducing my friend,' said Joseph, embarassed. Angelique seemed to have that effect on him.

Angelique looked at Anders, a tall, broad man with undeniably English features, and her eyes smiled again.

'You are fortunate to be friends with the Scotsman,' she said, 'Very lucky for you, indeed.'

'Another threat?' asked Joseph, amazed at the woman's audacity.

'No,' she replied, and then shouted, 'Jones!'

A rapier was thrown to her and she caught it deftly, as though it were second nature to her. She stood en guarde, her eyes still smiling.

'Put all your money on the tables!' she shouted. The men in the tavern laughed. Suddenly, half the people in the tavern drew swords and stood. Whoever they were, they were with Angelique.

'Give us your valuables, or we will cut your throats!' Angelique said. The men brandished their swords.

Joseph took a moment to collect himself, and calmly drew his blade. The other people in the room looked at him, amazed.

'Soldiers of King Charles,' he said, 'draw your swords against this group of petty thieves.'

'Petty thieves?!' cried Angelique, 'We are the crew of the Gideon!'

At this pronouncement, the patrons of the tavern gasped. They had heard of the ship; it was known far and wide as having one of the most vicious pirate crews to sail the seas. Though piracy had yet to become a widespread and famous occupation, the Gideon's crew was none the less renowned the world over as a terrifying legend.

'Nevertheless, this is petty thievery,' Joseph said, who had never heard of the ship or its crew, 'What sort of pirate resorts to stealing from a tavern?'

'What business is that of yours?' Angelique retorted. Some of the crewmen moved toward Joseph, but she waved them off.

'The Scotsman is mine,' she said.

Suddenly, Anders drew his sword, and ran one of the men through. Instantly, other soldiers in the tavern drew swords, and tables were overturned as men fought to the death.

'Shall we?' Joseph invited.

'Certainly,' replied Angelique, and the duel began.

Every lunge was parried, on both sides. The pirate woman overcame every elaborate move Joseph could imagine. It was as though she knew what he was thinking, and vice versa. He had thought he was the best swordsman in all of Britain; perhaps he was wrong. Even in the heat of the battle, with swords reflecting the firelight, he wished he could see more of her face. She still wore the mantilla, and all he could see were her eyes. This reflection lost him the duel- the first he had lost in two years.

Angelique held him at sword point, poised to run him through. He lifted his dark eyes to hers, consigned to his fate.

The sharp steel blade of her sword caressed his cheek and traced the line of his neck.

'Your beauty has saved you again, Scotsman,' she said. She withdrew the blade and her eyes smiled, almost lovingly.

'Take what you can, boys! We're leaving!' she shouted, and her fellow pirates gathered up the spoils. She pointed to the door with her sword, and they escaped into the night. She began to follow them when one foolhardy man blocked her way. Her sword flashed, and the man fell dead to the floor. She had run him through the heart. Her expression remained unchanged, and she ran out into the night, coins jingling in the inky darkness.

Joseph sheathed his sword and touched his cheek, his mind a tumult of thoughts. Anders came over to him, breathless.

'We're both lucky men, Joseph,' he said, 'Have you never heard of the Gideon?'

Joseph shook his head, staring in the direction Angelique had gone.

'That ship sails seas of blood,' he said, 'Its name means 'destroyer'. I can't believe you actually threatened them, you bloody fool.'

Joseph did not hear Anders. All he could think about were her eyes. They were the color, the storms, the depth and mystery of the ocean. It was all he knew of her face...ocean eyes.