One-and-Thirty is an elementary card game, provided that its players possess an elementary grasp of mathematics. The rules are simple: Try to reach thirty-one or get close to thirty-one without going over. Cards begin at two and go as high as ten. Face cards are equal to ten. The Aces are either worth one or eleven, depending on the player's need.

For many of the intellectuals of King Henry's court, this was not the game of choice. "It's a woman's game," Lord Edward Seymour was once overheard to say, unaware that in the next room, the king was playing a rather heated round between Lord Seymour's brother, Thomas, and the Archbishop of Canterbury. The king's guards, whose grasp of numbers did not extend beyond "Less is bad. More is good," also took little interest in One-and-Thirty because it stretched beyond their attention spans.

So what was the appeal of One-and-Thirty? Perhaps it was the thrill of the last two players facing off with each hand so dangerously close to the cap. One card would decide the winner. That one card could edge a player beyond the sum of thirty-one, or it could force the opponent to draw again. While an average game was as quick as the hands that settled numerous side bets, it was the seemingly endless rounds that truly challenged the wits of the remaining players. As they contemplated standing on their amassed sum or defying the odds by requesting one more card, the players' excitement warmed the room better than a roaring hearth in winter.

Such was the hand currently being played out to the bitter end at The Haven, a small pub located on the northern coast of Portugal.

The Haven was neutral ground for sailors of all countries and creeds: A place where privateers mingled with the captains who had provided for them handsomely in previous months, noblemen tapped Court spies for the latest news from the throne, and aspiring bards eagerly took notes from any lucky sailor who had survived a journey to the New World.

While the Haven was free of borders, politics, or prejudice, card games could easily restore these three social partitions and silently reinforce them with national pride. At this particular tavern, which reserved numerous back rooms for such revels, games that ended badly could lead to anything from costly brawls to border disputes between countries.

So far, this particular card game remained friendly, although tensions were clearly growing. The two men were staring each other down, with a generous mound of gold and silver coins between them. Behind one of these men stood a large Moor whose crossed arms caused his biceps to swell like a cobra before attacking, his dark face revealing nothing but swift retribution to anyone who would try to harm his master.

Behind the Moor were others of all races, united in their service to the card player. Some of the faces were young, out to sea only a few months. They had already discovered the pleasures of the foreign whore, and it was now time to discover other distractions.

Safer ones, too. No one ever caught diseases from playing cards.

Across the table from this group of sailors, a small collection of noblemen observed their friend silently debating whether he should ask for another card. One or two of these noblemen, newly arrived at the Spanish court, were a mad display of collars, lace, and finery. When their compatriots had said to them, "Let us enjoy the revels of the night," they no doubt had pictured courtly dances, pretty young ladies-in-waiting, and perhaps a few spirited rounds at the tables. The Haven was a powerful lesson in the dangers of assumption. Their young, privileged faces kept twisting in revulsion at the putrid tavern smells and the erotic caterwauling filtering in from the next room.

The flutter of a lace handkerchief caught the attention of the nobleman now staring at the cards before him. He shot one of the younger nobleman a look, his eyes darkening as he felt his concentration falter.

"Carlos!" He spat, "Si encuentras este sitio tan repulsivo, por que no guardas tu pauelo, te compras un caballo y vuelves a Espaa? Si cabalgas rpido, podrs llegar a Madrid a tiempo para que la niera te cuente una historia antes de ir a dormir."

As the younger nobleman fired back a retort that drowned out the distractions outside their private room, the sailors standing behind their captain traded nervous glances. The Moor's expression never changed in its intensity--not even when he noticed one Spanish soldier casually cleaning his pistol. On the Moor's silent command, a few sailors slipped into a far corner of the room just opposite the soldier.

The captain could hear his men's uneasy rustling behind him, but he kept concentrating on his hand. The loud diatribe between the two noblemen and the word "Espaa" being the only word intelligible to him was growing unsettling, however.

"My good Lords." The captain leaned forward, looming over his neatly arranged cards. "I thought we agreed. English?"

His opponent's friend could have been no more than twenty, a privileged pup who was unaccustomed to being addressed in such a manner. The Spaniard muttered something under his breath, assured the captain did not need to know Spanish to realize he had just been insulted.

"Forgive the young Carlos," the gentleman card player said with a smile. His accent was thick, but his upbringing still granted his speech a touch of refinement. "He is so headstrong, as is the youth of this age. I do hope his outburst has not blunted your courage."

"On the contrary," the captain replied. "I am waiting upon your wager, Lord Alvaro de Montiallo. I called your challenge, and then I returned with another."

Lord Alvaro hesitated. Carlos' handkerchief had taken his mind off the new bet. The pot in the centre had already reached thirty crowns, and the captain had just added an additional twenty shillings from his own pocket. All eyes now turned to him for a response.

He focused on his cards, silently cursing his priest's sharp and powerful condemnations of cards and dicing. If God did wish for us to resist such temptation, Lord Alvaro thought, his sight narrowing on the deck underneath the captain's hand, why does He make the thrill of it so delicious?

From the soft murmurs he was hearing from his countrymen, he could detect a side-bet emerging as to whether the next card would be red or black ... provided there would be another card. Lord Alvaro needed twenty shillings, and he had already surrendered his last coin in the previous wager. Of course, he could always part with a ring from one of his fingers. There was the ruby from Isabella ... or perhaps the emerald from Maria?

His eye fell upon the ring his wife had given him. Only if I am completely certain!

Then he recalled the small velvet pouch hanging from his neck. His salvation. If ever he needed its luck, it was now. With a soft laugh, he placed the brilliant coin upon the table.

"Alvaro," noted the captain, sceptically noting the Spanish crest, "the date upon this coin is '1548,' and we are just in the infancy of the Year of our Lord Fifteen Hundred and Forty-Seven."

"Good Captain, that is a unique gold sovereign you hold--a rarity, at present. A coin waiting to be minted soon at the beginning of next year. The king himself granted me that coin upon my appointment."

Several months ago, Lord Alvaro had been awarded the office of Keeper of the Crown's Treasury for his amazing abilities with managing money. Only those closest to him--those who kept company with him this night--knew of his gambling habits. It was a secret best kept from the King of Spain, and Alvaro needed the appointment to provide him, and his company, access to a much larger coffer if needed.

"Is that so?" The captain nodded, turning the coin over. "Very well, then. Even if it is still destined to be produced, a sovereign is still a sovereign, I suppose."

Lord Alvaro looked at his hand of eight-and-twenty. The game had come down to a single card, and that single card had to be a three. Taking a deep breath, he thought of his lucky gold sovereign and its odd rider slaying the beast with a spear-like weapon. Yes, his mind whispered to him in a voice carrying the undercurrent of another tongue underneath it. Draw now and reap your rewards...

"Card," he spoke confidently.

The card landed face up before him: The Three of Hearts.

Cheers erupted from the Spaniards, soldiers and noblemen alike. Lord Alvaro's victory signalled something far more significant than an increase in his personal currency. It was a victory for Spain. They clasped hands and laughed heartily while a fair-haired nobleman paid off a few shillings to settle his side bet against the red suits.

The older English sailors straightened to their full heights while the younger ones bowed their heads. The Moor masked his own disappointment as he looked to his captain, awaiting the order to take the crew back to the ship and prepare for the journey home. His eyes stayed fixed on his master's face, now deathly pale. Something was wrong.

The captain was now far from Portugal, lost in a realm of savage women whose beauty was paralleled only by their brutality. He pictured the savage queen, a woman of strength and cunning, along with vivid images of ancient, magical beings from folktales and myth. Then he returned to the horrifying vision that still haunted him in nightmares: the one of darkness and shadow coming to life, reaching all the way from Hell's kingdom. Once again, he was back in that realm across The Rift.

A journey triggered by a single coin.

"An amazing coin, do you not agree?" Lord Alvaro bellowed, eagerly retrieving his winnings.

"What occasion does this coin commemorate?" asked the captain, his eyes never leaving its design.

One of the Spaniards, his celebration abruptly ending with the privateer's question, placed a warning hand upon the Lord Treasurer's shoulder. Alvaro cleared his throat and smiled weakly. "Well, I am newly appointed in my office. I will find out once I become more acquainted with my duties. Now, good Captain, if you would please return my sovereign to me."

The captain remained engrossed with the coin, but he did manage an answer for the Spanish nobleman. "No."

This was his men's signal to quietly move into position, hands slipping around dagger hilts and concealed pistols.

Lord Alvaro rose from his chair with a slow grinding of heavy wood against the thick oak floorboards. They were perhaps three or four men short of the English. Many of those privateers were young, not as tried and tested as those in his company. It was despicable how this Englishman could not lose gracefully. So common.

"Perhaps I was foolish to believe we could behave as gentlemen and enjoy the revels of the tavern together." Lord Alvaro extended a bejewelled hand. "Please, my coin. I would not care for this evening to turn unpleasant."

"Unpleasant?" The captain's eyes finally left the sovereign with a disarming smile. "That could never happen, my friend, because I possess a charm of my own."

"And pray, sirrah, what is that?"

The captain sat back in his chair. "Insurance."

In a moment of swift and fluid action, blades reached from the room's shadows and rested against the Spaniards' necks. A cutlass quickly drew across a soldier's arm, relieving him of his pistol. Rapiers fell to the floor with a clatter as English sword tips touched their chests and bellies. Then the silence returned, the tension much higher.