Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (13 page)

Below, on the deck, Sombra had tired of taunting Linet. He’d turned his attention instead to a spot on one of his precious boots, dismissing her as easily as a swatted fly. But only after Sombra retired to his quarters below did the little wool merchant let down her defenses. Then her shoulders slumped, and her legs began shaking violently. Her bravado had apparently been a ruse.

Strangely moved by this discovery, Duncan battled the overwhelming urge to leap down, take her in his arms, and coax away her fears with tender words of comfort.

His reverie was cut short as immediately below him on the deck, a man began muttering to his shipmate.

“Just for sport,” he was saying. “We would not hurt her. No one would have to know.”

“The woman is a beautiful she-cat,” his friend agreed, “but this she-cat, she took a bite out of old Oso, did you not see?”

“I fear old Oso is not long for this world,” Duncan chimed in, his Spanish flawless. His voice, coming from the rigging above, startled the two Spaniards.

“Who are you?” the first one asked, his eyes squinting in suspicion. “I did not see you aboard before.”

“I am called Venganza,” he answered, climbing down to the deck and carefully turning away from Linet in a show of conspiracy. “I have seen this wench before. She is like a spider, deadly poison,” he confided. “She bites a man, and he dies. Three men I have seen her kill this way.”

The two Spaniards shuddered.

“Bah, I think it is the pox,” Duncan said, spitting. “Still, it is not a pretty way to die.”

The Spaniards nodded agreement.

Duncan let out a long sigh. He certainly had his work cut out for him. Unfortunately, there was little for the crew to do but drink, and with their stomachs full of ale, they were as dangerous as loaded catapults. His most effective weapon was a well-placed rumor like the one he’d just planted.

As if she could sense his worry, Linet wheeled and made her way back down the ladder to the hold, out of view. Duncan wished he could lock her in there for the length of their journey.

But only moments later, she emerged again, rising like a wraith from the bowels of the ship. Her lips were white where they were pressed tightly together.

The poor thing was going to be sick.

Linet made the trek to the railing with as much dignity as she could muster. The shipmates gave her a wide berth as she staggered weakly by. She was almost as disgusted as she was nauseous. She was a seasoned traveler. She’d sailed between Flanders and England dozens of times. There was no cause for her to be sick.

Other than the fact she hadn’t eaten since yesterday. And her faithful servant Harold lay below deck, bleeding half to death. And she was going to be sold as a slave to the highest bidder by the end of the week.

Heat flashed across her face as she hung her head over the side. She focused intently on taking deep and steady breaths, and then trained her eyes on the horizon until her stomach ceased its mutiny.

Wispy white clouds stretched across the sky like carded wool. The winds blowing up from the Spanish coast were warm and not unpleasant. The ocean, its garment like Arabian samite, shifting and catching the light in shimmering hues of jade and cobalt and turquoise, was kind for the moment to the frail beasts sailing so tenuously across its bosom. But she knew it could change its garb in an instant. Just as kind Don Ferdinand had changed into the villain Sombra.

She peered down in the ship’s shadow at the deepest water rising and falling in undulating waves of ebony. The beggar’s hair fell in similar black curls, she recalled. And farther off, where the sun sparkled on the surface, the sea became the exact color of his eyes—a clear, vibrant sapphire. She sighed shakily. Rogue or not, she would have given anything to have that guardian now, even if it meant listening to his cocksure voice chiding her for getting herself into trouble.

As she wallowed in regret, a queer prickling began at the base of her neck, not seasickness this time, but a sensation that told her she was being watched. She shouldn’t have been surprised. It seemed the entire crew watched her every move. After all, she was as obviously out of place among them as a black thread on white linen.

Something made her turn anyway.

There, by some amazing miracle, at the opposite end of the ship, he stood. The beggar. Her guardian. Hope.

She blinked. Perhaps it was a trick of the light or just her eager imagination.

Nay. That eye patch and stubbled chin were no foil for his broad shoulders and arrogant stance. Wonder coursed through her veins. He had found her. He had come for her.

The beggar held her gaze for an instant. But he gave no sign of recognition. Instead, he turned to speak to the two Spaniards beside him, nodding in her direction. One of the outlaws made the sign of the cross. The other shuddered.

Her stomach lurched painfully. She felt sick again. But it wasn’t from the roll of the sea.

He wasn’t her rescuer after all. He
had
helped plot her abduction. The damned knave was one of them.

Duncan glimpsed the raw hope in Linet’s gaze and cursed silently, agonized over having to delude her this way. She’d believe he was a traitor. But there was nothing else he could do. It would do no good to have both of them tossed into the hold.

His jaw tightened as she turned away, her fists clenching the railing as if to strangle it. He knew there would be tears of hurt in her eyes, tears she’d be too proud to shed. And it tormented him to ignore her silent plea.

But ignore her he did, nearly the whole day. He spent every spare moment slipping extra bread into the hold when it was empty, making certain there were plenty of blankets for the prisoners, and continuing to spread rumors about the pox, driving Oso to check his skin hourly for telltale marks of the disease. But he spared her not a glance.

Until twilight…when the stars emerged overhead like tiny jewels and the moon hung low, sending shimmering ripples of silver along the waves…when she stood, haloed by the opaque light of the heavens, staring off across the endless water, a tear glistening on her cheek. Then he watched her from the shadows of the mainmast, miserable with regret. He watched her until the moon rose, until her tears dried and the only remaining evidence of her bleak despair was the downward cast of her eyes.

By mid-day, Linet was stripped to her underdress. Heavy chains encircled her waist and arms, binding her to the mast like a meal for the scavenging crows who called themselves the crew of this vessel. The sheer linen, plastered against her body in the damp breeze, afforded her little modesty. The sun had begun to burn her fair skin, and the wind slapped tendrils of her hair across her face.

High in the rigging, Duncan scowled at the spectacle below, clenching the ropes of the mainsail so tightly he was sure they’d fray within his fists.

How long did a sleeping philter take anyway? He was sure he’d dissolved enough of El Gallo’s medicinal powder into her morning wine. Linet should be drifting off to the land of dreams by now, safe from her own sharp tongue, to a place where Sombra couldn’t touch her. But, damn the stubborn wench, she was still standing.

Linet shivered once. Her head was swimming with wild and foggy colors. She knew she should be afraid, but it seemed too much of an effort. Besides, it wasn’t as if anything was going to happen to
her
. Sombra was only interested in the woman chained to the mast, the poor woman shuddering with cold in her shift.

She blinked her eyes several times to clear them and spat a strand of hair from her mouth. In one terrible moment of clarity, she realized the truth.
She
was the woman chained to the mast. And then the gentle mists closed again, mercifully obscuring her thoughts.

Sombra circled her like a spider considering its next meal. He clucked his tongue. “I understand you insulted my captain in England.” He tossed the words over his shoulder. “Is that not so,
senor
?”

El Gallo, standing behind him, hooked his fat thumbs into the armholes of his surcoat and rocked up on his toes. The weathered boards of the deck groaned. He nodded.

“It is a very bad thing to insult a man,” Sombra continued. “It is death to insult a Spaniard. However…”

Linet wanted to explain about the letters of marque, wanted to tell him that the Spanish had stolen her wool, but her eyelids flagged, and then she couldn’t remember what she was going to say.

“We have other plans for you, far more profitable plans.” He rubbed his black-gloved hands together. The leather squeaked. Then he swung around to El Gallo. “Do we not, my captain?”

El Gallo scoured her with greedy eyes and made a crude gesture, which amused his companions on board.

“Who will pay the most, eh?” Sombra purred, taking her chin in his gloved hand. “The Saracens? Some French lecher with gentlemen friends to entertain? Or perhaps a bishop with secret vices?”

The crew volunteered their opinions. Linet tugged her chin from his grasp.

“Of course,” he added, peeling the glove languidly from his right hand, “the price will double if you’re a virgin.”

Linet’s eyes went wide for a moment. Surely he didn’t mean to… She stared as he flexed his pale fingers. Then a wave of gray light washed over her. She faltered forward.

“Eh, Sombra, see how she swoons with anticipation!” El Gallo crowed.

The last thing she saw was the beggar falling impossibly out of the sky onto the deck.

“Leave her be!” he cried.

And then the world went black.

Linet’s eyes rolled in her head, and she slumped backward against the chains.

Duncan silently cursed. If he’d killed her with the sleeping draught…

In the next instant, Sombra whipped around like a snake, his face blanched with fury. “Who dares command me?” he snarled.

Duncan scanned the expectant faces around him. Some were outraged. Some were annoyed. Some were thirsty for blood. Everything depended on his answer to Sombra’s question.

“A friend perhaps,” he answered with a casualness he didn’t feel, intentionally fracturing the Spanish words with a French accent. “An opportunity without a doubt.”

“You interrupt me for…” Sombra began, clenching his naked hand into a claw.

“The woman carries the pox,” Duncan said calmly. “I would keep my distance if I were you, Monsieur Sombra. It is not a pleasant death.”

Sombra pressed his thin lips together and took a judicious step away from Linet, who, to Duncan’s relief, seemed to be breathing.

El Gallo swaggered forward, crossing corpulent arms across his barrel chest. “What is your name…friend?” He sneered the word.

“I am…Gaston de Valois, cousin to King Philip,” Duncan announced, presenting his own de Ware crest ring with a hasty flourish. “And this,” he said, gesturing to Linet, “is my prisoner.”

“Is that so? And what would the King’s cousin be doing aboard my ship?” the captain grumbled, his eyes oozing suspicion.

“Philip has a very lucrative proposition for you, Monsieur El Gallo,” he suggested, subtly fingering the money pouch at his waist, “one that might sound better perhaps over a cup of wi-…er, pardon, ale?”

The taunt was not wasted on El Gallo. He hesitated, clearly torn between the pleasure of watching Sombra further torment his female captive and the prospect of increasing the weight of his purse. Finally, he growled for two cups.

“Sombra, take our prisoner below,” El Gallo ordered. “The Frenchman and I have things to discuss.”

“But—”

“Do it!”

Pure venom shot from Sombra’s eyes at the dismissal, but El Gallo took no notice. Duncan struggled to feign disinterest as the slimy bastard unchained Linet and had her hauled into the hold.

When the ale had been poured, El Gallo raised his cup in salute. Duncan swept up his own drink, draining every drop at once. There was impressed muttering among the shipmates. Not to be outdone, El Gallo answered the unspoken challenge and tossed back his cup of ale. The crew chuckled in admiration.

“Away!” the captain shouted, slamming the cup down. The curious crew scattered across the ship like dice on a table. “Now.” El Gallo wiped his sleeve across the foam clinging to his beard. “What is this proposition King Philip has in mind, eh?”

Duncan looked furtively about him and spoke for El Gallo’s ears only. “Word of your exploits has reached Philip. He is interested in hiring your services.”

“Hiring my…” El Gallo grunted, belching loudly.

“France has enemies,” Duncan confided, the deception coming easily to his lips, “enemies Philip would like to see meet with…misfortune.”

“Misfortune?” the captain wheezed, narrowing his eyes.

“Only of a minor nature,” he hastened to assure El Gallo. He chose his words carefully. “France would not be averse to granting you a pardon should you, for example, mistakenly…lighten the burdens of some of her enemies’ ships in French waters. I believe a small fine, as little as half of what you may collect, would appease His Majesty for such actions.”

El Gallo didn’t bother to conceal the greedy glint in his eyes as he stroked his beard speculatively. Duncan was sure that the crafty sea reiver was already scheming to kill him and somehow collect all the profits himself. But it didn’t matter. Things would never get that far.

“How did you find me?” El Gallo asked, mistrustful.

“The wench,” he just as quickly replied. “Philip was made aware of the unfortunate incident with the royal letters of marque. He knew you would not let her go unpunished. I was to follow her, to wait for you to make your move.”

El Gallo poured them each another cup of ale.

Duncan figured he’d probably burn in Hell for the lies he’d told over the past day alone. The fiction seemed to roll off his tongue as if it were God’s truth. Still, it would be worth it if he could at last put the notorious El Gallo and Sombra away and save Linet de Montfort. Perhaps, he thought wryly, his daring would earn him the position of Patron Saint of Wool Merchants.