The Reckoning - 3 (28 page)

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Juliana's hand, for she was not about to leave Juliana with the brutal Conn.
As they edged around him, Conn stepped in front of them, barring their way.
Thomas said something shortly, sharply, in English. Ellen caught only "damaged goods," but it was enough. She understood, and so did Conn. After a long moment, he grudgingly yielded, cleared the path to the door.
Ellen paused briefly in the doorway, steeling herself for whatever lay ahead, not wanting them to know how much she dreaded what she might find on deck.
Feeling Thomas's ironic gaze upon her, she said coolly, "I am ready."
It was even worse than she'd feared, for almost at once, she stumbled over a body, recognized Alain, the boatswain. The deck was always wet, drenched by spray and waves breaking over the bow. But now she glanced down, discovered that the hem of her gown was trailing in blood. She stopped, sickened, and
Thomas put a supportive hand upon her elbow, steering her toward the rail. His touch made her quiver, so intense was her loathing, but she dared not pull away, dared not demean him in front of his crew. He was too dangerous a man to defy openly.
The surviving sailors and knights were under guard on the portside. She felt a surge of gratitude upon catching sight of Hugh's flaxen head. Blood matted his hair, streaked the side of his face, but when he saw Ellen, he struggled against his bonds, tried to regain his feet, only to be shoved back by one of the pirates. The man beside him sought to calm him, and Ellen thanked God for
Brian's good sense, thanked God that Brian had not died in the assault upon the ship.
As they reached the rail, she had an unobstructed view of the foreand aft-castles, and what she saw broke her heart. Bodies piled upon one another, some still clutching longbows, the Welshmen who'd died in her defense. The sailors had surrendered to save themselves, and for that she could not blame them. So had Amaury's knights, once all hope was gone. But the Welsh had held out until the last, offering up their lives for their lord's bride.
Tears stung Ellen's eyes. There was no surprise, then, when she found Morgan's body, sprawled by the tiller, close enough for her to see the gaping wounds, the dark, clotted blood. Pulling away from Thomas's grip, she knelt by the young Welshman, and slowly made the sign of the cross. Reaching down, she gently closed his eyes, then glanced up at the pirate chieftain.
"Where is my brother?"
CITHER Ellen nor Juliana had ever been in the fore-castle cabin, and hey hesitated in the doorway, unable to see into the gloom. "Amaury?"

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Ellen's whisper went unanswered, and she was suddenly terrified that Thomas the Archdeacon had lied, that Amaury was dead and this a cruel pirate hoax.
"Ellen? Is he in there?" Juliana was whispering, too, her fingers clutching
Ellen's arm in a grip that would leave bruises.
Ellen took a tentative step into the cabin. Her eyes were slowly adjusting to the dark. "Amaury? Juliana, over here!"
4 The man on the bed did not stir as she bent over him, and again she was tormented by the fear that he might be dead. "Amaury, can you hear me?
Juliana, I've got to have light. See if there is a lamp on the table."
Amaury's skin felt cold and clammy. Searching for his pulse, Ellen discovered that his wrist was shackled to the bed. "Those whoring pirates have him in irons! Juliana, where is that lamp? Damn them, damn them all!"
Juliana was still fumbling with the oil lamp, trying to get it lit. Ellen could wait no longer. Jumping up, she ripped open the porthole shutters. "Oh, dear God! Amaury . . ." Her voice broke, but almost at once, she began ransacking the cabin.
Juliana was standing by the bed, staring down at Amaury. "Ellen, he must have been kicked in the face! What if ... what if his jaw is broken?"
Ellen had finally located a water basin. Carrying it back to the bed, she started to clean the blood from her brother's face. "Do not say that," she hissed. "Do not even think that!" Amaury did not respond to her touch, not even to the cold water, and as she gently wiped his torn mouth, she found that he'd lost at least one tooth. "See if you can find a wine flask, Juliana." His breathing seemed shallow but steady, and she leaned over, pressed his free hand to her cheek.
The blaze of sunlight was blinding. She looked up, saw Thomas the Archdeacon framed in the doorway, and she felt so much hatred that it choked all utterance. She moved hastily back into the shadows lest he read her face.
"Has he come around yet?"
"No," Ellen said tersely, digging her nails into her palm until she could trust herself. Handing the basin to Juliana, she got slowly to her feet. "Set your ransom. Whatever it is, my husband will pay it."
He cocked a brow. "Husband?"
Ellen held out her hand so that the sun glinted off the jeweled wedding band.
"We were wed in Paris by proxy more than six weeks ago, at Martinmas. My husband is Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, Prince cf Wales, and he will pay well for my safe return, for my brother, and the rest of my companions."

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When he didn't reply, she felt a throb of fear. Pirates always ranomed their captives, did they not? "Do you not believe me?" she demanded. "Llewelyn will pay your ransom, I swear it!"
"Oh, I do believe you." He let his eyes roam lazily over her body, vvatched with amusement as angry color rose in her face. "I do not doubt that your husband would pay any price to get you back. If you were my woman, I would.
But unfortunately for you, and for him, the deal has already been struck. You, my prideful, pretty lady, are a very valuable commodity. As soon as we were told you were fitting a cog at Harfleur, we've been stopping every ship heading for Wales."
"What do you mean?"
"I think you know," he said, and she did. But she could not admit it, not yet, not even to herself.
"Listen to me," she said, in that moment more desperate than proud. "Whatever you've been offered, Llewelyn will match it and more. You need only name your price!"
But he was already shaking his head in mock remorse. "Alas, we both know better. No matter how much your Welshman wants you, sweetheart, he cannot hope to outbid the King of England."
13
THE COG HOLY CROSS, OFF THE ISLES OF SCILLY
January 1276
DY the time Thomas the Archdeacon responded to Ellen's urgent appeal, she was frantic with fear on her brother's behalf.
AS Was customary for young women who'd one day be expected to nvanage vast households, she'd been given some medical training, was
*jr'ovvledgeable about herbs and ointments and the dangers of "proud esh." She felt reasonably certain that Amaury's jaw was not broken, she'd discovered a bloodied gash above his left temple, almost hid-

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den by his hair, and when he did not regain consciousness, her anxiety was soon spiraling out of sight.
When the pirate chieftain finally came, he gave her no warning, suddenly thrust the door open, flashing the smile she was fast learning to hate. "I
understand you crave my company, Lady Eleanor."
Snatching up the oil lamp, she held it above the bed. "I do not know much about head injuries. His skin is clammy, his pulse rapid, | and he does not respond to my voice or my touch. I think that"
* "Why are you sharing his symptoms with me? Do I look like a doctor?"
The question itself was brusque enough to disconcert. Even more disturbing was his obvious indifference to Amaury's peril; he'd barely glanced at the bed.
When Ellen had first begun to master the secrets of self-control, having learned how dangerous it was to let the world get too close, she'd resorted to a simple yet effective stratagem, combating raw emotion with deep, rhythmic breathing. It usually helped, and she tried it now, deliberately drawing breath into her lungs, willing herself into a state of camouflaged composure.
Setting the lamp down, she sought to sound matter-of-fact, eminently reasonable. "I thought you might have a crewman skilled in healing, for I know many ships do . . ." But he was already shaking his head. "There are herbs that can bring a dazed man to his senses. I know the Holy Cross master keeps a hoard of medicinal potions and ointments. Could you speak to him, find out if he has fennel juice or pennyroyal? Also betony, sage, and"
"Is that all? Why not a feather bed, a tun of fine French wine, a servant to soothe his fevered brow?"
"I do not think you understand," Ellen said carefully, "just how dangerous head wounds can be. There is no way to know how serious it is. If my brother is denied care, he could die."
He shrugged. "So?"
She was shaken, but determined not to let him see it. "You told me you boarded and seized our ship at the English King's behest. He is not paying you to deliver a corpse!"
"He is paying me, sweetheart, to deliver a bride. And if it eases your mind, he gave express orders that we see to your safety. But from what I hear, he's not likely to grieve if Amaury de Montfort is buried at sea."
Ellen bit her lip, took another bracing breath. "Do you want me to beg, then?
I will, if you'll but give me the herbs Amaury needs."
He grinned. "As entertaining as that would be, I cannot spare the time. Mayhap later?"
But as he turned toward the door, Ellen stepped in front of him/

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barring his way. "Edward is my cousin. You'd best remember that, for MS I
swear. If my brother dies because of you, I will tell Edward that you raped me."
"Is that an invitation?" They were close enough now for him to feel her fear, to see the involuntary flicker of her eyelids, the faint sheen of sweat on her upper lip. But she did not flinch away from him, nor did she back down. He was accustomed to intimidating women with ease. He was far from a fool, though, knew at once that this was no bluff, for she'd hit upon the only leverage she hadtheir society's insistence upon the virtue of highborn women.
Having made her threat, Ellen did not elaborate upon it, for they both knew there was no need. Even if Edward meant to cast her into the Tower for the rest of her days, he'd demand a truly terrible vengeance should she be dishonored. Thomas had already taken pains to warn his crew of that, making sure they understood that the King's kinswoman was not fair game. And then he'd posted guards outside her cabin, for until he handed her over to the constable at Bristol Castle, she was his responsibility, and he was not about to risk his neck and private parts on the good faith of his men, some of whom would have rutted with the Virgin Mary herself if given half a chance.
"That would not be very Christian of you, my lady," he said blandly. "An accusation like that could get a man strung up by his cock."
"I would hope so," she said, without blinking an eye, and he burst out laughing.
"I thought convent-bred blossoms like you were supposed to swoon dead away at the droop of a petal! Where did you learn to fight dirty, like a sailor in a whorehouse brawl?"
He was laughing again, but Ellen could not tell if he was truly amused by her effrontery or merely saving face. She said nothing, afraid to push her luck any further, and was very relieved when he drew back, put some space between them.
"I'll send a man to the cog's master." He paused, hand on the door latch. "In truth, I was going to give you the herbs all along. But by God, I'd not have missed your performance for the world!"
Ellen waited until he stopped laughing. "When I was out on deck, I saw that some of my men were wounded, some of the crew, too. I would like to share the herbs and ointments with them." Adding tonelessly, "If that meets with your approval."
"Why not?" He was still smiling. "You do have pluck, lass, damn me if you do not! I like that in a woman, have always fancied a cat with ckws. But I cannot help wondering if Eleanor of Brittany had pluck, tooin the beginning."
Huddled in a far corner of the cabin, Juliana had been a mute and

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miserable witness, immobilized as much by her seasickness as by her fear. As soon as the door closed, though, she struggled weakly to her feet, for Ellen had gone ashen. She sat down abruptly upon the edge of the bed, and Juliana fought back her nausea, lurched unsteadily across the cabin. It seemed to her that, for all his talk about Ellen's claws, Thomas was the one who'd drawn blood, and she found herself fumbling for comfort when there was none.
* g "Your lady mother would have been so proud of you, Ellen. For certes, I
was. But. . . but who is this Eleanor of Brittany?"
Ellen leaned over, reassured herself that Amaury's breathing was still steady.
"She was our kinswoman, my grandfather's niece. She and her brother Arthur were his rivals for the English crown, and when they fell into his hands, Arthur disappeared into one of John's strongholds, never to be seen again. As for Eleanor . . . she was but seventeen or so, said to be very pretty. John sent her to Bristol Castle, kept her in comfortable confinement..."
Ellen's voice trailed off. After a long silence, she looked up at the other woman, her mask utterly gone. "They held her captive for the rest of her life, Juliana. For nigh on forty years . . ."
WITH Ellen's knights and crew locked up in the hold, Thomas manned the cog with his own sailors and headed back for the Isles of Scilly. When they dropped anchor in a sheltered cove at St Mary's Island, he'd planned to sail at dawn. But fog crept in during the darkness, ghostly grey sea-clouds that muffled sound and blotted out the sky, trapping them in a blind man's world of eerie, shadowed silence. The pirates did not share Brian's faith in his magnetic sailing needle, would not venture from port until the fog lifted, and the days dragged by. Ellen had never been claustrophobicuntil now. The cabin walls seemed to be shrinking; at night she began to dream of sunless dungeon cells and open coffins. By the time they finally set sail, she was desperate to get under way again, even though Edward would be waiting at the end of her journey.
No one would tell her anything, but by observing sunsets from the porthole, she was able to determine that they were sailing north. There was no surprise, then, when the cog and its escort galleys turned east into the Bristol
Channel, for she'd already guessed their destination, the English port of
Bristol.
Ellen awakened at dawn. Beside her, Juliana still slept, and she rose as quietly as she could, making a half-hearted attempt to smooth some of the wrinkles from her gown. She'd always had her share of vanity* but it had not survived the first hours of her captivity. If she looked

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jjsheveled and haggard upon landing, so much the better. She wanted the world to see her just as she was, a woman abducted and imprisoned against her will by England's King.
Amaury was beginning to stir, and she crossed to the bed. "How do you feel this morn?"
"Well, I'm breathing," he said and gave her a lopsided smile, for his face was still badly bruised and swollen. "But I'd like to meet the fool who put about the fable that sea air is good for a man's health."
Ellen tried to smile back, although without much conviction. She knew he was still in pain. She had learned in this past week to recognize the subtle indications, for he would no more admit to his blinding headaches and aching jaw than he would to his fear. He had to be afraid; she herself was terrified for him and what he might face. But he'd chosen to confront that fate as his brothers would, and as much as she yearned for truth between them, she felt compelled to honor his choice. He was going to need whatever strength he could muster, from whatever source.
"How is your headache? I think there is some sage left..." She was turning to look when he reached up, caught her hand.
"Wait. I have something for you, kitten." Pulling a ring from his finger, he pressed it into her palm. "I want you to hold this for me."
The ring, a sapphire set into the shape of a cross, was far more than a family heirloom. For the de Montforts, it was an icon. Ellen closed her eyes, seeing it flash on her father's hand, seeing her mother clutch it to her heart as if it were a rosary. "I cannot take Papa's ring. Mama wanted you to have it, Amaury."
"And how long do you think I'd keep it?" he asked, quite evenly. "It will be safer with you."
She did not know what to say, for to deny it was to lie, and to agree was to abandon even the pretense of hope. Threading the ring through her crucifix chain, she concealed it in the bodice of her gown.
Just then a cresting wave slammed into the ship, and Ellen was sent careening across the cabin. She was clinging to the porthole as the cog righted itself, revealing the distant silhouette of snow-dusted hills. As she watched, they came into clearer focus, browned and stark, sloping down toward the sea, and she suddenly realized that she was looking upon Wales. It was her first glimpse of her husband's homeland, and it seemed likely it would be her last.
ELLEN had assumed that once they were no longer in the pirate chieftain's
Power, things were bound to get better. They did not. The constable of nstol Castle, Sir Bartholomew de Joevene, treated her with impeccable c°urtesy, installed her and Juliana in a spacious bedchamber, even re-