by Peter Telep
Christopher and Doyle were asking and answering questions about the gaps in their lives, and then she heard Doyle introduce Montague to Christopher. Hearing the brigand’s name again was like the clash of a sword on a shield to start a tournament, only this was Brenna’s tournament and the spoils went to the person who killed Montague first. She’d have to get by Christopher and Doyle to get at him, though.
With the sharp tip of the bolt sticking out of the bot tom of her clenched fist, she stepped quickly toward the brigand and drew her hand back above her head.
“No, lassie!” Montague yelled, his color fading fast. Brenna screamed as she crashed into Doyle and
Christopher. As her arrow-armed fist came down to within a finger’s width of the fat man’s blubbery breast, Doyle’s forearm was suddenly there to block and drive her fist away.
“Brenna? What are you doing?” Christopher shouted as he wrapped an arm around her waist and dragged her away from Doyle and the fat man. She tried to twist out of Christopher’s hold, but he was too strong. She felt him begin to pry the arrow from her grip.
Separated by a couple of yards, she glowered at the fat man while trying to keep the arrow in her grasp. “Him. He tried to—It was him! You fat pig! You fat, oily, ugly terrible pig!”
Doyle looked at Montague, the former archer’s face burning with a question.
Christopher got the arrow away from her and dropped it to the street. Then he held her wrist with a grip that felt unbreakable. “You know Montague?”
“On my way to Shores. He and his boys, they—” “’What did you do?” Doyle demanded, taking a step closer to the brigand.
Montague sighed and rolled his eyes as if the whole attempted rape had been just a slight misunderstanding. And then he voiced it as such. “The lassie. We bumped into each other unfortunately. But that was when I was a roadsman.”
Brenna hissed. She gathered spit in her mouth and sent it aloft; it fell a foot short of the highwayman. Then she looked at Doyle. “You’re not friends with him, are you Doyle? Tell me you’re not! Please, tell me you’re not!” “What did he do to you, Brenna”? Christopher demanded, his tone remarkably similar to Doyle’s.
“Exactly what did he do”?
“He tried to …” She hated the tears that fell from her cheeks, but to stop them would be as hard as break ing Christopher’s hold. Oh, if she could just get free.
Doyle and Christopher exchanged a look that she could not read. But the fact that Doyle then looked to Montague said something.
“Come now, my lads and lassie. We can talk this all out. But let’s do it quickly.” He tipped his head to Doyle. “My partner here and I are on our way to a meet ing we cannot miss.”
Christopher folded his arms over his chest. “Your meeting can wait.”
10
The Saxon cog Seajewel had been a war ship, and that was probably one of the reasons why Jobark had been eager to take command of the vessel. Equipped with fore-, after—and topcastles, the cog, though running merchantman’s duties, was ready for any resistance it might encounter from the Celt war ships that patrolled the waters around Wales. But there were no archers standing behind any of the castles’ wooden parapets this morning, just a single short man that paced in the aftercastle, debating an issue that had bothered him all morning.
Seaver liked Jobark, admired the man, and had felt a growing loyalty toward him—not just because the captain would get him home, but because he treated his men fairly, even those impressed into service. Jobark was a reasonable commander, perhaps the last man alive who could be described as such. Kidnapping sailors for the captain would be a pleasure.
But betraying Jobark might cost Seaver his life.
The captain disliked Kenric; he’d made that clear. But in one way Jobark was exactly like Seaver’s former leader. The captain shared an affliction with Kenric that made Seaver’s allegiance to the sailor wane.
It was the eyes that bothered him the most. Female eyes dull from pain. Women resigned to their fate. Once proud, beautiful creatures now bitten and smacked into submission.
Kenric and Jobark loved women. Loved them too much. Violated them. Hurt them. Kept them as slaves of pleasure. And killed them in a way Seaver thought the worst form of torture. Kenric had once offered a young nymph to him for a scouting job well-done. Seaver had reasoned that her height, though average, somehow had stripped away her beauty. But he dug into himself and realized that it hadn’t been her height at all; it’d been her eyes that had left him feeling cold.
The Celt woman in the captain’s cabin wore those same eyes. Dull from pain. At once pleading and resigned.
After a lot of struggle he’d managed to clean and prepare her for Jobark. The captain had asked him to do it as a special favor since Seaver spoke her tongue. He understood her words and knew her pain, knew it in a way the rest of the crew could not.
He’d murdered many men in his day, like that armorer back in the castle’s dungeon, and had walked away from the blood without second thoughts. But it was different with women. They affected Kenric and Jobark in a lustful way; but with Seaver they were able to inhabit his conscience and make him feel sorry for them. They were able to clutch his heart. Women made him feel vulnerable. He didn’t see them in the same way he knew other men did. When he looked at a woman, he did not suddenly imagine himself plunging into her; he imagined lying in bed with her, arms wrapped around each other, a fire burning in a nearby hearth, snow falling outside. He’d heard of a thing the Celts called courtly love, that one had to win a woman’s favor; it was an idea that greatly appealed to him. Kenric and Jobark should have had to win their women; they should not have been allowed to grab, rape, and discard them as quickly as they did. There was value in a woman’s life they could not see. Seaver had been raised by a wonder fully kind and giving woman, one he would soon see again. She had devoted her life to his care and taught him all he knew. There was no person alive he valued or respected more than her.
Seaver hadn’t been able to sleep last night. The Celt woman’s screams had kept him up. From his nearby hammock he’d listened as Jobark fisted her into silence, then groaned as he took his way with her. He knew the pictures in his mind of what had happened were worse than the truth, but that weak fact hadn’t made him feel any better about it.
All Seaver had to do was let her go. He couldn’t listen to those screams all the way to Ivory Point. But she was in his charge and the blame would be placed on him for her escape, just as it had been for Christopher’s and his friends’ escape from the castle. If Jobark found out that he had deliberately let her go … There was a curious legend about Saxon captains, that they reserved a special dagger for those who betrayed them, mutineers or otherwise; Jobark might dust his off for Seaver.
The boatswain, a young, lean, mean-looking fellow with rope-burned forearms, sauntered up the gangplank with six of his deck crew. He barked orders as the group fanned out and began to work with the rigging. They were due to shove off this morning, and soon the huge, square sail would unfurl and block out the sun. Blytheheart would become a distant speck on the horizon. Seaver found it more difficult to make a decision.
Should he free the Celt woman or not? Take the blame for the open latch or not? There was probably a way for him to plan her escape and not take the blame, but such a plan had not occurred to him; nor was there more time to figure one out. There was one other problem: where was the captain at this moment? Still in his quarters? Seaver had not seen him leave the cog but he could have gotten up early and done so. If he was still in his cabin with the Celt girl, the whole plan would fall apart. So be it then. If he was still with her, then she would ride to Ivory Point with them. He could live with himself if he at least tried to help her.
He passed through the hatch of the aftercastle, then descended the ladder into the shadows of the hold. This level of the cog was loaded as high as his shoulders with provisions bound for the ports between Blytheheart and Caledonia. The h
old was so full that it was hard to locate the hatch which led to the cabins of the lower deck. Seaver rounded a comer of grain sacks and found the hatch he was looking for on the floor. He slid the latch and raised the wooden door. He moved down the ladder into the captain’s cabin—
And found her on the floor, lying on her stomach. He scanned the room. The captain was not there. He quickly crossed to the Celt woman, fell to his knees, and brushed her thick, red mane away from her face. Was she dead? No. She stirred, then opened her eyes.
“I’m freeing you. Go,” he told her, feeling a chill rush through him.
He heard footsteps on the ladder. He turned his head. Jobark came off of the ladder, turned, and stood there. The captain was shirtless and wore a frown.
“What’s the matter with her?”
“Uh, I think she’s sick,” Seaver said. “I was going to fetch her something to eat, and when I came down to check on her, I found her like this.” The words came out too fast. He looked to the beaten, red-haired woman and said softly, “If you can get up and run you’d better do it now.”
“What are you telling her?” Jobark asked.
Seaver kneed himself a bit back from the Celt, hoping she’d bolt up; but she lay prone, breathing faintly. “I asked her if she was sick.”
Jobark stepped forward. Seaver could see her watch ing his approach past a half-open eyelid. Her color was ashen, her body as limp as rags. No, she would not attempt an escape. But in her condition she would not scream all the way to Caledonia either. At least Seaver wouldn’t have to bear that.
“She’s not sick,” Jobark said. His shadow drew fully over her. “She’s just exhausted—from last night.”
Perhaps it was Jobark’s boast that did it; Seaver couldn’t be sure. But something had obviously triggered the woman, for now she reached out and wrapped her arms around Jobark’s legs, drew them together and yanked them toward her.
The captain fell backward, rump, shoulders, and head colliding with the timbers respectively. The new dark brown shift Seaver had given the Celt woman to wear flashed before his eyes as she rose and bounded over Jobark.
Seaver went to the captain, feigning his surprise. “Sir, are you—”
“Get her!” Jobark yelled as he raised a hand to the back of his head.
Seaver looked to the ladder. The Celt already had her hands on the top rung. Good. He complied with his orders and mounted the ladder as the Celt woman dis appeared through the square doorway above him.
He crawled into the hold and stood. The Celt woman was fast. She must have already found the next hatch leading to the upper deck. Moving slowly, giving her time, he did the same.
Finally, he stepped out into the sunlight, even as the rigging crew was curiously eyeing the Celt woman as she raced barefoot down the gangplank. Seaver started after her. He heard Jobark burst from the hold behind him and shout to the deck crew for them to join in the pur suit.
11
Their own dispute on Pier Street had caused a small commotion, but it was nothing compared to the action centered around the wharf to their rear. The shouts of the sailors made Christopher tum away from Montague to see what all the excitement was about.
A woman came running down the gangplank of the cog, a woman with the same color hair as Marigween. As she hit the level surface of the wharf, the wind caught her thick locks and pulled them from her face.
Christopher’s mouth did not fall open in surprise. He did not shout for her. He did not say anything. The image released a lightning bolt of battlefield reaction, and he burst off toward Marigween.
“It’s Marigween!” he heard Doyle shout behind him.
Christopher battered through two men, then had a clean line of sight down the long wharf. She came straight for him. He’d never seen her run with such urgency, nor seen such a horrible expression twist her pretty face.
But then she spotted him. And shouted his name. And the grimace faded for a second into a smile; however, with a look over her shoulder, it returned.
He spotted the seamen pursuing her. The lead man was a very short fellow who looked—
Seaver! How? He should be back at the castle!
The shock of seeing the Saxon scout who had once been his teacher and then captor was enough to nearly halt Christopher in his tracks. If it weren’t for Marigween’s presence, he would have stopped dead right there. Nothing made sense at the moment. Doyle had shown up out of nowhere with a brigand on his arm who had tried to take his way with Brenna. And now Seaver was here, too. Christopher’s past had been shoveled up and dumped here in Blytheheart.
Marigween was about twoscore yards away from him now. She dodged barrels and crates and repeatedly looked back at Seaver, who was heavy on her heels. Christopher did not have a plan once he and Marigween reached each other. Yes, they would turn and run. But what about the deck crew? He prayed Doyle and Montague could help.
Another few feet. Another few feet. He mentally crossed his fingers as he neared her, and then—
They connected.
She barely had the breath to utter his name. “Christopher.”
“Go!” he ordered her. There wasn’t even time to ask her about Baines. Was their son still aboard the cog? Was she leaving him behind? Christopher was about to turn and join Marigween, but he stopped.
“Kimball!” Seaver shouted, using the old Saxon name that Garrett, their former leader, had once given Christopher. Seaver used the name as a grim reminder. Yes, he and Seaver had both served in the same Saxon army, and for some reason the little man had to keep hammering home that reminder.
He braced himself for impact with the short man, while his gaze searched the Saxon’s hands for a weapon and found none.
The short man’s momentum now appeared greater than Christopher had anticipated. He leapt into the air, adding even more speed to his pursuit, and—
He howled.
Christopher reached out for the scout’s neck.
They fell backward together onto the wharf, and as Christopher tried to roll away, he felt another set of hands on him. And then another, and another. There was a ring of faces above him: the deck crew of the cog. Fists came down and the sky turned to the color of flesh. He rolled into a ball, hearing Doyle scream from somewhere behind him. And then he heard Brenna shout something which was echoed by the Fwit ! of her crossbow.
Seaver was not directly next to him anymore, and he listened to his voice originate from a position just a few yards away; the man was on his feet. He spoke in Saxon. “That’s right! Bring her back here! Oh, she’s not getting away! She’s staying with us now! Yes she is!”
“Chris-to-pher,” Doyle managed from somewhere nearby.
The fists kept coming down, but he didn’t feel as many now. He chanced a look. Doyle was up there,wrestling with one of the deck crew. Two of the others were still on Christopher.
He rolled, and as he did so he roared and lashed out with one of his own fists, but connected with nothing but air. Fwit! Brenna had fired again. Someone col lapsed to the timbers.
In the seconds of newfound freedom, Christopher pushed himself up and managed to stand. A wave of dizziness passed through him, and he was just now aware of the soreness from the blows to his body. The situation didn’t look any better than he felt.
Two men dragged a kicking and screaming Marigween back toward the cog. They were already halfway there.
Doyle was locked in a hand-to-shoulder grip with a seaman about his size. They were too evenly matched and it seemed they’d stay that way forever.
Brenna had shot two of the crew, who lay on the wharf, moaning and gripping the bolts in their bodies. She’d caught one in the lower left torso, the other in the right bicep. But she would not fire again. Her bow lay on the wharf at her feet, apparently having been knocked away by another of the crew. The seaman laughed as he shoved her backward, then closed the gap and backhanded her cheek. She tried to get a bolt from her quiver, but the seaman used one of his beefy paws to slap Br
enna’s hand away.
Seaver, who’d probably been gloating for a second, darted behind Brenna and snatched a bolt from her quiver.
Christopher looked to Marigween. She would not escape from the sailors who held her.
He looked to Seaver. Was the Saxon going to use the bolt in his hand on Brenna?
Seaver directed the tip of the bolt toward him. “Look over there, Kimball,” he said in Celt, then gestured with the bolt.
Christopher jerked his head a few inches. He had already seen what Seaver wanted him to: Marigween being taken away. But he looked to the mother of his son anyway, and the horror was suddenly fresher, more intense, maddening.
“We’ve got her,” the former scout went on, “and I know she means something to you.”
“What have you done with our child?” His sudden rage had let the question escape. He silently cursed him self for it.
“Go after her, Christopher!” Doyle shouted.
“Yes, Christopher, go!” Brenna yelled, adding her voice to Doyle’s.
“Your child …” it took a second for the fact to register in the small man’s mind, and when it did, he grinned darkly. “She is your bride.” Seaver sang the word like it was part of some black religious song. “I almost let her go,” he added, visibly amazed over current events. “I felt sorry for her.” The short man actually began to foam a bit at the mouth, and he had to palm the bubbly spittle away. “Oh, to think about when you escaped. You stripped me of everything. And I was on my way to leave this cursed land, to leave my vengeance behind.” His gaze lifted to the clouds. “But now—I can’t believe it! -Woden has made justice possible.” His attention returned to Christopher as he hemmed. “There’s value in a woman’s life, eh, Christopher?”
With that he launched off, back toward the cog. He’d moved so quickly that Christopher was delayed a second in his pursuit. But that second turned into a moment more. He hadn’t realized it, but while Seaver had been talking, another of the deck crew must have slipped behind him. Now, as he turned, the man seized him by the shoulders and threw him forward toward the deck. He went down like a blind, helpless fool, listening to the shrieks of Marigween.
