by Cathy MacRae
“How many?” the captain demanded.
“I saw ten, though two made their escape,” Carys replied.
“Wyn tells me he and yer brother each killed a man, yet only two got away? Who killed the rest?”
Carys pulled her cowl back. “I did, Captain.”
“St. Finnian’s holy cock! A woman?” Ferguson’s eyebrows leapt skyward in disbelief. His shock turned to humor as he broke into laughter. Dewr danced around him on the dock barking, enjoying his mirth.
Carys scanned the crew for their reaction. Most seemed bemused while two grew stormy, their hands fisting.
“There shouldnae be a woman aboard,” one growled, obviously displeased by her deception.
“Bad luck?” bellowed Ferguson. “The way I see it, the two females aboard saved the lot of ye and yer sorry male arses. Wyn here says he was takin’ a wee nap. If neither of these two lassies had been here, I’d have arrived this morn to a stack of corpses foulin’ the dock, including my son’s, and the Seabhag and her cargo long gone.”
“Any sailor worth ’is salt knows ’tis bad luck to have a woman on board,” the man insisted, arms crossed over his broad chest, a scowl twisting his features.
The captain strode to within a hand’s width of the sailor who lost some of his bluster in the face of Ferguson’s intimidating presence.
“Well, now. I see yer mam raised ye to be ungrateful as well as disrespectful. Ye’re released from service. Get yer gear and get the hell off me boat. I dinnae need ye.”
The sailor shot a murderous glare at Carys then fetched a canvas tote from under one of the benches. He stalked off the boat and spit toward it once he reached dock.
Ferguson chuckled at the man’s impotent gesture. “Any other fools who dinnae wish to sail with these two lovelies, ’tis the time tae say so. I’ll nae have dissention aboard me ship.”
The other man who’d glared at Carys when she dropped her cowl retrieved his gear and disembarked without a word.
“I’m sorry I lost ye two oarsmen, Captain,” Carys said.
Ferguson grunted and waved away her apology. “Bah. ’Tis better to know the quality of the men aboard me ship afore we sail any farther. Besides, I found six others tae join us. Just leave yer hood off so they can see ye plain when they arrive.”
Hywel bumped her with a shoulder. “I told ye, Sister. Once Ferguson learned of yer character and skills he’d be daft tae throw us off.”
She managed a smile and nod. Mayhap they’d make it to Scotland after all.
Once the sun had fully risen, the new crewmen arrived while the rest of the crew unloaded the cargo the captain had sold. Ferguson pointed her out before the men boarded. Each man glanced her way and either shrugged or simply boarded. It appeared they didn’t have the same beliefs as the men who feared superstition and had forsaken the safety of a well-defended ship.
CHAPTER FOUR
MacLean Castle
Birk slammed his fist on the table. His mug skittered on the boards. The men facing him jolted at the sound.
“This is not acceptable.”
Dugan bowed his head. Birk knew his captain was not to blame, but the loss of a ship—the second in as many months—was not to be borne. Surging to his feet, he paced the length of the single table. Late in the evening, only a few servants lingered in the hall. A sleepy lad struggling to stay awake to tend his laird’s needs covered his yawn behind his fist. Birk stomped past him. Dugan and the six other soldiers leaned wearily over their mugs, the failure to rescue the crew from the most recent attack weighing as heavily as the exhaustion from the frantic three-day hunt.
Birk pivoted on his heel. “Is this somehow tied to Colin Dubh?”
Dugan shook his head. “Nae. He seems to limit his raids to crofts—anything on land. The pirates appear to be a different force.”
“What ships are due here in the next sennight?”
Dugan consulted a smudged parchment on the table before him. “The Alacrity—”
Birk waved a hand dismissively. “She’s too well armed. Even should they come upon her unawares, the pirates willnae stand a chance against her.”
“Agreed. But I would still suggest sending an armed ship to escort her through the strait. A show of force would make the pirates think twice about challenging us.”
“See to it,” Birk snapped, his ire still smoldering. “Anything else?”
“She’s not one of ours, but a friend—the Seabhag is overdue her usual visit. They could be late for a number of reasons, not the least is the war between Edward and Wales.”
“My reports say Dafydd has succeeded his brother as prince.” Birk halted, sending Dugan a piercing look. “I wouldnae care to have a brother who played both sides of the crown.”
“’Tis said Llywelyn’s head still resides on the gate at the Tower of London,” one of the soldiers offered. “Dafydd stirred up more than his share of trouble for his brother over the years.”
“I heard he is on the run from Edward,” another added.
“Longshanks has a far reach,” Dugan grumbled. “There is no place he willnae search to rid himself of the man.” He shook his head. “God have mercy on his soul.”
“The devil will be taking Dafydd’s soul,” a soldier replied.
“Dafydd’s soul may be up for grabs, but ’tis not our problem,” Birk growled. “With our ships moving all over the world, they are clearly a target for pirates. This is our issue, not the troubles of the Welsh.”
“I will set a watch for our ships,” Dugan sighed, the strain on his face evident.
“And we will see what can be done about Colin Dubh,” Birk added, disdain for the outlaw’s actions twisting his lips into a scowl. “I willnae tolerate abuse of my people. He can either turn his hand to an honest trade or take himself across our borders. If he attacks again, he will forfeit his life.”
* * *
Aboard the Seabhag
Off the Isle of Mull
“The bloody bastards are still gainin’ on us,” Ferguson shouted over the wind and the splash of ten oars slicing into the ocean in unison, propelling the Seabhag forward as if the hounds of hell were on their heels.
They weren’t the hounds of hell, but pirates, the second band they’d encountered on their journey. The langskip closing on them had sixteen oars with plenty of hands to row, and a ferocious dragon mounted onto its prow. After their first encounter with the sea devils, Carys had prepared a dozen fire arrows, wrapping them in hemp twine an inch or so from the head then soaking them in a mixture of lamp oil and pitch. The lamp oil allowed the arrows to ignite quickly and the pitch made certain they continued to burn.
The raiders had drawn close enough this time to count heads. Close enough to shoot.
“Now, Captain,” Carys shouted as the ship’s bow crashed into another wave.
“Go!” he ordered.
Carys leaped from the bench and grabbed their bows while Rabbie left Tully on the starboard side bench to take Hywel’s place at the oar they’d abandoned on the larboard side. Carys sprinted aft, Dewr on her heels and Hywel right behind, her soft-soled boots slipping a bit on the water-slick deck. They each clutched a handful of prepared arrows and made for the lamp Ferguson kept near the rudder.
The captain glanced over his shoulder. “May the good Lord be with ye both, as we’ve met our match. We cannae outrun them, and they outnumber us by a dozen or more.”
Hywel tossed the captain a reckless smile. “Ach, dinnae fash, Captain. Me wee sister and I will have this riffraff off yer stern in nae time a’tall,” he said mimicking Ferguson’s brogue.
“Aim high for the rigging,” Carys instructed, ignoring her brother’s rash banter.
If they could catch the sail afire near the top where it attached to the main spar, the pirates would either have to let it burn or lower the sail to extinguish the flames. Either would be enough to allow the Seabhag to escape as they would be faster with both sail and oar than the other craft under oar only.
Nocking an arrow, Carys lit it with Ferguson’s lamp. Drawing back on the bowstring, the burning portion resting just beyond her archer’s bracer, she drew a breath, took aim, and released her shaft. The arrow buried itself in the main spar high above the ship, contacting wood, rope and sail. Carys waited breathless until smoke appeared.
The pirate crew ignored her shot, pulling harder on their oars as flames leapt above their heads. Carys fumed. If they did not slow the marauders down, there would not be enough time for her fire arrow to do its work.
“Hywel, the helmsman!” she shouted.
Hywel drew his bow and fired, striking the helmsman in the chest. The impact caused the man to push the rudder starboard, sending their craft larboard and away from the Seabhag. As another man took the dead man’s place, Carys noticed a familiar cask at their stern.
She whipped her head around. “Do all captains keep their whisky close at hand as ye do?” she demanded.
The red-headed Scot tilted his head and frowned. “Aye, all I know do—tae keep the vermin from drinkin’ it dry.”
She turned to her brother. “Hywel, hand me a bodkin and shoot the helmsman again.”
A crooked smile settled on his mouth as he drew a plain arrow and another for her. “What are ye about, Sister?”
She returned his smile, knowing he and the rest would enjoy her plan if successful. “The helmsman, if you please, my lord.”
Hywel dispatched another helmsman. Carys drew her bow in the same instant. Allowing for the predictable lurch of their craft, she waited for the next man to right the ship then released her arrow. The long and narrow point on the bodkin was designed to slip through English chainmail, piercing the gambeson and flesh beneath. She needed this one to punch a hole through the oak cask resting at their stern. The arrow struck, though she couldn’t tell if it had penetrated the small wooden tun.
Hywel had taken to picking off oarsmen in an effort to slow them down. The smoke from Carys’s fire arrow billowed and flames crackled, fed by the gusting wind.
Carys lit another fire arrow. “The helm once more, Hywel.”
The helmsman staggered backward, an arrow in his gut, giving Carys the opening she needed. Following the flight of her fiery missile, she thrust her hands in the air in triumph when the flaming arrow struck the cask next to the bodkin. The spilled whisky ignited, engulfing the stern in flames.
“Aye!” the crew shouted as the fire drove the pirates to abandon their oars to put out the growing inferno.
“Saint Peter, will ’ave his hands full dealing with these poxy rats in nae time,” Ferguson bellowed as they gained distance from the burning ship. “Take a wee break, ye’ve earned it. Double rations for all once we make land.”
A cry of victory rang out as the Seabhag’s crew raised their oars from the sea and took a much-needed rest.
Carys looped an arm around her brother, a broad grin across her face.
Hywel matched her grin. “That was inspired, Sister. What made ye think of such a thing?”
She shrugged. “Our captain keeps his whisky aft as a stool and to make sure nae a drop is drawn without his permission. It seemed logical others would do the same.” She tossed her brother a wicked grin. “And it burns a nice blue flame.”
Carys stared at her handiwork. The enemy ship listed aftward as it sank, flames remaining on the water as the alcohol burned. Though land was visible to the east, she knew none would survive the frigid waters long enough to swim the distance. She searched her heart for guilt and found none. The words of the old crone echoed in her head.
Death follows ye like a hound.
She dismissed the morbid thought, knowing these men brought their demise upon themselves. Though she’d aided them to a watery grave, the path they’d chosen would meet a bloody end sooner than later.
She gazed at the heavens. “God, have pity on their souls,” she whispered.
“’Tis a terrible waste of good whisky if ye ask me,” Wyn quipped. He touched his forelock as he smiled at Carys. She dipped her head in acknowledgment, her smile returning, heady with the knowledge they’d again cheated death.
* * *
Birk grunted acknowledgement as an aide whispered in his ear. He dusted his grimy hands on his trousers and rose as his guest entered the walled garden, his full height towering over the sturdy Scotsman whose shock of red hair never ceased to amuse Birk.
“Captain Ferguson,” he exclaimed, a wide smile creasing his face. The captain matched his greeting and clasped Birk’s forearm in welcome. Birk gave him a clout to his shoulder, pained as always to find the man as solid as he appeared.
“Come inside. I’ll have someone fetch ye a mug of my best whisky.”
Captain Ferguson glanced about the garden area, a nod to the ladies present. “I dinnae expect to find a man of yer reputation planting flowers,” he commented. “Though I am not at all surprised to see ye in the company of such lovely ladies.”
“I will introduce ye to them if ye will swear to never discuss my reputation in their hearing,” Birk countered.
The captain inclined his head. “Yer secrets are safe with me, m’laird.”
“Might I present Ladies Abria and Eislyn, my daughters?” Birk settled a hand on Abria’s shoulder in gentle reassurance. She edged closer to her sister but did not shrug away from his touch. Eislyn sank into a pretty curtsy with only the faintest bobble. Birk’s eyebrows shot up.
Where had the lass learned that?
“’Tis my great pleasure,” Captain Ferguson assured them, sending an encouraging smile to the youngest lass. She responded with a wide-eyed blink but did not answer. He lifted his gaze to the three women waiting a step behind the girls. “I count myself fortunate to be in yer presence again, my dear Lady Hanna,” he said, a cocky grin on his face.
Hanna inclined her head, an answering smile playing about her lips.
“I believe you remember my daughters?” She indicated Gillian and Signy with a tilt of her head.
“Indeed, I do, for ’tis rare such beauty graces a single space, or that a man such as I is granted such a vision.”
He reached for Hanna’s hand and she supplied it, her smile broadening as he placed a brief kiss on her knuckles.
“Pretty manners for a ship’s captain,” she taunted lightly. “Yer compliments grow more fulsome with each passing year.”
“Years in which my lady doesnae age,” Ferguson vowed.
Hanna laughed. “I’ve known men with loftier titles who could learn from yer kindness,” she replied. She waved her hand at him and Birk in a shooing gesture. “Out of my garden. Be about yer manly business elsewhere. We will send refreshments. I will be happy for the time to relax and speak with my daughters.”
Birk shook his head at Ferguson and Hanna’s well-entrenched verbal parries and draped an arm over the shorter man’s shoulders.
“She fears we will trample her delicate flowers,” he quipped as he steered the captain toward the hall.
“Yer ma is a gracious lady,” the captain noted. “But not a woman I’d ever cross. She raised yer sisters well, and yer daughters are lucky to know her.” He halted beside a small table equipped with a couple of flagons, a set of mugs, and an assortment of bread and sliced cheeses. A nearby platter boasted only a few crumbs and a stain of what might have been berry juice. Birk grabbed a hunk of bread, nodding for Ferguson to do the same, and filled two mugs with cool ale. Collecting their items, they strolled down the broad, hard-packed path which led through the village to the dock.
“What has kept ye, my friend?” Birk asked. “We expected ye a month or more ago.”
Captain Ferguson heaved a great sigh and tilted his head. “’Tis been a hard haul,” he confessed. “Ye no doubt heard Edward has taken Wales.”
“Word has reached us of Prince Llywelyn’s brother’s duplicity,” Birk agreed. “And that the prince was betrayed by people of his own
tongue at Orewin Bridge. I would not wish to be Dafydd this day.”
Ferguson rubbed the back of his neck as though sensing danger. “Aye. I’ve heard Edward is hunting him for initiating the rebellion. Cannae say for certain why the prince backed him when the English clamored for his head. Dafydd is a right black sheep.” He scowled. “Edward’s war cost me a number of oarsmen.” He brightened. “Even in my haste to leave the Welsh port, I gained a couple of crew members who’ve been a boon. Poor souls, hoping to find a new home away from Edward’s reach. Let me tell ye about the pirates.”
Birk led the way to the wall above the portcullis. Though raised to be a merchant as his father and grandfather before, Birk’s veins ran thick with the blood of Vikings and Scottish warriors, and he chafed at being closed inside a chamber. Here, above the sprawling village of Morvern, a forest of ships’ masts bobbed in the distance, the screech of seagulls rising above the tramp of booted guards along the castle wall. It wasn’t battle, but it was better than the closure of a stone room.
The Alacrity is due to make port. Where is the search party? He squinted, sharpening the lines of the ships’ masts against the low-hanging clouds. No. He would know the Alacrity’s lines even at this distance. She remained absent.
“A woman, did ye say?” he asked Ferguson, the man’s excited chatter making its way through his thoughts. “Is it not bad luck to have a female aboard ship?”
The captain popped the last hunk of bread into his mouth and chewed. “Not this female. I’d thought of her as Hywel’s younger brother until she dispatched nearly a dozen rascals who tried to rob the ship our first night out.” He swallowed and his bushy eyebrows snatched together above his bulbous nose. “Damned watch had fallen asleep. If not for my dog and the lass’s quick actions . . ..”
Birk gave a slow nod. “Yer lad. Is he with ye this trip?”
“Aye.” Ferguson’s look grew bleak. “For all his faults, I love the lad. He’s a good ’un. I would have been fair mistraucht to lose him.”
