by Cory Barclay
Daxton stayed quiet for a moment, then shook his head. “Oh, yes,” he remembered. “I’ve brought the men here—the ones that want to join us.”
“And you vouch for them?”
Daxton grunted, which Rowaine took to mean yes.
“Very well,” she said. “Anything else?”
Daxton stared down at his hands. “Um, well, wouldn’t you like to see ‘em, captain? Say a few words?”
“I trust your judgment, Dax.”
“Right, right, but I’m sure they’d like to see you, Row. You’ll be leading them to sea for weeks, possibly months. You can’t blame them for being curious, wanting to see what they’re getting into.”
Rowaine groaned. “Fine. I’ll be down shortly.”
Daxton gave a curt nod and shuffled away, closing the door behind him.
The men were huddled together at the foot of the steps, awaiting their captain. Daxton stood in front of them. They were a ragtag bunch, some farmers, some working men, some barely men at all.
Daxton introduced each man to Rowaine, who forgot them almost immediately. She had too much on her mind.
She glanced over to the bar, where Dominic sat, alone as usual, staring at his mug of beer.
Meanwhile, Daxton rattled on. “This is Charlie.” The young man had shaggy orange hair and freckles that dotted his face like a plague.
Daxton put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Says he’s good with a rig and line.”
Without looking over, Rowaine commented, “We already have a capable rigger,” her eyes remaining fixed on Dominic. Daxton introduced another new crewman but the words floated by Rowaine like a leaf in the wind.
Suddenly she darted her eyes around the room. “Where is he?” she began.
“Didn’t you hear, Row? Er, captain?” Daxton said.
Rowaine looked at him. “Hear what?”
Daxton took Rowaine’s arm and led her away from the group of newcomers. When they’d rounded a corner, he leaned close to her. “While you were sealed away in your room these past few days, Coswell took off. Took about ten men with him. I think he was scared of your . . . retribution. Probably learned about your witch-hunt. That’s why I’ve brought all these new boys . . .”
“Adrian Coswell left?” Damn. I should have killed him while I had the chance. Next time I’ll listen to my advisors.
Daxton eyed the ground.
“What is it, Dax? Spit it out.” When Daxton stayed quiet, she rolled her eyes and said, “I promise I won’t strangle the messenger. This shyness is unbecoming of you, Dax.”
“Well . . .” he began. He cleared his throat. “Alfred Eckstein went with him.”
Rowaine cringed. “Our rigger?”
Daxton nodded.
“Why . . .” she began, but trailed off. The implication finally hit her. “That goddamn weasel,” she growled.
“That’s what I said. It’s why I looked so confused when I saw you interrogating Jerome. I assumed you knew.”
Rowaine shook her head. She’d been wrong. Alfred was the traitor, not Jerome.
That young, dumb fool. No . . . I’m the fool. The least talkative of my inner group, always observing, hardly speaking. I should have seen it.
“So, would you like to reintroduce yourself to the new guys?” Daxton asked.
“Like I said, Dax, I trust you. I have to speak with Dominic.”
She walked away quickly.
She sat next to Dominic at the bar, ordering herself a beer. She turned toward him. His fair, handsome face showed no emotion. She placed her hand on his shoulder. He flinched.
Quickly, she removed her hand and recoiled. “How are you holding up, Dom?” she asked softly.
“I’m sorry, Row.” For the first time in days, Dominic made eye contact. He looked exhausted, new wrinkles creasing the space between his eyes and temples.
Surprised, Rowaine leaned back. She hadn’t expected those words from him. “Sorry for what, Dom? Nothing you did was your fault.”
“I’m sorry for being so weak. I’m sorry for being such a degenerate. I’m . . . just sorry.” His eyes filled with tears.
Rowaine smiled. “It’s okay.” She turned to her beer and took a sip. Setting the mug down gently, she said, “Do you remember when I first found you?”
A hint of a smile appeared on Dominic’s face.
“You were just a pup, running errands for thieves. A mess, really, but oh how you’ve grown, Dominic.” She squeezed his shoulder softly. “I tried to take care of you, groom you. I never wanted to see you hurt again. If anything, I’ve failed you, Dom. I’m the one who should be sorry.”
Before she could continue, Dominic wrapped her in a tight embrace, snuggling his head against her bosom.
With an open mouth she hesitated, then put her arms around him. It was like coddling a child. After all he’d been through, it was no wonder he acted like one.
“I’ll make the people who hurt you pay,” Rowaine whispered.
“You already have, Row. There’s nothing more you can do.”
As the Lion’s Pride prepared to leave, Rowaine stood at the helm scanning the bustling docks for Mia. And there she was, in the center of the crowd, waving goodbye. It had taken Mia three days to forgive Rowaine for her misguided lashing-out. But last night, their final night in port, the two had spent the night together and all was forgiven.
Mia knew Rowaine didn’t mean to hurt her. The captain was simply used to getting what she wanted.
Rowaine knew she’d overstayed her welcome in Amsterdam. It was time to hit the sea with her crew. Everyone was rested and hungry for action. And now their sights were already set on one particular ship, a very sneaky one, but one that promised a good haul.
It was a clear day as the Pride floated away. Rowaine blew Mia a final kiss as the dock grew smaller and the rowing crew’s grunts grew louder.
Rowaine turned her attention to her shipmates. The ones who weren’t rowing stood at the ready, alert, prepared to bloom the sail once they hit the open water.
“We move fast, we move hard,” Rowaine ordered. “For those who don’t know me—I am Captain Rowaine Donnelly. There are traders in these waters who are begging to be taken. So we take them. Do we all agree, mates?”
The crew pumped their fists skyward, cheering their captain on.
With a grin on her face, Rowaine gripped the well-worn wood of the polished wheel with both hands.
I’m ready to lead.
Eyeing the horizon with the wind in her face, she radiated a level of confidence unlike anything she’d ever known.
It may have taken me twenty-four years to get here, but I was born for this.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SYBIL
Sybil watched Dieter praying on his knees, hands clasped together. He sat in the corner of the room, speaking inwardly, mouthing out his prayers with closed eyes.
She shook her head. He’s struck with fear, more than I’ve ever seen. Her tears had dried up. She’d wept for most of the first three days locked inside Gustav’s house. But now her tears were spent. She was dejected and faint. She worried she’d never see her son again. She’d lost all track of time, trapped in an empty room—four wooden walls, a cold floor, and a bucket.
The room smelled rank and fetid. They hadn’t bathed. They’d been given barely enough food to live, once or twice a day—she couldn’t really tell how often.
How quickly your senses betray you when they’re stifled and stripped away, she thought. Is it day or night? When have I eaten last?
She could only hope that Peter and Martin fared better than she and Dieter.
“What are you praying for?” she asked Dieter, her voice cracking. She hadn’t spoken in hours; words were slow to come. Her tongue felt like leather stuck to the roof of her mouth.
“Or should I say, who are you praying for, Dieter?”
Dieter opened his eyes and turned to his wife. “I’m hoping God will forgive me. I was foolish to think I could escape
my past . . . the things I’ve done.” He looked away. “But I don’t know if He’s listening anymore.”
“Are you listening to yourself?” Sybil said, more severely than she’d intended.
Dieter tilted his head. “Pardon?”
“Before I first met with Johannes von Bergheim, I remember my father telling me to stop being so selfish and thinking only of myself. He told me to think of my family—of the greater good that would go with marrying a man like him.”
Dieter narrowed his eyes, confused.
“Perhaps you should heed his advice,” Sybil said, her voice rising. “We may never see our child again, Dieter, and you can only think of God?”
She knew her anger was displaced, but it was all she could do to stop herself from dry heaving or becoming hysterical.
Dieter’s pained brows creased the corners of his eyes. “I’m—I’m sorry. You’re right, of course, my dear. It’s just that this . . . helplessness is crippling.”
He’s right about that. This fear is worse than death. She leaned back against the smooth wall. “I’d say this madness is more painful than any physical torture.”
“Indeed,” Dieter said, thinking how he’d been physically tortured before, in a room not too different from the one here. “But we will see our child again, my dear. And Martin. I promise.”
Sybil scoffed. “You know how I hate that word. Don’t guarantee promises you can’t keep.” She’d made her own promise like that over two years back, to her younger brother, and she hadn’t seen Hugo since. She’d never forgiven herself for that.
But at the moment she had more pressing concerns. Where will this man take us? How will we get there? How can I see my child again?
As the hours passed, their feelings of utter helplessness intensified.
The click of the door awakened her. She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep. Gustav appeared in the doorway.
“You two are proving to be much more of a problem than I’d anticipated,” he said.
Sybil heard voices behind him. Rushed. Urgent. One she recognized as Hedda’s.
“The boats aren’t ready,” she heard Hedda say, though she remained out of sight. “But we don’t have much time here, Gustav.”
Gustav replied under his breath, then faced Dieter and Sybil with a scowl.
“What’s going on?” Dieter asked.
Gustav stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “Your friends are causing a ruckus, priest. That’s what’s going on.” He sighed. “They’ve been at our door for nearly two days, refusing to go to work or home, until you are released.”
“Who?” Dieter asked.
Gustav threw up his hands. “God only knows. The farmers, priest. Your friends! Nearly ten people outside. You two aren’t making this easy.”
“And will you let us go?” Dieter asked.
The man actually laughed at that, short and cruel. “Of course not. I merely have to hurry my plans. Though you might cost me my plants.” He frowned, looking wild and tense.
“Your plants?”
“I may not be able to bring them with us.”
“Poor man,” Dieter said.
“Where are you taking us?” Sybil asked.
Gustav ignored her, focusing instead on Dieter. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Burn in Hell, priest. I know you will once my father’s done with you.”
Dieter raised a brow. “You’re not man enough to deal with us yourself?”
Impatiently, Gustav huffed. “If only I could.” He reached into his tunic for his dark bottle. He swigged the liquid, then threw a thin leg-bone of dark meat into the room. It hit the floor with a thud. “Eat. We may be leaving soon.”
And then he was gone. Sybil heard the lock click into place. She crawled to the door, putting her ear against it. She felt like a young girl again, trying to eavesdrop on her father.
“. . . we’ll have a full peasant revolt on our hands before long,” she heard Hedda say. They must have been in the room next door—Sybil could hear them clearly.
“Say one thing about those two—the farmers love them,” Hedda continued.
Sybil pictured Leon and Bella standing outside, he with a pitchfork, she holding her pregnant belly, demanding liberty. The image was almost funny if the situation weren’t so dire.
“And the harbor?” she heard Gustav ask.
“We aren’t ready yet . . .” Hedda’s voice trailed off as she likely walked into a different room.
Sybil turned to Dieter. He was eating small bites from the mystery meat. “You shouldn’t give them the satisfaction,” she said. “How do you know that’s not poisoned, too?”
“We must eat if we’re going to try and escape, my dear. Besides, we’d be dead already if he wanted it.”
“Escape?”
Dieter leaned forward. “For Peter. Do we have any other choice?”
The hours dragged on. Every so often they’d hear commotion beyond the walls, outside. Sybil recognized some of the voices: Leon, Grant, David. Dieter’s church helpers protesting their support.
“I wonder where Reeve Bailey is hiding during all this,” Sybil said.
Dieter started to respond, then his eyes shot to the opening door.
Gustav jumped into the room, knife drawn. “Up, both of you,” he ordered, waving the weapon in the air. He seemed agitated, eyes more crazed than usual.
Whatever concoction he’s drinking is clearly ravaging his brain.
Both prisoners stood as ordered, Gustav grabbing Sybil by the arm. She yelped.
Dieter started to lunge but stopped when Gustav’s knife pressed against his throat.
“None of that,” Gustav growled, eyes glistening. He tensed his jaw and gnashed his teeth. To Sybil, he looked to be a man possessed. And very frightening.
“Where are we going?” Sybil asked again, and again was ignored. Gustav yanked her out of the room. Dieter followed.
Once outside their room, the dark-haired soldier—musket drawn—stepped in behind Dieter and nudged him forward while Gustav pulled Sybil along. They were led to the back of the house, then out through the back door.
As the cool night air jolted their senses, Sybil and Dieter anticipated a throng of friends to appear in the night. But all they heard were the lonely sounds of crickets chirping.
Where are all our friends and supporters? Did they forget to surround the whole house?
Despite the chill, the change was invigorating after spending countless hours in that stifling room.
Dieter repeated Sybil’s earlier question: “Where are you taking us, Gustav?”
“Shut your mouth,” Gustav whispered, spittle flying out. Though it may have seemed trivial at the moment, for some reason it bothered Sybil even more that Gustav only responded to the man of the family.
They made their way over fields. No one spoke.
Finally, they came to a carriage hidden in the darkness, two black horses snorting at their arrival.
They were forced inside, the fair-haired soldier driving. They circled the perimeter of Gustav’s estate to avoid any lingering protesters. And as they passed by Gustav’s plants, Sybil could make out several tents and campfires surrounding the house.
She grumbled. By the time they realize the house is empty, it’ll be far too late.
As they plodded along in the darkness, Sybil recognized the terrain. Instead of traveling away from the Norfolk countryside, they were heading deeper into the fields.
Before long, they came to Dieter and Sybil’s house, and then Dieter’s white church, shining like a lighthouse atop a seaward island.
Gustav stopped the carriage at the church. He snapped his fingers at the guard. “Do you have it?”
The soldier handed Gustav a bucket and a wooden stick.
“What are we doing here?” Dieter asked.
Gustav smiled. The moon streaked through the carriage window, basking half his face in a savage way. “Something I’ve wanted to do since I arrived here.” He stepped o
ut of the carriage.
Dieter started to follow but was halted by the muzzle of the soldier’s musket.
Minutes later, tears poured down Dieter’s face as his church went up in flames. The carriage rolled off.
Through the carriage window Dieter watched the orange-white flames and thick black smoke billow into the sky.
His beacon of hope reduced to a doorway to Hell.
Sybil also watched, transfixed, as the rafters and roof tiles crumbled into smoldering gray ash.
The last thing to fall, like a blasphemous reminder, was the white cross that Dieter had jubilantly erected just days earlier.
As it toppled and collapsed into the flames, so too did the hopes and dreams of a proud and honest man.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HUGO
Hugo stumbled to the side, unbalanced, nearly falling over. His ears rang as he set his feet and gritted his teeth. Tomas stood in front of him, sword comfortably poised—like he’d done this all his life.
Hugo had wanted to learn swordcraft. And for the last week that’s what he’d been doing. Tomas Reiner was his teacher—a harsh critic. But everyday Hugo learned more and he could tell his efforts were paying off. Muscles in his hands and arms that he hadn’t known existed no longer ached each morning.
Hugo rushed at Tomas, sword gripped in both hands. He yelled and sliced down at his teacher. Tomas made an odd flick of his wrist and Hugo’s sword flew from his grip, clanging to the ground.
They used real steel.
When Hugo had asked why they weren’t training with wooden swords, Tomas’ response was curt: “You won’t learn anything if your biggest punishment for failure is a tap on the wrist. No one you find in the real world will be using wooden swords, so we won’t either. I’m not here to teach you a romantic fantasy, Hugo. Swords are bloody and cruel and deadly. Killing is ugly. And defending yourself from being killed equally so.”
And Hugo had the new scars to prove that. He’d already suffered cuts on his arms and legs, though he considered himself lucky that that was all the punishment he’d received. Tomas could have done much worse.
