by L. L. Muir
“You will come quietly.” The old man smiled. “And you will not speak to my soldiers, is that understood? I will not have that witch’s blood spewed into their ears. And I will be surprised if that scar on your face is the worst you will end with, my son.”
Gaspar’s heart jumped with joy. He’d agreed! But he’d agreed too quickly.
“One moment.” Gaspar still held his blade as if he might attack. “You will send Icarus with them.”
The old man grunted. “I have already pronounced sentence on the slave.”
“You will send Icarus with them.” He pointed his sword directly at his former employer and turned the blade meaningfully.
The patriarch shook his head, his face twisted with malice. “No. You must choose. The woman or the slave. You may not save them both.”
James grunted and stormed forward. None attempted to stop him as he pushed Icarus’s guard out of the way, then grabbed up the little man like a wayward child and stormed back toward the shore with Icarus tucked under his arm. None dared attack him from behind, and still might not have done so even if Gaspar hadn’t been ready to defend him. The big man did not stop until he’d marched onto the dock and deposited Icarus on the dark boat. James then turned and plucked the blade from the man threatening Isobelle and kicked him off the dock and into the water.
James barked at the woman to get aboard. To Gaspar’s surprise, she ignored the man and fled down the plank and ran to Gaspar’s side.
“I will not leave without ye.” Tears streamed down her angry face. She turned to the patriarch. “Ye’re a right bastard. Ye wear the devil’s gaudy robes and quickly condemn the rest of us.” She spat at the old man’s hem.
“Isobelle,” Gaspar growled. “Did I teach you nothing?”
“Oh, aye. Ye’re teachin’ me how to be a martyr. And a fine teacher ye are.”
James stomped down the plank. There was no question what he planned to do.
“Kiss me quickly, my love,” he said. “It is the only farewell you are likely to get.”
She noticed James too and grabbed Gaspar’s head. She nearly knocked out his teeth, so ferocious was her kiss, as if she were punishing him for sending her away.
“I love you,” he whispered against her lips, then suddenly those lips were gone.
She screamed in James’ arms, but she did not struggle, praise be. If she ran to him once more, he wasn’t certain he could let her go. Would he be able to stomach the killing of twelve young men who had served him well?
James placed her in the boat and gave the vessel a shove before hopping smoothly over the side and joining her. Her complaints ceased and the low rumble of the giant’s voice was the only thing to be heard.
Gaspar waited for the oars to hit the water before he intended to give up his weapon, but the big Scot must have been oblivious to the danger, for he seemed in no hurry to get underway. Did he not realize the patriarch could not be trusted? Had he not been paying attention? They’d even been speaking English!
“Seize him!”
Gaspar wrenched his attention away from the boat to find Jappot demanding his blade.
“Hold!” Isobelle’s command carried easily over the water and they all turned to find her standing in the center of the boat with her arms raised. “You will allow Gaspar to depart with us, or with Satan’s aid, I shall cause the patriarch to bleed from the palm of his hand!”
What could she possibly be thinking? She was no witch. Despite what James had said, there were no witches, or faeries. And it didn’t appear as though Isobelle held a weapon of any kind, let alone a crossbow.
“Release him!” Her voice was calm and confident, revealing none of the emotion she’d displayed a moment before. But her demand was so preposterous, he nearly laughed in spite of the breaking of his own heart.
The patriarch was not amused, however. No doubt he was furious that a witch was about to slip his grasp—and one who had just confessed. But the soldiers laughed. One by one, they looked back at the old man’s white gloves, then laughed again.
The patriarch lifted both hands to show her the flawless white palms.
“So be it.” Her words were punctuated with a small but sharp explosion.
The old man screamed and clutched his right wrist. Red blood seeped from the center of his glove. The two lines of soldiers broke into chaos.
James stood tall in the center of the boat and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Move yer arse!”
Gaspar was relieved to know that his legs were prepared to carry him quickly to the dock, as his mind was busy trying to understand what had just happened. He tried not to worry over the fact that he’d promised to surrender, especially since he was about to be reunited, for the moment at least, with the woman to whom he’d just bid a final farewell. He also tried not to worry about getting in a boat with a true witch, since he loved that witch with all his soul.
He ran to the end of the dock and leapt, hoping he could land in the boat half as smoothly as James had. But alas, he knocked Isobelle on her backside and sent Icarus flying as well. Luckily, he did not tumble out the far side.
Jappot was the only guard to pursue him and when he reached the end of the dock, he threw his pike with all his might, but it banged against the hull to little effect and splashed into the water. The rest of the guards seemed torn between watching the departing boat and helping a wounded patriarch. A few of them lifted a finger or two in a discreet wave.
After a bit of fumbling, Gaspar and James coordinated their efforts with the oars and applied them more efficiently to the water while Isobelle tended to Icarus’ damaged face.
Gaspar leaned toward the big man and confided, “I keep waiting for the next catastrophe. I cannot believe we are in a boat, together, escaping. And successfully.”
James laughed. “Enjoy the moment. We’re nay home yet.”
Gaspar looked at Isobelle. James was wrong; he was already home. But he could see how they might face a few dangers getting to wherever her brother was. However, with an impressive man like James in their company, he had high hopes.
Once they caught the current, James manned the rudder and Gaspar was finally able to take Isobelle into his arms.
“Isobelle, my sweet. You must tell me. Are you, indeed, a witch?”
Her eyes widened in fright.
“Surely you can tell me,” he said with a squeeze to her shoulders. “You can’t believe it would matter to me now.”
She pointed to James. Gaspar hadn’t realized the man was laughing, but when their eyes met, the big man released the rudder and applied himself to holding his bouncing stomach. After a moment, he pulled something from behind his back. It was small, shiny, and black. “This is a gun. It can shoot small bullets that can drill a hole through a man. If ye shoot him through certain body parts, it will kill him, of course.” He put the thing back. “Like a cannon. Only much smaller, aye?” He put a hand back on the rudder. “Hmm,” he muttered. “I doona suppose guns have been invented yet.”
Gaspar looked back at Isobelle.
“Doona be looking sidelong at me, Dragon. I only said what he told me to say.”
“Don’t worry,” James said cheerfully. “Where ye’re going, there will be many things more impressive than a gun.”
Gaspar tried not to worry what that meant for them. “I assume you’re taking us to her brother? This Monty?”
James shook his head and grinned. “Oh, nay. I’m taking ye to the Muir witches. They can get ye to Monty.” He looked out over the Laguna Vida and closed his eyes to the warmth of the morning sun. “Hopefully,” he muttered.
There was no time to ask what he’d meant, for Isobelle pulled his face to her and kissed him.
A short while later, they’d crossed the Laguna Vida and were headed toward the mainland. Gaspar no longer had to dig so deep with his oar. He let the Scot steer them as he fell into a rhythm and looked his fill at the woman who had awakened him from a long, deep sleep. She was the most shockingly bea
utiful woman he’d ever known, but now it had nothing to do with her hair, or those incredible lips. It didn’t matter where their boat was headed, as long as they were together.
Although he could not help but hold onto one worry.
He was God’s Dragon, slayer of witches, soon to be placed into the care of his former prey. The worry was, how far beyond the Republic of Venice had his reputation extended?
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
With Jappot and the patriarch noting their direction, the little party of four headed back to the island of Venice, which no doubt put both men at ease—an escaped prisoner running back toward his prison. But Gaspar and his companions bypassed the main harbor and continued on to the island of Murano. Once the patriarch sent word across Venice Island and The Republic, they would be hunted. But until that word spread, Gaspar held considerable power and intended to use it.
As they floated up to the quay his arms and back were knotted with fire by the time he stowed his misused oar. He supposed it was his penance to pay for all those years of allowing Icarus to do most of the rowing. He’d been concerned with appearances, even when he and the little man were on the island alone, and now he was sufficiently ashamed. While he and James had rowed, he’d tried to apologize to his servant and assured the man he would try his best to compensate him for the fact he could never return to his sister’s home, but Icarus laughed.
“My sister cannot be angry with me now, yes?” He raised his brows a number of times in succession. “And she treated me like the slave I am, Signore, when you never did.”
Gaspar pulled a folded parchment from his waist and handed it to the Greek. “I planned to leave this for you, but I could never think of where to put it, where you might know what it was.” He smiled. “Your freedom, Icarus. And a bit of gold as thanks. You may go where you wish, though I would go as far from Venice and the patriarch as possible.”
Icarus was unable to speak, but his ability to cry was impressive for such a quiet, usually stoic man.
The flag of Venice swayed happily in the morning sun as if trouble would never step upon the shores of the little island famous for its production of glass. Gaspar climbed out of the dark boat that seemed darker still sitting upon such bright blue water, and stretched into the skin of his former self. It was necessary, but abhorrent to him now, like pulling on filthy clothes after one had bathed. But he had to admit, it also felt like strapping on an impressive suit of armor.
James lifted the small and haggard chest that, thanks to a dangling strap, looked like a poor container for anything of value. No one would guess the amount of gold coins filling the bottom half. “I assume you have a plan,” the big Scot said, and handed the chest to Gaspar. He picked up Isobelle by the waist and sat her on the dock while Gaspar’s hands were occupied.
She squeaked in surprise, but did not fall. When she had her balance, she let go of the man’s hands and wrapped her colorful plaid tighter around her head and shoulders. Other than the locks hanging about her face, there was little of her red hair to be seen. It made Gaspar a little sad, but he was grateful she would draw less notice.
“You there!” A man stood in the middle of the dock and waved them forward.
Gaspar gestured for Isobelle to walk behind him. Icarus followed James. But as they approached the quay’s official, the man’s eyes lit, and Gaspar’s stomach tightened.
Had the patriarch spread the word the day before, as soon as he’d first left Isola del Silenzio?
“Signore Dragotti! Forgive me! I did not recognize the boat.” The official’s waving grew desperate. “Come! Come. Let me offer you a seat in the shade. My name is Spini. I am at your service.” He glanced briefly behind Gaspar while he bowed, then straightened, his expression showing none of the curiosity that was surely eating at him.
Gaspar’s painful shoulders dropped in relief. The man simply recognized him and wished to please him.
“I have urgent business,” he barked in his usual manner—usual until recently. “I need a fast ship. A small crew. And I need them within the hour. Can this be done?”
The man’s eyes bulged. “Si, Signore. Anything His Beatitude might need.” He ran off the dock to another man who stood shuffling papers and arguing with a ship’s captain. After a few gestures and even fewer words, the arguing ceased and the red-faced captain headed down the gangway.
Long painful fingers of dread started working their way into Gaspar’s stomach and he thought to shore up his courage with the sight of Isobelle. So he glanced over his shoulder, to give her a quick but private smile, only to find her tucked beneath the arm of the big Scotsman, the chest of gold sitting all but forgotten at the man’s feet. While Gaspar wished James could protect the woman without the need to touch her, he took some comfort in the fact that even James chose not to hold the heavy chest over long. He was no Hercules then. Nothing so godlike to easily steal away Isobelle’s attention.
She’s mine!
James sent him a wink as if he’d read at least one of his thoughts, and Gaspar faced forward just as the captain arrived. He recognized the man.
“Captain Ermacora,” he said in greeting before the man could speak.
“Signore Dragotti.” The captain offered a low bow. “I was just arguing with Spini and his brother over the fact that my ship is ready to depart with its glass for France, the tide will be leaving soon, but half of my crew is still in the city. Lying drunk between a woman’s—” Ermacora glanced over Gaspar’s shoulder and choked. “That is to say, they are the most slovenly of my men, and of little use. My error was in thinking one of the brothers could be spared to gather them up. But that hardly matters now.” He waved his hand as if to wave away everything he’d just said. “My ship and what men I have are at your disposal, Signore. I would be happy to act as captain, if you wish, and take you wherever the patriarch has ordered you. I have no fear allowing a woman aboard my ship as long as God’s Dragon is in attendance. The good luck of one will reverse the ill luck of the other, no?”
Gaspar watched the man closely, but there was no sign he thought much more than what came from his mouth. Ermacora’s greed was famous, but his loyalty to the church was unquestionable. He’d simply confirmed his own reputation.
“I appreciate your willingness to serve His Beatitude, Ermacora. Your leadership is appreciated. Let us make all haste.”
~ ~ ~
Each minute passed like her days in the tower while Isobelle waited for the ship to start moving. Every man who glanced Gaspar’s way added a weight to her stomach. Boats came and went, and more boats arrived at the quay. And any of them, from a distance, might have been carrying the patriarch’s men. Only there was no telling, without an eyeglass, until the boat grew close enough to see its occupants.
After a while, she couldn’t bear to watch any longer.
A few of Ermacora’s overdue men tried to climb aboard, but the theatrical captain pushed them back into the water as a lesson in punctuality. Eventually, the ship began moving and in her excitement, Isobelle glanced at Gaspar, hoping to share at least a silent bit of relief, perhaps even joy. But the handsome man was turned away, as he’d been each time she’d looked to him. In appearance at least, he’d turned back into the controlled, unapproachable man who had arrested her.
“Dinna worry so,” James whispered in her ear. “He has to wear the dragon mask for the now, aye? Dinna put words in his mouth, or guess his thoughts.” He chuckled. “But ye can take comfort in the fact he’s being eaten from the inside with jealousy, because I hold yer hand.”
She was ashamed by how much comfort the idea did give her. In fact, it brought a cheerful smile to her face, but she was careful to turn that smile on the waters, and not where anyone would see it. She’d kept her head down and her hair covered well, looking no one in the eye since they’d boarded. Ossian would not know her if he were standing right beside her, and not just because she was lighter an armful of hair. She was that changed. Her old self would have started frighteni
ng the sailors the moment she’d stepped on board.
~ ~ ~
The ship was a two-masted caravel that traveled much faster than the larger Spanish carrack, even when riding low in the water with a cargo of glass. There were only eight oars to each side, but there was much less ship to move. Another few minutes and they would near the Porto di Lido and leave the islands and lagoon behind.
The captain barked an order and suddenly the oars lifted from the water and hovered above it. Isobelle willed them to lower and resume their work, but her will had no effect. The ship slowed quickly while the captain descended the few steps from the upper deck. He strode directly to Gaspar and leaned close.
“Two lanchas approach, Signore…filled with the patriarch’s guards. I wonder…if you would prefer to wait for them. They seem most anxious to stop us. Perhaps they are hoping to be of assistance to you.” The Italian captain’s eyes watched Gaspar closely. “But if your business is too urgent to delay…”
The side of Gaspar’s jaw jumped, the man unable to sit quietly within the beast. And Ermacora saw it. But there was no time for chess moves. They were about to be boarded, and he couldn’t allow that, for it would mean Isobelle’s death. Capitulation was vital.
“You are quite right.” Gaspar gave a nod. “My business is too urgent. I shall have to manage without their assistance.”
The captain turned and shouted for the oarsmen to resume, and the wood blades dug back into the water like the claws of a single animal. Grasp, release. Grasp, release. And the ship moved.
Another man called out from the bow. After a warning look to Gaspar, Ermacora ordered the oars up again. “It seems the patriarch’s guards are well motivated, Signore. They move to block our escape, risking their very lives.”
Gaspar was tempted to look, but since there was still a chance those in the small boats did not yet know Gaspar and his party were aboard. However, if the caravel was searched…
