Beloved Warrior

by Patricia Potter

  Concentrate. Remember the lessons learned so many years ago. Remember the stars, the navigation tools. A hundred lives depended on those lessons.

  Hours later, he felt the rhythm of the ship change. A surge in speed. He put the charts back down and went topside. The sun’s last glow was diffused behind clouds of crimson and gold. A treacherous beauty, like the woman below. He’d hoped for stars, not clouds. He might be able to navigate by the former.

  Diego was at the wheel, looking relaxed there. Patrick suspected that many things came easy to him. His speech, his knowledge of language, his quick understanding of what needed to be done, told Patrick that Diego was no ordinary oarsman.

  “Senor,” Diego said, “the wind seems to be quickening.”

  Patrick agreed. The sea seemed rougher as well. The last thing he needed now was to confront a storm with an inexperienced crew. As much as he wanted to sail as far away as possible from the Spanish coast, they had to trim sails and strike the topsails. The sailing lessons would begin now.

  He sent a man after Felix. He might as well learn now how well his makeshift crew took orders.

  To his surprise, Felix appeared almost immediately with a group of men behind him. He and one other man nodded when Patrick asked if they knew how to trim sails. Felix and the men followed Patrick’s instructions as they practiced.

  Not quickly, not even competently. But they got it done. Patrick gave the wheel to the Spaniard, who had appeared back on deck and climbed up in the rigging to secure the sheets, hoping those below were watching and learning.

  When Patrick returned to the deck, he was met by Felix.

  “We did well, me and my mates,” Felix boasted, his pride at his status clear on his face.

  Patrick nodded. “Aye,” he said. “You did, but we will have to work faster. A storm is brewing. Teach as many as you can to handle the sails.”

  Felix paused, shifted from one foot to another. “I . . . well, should not have . . . questioned . . .”

  “You had every right. You are a free man now.”

  “You really meant that we can go anywhere we want when we reach Scotland?”

  “Aye,” he said. “I will do my best to help.”

  Felix nodded, accepting the words. Again, Patrick hoped he could fulfill the promises he made. Let there be a family left. A clan left. Ships. The Sofia rolled to the leeward side, and he took the wheel. “Get some rest,” he ordered Diego.

  Diego gave him a hard stare. “What about you?”

  “After you.”

  “We need you awake,” Diego said.

  “I want to get home,” Patrick said simply.

  “I heard about Flodden Field,” the Spaniard said. “What if there is nothing there now? What about the promises?”

  “My family has an uncanny way of surviving. The men, anyway,” Patrick replied dryly. “I meant it when I said I would help every man who helps me.” Then he went on the offensive. “You said you had not sailed before. You have.”

  “Have I?” Diego asked, raising one eyebrow.

  “Aye, no one could take the wheel as you did without having done it before.”

  “A small smuggling bark,” Diego said. “A coastal vessel. Nothing like this. And I wanted to see how good you were,” he added without apology.

  “You were a smuggler?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Navigation?”

  Diego shook his head. “We followed the coastline.”

  “Is that why you were sent here? Smuggling?”

  Diego shrugged without answering.

  Patrick was not going to pry. He had his own regrets. He asked only because he had to know what skills were available to him.

  “Do you really believe we can make Scotland without detection?” Diego asked.

  “Did you really think we could escape those chains?” Patrick asked in return.

  “You are saying nothing is impossible.”

  “Aye, I have to believe it.”

  “How much sailing did you do?” Diego asked.

  “Two years, and that was more than ten years ago.”

  “As a captain?”

  “Nay. Not even a mate. I was there to learn. My father owned several ships. He thought all of us should learn about the ships and trading. I was a reluctant student.”

  “But you learn well, I think. I thought you made a mistake with Felix earlier, but he is surprising me.”

  “He’s a troublemaker,” Patrick said. “But he will now fight to keep his authority and to prove he should have had it earlier.”

  Diego shook his head. “I wouldn’t have taken that chance.” He paused, then said, “You said us earlier.”

  “Aye, I have two brothers.”

  “Will they agree to your grand plan to help a ship full of mutineers?”

  “I am the heir. My father is laird, contrary as the devil, but he will honor the word of his son.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “More than eight years ago. I spent one year fighting with the French before being taken by the Spanish.”

  “They say many Scots died a year ago on the border.”

  “My father would have been too old to go and in too poor of health. One of my brothers wanted to go into the church, and the other captained one of the ships. He hated Inverleith.”

  “Inverleith,” repeated Diego. “It has a fine sound to it.”

  Patrick didn’t reply. Inverleith was a fine place if not for the feud with the Campbells and the bloody curse that had haunted generation after generation.

  He adjusted the wheel slightly to make the most of the wind. The Spaniard lingered, and Patrick understood. He wanted to be sure, or as sure as possible, that going to Scotland was a good choice.

  Diego glanced down at the linen bandage around Patrick’s waist. “Someone made a pretty bandage.” There was a question in the statement, though not a direct one.

  “The Spanish woman sewed the wound.”

  “And the cloth?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Her chemise.”

  The question persisted in the Spaniard’s eyes.

  “She and her maid are unharmed.”

  “You are more courageous than I. I do not believe I would allow her around me with a needle.”

  “I was prepared this time.”

  Diego’s eyes hardened. “If they live . . .”

  “I know. Everyone on the ship will have a price on his head.”

  “The older one . . . she is muy bella.”

  “She is a Mendoza,” Patrick replied.

  “Si, but she looks more English than Spanish.”

  Now that Diego mentioned it, Patrick had to agree. The light hair, the blue eyes and pale skin—all spoke of England.

  Even if she were part English, it would change nothing.

  She was a danger to every man on this ship. So was the wisp of a lass with her.

  He had lived with that every moment since he discovered them. What rotten, bloody luck. There shouldn’t have been passengers. Not on a slave ship. What had been so bloody important about this marriage?

  The Earl of Chadwick’s son. The heir apparent.

  He tried to remember if he’d heard the name mentioned before. Something tickled in the back of his mind. Chadwick.

  “Have you eaten anything?” Diego asked.

  Patrick welcomed the interruption. He didn’t want to think of the fearful women in the cabin below. He didn’t like the fact that he had probably deepened that fear even more.

  “Nay.”

  “I will have someone bring something. There is bread, better than what we had, even some fruit.”

  “Fruit?” Holy Father, but how long it had been since he’d last had fruit. He had feared losing his teeth to scurvy.

  Diego’s lips turned into a tight smile, or as close to one as Patrick had seen. “Fruit,” he repeated.

  “Aye, bring me some.” He paused, then added, “Have Manuel take some food to the women. He’s th
e least threatening.”

  “Si,” Diego replied.

  “Then get some sleep. Take the first mate’s cabin. I will send someone for you when I tire.”

  Diego raised an eyebrow. “That should not be long.”

  “You haven’t had any more rest than I have.”

  “I am not sure of that. I saw that exchange between you and Manuel. How long had you planned this?”

  “He mentioned a few weeks ago he might be able to get the key from the blacksmith. Then he was able to steal a few drops of a sleeping potion from the physician.”

  “He paid a price for it,” Diego said softly, and Patrick realized he, too, had been aware of Manuel’s life.

  Patrick only nodded. He suspected Manuel had to pretend, had to fool the doctor into believing him harmless.

  Diego left, and Patrick concentrated on the wheel. Felix and the other two oarsmen who said they’d been sailors moved around him, showing others how to work the sails and tie knots. Others were washing blood from the decks.

  He stood, his feet braced against the deck, once more relishing the feel of the wind. He hadn’t felt it in too many years. Even the clouds gathering above couldn’t dampen the pure exultation of being his own man again.

  But something about the Spaniard nagged at him. He gave very little away, and Patrick realized he had extracted more information from Patrick than he had given.

  Was he an ally or merely biding his time to see how events went?

  Exactly how much seamanship did Diego really have?

  Even worse, he really didn’t get a sense of what the Spaniard wanted to do about the women.

  But then he didn’t know what to do with them, either.

  The image of the two women deviled him again.

  Later. He would worry about that later.

  WHEN the door to her cabin opened again, Juliana’s heart jumped. She and Carmita exchanged glances.

  Hours had gone by, and Juliana decided to pass the time by teaching Carmita a few English words. Juliana feared that if something happened to her, Carmita would be helpless.

  She despised the fear that bubbled inside her, the remembrance of the hard, cold eyes of the leader.

  But instead of el diablo, the boy named Manuel entered, his hands carrying plates of food and a pitcher.

  “Capitán Maclean said to bring this to you.”

  “Capitán Maclean?” She could not stifle the mockery.

  The lad glared at her, put the tray of food down and turned to go.

  “Wait,” she said, knowing she’d made a mistake.

  The boy hesitated.

  “You were not an oarsman?” she exclaimed.

  The boy ignored her.

  “Do not go,” she implored, hating the sound of begging in her voice, but she desperately needed information.

  He turned, his eyes going to Carmita.

  Juliana didn’t like that expression, as if he knew something they should know, but didn’t.

  “Thank you for bringing the food and drink,” she said softly.

  He simply ducked his head in recognition.

  “Please stay,” she pleaded.

  “I have other duties,” he said stiffly.

  “And I am a Mendoza,” she said softly.

  “Si, senorita.”

  “You were an oarsman?” she asked again.

  “I am too small,” he said. “I had other duties.”

  “I have not seen you much since I came aboard,” she tried again. “Before the . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  The boy gave her a joyless smile that tore at her heart. “You did not go below,” he said. “You did not go into hell.”

  And he left.

  Chapter 10

  YOU did not go into hell. The hopelessness of the words echoed in the small cabin as the boy closed the door.

  She was a Mendoza. She was beginning to realize the complete misery on which her family had built its fortune, a fortune that now depended on a marriage that would never take place.

  No wonder the oarsmen hated her and, because of her, innocent Carmita.

  To think that once she believed the arranged marriage was the worst that could befall her!

  Juliana looked at the food, her appetite gone.

  “You do not wish to eat, senorita?” Carmita asked. “It has been more than a day since you last ate.”

  A day. In little less than twenty-four hours, her life had again changed dramatically.

  Did the mutineers know how to sail the ship? Would it shatter on rocks, or would they sail until all aboard died of thirst? Would she and Carmita die far sooner? Or would they suffer an even worse fate at the hands of desperate men?

  Juliana sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to think. Carmita would not eat unless she did. Perhaps an ordinary activity like eating would calm the young girl.

  “You sit as well,” she instructed Carmita. “You must eat with me.”

  “I cannot, senorita,” Carmita said in a horrified voice.

  “We are here together,” Juliana said. “We must both be strong if we are to survive.” The boy had brought them a jug of wine as well as cheese, fruit and bread that had not yet acquired mold. It had acquired some bugs.

  Juliana pushed aside the bread and took a piece of cheese. She nibbled on a small piece while thinking about what could be done. There was always a chance that when they did not arrive on schedule, the Earl of Chadwick would alert outgoing ships to look for the Sofia.

  “What will they do to us?” the girl asked, as if reading her mind.

  “If they meant harm they would already have done it,” she tried to assure her young companion.

  “The tall man frightens me,” Carmita said.

  “El diablo,” Juliana whispered. He had frightened her, too, although he had protected her when the ship was first taken. He had killed her uncle without any regret.

  “The Spaniard . . . he did not seem too . . . fierce,” Carmita ventured hopefully.

  Juliana wished she could agree. Despite his indifferent courtesy, she sensed the same barely restrained violence in him as she saw in the fearsome Scot. There was something about the Spaniard’s control that frightened her even more than the Scot.

  And could anyone really control the crew? There were many barrels of fine wine aboard as cargo, along with a cheap wine for the crew. She shuddered. She and Carmita were the only two living witnesses aboard a ship full of drunken mutineers.

  THE wind increased through the late afternoon. By evening they were caught by a gale. The ship rose and fell as the untrained sailors tried to strike the topsails and raise the storm jib.

  Controlling the ship was becoming more and more difficult. Diego returned to the helm and took over. “Do you know how to handle the sheets?”

  “Aye, I used to,” Patrick replied.

  “I know this sea and its weather,” he said. “I smuggled wine from France and lace from Spain.” He paused, then added with a slight smile, “French wine is far better than that Spanish swill. Apparently, the English are just as uncivilized in their tastes if they are buying from Spain.”

  Just a bit more information than Diego had offered earlier. Patrick knew enough about trading to agree, but he was far more interested in the fact that Diego probably knew these waters better than he did.

  A blast of wind hit the sails and the ship listed before Diego was able to right it.

  Patrick looked upward. Bulbous clouds sped across the heavens, eclipsing the stars. A squall of rain struck several furlongs off the bow, and they were running toward it.

  He felt the first drops of rain, then the water came down in torrents. One sail tore partly loose and flapped in the wind.

  He had to tie it down before they lost it. That meant climbing the mast.

  He’d hated climbing into the crow’s nest when he served aboard one of his father’s ships. It was the first time he’d been terrified. But he had to do it to prove to the rest of the crew that he was not just the owner’s
son.

  It had been calm that day.

  Now the ship tossed violently, lurching from one side to the other as the sails swung out of control. He could well be flung into the sea.

  He started climbing, never looking down. He clung to the rope, ducking once as the sail swung against the mast, nearly toppling him. He continued to climb.

  Rain and wind whipped at him. The ship heeled to port. He hugged the mast with both arms to keep from falling.

  He didn’t know what time it was, but the sky was dark. The rain fell cold and hard, but he was far too used to deprivation to let it deter him.

  He forced himself to climb again. He made the mistake of looking down. Felix was staring up at him. Diego was looking directly ahead, his body braced against the wind and his arms straining to keep the ship running before the wind.

  He grabbed for one of the sheets that fluttered in the wind.

  Missed.

  Try again. One hand held the rope ladder. He reached out for the sheet with the other. He caught it, but it ripped away.

  Another gust of wind sent the ship heeling to starboard, and the sail began to tear. That would doom them all. They needed every sail to get to Scotland.

  Scotland.

  He reached out again. This time he grabbed the sheet and started to pull it in. Every inch took more strength than he thought he had. Finally he’d pulled it to the mast and tied it down. Then he leaned against the mast.

  Don’t look down.

  God’s blood but he was tired.

  And frozen. The rain mixed with the frothy sea whipped at him. His feet felt wooden.

  Step by step he descended. His feet finally hit the deck. Even rolling as the ship was, the deck felt like a gift from the gods.

  The relief did not last long. He worked with the others to complete the trimming of the sails as the ship seemed more like a wooden toy batted back and forth.

  When they finished with the sails, Patrick told the crew to tie lifelines to everyone on the top deck. They had been at sea during storms before, but previously they’d been anchored by their chains. None had ever walked a sopping deck with towering waves washing over them.

  Fear was evident in their faces.

  The wind howled. Lightning pierced the water not far ahead, and thunder roared like volleys of cannon. Then lightning hit the foremast and seemed to trail fire to the deck. One of the crew went down. Patrick ran over to him. He was dead. He lifted the body and took it inside. Unlike the bloody Spaniards, he deserved a proper burial at sea.