Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion

by Glynnis Campbell

  “Go down to the docks, abuela,” Red-hair continued. “Ask for the Corona Negra. Sombra will be aboard.”

  Duncan mumbled his thanks and shuffled toward the door of the alehouse while the Spaniards speculated on the outcome of the joke.

  “He’ll dump her into the sea directly,” Black-beard guessed, “the toothless old crone.”

  “Wait,” Red-hair said. “Toothless? She is toothless?” He hacked out a dry laugh. “Eh, maybe Sombra does have employment for her after all.”

  Duncan imagined the crude gesture accompanying that remark. Ignoring them, he surreptitiously pressed a silver coin into the palm of the destitute old man by the fire as he passed, then made his way out of The Pike’s Head.

  “You think the wool merchant’s on the Corona Negra?” Robert whispered to Duncan.

  Holden and Garth followed Robert’s gaze toward the huge ship listing menacingly at the moonlit dock.

  “Aye,” Duncan replied stonily. But he didn’t want to think about what had become of her there. If Sombra had touched one hair on her head… He ground his teeth as rage and fear threatened to break the thread of his calm. Whatever had happened to Linet, it was his fault. He shouldn’t have let her out of his sight for a moment. Not for a moment.

  His only hope was that Sombra recognized her value, that the whoremonger wouldn’t pass up the chance to turn a profit on such a prize by…damaging her.

  From his vantage point high on the hill, Duncan could see the Corona Negra etched in shadows against the dark sea. Its furled sails exposed three masts that pointed upward like the skeletal remains of giant fingers. He shivered as the cold mist penetrated his worn garments. Then, taking a deep breath, he stepped forward.

  Holden caught him by the shoulder. “You’re not going aboard.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Duncan tensed his jaw. “You know what that bastard’s capable of.”

  Holden compressed his lips into a grim line and nodded. “Sombra is my unfinished business, Duncan, not yours.”

  “Listen, you two,” Robert hissed. “Your father will have my head if I let either of you board El Gallo’s ship.” He straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. “I’ll go.”

  Garth whipped his head around. “Nay! Absolutely not, Robert. I can understand their language best. I should be the one to—”

  Holden grabbed Garth by the front of his jerkin. “Don’t even think of it, little brother.”

  Robert shook his head. “Impossible, Garth. Your mother would have my head if I let you—”

  Duncan seized Robert by the front of his cloak and spoke under his breath. “You won’t breathe a word of this to our mother, Robert, or I’ll break every bone in your body! In fact,” he added, releasing Robert, “I’ll have your oaths, all of you. None of this will pass your lips. Do you understand?”

  Holden cursed softly, but gave his assent.

  Garth nodded solemnly.

  Robert reluctantly agreed. “All right, but I’m not letting any of you board that reiver’s vessel.”

  Garth sighed. “Robert, be reasonable. You couldn’t—”

  “Wait.” Duncan looked at his trio of determined cohorts. There was only one way to end their dispute. No one could ask for more loyal companions. But this was his fight. He alone was to blame. He alone would enter the dragon’s lair.

  “Perhaps Garth should go,” Duncan said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “After all, he is the best swordsman.”

  “Don’t be absurd!” Holden cried.

  “What! The best…” Robert choked. “Garth couldn’t slice the end off a roast joint!”

  “Are you insulting me?” Garth asked incredulously. “I believe you’re insulting me! And who managed to unhorse you at the last tournament melée?”

  “Sheer luck! By the time you’d come round with a blade—”

  “I had come to your rescue,” Holden informed Robert. “You were fighting like a woman…”

  Duncan stole off, leaving them to argue. He knew full well he was the only man for the task. By the light of the moon, he made his way swiftly down the lane toward the Corona Negra, toward his maiden in distress.

  Slipping aboard the Corona Negra was easy for Duncan by the shadow of night. His cloak enwrapped him like a dark cloud. As a precautionary guise, he’d obscured one eye with a makeshift patch cut from his boot, but he doubted any of the reivers would cross his path. Most of the ship’s crew were still deep in their cups at the alehouses lining the harbor.

  The watchman at the main mast took him completely by surprise. Duncan almost stepped on the man’s shadow before he noticed him. His heart leaped into his throat and he stopped in his tracks. Fortunately, the man hadn’t let his duties as the watch prevent him from imbibing as freely as his more lucky companions. As Duncan stood frozen in silence, the reiver knocked back a jack of ale in several long gulps and let out a hearty belch.

  Duncan stepped carefully backward over the warped wood planking as the watchman grumbled about his sudden shortage of liquor. Then Duncan’s cloak caught on a grappling hook, rending the quiet of the night with a loud rip.

  “Eh!” the watchman grunted, whipping around.

  It was too late to run. Duncan let loose with a string of the foulest Spanish words he knew and began grappling drunkenly with the snagged garment as if it were the devil himself. The watchman visibly relaxed, chuckling at the obvious misfortune of one of his fellow reivers, and Duncan tore the cloth free.

  “Tonto!” the watchman guffawed.

  Duncan couldn’t have agreed more. He was a fool. But now wasn’t the time to discuss it. “Bastardo,” he muttered back, spitting at the watchman’s feet. Then he stumbled off in the direction of the hold.

  She had to be there. Sombra wouldn’t risk carrying his precious cargo in view of the crew. But he had one chance in two of choosing the right compartment of the hold. Eyeing the twin hatches, he whispered a hasty prayer, then hauled open the one on the left.

  The grateful wool merchant was nowhere to be seen.

  Instead, Duncan stumbled onto a lively game of dice. Three drunken Spaniards crowded around an oak barrel, fingering piles of silver coins. He cursed under his breath. Mumbling an apology, he tried to extricate himself, but it was too late. They’d spotted a mark.

  “Eh, we need a fourth, right, Cristoforo?” one of them asked.

  “Si. Come in, come in. Your first voyage with El Gallo, no?” He winked at the first.

  Duncan grunted.

  “Then you are a virgin, no? We break you in right. Slow. Gentle.” He smiled. Two of his teeth were missing. “Come sit here,” he beckoned. “Antonio, pour our one-eyed friend a drink.”

  He had no choice. He had to join them. He only prayed they’d tire of the game quickly.

  That prayer went unanswered. A full hour passed before any of the players so much as yawned. Then he heard the creaking of the winches outside. The sails were being unfurled. The ship’s undulations began to grow more pronounced. With dawning horror, he realized the Corona Negra was casting off to sea.

  Linet jerked awake. Dear God, it was night! She must have fallen asleep at her work. The Guild would give her such a tongue-lashing…

  She tried to stretch. But her arms and legs were tightly bound. Fear suffocated her for a moment, and she fought for air. Then by sheer will, she forced herself to take several calming breaths. She was all right. Musty cloth filled her mouth, but she could breathe through her nose.

  Suddenly she remembered—her ruined goods, the Spanish gentleman, Harold’s collapse, the guards’ attack, an explosion of bright stars. Then this…prison. Her head swam dizzily as her surroundings rocked gently. Her eyes widened as she realized where she was.

  A ship’s hold.

  A scraping sound came from the darkest corner of the shadowy confines—rats come to torment her, no doubt. Squinting hard, she peered in the direction of the noise and was startled to see the gleam of two human eyes staring at her. They blinked in a
gitation as if to convey some urgent message. Harold, she realized. It was her servant, bound and gagged, but thankfully alive.

  Gradually her eyes grew accustomed to the feeble light, and through obscuring shadows she could discern some of the hold. She wiggled half-numb fingers and tried to adjust to a more comfortable position against the stack of wool-wrapped parcels. Several wooden chests were crammed against one wall, and an oak barrel sat near her head.

  By the vessel’s subtle movements, it hadn’t yet set sail. But how long before it did? she wondered with rising anxiety. Sweet Mary, she’d done it this time. She was trussed up like a fly for a spider, captured by God-knew-who for God-knew-what purpose. And her servant was just as helpless as she. For the first time, she had to admit she might have gotten herself into more trouble than she could handle alone.

  And she was indeed alone. Her father was dead. The servants at home weren’t expecting her for another fortnight. The guildsmen saw her leave in the company of gentlemen. No one would even miss her. No one except…the beggar.

  Some guardian he’d turned out to be, she thought waspishly. He hadn’t kept her safe for a single day. Unless…unless that had been his intent.

  But of course! She felt like a fool. The beggar was part of it. He had sent the Spaniards after her. He probably worked for the Spanish gentleman. They’d planned it from the beginning.

  The scrape of a boot sounded overhead. Men’s voices wafted down, muffled at first by the wooden planks of the deck. Then the hatch door abruptly lifted. Moonlight streamed in like bolts of the sheerest silk. Linet pressed her eyes shut, pretending sleep. It took all her willpower not to open them when she heard the squeak of the wood ladder as a man descended into the hold.

  He shouted to the men above in Spanish. Then he said something she could translate easily, for she’d heard it so many times.

  They were casting off.

  He climbed up again, and the hatch fell closed with a grim finality. Linet began grappling wholeheartedly with her bonds, a scream building in her throat. Harold cast pitying glances her way. He’d no doubt already spent hours in that fruitless pursuit.

  Moments later, covered with beads of sweat and rope burns from her struggles, she felt the ship jerk free from the dock. She looked over at Harold in dread. As the vessel rocked slowly out to sea like a grand old lady, Linet alternately prayed for and cursed the beggar who might, or might not, be their salvation.

  At the foot of the docks, Garth closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross. Holden cursed. Robert stared in open-mouthed wonder, for once at a loss for words.

  They watched in silence, helpless, as the Corona Negra carried off Duncan de Ware as inexorably as a shark with a seal in its belly.

  “I knew I should have gone,” Holden snarled, clenching his fists in frustration.

  “What will we do now?” Garth asked.

  “There’s only one thing to do,” Robert said, sighing. “Lie like the devil.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, I know the word is foreign to you, Garth, but there’s no other way. Your mother and father will worry themselves ill if they discover the truth.”

  “He’s right, Garth,” Holden said. “This is our fault. It’s up to us to follow him, to get Duncan out of this mess.”

  Garth looked decidedly uncomfortable. “So we’ll lie? What will we tell them? That we’re all going off on pilgrimage?”

  “We’re not all going off anywhere,” Robert replied. “You and Holden will tell them that Duncan and I escorted the wool merchant home.”

  “You’re not following him alone,” Holden decreed. “It’s too dangerous.”

  Robert clapped him on the shoulder. “I’d far rather die at the hands of sea reivers than face your father’s wrath for losing all three heirs to his title.”

  Holden’s lips thinned, but he had to agree.

  “There’s a ship bound for Spain in the morning,” Robert said. “I plan to be aboard her.”

  “How do you know El Gallo is going to Spain?” Garth asked.

  “I don’t,” he said with a shrug. “It’s a risk I’ll have to take.”

  “I don’t like this,” Holden sulked.

  Robert nodded. “I know.”

  Holden clasped him by the elbow.

  There was a moment of silence. Then Robert flashed his biggest grin. “You just can’t abide someone else getting all the glory, can you, Holden?”

  CHAPTER 6

  Linet blinked against the brilliant flood of light as the hatch creaked open. It was day. They must have sailed all night.

  “So you are among the living, eh?” someone said. The accent was thick and nasal.

  She glared toward the intruder as fiercely as she could.

  The man laughed. “Ah, you are full of fire, doncella, thinking to burn me through with those pretty eyes!”

  She tried to show neither trepidation nor revulsion as the man descended to the bottom rung. He was oily and rumpled, his velvet surcoat too fine to have been acquired honestly. His hair was flattened to a nondescript shade from lack of washing, his eyes sunken from too many years of heavy drink.

  He suddenly dropped down beside her. She gagged at the stench of onions on his breath. He ran one grimy finger beneath the rope across her shoulder.

  “It would appear one of our men may have a future as a weaver, eh, wool merchant?” he said, chuckling at the maze of ropes around her. “But we are far from harbor now. There is no reason to keep you trussed up. You would not be so foolish as to fight while I hold a knife, eh?”

  He drew forth a nasty-looking jeweled dagger, no doubt pilfered from a nobleman. Her breath caught in her throat, but she managed not to flinch as the man sawed at the ropes, his blade a hair’s breadth from her skin. When her arms and legs were free, she stretched them out slowly, wincing in new pain as the blood coursed through them.

  “Sombra wishes to see you now,” the Spaniard informed her, helping her to her feet with one bony paw.

  Sombra! She knew that name. But then who didn’t? Sombra, the scourge of the seas, the flesh peddler from Spain. But it was rumored he was dead. Dear God, was it not true? Was she in the clutches of that demon? Shaking off the dizzying thought, she forced herself to straighten, summoning up the strength to confront her captor.

  Perhaps she could reason with the man. Sombra had been a noble once. Perhaps she could use her merchant’s wits to bargain for her life. She’d faced far worse, after all. She had faced El Gallo and triumphed.

  Flicking aside the man’s hand, she reached behind her head to untie her gag.

  “He wishes to see you,” the shipman sneered, “but I am not so certain he wishes to hear you.”

  As soon as the gag was off, she nodded to Harold. “What about my servant?”

  “Ah, shark bait?” he snickered. “Perhaps you should be more concerned with your own destiny, doncella.”

  Linet stiffened. The Spaniard waved his dagger before her. The jewels winked ominously, but she refused to recoil from the friendly threat.

  “I would advise,” he confided in a loud whisper, “that you do not ask Sombra such a question, or you may learn the answer sooner than you wish.”

  The Spaniard hauled her up the steps to the deck. She was momentarily blinded by the sun as she poked her head out of the hold. But the cool, salty breeze was refreshing, and she drank it in eagerly.

  Suddenly, black leather boots stepped into her field of vision, boots that looked to be Cordovan. Her gaze traveled upward. Black hose, surcoat, sleeves, girdle—the fine raiment hung upon a painfully thin frame she instantly recognized.

  “Don Ferdinand.”

  “Sombra,” he said with a curt nod, “if you please.”

  Linet felt sick to her stomach. Sombra. Don Ferdinand was Sombra. The nobleman in whom she’d blindly placed her trust was one of the most savage villains to scour the seas.

  Of course she could see it now, now that she had the benefit of hindsight. He looked gaunt in the
harsh light of day. His face bore the signs of a life of debauchery. Dark circles haunted his narrowly spaced, beady eyes, eyes that fixed on her with predatory intensity. Tiny scars crisscrossed his face like badly tangled threads on a loom. There was a cruel twist to his thin lips today, an unnerving precision in the cut of his beard and the lank, inky hair that clung to the sides of his head. He looked, she thought with a shudder, as sleek and unruffled as a raven.

  “How lovely to see you again,” he said, his accent butchering the words.

  She parted her parched lips to deliver a caustic retort, but the words stuck fast in her throat. Behind Sombra, like a whale sneaking up on an eel, loomed another familiar figure. El Gallo. This must be his ship.

  “What have you to say now, my thieving little merchant?”

  Linet’s heart hammered away at her ribs. But it would do no good to let them see her fear. Men didn’t respect you unless you spoke to them as equals. Despite her fluttering pulse, she stepped brazenly out onto the deck before them and burst out with the first thing that popped into her head.

  “You’re going to a lot of trouble over a few barrels of Spanish vinegar.”

  “What!” El Gallo exploded.

  Sombra’s nostrils flared once. He held up his hand to calm El Gallo. “She is mine,” he hissed.

  Linet had hit her mark. El Gallo boiled with anger over the reminder of his lost wine.

  “Leave her to me,” Sombra said.

  El Gallo muttered something foul under his breath but followed Sombra’s advice, disappearing into his quarters.

  Sombra forced his features into a semblance of nonchalance. “Grapes always grow back, doncella,” he assured Linet silkily, gaining control, his lips curving into a disingenuous smile. “Flesh, however…” He let the sentence dangle before her like an executioner’s axe. He seemed almost disappointed when she displayed no fear of him.

  She hid it well. She was terrified. It was only pure will that kept her knees from giving out and her face unperturbed. She’d been so confident at the docks, facing El Gallo with her royal letters of marque rippling proudly in the English wind.