by L. L. Muir
Her dragon held her close until the big Scot cleared his throat. “Here now. Shall we all rest a bit on the beach, and away with the tide? I must admit, my rowing muscles could use a bit of recovery time.”
“Indeed,” Gaspar said. “It will come in on the south of the island, and roll north. We can reach the channel with little effort.”
Isobelle did have one more question that could not wait to be asked.
“Tell me, whom did my brother marry?”
James was suddenly uncomfortable again, but she was not about to show him mercy. Who knew how long it might be before she was able to ask her brother anything?
The big man looked at Gaspar, then at the sea. Finally, he turned back. “It seems as though yer brother… uh, Monty…” He took a deep breath and rubbed his face. “Monty married the faery, lass.”
“The faery?” She and Gaspar said in unison.
She looked at her poor confused dragon and wondered if returning to Scotland with him might not be a good idea. Of course she did not fear he would change his views and begin executing witches, but she did worry all the talk of the wee folk, and selkies, and loch monsters might be too much of a strain on his mind.
“Well,” her dragon said with horribly false cheer, “I cannot wait to meet a real faery.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Gaspar woke to the cry of a gull. The eastern horizon was still blue, but a light blue. He hadn’t slept well, what with Isobelle in his arms and the big Scot snoring at their backs like a scornful chaperone who only pretended to sleep, snorting each time either of them shifted position. But considering how anxious he was to be away, he wouldn’t have slept well, James’ snoring notwithstanding. They’d already loaded their things in the boat, including Isobelle’s damp plaid, so there was little left to do but climb aboard. And it was high time they did.
If the patriarch thought to send his new executioner along early, he might think to send others as well.
Gaspar stood and stretched, then bent to wake Isobelle. But he paused at the rumble of oars being stowed. Many oars. He looked about the shore, but there were no boats other than James’. He turned, but saw nothing but the tower keep, his home for the last ten years. Another noise came from the west, but the west beach was empty. Cautiously, he moved to peek at the portion of the south beach blocked from sight by the tower.
Two lanchas rolled in with the tide, their bows sinking deep in the wet sand.
We should have left as soon as we had a boat!
A half dozen guards sporting black uniforms poured onto the shore from each bow. A figure in a long gold robe followed more slowly.
Gaspar ducked out of sight and hurried back to Isobelle and the Scot who were already on their feet.
“To the boat,” he hissed, then he snatched up his sword lying next to the blanket and unsheathed it quietly.
Isobelle turned and ran without question. The Scot pulled his giant’s sword free and took a stance. Gaspar was simply grateful they’d thought to load the boat before bedding down. Isobelle would want for nothing, even if she never made it back to her brother’s side.
“You two, go! I will hold them off for as long as I can!”
James gave him a funny look. “Dinna be daft. You go.” He then turned a smile to the dozen church guards pouring from both sides of the tower. They seemed a bit surprised to find their quarry outside waiting for them. But they stopped and created a line, then stood at the ready to charge. One man’s attention remained on the side of the tower.
Recognizing every man facing him, Gaspar spoke quickly.
“Contrary to what the patriarch will tell you, this woman is no witch. I would rather die here today than allow her to be harmed.”
“You are bewitched,” snarled Jappot, a guard he never cared for due to his fondness for tormenting prisoners. “We have come to save you from her, Dragotti.”
Gaspar smirked. “No, Jappot. You’ve come to help the patriarch save his pride. He was wrong about her, and he cannot admit it. He is only a man in the end.”
The guards shifted uncomfortably, but none eased his stance.
A flash of gold. The old man had finally appeared around the side of the tower and came forward with a sneer.
“I suspected as much,” he said as he neared, stumbling over sand and patches of grass. “It was a bit too convenient for a Scottish warrior to be lurking so close to your slave’s quarters. And an experienced executioner at that.” He pulled the cell key from his pocket, the string bouncing in the breeze, and threw it at Gaspar’s feet with disgust. “The little Greek will die for his lies.”
The patriarch turned and looked back as yet another soldier brought Icarus forward. The man had been ill-used. Black blood adhered to his face. His hands were tied behind him. The guard forced him to his knees ten feet from the beach on which the rest of them stood. Not close enough to be protected.
Gaspar shrugged. “Your soldiers know the truth, Your Beatitude. They know you have come only to save your pride.”
The patriarch’s jaw jumped, but he did not look at his men. Perhaps he did not care to know what he might see. His sneer dropped away abruptly and his brow bunched with concern.
“I have come to rescue you, Gaspar. You are like a son to me. How can I leave you in the clutches of a woman God has clearly marked as a witch? I will not leave you to her. Not you. My son.” He placed his hands together in prayer, and shook them forward and back, as if pleaded to God. “I would see her cleansed from your blood.”
Isobelle screamed. The Scot moved to shield Gaspar so he could look behind them to the dock. A guard, dripping with water, stood at Isobelle’s back with a blade across her throat. Her death was but a nod away.
Gaspar stepped around the Scot and faced his former confessor. “Release her.”
The patriarch raised his brows in all innocence. “One day soon, you will forget her and return to my service. But only if the witch is burned from this world. Then, her curse must be purged from you, my son. By fire as well, if we cannot think of another way.”
Gaspar shook his head furiously. “You promised she would not burn. You, who would eschew baring false witness.” He turned to face the line of men to his left. “You see? He is only a man, a man who is jealous of a beautiful woman.”
The old man snarled. “You see how she has infected his blood? How else shall I cleanse you, Gaspar, if not with fire?” He looked to the dock. “Bring her!”
“No!” Gaspar had no leverage. He had nothing the old man wanted. He could threaten nothing the old man held dear. And if they fought, Isobelle would be harmed first. “Wait! You want to cleanse me? You want me to one day return to your service?”
The old man raised his chin, but said nothing.
“Then I will surrender myself to you. I will go willingly, if you allow the Scot to take the woman and go.”
The gold-gowned devil narrowed his eyes and considered. No one moved. Gaspar couldn’t understand how he’d held the patriarch in such high regard all those years. Had he truly considered himself unworthy to wash the other man’s feet? Impossible!
“Come, now.” Gaspar spoke loud enough for all to hear. “If what you said is true, if you have not lied, then I am the one you have come to save. So cleanse me. With fire if you must. If you believe you can save me as surely as I believed I could save her, then do so. But first, you will let the woman go back where she belongs. Far from here. Far from you. Far…from me.”
His voice broke at the last. He should have known the dream he’d been spinning in his mind for more than a day was too wonderful to be truly realized. Isobelle had forgiven him too quickly. Now God was demanding a true accounting. But at least, if there was one good deed he could do in this life, he would see the woman go free. And Icarus too!
“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 beautiful 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 o
nto 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.
