by L. L. Muir
“Aye, I do. Over, and over, and over again.”
Taking any gold in their pockets would weigh them down and drown them if they had to swim from the island. But since Isobelle didn’t want Gaspar to leave her often in order to sustain them, wherever they decided to go, she thought they should take a little something along. And that thought led to another, which led them to test the large bench in the water, to see if it might float with both of them and a little bit of coin as well.
It did not. The water seeping between the planks was the problem. So they tried wrapping her Ross plaid around the bench. The wool was woven so closely, it was a great improvement. They assumed the worst, that it would not hold indefinitely, but they decided it was worth the risk. After all, if the odd boat began to sink, they could let the coins go and rely on their ability to swim, a talent Isobelle assured him she possessed when she was not hampered by skirts.
They decided to wait for the tide, which was due to hit the island on the south side in the early morning, and thus push them north, toward the mainland. If they were not pulled onto a boat, they could hope the plaid would hold until they reached the distant shore.
By the time the sun set in the west, they were exhausted. They bathed in the drinking water they’d be leaving behind, dressed for their journey, then ate their suppers on a blanket on the beach. If they slept indoors, they might sleep past the tide, especially with as weary as they were.
Isobelle sat facing the water with Gaspar at her back trying to work a brush through her clean but wet hair. Though the water glowed a lovely pink from the dying sunset, her attention was not on the water, but on a small black speck that appeared and disappeared behind distant waves.
“Do ye see that black bit, on the horizon?” She leaned to the side and pointed.
Gaspar peered over her shoulder and chills bubbled up her spine and spread to the back of her ears. She never wished to be farther away from him than she was at that moment.
“Yes. I see it,” he said. “It is a boat.” He tossed the brush on the blanket and hurried to his feet. “I’ll get a torch. Hopefully, they’ll see it. We may get off the island without getting wet!”
Isobelle strained to keep the black bit in sight as if her concentration might prevent its disappearing. She was pleased when it was still visible when Gaspar reappeared with the burning brand. He carefully waved the fire over his head in a wide arc and she shielded her eyes so the light wouldn’t blind her from seeing the boat.
Then the little spot stopped disappearing behind waves. It remained steady, though it no longer moved to the side.
“It’s coming,” Gaspar said. But there was no celebration in his voice. And he’d stopped waving the torch.
“Are you disappointed we will no longer be alone?” she said with a laugh.
He shook his head, unsmiling. “No, my love. I worry who is coming to our door.”
Chapter Thirty
“Perhaps it is Icarus?” Isobelle tried to sound more hopeful than she felt.
“It is no boat of mine.”
The dark spot grew into a wide bottomed boat, a smaller rendition of a Viking’s vessel with one oar working at each side. She’d seen a dozen of the same once the carrack had entered the Mediterranean with Ossian and her on board, though she’d never seen one so sparsely manned. This one appeared to be empty if not for those oars dipping into the water over and over again.
A shiver ran through her. “I see no one,” she whispered. She was frightened. Someone should have hailed by now.
Gaspar came to stand beside her and wrapped his free hand around hers, but he offered no assistance as the boat neared his dock. Suddenly, the oars were tucked in and a great beast rose up and lunged out of the center of the vessel, landing smoothly and silently on the wooden planks. It stood on its hind legs and pulled the boat close, then wrapped a single rope around one of the dragon heads carved on the top of a pylon.
Not a beast, but a beast of a man covered in fine furs despite the warm climate. He would have stood head and shoulders, and more, above the guards who had walked those planks earlier that day.
A healthy mane of hair draped from his head in disarray, not unlike her own. When his boots crunched onto the sand, he drew a long-sword as easily as he would an eating knife. He stopped ten feet away and rested the sword on his protected right shoulder. Then he grinned.
Gaspar tensed.
Isobelle could not resist grinning back. He seemed a cheerful sort. Nothing like the sober party that visited that morning. Surely not the enemy.
“Gaspar Dragotti?” the man asked.
Gaspar hesitated for so long that Isobelle wondered if he would lie.
“I am,” he finally said.
“I wondered,” the man said in English, “since the lass there was supposed to be well and goodly secured in a tower, aye?”
A Scotsman?
Gaspar pulled her behind him and braced his legs apart. “Who are you?”
The man offered a little bow, not taking his eyes off Gaspar. “The newly appointed executioner…of The Patriarch of Venice.”
Isobelle’s head began to shake and she noted Gaspar’s head was doing the same.
“We were promised five days,” he said. “We will have our five days.” The last sounded like a threat to Isobelle. By the look on the big man’s face, he’d heard the same.
“Weel,” his brogue was thick but strange, “perhaps the patriarch decided ye couldna be trusted to be here when he returned.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the bench wrapped in plaid, just beyond the reach of the waves. “Or perhaps it was me own suspicion. I’ve heard tell that Isobelle Ross canna be trusted to stay anywhere for long. And I thought I should come quickly, before she got away.” He took no step forward, but seemed content to stand where he was and visit a while, as if the heavy sword weighed nothing at all. “Icarus was kind enough to give me directions. Though I very nearly missed ye.” His grin broadened. “I do thank ye for the signal, aye?”
Gaspar’s head was shaking again. “Did my servant give you her name?”
The beast lowered the tip of his sword to the side and started forward. Gaspar lunged for the torch, then returned to stand before her.
“Easy, now, mate. My name is James. I’ve been sent by Montgomery Ross to collect his Isobelle and take her home again.”
“Monty?” Her hand flew to her breast. The sound of her brother’s name was like a gift of sweet heather. “My Monty?”
“His Isobelle?” Gaspar’s voice sounded coarse, as if he’d swallowed a bit of sand.
“His sister,” James clarified, grinning. “I take it ye’re less than anxious to be rid of her, then? Ye’ve not taken her from her tower just to put the torch to her?”
Gaspar’s shoulders relaxed, as did his grip on her fingers. But she felt better only after she wrapped herself around his arm and held tight.
“No. Er, yes,” Gaspar said. “I am fond of her. Did you ask if I was fond of her?”
James laughed. “I suppose I did, in a way. Ye canna guess how relieved I am I doona have to kill ye in order to save her. I’ll not meddle with history. Killing a man meddles with history something fierce, as ye can imagine.”
Gaspar laughed. “I do not understand what you mean, in truth. But I assure you, I am equally relieved I have no need to kill you in order to save her. Your progeny be damned.”
James laughed again, obviously amused by the notion of anyone besting him. Gaspar laughed again, but warily. She remembered Monty and his friends laughing and posturing in much the same way, and she was overcome with hunger for any news of home. “Tell me, James. Is my brother well?”
The giant man considered the ground for a moment and she worried he had bad news to share. She clutched Gaspar’s arm tighter still, but he shrugged her off and wrapped his arm around her shoulder instead. In his other hand, the torch flagged, but she suspected he wouldn’t lower it so long as James held his sword.
James finally face
d her again.
“Weel, first, let me tell ye that Monty is fine. He’s a happy mon, but for his worry over ye. The fact that Ewan is laird now doesna mean there is anything wrong with yer brother. It is just, he has...moved away, ye might say.”
“So we can join him?” Her heart soared. “But what of my sister, Morna? Do ye ken anything of her?”
“Oh, aye. I’ve heard plenty of her and her husband. Happily married. Expecting a bairn, I believe. As is Monty’s wife, or so the witches tell me.”
Gaspar tensed. Isobelle shook her head and patted his chest. “I’m certain they are only Muir witches, my love. The ones I told you about.”
Gaspar didn’t seem to take any comfort in that fact, but she was more worried for her sister at the moment. “But Morna. How can she be happy with her husband? I warned her to stay away from him.”
James nodded vigorously. “Oh, aye. The Curse of Clan Ross. ‘Tis over. Of course, they willna be telling the tourists the prophecy was fulfilled, but—”
“Prophecy?” Gaspar’s head began shaking again.
Isobelle hardly dared ask, knowing the man at her side would not take the question well. But Gaspar’s comfort would have to wait.
“Do you know, James? The faery, did it come?”
James gave her a wink, then a slight nod. “All tales yer brother and sister are anxious to tell ye.”
“But what of Ivar?”
Gaspar tensed again. “Ivar?”
“Easy mon. He’s marrit to Morna, Isobelle’s sister.”
Isobelle jumped and wrapped her arms around Gaspar’s neck. No news could have made her happier. She could stand to wait a wee while for other details. The important thing was that Morna and Ivar had been reunited. All her suffering had not been for naught. And if she hadn’t suffered as she had, been chased out of a town or two, she might never have met Gaspar.
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 giant pulled his 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 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 bounced in the breeze a few times before he 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 pleading 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 b
earing 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 poison 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.
