Cutthroat Crusades
The Plundered Chronicles, Book 4
Alex Westmore
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Map of Renaissance Europe
Cutthroat Crusades
“She’s what?” Quinn Callaghan roared into the face of Fitz, the poor pirate who had drawn the short straw to be the bearer of bad news. Really bad news.
The pirate stepped back a little. “Er . . . uh . . . well . . . Captain O’Malley is plannin’ on takin’ the Malendroke up the Thames fer a meetin’ with Queen Elizabeth.”
Quinn held her breath a moment to calm herself. “There has to be some mistake, Fitz. She’ll never make it. She knows that. The English will sink her before she gets a quarter of the way there. What in bloody hell is Grace thinking?”
Fitz kicked a rock into the fire. “She’s thinkin’ that that bastard governor arrested her son and is accusin’ him of treason. The line’s been drawn in the sand, and Grace is takin’ the fight to the bitch.”
Quinn’s mouth opened but nothing came out. Behind her, the fire crackled and spit, illuminating the darkness of the forest around them.
“I wouldn’t ha’ come botherin’ ya, Callaghan, but the captain needs ya. The crew needs ya. She’s not thinkin’ right and if ya don’t stop her, she might get the men kilt.”
“And you lost the draw.” Quinn motioned for Fitz to sit on the log lying in front of the fire. “Tell me everything.”
Fitz glanced around at the small campsite where the fire flickered in front of a lean-to. “Ya’d rather be here than on the decka the Mal, Callaghan?” He shook his head. “Never mind. Ya got yer reason, I ’spose. Anyhow, Captain’s been drinkin’, cussin’, and tossin’ men overboard ever since ya left. It’s been a long six months without ya, Callaghan. We’ve all suffered fer the loss of ya, but Captain O’Malley is heartsick thinkin’ yer dead.”
Quinn sat next to him on the log she’d felled and dragged over almost seven months ago.
Being dead wasn’t her only horrendous lie, and it was more than a simple masquerade. It was a six-year-long deceitful ruse she’d carried on for men who had become her family. However, like all lies, it had eventually chipped away at Quinn until she forgot who she really was. She had lost Quinn Gallagher when she transformed herself into Kieran Callaghan, and she’d suffered because of it. She had become more than just a pirate. She had become a killer of men, and that poisonous truth had slowly seeped into her until she could stand it no more.
So she’d returned to the forest and her childhood friend, Bronwen, a druid priestess, to heal what ailed her battered and bruised spirit. She came to find balance between who she had been, who she really was, and who she wanted to be.
And now, here was one of her closest shipmates imploring her to return to the pirate ship that had been her home for the past six years. Here she was staring into the eyes of a man who would have given his life for her . . . and for Grace O’Malley, Pirate Queen.
Pirate Queen.
A woman who had been her captain, her friend, her warrior queen, and everything in between. Even after she’d discovered Quinn was not a man, Grace had kept Quinn’s secret and treated her like she always had: as one of the crew.
As a man.
And now, Grace was headed for trouble. Big trouble. She was preparing to go right to the heart of Queen Elizabeth’s court, putting everyone Quinn had grown to love in jeopardy.
“It’s been a long six months for me as well, Fitz. Now, why don’t you start from the beginning and tell me what happened.”
Fitz stared into her eyes, a slow grin spreading across her face. “Ya been sorely missed, Callaghan. The ship just hasn’t been the same without ya.”
“I . . . ” Quinn shook her head. Now was not the time. “So tell me everything.”
Fitz cleared his throat. “After ya left, captain rode us hard—like she was takin’ it out on us. We knew she was missin’ ya, but she’d never admit it to no one. Once ya and Big Red was gone, she just kinda went back to how she used to be, all hard and cold. Losin’ Connor only made it worse.”
Quinn made a motion for him to speed it up.
“So we kept takin’ English tolls and fightin’ enna ships we ran across, but nothin’ put a smile back on her face. Nothin’.”
Folding her hands, Quinn stared down at them awash in unwelcome guilt.
“Then, two weeks ago, that fuckin’ governor arrested her son, Tibbot, for treason. He’ll swing fer it when they find him guilty. And they will. We are always guilty to the fuckin’ English. Captain is besides herself, Callaghan. They’ve jailed her uncle as well. Both will be dead by week’s end if she fails.”
“So she decided to sail up the Thames in the hopes of having an audience with a queen whom she’s been robbing from for over a decade?” Quinn ran her hand over her face. “You did the right thing by coming to me, Fitz. When does she set sail?”
Fitz pushed a rock around with the toe of his worn boot. “That’s just it. She shoved off with a skeleton crew whilst many of us was still at the tavern. She’s barely got enough crew to sail the Mal.”
“Wait a minute. You’re not the only one left behind?”
“Nope. Left some of her better fighters, too. That’s what I mean. She’s not thinkin’ straight.”
“How on earth did you even find me?”
Fitz looked up at her, half his face in the shadows, the other half illuminated by the fire. “Didja truly think we’d just let ya wander into the woods, Callaghan? Ya daft if ya thought that. We’ve been through a lot together. Side by side. We’re family, aye?”
Quinn smiled softly at the memory of those mates they’d recently lost. “Aye.”
“And family don’t let each other disappear. When we heard nothin’, we went to yer woman.”
“Fiona?”
Fitz shook his head. “Nah. The tavern wench, Becca. She said she received a message from the priestess sayin’ ya was alive and well but unable to see her ennamore. Ya broke that one’s heart as well, ya did. Bitter, mad, and a wee bit hostile. I’d skirt around her next time yer at port.”
“As well?” Quinn thought he meant Fiona. “So,
you did go see Fiona?”
“Nah. I meant Captain O’Malley. Ya broke the captain’s heart as well . . . at least, that’s how she’s actin’. I know ya wasn’t lovers, Callaghan, but Captain O’Malley misses ya somethin’ fierce. So with Connor dead, Tavish settlin’ down with his missus, Kwame kilt, and ya gone . . .” He just shook his head. “She’s not about to let that bitch queen take her son. She’s lost so much she’s willin’ to take on the queen in her own house. Ya gotta help her, Callaghan. Ya gotta get to her before she gets herself locked up or worse.”
The fire popped as if in agreement.
For a protracted moment Quinn stared into the fire. Her nearly seven years on board the Malendroke with Grace O’Malley had been the most amazing adventure of her life. The freedom she’d felt as a man, the life-and-death moments as a pirate all made life taste so much sweeter than when she was a bored and lonely noblewoman waiting to be married off to someone she didn’t love or even care about.
Somewhere along the way, Quinn Gallagher had died, and in her place was a Kieran Callaghan, second mate to the notorious pirate Captain O’Malley, Queen of Connacht, clan leader and warrior. Grace was a lot of different people and seemed to manage that well.
Certainly better than Quinn had.
Quinn didn’t realize until it was too late that in losing her identity, she’d became lost among the bloody swords and shiny gold. She had, by necessity, plunged a dagger into the heart of her best friend, stolen the ship of one of her lovers, and had killed dozens upon dozens of men on the bloodstained decks of ships.
When she realized she had lost her way, when she understood her fractured spirit needed healing before she lost herself all together, she’d come to the one place she knew would put salve on her broken heart and help her say a proper goodbye to the woman she once was.
Bronwen.
Even as Quinn thought her name, the druid priestess and healer appeared from the shadows.
“Forgive the intrusion,” Bronwen said softly, “but I believe your friend is not overestimating the importance of getting to Captain O’Malley.” Bronwen’s long, blonde hair hung well past her shoulders, and fluttered slightly in unison with the green robe she wore. “Reckless people make poor choices, and it would seem that is the case for Grace.” Bronwen reached out her hands to Quinn, who rose and joined her on the other side of the fire. “Perhaps it is time. You have done all you can do here, my dearest one. To stay any longer in these woods would be too much like hiding, and I’ll not allow that to happen. You have healed now. It is time for you to get back to the task of living and helping someone you love to see the world rightside up.”
Quinn gazed into the face of her childhood friend and slowly, imperceptibly, nodded.
“You initially chose the pirate life for a noble cause. Along the way, the pirate life chose you for the same reason. Embrace that now. And, come what may, know you wear these clothes because this is who you are. Never be ashamed of who you are.” Browen leaned over and kissed Quinn’s forehead. “Stay and make your plans. I shall pack your things and prepare your horse.”
With that, Browen retreated back to the shadows.
“She help ya figure it out?” Fitz asked quietly.
Quinn still had her back to him, her eyes lingering over where Bronwen had stood. “Aye, my friend. That she did. That she did.”
“Ya ready to go, then?”
She was. Quinn knew she could not sit by while Grace put so many lives in danger.
After saying her goodbyes to Bronwen, Quinn mounted her horse, and they rode the horses hard with Fitz in the lead. They had already decided to return to Galway to get the rest of the crew, who had hopefully already secured a second, smaller ship. With a full crew and a smaller ship, they knew it was possible they could make up the time—especially since Innis, the captain’s new first mate, was the one who sent Fitz in the first place.
“Innis will do all he can to slow the ship down until we can meet up with ’em,” Fitz had said earlier that morning.
Quinn calculated in her head and figured that unless the Malendroke had come to a standstill, Grace would be at the Thames by the end of the day.
Once they were clear of the woods and onto a main road, they picked up speed. The horses, breathing heavily, were coated with a sheen of sweat that glistened in the rare morning sun.
“We have to water the horses!” Quinn shouted into the wind. By her estimation, they’d been pushing hard for a couple of hours or more.
When Fitz slowed to a trot, she pulled up next to him. “I say we water the horses and then make a push to Galway.”
Fitz nodded, but as he slid off his horse, he landed spritely on his feet and withdrew his sword.
Quinn did not hesitate and had hers out before she landed.
“Highway men?” she asked, standing back to back with Fitz.
She had her answer before Fitz could reply.
English soldiers.
“What have we here?” a tall, lanky soldier asked in English. “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you, boys?”
Quinn slowly withdrew her short sword as well, wielding the two swords as she’d done countless times on the Malendroke. “We’re just heading back to Galway, mates. We have no quarrel with you,” Quinn said in the flawless English she’d been taught as a young noblewoman.
The soldier’s thick eyebrow rose in surprise. “An English-speaking pirate? Will wonders never cease?”
Quinn counted three on her side, and said so to Fitz in Gaelic. He replied with the same.
Six against two.
Quinn smiled. Not bad odds. The English were soft. Weak. They were not great fighters. “What I wonder is whether or not you’ll take yourselves away from here in one piece or if we will leave you bloody and bleeding on this filthy road. It’s your choice.” She took her fighting stance.
The three men facing her took theirs as well.
By the looks of them, they were green. Unlike Quinn and Fitz, who sported plenty of scars from sword and dagger alike, these soldiers were unmolested by the ugly red welts that every pirate wore.
Lambs to the slaughter.
Kieran Callaghan would have run them through without a second thought, but Quinn Gallagher held life—albeit tenuously—in much greater esteem.
Neither fully existed beneath the clothing or skin of a pirate, which meant that Quinn Callaghan, who stood in front of the Englishmen now, could do only one thing:
“Then pray to your god, fellas, because not one of you will live to see tomorrow.” Then, in Gaelic she said, “Now, Fitz.”
Quinn released her short sword, which embedded itself into the chest of the man to her left. Then she pivoted, ducked, and took out the second man’s leg with her long sword. As he went down, she ran him through his stomach while dodging the errant swing of a sword too big and too heavy for the young soldier wielding it. He lost his arm and then his life to Quinn’s blade.
The fight was over in less than twenty seconds.
“The governor is bringin’ soldiers to Ireland faster than we can get rid of ’em,” Fitz said, sheathing his bloody sword. “They’re all over Scotland, too. Elizabeth has been steppin’ up the plantation of her people in Ireland, and she’s imprisoned Mary of Scotland.”
This last bit stopped Quinn’s breath. “What?”
He nodded. “Ya’ve missed a lot, Callaghan, and the captain seems not at all afraid of who Elizabeth has become. Some say she is the most powerful monarch alive.”
Quinn pulled her short sword from the dead man and wiped the blood off on his pants. “Christ, Fitz, then going up the Thames might as well be a declaration of war on Grace’s part.”
He nodded grimly. “Aye to that, Callaghan. Capturin’ her boy on false counts is an act of war to Grace. She’s had enough of the queen’s men houndin’ her and her family. She actually believes she can convince the bitch queen to let Tibbot go.”
Quickly mounting her horse, Quinn shook her head. “All she is goi
ng to achieve is giving Elizabeth another chess piece. Come on, Fitz. We ride until these nags drop.” With a swift kick of her heels, Quinn took off down the road, leaving behind six dead Englishmen and another sliver of her soul.
When they finally arrived at the Port of Galway, Quinn’s lips were parched, her ass was sore, and her face burned from both wind and sun.
The Oxtail Tavern, home to many a homeless pirate, was now owned and operated by Becca, a once-lascivious tavern wench and barmaid who had found a benefactor in Fiona Moynihan, Quinn’s estranged lover.
Well, they were both her estranged lovers . . . just like everyone else was estranged from her since she’d bailed on them. Quinn no longer knew where she belonged, but she knew one thing for certain: she could not just stand by while Grace placed the crew in danger.
The tavern’s raucous noise could be heard from outside, where they tied up their horses and paid a stable boy to watch over them.
“The men’ll be anxious to set sail,” Fitz said, rubbing his ass with both hands. “As soon as they pepper ya with questions.”
“The men, by the sounds of it, will be too drunk to walk, let alone set sail.”
Fitz opened the door for Quinn. “We’ll see.”
When her eyes adjusted to the dark, Quinn did not see one familiar face. “Fitz?”
Fitz peered in. “Well, I’ll be damned. They must be waitin’ on a ship.”
Quinn turned to him. “Go tell them to prepare to be away immediately. I have a bit of business I must attend to before I join you, but I’ll be there. On that, you have my word, my friend.”
Fitz glanced over her shoulder and started to back away. “Aye. Besta luck to ya, Callaghan. Ya’ve got a coupla testy wenches to deal with. Me? I think I’d rather face the English.”
Frowning, Quinn turned back to the inn only to have her face slapped. Hard.
“Six months? Six fuckin’ months and not one word from ya?” Becca’s blue eyes seared into Quinn’s. “I was told ya were dead. Then I was told ya were alive. I didn’t know what to thnk.” Becca slapped Quinn again as tears filled her eyes. “I thought I meant somethin’ to ya. I thought––”
Cutthroat Crusades (The Plundered Chronicles Book 4) Page 1
