The Isis Knot

by Hanna Martine

  The two men holding open the gate wore dark colors over their slouchy silhouettes. Not soldiers or constables or anyone else of consequence. Of course. A death in the middle of the night wouldn’t require official orders or an audience. Apparently he wasn’t even worth a public hanging.

  William stalked right for them, shoving off the confusion, showing only a brave face. The soles of his bare feet smarted as he made the long walk over the sharp gravel of the yard. At the gate, he snarled, “Enough of the show. Where is this happening?”

  The taller balding one threw him a quizzical look before they simultaneously moved like lightning, taking him down to the ground. A single man was a quick victory for William, but two? He growled and struggled, but they pinned him, facedown, in the dirt.

  A foul-smelling bag was dragged over his head, blocking out the scene. Blocking out the stars.

  The men yanked his arms behind him and rope bit into his wrists and ankles.

  He heard the clomp of horse hooves and the crunch of wagon wheels over dirt. The men lifted him up and shoved him onto the back of a cart. The wagon rolled quickly away from the barracks.

  Even through the thick, odor-drenched fabric of the hood, he could smell their destination as they drew closer. You couldn’t hide the sea from a sailor.

  They stopped so close to the water he heard nothing but the slap and slosh of waves.

  “Out you go,” a man ordered in a thick east London accent. Beefy hands grabbed William’s shoulders and dragged him to the cart edge. Then he spun William around so his legs dangled over the side, untied his feet and pulled him to stand on the ground.

  “Tell me what the bloody fuck is happening.” William tested the strength of the rope around his hands. Too tight to do anything.

  But East London just took his elbow, pulled him closer to the water, and said, “Over here now.”

  William could run, of course, but a hooded, bound man wouldn’t get very far. And courage ordered him to remain steadfast.

  A tiny cluster of hushed male voices came from where the waves played at the shore, but he couldn’t make out their words.

  East London gave him more directions. “Into the rowboat. Leg over.”

  So that was how they’d kill him. They were going to take him into the deep, dark part of Port Jackson, tie his hands and feet together, and let him sink to the bottom. How fitting. Death by sea for the disgraced sailor.

  He’d always wondered what drowning would feel like. He’d been in his share of bloody awful storms, with water dousing you from every direction, stealing your breath, feeding your panic.

  But that wasn’t how he was meant to go. There was limited space in a rowboat which meant one, maybe two, other people would ride with him. His feet were untied. When they tried to throw him over, he’d give them his last battle.

  “Come on,” prodded East London, tapping William’s leg to get him to lift it. “There you go.”

  Someone steadied the small boat as William awkwardly threw his legs over, and another man helped him sit on the narrow bench. The boat jolted as it was pushed from the rocky beach. The oars made little slaps in the water as it took the craft farther and farther out. He filled his ears with the rhythmic sound and listened hard, taking measure of his surroundings.

  He could sense and hear two other men in the boat. Two would be a good fight, then. He readied himself, letting energy flow through his arms and legs. Underneath the hood he smiled.

  The rowboat struck something hard and solid, jostling him to the side. One of the men caught him, then reached around and tugged free the rope bonds. What the hell?

  He went to pull off his hood, but someone’s hand snatched his wrist. “We’re not here to hurt you, but you need to do as I say.”

  William stilled, listening. Preparing for anything.

  “Now reach out to your right, Everard. Feel that ladder?”

  It was made of rope and slats of wood. The kind of ladder thrown over the sides of ships.

  “Now turn around and face it,” the man continued. “Good. When I say, remove your hood and climb up that ladder. Don’t look down at us. Only look up. Understand?”

  William nodded, his heart skipping in anticipation. “What—?”

  “No questions. Climb or go back to shore with us. If you go back, they’ll be all too happy to hang you as planned.”

  They. These were not Macquarie’s men. And he’d been given the chance to live.

  “Now, Everard.”

  Blindly he tossed the hood behind him, put his bare foot on the bottom rung, and climbed. Not because he feared the death that would come if he didn’t, but because curiosity had, quite simply, got the better of him.

  Halfway up the ship’s hull, off to his left, stretched the yellow-painted name of the prison hulk. He didn’t have to be able to read to know what it said. It was the only ship still in port. The Remembrance.

  The skipping of his heartbeat tripped into a fast rhythm. Death was behind him…but what lay ahead? Could he dare to believe in the stirring of hope?

  Swinging his legs over the rail, he took in the neatly coiled lines and furled sails. He loved the feel of wind-wracked wood under his feet, missed it tremendously. Time had been good to the Remembrance and he allowed himself a brief moment to be comforted by the gentle rocking of a ship at anchor. No one else was on deck, though the soft yellow light of a lamp swung aft, near what was likely the captain’s quarters.

  “William Everard.” Sure enough, a man’s garbled voice filtered from that door as his wide silhouette filled it. “Come here, if you please.”

  William risked a glance over the rail, but the little rowboat and its men hid in shadow far below. They were already rowing back, leaving him here. Across the expanse of water Sydney looked sleepy and innocent.

  The door to the captain’s quarters stood ajar and William crossed the deck slowly. After only a moment’s hesitation he ducked into the cabin, immediately bathed in soothing light. The captain, a heavy man with jowls that might account for his muddied speech, wore high boots and clean trousers but no coat. He was standing before his desk, watching William approach with a half-keen, half-wary expression.

  “I apologize for the hood,” said the captain. “If you refuse what I offer, I can’t have you knowing which of my men are susceptible to bribes.”

  William could only blink. “Refuse what, sir?”

  “Word has it”—the captain’s eyes narrowed—“you’re a man of the water.”

  “Uh.” That small word sounded incredibly large in the close confines. “Yes, sir. At least, I was once.”

  The captain crossed his arms over his ample belly. “Several of my men took ill upon arrival here and died. I’m short for the return trip. Care to go home with me?”

  Suspicion rushed in. Home? England?

  He squinted and gestured vaguely toward Sydney. “I…don’t understand, sir. I’m supposed to…Tomorrow I’m to be…”

  The captain sighed, perhaps a little exasperated, and waved a hand at the door through which William had just come. “I believe she can explain it better than I.”

  She?

  William’s heart twisted sharply. There was only one “she” to him. He put a hand to his chest, felt the mad organ inside thump against his ribcage.

  Please. Don’t let death play such cruel tricks. Don’t give me hope where there should be none. This is the worst kind of nightmare to inflict upon a doomed man.

  “Will.” Her voice, husky and lovely, enveloped him. He closed his eyes against it. It sounded so real.

  Soft footsteps came toward him. A hand—a hand he knew far too well—touched the clenched fist at his side. Unfurled his fingers. Slipped inside his.

  He didn’t turn around. He didn’t want to see. Didn’t want to be disappointed when his hope went up in smoke.

  “Will,” she said again. God, she was smiling. And crying. He could hear both in her voice. “Look at me.”

  She gave a little tug and he fina
lly shuffled around, though his eyes still refused to open.

  “Hey,” she whispered. One of those strange words of hers he never truly understood. “It’s really me. Come on. Open up.”

  He reached out blindly and pulled her hard against his body. Squeezed her. Drew lines down the muscles in her back. Absorbed her heat. Knew the shape of her instantly.

  In the name of all that was good, Sera was real. And she was here.

  Her hair was soft and clean and smelled like some sort of sweet fruit, and he buried his nose in it. He clung to her as though she might disappear, and she seemed to understand because her embrace was equally as rough.

  Dragging his mouth over her ear, tasting her briefly, he carefully took her shoulders and pushed her back to finally look into the face he never thought he’d see again.

  The image of her, fuller and rosier in the cheeks, blurred and he dug a thumb into each eye to clear the shocking well of tears. She’d evened out the cut of her shiny black hair. It seemed longer, too, swishing just below her shoulders. Her smile was as wide as the ocean and as bright as Sirius. What had he done to deserve this gift?

  “How?” He cupped her cheek and she turned slightly to kiss his palm. “How?”

  She cleared her throat and glanced over his shoulder. “I gave the captain something of mine in exchange for our safe passage back to England.”

  “Something of yours?” She had nothing of value except…

  His eyes dropped to her bare forearm. She seemed almost naked without the cuff.

  Seth’s ring was absent from her finger, too, but for that he was grateful. He didn’t ever want to see it again.

  She nodded, tight-lipped. “The cuff served its purpose several times over. Now it’ll give us a new beginning.”

  He turned and lifted an eyebrow at the captain. “And the request for help, sir?”

  The captain nodded. “It’s real. Crew is down thirty percent. Work for your keep, and you’ll be quartered like sailors.”

  William remembered Alastair’s offer to smuggle him back to England in a barrel. So long ago. “And they won’t know? Macquarie? The constables? The Crown?”

  The captain waved a hand again, the fat under his arm jiggling. “They’ll think you bolted again.” He reached into his top desk drawer and lifted out Isis’s cuff. It flapped open on a silent hinge, one Sera had never been able to open. “This here paid some handsome bribes on land. Sometimes a colony of criminals comes in handy. But you’re out of my hands when we land in England. I never heard of you. Understand?”

  William tightened his grip on Sera’s hand. “When do we sail, sir?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  She pressed closer and said, only for his ears, “I have so much to tell you. Come outside.”

  He led her to the bow so they could gaze to the east, to their exit from Sydney. He leaned against the rail and pulled her between his legs. When he kissed her, she shivered from head to foot. When she kissed him back, he did the same.

  “How did you make all this happen?” he murmured against her mouth.

  “She sent me back here. Isis.” Her brown eyes shone. “To almost the same moment you made me vanish. I reappeared just outside the fort’s walls, but I couldn’t go to you. I watched you collapse. I watched them…beat you.” She shuddered, her voice shaking. “And it almost destroyed me because I knew I couldn’t do anything. I had to watch the whole thing, the way they kicked and beat you and took you away. Isis took away Seth’s magic because I asked, so I couldn’t hurt them, even though I wanted to. I knew I had to save you another way.”

  He glanced over her shoulder at the captain’s quarters.

  “We never had a way to get to the captain of the Remembrance before. But money always talks. In any time, I guess.” Her fingers skimmed over the myriad bruises and cuts on his face and chest. “I can’t heal these.”

  “They don’t hurt anymore,” he replied, and meant it.

  For the first time in eighteen years, Amonteh had not turned his path. The Spectre was completely silent. Sera had come to him. Sera had saved him. The beautiful, courageous mother of his child.

  He sucked in a breath, his hands encircling her waist, thumbs brushing the beautiful, small rise of her belly.

  She smiled. “He’s fine. I’m three months along.”

  He started to smile, too, then caught what she’d just said. “But that’s—”

  “Not impossible. I’ve been away from you for three months. When the ring took me from here, it sent me back to face Malik. Not Mr. Moore. Just as I told you it might. It sent me back to my time.”

  A great pain burned in his chest. “Your time.” He shook his head, trying to clear it but failing.

  She touched his face. “Stop thinking like that. If you hadn’t done it, you’d be dead. I’d be trapped here. And Seth would still be out there. Somewhere.”

  “He’s gone? Seth is gone?”

  She nodded.

  He clasped his hand over hers, guilt making him feel far too heavy. “I’m so sorry for doing that to you. What you must’ve thought of me. How scared you must’ve been—”

  She silenced him with a kiss. “Shh. Don’t think about it now. It’s in the past. Or the future. However you want to look at it.” She smiled. Only she could find the humor now. “I’ll tell you everything that happened on the journey. How brave your son was. How I can’t wait to meet him.”

  He stared into her eyes and the look of joy and relief inside them erased nearly everything else.

  “But now”—she pulled him in tight—“I just want to feel you. It’s been too long.”

  Yes. Yes, it had been.

  He held her for what felt like forever, his grip on her tightening and tightening, and still it wasn’t enough.

  Then she whispered, “I love you,” and the world vibrated around him.

  “I’ve been wanting to hear you say that.”

  She pulled back a bit and looked into his face. “Even without Ramsesh inside me? She’s gone, you know. It’s just me.”

  He framed her face in his hands and leaned down to kiss her until her lips and body went completely soft. “I could only love you. In any time.”

  A thought came to him. One that smudged much of his happiness.

  “What?” she asked in her clipped tone. “You have a weird look.”

  He wondered where to begin. “It’s a different world, England. There’s nothing for me there. No trade. I’m an escaped convict. I’ll be on the run again when we get there. It won’t be any easier than here. Perhaps even worse. How will we have a healthy baby? How will I take care of it? And you?” His worry was rising and rising, but her fingernails were making lazy, relaxed circles on his back, and he didn’t understand. He took her hands and pushed her away. “I love you more than the sea, Sera, but I can’t offer you anything.”

  “I’ve considered that. And I have a suggestion.”

  “Oh?”

  A mischievous smile played at her lips. She pulled a chain out from the neckline of her shirt. On it dangled Seth’s ring. It might be hideous, and it might remind William of his darkest moment, but it was pure gold, of Egyptian origin when the world was mad for such antiquities, and likely worth a fortune.

  Her smile widened. “Ever been to America?”

  Thank you so much for reading THE ISIS KNOT!

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  OTHER BOOKS BY HANNA MARTINE

  Paranormal Romance: The Elemental series

  LIQUID L
IES (The Elementals #1)

  A TASTE OF ICE (The Elementals #2)

  DROWNING IN FIRE (The Elementals #3)

  UNBOUND – the novella “No Surprise More Magical” (The Elementals #1.5)

  Contemporary Romance: The Highland Games series

  LONG SHOT

  THE GOOD CHASE (December 2014)

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The John Barry was a real hulk that carried British convicts to New South Wales, Australia in 1819, but the Remembrance is fictitious, even though it is true that separate retired naval frigates transported female convicts to the penal colony.

  A great deal of the background, setting, and history within The Isis Knot is fact, but this is ultimately a work of fiction (it is time travel, after all).

  I read the following books for research, if you’re curious about exploring deeper into Australian history and Egyptology:

  The Fatal Shore, by Robert Hughes

  Convict Love Tokens, Michele Field and Timothy Millett, eds.

  The Floating Brothel, by Sian Rees

  A Cargo of Women, by Babette Smith

  Anchored in a Small Cove (A History and Archaeology of The Rocks, Sydney), by Max Kelly

  Temples of Ancient Egypt, by Richard H. Wilkinson

  The Complete Gods and Goddesses of Ancient Egypt, by Richard H. Wilkinson

  Ancient Egypt, by Lorna Oakes and Lucia Gahlin

  DEDICATION

  This story is for Holly McDowell, who has always been there for it.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book has been around the block. Not once, not twice, but at least five times. Maybe even more.

  I started writing The Isis Knot while I was part of the Online Writing Workshop for Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror. It has been years and years since then, and unfortunately I have lost all my notes as to who critiqued it in its earliest, crappiest, most confusing incarnations. So I will just throw out a blanket “Thank you so much!” to everyone who might have given me their two cents along the way, along with a “Isn’t it so much better now???!!” for good measure.