The Beauty of the Mist

by May McGoldrick

  “It looks like it’s a solitary boat, m’lord,” his navigator replied. “And only three men, at that.”

  “Bring them up!” he ordered sharply.

  “Is that wise?” a voice broke in.

  John did not even turn to acknowledge the question from the tall, blonde-haired woman who glided quickly to his side. Caroline.

  “What happens if they are armed?” she continued. “Even if they pretend to be friendly, isn’t it possible they could cut all our throats as we sleep?”

  Without answering, John turned his head and frowned threateningly at Sir Thomas.

  “Come, come, Caroline,” her husband offered gently, taking his wife by the elbow and pulling her from the railing. “I think Sir John is the man to decide that.”

  John continued to peer over the side as a number of his men lowered themselves down the ropes.

  “Women, m’lord!” came the return shout from one of the sailors. “Two women and a man.”

  The cry drew a slew of astonished men to the edge. John leaned forward, watching as another sailor scurried down the side. “Bring them up! Now!”

  “They’re bloody Spaniards, m’lord!

  “I don’t care if they’re the devil’s own sisters!” John shouted angrily.

  “This one’s dead, m’lord,” the sailor called up, pointing at the male in the bow of the boat. “He’s got a hole in his chest the size of my fist.”

  “Bring them up!”

  “Even the dead one?”

  “For God’s sake, man!” John fumed, his patience gone. “Aye! Of course, the dead one, as well.”

  The sailors below, hearing the fury in their commander’s tone, hastily secured the boat to the ship and started at once.

  Seeing at last that his men were hustling, John stepped back, letting the ship’s mate take charge. Turning around, he stopped short at the sight of the delegation crowding around him. For the first time since they’d left port, the noblemen and women had found something entertaining enough to draw them out of their comfortable cabins. Like a bunch of children, they were jostling one another for a better view of the newcomers.

  And he didn’t like it a bit. His men didn’t need the distraction. Not now.

  Moving toward Sir Thomas, who was standing with Caroline and his daughter Janet by the mainmast, John spoke to him quietly. A few words were all that were needed to be said, and the aging warrior leaped into action. John knew this was exactly what the knight desired. A chance to be involved and a chance to be useful.

  Turning back to the railing, John ignored the cacophony of complaints resulting from Sir Thomas’s blunt efforts to usher as many of the women and men as he could belowdecks.

  Refusing the offers of help from the pushing throng remaining on deck, the Highlander silently thanked God that so far during this journey they’d been spared any attack at sea. Not that the Great Michael couldn’t hold her own in any fight, but John was sure that the chaos he would have to deal with on board would be much more difficult than any enemy assault.

  Moving through the crowd, John saw David and the mate carefully helping an elderly woman down onto the deck from the rail. From the blood-soaked cloak, it was obvious that she had sustained an injury. John held back an instant as she took the arm of one of his men and tried to walk a few steps. Not being able to support her weight, however, she suddenly leaned heavily against the sailor and sank slowly to the deck.

  John moved hastily to the woman and crouched before her.

  “She is wounded,” a woman said from behind him. “Her shoulder.”

  John turned toward the strained voice of the other survivor who had just been brought aboard. He noticed how, once on board, she politely but firmly rejected the assistance of his men. As she crossed to where the older woman lay, she wobbled a bit, but quickly regained her footing. She, too, sported black spots on her torn, gray dress that he was sure had to be blood, but she didn’t appear to be in as grave a danger as the elder woman. Whatever their condition now, these women had obviously survived an ordeal far more serious than a row in the cold fog.

  Taking his eyes away from the other, John pulled back the blood-soaked cloak gently and looked at the wound on the older woman’s shoulder. These two must be survivors of the battle they’d heard earlier today. The older one had received what—from the burn on the surrounding skin—looked like a wound from a musket shot. But the damage was not life threatening, he decided, should the injury not fester.

  “Ship’s mate,” he called over his shoulder. “Have the surgeon up on deck to look at her wound.”

  Then he stood and turned to look at the other woman who now stood only a step away.

  Maria saw him rise and her breath caught in her chest. Crouching before Isabel, the man had not looked as intimidating as he did now. A fierce scowl clouding his swarthy face, he towered over every man on deck. Quickly, she tore her eyes away from him and fixed her attention on her aunt’s face.

  “And you,” he asked shortly. “Any injury?”

  “None.” She whispered simply, turning and stumbling once more as she knelt beside Isabel.

  John looked at the small, water-soaked figure at his feet, and his heart warmed to the bedraggled creature. He’d heard the tremble in her voice. There was a childlike quality about her—an uncertainty—that made him wonder for a moment from what depths she had conjured the strength to survive the ordeal of being adrift at sea.

  The gray wool dress that the woman wore beneath her cloak must have been clean at one time, but it was now ruined with dark stains and sea water. Almost as if she could read his thoughts, the young woman pulled her heavy cloak tighter around her, making it nearly impossible for John to ascertain anything more about her.

  Laying her fingers lightly on her aunt’s cold, limp hand, Maria fought off the desire to run away from the gaze of the giant standing behind her. She could feel his eyes burning into her even as she tended to Isabel. For a brief moment, she thought that perhaps the mariner knew who she was, but her attention was diverted as her aunt began to murmur in her unconscious state.

  She seemed quite young, John thought, but a strange bittersweet sensation swept over the Highlander as it occurred to him that nearly every woman he met now seemed to be quite young. The attention she showed to the other indicated that they must be related somehow. Mother and daughter perhaps.

  “There is blood on your cloak. Are you certain you have no wounds?”

  “None,” she responded evenly. “It’s the sailor’s blood. Not mine.”

  She did not even turn her head when she answered, but he could see the shiver. The shock, John thought. Being cold and wet and left in a boat drifting at sea can test the mettle of the toughest men.

  “Are there other boats coming?” he asked. “Other survivors?”

  “None that we saw,” she whispered.

  “How long were you in the boat?”

  “Long.”

  “How long?”

  She didn’t answer, only shrugged her shoulders in return.

  “Did your ship sink?”

  She didn’t answer again. John found himself quickly becoming tired of speaking to the back of the woman’s head.

  “Where’s the bloody surgeon?” he asked irritably over his shoulder, and moving—as he spoke—to the other side of the injured woman’s body. There, he crouched, facing the young woman.

  “He’s coming, m’lord,” the ship’s mate responded, pushing into the circle.

  “Who attacked you and how many ships were involved in the fight?” John asked, forcing his voice onto a more even keel.

  Maria stared at her aunt’s closed eyes. Isabel was resting, at least. But she still couldn’t bring herself to lift her gaze and look at the man. She felt vulnerable, lost, and she fought to hide the tremors that were going through her body. She didn’t have to look about her to know that she was encircled by dozens of curious spectators, watching her every move, hanging on her every word. Like a prize doe, hunte
d and injured and brought to bay at last, she felt trapped. What were they going to do to them? The giant, the one asking the questions, was clearly in command, and the others obviously feared him. She knew she should, as well. He had called them the devil’s sisters.

  “I need to know these things.” His voice was sharper than he intended, but still John reached over and tapped the woman gently on the shoulder. “How many ships?”

  “Just one.” Her eyes flitted briefly to his face, but dropped immediately.

  Her eyes were the color of jade, and John found himself staring as she lowered them. They were the most beautiful color, set in a face devoid of color. The paleness of her complexion only served to heighten the stunning effect of her green eyes.

  “A French ship,” she continued. “Only one.”

  John nodded. Looking into her face, he found himself at a loss for words. Letting his eyes drop from the young woman’s face to her exposed hands, he could see them trembling as they clutched the elder woman’s cloak. His eyes traveled up again quickly to her face. She was indeed young, very young. Beyond the pallid, dirty face and a tangle of black hair, he could see there existed a terrified, young woman.

  A thin, drunken rattle of a voice could be heard on the outside of the throng of men surrounding them. The surgeon, a member of the Douglas clan and a man that John was sure had been sent along as Angus’s spy, slowly approached. He was a puffy, bleary-eyed monk with more of an interest in wine and a soft bunk than the welfare of either his fellow man or their souls. John’s face clouded with anger once again as he watched him taking his time in answering his summons.

  “We’ll talk later,” the Highlander growled, standing at once as the surgeon sidled up through the crowd.

  Ignoring the man, John gestured sharply to the mate. “The woman’s been out in this damp air long enough. Take her below; the surgeon can see to her there.”

  “I shall stay with her?” Maria asked quickly rising to her feet and turning to the ship’s commander. The inflection of her words wavered between that of a command and a plea.

  This time their eyes met, but only for an instant, before Maria averted her gaze in embarrassment.

  “Aye,” John responded. “Of course. I’ll look in on you in a short while. My men will see to your needs. There are still questions that need to be answered.”

  She nodded, then stood silently, waiting for the men to move her aunt.

  There was very little space to clean up, and nowhere to spread out her wet, soiled clothes in the small room adjoining the large cabin where Isabel had been taken. A young boy had entered the cabin right behind them as they arrived and had, without a word, handed her a woolen dress and some linen undergarments. Maria had been thankful for the thoughtfulness of the gesture, but had not really known whom to thank. On deck, she’d seen many gentlemen and women standing about. Thinking about it now, she was surprised at the number of women aboard ship. Clearly, it was one of those ladies to whom she owed her gratitude.

  Holding her wet garments up, she scanned the room helplessly. From where she was, Maria could hear the murmuring voices of her aunt, who had thankfully regained consciousness, and then the sound of shuffling feet moving out into the corridor. Finally giving up on the clothes, she placed them in a neat pile in the corner. There was a small wash bowl and pitcher set into a board along one wall of the tiny cabin, so Maria carefully swabbed at the painful open blisters on her palms and fingers. Wrapping strips of linen dressing around her hands, she tried unsuccessfully to tuck under the ends of the bandages. Having both hands reduced to nothing more than raw flesh made it almost impossible. Besides, even at this she was a novice. She shook her head with disgust. Unskilled in even the simplest of tasks.

  With frustration and disappointment pulling at her, Maria tearfully jerked the wide, forest green sleeves of the woolen dress down over her wrists. Then, dashing a glistening droplet from her cheek, she yanked open a narrow door and stepped into Isabel’s more spacious cabin.

  Her aunt’s eyes traveled to her at once from where she lay. Maria watched as the older woman put her finger to her lips, hushing her for the moment. The young woman complied and stood back, waiting as the surgeon’s boy gathered together the bloodied dressings from the small table.

  “You were lucky, m’lady,” the surgeon rasped, reentering the spacious cabin. “The ball just grazed you. But your sailor had no chance.”

  “Then he is dead?” Isabel asked.

  “Aye. Dead and gone to his Maker.” He glanced back at the older woman. “Sir John wants to know the man’s name. For the prayers when we put him into the sea.”

  “I...I don’t know it.” Isabel said with embarrassment, looking at Maria.

  “His name was Pablo,” the young woman whispered quietly. Maria had asked him as she struggled to take his place at the oars. But she knew his soul reached his Maker long before their prayers would.

  “Pablo,” the man repeated shortly, turning to Isabel. “Very well. Tell me, was it your ship? The one that went down?”

  Isabel shook her head quickly in denial.

  “Ah, well.” The man started for the door, but then stopped before Maria and pointed to a small bowl of liquid and some clean dressings. “I’ll leave these with you. You might change her dressing if it begins to smell badly. And Sir John will be down directly. He appears to be impatient to have some questions answered. But don’t worry about your mother, my dear. She is going to be fine.”

  “She is not—” Maria caught herself, “—not going to die, then?”

  “Nay, lass,” the man wheezed wearily, before turning again for the door. “I’ve given her something to make her sleep. I’ll send the lad back in a wee bit. If you need me, have him fetch me.”

  Without any further ceremony, the man shuffled out into the dark corridor with the young boy at his heel.

  Maria waited until the cabin door was shut behind them, then moved quickly to the side of her aunt’s bed.

  “They are Scots!”

  Isabel patted the blanket next to her, and Maria sat down at once.

  “I can see that, my dear,” Isabel concurred, her eyes taking in the elegant furnishings of the cabin. “And not just any Scots. No doubt, this is part of the fleet that your brother summoned to come and take you back to their king.”

  Maria surveyed the cabin, as well. Though her experience aboard ships was somewhat limited, the size of the room surprised her. Running her swollen fingers over the fold of crisp white linen that covered her aunt, Maria glanced at the rich, burgundy damask drape that hung around the bunk, and the matching coverlet. A window seat beneath a small glazed window was covered with velvet cushions, and carved chairs surrounded a table that held fine crystal and several plates of cheese and fruit. An odd discomfort spread through her as she realized where the ship’s commander had put them.

  “This was to be my cabin!” she cried in dismay.

  “You aren’t going to put your old auntie out, now, are you, dear?” the older woman chuckled.

  Maria took Isabel’s hand. “What am I to do? What would they think if they find out who we are?”

  “Does it matter what they think?” Isabel yawned and stretched her body in the comfortable bed.

  “If I am to be their queen...” Maria whispered.

  “You are right.” Isabel agreed, keeping her voice low. “If you are to be their queen, then I’d say, you have already lost any chance at their respect. After all, you’re supposed to be sitting high and dry in Antwerp, waiting for them to arrive, not rowing in the open seas in an effort to escape them. But that’s assuming you ever do become their queen.”

  “I can’t tell them who I am.” Maria said decisively. “I am going to Castile, not to Scotland.”

  “You...” Isabel yawned again. “You are going to Antwerp, my dear. That’s where they are headed.”

  Maria looked at her aunt helplessly. “But I can’t. Can you imagine the embarrassment? I wouldn’t be able to face Charles. H
e would never forgive me. Being found adrift at sea by the same people sent to convey me to their home. By the Virgin, the shame that would come of it.”

  “I thought none of this mattered. I thought you had resigned yourself to accept your brother’s wrath.”

  “I had resigned myself,” Maria said despondently. “But that was when I thought we could face him from afar. Not when I thought we’d be dragged back and handed right over to him. You know the power that he wields. How persuasive he is. Never in my life have I won an argument with him tête-à-tête.”

  Maria sighed. Though she hated the thought of it, since she was little, she had always let her brother have his own way. Charles was a bully as a child—he was just a more powerful one as an adult.

  “Why can’t we go on as we planned?” the young woman pleaded. “I don’t want to go back, Isabel. I can’t.”

  Maria watched her aunt fighting off the drowsiness that was overtaking her. “You ruined the longboat, child.”

  Maria could not help but smile. “You know very well that I don’t mean rowing.” She turned her head and stared at the small window. “We must find another way. We must be close to Denmark. If we can reach Copenhagen, perhaps we could hire another ship to take us to Castile.”

  Isabel opened one eye and tried to focus. “But it’s too far to swim, Maria. And I’m just feeling warmer...”

  Maria watched the smile tug at her aunt’s lips before the older woman visibly gave in to the effects of the medicine.

  “We have to think of a plan,” Maria whispered, mostly to herself. “I can’t give up hope. Perhaps we can employ someone’s help. There are many on this ship...”

  “The commander,” Isabel said, her eyes fluttering open a bit. “The Scot. Sir John, they call him. There is a young and handsome man. Certainly as good looking as any sailor I ever came across in my life.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Maria asked as she smoothed a silver tendril of hair from Isabel’s face.

  “Hmmph!” Isabel closed her eyes again. “And to think you’ve already been married once!”