by Cathy MacRae
“If we are to be at sea, there’s no telling when we’ll have an opportunity to eat anything besides fish for a while,” Carys replied absently, still stunned by the prophecy she’d received.
They hurried to the pier as one vessel prepared to sail and two others finished loading.
“Captain Ferguson?” Hywel asked as he approached a sturdy man whose shock of red hair gleamed in the morning light.
“Aye, I’m Murdoc Ferguson,” the ruddy man replied. A sandy-colored Cymru Shepherd marked with a black saddle and white belly bounded next to Ferguson, its front paws on the gunnel. “Easy, Dewr,” Captain Fegurson murmured, placing a hand on the dog’s head.
Carys pulled her cowl low over her face to hide her features and smiled at the dog’s name—brave in her native tongue. Dewr was much like the dogs their father’s sheep herder kept.
“I was told yer in need of hands,” Hywel said.
“Aye. Do either of ye know yer way around a boat?”
“We do. Our uncle was a fisherman at Holyhead. We grew up fishing the bay.”
Though not completely the truth, it wasn’t a lie, either. The two of them did have an uncle who was a fisherman and they did go out many times, but neither of them was much of a sailor.
“Are ye handy with those bows?” the captain asked.
“Aye, we both recently were archers in the prince’s service, and I can shoot an Englishman betwixt his eyes afore he ever hears me,” Hywel said with a wink.
“And yer brother?” Ferguson asked.
“This one?” Hywel asked as he patted Carys on the shoulder. “This one has always been a better shot, though I win on distance.”
Captain Ferguson nodded once. “I sail through the day, hugging the coast, then land at night. I make me way up the coast of Erie, the Scottish Lowlands, Highlands, and the inner islands. Depending on how well the weather holds and the trading goes, I’ll be gone three months or more. Does that suit ye?”
“Aye, it does, though we aim to stay in the Highlands. Will that put ye in a bind?” Hywel asked.
Ferguson waved a hand in the air. “Nae. This fight with the English has taken all the lads I’d usually hire here, so I’ll take the two of ye and be glad of it. We should be able to find more hands along the way.”
He named their wages and duties. The ship was a single-masted birlinn with a square sail and ten oars, though there were only twelve hands plus the captain, leaving four oars unmanned. The work would be hard, but it would take them beyond Edward’s reach.
Hywel and Carys shook hands with the captain then assisted the other men loading the boat, rolling barrels across the gangplank and stacking them mid-ships. Her height and the calluses she’d gained drawing a bow and swinging a sword helped her pass as an older lad, and none paused to peer through her disguise. The dog, however, gave them both a good sniffing.
“Dewr likes to get to know her crew. She’s smart as a whip and protects the boat. When we’re at port, she’ll keep an eye on the ship fer us.”
Carys smiled at the mix of Gaelic and Cymraeg the captain used while speaking. She’d traveled enough to have developed an ear for Gaelic, Erse, and a smattering of English. Ferguson’s speech gleaned words from each.
A red-haired boy of maybe fifteen summers approached them with a grin and a smattering of freckles. He stuck out his hand in greeting. “I’s Tully. ’Tis me da’s boat. I love boats,” he said in a manner more befitting a lad of four or five rather than one at the cusp of manhood.
Hywel shook his hand and gave the lad a warm smile. “’Well met, Tully. I’m Hywel and here’s my younger brother.”
Tully nodded vigorously, his smile widening. “S’times they call me, Stew. I ken how to make stew. I’s thirteen summers, though da says I’s big for me age.”
Carys’ heart immediately warmed toward the boy. Though it was plain to see he was simple, he had a good heart and a strong back. The fact Ferguson brought his boy along instead of hiding him away made her respect the man more.
“Tully m’lad, leave them be and let them finish their work so we can be off,” Ferguson bellowed.
“Aye, Da,” the boy replied, not cowed by his father’s rebuke. He snapped his fingers and Dewr followed him to a bench where he took his place at an oar.
Once loaded, they pushed off and raised sail, catching the outgoing tide and morning breeze, leaving the small bay behind.
A large ship emerged on the horizon. “Bloody English,” Captain Ferguson spat.
Hywel quickly recounted the events of the past month to the captain and crew.
“To oars,” the captain shouted. “I dinnae wish to give the bastards a chance to get close. The Seabhag can outrun their lumbering cogs any day. That’s it, lads. Show the bloody English who rules the seas.”
Carys sat on the bench beside Hywel, grasped the oar and mimicked his movements. The oar wasn’t terribly heavy and she was stronger than many women from her years with the long bow, but she doubted her ability to row for hours at a time. They settled into a steady rhythm, moving the Falcon swiftly across the water. One thing was certain, she would be stronger after this trip. With the wind and tide in their favor, they kept the English cog at a distance and ceased rowing once the cog abandoned the chase and made for port.
Hywel leaned over and whispered, “How’d ye fare?”
Carys shrugged. “’Tis nothing I cannot and will not do daily. I only fear not being able to keep up with you when we have to row for most of a day.”
“Don’t worry. Ye’ll grow stronger as we go along, and the wind never ceases to blow this time of year. Besides, he needs the hands. Ferguson will see how hard ye work. By the time he realizes yer a woman, we’ll be either in Erie or Scotland. If he insists we leave, at least we’ll be a few coins richer and further away from the English.”
