Pirates of Britannia Box Set

by Devlin, Barbara

  One ship became two. And then three, four, five, until a score of ships with blackened sails roamed the seas.

  These were his warriors. A legion of men who adored him, respected him, followed him, and, together, they wreaked havoc on the blood ties that had sent him away. And generations upon generations, country upon country, they would spread far and wide until people feared them from horizon to horizon. Every pirate king to follow would be named MacAlpin, so his father’s banishment would never be forgotten.

  Forever lords of the sea. A daring brotherhood, where honor among thieves reigns supreme, and crushing their enemies is a thrilling pastime.

  These are the pirates of Britannia, and here are their stories….

  Prologue

  Castle Heathmark

  Leicester County, England

  1418 A.D.

  Sir Ioan Bowlin, revered knight of the Homme du Sang, peered down at the pale, ravaged face of the man he’d called “father” for more than thirty years. The man who’d taught him to ride, to shoot a bow, to swing a sword. The man who’d brought him his first comely maiden and plied him with wine until he he’d grown drunk enough to tup her—though clumsily done. The man who’d shown him what it meant to be a protector, a man of honor, a man of God. The man, even now, staring into the ceiling of his dark, foul-smelling bedchamber, had been his idol, the one he’d looked up to, the man who’s pride he’d wanted to earn…

  The man was a liar.

  “I meant to tell you when you reached your majority…” the man rasped, his voice nigh lost to the coughs sapping the life from his frail body. “But, by then, you were already bound for knighthood. And once you came home…you were already beguiled by Mary. I did not want to burden you with the truth when you were just married. If I had told anyone about the circumstances of your birth, you would have been cut out like a black mark—Mary’s father would not have agreed to the match. Do you not see? I did it for you!” His voice shrill, the man who had called himself “father” began hacking, his frail body shaking with each cough.

  Turning away to pace the room, Ioan couldn’t begin to bring his thoughts to rights. There was just too much to digest…

  Stolen women, abduction, pirates, smugglers, ransom…

  “What you are saying is madness!” he cried, throwing his hands in the air, frustration moving him as a puppeteer would. “My own mother, a bride stolen by pirates!”

  The man in the bed wheezed then coughed great shuddering coughs that nearly threw him from the bed. At the man’s side in an instant, Ioan helped him to take a sip of water.

  “Father…” The word now seemed false, like a hideous lie burning on his lips. “What am I to believe? None of this makes sense,” he said, disbelief tainting his tone. “Why did Mother not speak of this?”

  Picturing his mother, Lady Ilone, as she was before the cough took her—tall, lithe, strong, and fierce—he couldn’t imagine anyone ever daring to take her from her husband.

  “She was proud. She feared that if you knew of what happened to her, you would be ashamed of her and of yourself.” The man’s face grew even paler—if that were possible, and his gaze lost its focus. “She loved you, and she loved your father. But when the pirates stole her from her wedding night, she never thought to see her true love again.” Another coughing fit racked his body, and Ioan could naught but watch the man who raised him struggle to breathe. “When I found her begging in the streets of Liverpool, and she’d told me of her plight; how she’d floated for days and nights on a bit of driftwood until a fisherman found her… I knew the Lord had brought her to me. We married—and when she birthed you, I’d never known such happiness. I did what I could to make her comfortable here, and over the years I came to love her, but…” His voice trailed off as a sadness cloaked his expression. “She only ever loved your father.”

  Ioan let those words fill him with a sense of betrayal—his own mother had remained faithful to the man who let her be stolen from his bed. That man deserved only scorn. The urge to spit had bile coating his tongue, but the man’s next words gave him pause.

  “She loved you, too—all of you children—and the fact that I cannot rightly pass the title to you makes my heart break,” the man continued, a pink flush rising into his cheeks, and a harsh light crackling in his eyes.

  “If that bastard Rees hadn’t stolen Ilone, she’d never have jumped overboard to escape. She never would have broken my heart. And you, Ioan, you would have been raised by a father who could have claimed you as his own. But now…”

  Ioan understood without the man completing his thought. As the son of no one, he couldn’t inherit the title of Earl of Heathcombe. That title would pass to the first actual son and heir, his brother—nay, half-brother—Braydon. Once the man before him died, Ioan would inherit nothing, would have nothing but what was on his back, on his horse, and in the sheath at his side. And Mary…what would she say when she heard they had to abandon the home they had built at Heathcombe? She’d only just birthed their son, Robert.

  “I understand, and I will not stand in the way. Braydon can have it,” Ioan uttered, numbness stealing the heat from his blood. “I do wish to know, though… What was my father’s name?”

  The man squinted at him as if he hadn’t heard Ioan speak but after a few heart beats—“I do not know. Your mother…she never said; she only spoke of him in her prayers, whispered conversations between herself and God. I always felt like a cuckold, the man who’d turned her into an unfaithful woman…”

  “Why did you not return her to her husband—my father?”

  This time, the man’s face turned a hideous purple. “Do you think me so selfish that I would keep her from the man who was rightfully bound to her? Before your mother escaped the pirate ship, the pirate—Rees—told her that her husband was dead.”

  Ioan felt the kick of disappointment square in his chest. So…he would never know his true sire. Would never know if he had a true family somewhere. It was ridiculous to feel such loss over a family he hadn’t known he had until five minutes ago. But…the pain was real, agonizing. It gutted him as nothing ever had.

  I will make Rees pay for this…

  The man stared up at him, his dull eyes wide. “But what of you, what will you do?”

  “I will find Rees…” he answered, his tone cutting off the rest of the conversation. And as he sat there, watching the man breathe in shallow gasps, he could focus on only that moment; watching the man he called “father” pass through the gates of Heaven.

  Within two hours, Argus Bowlin, Earl of Heathcombe, died.

  Chapter One

  The Cantankerous Cock

  Dockside in Cobh, Ireland

  1443 A.D.

  “That bastard Berks better not have been lying,” Bruce “the Braw” Bolton grumbled into his fifth mug of ale.

  Robbie tapped his finger against the rim of his first mug, the amber brew still more than half way up the glass. He didn’t like letting the drink dull his senses, especially not when there was business to complete. And cutthroats eying his purse.

  “I trust Mortimer and Scofield,” Robbie intoned, his gaze pinned to the door across the crowded dockside pub. It was filled to the brim with smelly sailors, buxom wenches, and men who looked like they’d rather kill you than share the air with you. But that didn’t bother Robbie. He was right at home among them. “If they say I can trust Berks, I will trust him. Besides,” he said, rolling his shoulders, “I can think of no one else who can get their hands on the information we need.”

  Bruce snorted, then gulped the last of his ale, before wiping the froth from his face with the back of an already soiled sleeve. “What’s this letter you said you found? And what’s it got to do with Ireland? Couldn’t we have asked around in Liverpool?” Bruce’s voice was edging on the whiny, but Robbie knew better than to assume Bruce was complaining. The man would sit through a hail of musket balls without flinching. No…this wasn’t him complaining, this was him forgetting he’d already
asked all those questions; at their hideout in Leeds, at the dock in Liverpool, on their ship crossing the Irish Sea, and not more than thirty minutes ago when they’d first set foot in the teeming pub.

  “I have already answered all those questions, Bruce. And if you call that wench over one more time, I will slit your throat so you can’t swallow another drop.” His voice was hard, without inflection. It was the voice he used when robbing the well-appointed carriages of nobles. Nobles with more money than purpose; men and women who cared more for their baubles than their people. And so, he relieved them of their baubles and purses so they could better recognize the plight of the less fortunate.

  At least that’s what he told himself when he was lying in a bed of gold coins, tupping a comely maid.

  Bruce belched, making Robbie cringe. “Oh, aye, you said the letter mentioned someone of interest—and do not think I wouldn’t kill you before you had the chance to ruin my throat.” Bruce’s sneer was about as menacing as a puppy with a twig.

  Choosing to ignore Bruce’s pathetic threat, Robbie drawled, “And that someone is why we took the ship from Liverpool and are now sitting in this hell-hole by the sea—I really wish you’d stop licking your mug, Bruce.” Suddenly, the image of Bruce as that same puppy with a mug in his maw surfaced in Robbie’s mind. He swallowed the chuckle that emerged.

  “Are you going to finish yours?” Bruce asked, his unfocused eyes gleaming at the mug in Robbie’s grip.

  “No. And neither are you. What good are you to me if you can’t hold a sword—bastard.”

  Bruce shrugged, sniffing. For a man of Bruce’s size—a head taller than most men, and wider than most doorways—he was about as hard as pudding. Until you threatened one of his mates; then, you’d see the true strength of The Braw Bolton. A strength like that came in handy when robbing carriages along the foot of the Pennines in the River Aire valley.

  It was one such carriage, containing a ruddy-faced chinless earl, that had changed the course of Robbie’s life. He’d spotted the carriage through his spyglass from two hillocks away. The road was one less travelled by most nobles because of the rise in highwaymen—so Robbie knew that whoever was in that carriage had to have been desperate to get to wherever they were going. And desperate men usually carried something worth being desperate over. Though the driver had been armed with a hand cannon, Robbie had planned and pulled off many robberies along that road and so he knew just when to strike—as the carriage came around a bend in the road, just around a large boulder. The driver didn’t know what hit him until he landed on his back with Bruce atop him, his knife to the driver’s throat.

  Robbie lost no time in opening the carriage door and leveling his sabre-point at the man inside. A beady-eyed man with a chest bedecked with gold medallions and pendants, his be-ringed hand clutching a long, narrow jeweled box. It only took a sneer and a threat of emasculation to get the spineless man to give over all his valuables—and the box he seemed unwilling to relinquish. Until the tip of Robbie’s dagger was pressed against his groin.

  He thought little of the box until he and Bruce had reached their hideout, which was five miles southwest. But once they reached the safety of their cottage in the woods, Robbie opened the box to find the letter inside it, sealed in red wax with the insignia of a bear.

  Shrugging, curious, he broke the seal and read the letter. He could still remember every word.

  To His Grace the Duke of Revel,

  His majesty, King Henry VI, requests your immediate action regarding the matter of Saban Rees, known as Sabre. You are hereby ordered to commission twelve men of exceptional skill to aid in your search and capture of the smuggler and anyone else connected to the dastardly criminals of the so called Ganwyd o’r Mor. Any of the men who are able to find information pertaining to Rees’s whereabouts or are able to capture him or one of his family will be rewarded with ten pounds of silver.

  Once you have secured the twelve men, send a missive to Captain Marcus Gyland of the Waverunner in Liverpool. He will transport you to Cobh, Ireland where you will begin your mission.

  Grace be to God,

  Sir Aryn Marshall, Secretary of His Majesty’s Council of the Royal Navy

  That name…Rees… It had been the name of the man his father had died cursing. Robbie didn’t understand why that name had stuck with him for so many years—perhaps it was the delirious ramblings of his father as he wasted away—but there was a feeling, a pulling, that caused Robbie to take notice.

  “Saban Rees…” Robbie let the name slip from his lips, like an exhalation long in coming.

  “Careful,” a gritty voice said from behind him. “Yer likely ta get yerself killed sayin’ that name in a place like this.”

  His hand flying to the dagger at his belt, Robbie twisted on his stool to find a reedy man staring down at him. With one eye.

  “Berks,” Bruce hissed. “Thought you were long gone.”

  The man rolled his one eye and snorted. “Och, aye, I should be long gone. The information ye asked for was about as hard ta get as a nun’s virginity. And it didna come cheap.”

  Robbie watched as the long-time smuggler and supplier of stolen goods plopped down on the stool beside him, the linen wrapped around his missing eye slightly askew. Red, wicked looking flesh shown from beneath the fabric before Berks righted it. Robbie wondered what had happened to Berks’s eye, but one man didn’t ask another man about such things. Unless they were drunk. Which they were not.

  “Lass!” Berks bellowed. “Ale!” The wench in the barely tied together bodice and rucked up skirt smiled at him, showing a row of brown teeth. Robbie cringed but said nothing, waiting for Berks to get his drink and take the first gulp. Berks slapped the wench’s arse and she giggled before turning and sauntering over to another thirsty-looking man.

  “What information do you have, Berks?” Robbie asked, eyeing Berks warily. He did trust the man but could he trust that the information he’d bought was good? Robbie and Bruce could very well end up sailing right into a trap; the Irish Sea was rife with Scottish pirates, and Welsh smugglers, and all manner of seafaring criminals—not that he could blame them. Stealing was much more lucrative than tilling the soil or tanning a deer hide. He should know—his own father had died a wasted man, a chivalric knight turned crippled tanner. He’d died a broken man—in body and spirit, whatever the falling boulder hadn’t crushed, his loss of confidence had.

  Berks finished his ale with Bruce looking on lasciviously, then smacked his lips and answered, “No’ here. We can talk upstairs. Ye have a room?”

  Robbie nodded, rising to his feet. He stood a head taller than most men and so it was easy to see every face in the pub. No one seemed all that interested in him or his companions, which was good. He’d hate to kill anyone tonight.

  Bruce wobbled as he stood and Robbie sneered at him, disgusted that the man would allow himself such weakness, especially when he needed to be at his best. They were among potential enemies; letting their guard down could spell disaster—for their plan and for their mortality.

  Robbie led the way to the room he’d procured for the night. He hadn’t been sure if Berks would come through with the information; he had been prepared to wait. He’d already waited months to get to Ireland, and years before that, waiting for God’s mercy as his father lost his mind and his mother lost her will to go on. They were both gone now…and so he no longer waited for God to do anything—he’d do for himself. And if that meant travelling into pirate-infested waters to find the truth of his heritage, then so be it.

  Bruce shut the door behind them as they crowded into the tiny room with the single cot and the grimy window.

  “Speak,” Robbie said, crossing his arms over his chest to keep from throttling Bruce who’d barely made it up the stairs without falling on his goddamn face.

  Berks took a deep breath, his one-eyed gaze flitting about the room as if looking for enemies hiding in the shadows. After finding no one lurking about, he finally spoke. “Saban Ree
s is a cutthroat. They call him Sabre ’cos he’d cut ye in half if ye as much as look at him crooked.”

  Robbie grunted, his thoughts whirling. Saban Rees… Sabre.

  “He’s the captain of the Torriwr, a sloop out of Port Eynon Bay. He suffers nay fools and takes nay prisoners. And now he knows yer lookin’ for him. There are waggin’ tongues in Liverpool.”

  Stunned but not truly surprised, Robbie cursed. “Port Eynon Bay? That’s back across the sea,” he supplied, annoyed that he would have to take another journey on another ship before he could face the man.

  “Aye, tis why word got to Rees before word got to ye…” Now Berks was being a nuisance to the highest order.

  “I did not think it would spread so fast…but there’s little I can do about it now,” Robbie murmured, rubbing at the scruff of hair along his jaw.

  “Ye’d be wise ta head back ta England and never speak of this again. The Ganwyd o’r Mor are ruthless…and Sabre is the leader of only part of those in the faction. The Rees…they be smugglers. Never been caught. Not in forty years. And they will kill ta keep from the hangman’s knot.”

  “If they are so notorious, how was it my father could never find them?” Though…his father had only begun his search for the Rees before his accident, which left him crippled and bed-ridden for more than two years. It had taken sheer stubborn will to relearn to walk again, and by then, he was in no shape to hunt down pirates.

  Berks eyed Robbie incredulously. “Tis no surprise. Few speak of them for fear of losing their tongues or their lives. The Rees are famously infamous—among those who live to speak of them.” Again, Berks looked on edge, as if speaking about the Rees in private could make them materialize in the room with them.

  “Damn,” Bruce blurted, staggering to his feet from where he’d collapsed on the only cot. “What’ll we do now, Robbie? We can’t sail to Port Eynon—back the direction we came, damn you—without getting ourselves strung up and gutted.”