by Cory Barclay
He looked down at Rowaine. Sweat dripped from his forehead and landed on her face as he spoke. “My condolences, Row. This is terrible. Poor lad probably sank himself in the ocean in the middle of the night, when no one would notice him missing.”
Finally, Rowaine closed her eyes. The familiar oranges and yellows and greens beat against her eyelids. She felt the wetness on her eyelashes, on her eyes, on her cheeks. He was so young . . . but so damaged.
A bell rang out.
Daxton snapped to. He ran his hand along Rowaine’s curly red hair, then jumped up, facing the main mast, where the bell was.
“Captain! We have company! A ship’s on the rise!” the shout called.
“Can you take care of it, Dax?” Rowaine asked.
Daxton cleared his throat. “Row, you’ll have time to mourn your loss. We all will. But your crew needs to see their captain. It’s the first ship we’ve seen in a week—the first impression these youngsters will get of you.”
He held out a strong hand.
Rowaine struggled, choking on her own spit. She took Daxton’s hand and he pulled her up. She coughed and wiped the tears with her sleeve. “You’re right,” she said, stern but weak. Strutting toward the aft of the ship, she drew her cutlass. Its steel glistened in the sun. She raised it to the sky.
“Man the cannons, boys! Train them on the ship! Let’s see what these bastards have to give us! Charlie, get those ropes and ladders ready. Jerome, get your needles and saws set—let’s see if they want blood.”
She could hear the crew cheering, but it all seemed hollow to her, like it was coming from beneath the sea.
The target boat was small—much smaller than the Pride—with a blue and yellow flag.
Daxton moved alongside Rowaine. “By the wood and shape of the hull,” he said, “I’d say it’s from the English coast. Looks like a simple junk. Could be our fateful wool trader.”
Rowaine steadied her breath. “The tradeship we’re after is supposed to fly the yellow, red, and blue of Holland.”
The junk stopped dead in the water, apparently fearful of the approaching raiders and the cannons aimed at its sails. The possibility of a violent death was always a powerful threat on the open water.
“I’m not afraid to use these cannons!” Rowaine called out as the Pride closed in.
A man cowered near the main mast of the junk, his hands high in the sky. “We’re but simple traders, madame! We mean ya no harm!”
“Same can’t be said about us, friend!” she yelled, her fiery hair blowing in the wind. “We’re coming aboard! If you try to stop us or hide anything, you’ll be the first one to feel the sting of my blade!”
It didn’t take long for the pirates of the Lion’s Pride to set ledges and ladders to the other boat. Rowaine was the first to cross, still holding her cutlass as she edged her way over the plank-bridge.
The captain of the other ship wore a proper captain’s hat, with tufts of gray sticking out from the brim. His face was bright red.
Rowaine pointed her cutlass at the man. “Your name, sir?”
The man removed his hat and held it to his chest. “Jergen, m’lady. This here be the Willow Wisp.”
“I am Captain Rowaine Donnelly of the Lion’s Pride.”
Fifteen of her hardest men surrounded her. Even the boys who’d just recently joined her crew made themselves seem dirtier and angrier by painting their faces and teeth with charcoal.
Jergen’s eyebrows raised. Rowaine wasn’t sure whether it was because the man was looking at a female captain, or because he was aware of the Pride’s reputation. Or both.
“What are you transporting, Captain Jergen?”
Jergen smiled meekly. Obviously he wasn’t accustomed to being addressed as “Captain.” The few teeth he had were brown from rot. “Dyes an’ pris’ners, m’lady. Dyes an’ pris’ners.”
“Are you the captor, or the dye-merchant?”
“The second one, m’lady.”
Rowaine hawked phlegm on the floorboards. “The next question is very important, Captain Jergen.” She paused. “Are you going to make this more difficult than it has to be?”
Jergen shook his head profusely. “By Gods, no! What’s mine’s yours, m’lady. M’wares be mostily insured. But if ya could spare a few teeny things for us to get back to shore, I’d be ’bliged.”
Rowaine eyed the dingy captain. “I’ll see what I can do, Jergen.” She faced her crew of smiling faces. “First thing we do, gentlemen, is separate the traders from the prisoners. Daxton, I’ll leave you in charge of that. The others, search below deck for the wares that Captain Jergen is holding.”
The bodies swarmed past Rowaine, their boots thumping against the wooden floor. She sheathed her sword and crossed her arms over her chest. She watched the men work.
A woman’s voice cried out. It came from the back of the boat, where a woman was being separated from her baby.
Rowaine stormed to the end of the ship and held out her hands. She leered at a man in a ragged robe, who appeared more like a priest than a prisoner, and a scruffy young lad standing behind him. The priestly man held the hand of the girl who had cried out—younger than Rowaine but still a woman, fiercely latched onto her child.
A tall, handsome man with a head of thick, blond hair pulled a sword from its sheath, stepping in front of another woman, this one wearing spectacles.
Instead of pulling her cutlass, Rowaine drew her pistol from the back of her waistband. She held the gun on the tall man and pulled back the matchlock. “Careful there, stranger,” she said flatly.
Two men beside the blond man—soldier types—had their hands on their weapons.
Rowaine’s eyes drifted to the two soldiers. “If one of you moves any closer to your weapon, the man you’re charged with protecting gets a bullet through his nose.”
“You’re making a mistake, my lady,” the tall man said in choppy English. “These four here are my prisoners.” He motioned with the edge of his blade at the priestly man, the scruffy lad, the woman, and the baby.
Rowaine chuckled. “You’re holding a baby prisoner?”
The man scoffed. “Allow me to introduce myself, my lady. My name is Gustav—”
“Don’t care what your name is. Explain yourself.” Rowaine kept her gun aimed at the man’s face. All around her, she could hear her crew loudly rummaging through the ship’s possessions and tossing things aside. Daxton came to stand behind her.
The man with the gun aimed at his nose continued speaking. “I’m taking these two prisoners to Germany, my lady. They are fugitives. The young lad, he’s also a fugitive, and I’m selling him as a slave.”
“What did they do?”
Gustav cocked his head. “Pardon?”
“What did the woman and the priest do?”
“They killed my brother. And the young man there killed his own father. These are frightful people, my lady.”
Rowaine pursed her lips.
“It’s not true, madame!” the young woman with the baby shrieked. “We were just living our lives decently, and this man stole us away. Please help us!”
“He burned my church to the ground,” the priestly man added softly.
Rowaine shooed away the soldier trying to take the baby from the woman. “Give the whelp here.”
“N-no! Anything but that. Please, I beg of you.” The woman was frantic, gripping her baby tighter. The child was now crying.
Rowaine sighed and put her gun away, which caused Daxton to draw his own gun and point it at the tall man with the blond hair—the apparent captor.
“You’re some kind of bounty hunter . . . Gustav, is it?” Rowaine asked.
The man narrowed his eyes. “I am merely trying to avenge the death of my brother, my lady.”
“I can understand that,” Rowaine said, frowning. She wagged her fingers in the direction of the woman. “What is your name, lass?”
“Sybil.”
“Sybil, if you want me to help you, give me you
r baby. She doesn’t deserve to be part of this.”
Sybil sniffled. “My child is a boy.”
Rowaine kept wagging her fingers. “Give the boy here.”
“What are you going to do with him?”
“I simply want to look at him.”
Sybil hesitated for a long moment. Finally, she handed her baby to Rowaine.
Rowaine cradled the child, beaming at the boy’s innocent face and deep blue eyes. For some reason, the boy’s face reminded Rowaine of Dominic, and it nearly brought tears to her eyes.
“What are you planning to do, my lady?” Gustav asked. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Shut your mouth.” Rowaine shot steely eyes at the man. She grinned back at the baby. “What’s the babe’s name?”
Sybil wiped tears from her eyes. “Peter, my lady.”
“Hello, Peter,” Rowaine said in her best baby voice. The child whined and closed his eyes, clawing with small fingers at the bulge of Rowaine’s breasts.
“Sometimes we call him Little Sieghart, though,” Sybil said, smiling down at her child.
A jolt went through Rowaine’s head. She imagined she hadn’t heard correctly.
A moment of quiet followed. Only the sound of hooting pirates filled the sky.
“Your child’s name is Peter Sieghart?” Rowaine asked, eyes aghast.
Sybil nodded.
“After whom?”
Sybil glanced at the priest by her side. “Dieter and I named him after my father, Peter Griswold, who was murdered unjustly.”
“The child’s surname—where does that hail from?”
“Er, well, it comes from a friend of ours, a man who saved our lives. His name was Georg Sieghart.” Sybil scratched her head. “Why do you ask, my lady?”
Rowaine’s heart pounded in her stomach. She nearly dropped the baby. For a long moment, she was silent, her eyes glazed over.
“My lady?” Sybil asked again.
Finally, Rowaine snapped to and refocused on Sybil and spoke.
“I’ve been searching for him for ten years. Georg Sieghart is my father.”
PART II
Baying of the Hounds
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SYBIL
Sybil hiked her dress to her knees, grabbing the hems in both hands. She took a long step from the railing of the Willow Wisp to the railing of the Lion’s Pride. Dieter held her arm to steady her. Teetering, she fell into his chest with a gasp.
“I have you,” Dieter whispered in her ear, clutching her close.
Sybil looked over her shoulder. Martin held out a bundled Peter with steady hands from the edge of the Wisp. The baby was silent, unaware that, for just a moment, he was held over a twenty-foot drop to dark waters below.
Sybil snatched Peter in her arms and Dieter helped Martin board the Pride. The newcomers were given dark looks by the pirates on board, the worst from a bearded man with a shiny bald head who introduced himself as Daxton Wallace, the ship’s carpenter.
Rowaine stood at Sybil’s side, sword in hand. When Gustav Koehler moved to step toward the deck of the Pride, Rowaine held her sword at the tall man’s throat.
“Not you,” she said.
Gustav’s neck jerked back. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not boarding my ship.”
A breeze blew Gustav’s blond hair across his face. He stammered. “B-but these are my prisoners! It’s my legal right to stay with them until I transport them to Germany.”
Rowaine shook her head. “Your legal right ended when you sailed into the middle of the North Sea, Herr Koehler. Your delivery ends here, I’m afraid.”
Sybil and Dieter shared a look, but said nothing.
Gustav gave an icy stare over Rowaine’s shoulder to the priest and his wife. Through tight lips he said, “Captain, you can’t do this.”
Daxton stepped beside Rowaine. “Try her,” he said, folding his thick arms over his chest. A dozen other crewmen crowded the ship’s helm, all leering at Gustav and Hedda.
Gustav spun toward his two guards, his expression demanding they do something. But Kevan and Paul wore blank looks on their faces.
Kevan, the dark-haired one, leaned toward Gustav’s ear. “We’re sorely outnumbered, my lord. I don’t fancy getting my blood spilled on the decks of this shoddy boat. I presume I speak for Paul, too, when I say that.”
The blond soldier nodded earnestly.
Gustav clenched his fists and let out a low growl. “Damn you, lady.”
“Careful with your words, sir,” Rowaine said flatly, her lip curling upward. “They can get you killed out here.”
Looking past Rowaine at Dieter and Sybil, Gustav growled, “This isn’t over, you devils.”
Rowaine ignored the comment and pushed her ship away from the Willow Wisp with her foot. Her eyes remained locked on Gustav’s until the space between the two vessels reduced Gustav’s face to a tiny speck in the distance.
She turned and, resting her hand on Sybil’s shoulder, set her gaze on Daxton. “Guide the ship back to port, Dax.”
“Already?” the carpenter said. “We’ve been out less than a week.”
“I’ll make it up to you.” She faced Sybil. “Follow me to my room. I want you to tell me about my father.”
Back in Rowaine’s cabin, Sybil sat next to her on the bed, while Dieter perched himself in the corner, his hands folded on his lap.
“He was a courageous man,” Sybil said. “He saved both my life and Dieter’s when we were wrongfully jailed. He also helped us escape Bedburg and the tyranny there. A battle was raging at the time, so we slipped away with relative quiet, captain.”
Sybil couldn’t help but stare at the young captain. With her flaming crimson hair, her piercing green eyes, and her leather shirt and pants, she struck an imposing figure.
“Where did you go?” Rowaine asked.
“Georg told us to head for the Dutch coast, so we did. I was bulging at the belly with Peter by the time my father’s trial ended.” Sybil peered at her sleeping child resting peacefully at the head of the captain’s bed. “I never saw my father again, but I heard he was framed, labeled, and indicted as the Werewolf of Bedburg before they killed him. We had to leave the city immediately. And, once again, we have Georg to thank for that.”
Rowaine smiled softly. “He must have really loved you two.”
“He said we reminded him of a life he once had . . . one that he wanted us to carry on for him.”
Rowaine sniffed, her gaze drifting away toward the cabin door.
Dieter cleared his throat and shifted his weight. “The last time I saw Georg, captain, he was surrounded by four soldiers. It looked dire. The soldiers were under the employ of Gustav’s brother, Johannes von Bergheim.” Dieter’s eyes dipped to the floor. “I-I’m sorry, my lady, I thought you deserved to know.”
Something caught in the back of Rowaine’s throat. She coughed. “Please, you may call me Rowaine, or Row.” She picked at her hands. “And even that is somewhat of an untruth.”
Sybil cocked her head. “How so?”
“I was born Catriona, daughter to Agnes and Marcus Donnelly.” She stared off. “My mother used to call me Cat. I don’t know why—she hated cats.”
“Marcus Donnelly?” Sybil said. “So Georg was not your father?”
“Not by blood,” Rowaine said, shaking her head. “My mother was Irish, transplanted to Germany. My father was a captain in the Welsh army. A terrible man. He beat my mother. And hated me.” Rowaine twisted in her seat uncomfortably.
Sybil could tell it was difficult for Rowaine to speak of her past. She likely hadn’t done so in a long time. If ever. Sybil gave her a warm, kind smile, then gently touched her knee.
“Georg was fighting for the Duke of Parma at the time,” Rowaine continued, “Alexander Farnese. His company came to my village. Since my father was a Welsh captain, he was clearly Georg’s enemy. My father took my mother hostage—trying to save his own skin, of course.” She paused, then fin
ished. “And with one well-aimed arrow, Georg killed him.”
For several moments the room grew silent. Then, Rowaine added, “Georg was always an expert with a bow . . . and I remember feeling a weight of relief when I watched my father die. His eyes never closed, the shock on his face frozen.” Rowaine faced Sybil. “Does that make me a bad person?”
Dieter answered. “God will forgive you, Rowaine. You saw a man die—a man who hurt your mother. It is a natural feeling.”
Rowaine leaned forward, stooping her head. “Georg took us in. At first I was reluctant. I loathed him, if I’m being honest. He was crude, dirty—I could barely understand him. I believe my mother felt the same way. But he grew on us. Without question my mother fell in love with him. As did I, coming to love him as the father I felt I never had. He was kind, affable, sometimes even funny . . .”
Sybil grinned. “He did have a way with words . . . even when he didn’t use the right ones.”
Rowaine smiled as she thought about that, then turned serious again. “Eventually, Georg had to return to his soldierly duties. We were poor. By that time, my mother was pregnant with my baby brother. I was fourteen years old. It was the last time I saw Georg.” Rowaine’s voice cracked. She eyed the floorboards as she cleared her throat and set her jaw.
“The killer came less than two months later, while Georg was gone. We were living in the house Georg provided for us, a small place, but secluded away from anyone else. We had fields of wheat, barley, and potatoes. I always wondered what brought the killer to our house. Was he there to avenge my father’s death? A Welsh soldier, perhaps? Was he there for Georg, to finish a vendetta after finally finding where he lived? I don’t know.”
Rowaine paused and closed her eyes. It took her a long time to continue. She finally drew in a deep breath and her body shivered. “I was away in the fields when I heard the scream. The killer never saw me.” Her voice grew dark. “But I saw him.”
A thick silence filled the room again, until Sybil heard a small sob. She turned, but Rowaine’s curly locks hid her face.
