Beloved Warrior (3 page)

But now that the wind blew briskly, the hammer was silenced. She looked back toward Spain. She was leaving all she knew—and loved—for a husband she didn’t.

And on a slave ship.

She’d noticed the oars when she’d boarded and asked her uncle about it. She knew, of course, her father owned ships, but he had never mentioned they were powered by oars as well as sails.

He’d dismissed her concern with a shrug. “The oarsmen are criminals, Juliana. Murderers. And heretics. Sentenced to death, all of them. Would you rather they die at the hands of the Inquisition?”

She’d had no answer for that. She had heard the horrors of the Inquisition, knew the fear the very name invoked in people.

Still, the sounds from below yesterday had resounded in her head all night. . . .

She tried to dismiss them now and consider her own situation. What if Viscount Kingsley was like her father?

She knew she was nothing but a pawn in her father’s quest for power and money. He’d never loved her. She suspected he didn’t love anyone.

Her mother had compensated for his disdain, for the fact that he’d wanted a son and received only her instead. Lady Marianne Hartford had been educated in London and she’d given her daughter a love of learning and books despite the opposition of her husband. An education was wasted on a woman, he said.

But Marianne had defied him in this one thing and he’d relented eventually. The English, her mother protested, educated their daughters, and if Luis Mendoza wished an English marriage for his daughter, he would be wise to provide her with an education equal to that of English misses.

Her mother had protected her for years. Now Juliana must do the same for her.

Even marry a stranger . . . one her mother feared.

Juliana gazed upward. Her hand shook on the railing as she considered the injustice of it. She had been sold. It was as simple as that.

“Juliana,
es muy bello, no?
”

Her uncle joined her at the railing. No matter how much she tried to avoid him, he always seemed to appear at her side. She duly nodded. It
was
a lovely day except for the company. She’d never cared much for her uncle. He was too much like her father. Hungry for position and power. That he used slave labor did not raise him in her estimation. How could she not have known? Her home, her jewels, her clothing, all came from the misery of others.

“Si, Tio,”
she replied.

“Do not get too much sun,” he said, his eyes roaming over her as if she were a prized animal. “It would not be well for the Earl of Chadwick and the Viscount Kingsley to see you when you are not at your best.”

She saw no reason to answer and gazed out at the sea. With a good wind, her uncle had said, they would see England in five days. They would not stop at London but go up the coast to the Handdon Castle, the northern home of the Earl of Chadwick. Though she had an intense curiosity about her mother’s country, she did not look forward to meeting her intended husband.

Maybe she should get sick. Very sick. Then Viscount Kingsley would not want her.

“You look pensive,” her uncle said, breaking the long silence between them. “Looking forward to seeing England?”

“I wish I knew more about the man you want me to marry.”

“The man you
will
marry,” he corrected.

“And if I find him lacking?”

He shrugged as if that was of no matter. “This union will help your family and your country.”

“And if Viscount Kingsley finds me lacking?”

“He has already seen a miniature of you. He is quite entranced, I’m told.”

She had hoped otherwise. “Have you met him?”

“
Si.
He is a handsome lad.”

Juliana heard the rattle of a chain through the grated latch that ran to the galley deck, and she shivered.

“You are cold,” her uncle said, removing his uniform jacket.

She shook her head. “I can’t help but think about those men below.”

He shrugged as if they were of no consequence. “They are treated well if they do their work. You need not worry about them. Look ahead, instead. Look to England. Your home.”

“My home is in Spain.”

An impatient look flashed across his face and the charming uncle dissolved as his voice took on a harshness. “I must leave you now,” he said. “You and I and my first officer will sup together tonight.”

She didn’t want to sup with the first officer, who looked at her with greedy eyes and never missed a chance to brush against her. He was coarse and loud and seemed to enjoy the misery below deck.

“I am tired,” she said, “and if I am to be at my best I should retire early. Also my maid continues to suffer. Could you please send something to my cabin?”

“I will send something for her,
querida mia.
” He fastened her with his dark eyes. “But you
will
join me for supper.”

Her uncle left her and she remained where she was, enjoying the fresh sea breeze.

Then she heard the sound of a key turning in a lock and turned toward the grate leading down to the rowing deck. A young boy waited as the grate opened. His ankles were encased in metal bands linked by a chain and he carried a bucket that seemed too heavy for him. He had no shirt, and his arms were bruised. His eyes were lowered as he descended into the oarsmen’s deck.

She instinctively glanced down after him.

Rows of nearly naked men lay over oars. She saw blood on the back of one. She knew she should look away and started to do so when one of the oarsmen looked up.

Several days’ beard covered his cheeks, but his hair had been cropped short. His eyes met hers and his mouth turned up into a sardonic smile, even as he straightened to hold her gaze. His eyes were fierce, glowing with anger. And hate.

Then he looked away, arrogantly dismissing her as if she were less than a bothersome fly.

“Juliana?” Her uncle returned to her side. “I would stay away from the grate,” he said, a frown on his face.

She would have no trouble following her uncle’s order. The image of the oarsman was seared into her mind, especially the hate. She’d shuddered and her uncle apparently misunderstood it.

“They cannot harm you,” he said. “They are well secured.”

But it hadn’t been fear she felt, rather pity and horror.

“The boy . . .”

“A thief from Madrid. He is lucky he is not at the oars,” her uncle said indifferently. Then he changed the subject, as if bored with the current one. “We will be running close to France,” he continued. “Do not light a lantern at night.”

“We are not at war with France now.”

“Some do not recognize that fact,” he said.

She glanced at the two small cannons, one on each side of the ship. They would be of little help if they encountered a hostile war ship.

“We should be safe,” he said. “But do not shine light when it is not necessary.”

She retreated to her cabin and tended to her maid, who had not been able to keep a morsel down. But in her mind she still heard the pound of the drum and the lift of oars and the ocassional cry of pain. She still felt the fury of the oarsman. She knew the image would haunt her sleep.

ATRICK leaned his head on the oar’s shaft and tried to rest. Every bone and muscle in his body screamed in agony.

If Manuel’s nod meant he could steal the key, they had little time. Things had to happen, and happen quickly. There would be no time to second-guess or ponder the consequences. The problem was that after hours of rowing, none of his fellow oarsmen were in any shape to overtake their burly guards.

Mayhap the nod meant nothing at all. Just false hope. The other rowers were a mixture of Christians, Jews and Moors. They came from a variety of countries and spoke a dozen different languages. They were here as prisoners of war, heretics in the eyes of Spain, Spanish criminals. And as rowers, they were even less than that.

They had been so brutalized and starved, some of them would sell their mothers for an extra piece of stale bread. Many couldn’t communicate with each other except by grunts and shared pain. He was unsure of most of them but, hoping for a chance to escape, he’d tried to build some trust in those around him. Sometimes he gave a piece of his bread to someone who needed it more than he did, or a sip of his water when he believed another’s throat was burning more than his.

But beyond these three benches, he wasn’t sure how the others would react.

He prayed they wanted freedom as much as he did.

The light that slivered through the openings for the oars faded. The oil lamps on both ends of the deck were dimly lit. The grate overhead had been closed and neither air nor light filtered through.

For a moment, he recaptured the image of the woman staring down at him.

Ach, but it had been a long time since he’d seen a woman, particularly one as bonny as this one. Just one glimpse had captured her in his mind. Hair the color of dark gold and the most unusual eyes he had even seen. Gray, or were they blue? Edged by violet.

He tried to banish the image. The devil knew it would do him no good. Still, he ached at the sight of her. Six years now in the galleys, longer than any man here. The painful swelling under the loincloth, though, told him he hadn’t entirely forgotten some things.

He felt a touch at his shoulder and he swung around. Manuel was two rows back with a bucket of beans and an armful of tin plates. Plates were always collected after the meal because the guards were fearful of them being used as weapons.

Patrick glanced around. The eyes of the oarsmen were fixed on the slow progress Manuel made down the aisle. Patrick studied the fixed gaze in the lad’s eyes, the bruises on his arms.

His body tensed as Manuel drew nearer, moving slowly and cautiously. There were a hundred oarsmen, and he had to be careful not to spill a drop, lest he incur a beating.

Finally Manuel reached him. Patrick took a plate while Manuel filled it and passed it down the bench. Then a second.

Manuel lowered his head as he cautiously filled Patrick’s plate. “I have it,” he whispered in Spanish.
“A la noche.”

He nodded slightly.

“Sleep,” Manuel said in broken English. “Guards sleep.” With his hand he gestured placing something into a cup. If Patrick understood correctly, Manuel had drugged the wine.

Even better. Apparently he’d been able to steal some opium from the surgeon. Manuel had told him the surgeon used the drug on occasion.

“Gracias,”
Patrick said, his eyes indicating the plate.

Manuel moved on, his back obviously tense. He also moved as if in pain.

Patrick swore to himself. Manuel was a handsome lad with black hair and lively dark eyes. At least they had been lively when he’d first come on board. The last six months had taken their toll on him.

He busied himself with the beans. To do anything else would invite unwanted attention. But he glanced at the guards who were drinking wine. Their heads were nodding, and they would not be relieved until shortly before dawn. God bless Manuel, but Patrick flinched knowing what the lad must have suffered to get the key and the opium.

After gulping the beans and handing his tin plate back to Manuel, he leaned against Denny, who leaned against the next man, who leaned against the side of ship for sleep, but Patrick’s eyes never left the guards.

Eventually, he noticed the guards’ eyes were closed. Manuel quietly approached the sleeping guards. One sprawled against a wall, his eyes shut. Two others rolled over. The fourth, obviously aware that something was amiss, tried to rouse his companions. He had just opened his mouth to speak when Manuel quickly slit his throat, then calmly slit the throats of the others.

Patrick felt no regret. Those particular guards had wielded their whips with pleasure and had tormented Manuel. But he found himself aching for a lad who committed the acts so coldly.

Then Manuel was next to him, unlocking the chain that anchored the men to the bench. Denny stared at him, puzzlement in his eyes. But the Moor next to him, Kilil, had seen what had happened and was instantly on his feet.

Patrick had learned Spanish in the past eight years. He’d had to in order to survive. He also spoke English, Gaelic and French. He’d learned a few Arabic words from Kilil.

He left the bench and went down the aisle with Manuel, unlocking each chain, whispering to each man on the aisle, asking for silence. As stunned as they were at their new circumstances, they complied. Mayhap part of it was stark terror. They all knew the price of mutiny.

Patrick went to the dead guards and checked for keys to the grate that covered the entrance to the hold. Their freedom depended on getting that grate open. But as he feared, there were no keys. He relieved them, though, of their daggers and a cutlass one wore. After a second’s thought, he added the bloodied whip to his cache of weapons, along with the short sticks the guards had used to beat the prisoners.

Two men appeared at his side. He knew neither of them well, though he thought they had been oarsmen for at least two years. But they had been at opposite ends of the ship and talking was not permitted.

He recognized from their manner that they were natural leaders. Good or bad, he didn’t know, but he wanted them on his side. Needed them. He handed each man one of the daggers he had taken. He kept the cutlass for himself.

“We have to wait until the guard changes,” Patrick explained. “They will open the grate then.”

“Nae if they dinna hear the ones they replace. And those seem well dead, the devil take their black souls.”

Patrick recognized the thick brogue of Highlands from the taller man.