Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (11 page)

Holden’s eyes were haunted, remembering. “I helped hide the body. We left Sombra in the bracken near the shore where no one would find him.” He ploughed a hand through his dark hair. “By God, I should have buried the bastard beneath twenty feet of rock.”

“We can correct that oversight now,” Robert said grimly, joining them. “The
Corona Negra
is still in port. Sombra’s bound to be close.”

Holden nodded. “Duncan, your merchant wench is safe, aye?”

“Safe?” He snorted. “Aye.” Linet was safe. Safe in another man’s arms. A nobleman who’d swept her off her feet with honeyed flattery and dripping wealth…

Duncan’s gut twisted as a horrible possibility wormed its way into his head. It was too awful to contemplate, but…

“Holden,” he barely breathed, “describe Sombra.”

Holden frowned. “The last time I saw him, he was a bloody mess. Thin as a lance, dark beard, dressed like a damned lord, all in black.”

Duncan’s breath froze in his chest. Linet’s nobleman…

Everyone gathered at The Pike’s Head. Within the crowded alehouse, gossip was exchanged, bargains were struck, and impoverished crofters rubbed elbows with wealthy merchants. One had only to wait to learn any piece of news. Including the whereabouts of a missing wool merchant.

Duncan had found nothing all day. No trace of Linet’s pavilion remained. All the other wool merchants could say was that she’d left at dawn in the company of four guards.

Robert, Garth, Holden and he had ransacked the surrounding forest and waded for miles along the banks of the treacherous river nearby. They’d searched till the last of the sun’s rays dwindled and turned the woods into a hopeless tangle of murky gray. To no avail. She’d simply vanished.

He’d failed. He’d promised Linet protection, and he’d failed.

Robert bid him let it go. Garth tried to absolve him of blame. Only Holden understood. Duncan would die before he’d give up the search.

So now, pulling the threadbare wool cloak tighter about his shoulders, he discreetly summoned the alewife for another cup, and then sank back into the shadows of the darkest corner of the pub. He watched, waited, and listened.

The room was alive with chatter. Two velvet-clad youths conversed in gently indignant voices about the price of silk. A wheezing old man clad in a bundle of filthy rags huddled beside the fire. A sailor regaled the serving wench with bawdy roundelays. A reeking leather merchant calculated his day’s earnings by candlelight, rapidly scrawling figures across a ledger. But Duncan was only interested in the Spaniards.

The black-bearded fellow in the middle of the room had drunk far too much. His red-haired friend told him so as Black-beard tipped his ale back yet again, sloshing it over the rim of his cup and onto his crudely bandaged hand. Before he could begin to wail in pain, another Spanish mongrel stumbled into the alehouse, distracting him. The red-haired man made a grand gesture of welcoming the new arrival to their table.

Most of their talk was idle chatter—boasting, ribbing, shared obscenities. Duncan supposed if he wanted informative conversation, he was going to have to prod it along.

Taking one last swig of ale from his cup, he wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and then sprinkled the brew generously over his garments. Tousling his hair into wisps over his forehead, he pulled the hood of the cloak forward to conceal his face and staggered to his feet. Hiding his hands in the folds of worn wool, he hunched and tottered toward the trio of Spaniards.

“Your pardon, gentlemen,” Duncan croaked in the cracked, feeble voice of an old woman.

Black-beard frowned at the intrusion. Red-hair made a show of waving away the odor of ale wafting from Duncan’s garments.

“What do you want, you stinking crone?” Red-hair snapped.

Duncan pretended great secrecy, bending close to Red-hair’s ear and whispering. “El Gallo has sent me.”

“Sent you for what? To polish my boots with your wrinkled backside?”

The Spaniards laughed uproariously.

When they’d settled again, Duncan resumed. “He wishes me to find the one called Sombra.”

The three reivers gaped at this piece of news.

“Sombra?” Black-beard murmured.

“Shh!” Red-hair looked nervously about, and then bunched the front of Duncan’s cloak. “El Gallo told you to go to Sombra?” he whispered.

“Aye,” Duncan said. Then he emitted a nasty wheezing cough that made Red-hair snatch his hand back in revulsion. “He said I might find employment.”

“Employment!” the third fellow barked.

The three Spaniards looked quizzically at Duncan’s huddled form, then at each other. At last, Red-hair nodded, smothering a snort of laughter behind his hairy knuckles.

“Ah, now that I think about it,
si
, Sombra might have room in his employ for a pretty young thing like you.”

The other two snickered into their ale.

Duncan had guessed correctly. It probably wasn’t the first time El Gallo had played such a jest—sending a withered old crone to Sombra.

“Go down to the docks,
abuela
,” Red-hair continued. “Ask for the
Corona
Negra
. Sombra will be aboard.”

Duncan mumbled his thanks and shuffled toward the door of the alehouse while the Spaniards speculated on the outcome of the joke.

“He’ll dump her into the sea directly,” Black-beard guessed, “the toothless old crone.”

“Wait,” Red-hair said. “Toothless? She is toothless?” He hacked out a dry laugh. “Eh, maybe Sombra does have employment for her after all.”

Duncan imagined the crude gesture accompanying that remark. Ignoring them, he surreptitiously pressed a silver coin into the palm of the destitute old man by the fire as he passed, then made his way out of The Pike’s Head.

“You think the wool merchant’s on the
Corona Negra
?” Robert whispered to Duncan.

Holden and Garth followed Robert’s gaze toward the huge ship listing menacingly at the moonlit dock.

“Aye,” Duncan replied stonily. But he didn’t want to think about what had become of her there. If Sombra had touched one hair on her head… He ground his teeth as rage and fear threatened to break the thread of his calm. Whatever had happened to Linet, it was his fault. He shouldn’t have let her out of his sight for a moment. Not for a moment.

His only hope was that Sombra recognized her value, that the whoremonger wouldn’t pass up the chance to turn a profit on such a prize by…damaging her.

From his vantage point high on the hill, Duncan could see the
Corona Negra
etched in shadows against the dark sea. Its furled sails exposed three masts that pointed upward like the skeletal remains of giant fingers. He shivered as the cold mist penetrated his worn garments. Then, taking a deep breath, he stepped forward.

Holden caught him by the shoulder. “You’re not going aboard.” It was a statement, not a question.

Duncan tensed his jaw. “You know what that bastard’s capable of.”

Holden compressed his lips into a grim line and nodded. “Sombra is
my
unfinished business, Duncan, not yours.”

“Listen, you two,” Robert hissed. “Your father will have my head if I let either of you board El Gallo’s ship.” He straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. “I’ll go.”

Garth whipped his head around. “Nay! Absolutely not, Robert.
I
can understand their language best.
I
should be the one to—”

Holden grabbed Garth by the front of his jerkin. “Don’t even think of it, little brother.”

Robert shook his head. “Impossible, Garth. Your
mother
would have my head if I let
you
—”

Duncan seized Robert by the front of his cloak and spoke under his breath. “You won’t breathe a word of this to our mother, Robert, or I’ll break every bone in your body! In fact,” he added, releasing Robert, “I’ll have your oaths, all of you. None of this will pass your lips. Do you understand?”

Holden cursed softly, but gave his assent.

Garth nodded solemnly.

Robert reluctantly agreed. “All right, but I’m not letting any of you board that reiver’s vessel.”

Garth sighed. “Robert, be reasonable. You couldn’t—”

“Wait.” Duncan looked at his trio of determined cohorts. There was only one way to end their dispute. No one could ask for more loyal companions. But this was his fight. He alone was to blame. He alone would enter the dragon’s lair.

“Perhaps Garth
should
go,” Duncan said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “After all, he
is
the best swordsman.”

“Don’t be absurd!” Holden cried.

“What! The best…” Robert choked. “Garth couldn’t slice the end off a roast joint!”

“Are you insulting me?” Garth asked incredulously. “I believe you’re insulting me! And who managed to unhorse you at the last tournament melée?”

“Sheer luck! By the time you’d come round with a blade—”

“
I
had come to your rescue,” Holden informed Robert. “You were fighting like a woman…”

Duncan stole off, leaving them to argue. He knew full well he was the only man for the task. By the light of the moon, he made his way swiftly down the lane toward the
Corona Negra
, toward his maiden in distress.

Slipping aboard the
Corona Negra
was easy for Duncan by the shadow of night. His cloak enwrapped him like a dark cloud. As a precautionary guise, he’d obscured one eye with a makeshift patch cut from his boot, but he doubted any of the reivers would cross his path. Most of the ship’s crew were still deep in their cups at the alehouses lining the harbor.

The watchman at the main mast took him completely by surprise. Duncan almost stepped on the man’s shadow before he noticed him. His heart leaped into his throat and he stopped in his tracks. Fortunately, the man hadn’t let his duties as the watch prevent him from imbibing as freely as his more lucky companions. As Duncan stood frozen in silence, the reiver knocked back a jack of ale in several long gulps and let out a hearty belch.

Duncan stepped carefully backward over the warped wood planking as the watchman grumbled about his sudden shortage of liquor. Then Duncan’s cloak caught on a grappling hook, rending the quiet of the night with a loud rip.

“Eh!” the watchman grunted, whipping around.

It was too late to run. Duncan let loose with a string of the foulest Spanish words he knew and began grappling drunkenly with the snagged garment as if it were the devil himself. The watchman visibly relaxed, chuckling at the obvious misfortune of one of his fellow reivers, and Duncan tore the cloth free.

“
Tonto
!” the watchman guffawed.

Duncan couldn’t have agreed more. He
was
a fool. But now wasn’t the time to discuss it. “
Bastardo
,” he muttered back, spitting at the watchman’s feet. Then he stumbled off in the direction of the hold.

She had to be there. Sombra wouldn’t risk carrying his precious cargo in view of the crew. But he had one chance in two of choosing the right compartment of the hold. Eyeing the twin hatches, he whispered a hasty prayer, then hauled open the one on the left.

The grateful wool merchant was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, Duncan stumbled onto a lively game of dice. Three drunken Spaniards crowded around an oak barrel, fingering piles of silver coins. He cursed under his breath. Mumbling an apology, he tried to extricate himself, but it was too late. They’d spotted a mark.

“Eh, we need a fourth, right, Cristoforo?” one of them asked.

“
Si.
Come in, come in. Your first voyage with El Gallo, no?” He winked at the first.

Duncan grunted.

“Then you are a virgin, no? We break you in right. Slow. Gentle.” He smiled. Two of his teeth were missing. “Come sit here,” he beckoned. “Antonio, pour our one-eyed friend a drink.”

He had no choice. He had to join them. He only prayed they’d tire of the game quickly.

That prayer went unanswered. A full hour passed before any of the players so much as yawned. Then he heard the creaking of the winches outside. The sails were being unfurled. The ship’s undulations began to grow more pronounced. With dawning horror, he realized the
Corona Negra
was casting off to sea.

Linet jerked awake. Dear God, it was night! She must have fallen asleep at her work. The Guild would give her such a tongue-lashing…

She tried to stretch. But her arms and legs were tightly bound. Fear suffocated her for a moment, and she fought for air. Then by sheer will, she forced herself to take several calming breaths. She was all right. Musty cloth filled her mouth, but she could breathe through her nose.

Suddenly she remembered—her ruined goods, the Spanish gentleman, Harold’s collapse, the guards’ attack, an explosion of bright stars. Then this…prison. Her head swam dizzily as her surroundings rocked gently. Her eyes widened as she realized where she was.

A ship’s hold.

A scraping sound came from the darkest corner of the shadowy confines—rats come to torment her, no doubt. Squinting hard, she peered in the direction of the noise and was startled to see the gleam of two human eyes staring at her. They blinked in agitation as if to convey some urgent message. Harold, she realized. It was her servant, bound and gagged, but thankfully alive.

Gradually her eyes grew accustomed to the feeble light, and through obscuring shadows she could discern some of the hold. She wiggled half-numb fingers and tried to adjust to a more comfortable position against the stack of wool-wrapped parcels. Several wooden chests were crammed against one wall, and an oak barrel sat near her head.

By the vessel’s subtle movements, it hadn’t yet set sail. But how long before it did? she wondered with rising anxiety. Sweet Mary, she’d done it this time. She was trussed up like a fly for a spider, captured by God-knew-who for God-knew-what purpose. And her servant was just as helpless as she. For the first time, she had to admit she might have gotten herself into more trouble than she could handle alone.