Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (2 page)

“By the Saints,” Robert said, his voice thick with sarcasm, “I believe the lad’s grown since the last time we saw him.”

El Gallo was roughly the size of a young elephant. And he had a temper to match. It was rumored that the sea captain had once torn a servant limb from limb for being late with his supper. No one with an ounce of common sense would pass within arm’s reach of the hotheaded Spaniard.

Until now.

While Duncan watched in amazement, a little bit of a wench stepped out of the crowd and planted herself brazenly before the beast, standing toe-to-toe with El Gallo like a tiny David facing Goliath.

Duncan’s half-brother Garth whispered a prayer of disbelief. “Dear God.”

The woman turned toward them only briefly, but in that instant her image was impressed indelibly upon Duncan’s mind.

Never before had he glimpsed such rare beauty. She must have fallen from heaven. That was the only explanation for such translucent, ethereal skin. Her face, framed by a ruffled veil of ivory silk and a halo of gold, was all cream and roses, surely too delicate to endure the harsh climes of this world. Her lips looked soft and vulnerable, as if she dined on nothing heavier than spun sugar, and her eyes were as wide and innocent as a fawn’s.

She was small, no bigger than a child, and yet the jade-colored kirtle embracing her body left no doubt that she possessed the curves of a young woman. Nay, not a woman, he decided—an angel.

Only this angel was about to confront the devil himself, El Gallo, the most notorious reiver on the high seas.

“If he touches one hair on her head…” Holden challenged.

“God save her,” Garth petitioned.

“She needs my help,” Duncan decided, starting forward.

Robert stopped him, gripping his forearm. “Lads, lads,” he chided, “the maid can take care of herself. Look. She has the letters of marque with her.”

The angel clutched a sealed parchment in her small fist. But that didn’t stop her from looking like a cornered field mouse trembling before the corpulent El Gallo.

A breeze suddenly whipped mischief along the ocean’s edge. It fluttered the angel’s skirts and snatched the veil from her head, startling her and nearly stealing her precious document. The girl made a wild grab for the veil, but the winds had their way with it. It promptly sailed off the dock and into the water, where the greedy sea swallowed it whole.

Her shoulders slumped infinitesimally, and she ran a slender hand through her unbound hair, which had spilled free like honey from a crushed comb.

Duncan let the breath whistle out between his teeth. Her hair was utterly divine. There were long, golden masses of it, all silky and luminous, the color of ripe wheat shining in the afternoon sun and moonlight reflected in a still pool. It cascaded over her shoulders and down her back like a melting halo. He could almost imagine how the shimmering tresses would feel entwined around his fingers.

Then he frowned. The angel had lost her veil. She could just as easily lose her head. “She’s mad.”

“Utterly,” Holden agreed.

“Remarkable,” Robert declared. “She’s the first woman I’ve seen with the mettle to stand up to these despicable reivers. The king obviously supports her claim,” he said in admiration, “and it looks like she’s about to collect what’s owed to her.”

Duncan lowered his brows. “
More
than what’s owed to her, if it’s from El Gallo.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Mettle or not, lads, I suggest we make our presence known until this business is settled.”

His men fanned out among the crowd, finding vantage points where they could see and be seen in their recognizable de Ware tabards. Their hands never strayed far from their hilts. Duncan pretended to idly carve a chunk of driftwood with his dagger, all the while letting the steel glint menacingly across El Gallo’s field of vision. The reiver would know he was being watched.

Linet de Montfort swept the annoying curtain of hair away from her face. She wished she’d taken the time to secure her veil properly. This encounter would be difficult enough without the added distraction of her unruly tresses tangling about her.

“I have the letters here,” she told El Gallo in what she hoped was a firm voice.

“What!” the overgrown, scowling Spaniard boomed at her through his scraggly red beard.

His exclamation did what normally only a thundertube could have—it effectively silenced the bustle of the docks. Merchants halted in the streets. Harlots turned lazy glances his way. Even fishmongers stopped hawking their wares to see who had dared vex El Gallo.

Linet prayed no one could detect the quivering of her knees as she stood on the dock within an ell of the Spaniard they called The Rooster. In the hush, she could hear the lapping of the waves that had devoured her veil and the snapping of Spanish sails. The sudden prankish screech of a swooping gull nearly made her jump out of her skin.

Her sweaty fingertips were smearing the ink of the royal writ. She ran her thumb once again over the wax of King Edward’s seal, reassuring herself that the letters were genuine. Before this behemoth of a man, the document seemed only a frail piece of meaningless parchment.

“You dare bring this to me?” El Gallo snarled, taking a threatening step forward.

Linet resisted the urge to retreat, despite the horrific stories she’d heard, despite the odor of garlic and cheese that suddenly assailed her nostrils and the beady black eyes that stabbed at her like a crow’s beak. She squeezed the letters of marque even more tightly and forced her gaze to his.

The man really did resemble a great rooster, she decided. He was enormous, a full foot taller than any man she’d ever seen, and nearly as big around as he was tall.

More appalling than his size, however, was the fact that no one had offered him any helpful advice regarding his attire. The Spaniard’s clothing looked like an embarrassing accident at a dyemaker’s shop. His sleeves were as yellow as brimstone, and his surcoat was of inferior russet velvet. Deep blue hose wrinkled down his surprisingly spindly legs, a green linen coif stretched across his huge head, and the striped blood-red cloak of nubby serge that attempted to cover it all looked remarkably like a pavilion tent. The orange fuzz of his hair escaped rampantly from the coif on his head and floated about his ample chin in a scruffy beard, only partially concealing the red wattle beneath.

Certainly she had nothing to fear from someone who dressed so distastefully, she tried to convince herself. She swallowed, lifted her chin, and cleared her throat.

“By order of the king—“

El Gallo pecked the writ from her hand like his namesake fowl before she could finish. He held it aloft, over her head, and for a moment his face beamed with gloating.

“You stupid
puta
,” he bit out, “I recognize no…”

Then someone or something in the distance caught his eye, making him flinch. His gaze narrowed, then widened, and his confidence seemed to falter. His lip curled as if he’d tasted rancid meat, and he blew a disgusted breath out through his nose. He muttered a string of Spanish curses. And somehow his sneer evolved into an ingratiating smile.

“As I was saying,” he whined, “I recognize no problem with these letters.”

Linet blinked. Surely she’d heard wrong. Of course he had to abide by the king’s decree. The royal agent had assured her that any document bearing Edward’s seal was considered law. But she hadn’t expected the imperious El Gallo to yield so easily.

The outcome exhilarated her. With the backing of King Edward, the infamous El Gallo was no more threatening than a cock crowing over a yard of cackling hens.

Revenge would be sweet.

“You see?” Robert said, clapping his hands together when the men had regrouped atop the hill. “She did it—collected her debt without our help.”

Duncan wasn’t fooled. If it hadn’t been for the presence of the de Ware knights and the silent threat of their blades, the Spanish reiver might have done the girl harm.

Now, at least, Duncan could rest easy. She seemed safe enough. Her old servant wheeled several casks of Spanish wine from the hold of the
Corona Negra
across the dock, payment from Spain for the merchant’s previous losses. And El Gallo, apparently unwilling to witness the confiscation of his goods, had disappeared into his cabin.

“Now can we go home to supper?” Robert rubbed his belly. “Watching that fat rooster strut across the docks has made my mouth water.”

Holden nodded surreptitiously toward a trio of moon-eyed young ladies making their way up the hill and muttered, “You’re not the only one drooling over your next meal.”

Duncan glanced at the giggling maids and sighed. He’d wanted to stay, to get a closer look at the angel on the docks. But the women were coming for him. They were
always
coming for him. Ever since his nine-year-old betrothed had fallen from a horse and died last year somewhere in France, every marriageable female in the country between the ages of five and ninety sought him out. Doggedly. Hanging on his every word as if it were a jewel. Twittering over his most trifling comment. It was no wonder he’d taken to disguising himself half the time.

“Garth,” he murmured resignedly.

“I believe it
is
your turn,” Robert said, clapping Garth on the shoulder.

“Make quick work of them, eh?” Holden added.

“But—” Garth looked horrified.

“There’s a lad,” Duncan said with a wink as the three of them whirled away, leaving Garth to fend off the feminine crush.

“What!” Lord James de Ware fired the word like a rock from a catapult, garnering the instant attention of the scores of diners who sat at the trestle tables in his great hall. His eating dagger hung in the air halfway to his mouth, a thick slice of venison balanced precariously on its edge.

Duncan pushed away his own empty platter. He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, and watched his father expectantly, vaguely amused. To Duncan’s right, Holden, ever the warrior, tightened his fingers reflexively on his knife. Beyond Holden, Garth appeared to be holding his breath.

“Duncan, is it true?” Lady Alyce asked, her buttered knife poised over a piece of bread, unruffled by neither her husband’s outburst nor the subsequent silence in the great hall. “A woman obtained royal letters of marque?”

“A woman?” Lord James echoed in wonder. The slice of meat had fallen from his knife, but he still held the blade aloft.

“Aye.” Duncan crossed his arms over his chest. “A wool merchant. We all saw her.”

Lady Alyce leaned forward, her gray eyes twinkling. “So an Englishwoman claimed her cloth was stolen at sea by Spaniards, and King Edward gave her leave to collect her due from any Spanish ship in port?”

“Aye.”

“Well! And what did the Spanish captain have to say about that?”

Duncan shrugged. “Something…Spanish. Something about the merchant girl’s parentage, I believe.” A smile tugged at his lips. “Isn’t that right, Garth?”

Young Garth, whose church studies had left him with both a command of several languages and the reluctance to discuss such wickedness, colored and grew singularly obsessed with his trencher of pottage.

“She was awarded letters of marque?” asked Lord James, still confounded. “A woman?”

“A woman,” Lady Alyce gushed, raising her pewter cup as if in a toast.

Lord James muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “A woman merchant can only mean trouble.”

“Agreed,” Holden chimed in.

Lady Alyce fluttered her hands, waving away their inconsequential opinions. “Well, I believe it’s quite marvelous. With the king’s seal on the documents, there’s really nothing the Spaniard can do, is there?” she said, popping a sweetmeat into her mouth.

Duncan scowled at that. He’d been there. He’d seen the anger in El Gallo’s eyes. There was always something an affronted Spanish reiver could do. They had notoriously long memories when it came to matters of revenge.

“How much was she owed?” Lord James asked around a bite of venison.

“Five hundred pounds,” Duncan replied.

Lord James let out a low whistle. “And all this on her word alone?” he said, louder than was polite. “The word of a
merchant
woman?”

Duncan’s hackles rose, and he felt Garth’s uneasy regard upon him. His father knew better than to prick him with that point. If there was one thing Duncan couldn’t abide, it was prejudice against commoners. Many a time he’d used his sword to protect a peasant’s head. He admittedly had a weakness for the weak. In fact, Lord James liked to grumble that if King Edward himself were drowning beside a nameless orphan, Duncan just might save the child first. Duncan usually responded with a judicious shrug.

This time he couldn’t let his father’s attack go unanswered. “My lord, just because she’s a merchant doesn’t mean she’s not entitled to the same justice as—”

“I’m certain your father means no slight to merchants,” Lady Alyce intervened. “Do you, James?”

Lord James grumbled into his beard.

“But tell me,” she continued, “what did the maid collect in payment?”

“Wine,” Holden supplied. “Spanish wine.”

“Wine?” Lord James asked. “What would a wool merchant want with wine?”

Duncan raised his brows. “She could sell it, I suppose.”

Robert nodded. “Good Spanish wine is a profitable commodity.”

“She can’t sell it now,” Garth murmured.

Everyone stared at Garth.

Duncan stopped mid-bite. “What do you mean?”

“After all of you…left,” Garth said pointedly, “she dumped the lot of it.”

The back of Duncan’s neck prickled. “Dumped?”

“She uncorked the casks and dumped the wine into the harbor,” Garth told him.

A collection of gasps circled the table.

“What!” Lady Alyce crowed with glee. “Why, I’ll wager the captain’s face turned as red as his wine over that!”

Duncan felt all the breath go out of him. The girl must be mad—deliriously, raving mad. It was foolhardy enough that she’d publicly humiliated a Spanish reiver with her royal letters of marque, but to add further insult by dumping out good Spanish wine…that was pure lunacy. Didn’t she know that her slight could bring the wrath of the Spaniards down upon not only her, but the entire village?