The Firebrand (37 page)

It was the Blade of Barra, though, who turned away and strode from the chamber.

****

Alan’s crew was hard at work readying the ship by the time Wyntoun arrived on deck. Small boats were continuing to run in and back from the shore with last minute provisions. Gillie, eager to be useful, was at his master’s side the moment Wyntoun had deposited the maps in his cabin and climbed to the high, stern weather deck.

“I will be assigning you to work with Master Coll again,” Wyntoun told the lad as Alan made his way toward them. “No one knows more about sailing than Coll, Gillie. There is a great deal you can learn from the man.”

Gillie nodded, barely containing his excitement and holding his new leather cap in place as a predawn breeze buffeted him slightly. He was quite the dashing figure in the clothing Adrianne had had made for him. All leather with undergarments of linen. Wyntoun slapped him on the back. He himself would be interested in seeing whether the clothes would make any improvement in the lad’s sores. Without a word, Gillie turned and scanned the deck for the seasoned sailor.

“Coll is still ashore, but we’ve a couple of new lads joining the crew,” Alan announced, arriving at their side. He pointed toward a couple of boys carrying carefully rolled sails below decks. “Why don’t you go and give them a hand until he comes aboard.”

With a quick nod of the head, Gillie scrambled off to do as he was told.

“The lad looks eager enough.”

“Why is Coll still ashore?” Wyntoun asked, surveying the readiness of everything else on deck. “The tide will turn shortly.”

“Aye. He’ll be here. The laird called for him.”

“I wonder what my father is up to now?”

“Who could say? Ah, good.” Alan pointed as Coll and another boy climbed aboard. “Here he is...and he has the smith’s son. That should do it.”

Wyntoun glanced at the lad who had followed the old sailor on the deck. From this distance he couldn’t put a name to the boy.

“Damn this breeze!” Alan said, looking toward the entry to the bay. “We’ll have to sail further west than we’d originally planned, Wyn. But once past Colonsay Island, we can tack to the east past Islay…”

Wyntoun found his attention drifting from Alan’s words and instead focusing on the boy who had climbed aboard with Coll. The lad’s hesitation and the old sailor’s careful attention as they moved forward caused Wyntoun’s brow to furrow.

Adrianne wouldn’t do this now, would she? Abruptly, he stepped away from Alan. The rising wind stung his face as he approached the railing of the aft weather deck. The voices of the lads and Coll barking orders rang out.

“Here, lad! Not like that!” Coll shouted at the new boy. “I told yer pa ye’d be earning yer keep, and ye will, devil take ye! If ye think I’m…here, hold the line this way! Keep this up and the Blade will have ye lashed to the ship’s anchor and use ye for fish bait. Do ye hear me, now, lad?”

“Aye, sir.” The boy’s voice had that cracking quality of one approaching manhood.

Coll slung a net satchel at the boy and shoved him farther forward. “Take my gear below deck and be quick about it, or ye’ll have the master calling for a whipping before we clear the harbor mouth.”

The lad quickly ran off, and Coll turned to see the knight standing at the railing.

“Who is your new helper?” Wyntoun asked as Coll crossed the main deck to him.

The old sailor turned his wrinkled face away and ran a weary hand on it. “Och, bloody worthless, I’m thinking. ‘Tis the blacksmith’s lad…from Ulva.”

Wyntoun watched the lad clamber down the ladder. He remembered the old blacksmith, but he couldn’t remember anything about his son.

“The laird says the smith’s wife was over this past week complaining about all the trouble the lad was getting into and how she’d wished there was a way he could be of some usefulness, as he had no interest in working at the shop at his father’s trade and…”

“Let me guess,” Wyntoun growled at his man. “And my father quickly offered the lad a position on the ship.”

“Ye know how the laird is, Wyn.” Coll gave him a guilty grin. “He thinks there’s no better way to make a man of a lad than on a ship’s deck.”

“And what was all that you were telling the boy about getting a beating from me?”

“Keep the fear in them, and they are sure to behave.” Coll was looking up into the rigging at the men taking their places. “I’ll keep the lad busy and out of harm’s way.”

Wyntoun looked over his shoulder as Alan called out for the sailors to raise the anchor and unfurl the sails. “What’s the lad’s name, anyway?”

“Adam!” Coll replied, giving Wyntoun a quick nod and turning away. “I’ll be sure to send the lad in so ye can have a talk with him after we set sail.”

Wyntoun watched as the aging sailor moved off. He glanced skeptically down the ladder where this lad named Adam had disappeared. There was something that did not sit well about the boy. He shook his head. He trusted Coll with his life. The man had served Wyntoun for as long as he’d been sailing. And before that, Coll had sailed with Alexander.

He shook his head again and glanced ashore. She wouldn’t do it. Not after last night. She trusted him. She had set her mind that Wyntoun would go and return for her before her sisters’ message came from the north.

His eyes were drawn to the ladder as Gillie surfaced from below decks and excitedly ran toward Coll for his next set of orders. Gillie would have passed this Adam on his way up from below.

Wyntoun smiled at the boy. If Adrianne were on board, Gillie would not have left his mistress’s side for all the gold in New Spain.

Alan called Wyntoun’s name from the stern railing, and the Highlander cast one last glance in the direction of the ladder. Nay! Adrianne was no sailor. She would never come aboard unless she thought it was time to go after her mother…and Wyntoun was certain she had no suspicions in that regard.

He strode across the deck toward his shipmaster. Adrianne was probably just stirring from her sleep at this very moment. Wyntoun smiled somewhat wistfully at the image of her rising from that bed.

****

The old sailor wearily eyed the young woman dressed in a lad’s ragged clothing as she retched the contents of her belly into the bucket.

“I’m telling ye, mistress, I should be taking ye up there to yer husband’s cabin, right now. If I had the sense of a jellyfish, I’d--”

“Nay, Master Coll,” she groaned, barely lifting her head from the edge of the bucket. She had taken the oversized tam from her head, and tendrils of hair—so tightly braided on top of her head before—had escaped and were now framing her greenish-hued face. “You said yourself mid-afternoon should be the earliest we tell him. Sooner than that and he will be turning the ship around to take me back to Mull.”

“Aye, mistress. But he’ll be doing that only after he throws my carcass into the sea.”

She heaved into the bucket again. A moment later, wiping her mouth on the back of the coarse sleeve of her wool shirt, she looked up at him. “You are not the one to blame, and I’ll be sure to tell him that. You were only following the laird’s orders in taking me along.”

“And ye think that’s some kind of an answer?” Leaning next to her, the man pried Adrianne’s fingers off the edge of the bucket and handed her a clean one. “Knowing how angry the Blade will be, I’d say there’ll be no mercy for anyone…and I do mean for
everyone
!”

A small shudder in the ship had her doubled over the bucket again. Coll shook his head.

“I cannot believe I let myself get drawn into the middle of this. I should have said ‘nay’ to the laird. I serve his son, now. And
you
, mistress…” He glared accusingly at Adrianne. “I don’t know what kind of magic you used on the laird and his wife, for I’ve never known Himself to go along so willingly with such knavery.”

She just couldn’t let him go without her. Not now. Not after all that had happened over the past few days. She had to be with him…beside him. In a moment of madness last night, while the celebration of Jean was proceeding in high glee, Adrianne had approached Mara about this. Everyone in the castle, it seemed, was well aware of the rift that had formed between the newlyweds, so Mara had embraced the idea with characteristic energy.

Now, however, as Adrianne continued to retch into the bucket, she chided herself for acting so impulsively. Someday, she thought sourly, she would listen to Wyntoun.

“I shouldn’t have…shouldn’t have done this, Coll. I am no sailor.”

“Trust me, it shows, mistress.” Feeling genuinely sorry for her, Coll picked up a blanket off the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders.

The ship heeled over as it slipped into a trough, and Adrianne groaned again. “Are you certain I’ll not be discovered down here?” She glanced about at the dimly lit hold of the ship. A few barrels were lashed to an aft bulkhead, but other than a few extra sails and some rough-hewn timber secured in a forward stall, the hold was empty.

“Aye, mistress.” Coll got up and dragged some of the sails over. “But just in case someone comes down, just cover yerself with these. Ye’ll be safe at least until nightfall. One of the lads will be sure to come down here looking for a place to sleep, but I’ll keep a close eye out.”

“Hopefully, we won’t have to wait until nightfall.”

“Nay, mistress. The ship is moving along at a goodly clip in this wind.” He frowned as she started shivering violently and throwing up in the bucket again. He hoped she would make it to midday. “But let me send Gillie down, so the lad can keep an eye on ye.”

She shook her head vehemently. “He knows nothing about me being on board and I want to keep it that way. The poor lad doesn’t need any more trouble.” Her one hand reached inside the pocket of the wool shirt she was wearing. She took out a small pouch. “Lady Mara gave this to me this morning. A powder to mix in a wee dram of water and drink to ease my stomach…in case I became seasick.”

“Well, I’d say now is the time to use it, mistress, as I haven’t seen anyone sicker than ye in all my years of sailing.” He took the pouch from her trembling hand. “I’ll go and mix this for ye and be back right quick.”

The Spanish-built galleon was closing quickly on the Blade of Barra’s smaller carrack. Standing at the bow railing with Alan, Wyntoun peered across the rolling waters.

“Look at those colors, Wyn. Scurvy, dog-faced Danes!” the shipmaster muttered. The midday sun had burned through the gray morning mist, and the flags on the larger ship were easily visible in the rapidly diminishing distance. “And a wee bit insolent at having taken such a fine prize of a ship. Look how low she’s riding in the sea. The bastards would have been smarter to stay their course and head for home. I don’t believe they know who they’re dealing with.”

“Any voyage but this one and I would have been quite happy to take that ship and its belly full of gold. But I don’t want a battle now. We’ve got another treasure that we’re seeking.”

“Well, Wyn, I don’t think they’re giving us much choice in the matter. They’ve picked a course to take us on, for sure, and you know we can’t outrun them in this much wind.”

Wyntoun stared out at the ship again. The galleon’s cannons on the bow weather deck had clearly been positioned to fire on his ship. He could see men on board, as well, armed and ready. He quickly scanned the horizon for the Danish ship that had taken the galleon, but there was nothing in sight. That meant that there must be more than a few Spaniards still on that galleon who were being forced to sail the ship for the Danes. Not a fighting force with a great deal of heart.

“Then so be it, coz. Even from here you can see they smell blood.”

“Aye, but ‘tis their own blood they’re smelling.”

Wyntoun grinned. “Well, Alan, ‘tis time we added a galleon to our fleet.”

The Blade of Barra quickly assessed the situation. In just a few moments, the ships would be close enough for the galleon’s guns to open fire. Judging from the speed and direction of the larger ship, Wyntoun was willing to wager that the galleon would then tack slightly and take a course parallel to that of his carrack. That would give the Danes ample opportunity to blast away at them until they decided it was safe enough to board.

“Hard to port, Alan. They’ve worked so hard moving their cannons to this side, we might as well hit her from the other! Cross through her wake as close to her stern as you can get her.”

“Aye,” Alan replied, his eyes gleaming. “Prepare to take some paint off that stern post!”

Orders were quickly passed, and within moments, the agile carrack swung over, now seemingly on a collision course with the galleon. The panic aboard the Dane’s ship was immediate and evident. Men scurried in the rigging and on the decks.

“Coll!” Wyntoun shouted. “Prepare the guns on the bow weather deck and the lee side of the main deck. And get those men ready with the grappling lines!”

“Aye, m’lord,” the aging sailor shouted back, turning to his duties. From where he stood on the stern deck, Wyntoun could see his warriors were prepared to swarm onto the galleon’s deck.

“Wyn, we’re going to take some fire from the…”

Alan’s warning was cut off by the sound of the galleon’s guns opening fire on the approaching carrack. A ball skipped once on the crest of a wave before crashing into the hull of the ship. Wyntoun looked up as two more ripped through the rigging above.

“Fire!” he shouted.

The sound of the returning cannon fire was deafening, and as the ships converged, the smoke became thick from the constant barrage. Then, when the carrack was no more than a ship’s length from the foe, the galleon’s guns hit the smaller ship with a combined blast that knocked a dozen Highlanders to their knees.

There was no time to assess the damage. The two ships were so close, Wyntoun could read the varied looks of shock and fear and exultation on the Danes’ faces. An instant later, the galleon shot by the bow, and as the carrack crossed its wake, the bowsprit of the Scottish ship ripped through the Danish flag flying from the enemy’s sternpost.

“Hard to lee!”

The carrack swung around like a hammer on a chain, banging alongside the galleon with great explosive cracks of wood on wood. The foe’s ship—its wind momentarily robbed by the carrack’s blocking sails—slowed and the grappling hooks arced through the air. The Scottish guns blasted away, cutting bloody swaths across the enemy’s decks.