The screams, shouts, and curses seemed much louder now. It was all too easy for Ellen to envision what was occurring beyond that bolted cabin door. The pirates were circling the cog, much like she’d seen mastiffs worrying a chained, baited bear, swinging their grappling hooks, awaiting the moment when the bear would drop its guard, allow them to leap for the jugular. The Welshmen’s hail of arrows would keep them at bay for a time, just as the bear’s claws held off the dogs. There were always bloodied bodies crumpled in the arena, savaged by those mighty jaws. But the dogs kept on the attack, and the outcome was not in doubt. Like Evesham, Papa riding out to die. Sooner or later, the bear would be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.
Rising inconspicuously, Ellen crossed to the coffer that held her silver-plate and cutlery. Selecting a slender-bladed eating knife, she tested its edge for sharpness. It traced a thin, white line across her finger. She felt no pain, but blood soon welled up, and she watched it drip down her hand. For so slight a wound, it took a surprisingly long time before the bleeding stopped.
Teilo had remained, frozen, at the porthole. “Christ pity us,” he gasped, “for we are truly doomed! There are four galleys!”
They knew when the cog was taken, could tell by the changed, triumphant tone of the shouting. When the axe first thudded into the door, Ellen thought it was a demand for entry. So did Anian. He was reaching for the bolt when the wood splintered and a steel blade just missed his outstretched hand.
It took only three or four more blows to reduce the door to kindling. There was no sudden surge of sun, for the man filling the doorway blotted out the light, so huge was he. Towering above the friar, boasting shoulders as wide as planks and a wild black beard, he lacked only an eye patch to be the pirate of dark legend, the pirate of every seafarer’s nightmare, a man able to terrify by his very appearance.
Anian, with commendable courage, stood his ground. “These, women are under the protection of Holy Church. They must not be—”
The rest of his words were choked off. A mammoth fist twisted in the neck of his cowl. As if he were a child’s rag doll, filled only with straw, he was lifted off his feet, flung across the cabin.
Ellen had concealed the knife in the folds of her skirt. With her free hand, she drew Juliana in behind her. “I must speak to your chieftain,” she said, as evenly as she could. “It will be worth his while, I swear it.”
He didn’t reply, and she felt a new stab of fear. Jesú, what if he spoke no French? No man had ever dared to look at her with such blatant lust. Having stripped her with his eyes, he reached out, ran the back of his hand along her throat. She jerked free, retreated with Juliana to the far corner of the cabin, and when he followed, she brought up the dagger. He blinked, burst out laughing.
“Give me that ere you hurt yourself,” he said in accented but understandable Norman-French. When she shook her head, he grinned, started to turn away, then grabbed for her wrist. But it had been a clumsy feint and he recoiled in surprise, staring at his slashed palm.
So intent was Ellen upon the black-bearded pirate that it was not until she heard the laughter that she became aware of the other man’s presence. He was leaning against the shattered door, as if watching a play put on purely for his own amusement, and he laughed again when the giant said indignantly, “The bitch cut me!”
“Just be thankful she aimed at your hand and not your ballocks. I thought you had more sense than to snatch at a naked blade like that.”
“So I was careless. But I’ve never yet known a wench who could tell a dagger from a serving spoon. These highborn milk-tit ladies, they’re good only for—”
“You just never use your head, do you? The woman had five brothers. You think at least one of them would not have taught her how to defend herself?”
Their exchange meant nothing to Juliana, for it had been in English. But Ellen had once spoken the language. She’d lost a lot of it during her ten years in French exile, but she was still able to get the gist of what was said. Her first reaction was one of enormous relief, for if they knew her identity, it must mean Amaury had survived the battle. Unless…unless Morgan or Brian had spoken out, trying to protect her honor and her life. But at least they seemed to believe it. She’d been so frightened that they might mock her claims. Ransom now seemed within reach again.
Keeping the dagger close against her body, but tilted and at the ready, she transferred her attention to the second pirate. He was also uncommonly tall, but in all other respects, quite unlike his aggrieved companion. In appearance, he was very English, as fair as Hugh. The hair touching his tunic collar was a tawny yellow; it even looked clean. Surprisingly, so did his clothes. In fact, he had a hard-edged elegance about him that was utterly at odds with his chosen profession. She could not help thinking of all the times she’d teased Amaury about his vanity, so inappropriate in a priest. It would seem that pirates, too, could be fops. It should have reassured her that he was handsome and, judging from his speech, educated, possibly even a man of her own class; it was not unheard-of for knights to turn to piracy. But it did not. To the contrary, she found this man even more frightening than the first one. Never had she seen blue eyes so chilling, so devoid of warmth or pity.
“My lady de Montfort? I believe you were asking for me,” he said, making a mockery of the courteous rituals that structured the upper reaches of their society, but confirming her suspicions that he was, indeed, born into her world. “I am Sir Thomas de…Well, no matter. We tend to be careless of surnames on the high seas. My men know me as Thomas the Archdeacon. Mayhap you’ve heard of me?”
She shook her head. Had he truly once taken holy orders? How could a man turn from God’s Word, embrace the Devil so wholeheartedly? Could it be a profane jest? And yet she knew the most infamous pirate in her grandfather’s reign had been a one-time cleric, Eustace the Monk.
“I think you ought to give me that dagger,” he suggested, sounding polished and urbane and amused by her defiance. “You need have no fears for your safety or your honor. On that, you have my word.”
And what was the word of a pirate worth? The words hovered on her lips. Her mother would have flung them out, scornful of consequence. Ellen bit them back. “What of my household? The priest…my chaplain, was he hurt?”
“I think he still lives. Your chaplain, is he? It had occurred to me that he just might be your brother.”
“My brother? No, Amaury is in Rome.”
Ellen met his eyes steadily, calmly, and rose slightly in his estimation. “Well, a natural mistake, you’ll agree,” he said and smiled. “A pity, though. You see, my men think it is bad luck to have a priest aboard. Conn,” glancing back at the bearded giant, “that priest…throw him over the side.”
“No!” Even as she screamed, Ellen knew she’d been outbluffed. But that was not a bluff she could ever have called. He grinned, and she saw that he’d been playing with her, cat to mouse, had known Amaury’s identity all the while.
“Suppose we make a bargain,” he said. “You give me that dagger and in turn, I’ll let you go up on deck to tend to your brother.”
He swaggered forward, as if deliberately daring her to strike, and her fingers tightened on the dagger’s ivory handle. He had been quite right about her; under Bran and Harry’s tutelage, she’d not only become familiar with knives, she’d learned to throw one at close range with some accuracy. Now she had a sudden, savage urge to thrust the blade into the pulse at his throat. Reversing the dagger, she handed it to him, hilt first.
He was still laughing at her, eyes agleam with such sardonic amusement that she wondered if he’d somehow read her mind. “Thank you,” he said, and bowed mockingly. “Well, Lady Eleanor, shall we go?”
Sprawled in a far corner, Friar Anian had begun to stir, to mumble groggily. “See to him, Brother Teilo,” Ellen said, and reached again for Juliana’s hand, for she was not about to leave Juliana with the brutal Conn. As they edged around him, Conn stepped in front of them, barring their way. Thomas said so
mething shortly, sharply, in English. Ellen caught only “damaged goods,” but it was enough. She understood, and so did Conn. After a long moment, he grudgingly yielded, cleared the path to the door.
Ellen paused briefly in the doorway, steeling herself for whatever lay ahead, not wanting them to know how much she dreaded what she might find on deck. Feeling Thomas’s ironic gaze upon her, she said coolly, “I am ready.”
It was even worse than she’d feared, for almost at once, she stumbled over a body, recognized Alain, the boatswain. The deck was always wet, drenched by spray and waves breaking over the bow. But now she glanced down, discovered that the hem of her gown was trailing in blood. She stopped, sickened, and Thomas put a supportive hand upon her elbow, steering her toward the rail. His touch made her quiver, so intense was her loathing, but she dared not pull away, dared not demean him in front of his crew. He was too dangerous a man to defy openly.
The surviving sailors and knights were under guard on the portside. She felt a surge of gratitude upon catching sight of Hugh’s flaxen head. Blood matted his hair, streaked the side of his face, but when he saw Ellen, he struggled against his bonds, tried to regain his feet, only to be shoved back by one of the pirates. The man beside him sought to calm him, and Ellen thanked God for Brian’s good sense, thanked God that Brian had not died in the assault upon the ship.
As they reached the rail, she had an unobstructed view of the fore-and aft-castles, and what she saw broke her heart. Bodies piled upon one another, some still clutching longbows, the Welshmen who’d died in her defense. The sailors had surrendered to save themselves, and for that she could not blame them. So had Amaury’s knights, once all hope was gone. But the Welsh had held out until the last, offering up their lives for their lord’s bride.
Tears stung Ellen’s eyes. There was no surprise, then, when she found Morgan’s body, sprawled by the tiller, close enough for her to see the gaping wounds, the dark, clotted blood. Pulling away from Thomas’s grip, she knelt by the young Welshman, and slowly made the sign of the cross. Reaching down, she gently closed his eyes, then glanced up at the pirate chieftain.
“Where is my brother?”
Neither Ellen nor Juliana had ever been in the fore-castle cabin, and they hesitated in the doorway, unable to see into the gloom. “Amaury?” Ellen’s whisper went unanswered, and she was suddenly terrified that Thomas the Archdeacon had lied, that Amaury was dead and this a cruel pirate hoax.
“Ellen? Is he in there?” Juliana was whispering, too, her fingers clutching Ellen’s arm in a grip that would leave bruises.
Ellen took a tentative step into the cabin. Her eyes were slowly adjusting to the dark. “Amaury? Juliana, over here!”
The man on the bed did not stir as she bent over him, and again she was tormented by the fear that he might be dead. “Amaury, can you hear me? Juliana, I’ve got to have light. See if there is a lamp on the table.”
Amaury’s skin felt cold and clammy. Searching for his pulse, Ellen discovered that his wrist was shackled to the bed. “Those whoring pirates have him in irons! Juliana, where is that lamp? Damn them, damn them all!”
Juliana was still fumbling with the oil lamp, trying to get it lit. Ellen could wait no longer. Jumping up, she ripped open the porthole shutters. “Oh, dear God! Amaury…” Her voice broke, but almost at once, she began ransacking the cabin.
Juliana was standing by the bed, staring down at Amaury. “Ellen, he must have been kicked in the face! What if…what if his jaw is broken?”
Ellen had finally located a water basin. Carrying it back to the bed, she started to clean the blood from her brother’s face. “Do not say that,” she hissed. “Do not even think that!” Amaury did not respond to her touch, not even to the cold water, and as she gently wiped his torn mouth, she found that he’d lost at least one tooth. “See if you can find a wine flask, Juliana.” His breathing seemed shallow but steady, and she leaned over, pressed his free hand to her cheek.
The blaze of sunlight was blinding. She looked up, saw Thomas the Archdeacon framed in the doorway, and she felt so much hatred that it choked all utterance. She moved hastily back into the shadows lest he read her face.
“Has he come around yet?”
“No,” Ellen said tersely, digging her nails into her palm until she could trust herself. Handing the basin to Juliana, she got slowly to her feet. “Set your ransom. Whatever it is, my husband will pay it.”
He cocked a brow. “Husband?”
Ellen held out her hand so that the sun glinted off the jeweled wedding band. “We were wed in Paris by proxy more than six weeks ago, at Martinmas. My husband is Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, Prince of Wales, and he will pay well for my safe return, for my brother, and the rest of my companions.”
When he didn’t reply, she felt a throb of fear. Pirates always ransomed their captives, did they not? “Do you not believe me?” she demanded. “Llewelyn will pay your ransom, I swear it!”
“Oh, I do believe you.” He let his eyes roam lazily over her body, watched with amusement as angry color rose in her face. “I do not doubt that your husband would pay any price to get you back. If you were my woman, I would. But unfortunately for you, and for him, the deal has already been struck. You, my prideful, pretty lady, are a very valuable commodity. As soon as we were told you were fitting a cog at Harfleur, we’ve been stopping every ship heading for Wales.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know,” he said, and she did. But she could not admit it, not yet, not even to herself.
“Listen to me,” she said, in that moment more desperate than proud. “Whatever you’ve been offered, Llewelyn will match it and more. You need only name your price!”
But he was already shaking his head in mock remorse. “Alas, we both know better. No matter how much your Welshman wants you, sweetheart, he cannot hope to outbid the King of England.”
13
The Cog Holy Cross, Off the Isles of Scilly
January 1276
By the time Thomas the Archdeacon responded to Ellen’s urgent appeal, she was frantic with fear on her brother’s behalf. As was customary for young women who’d one day be expected to manage vast households, she’d been given some medical training, was knowledgeable about herbs and ointments and the dangers of “proud flesh.” She felt reasonably certain that Amaury’s jaw was not broken, but she’d discovered a bloodied gash above his left temple, almost hidden by his hair, and when he did not regain consciousness, her anxiety was soon spiraling out of sight.
When the pirate chieftain finally came, he gave her no warning, suddenly thrust the door open, flashing the smile she was fast learning to hate. “I understand you crave my company, Lady Eleanor.”
Snatching up the oil lamp, she held it above the bed. “I do not know much about head injuries. His skin is clammy, his pulse rapid, and he does not respond to my voice or my touch. I think that—”
“Why are you sharing his symptoms with me? Do I look like a doctor?”
The question itself was brusque enough to disconcert. Even more disturbing was his obvious indifference to Amaury’s peril; he’d barely glanced at the bed. When Ellen had first begun to master the secrets of self-control, having learned how dangerous it was to let the world get too close, she’d resorted to a simple yet effective stratagem, combating raw emotion with deep, rhythmic breathing. It usually helped, and she tried it now, deliberately drawing breath into her lungs, willing herself into a state of camouflaged composure.
Setting the lamp down, she sought to sound matter-of-fact, eminently reasonable. “I thought you might have a crewman skilled in healing, for I know many ships do…” But he was already shaking his head. “There are herbs that can bring a dazed man to his senses. I know the Holy Cross master keeps a hoard of medicinal potions and ointments. Could you speak to him, find out if he has fennel juice or pennyroyal? Also betony, sage, and—”
“Is that all? Why not a feather bed, a tun of fine French wine, a servant to soot
he his fevered brow?”
“I do not think you understand,” Ellen said carefully, “just how dangerous head wounds can be. There is no way to know how serious it is. If my brother is denied care, he could die.”
He shrugged. “So?”
She was shaken, but determined not to let him see it. “You told me you boarded and seized our ship at the English King’s behest. He is not paying you to deliver a corpse!”
“He is paying me, sweetheart, to deliver a bride. And if it eases your mind, he gave express orders that we see to your safety. But from what I hear, he’s not likely to grieve if Amaury de Montfort is buried at sea.”
Ellen bit her lip, took another bracing breath. “Do you want me to beg, then? I will, if you’ll but give me the herbs Amaury needs.”
He grinned. “As entertaining as that would be, I cannot spare the time. Mayhap later?”
But as he turned toward the door, Ellen stepped in front of him, barring his way. “Edward is my cousin. You’d best remember that, for this I swear. If my brother dies because of you, I will tell Edward that you raped me.”
“Is that an invitation?” They were close enough now for him to feel her fear, to see the involuntary flicker of her eyelids, the faint sheen of sweat on her upper lip. But she did not flinch away from him, nor did she back down. He was accustomed to intimidating women with ease. He was far from a fool, though, knew at once that this was no bluff, for she’d hit upon the only leverage she had—their society’s insistence upon the virtue of highborn women.
Having made her threat, Ellen did not elaborate upon it, for they both knew there was no need. Even if Edward meant to cast her into the Tower for the rest of her days, he’d demand a truly terrible vengeance should she be dishonored. Thomas had already taken pains to warn his crew of that, making sure they understood that the King’s kinswoman was not fair game. And then he’d posted guards outside her cabin, for until he handed her over to the constable at Bristol Castle, she was his responsibility, and he was not about to risk his neck and private parts on the good faith of his men, some of whom would have rutted with the Virgin Mary herself if given half a chance.
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