The blade came free of its sheath. Linet opened her mouth to scream. This couldn’t be happening, she thought. But El Gallo drew the knife slowly back.
Her voice came out in a long shriek. “Nay!”
She reached beneath her to push herself up out of the chest, and her hand closed around something cold and hard.
El Gallo’s dagger paused at its zenith, and then reversed direction, drifting forward toward the beggar’s chest.
Linet leaped at what felt like a snail’s pace out of the box and lumbered toward El Gallo. Her heart thundered once, twice, as she closed the distance, and then thrust her hand forward with all her might.
The blades of the shears sunk deep into the soft flesh of the sea reiver’s belly. He twisted upon the steel, his enormous weight plunging them deeper. His dagger fell from nerveless fingers and clattered harmlessly at his feet. His mouth opened and closed like a fish’s, and he staggered backward. His disbelieving eyes grew wide, then vacant, and then glazed over. He fell to his knees, swayed, and crashed to the deck in a widening pool of blood.
Linet shuddered. Blood was everywhere. It oozed from El Gallo’s horrid wound. It spattered the wood planks of the ship. It soaked the green wool of her surcoat. Her hands glistened with the bright red fluid, and she smelled its coppery scent on her fingers.
But she didn’t faint.
She’d done it, she thought, staring down at her grisly handiwork. She’d slain the bastard. And she’d saved the beggar. She’d done it.
Duncan was too astonished to speak, let alone move.
Harold was the first to recover. His nose still trickling blood, he snatched the sword from a gaping reiver and, with a lucky punch, managed to send the stunned man to oblivion.
After that, all hell broke loose. Two reivers came at Captain Campbell. He tossed a heavy coil of rope at one of them, knocking him to the deck, and turned to battle the other. Harold called out feeble challenges to any comers. A young boy began vigorously kicking the shins of whatever reiver he could find, and squeamish maids recoiled even as they hurled tankards and weighty purses at the heads of the enemy.
Duncan had to help them. He rattled the chain of his shackles.
On board the Corona Negra, several of El Gallo’s crew began to grow suspect of the mayhem taking place on the merchant ship.
“The grappling hooks!” Duncan called out to the captain.
“Right!” Campbell ordered his mates to disengage them.
“Harold!” Duncan called, lifting the shackles.
Harold battled his way toward Duncan. Then he raised his plundered sword to break the shackle chain asunder, nicking the blade in the process.
“You owe me a new weapon, m’lord,” Harold complained in jest, his old eyes twinkling, when Duncan was free.
“I owe you a new nose.” Duncan clapped him on the shoulder. “Now promise me, old man, out of loyalty to your mistress, that you’ll stay out of the way. Trust me. I can handle this alone.” He heaved a quick sigh. He hoped he was right.
Without an instant to spare, he pushed Harold out of the path of an oncoming dagger and into the belly of a reiver armed with two swords. As the two disentangled, Duncan filched the swords and braced himself for battle.
The grappling hooks were disengaged now. As the two ships drifted apart, only a few foolhardy Spaniards were willing to brave the widening chasm to leap onto the merchant ship.
Linet couldn’t move. She couldn’t feel anything. She sank down upon a giant coil of rope. Her hands had frozen to the ship’s rail, but she was content to leave them there as the battle raged around her.
The beggar planted himself in the middle of the deck, drawing the reivers’ attention. Two of the Spaniards charged at once. He easily met them, one with each of the two swords he wielded. A third reiver tried to strike while he was engaged, but the beggar spun, slashing to clear a full circle around himself. El Gallo’s men split up then to attack him from all sides like a pack of wolves.
Linet clasped a shaking hand to her breast. The English captain and his crew were occupied securing the ship’s escape from the Corona Negra. Two passengers lay wounded on the deck. Aside from them, there were little else but a handful of young lads and a bevy of maids left to battle the armed ruffians. The beggar was surely a dead man now, unless old Harold could hold the Spaniards at bay. Desperately, she sought out her servant.
To her chagrin, her man was leaning against the ship’s railing, his hands idle upon the pommel of his stolen sword, watching the progress of the battle with something akin to amusement.
Linet was utterly appalled. How could Harold allow a man so obviously outnumbered to be slaughtered? She watched the fight with growing concern as sparks flew from the colliding blades.
The beggar fought the reivers in a circle at first, lunging with his right arm at one, and then slashing unexpectedly with his left at another. He goaded them with words and jabs until they struck out at him with ill-controlled fury.
Only when he began to taunt them with the swords did Linet realize this was child’s play to the beggar. He tossed a sword into the air, and while one reiver was distracted, came up with the other blade to sever a tie from the first’s jerkin. He spun the swords in a blinding acrobatic display, letting the steel snick like the gnashing of dragon’s teeth over the Spaniards’ heads, then slashing horizontally to ventilate their shirts.
Linet frowned. The fool was enjoying himself.
Finally, he seemed to tire of the entertainment. Using sheer power, he struck the sword away from one of the reivers, and it sailed end over end into the sea. Then he kicked the churl in the seat of his braies, sending him over to Harold, who calmly grabbed him by the jerkin and levered him over the railing, as if by design.
The beggar surprised the second reiver. He ducked and rolled at the reiver’s feet, bowling him over. The reiver fell on elbows, knees and chin, and his sword skirred across the deck. Harold offered to help the dazed victim up, and then assisted him in climbing overboard.
Finally the beggar faced the last Spaniard, a sword in each hand and ferocity in his eyes. The reiver reconsidered the odds and his limited alternatives. He wisely dropped his sword and sidled over to the edge, voluntarily diving into the water below to swim for the Corona Negra.
Duncan wiped his brow with the back of one sweaty hand. A cheer arose, and the passengers brandished the tools of their victory—satchels, cloak pins, pots—in threat toward the departing mob of the Corona Negra. With Captain Campbell’s help, Duncan heaved the last of the reiver crew overboard. But he only shook his head at the huge bulk that was El Gallo. Disposing of that body would require several strong men.
Campbell clapped Duncan on the back in his excitement, then, remembering himself, grinned sheepishly, removed his coif, and made a proper bow. Duncan smiled briefly in acknowledgment. But something else was on his mind. He had some choice words for the fool wench who’d so recklessly put herself at risk.
When he spotted her, sitting primly on a coil of rope, covered with blood, looking small and bewildered, all his self-righteousness vanished. His heart softened at once. He could never resist a hapless waif. And Linet de Montfort was the sorriest soul he’d seen in a long while.
He slowly walked to where she was sitting. Crouching beside her, he took her shaking, bloody hands in his and looked up into her face. She was in shock.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
Her voice faltered as she murmured, “I thought he would s-slay you.”
Duncan tried to grin and failed. “He nearly did.”
Linet looked down at her quivering hands, wincing at the scarlet stains. “So much b-blood,” she stuttered. “But I d-didn’t swoon, did I?”
“Nay,” he said with a faint smile. “Nay, you didn’t swoon.”
“Good,” she said, satisfied. Then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed against him in a dead faint.
CHAPTER 18
“Are you sure Duncan’s sti
ll alive?”
Garth’s question was innocent enough, but it drove Holden instantly to the brink of violence. “Of course he’s still alive!” he insisted, pounding a fist on the locked garden gate and narrowing angry eyes at his brother. “How dare you even suggest—”
“Holden!” Robert shouted. Then he lowered his voice, looking to make sure no gossip-mongering servants dawdled in the moonlit corners of the walled garden.
Holden silenced and began distractedly plucking the blossoms from the jasmine bush beside him. It was a strange meeting place for the three of them, but at this late hour, the garden was one spot they could be assured of privacy.
Robert spoke consolingly to Garth. “Duncan has to be alive. I’m sure of it. But your father…”
“He’s beginning to ask questions, Robert,” Holden said through his teeth, loosing a snowfall of crushed blossoms from his fist. “You’ve sailed to Spain and back, and you’ve nothing to show for your efforts.” He spat on the ground. “Nothing but a Spanish sweetmeat to whet your appetite and warm your bed.”
Robert’s blood seethed. “You miserable…” With a roar, he shoved Holden, knocking him hard against the garden wall. “Don’t you dare speak about my betrothed like that, you slutching—”
“Your betrothed!” Holden scoffed, poking him in the chest. “Is that so? And while my brother languishes…”
Robert drew back his fist with a snarl.
“Cease!” Garth cried, prying the two men apart. “Your petty insults do nothing to help Duncan.”
Holden cursed and threw Garth off him. Then he kicked guiltily at the sod.
Robert lowered his eyes and shook his head. He didn’t know what had come over him. When he’d calmed, he murmured, “I was sure Duncan would be here when we returned.”
“Well, now the fuel’s been added to the fire,” Holden said, idly snapping a twig off the peach tree. “The king’s asked me to join him in Scotland on campaign.”
“Scotland!” Robert exclaimed, his anger forgotten in his excitement. “That’s wonderful. It’s what you always dreamed of, Holden.”
Holden’s smile was grim. “And now I can’t go.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m…the next in line, Robert.” He ploughed a weary hand through his hair. “With Duncan gone, God knows where, chasing after his latest mistress—”
“She’s not his latest mistress.” Garth’s eyes shone silver in the pale moonlight. “I think he plans to wed her.”
“What?” Holden asked.
“Linet de Montfort. I could see it in his eyes…before he left. I wouldn’t be surprised if they married.”
“What!” Holden exploded. “That’s absurd. He can’t marry. Not without the king’s permission.” His laugh was a bark. “And I doubt Edward will look favorably upon one of his finest knights wedding a wool merchant.”
Robert stroked his chin. “She is a de Montfort. It is possible.”
Holden threw his arms up toward the sky. “You can’t even find my brother, and already you’re marrying him off. Meanwhile, I must invent some excuse to decline the king’s offer—one that won’t leave me swinging from the gallows as a traitor.”
While the men continued to bicker, Lady Alyce, who’d been quietly planting mint and borage by the light of the moon, heaved a weary sigh and emerged from the deep shade. She’d heard enough. It was time to intervene.
“No son of mine will swing from the gallows as a traitor. And put that sword away, Holden.”
Holden sheepishly slid the blade he’d drawn in alarm back into its sheath.
Lady Alyce shook her head and stuck her planting stick in the ground. Never, she thought, had three grown men looked so guilty. Holden shifted anxiously back and forth on his feet. Garth hung his head like a penitent priest. And she was sure Robert’s face matched her red roses.
She dusted off her mud-smudged hands. “Is there something you wish to tell me, gentlemen? Something besides the news you’ve been shouting to the entire household?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the rest of it. What she’d heard already was enough to make her heart thump as unsteadily as a three-wheeled cart. But it was obvious the men weren’t going to come up with a solution on their own.
The three of them looked back and forth among themselves. Finally, Garth stepped forward.
“We took a vow of silence on the matter, Lady Mother,” he recited gravely, looking for all the world like Galahad speaking of the Holy Grail.
“A vow of silence?” She tried not to laugh. The three of them had been yelling fit to wake the dead. But she schooled her features to sternness. “If a son of mine is in danger…”
Robert glanced at Garth. “We’ve reason to believe he may be.”
“All right,” she replied, carefully controlling the quaver in her voice. “All right.” She forced her heart to calm. “You said he was lost. Where was he bound?”
Robert cleared his throat. Holden clamped his lips firmly together. Garth closed his eyes. Dear Lord, how she despised the guessing games the de Ware men’s insufferable chivalry forced upon her.
She drummed her fingers on her lips. “At least answer my questions then. Did he go to the wool merchant’s village, as you led me to believe?”
“Nay,” Garth replied guiltily.
“Did he go to the forest?”
“Nay,” Garth replied.
“Is he…on de Ware land at all?”
“Nay.”
“Is he—”
“On a ship,” Robert blurted, earning a glare and an elbow jab from Garth.
She gasped. “On a ship?”
Garth was still glaring at Robert.
“For God’s sake, Garth,” Robert muttered, “he’s your father’s heir.”
Garth frowned. For him a vow was a vow.
“And this ship is bound…” she began, one hand settling nervously on her bosom.
“We don’t know,” Holden answered, raising himself to his proud height.
Robert frowned. “We have a fairly good idea.”
The brothers scowled at Robert.
“The merchant girl, Linet de Montfort,” Robert said, “she was abducted.”
“And naturally Duncan could not stand idly by,” Lady Alyce supplied, nodding. Duncan’s inherent heroics, she’d discovered long ago, were a matter completely out of his hands. “Who was the abductor?”
“El Gallo.” Garth had mumbled the words so low that she almost missed them.
“El Gallo!” She crossed herself. This was more urgent than she’d expected. “Duncan has stowed himself on a sea reiver’s vessel?” She unpinned her filthy apron, thinking aloud. “El Gallo. It’s about those letters of marque, I’ll wager.” She wadded the apron into a ball with the muddy side in. “We’ll have to notify her family. Perhaps they can help.”
“Family?” Holden said. “Whose family?”
“Linet de Montfort’s. She has kin in Flanders, powerful nobles.”
“Flanders?” Holden asked.
“That’s where she’s from. All the best wool merchants are. And she’s somehow related to the de Montforts there.”
“But how—”
“Did I know?” she said, plucking up her planting stick. “A bit of gossip. A good deal of inquiry. A woman carrying royal letters of marque doesn’t happen by every day, and I’ve been poking about. Her story is quite interesting.” She tapped the stick to her temple. “Besides, it’s a wise woman who learns the history of the merchants she engages and keeps an ear to the doors of her demesne. Aye, de Montfort may be able to help us.”
Holden fidgeted with his sword belt. “Then we’ll go to Flanders. Robert, ready a crew—”
“Wait!” she protested, laying her palm on Holden’s formidable chest. “Don’t you have a king to serve?”
Holden scowled. His face became a study of torment. He had an obligation to his brother, both moral and emotional. But the king was handing him an opportunity most men would kill for—the chance
for a second son to earn wealth and holdings.
“I can’t abandon Duncan,” he murmured at last.
The turmoil in his eyes pained her. “Don’t worry. I’m sure Duncan is safe…for the moment. You know there’s nothing a reiver likes more than silver. El Gallo only cuts his own purse if he lays a hand on Duncan de Ware.”
The reassuring smile she gave him was less than heartfelt, but she couldn’t bear to see Holden suffer. She reached up loving fingers to tuck one of his stray curls into place.
How glad she was of her three sons, even the two not of her womb. Holden and Duncan were like portraits of their father, but painted in two different seasons. Duncan had hair of coal black, where Holden’s looked like mahogany kissed by the sun. Duncan’s eyes shone steadfast and blue, Holden’s a mutable green. But both of them had a sense of honor and loyalty to make any mother proud. And afraid.
Holden was always off fighting some battle or another. But if anyone was able to pull trouble out of thin air, it was Duncan.
She plucked an unexpected tear from her eye before it could ripen. The thought of losing one of her sons was unbearable. If Duncan were returned to her, sound of mind and body—if he would only promise to stay out of harm’s way in the future—she vowed she’d give him anything he desired. A dozen new horses. A great hall of his own for all the strays he brought home. A bride of his heart…
Her mind perked up at once, as alert and scheming as when she played chess. That overbold son of hers had gotten himself into this scrape over Linet de Montfort. He’d followed the merchant onto a sea reiver’s ship, risked life and limb for her. It was plain that Duncan was in love with the lass. Perhaps Garth was right.
Linet de Montfort had much to recommend her. She was striking, intelligent, and spirited, the perfect foil for Duncan’s wit and kindheartedness.
Lady Alyce felt a smile tug at her lip. When Guillaume de Montfort ransomed the girl from El Gallo—as he no doubt would, for the family was notoriously wealthy—Lady Alyce would petition for a wedding between Duncan and Linet. De Montfort would certainly give his assent. An alliance with de Ware would gain him much political favor.
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