Malcolm nodded. "The Wild Coast is notorious for shipwrecks, particularly when summer storms hit the Drakensbergs. And as Jesuits, we ought to be welcomed."
They both carried bladed weapons just in case they weren't.
Lightning flares cut through the gloom of early evening, revealing the miserable little fort and ramshackle houses of Lourengo Marques huddled on the bay. A stout kraal wall enclosed the whole community. Kit marked the spot where the time gate had closed by piling stones into a small cairn, then he and Malcolm slogged down the rainswept beach toward the trading settlement and prayed for the best. They passed grain fields where straggling wheat lay flat under the onslaught of the storm.
Vegetable gardens sprawled in patchwork confusion beyond an unguarded kraal gate. Wet chickens hid under the houses. Pens for hogs stank and leaked filth into the mud streets. Thin, forlorn cows huddled against the rain and a few sheep and goats milled uncertainly in a high-walled pen. A horse neighed once, answered by others in the distance.
"Where is everyone?" Malcolm wondered aloud: "There should be a watch set, even in this storm."
Kit cupped hands over his eyes to blink them clear of streaming rain. "Probably at the fort," he decided. "The wall's higher, stouter in case of emergencies. We'll try there."
When they stumbled between the houses into "town square" they halted in unison. The residents of Lourengo Marques had set up a crude pillory along one side of the square. Hanging from the stocks was a familiar, grizzled figure. Malcolm and Kit glanced swiftly around but saw no sign that anyone was watching. The whole town was shut up tight against the storm. Malcolm got to him first. Koot van Beek was dead, Had been dead for several hours, maybe as long as a day. Kit was ashen in the wild flares of lighting.
Margo ...
They searched the body for signs of violence, but found no trace of systematic torture. Malcolm swallowed once, then followed Kit through ankle-deep mud past an idle blacksmith's forge, what was clearly a cooper's workshop, and a small gristmill. In the distance, the fort's rough wooden gates were shut.
"Lean against me," Kit muttered from cover of the gristmill.
"You're older, more likely to succumb to exhaustion. You lean against me. I know enough Portuguese to get by until you `come around.' "
Kit didn't argue. He just draped one arm across Malcolm's shoulder and let his weight sag. Malcolm hastily slid an arm around Kit's back. All right, we're shipwrecked Jesuits who've struggled up the coast in a terrible storm ... .
He half carried Kit across the open, muddy ground toward the gates. "Help! Hello inside, help us!" Malcolm shouted in rough Portuguese, heavily accented with Basque pronunciation. "In the name of Christ, help us!"
A suspicious sentry appeared at the top of the wall. "Who are you? Where have you come from?"
"We are Jesuits! Father Francis Xavier sent us to you from Goa. Our ship went down in this storm, south of here! This is Lourengo Marques, is it not? Please God let it be..."
The sentry's eyes had gone wide. A hasty shout relayed Malcolm's message. A moment later the gates creaked open. Then Portuguese traders swarmed outside, lifting Kit's stumbling figure to carry him while others supported Malcolm. He staggered like a man in the final stages of exhaustion and allowed his escort to take most of his weight.
The residents of Lourengo Marques stank of onions, sweat, and dirt. Their voluminous, slashed breeches needed washing. Food and wine stained leather jerkins and slashed velvet doublets. Malcolm saw at least six professional soldiers in leather armor, half of them carrying matchlock arquebus carbines rendered useless by the storm. They'd drawn wicked swords which they now resheathed, but the other half of the military detachment, carrying steel crossbows, remained alert until the gates had been closed and barred once again.
Other men had come running, dressed as rough tradesmen and humble farmers. Many carried long pikes and daggers. One burly bear of a man carried what looked like an honest-to-God wheel lock rifle. Another man carried an enormous, full-length matchlock arquebus. None of these men wore helmets; only a few possessed leather jerkins. Six professional soldiers and a surprisingly well armed auxiliary of tradesmen and farmers. And those fellows over there look like sailors. Malcolm counted five men who had probably been left behind by the last ship, to recover from illness or be buried.
Shortly, Malcolm and Kit found themselves in a grimy, smoke-filled room which was clearly the best accommodation in the fort. Real chairs stood around a scarred wooden table covered with the remains of the evening meal. A real bed stood in the corner. A man in plate armor-at least a chest and back plate – blinked when they came in, then lowered a "high-tech" wheel lock handgun and carefully pulled back its "dog," making it somewhat safer, although still loaded and ready for use.
"Sergeant Braz, who are these men, where have they come from?"
The sergeant said importantly, "They were sent by Father Francis Xavier to us, Governor, but their ship was wrecked in this storm. I don't know any more than that."
Kit coughed violently and moaned. The soldiers carrying him asked anxiously, "May we put the Father in your bed, Governor?"
"Of course, of course. Hurry, the good Father is exhausted and ill." The governor tucked his pistol into his belt and helped lower Kit into his own bed.
Kit gasped and clutched at his benefactor's hand. "Bless you, my son," he whispered faintly. "God has preserved us in an un-Christian land." Then his eyelids fluttered closed.
Malcolm hastened to his side. He knelt and clutched Kit's hand, giving every evidence of terror. "Father Almada..." Malcolm turned to the anxious Portuguese. "Have you any hot broth? He is exhausted from fighting the sea and then we had to walk miles and miles up your treacherous coast. I feared God would call him away before we saw your walls."
"You sound like a Basque," one of the men dressed as an artisan said excitedly. Another had gone in search of something to feed their unexpected visitors.
"Yes, I am Father Edrigu Xabat. I had the grace to be ordained in Rome by the General of our Order, Father Loyola. Father Almada is ..."
Kit "roused" with a faint moan. "Where ... where are we, Edrigu?"
"God has delivered us safely to these Christian men, Inigo, praised be His name." One of the farmers handed Malcolm a cup. "Oh, bless you, my son ..."
Malcolm held it to Kit's lips and helped him drink hot soup, then consented to eat some himself. It was terrible, no salt, no pepper, watery and thin-but it was hot. Kit struggled to sit up, then begged to know who their rescuers were.
"I am Vilibaldo de Oliveira Salazar, the military governor of Lourengo Marques," the governor introduced himself proudly, sweeping a courtly bow. He was a small man with sharp eyes and a thin face. He wore expensive velvet garments under his armor despite the grime. "This is Joao Braz, the Sergeant of my command, and these are my soldiers, Francisco, Amaro, Lorenco, Mauricio, Ricardo."
The soldiers saluted sharply.
The big man with the wheel lock rifle shuffled forward. "Please, Father, I am Rolando Goulart, a humble blacksmith. I speak for the artisans of Lourengo Marques when I bid you welcome. This is Bastien, my assistant."
Bastien was the man who'd been so excited by Malcolm's Basque name and accent.
"And this is Vincente, our butcher and tanner, Huberto the miller, Nicolau the cooper, Xanti our baker, and Mikel his assistant..." More Basques, Malcolm realized. The farmers and husbands who tended the community's herds also proved to be Basques: Narikis, Mikolas, Peli, Kepa, Posper, and Satordi.
The other five men were stranded sailors, as Malcolm had suspected. Three were Portuguese, introducing themselves shyly as Rodrigo, Adao, and Pedro. Erroman and Zadornin were both Basques. There were no women in evidence.
"Please," Vilibaldo de Oliveira Salazar begged, "if you are strong enough, Father Almada, tell us of yourselves and your misfortunes."
Kit rose to the occasion with wonderfully fluent Portuguese, embroidering on Malcolm's original tale. He described the conditi
ons in Goa and Father Francis Xavier's concern that the men here at this desolate outpost had no priests to confess or shrive them. He elaborated on their harrowing journey back to Africa from India, described the terrifying shipwreck which had drowned all the ship's company sparing only the two of them, spoke with tears in his eyes and a choked voice of reading last rites to the crashing waves, then of their struggle up the coast, praying that they stumbled in the direction of the outpost, not deeper into trackless wilderness ...
Even Malcolm was impressed.
Several of the men cleared their throats and stamped their feet to hide their own emotions. Vilibaldo insisted they change out of their sodden cassocks into something warm and dry, producing good quality, simple tunics and cloaks in which they wrapped themselves. The farmers hung their wet things to dry in one corner of the room. Vilibaldo then broke out wine and shared it around, making certain his new priests were warm and comfortable. The governor spoke of the hardships they had endured in the outpost, the troubles they had with the natives who stole Portuguese cattle or ran their own cattle through the grain fields, destroying the crops utterly, and the illnesses which had befallen them, the men they'd lost.
Finally, insisting that the soup and good company had revived him, Kit suggested that he and Malcolm hear confessions without delay. "Clearly, my son, you have been without the comforts of a priest for too long. It would be best to relieve your souls of the burden of sin you carry now, before another moment passes. I am only glad that God has sent us to minister to your needs."
The traders mumbled and looked embarrassed, then hastily rigged blankets to form two crude confessionals. Kit insisted they put on their wet cassocks again, then Malcolm took one side, Kit the other, and they began hearing confessions. They were not even through the first one when Kit emitted a roar of outrage and snatched back the curtain.
"Witches!" he cried, wild-eyed. "What say you, witches!"
The artisans crossed themselves. The soldiers paled
Vilibaldo stared at the floor for a moment, then cleared his throat. "It is true, we have a prisoner who is a witch, Father. The other witch has died of some evil disease he brought upon himself
Sergeant Joao Braz ventured, "We have closely questioned the other and-"
"You questioned this person? Are you a man of God? Do you presume to know witchcraft?"
The sergeant paled and stumbled to a halt.
"But, but Father-" one of the sailors, Rodrigo, protested. "They were witches! Seven weeks ago it was, I saw with my own eyes a terrifying sight, a great glowing raft of white sticks that sailed through the heavens far away to the north. Then last night terrible storms raged all night and well into the morning. You see how the witch-brewed storm has nearly destroyed even you, who are men of God? What do you think we should find on the beach, Father, but that same great white raft, broken it is true, into pieces, but there were devilish items on the sand and the man and woman wore Satan's garments and,–"
Kit groped for the nearest chair and sank into it. "And the other witch? What have you learned?"
The men of Lourengo Marques glanced at one another again, clearly uneasy.
"Father, the dead witch," governor de Oliveira Salazar said quietly "he babbled in a possessed madness. He spoke Dutch!"
Malcolm and Kit exchanged glances.
"I speak a little Dutch, Father," Sergeant Braz put in. "The witch was raving about another of their company, who is not with them. We have search parties out looking for him and have told the black heathens hereabouts there is a reward for capturing this other witch and bringing him to us."
The Welshman,, Malcolm realized. Poor terrified bastard ...
"You must take me to the witch you have captured," Kit said severely. "I must examine the woman and see if Satan's hand is truly upon her. Has she spoken at all?
One of the Basque farmers spat onto the floor. "No, only to scream."
Kit lost all color. Malcolm hastened to his side. "Father Almada, you are still unwell. You should be in bed."
"How can I sleep when God's work is waiting? Come, show me this witch."
What are you going to do, Kit? We can't escape through the gate for another five days. She'll tip our hand for sure.
But the desire to know what condition these men had left her in worried at him like a rat gnawing at his foot. How much worse must it be for Kit? The governor and soldiers led them through the downpour to a tiny stockade on the far side of the fort. The rest of the community trailed behind. Sergeant Braz produced an iron key. It grated rustily in the lock. The room beyond was so dim Malcolm couldn't see a thing. Kit gestured impatiently for a lantern. The smith, not Goulart, gave Kit his.
"Leave us," Kit said harshly. "Father Xabat will examine the witch with me."
"But Father Almada, she might do you an injury-"
"God is the sword of the Jesuit, my son. Do not fear for our safety. Go. We will lock her in again when we have examined her."
The soldiers shuffled uneasily, then retreated to the far end of the overhang, refusing to go farther. Kit lifted the lantern, drew a hasty breath, and stepped into the foul little room beyond.
Margo shivered in a corner of her prison, hating with a greater passion than she had ever felt in her young life. She hurt so desperately, tears formed. They tracked down her cheeks in the darkness. These brutal animals – they were worse than animals, that was an insult to animals – men raped her, beaten her, demanded things in as many languages as they spoke and hit her every time she couldn't answer. They'd finally stumbled on broken English in their efforts to find out who she was.
They had ordered her to reveal who the other man was, the one who had escaped, ordered her to explain why she and the other witches had come, demanded to know what terrible evil they planned to do to Portugal ....
The insanity had gone on and on until Margo had been capable of nothing but screamin at them. Whereupon their pig of a leader had rape her again, then tossed her naked into this earth-packed cell and locked her in without food, water, or a blanket. They had come back only to inform her that Koot van Beek had died and that she would die next.
Margo had never known such black despair in all her life. She cried until there were simply no more tears left in her. She'd stupidly set out to prove a childish point but the only thing Margo had succeeded in doing was getting Koot van Beek killed and the Welshman even more lost in time than ever. Not to mention getting herself raped and imprisoned.
Tremors shook through her at the memory. She would have killed for soap and water or a gun to shoot the bastards. If they could even be killed. Their sweat still stank on her skin. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw their faces, leering down at her while they held her down and hurt her ... .
Oh, Malcolm, why did I run from you? That memory was torture, too, the sweetness and gentleness contrasted with abuse beyond anything she'd been capable of imagining. I'm sorry, Malcolm, I'm sorry, I failed you, failed Kit, failed men. who counted on me to get them out alive, I even failed Mom.
At least Margo's mother had died doing something to keep her child alive. All Margo had done was behave like a reckless, ungrateful brat. Locked naked in a Portuguese prison awaiting execution was a helluva time to learn one's lesson.
"I'm sorry," she whispered over and over, "I'm so sorry ... ." She wiped her nose and sniffed, surprised she was able to conjure more tears. Life had handed her a precious friend and she'd fled, too much a baby to face what a wonderful relationship he'd offered. Now she was going to die and she would never have a chance to tell him what a thorough going, cowardly fool she had been.
And Kit. He'd never know what had become of her. What she'd done to him was inexcusable. If she ever, ever had the chance ...
But life wasn't like that. The cavalry came over the hill only in fairy-tale Westerns. And the prince on the shining charger had vanished right along with blunderbusses and sailing ships and gentlemen who tipped their top hats and smiled when a lady walked past. She'd
never get to tell him how sorry she was or to beg forgiveness and the chance to go to college for several years before trying it again.
What must he have thought when he'd found her hateful little note?
"I'm sorry," she whispered again.
She didn't know what else to do.
Then, with a terrifying, rusty grate of iron turnip in the lock, the door swung open. Dim light silhouette the whole pack of slavering murderers who'd captured her. Margo bit back a terrified cry and came to a low crouch.
They would doubtless kill her. She was too weak and too badly hurt to stop them. But she could at least put up a fight. Maybe, if she were really lucky, she'd manage to send one of them to hell a few minutes ahead of her.
Kit stepped through first, lantern held aloft Malcolm followed and hastily closed the door, then turned and found a shocking tableau. Kit had frozen in place, lantern still uplifted. Margo huddled in the corner, squinting against the lantern light She'd come to a defensive crouch ...
She was naked, covered with bruises. Dried blood showed dark on her thighs . .
"Oh, my God," Kit whispered.
Malcolm whipped off his cassock to wrap around her. Her eyes widened Then she burst into tears and hurled herself forward. Malcolm expected her to go for Kit She flew into his arms instead, staggering him off balance. She hugged him so tightly he had to fight for breath.
"Malcolm," she was whispering raggedly, "oh, God, Malcolm ..."
He wrapped the cassock gently around her shoulders. She dragged his head down and kissed him so desperately all he could do was dose his eyes and hold her. At length sanity returned.
"Your grandfather's here, too," he said quietly.
She turned and saw Kit. "Oh, God..."
Kit was staring at them, pale and silent in the lantern light Malcolm swallowed hard and met Kit's gaze. Their position was painfully clear. Margo clung to him, not to Kit, had kissed him as only men and women who have become lovers kiss.
Margo forestalled the explosion by throwing herself into Kit's arms. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry ."
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