The silence stretched between them for some time before Mathilda spoke. Her voice was stronger than his.
“But you do not know this for certain.”
“No, I do not,” Gabriel pitched his voice low. “But I intend to find out.”
He heard the sound of the grave diggers filling in Uriah’s grave. Gabriel touched Mathilda on the elbow and led her into the church. She lowered herself into a pew.
As though coming to a resolution, Mathilda nodded. The veil of her headpiece fluttered in the breeze that swept through the open doors of the church.
“Part of me fears for you, Gabriel Hardacre,” she said, taking his hands in hers, “and part of me applauds your resolve. I can offer you nothing but my prayers for your safety and success in whatever you’re planning.”
Gabriel bowed over her hands. “Then I shall accept them with gratitude. If Cassie still lives, I will bring her home to you. That is my solemn vow.”
From the doorway, Mathilda’s name was being called. Gabriel rose from the pew but before he could take a step back, Mathilda grasped his arm.
“This time, you will take a token from me.”
She opened her black velvet reticule and slipped something into his hand. She pressed his fist closed over it.
“If you will not accept this for yourself, then promise me that you will give it to Cassie when you find her.”
At that, Mathilda rose and left the church and disappeared into the black sea of mourners at the gate.
Gabriel waited a moment before slipping the gift into his coat pocket. He walked hurriedly from the churchyard and onto the streets. Even through gloved hands he knew the gift he had been given, but he wanted to be well away – and alone – before he pulled it from his pocket.
He needed to burn off energy, letting his body voice what his soul could not. He took off his gloves and reached into his pocket and pulled out the token Mathilda had given him.
The silver cross and necklace that had belonged to Cassie. He stared at it, letting the image of it burn into his memory so it was all he saw when he closed his eyes.
He opened one of the gloves and watched the chain slither into the finger of the glove. Gabriel balled up the other glove inside the first and jammed both in his pocket.
Instead of taking a right turning toward the Wharf Street Tavern, he sprinted down a narrow alleyway between two buildings. He jumped toward one wall at an angle, then launched himself onto the wall adjacent, and back again until he reached the top of the wall.
He ran along the top of the wall, leaping across alleys in a shortcut only he could take. Once he reached the intersection that would lead him to Wharf Street, he lowered himself catlike over the edge, then, pushing off, tucked himself into a backward somersault. He caught a glimpse of the ground below and planned his landing off to one side on the gravel and not in the puddle directly below.
Gabriel rubbed the dust from his cloak before shoving his hands into his pockets and fished out his gloves, letting the silver chain fall into his hand. He slipped it over his neck and tucked it into his shirt.
The cold metal felt like a brand over his heated skin.
He touched it through his shirt and doublet.
By all that was holy, she was alive! He would bring Cassie home or die in the attempt.
Chapter Nineteen
Four weeks earlier
Cassie had never seen a ship like it before, bristling with oars. The way they worked in unison was enthralling.
None of the crew gave her any mind. All hands were on deck, some coaxing as much speed out of their ship as possible, the others preparing the cannons.
Still, the strange ship with its big brown sail started gaining.
She felt Uriah at her elbow.
“What are you doing up here?” he asked. “You should be below, safe, and leaving these men to their work.”
His words were an attempt at instilling calm, but Cassie understood the tension in them. She was not a fool, she knew full well the danger before them.
Cassie turned away from the rail and plotted her course across the deck to make it down the aft steps without getting in the way of the sailors.
She and Uriah only made it part way across the deck when the deafening sound of cannon shot nearly felled her.
Timber splinted all about them. The Salacia listed.
“Go hide, Cassie,” Uriah warned her as the first of the grappling hooks bit into the timber.
“What about you? When they learn you are a man of the cloth—” her question was interrupted by her cousin’s curt nod over at the colorfully attired men now clambering over the rails and shook his head.
“It will do no good with these men. Hide and don’t look back. Heaven protect you.”
The deck tilted another few degrees. She stumbled. Uriah took her hand and pulled her toward the stern of the ship where the invaders had not yet reached.
Repel all boarders!
The grating sound of steel on steel cut through screams and curses. She could no longer fight the fear so, instead, she warred with her body, forcing her arms and legs to move.
Together, they reached a group of crates and barrels tucked in a corner and secured by a net over the top.
Uriah lifted the net and pulled up the edge of a piece of canvas that had been underneath. The yells and screams of terror grew louder and more distinct. Uriah pushed and pulled at the cargo until there was just enough room for her to hide within it.
Cassie didn’t need instruction. She crawled in, pulling the mildew-stained canvas over her before feeling the weight of the net drop over the top.
She clasped her hands together, gripping tight, as she repeated the Lord’s Prayer in her head over and over under the pounding of her heartbeat beating in her ears.
The ship and its crew had done its utmost to outrun the pirates but, in the end, they had fallen foul of the shingle banks and the run-out tide.
She recalled her first night in Barnstaple, when she overheard the tale of the poor emaciated and grievously wounded sailor. She recalled his words as though they had been uttered only yesterday.
That was the first time she had seen Gabriel.
The fighting grew louder and the screams more terrible. There was a strange mixture of voices. Some unmistakably English as men cursed and swore or begged for their lives, others she could not discern.
There had to be Dutch among them certainly, but also another language, more guttural in tone, but she knew their meaning well enough. Their manner was excited, indeed victorious.
The Salacia shifted again. The precarious pile of cargo over her shifted. It fell, and the corner of a crate struck her, sending searing pain across the back of her head. She made the least amount of noise she could, an audible gasp, and prayed it was not loud enough to attract attention.
As the stars that twinkled in her vision winked out, one by one, Cassie became conscious of two things – her right leg was wedged between two barrels, and the canvas cover that hid her had been pulled away by the shifting cargo. Her position on the deck was exposed. Cassie kept her head down, hoping to be overlooked in the fighting around her.
She was supposed to arrive home tomorrow, in time to celebrate Easter Sunday. More than that, Gabriel was due home. After nearly two long years, she would see her beloved’s face once more.
Gabriel, my love… no matter what may come of this day, please know that my first and last thoughts are of you.
Cassie prayed for a miracle.
“Nou, wat hebben we hier dan?”
The words were close enough to the English for Cassie to not need a translation.
The weight of the net over her head lifted.
The man’s voice became animated as he tore the cap from her head and hauled her up by the arm.
Cassie cried out in pain as her trapped leg scraped along the roughened wood of the barrels.
“He, het is een vrouw, een jonge ook!” His excited cries attracted the attention of the other raiders as the mele
e ebbed.
The air turned heavy and not just from the small spot fires that burned on the deck. There was an expectancy among the pirates who pulled themselves to attention. The sound of heavy booted strides seemed to come from nowhere until before her, a man emerged through the plumes of acrid smoke, as though he were the Devil himself conjured up.
He was a large man, older, well into his fifth decade. He wore the clothing of the Ottomans. A white turban matched the color of his thick white beard.
Over his grey jacket trimmed with brass buttons was a bandolier that appeared to be made of spotted fur, a wild cat of some kind. A leopard, perhaps. Around his ample girth was a more substantial belt of black leather from which hung several knives.
The curved blade of a scimitar was in his hand. As he approached, he secured the sword to his belt.
Cassie would have shrunk back in fear, except that would bring her closer to the man who’d pinned her arms behind her back.
They spoke a language she didn’t understand, but she could guess at it.
The man who held her roughly presented her as a prize. He’d also asked for something else which caused the other men to laugh and make crude gestures in her direction.
She forced her attention to the man before her, the imposing king of these pirates.
He looked her up and down with piercing dark eyes. The man leaned forward until she could feel his breath on her face.
“Your name?” he asked in heavily-accented English.
She stared at him blankly, unable to bring her own name to mind.
“It matters not. Your name will be whatever your master decrees it to be.”
The man pulled back and addressed the man who had captured her.
“Take her. And whatever else is worth taking. Destroy the rest.”
The man did not move. Cassie suspected the order given in English was for her benefit. The man repeated the command twice more, once in Dutch and then Arabic, she presumed, and the pirates scattered to do his bidding.
Firm hands shoved her in the center of the back before she was brought up short. Cassie’s wrists were yanked back and tied together with leather thongs before she was pushed toward a group of men. None of them moved and made way for her. Her captor who compelled her movement seemed to get a sadistic enjoyment in making sure she brushed up against the men who openly pawed her as they passed.
Cassie swallowed the vomit rising in her throat. The horror of her fate constricted her chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe. She willed that her life be taken now, knowing there would be peace in the hereafter.
Her captor pushed her as far as the rail and pressed her against it with his body.
“Misschien moet ik wat plezier met je eerst.”
He spun her around roughly, hands pawing her breasts.
The terror became too much. She felt a flush of heat rise up her body the split-second before she vomited all over the man.
He jumped back but not fast enough. The pirate streamed curses at her. Cassie staggered back, her face still flushed, while her body shuddered as though it were cold. It was everything she could do to stop herself falling into a faint.
Perhaps she should throw herself into the water. Cassie looked down. Below her, the Irish Sea churned with debris from the ship and floating corpses. A figure in a black cassock bobbed face down in the water.
Uriah!
Then the world turned dark. Cassie fell to the deck in a dead faint.
Chapter Twenty
“Get up.”
The command seemed close but Cassie couldn’t seem to reach it. She stumbled forth in the dark, heading for the pinprick of light that suddenly appeared before her.
“Get up!” The male voice hardened. With a supreme effort, Cassie opened her eyes a split second before being doused in cold water.
She gasped and felt something at her back before she discovered it was a bench and she was, in fact, lying down. Feeling horribly disoriented, Cassie stumbled to her feet. The blanket which had been covering her fell away. She knew without looking down that she was standing there completely naked.
Belatedly, Cassie understood her hands had been untied but she resisted glancing down at them to see how badly they were grazed.
Instead, she squeezed her eyes closed one moment then opened them. She felt carpet beneath her feet, not timber. A cluster of large colorful cushions were piled on the floor; some of them were large enough to sit on like stools.
The wall before her was covered in large rugs. Hung overhead was a striped fabric canopy befitting a marquee even though they were within the stone walls of some kind of castle or keep.
Before her, the chief of the pirates sat on a red and gilt chair that declared his wealth and status. He looked bored as he examined her up and down.
“You did not give me the chance to introduce myself before you made yourself ill over one of my men. I am Murat Reis the Younger. Some still know me as Jan Janszoon. You may call me Lord.”
He looked to someone who stood behind her and nodded.
Cassie felt a piece of wood tap at her calves, forcing her to stand with her legs apart. The person behind her tapped one elbow and then the other. She correctly guessed that she ought to stick her arms out. The stick traced each limb in turn.
Then the man with the stick emerged to stand in front of her; a dark man only a little taller than herself who regarded her with professional disinterest, as though she was nothing more than livestock he wished to inspect for purchase.
Very gently, he tapped the stick on her lips.
Did he want her to open her mouth and inspect her teeth? Was she nothing but cattle?
Her failure to act immediately resulted in the first show of anything that looked like emotion. He shot out a hand and pinched her nose closed, forcing her to gasp for air. He released her nose and held her jaw, nodding his head slightly as though, indeed, he was counting each tooth in her head.
Cassie looked at Janszoon. He rested his head on one hand as though weary, as though she were but one more task to complete before he finished a day at work.
A brief spark of anger lit in her soul that felt encased in ice.
The man before her murdered her beloved cousin, a man of peace and goodwill who had done no one any harm and did a great many people good.
She raised her chin and stared at the Dutchman. If eyes were the mirrors to the soul, she hoped what was reflected back at him were the pits of Hell to which he was damned.
Her small act of defiance sparked momentary interest. Janszoon straightened himself in his seat and nodded.
The man who examined her went to a spindle-legged desk, a piece of furniture oddly delicate and feminine, completely out of place in what looked like what Cassie imagined to be a Middle Eastern bazaar.
He returned and briefly examined her once again as though to remind himself the nature of his inventory.
“You will leave here next month for the Republic of Sale.” Janszoon’s words forced Cassie’s attention back to him. “There, you will be sold to the highest bidder. You will fetch a good price – especially if you show some spirit.”
Janszoon snapped his fingers and two more men entered.
Although fair-skinned, they, too, were dressed in the Turkish-style. But instead of the disinterest Janszoon and his scribe had shown in her, these men stared at her, making her more self-conscious of her nakedness.
“Cover yourself, woman!” the bearded Janszoon barked. “Your best value is if you’re unmarked. Otherwise I may as well give you to these men to do with you as they see fit.”
All the men laughed. Cassie’s courage fled. She hastily looked behind her to find the remains of her garments. She struggled into her chemise. The two guards approached, giving her only time to clutch the rest of her stained clothes to her chest.
Janszoon pointed to her, then barked something in another language to the other men. Despite the earlier lascivious intent in their eyes, they did not touch her, save on the s
houlder to steer her this way and that through the maze of hallways. They led her to a set of stairs, up one flight and then another before being directed down another long passage. As they approached, a large man armed with a scimitar stood to attention. Cassie could see the door he was guarding.
Barked orders were given and the guard removed the bar from the door and opened it.
Cassie was shoved through without ceremony. The door closed and was barred behind her.
In the room, three women stood, their faces as shocked as she imagined her own must be.
The oldest of the three, a woman in her early forties at a guess, was the first to react. She picked up the blanket beside her and approached.
“Marguerite, get some clothes for our new friend; Odette, prepare a drink.”
The two younger women immediately did her bidding.
Cassie hadn’t realized show much she was shaking until the woman settled a blanket around her shoulders and led her to a newly vacated cushioned settle.
“Calm yourself, child, you are among friends here. Do you speak English?”
Cassie could only bring herself to nod.
The woman accepted a goblet from Odette, the youngest of the two. With light brown hair and pale blue eyes, she was young, perhaps aged sixteen at most. The woman placed the cup in her hands, holding them until her shaking subsided. Cassie nodded once and her hands were released. She brought the cup to her lips. The drink was a posset, slightly sweetened and flavored with cinnamon and nutmeg.
Oddly enough, it did serve to settle her stomach.
“My name is Eliza de Wolfe, the wife of Lord Tobias de Wolfe.” The woman’s voice was warm. “These are my maids, Odette and Marguerite.”
Each woman curtseyed in turn.
“Do you feel up to telling us who you are?”
Cassie nodded.
“Perspicacity Glenwood… I… I am known as Cassie to my family.”
Once she started, Cassie could not halt the words as she told of her experience – the raid, Uriah’s death, her capture. When she was through, Lady de Wolfe gently took the goblet from her hands and held them once more.
The de Wolfe of Wharf Street Page 11