by Jackie Ivie
“Why will she be bruised?
“Waves send cargo flying. You know that. You’ve seen it.”
Rhoenne regarded him for a moment. Nodded. “True. Should the waves warrant such, I’ll speak with the eunuch. Now. Go below with the others. You’ll need rest.”
“Rest? I know you say you are unworried, but there is a storm brewing and yet you climb rigging.” Henry paused, then added, “...with a sword strapped to your back.”
Damn.
The man was smart.
“’Tis my short sword. Good for hacking. I may need it. Now, get below. And that is an order.”
“I already answered it.” Henry returned.
Another raindrop hit his cheek. “I’ve climbed this nightly. There is nae cause for concern. Or worry.”
“I’m your man, Rhoenne. I will na’ save my skin should the storm break with you out here by yourself.”
Rhoenne gripped the man’s shoulders. Leaned down. “I will na’ fail, Henry. But should that happen, someone has to get those women to safety. Someone honorable, smart, and strong. You ken?”
Henry looked him over evenly. Then nodded.
Rhoenne grabbed the pole. He’d gained footing on the first cross-piece before looking down. Raindrops were hitting in earnest now. Darkness had fallen. He could barely make out the deck below. Henry was nowhere to be seen. The first sails moved easily. Rhoenne pulled and secured line, the sailcloth sucked into place against the mast. He moved up. Did the same to the next piece. Looked over at the other mast. Rainfall was visible with every flash of lightning now. Rhoenne grabbed a line. Took a deep breath. And swung across to it. He smacked into wood below the cross piece, but didn’t fall.
Rain had slicked the pole, making it difficult to grasp. Every move had an incremental slide downward to it, adding impetus to his climb for the mizzenmast. Rhoenne grabbed it with one hand, yanked himself up. Straddled it. Grabbed the line for a sail and started yanking, each pull bringing the cloth closer to the mast. The shoulder of the tunic gave over and ripped away. Wind whipped some of his hair loose. Rain dampened, then saturated. He shoved a forearm across his eyes to clear vision. He yanked on rope again. Again. And again. When the line wouldn’t budge further, he knotted it. Then he sat for a moment, breathing heavily. The main sail was a mass of fabric adhering to the mast, flapping at the edges.
From up here, the world was rocking wind and stinging rain. If banshees existed they were at play, yanking at his clothing, pulling at his hair, doing their best to unseat him. Lightning lit the sky, showing the ocean surface writhing like a beast, while the ship looked like a small insect. Then it went dark again. Thunder tumbled through the air.
He slid farther along the mizzenmast. Found the line for the next sail. Started yanking. And that’s when he heard the scream.
Rhoenne didn’t hesitate. He jumped out, holding to the sail line, and swooped down to the deck, pulling canvas in a shredded mass along with him. The landing on his left side was brutally hard. A wall of heavy canvas fell atop him. Rhoenne rolled and clawed and kicked his way free. He didn’t even notice the crash of wood that smacked into the deck behind him.
He should have known what was being planned.
He should have gone with his gut instinct.
He should have paid attention to danger signals.
This is what came of poring over a sense of wonder that hit him with every recollection of being with Cassandra.
Ambush.
His right hand unsheathed the short sword as he ran, while the left plucked daggers from his belt. He’d be facing at least a score of them. Maybe more. Excitement sent an edge to his movements. Heightened the thrill of combat. Rhoenne had never lost a battle, not until this crusade. He didn’t like the taste of defeat. He wasn’t allowing it again.
He didn’t just have surprise on his side this time. He had strength. He had skill. And he had hate. He’d come on this crusade to eliminate these devils. He’d spent the past two years honing that skill. Rain slicked the deck, waves rocked the path, and darkness stole vision. Rhoenne wasn’t hampered in the slightest. He was attuned, perfect focused, battled primed.
He knew exactly where they were, and exactly what they’d planned.
The entire deck before her cabin was packed with men. They were easily seen because they had a lantern lit in the cabin. The light came out in bursts that matched the sway of the deck, sending spears of light on a throng that crammed the portal, near bursting it with their fervor. Yelling loudly. Rabidly. Hungrily.
Like animals.
Rhoenne started hacking.
His right hand shoved the sword into the first man’s spine. With his left, he slashed a neck. He spun, planted another blade into a chest, then kicked the body off his sword to free it. His next sword swipe took off a head. The movement of the ship was as nothing. Rainfall meant even less. Nothing impeded. Nothing altered. He dealt death with each motion. He barely heard Emin’s angered cry. The sound added enhancement to an already altered experience. Rhoenne’s heart rate ratcheted to a higher level; became a cadence of harsh beats. Loud. Strong. Remorseless.
He slashed through another man’s torso, took off another head. Stuck another dagger into a throat and then ripped it free. Someone tossed a punch at him. Rhoenne cut off the offending arm. If the man screamed, Rhoenne couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t hear anything over the throbbing beat pulsating through him. Rhoenne plucked more knives free of his belt. Stuck one into the next man’s eye socket. The other blade opened a throat. He shoved his sword into the next man’s belly, wrenching upwards as he pulled it free. Black, wet mass spilled out amid a gurgling sound as the man fell. Rhoenne used his body as a platform, catapulting over a wall of them right into the cabin. And somehow he landed on his feet. Bestial-looking expressions turned to shock at his arrival before them. And everything halted...for a scant moment of time.
And then Rhoenne moved again. He stuck a dagger into a cheek. Felt a sharp pain in his side. Ignored it. The next man received a sword blow that nearly decapitated. Another one was disemboweled. He jammed the sword into a man’s chest. His fall wrenched the hilt from Rhoenne’s hand. He snagged more knives from his belt. Emin gave a renewed yell from behind him. The cabin was small, but Emin’s cry was barely audible. Rhoenne had both arms moving rapidly, slashing and cutting in motions almost too quick to follow. He carved a man’s face open with a dagger. Stuck another blade into a throat. Yet another man got two blades delivered into the sides of his skull, as Rhoenne rammed them right through his ears. He pulled more blades from the back of his belt shoving one into a man’s gut. Another slit across a throat. The last few men turned into cowards, and fled. Rhoenne tossed knives after them, taking at least one down. Emin gave chase and they got swallowed up by the dark.
Rhoenne sucked for breath. Exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled. His heart was a throbbing center of heightened exertion, stress, and thrill. He closed his eyes. Said a quick prayer. And turned around.
The lantern hung from a hook at his eye level. It sent flashes of light through the cabin in jerking motions. It touched on Ida’s cowering figure, and just behind her was Cassandra. Her hair was loose, framing her. She held the little dagger at her breast, the blade inches away from her heart. Her eyes were wide with what was probably shock and horror. But she was alive.
And untouched.
Relief was a physical affliction. It weakened instantaneously. Rhoenne’s heart gave a kick that nearly sent him to his knees. He wavered momentarily before steadying his legs beneath him again. He’d just achieved it as Cassandra barreled into him. And then she burst into sobs.
Rhoenne was breathing hard. Physically spent. And glorying with a sensation of such beauty, there was no equal. He had no comparison. Tears stung his eyes. He put an arm about Cassandra, lifted her from the floor, and held her to him. Her unbound hair was a waterfall at her back, cloaking her. He started crooning. Saying nonsensical things. Speaking her name. Telling of her fearlessness. Her strength.
Her resilience. He could never remember later just what he’d said as she cried hysterically, her face buried in his throat, her arms about his neck.
The room’s rocking had increased. Rhoenne moved with the sway. Crooning words. Almost singing. Light splayed back and forth across the cabin. Ida walked around them. Rhoenne turned to watch her start shoving at bodies - and parts of bodies - with a foot, sliding them on the slick, blood-covered floor out the doorway. She was joined by Emin, who grabbed from the opposite side of the carnage, silently pulling and then heaving the dead over the side. And that was the scene when Henry and Euan rushed into the field of light, swords drawn, daggers ready.
And then their jaws dropped.
Rhoenne held Cassandra closer. Her weeping had calmed to hiccups, but her arms were still wrapped about his shoulders. Her hair trailed down her back and over his arm.
Henry sheathed his sword first. Euan followed then he started dancing from side-to-side while he stared up at Rhoenne with his eyes almost as wide as his mouth.
“Greetings, gentlemen,” Rhoenne remarked casually. Cassandra stiffened. He put his other hand to her back to hold her exactly where she was. She didn’t fight it.
“By the faith, Ramhurst. If I had na’ seen this—.” Henry’s voice stopped.
“I had some trouble,” Rhoenne said. “But ’tis past.”
“How the devil—?” Henry’s words ended again.
“I have na’ known you to be speechless afore, FitzHugh. ’Tis highly entertaining,” Rhoenne remarked.
“We’d have been here earlier if we’d known,” Henry answered.
“Or if Emin had chased one of the devils into the hold sooner.” Euan spoke up.
“Ah. That explains how you found out and why you have mounted a rescue,” Rhoenne teased.
“Ramhurst.” The reproof stained Henry’s voice.
Rhoenne took a few moments to stifle the amusement as Henry said his name.
“Aye?” he offered finally.
“I am beyond words. I have seen you in battle. I was ever impressed. But this. This. I have never seen the like. How many did you take?”
“I do na’ ken exactly,” Rhoenne replied. “A score. More. Less. All. Most.”
“How did you do it?”
“I do na’ ken that, either.”
“And you took nae injury?”
Rhoenne shook his head.
“By the faith, Ramhurst. If tales of your valor were na’ already the talk of the glens, they would after this.”
“Only if someone were to speak of it,” Rhoenne returned.
“Well, I will,” Euan remarked.
“Euan. Come with me. The laird will be better served if we check the ship.”
“You think there might be some still hiding?” Euan asked excitedly.
“Possibly. But we need check for issues. We are facing a storm. We have an auld ship full of cargo. From the looks of things, we’ve got a mast down...and now we’ve got less crew. A lot less. ’Twill be a long night. A powerfully long night.” Henry’s voice continued on unabated as they faded from hearing.
“Emin!” Rhoenne called.
“Yes, Excellency?” The eunuch’s bulk filled the doorway.
“Go to the galley. Bring me a bottle of whatever the captain has been drinking.”
“Yes, Excellency.”
The man took off at a trot, barely missing Ida’s arrival with a bucket of water. She poured it on the blood mess, matching the motion to a roll of the ship. That method swept liquid out the door. That was impressive. As was her second and a third bucket flushing. Rhoenne’s legs were feeling the strain simply by holding Cassandra and maintaining an upright stance.
“I’m...going to put you down now, Cassandra.”
Her head shifted as she nodded. Rhoenne went to the cot. Fell, more than sat, with her on his lap. The structure was hard. Narrow. Prison-like.
“Ida?” he spoke to the maid when she’d finished swishing with a fourth bucket of seawater. She was instantly before him, still holding the bucket. “You need to find your mistress something clean to wear.”
“They didn’t touch me,” Cassandra whispered.
“You’re...” Rhoenne gave a sigh before continuing. However he said it, she wasn’t going to like it. “Covered in blood,” he finished.
She looked down at herself. Gave an exclamation that was filled with horror. It matched her shudders as she crawled from him, placing her back to the wall. She tucked her legs up beneath her. Her hair shielded her, but he watched her shake her head from side to side and it sounded like she barely kept from gagging.
“It’s na’ that bad,” Rhoenne told her.
“This blood! From all those men!” Her voice rose.
Rhoenne grabbed a shoulder of his tunic and finished tearing one side open, ripping the sleeve off. He rolled the material around his fist, making a pad. He looked at her. She appeared to be trying to push further from him, even as the wall fought it. He shook his head.
“No, sweet,” he said softly. “You are covered with my blood.”
Then he lifted his arm, took a deep breath and located the puncture wound along his side. He pressed the wadded material to it, and lowered his arm to keep the pressure on. And then he realized what he’d just called her. Cold washed through him, sending unpleasant shiver in its wake. All he could hope was that she didn’t note it. And cover it with something else.
“Your hair is down,” he said, frowning at his disingenuousness. That was the best he could manage? A remark over hair?
“Ida...brushes my hair. Nightly. After a sponge bath.”
“Ah.” He shut his eyes. Yanked them open almost immediately. He wished she hadn’t mentioned the bath part.
“You’re injured,” she said.
“Oh. Aye.”
Cassandra pulled away from the wall. Moved closer to him. “But you told those men—. Henry. I don’t understand. They would have helped.”
“’Tis but a scratch.”
The padding had saturated. Rhoenne could feel it. He watched her glance there and back to his face. But she didn’t meet his eyes.
“That is not a scratch.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Why did you lie to them?”
“Harsh words, woman,” he returned.
“Tell me why you didn’t speak of your injury.”
“Penance,” Rhoenne replied.
“What?”
She scooted to the edge of the cot. Right next to him. Pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. Strands trailed her arm. Pooled into a mass of darkness onto the bed between them. What blood he’d smeared on her dress was drying to a brown shade.
“This was my fault. All of it. I am to blame. A score of men are now dead. You were almost—.” He scrunched his eyes shut. Shook. Reopened them. “If I had not taken you stargazing, this wouldn’t have happened. Any wound is penance.”
“Then it’s my fault,” she told him.
“No.” He shook his head. The room seemed to move with it. That was odd. “I knew what they were like. I knew the risk. And I still took it. Ida?” The maid was before him again almost instantly. “You found fresh clothing for Cassandra?”
She lifted a shapeless-looking dress. “Good. Give me the old one. I need more padding. And I don’t know who allowed you a lantern in here on a night like this, but I am grateful.”
“Emin brought it. Ida was...frightened,” Cassandra told him.
“I see. Well. It’s as fortuitous as it is enlightening.”
“How so?”
Rhoenne kept his focus on the plank floor. Swishing sounds like those from fabric were barely audible above the creaking noises throughout the room, but his ears were fine-tuned to it.
“I shall need it to heat one of my blades.”
“You want a heated blade?”
“Seals the wound. Unless you are a hand at sewing?”
Cassandra made another gagging noise.
“That’s what I assum
ed,” Rhoenne said conversationally. “Ida? I was told you are a great hand with a needle. You can also help me seal it? Is she nodding?” he asked.
“You can look. I am once again fully-clothed.”
The dress draped about her small form. It was still too revealing. Anything would be. He couldn’t erase the memory of her womanliness no matter what she wore. Rhoenne glanced at Cassandra then away.
“May I have...the old dress?”
He put his hand out. Ida handed him a pad formed from a section of the material. Rhoenne thanked her with a smile, and replaced the used one. He was debating where to place it when Ida held out the bucket. He dropped the bloodied bandage into the bucket. Watched her take it to the door. Open it. He wasn’t surprised to see Emin on the other side, either. It just seemed fated.
The eunuch handed Ida a dark bottle. Took the bucket.
“Your drink is here,” Cassandra told him.
“It’s na’ just for drinking. It’s for cleansing. I’ve got a line of Pict healers in my family tree...as well as trou...badours.” He split the word into two distinct sections with a pause. It was getting difficult to concentrate.
“Who said anything about troubadours?” Cassandra asked.
Damn.
He was losing his sanity. Giving her all kinds of unnecessary ammunition. He knew women kept a constant log of things to use when it would cause the most embarrassment. Do the most damage. Hurt the fiercest. The best a man could do was keep ammunition out of their grasp. Hadn’t he learned anything from being near Aileen? Rhoenne scowled. If he didn’t keep his mind focused, he didn’t know what else he might reveal. He reached for a dagger. Checked the front of his belt. Sides. Back. He’d used all his knives? And, if he didn’t miss his guess, most were on their way to the bottom of the sea.
The effects of this night just kept getting worse and worse.
“Cassandra? You still have the little dagger. I...need it.”
He pushed from the cot to the floor, knocking his knees into the wood with the fall, and even that hurt. He felt light-headed. Woozy. It didn’t help that the floor rocked.
“Emin! Help!”
He heard Cassandra’s frantic call. Wondered about that. Everything was dark. Blurred. And spiraling insanely. He couldn’t place his fate in the hands of two women and a eunuch. Not him. The Dark One.