Beloved Warrior Page 2

  Save yourself, Patrick thought selfishly. If Denny pays the price, then so be it.

  His conscience hammered at him. Denny was an innocent in mind, even if he was a Sassenach, a hated Englishman. Patrick rowed harder, every muscle crying and straining inside him. How many hours had it been?

  Heave! Lift!

  Heave! Lift!

  Heave! Lift!

  He heard the crack of the whip before the pain sliced through him. The guards had spotted Denny. Only the whip found both their backs. He’d learned to steel himself against it, even as pain ripped through him and blood dripped down his back.

  Ignore the pain. Ignore the hammering of his heart.

  Pray. Pray for wind.

  Think of the green hills and lochs of home. He retreated into that image even as his body labored, each repetitive stroke of the oar adding to his resolve to return once again to the highlands. To Inverleith.

  Inverleith. Did his father still live? His brothers? If so, why hadn’t they ransomed him? The Spanish don who had held him prisoner for months had repeatedly sent ransom demands, but there had been no response. After twelve months in a damp dungeon, he’d been sold to Mendoza as a slave.

  Had his father died and his brothers believed—mayhap hoped—he would never return to claim his place as laird? The thought haunted him, and anger grew with each stroke.

  They had never been close. They were half brothers, and his father had pitted them against each other since they were born. His father was an angry and bitter man and both he and Rory, the middle son, had competed for their father’s rare approval. The youngest, Lachlan, was a dreamer who had enraged his father and was more often found hiding in the hills than training.

  Or could they all be dead? Victims of the Campbells? Of the bloody feud that had ensued for a hundred years? Or had they died at Flodden Field instead? The Spanish guards had taunted him about a great English victory on the Scottish border. Patrick had hoped it had been nothing but lies, until a newcomer who had been captured after the battle—and sold to the Spanish by an English borderer—confirmed the fact that the Scottish army had been decimated.

  That oarsman was gone now. Dead of exhaustion and thrown over the side, as had so many others. Patrick wasn’t sure how he, alone, had survived this long. He was now known to the guards as Number One, the longest living rower.

  He wasn’t going to give the bastards the satisfaction of his dying.

  Heave! Lift!

  Heave! Lift!

  Lift the oar, push forward, lower to the water and heave with every ounce of strength he possessed. He did it without thinking, but every muscle strained, ached. His heart hammered. His lungs felt as if they would burst. His breath came in short, painful spurts. His throat was desperate for water. Groans around him told him he was not the only one reaching his physical limit.

  He didn’t know how many hours they’d rowed this time. It seemed like days.

  He couldn’t keep pace for both himself and Denny much longer. Patrick was the strokesman on his bench, already the man with the most vigorous work. Denny had the next most strenuous job, but he had been ill these past few days.

  The Englishman slumped over the oar and Patrick pulled his weight as well as that of the oar.

  “Denny!” he rasped out.

  Denny jerked upward, groaned. His face was red with exertion, the scar alongside his hairline even more vivid.

  Denny wasn’t his true name. Nor was Patrick even sure he was English, since he hadn’t said a word since being chained next to him months earlier. But something about him made Patrick think English. Perhaps his fair coloring.

  Think of anything but the pain.

  Patrick didn’t like the bloody Sassenachs any better than the Spanish. They were, in truth, his sworn enemies. But when the new man had been chained next to him, he appeared bewildered and helpless, almost like a lad, though he must be around Patrick’s own age. He did not speak and barely responded to anything but the whip. Patrick, for wont of anything better, dubbed him Denny and reluctantly looked after him. He made sure no other oarsmen took his food, and that he received his quota of water.

  “Row,” he whispered.

  Denny gave a slight nod even as Patrick felt a difference in the movement of the ship. “Blow, wind, blow,” he muttered, and as if the skies heard him, he felt the ship surge forward. He heard orders yelled in Spanish from the deck overhead to hoist more sail.

  Setting his shoulders to bear the effort, he continued to row until the order came to lift the oars and they were secured out of the water. Patrick and the other oarsmen slumped over in complete exhaustion.

  Manuel, the water boy, started down the aisle, doling out water for the tin cups that, along with a tin plate and a blanket, were the oarsmen’s sole possessions. He paused at Patrick’s bench, gave him an almost imperceptible nod as he filled the cups passed from the end of the bench to Patrick and back again.

  A rare glimmer of hope grew inside him. Patrick sipped from his cup, forcing himself not to gulp the dirty water while trying to interpret the nod. Had Manuel found a way to steal the key to the chain that locked the oarsmen to the bench? He’d claimed he could do so three weeks ago. He’d whispered that he’d been the best thief in Madrid.

  Theirs was a friendship of sorts. At least as much of one as anyone had on the benches where speech drew the whip. Manuel hadn’t been aboard long when he’d tripped and spilled water, much to the anger of the guards. None of the oarsmen had had water that day. It was Patrick who had taken the blame for the fall, saving Manuel from a beating and incurring it himself. Patrick had tried to help the lad as he tried to help Denny. Remnants of humanity. The cursed Spaniards weren’t going to take that away from him, too.

  Manuel appeared grateful, and since then, Patrick had tried to whisper words of encouragement to the lad. He’d learned, partly from Manuel and partly from the guards, that the boy had been sent to the galleys for theft from a very important official. He’d been too small and slight to man the oars and was made an errand boy. Patrick put his age at no more than thirteen.

  Manuel, like Patrick, was desperate. He was being used in degrading ways by several of the officers, including the ship surgeon, and he knew well what lay ahead of him. More of the same until his body grew. Then he too would be chained to the bench. With his slight build, he wouldn’t last long there.

  They’d mentally weighed one another for months before whispers started. Patrick’s obsession to escape. Manuel’s possible access to the key that anchored them to the benches. Freedom! A few words exchanged, a bargain made. Sealed in desperation.

  Then nothing happened. Nothing until now.

  Could the lad really do it?

  The leg and wrist irons were bolted on, but the bench had its own chain that ran through a ring attached to the leg irons. The chain was fastened at the aisle seat, but they all opened with the same key.

  They both knew the lad’s fate if he were caught. He would be flogged to death or keelhauled. Either way, it would not be an easy demise.

  Even if Manuel could obtain the key, their chances would be slim at best. Each man would still be manacled at the ankles and wrists. They were unarmed. Most were weakened by labor and lack of food.

  But even the slightest chance was better than giving up to despair and dying like a chained dog.

  He’d kept his plan to himself. Some of the oarsmen would do anything for an extra crust of bread or promise of freedom. Even betray the others.

  Devil take it, he wished he could talk to Manuel, but a guard had accompanied the lad. Mayhap when he brought the evening bowl of beans and stale bread, they could exchange a word.

  Patrick sipped his water, savoring the liquid as it trickled down his parched throat. He put a restraining hand on Denny’s to slow his intake. “Slow,” he whispered in English. “You will get sick.”

  Denny nodded.

  Would Denny be able to do his part, to follow his lead? The others? Could they coordinate their
movements enough to take their Spaniard guards before they raised an alert? Or had they been too brutalized to act on their own? If so, they were doomed. There would be no second chance. Only a painful death.

  A lot of questions, but staying there was worse than death.

  He sipped the last dregs of his water, knowing if he didn’t, the man behind him might try to steal it, or it would overturn as the ship rolled with the sails. If Manuel’s nod meant what he hoped it did, he would need all his strength and wits.

  He bent over and escaped into exhausted sleep.

  JULIANA resolutely blinked back the tears as she gazed at the sea. Spain was there beyond her vision. As far away as the sun.

  They had sailed at noon yesterday, and at last the ship moved swiftly with a brisk wind. She said a brief prayer of thanksgiving for the oarsmen below.

  Until a few hours ago, the ship moved through the labor of men. She’d heard the rhythmic sound of a drum, the moans as oarsmen struggled to keep pace with its demand.

  But now that the wind blew briskly, the hammer was silenced. She looked back toward Spain. She was leaving all she knew—and loved—for a husband she didn’t.

  And on a slave ship.

  She’d noticed the oars when she’d boarded and asked her uncle about it. She knew, of course, her father owned ships, but he had never mentioned they were powered by oars as well as sails.

  He’d dismissed her concern with a shrug. “The oarsmen are criminals, Juliana. Murderers. And heretics. Sentenced to death, all of them. Would you rather they die at the hands of the Inquisition?”

  She’d had no answer for that. She had heard the horrors of the Inquisition, knew the fear the very name invoked in people.

  Still, the sounds from below yesterday had resounded in her head all night. . . .

  She tried to dismiss them now and consider her own situation. What if Viscount Kingsley was like her father?

  She knew she was nothing but a pawn in her father’s quest for power and money. He’d never loved her. She suspected he didn’t love anyone.

  Her mother had compensated for his disdain, for the fact that he’d wanted a son and received only her instead. Lady Marianne Hartford had been educated in London and she’d given her daughter a love of learning and books despite the opposition of her husband. An education was wasted on a woman, he said.

  But Marianne had defied him in this one thing and he’d relented eventually. The English, her mother protested, educated their daughters, and if Luis Mendoza wished an English marriage for his daughter, he would be wise to provide her with an education equal to that of English misses.

  Her mother had protected her for years. Now Juliana must do the same for her.

  Even marry a stranger . . . one her mother feared.

  Juliana gazed upward. Her hand shook on the railing as she considered the injustice of it. She had been sold. It was as simple as that.

  Please God, don’t let him be a monster.

  “Juliana, es muy bello, no?”

  Her uncle joined her at the railing. No matter how much she tried to avoid him, he always seemed to appear at her side. She duly nodded. It was a lovely day except for the company. She’d never cared much for her uncle. He was too much like her father. Hungry for position and power. That he used slave labor did not raise him in her estimation. How could she not have known? Her home, her jewels, her clothing, all came from the misery of others.

  “Si, Tio,” she replied.

  “Do not get too much sun,” he said, his eyes roaming over her as if she were a prized animal. “It would not be well for the Earl of Chadwick and the Viscount Kingsley to see you when you are not at your best.”

  She saw no reason to answer and gazed out at the sea. With a good wind, her uncle had said, they would see England in five days. They would not stop at London but go up the coast to the Handdon Castle, the northern home of the Earl of Chadwick. Though she had an intense curiosity about her mother’s country, she did not look forward to meeting her intended husband.

  Maybe she should get sick. Very sick. Then Viscount Kingsley would not want her.

  “You look pensive,” her uncle said, breaking the long silence between them. “Looking forward to seeing England?”

  “I wish I knew more about the man you want me to marry.”

  “The man you will marry,” he corrected.

  “And if I find him lacking?”

  He shrugged as if that was of no matter. “This union will help your family and your country.”

  “And if Viscount Kingsley finds me lacking?”

  “He has already seen a miniature of you. He is quite entranced, I’m told.”

  She had hoped otherwise. “Have you met him?”

  “Si. He is a handsome lad.”

  Juliana heard the rattle of a chain through the grated latch that ran to the galley deck, and she shivered.

  “You are cold,” her uncle said, removing his uniform jacket.

  She shook her head. “I can’t help but think about those men below.”

  He shrugged as if they were of no consequence. “They are treated well if they do their work. You need not worry about them. Look ahead, instead. Look to England. Your home.”

  “My home is in Spain.”

  An impatient look flashed across his face and the charming uncle dissolved as his voice took on a harshness. “I must leave you now,” he said. “You and I and my first officer will sup together tonight.”

  She didn’t want to sup with the first officer, who looked at her with greedy eyes and never missed a chance to brush against her. He was coarse and loud and seemed to enjoy the misery below deck.

  “I am tired,” she said, “and if I am to be at my best I should retire early. Also my maid continues to suffer. Could you please send something to my cabin?”

  “I will send something for her, querida mia.” He fastened her with his dark eyes. “But you will join me for supper.”

  Her uncle left her and she remained where she was, enjoying the fresh sea breeze.

  Then she heard the sound of a key turning in a lock and turned toward the grate leading down to the rowing deck. A young boy waited as the grate opened. His ankles were encased in metal bands linked by a chain and he carried a bucket that seemed too heavy for him. He had no shirt, and his arms were bruised. His eyes were lowered as he descended into the oarsmen’s deck.

  She instinctively glanced down after him.

  Rows of nearly naked men lay over oars. She saw blood on the back of one. She knew she should look away and started to do so when one of the oarsmen looked up.

  Several days’ beard covered his cheeks, but his hair had been cropped short. His eyes met hers and his mouth turned up into a sardonic smile, even as he straightened to hold her gaze. His eyes were fierce, glowing with anger. And hate.

  Then he looked away, arrogantly dismissing her as if she were less than a bothersome fly.

  “Juliana?” Her uncle returned to her side. “I would stay away from the grate,” he said, a frown on his face.

  She would have no trouble following her uncle’s order. The image of the oarsman was seared into her mind, especially the hate. She’d shuddered and her uncle apparently misunderstood it.

  “They cannot harm you,” he said. “They are well secured.”

  But it hadn’t been fear she felt, rather pity and horror.

  “The boy . . .”

  “A thief from Madrid. He is lucky he is not at the oars,” her uncle said indifferently. Then he changed the subject, as if bored with the current one. “We will be running close to France,” he continued. “Do not light a lantern at night.”

  “We are not at war with France now.”

  “Some do not recognize that fact,” he said.

  She glanced at the two small cannons, one on each side of the ship. They would be of little help if they encountered a hostile war ship.

  “We should be safe,” he said. “But do not shine light when it is not necessary.”

/>   She retreated to her cabin and tended to her maid, who had not been able to keep a morsel down. But in her mind she still heard the pound of the drum and the lift of oars and the ocassional cry of pain. She still felt the fury of the oarsman. She knew the image would haunt her sleep.

  Chapter 3

  ATRICK leaned his head on the oar’s shaft and tried to rest. Every bone and muscle in his body screamed in agony.

  Don’t think about the pain. Think about survival.

  If Manuel’s nod meant he could steal the key, they had little time. Things had to happen, and happen quickly. There would be no time to second-guess or ponder the consequences. The problem was that after hours of rowing, none of his fellow oarsmen were in any shape to overtake their burly guards.

  Mayhap the nod meant nothing at all. Just false hope. The other rowers were a mixture of Christians, Jews and Moors. They came from a variety of countries and spoke a dozen different languages. They were here as prisoners of war, heretics in the eyes of Spain, Spanish criminals. And as rowers, they were even less than that.

  They had been so brutalized and starved, some of them would sell their mothers for an extra piece of stale bread. Many couldn’t communicate with each other except by grunts and shared pain. He was unsure of most of them but, hoping for a chance to escape, he’d tried to build some trust in those around him. Sometimes he gave a piece of his bread to someone who needed it more than he did, or a sip of his water when he believed another’s throat was burning more than his.

  But beyond these three benches, he wasn’t sure how the others would react.

  He prayed they wanted freedom as much as he did.

  The light that slivered through the openings for the oars faded. The oil lamps on both ends of the deck were dimly lit. The grate overhead had been closed and neither air nor light filtered through.

  For a moment, he recaptured the image of the woman staring down at him.

  Ach, but it had been a long time since he’d seen a woman, particularly one as bonny as this one. Just one glimpse had captured her in his mind. Hair the color of dark gold and the most unusual eyes he had even seen. Gray, or were they blue? Edged by violet.