Anya now understood the reason for the lack of retaliation from her own ship. No gun could have been fired without injuring these women. Each mast was protected by an innocent. The women spaced along the rail were there to protect the men - cruel men, to hide behind defenceless, tethered women. It made Anya's heart beat faster; she bowed her head from fear of what such men might do to her if she were caught. She had been a slave; she knew that they would never show her any mercy.
And now, as the great ship drew nearer until it dwarfed their own, Anya, frightened yet unable to prevent her eyes from bearing witness to this awesome scene, could see the evil glee on those pirates' faces and the terror on the faces of the gagged and tethered women, in fear for their lives. Her heart went out to them; they could not know that her Prince would never allow his men to endanger any women, but would rescue them if he could and then vanquish these cruel beasts - burn their flag and mayhaps sink their ship and bring them back in chains to Lidir - and punish them in the kitchens and the dungeons. Her Prince would have some plan, she was certain. At least, she hoped and prayed he would, for now the ship had almost come alongside.
She could see the women clearly - some were blonde and pale-skinned, others golden or dark, and there was one whose body appeared entirely bound in chains. It made Anya shudder; it made her wonder what might happen to these women after the battle. Would they be shared amongst the men for their pleasure and reward?
When the first grappling irons were flung across and bit into the woodwork and the belly-tightening screams of the attack went up, Anya backed down from the porthole, crouched beneath it and hid her head. She wanted to keep as far away as possible from the door.
The cries came louder. Now she could hear the clash of swords and the screams of pain, then many stampeding feet above. Frightening shrieks were followed by splashing sounds, as of men being tossed into the water. She covered her ears again. The stampeding sound was now below her, in the hold. She knew the defenders were losing. There were doors and hatches banging, as if a frenzied mob was raging through the ship. The footfalls came louder, nearer, on the same level. A door banged in the next room. There were shouts and laughter, the sound of bottles breaking, then muttered curses, thuds and cries. It sounded like several men, their voices coarse and guttural. Anya held her breath. Suddenly, the voices were outside. She could not take her eyes from the doorway. She prayed the door would hold. There seemed to be some argument. The latch moved. She froze. It lifted, then dropped again. There was a grunt as a shoulder was unsuccessfully put to the door. The door was kicked. Her heart was bursting. Then the footsteps and the voices retreated.
Anya covered her face with her hands and tried to breathe steadily. Suddenly there was an abrupt shout which made her jerk with fright and, with a bang like a thunderbolt, the door bulged, then splintered as it was hit a second time. A wooden beam burst through it and jammed. There were grunts from the corridor. She had to will herself to move and find a better hiding place. Shaking uncontrollably, she crawled between two crates in the corner by the porthole, then managed to pull a plank of wood part way across the gap. More grunts signalled that the beam had now been freed; it was slammed against the door repeatedly until the obstacle was finally battered down and the contents of the pantry stood revealed. There were deep-throated chuckles of satisfaction. The voice was coarse:
'There, what did I tell you, lads? - Grub. Just look at it.' Peeping out from her hiding place, Anya saw three men. They all looked evil. Their hearts were black, she knew, despite their bright attire. The pirate who had spoken was a swarthy villain, in a sweat-stained orange shirt and striped blue pantaloons. He had wavy, unkempt black hair. A cutlass was tucked through his thick leather belt. One eye was half closed. His face was gnarled; his right ear looked as if it had been chewed by a dog. In his hand was a short knife. He crouched and, with a quick movement that made the others dive out of the way, the knife stabbed to the floor. It reappeared with an apple impaled on it. The pirate rubbed the apple, then took a bite. 'Mmmm ...' His thick lips pouted wetly, then his eyes rolled upwards as he munched. His mates - one of whom hadn't stopped scratching since walking through the doorway - watched the look of delectation on his face. 'Here ...' Now he collected up an armful of apples and handed them round. 'Taste - as fresh as if you'd picked 'em from the tree.' But the others seemed hesitant.
'But what about the captain's orders?' asked the one with the continual itch. 'The girl?' He began scratching the back of his head.
'Girls, lad? You're as bad as Travix. Can't you get it into your skull ...?' Anya crouched back as his good eye roved round the room. 'There's no wenches aboard this bucket - a score of our lads have been through her from stem to stem and what's been found? Net so much as a stocking.' Then he stepped across the crates to drape his arm about the one piece of smoked pork still attached to a hook in the ceiling. 'But this lot here is surely prize enough for any man.' His grimy fingertips caressed the meat lovingly; his nostrils dilated wide and drank its fragrance. 'And it'll do you far more good than any girls.' But his companion was unconvinced. 'Cheer up, lad. Look - all that talk of a princess was nought but eyewash to a haddock. Take it from me - I know.' The good eye opened wide and the finger pointed as if to hold the other's itch at bay. 'Now think, lad. Would a princess travel without a gaggle of maids, trunks of finery, a treasure trove of jewels? And what did we find of those?'
The lad, looking downcast, did not reply. His expression told of long lost maids-in-waiting and of the poor consolation in a barrel of apples and a side of salted pork. His hand moved up across his belly; his fingertips began to delve beneath his arm.
The eye now distributed its encouragement more widely, taking in the third pirate, who had not spoken. His face had maintained a fixed frown throughout, as though completely baffled since the start of the proceedings. 'Never mind lads - you'll be heroes on the Goblin when you get this lot aboard. Then Travix is sure to find you some little wench to keep you busy.'
He shouted along the corridor; many more pirates appeared and began crowding into the small space at the pantry door.
Anya cringed in terror as they started removing the crates, refilling the barrels, trundling them out and gradually emptying the room. She tucked her feet up tight and tried to make her body very small, knowing that at any second she might be discovered. Yet it seemed to take a very long time for the jumbled mound of provisions to diminish. The men kept stopping for a break. Those times were the worst, for with nothing being moved, the room went very quiet and she was afraid they would hear her breathing. In the confined space, she felt cramped and very hot; there was no air. As she peered at the men through slitted eyes, as they yawned and rubbed their necks or scratched their knotted hair and stared vacantly round the room - perhaps in her direction - she almost became convinced that they were playing games with her, that they knew all along she was in there, and that they were simply waiting to pounce on her when she least expected it and drag her screaming from the room. And when that vision took shape, fed by the passing minutes, the constant grunts and sounds of scratching and the constriction of the airless space, she did begin to panic. She felt an overpowering urge to scream - to fling herself at them, kicking and spitting and tearing their hair out by the roots, so they would not need to scratch at it any more.
When work resumed, she breathed deeply and closed her eyes until a sudden noise reminded her the men were drawing ever nearer. And then the panic rose again to suffocate her.
Finally, deliverance came. As a sack of peas was lifted, some boxes collapsed sideways and the plank of wood that covered her hiding place tilted. She gasped and tried to catch hold of it, but a shout from the corridor made her hand jerk and the plank fell to the floor. She hid her face in her hands. There was a muttered curse. A box was dropped. She cringed. Any second, the crates would be kicked aside and she would be dragged out, screaming for her life. She kept her eyes screwed up tight. But her hands closed into fists now, held before her and squeezed so hard that her forearms shook.
But nothing happened. It had gone very quiet; the only sounds were distant and on deck. Very slowly, her fists uncurled, but she kept her hands in front of her face and looked out through the slits between her fingers. The room was empty of people; the doorway was clear; the floor had scattered broken crates, an upturned barrel and a pulp of cheese and apples matted into the planking. She drew her hands slowly down her cheeks, dropped her head back, rubbed her neck and sighed, but she did not move from the security of the crates. Her heartbeat gradually slowed; she felt tired.
Above her, the hubbub seemed to be subsiding. There were cries, but no screams or clashes of steel, and now there were banging noises on the side of the ship. She wondered what they might mean. Without taking her eyes from the doorway, she got up very cautiously and edged over the remaining litter to the porthole. But before she even had the chance to look outside, the footfalls came again, very rapidly across the deck, then they started down the stairs. There were muffled voices, shouts. She was trapped. It would take them only seconds to cover the distance along the corridor. This time, there was no door to stay them, and nowhere she could hide. Anya had to decide. Should she make a dash for it and try to get past them? But she was too frightened to move towards the doorway. There was nothing else for it.
She looked out of the porthole. High above her were the ropes that linked the ships; pirates were clambering back across to their ship and manoeuvring nets of booty; below was the heavy green swell of water surging up to a narrow ledge around the hull. The down-swell made her feel giddy. Then she heard a clank - a rope had snapped and dropped against the hull. She heard a shout. It happened again - the rope dropping - and she realised it had been cut. Then she heard another shout, followed by the skid of feet in the doorway at her back. 'She's here!' But Anya did not stop to listen. She was through the porthole before the intruders had time to step across the threshold.
She hung on by her hands and allowed her body to drop. But the ledge was narrower and further down than she had judged and her arms were almost wrenched out before her toes could reach it. Pressing her fingertips into the coarse seam of the planking, she began edging sternwards as fast as she could - which was all too slowly. She looked up; all the ropes were cut, but there were none she could reach. The topsail and its broken spars floated forward of where she clung. Below, the surge rose almost to touch her feet, then abruptly dropped to leave an empty chasm. She felt sick. And she had been spotted by the pirates at the opposite rail. They jeered and hooted, waiting for her to fall. She could hear other shouts from directly above her. Her legs felt weak and her fingers ached; she was afraid to move; she was unable to look either up or down now for fear of falling.
'Anya!' Her heart stopped altogether. It was his voice. 'Hold on!'
She forced herself to turn her head round and looked back along the hull. How could it be? The faces at the pantry porthole were not pirates at all but the Prince and his lieutenant. They looked battle-weary, but unhurt. 'It is safe now,' the Prince cried. 'Do not move. We will come to get you.'
So Anya clung there, trembling, her terror allayed at last by tears of sweet relief. She knew that she had only to hold on until she felt those strong arms round her waist, sweeping her back to safety. She closed her eyes as the ship rolled with the deep swell of the sea.
'Look out!' His cry was almost drowned by the belly-churning grinding noise. Her eyes snapped open; the ships were being pressed together by the swell. They touched in the middle, then began to swing, nose apart, and the point of contact was travelling rapidly towards her. Anya watched in horror as the buffer beam of the larger ship rubbed ever closer at belly height, accompanied by the squealing protests and knocking snaps of slowly tortured timbers. 'Quickly - give me your hand!'
Somehow, she unfroze, but it was too late. She was in the jaws of a giant, ridged vice and it was closing. Her belly would be squashed to a pulp; her body would be cut in two before she reached him.
'Jump! Jump across!' She did not understand. The entreaty was echoed from above, from both ships. The pirates watched with fascination. She twisted her head and stared behind her at the ledge of wood that fast approached. Jump!' At the very last second she turned and took a giant upward leap across the space, landed on one knee, almost toppled back again, then grasped the rebate, clawed her way upright and managed to balance, pressing her body hard against the pirate ship's hull. The point of contact reached her, seemed to pause, then very slowly began to pass. Out of the corners of her eyes, she could see the vast expanse of moving hull behind her; she could almost feel it as a pressure against her back, preventing her from breathing. She felt light-headed. She heard the debris of the topmast trap, then splinter between the hulls. She felt the judder of grating friction through her feet. Then suddenly, the danger was past. The cheer went up from both ships.
She balanced awkwardly, waiting for the ships to steady. But they carried on moving apart. The chasm opened up behind her and quickly widened. She turned her head and saw her Prince, immobile at the porthole, his arms outstretched towards her. He could not save her now. Nobody could. Then she heard the weighted rumble of the swell. She gasped and held on for her life as she watched the slow broad wave approach. It rose, freezing, up her legs, then waned, then surged again up her body, up inside her jacket, sucking her breath away with the shocking cold. It kept rising, over her shoulders, over her head, and squirted up her nose. She fought against the urge to cough and the urge to let go, though the water lifted her as if she were weightless, tugged her gently, silently, as the bubbles streamed round her face, then slowly lowered her. Suddenly, she could hear and splutter and cough and breathe, but her body just got heavier and heavier as if it were weighted down with stones. The muscles in her arms screamed out for mercy; the tendons in her wrists felt like burning strands of wire. The sea sucked slowly down her body, then, as her feet found the ledge again, reluctantly released her, leaving the saturated tunic sleeved tightly to her skin and the water cascading down her body to her boots. Her head was pulled back by her copper hair - no longer tied, but drawn down by the weight of the water into a smooth straight fan across her shoulders. There were gasps of delight from the pirates up above.