Beloved Warrior (11 page)

He simply ducked his head in recognition.

“Please stay,” she pleaded.

“I have other duties,” he said stiffly.

“And I am a Mendoza,” she said softly.

“
Si,
senorita.”

“You were an oarsman?” she asked again.

“I am too small,” he said. “I had other duties.”

“I have not seen you much since I came aboard,” she tried again. “Before the . . .” Her voice trailed off.

The boy gave her a joyless smile that tore at her heart. “You did not go below,” he said. “You did not go into hell.”

And he left.

YOU did not go into hell.
The hopelessness of the words echoed in the small cabin as the boy closed the door.

She was a Mendoza. She was beginning to realize the complete misery on which her family had built its fortune, a fortune that now depended on a marriage that would never take place.

No wonder the oarsmen hated her and, because of her, innocent Carmita.

To think that once she believed the arranged marriage was the worst that could befall her!

Juliana looked at the food, her appetite gone.

“You do not wish to eat, senorita?” Carmita asked. “It has been more than a day since you last ate.”

A day. In little less than twenty-four hours, her life had again changed dramatically.

Did the mutineers know how to sail the ship? Would it shatter on rocks, or would they sail until all aboard died of thirst? Would she and Carmita die far sooner? Or would they suffer an even worse fate at the hands of desperate men?

Juliana sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to think. Carmita would not eat unless she did. Perhaps an ordinary activity like eating would calm the young girl.

“You sit as well,” she instructed Carmita. “You must eat with me.”

“I cannot, senorita,” Carmita said in a horrified voice.

“We are here together,” Juliana said. “We must both be strong if we are to survive.” The boy had brought them a jug of wine as well as cheese, fruit and bread that had not yet acquired mold. It
had
acquired some bugs.

Juliana pushed aside the bread and took a piece of cheese. She nibbled on a small piece while thinking about what could be done. There was always a chance that when they did not arrive on schedule, the Earl of Chadwick would alert outgoing ships to look for the
Sofia.

“What will they do to us?” the girl asked, as if reading her mind.

“If they meant harm they would already have done it,” she tried to assure her young companion.

“The tall man frightens me,” Carmita said.

“El diablo,”
Juliana whispered. He had frightened her, too, although he had protected her when the ship was first taken. He had killed her uncle without any regret.

“The Spaniard . . . he did not seem too . . . fierce,” Carmita ventured hopefully.

Juliana wished she could agree. Despite his indifferent courtesy, she sensed the same barely restrained violence in him as she saw in the fearsome Scot. There was something about the Spaniard’s control that frightened her even more than the Scot.

And could anyone really control the crew? There were many barrels of fine wine aboard as cargo, along with a cheap wine for the crew. She shuddered. She and Carmita were the only two living witnesses aboard a ship full of drunken mutineers.

THE wind increased through the late afternoon. By evening they were caught by a gale. The ship rose and fell as the untrained sailors tried to strike the topsails and raise the storm jib.

Controlling the ship was becoming more and more difficult. Diego returned to the helm and took over. “Do you know how to handle the sheets?”

“Aye, I used to,” Patrick replied.

“I know this sea and its weather,” he said. “I smuggled wine from France and lace from Spain.” He paused, then added with a slight smile, “French wine is far better than that Spanish swill. Apparently, the English are just as uncivilized in their tastes if they are buying from Spain.”

Just a bit more information than Diego had offered earlier. Patrick knew enough about trading to agree, but he was far more interested in the fact that Diego probably knew these waters better than he did.

A blast of wind hit the sails and the ship listed before Diego was able to right it.

Patrick looked upward. Bulbous clouds sped across the heavens, eclipsing the stars. A squall of rain struck several furlongs off the bow, and they were running toward it.

He felt the first drops of rain, then the water came down in torrents. One sail tore partly loose and flapped in the wind.

He had to tie it down before they lost it. That meant climbing the mast.

He’d hated climbing into the crow’s nest when he served aboard one of his father’s ships. It was the first time he’d been terrified. But he had to do it to prove to the rest of the crew that he was not just the owner’s son.

It had been calm that day.

Now the ship tossed violently, lurching from one side to the other as the sails swung out of control. He could well be flung into the sea.

He started climbing, never looking down. He clung to the rope, ducking once as the sail swung against the mast, nearly toppling him. He continued to climb.

Rain and wind whipped at him. The ship heeled to port. He hugged the mast with both arms to keep from falling.

He didn’t know what time it was, but the sky was dark. The rain fell cold and hard, but he was far too used to deprivation to let it deter him.

He forced himself to climb again. He made the mistake of looking down. Felix was staring up at him. Diego was looking directly ahead, his body braced against the wind and his arms straining to keep the ship running before the wind.

He grabbed for one of the sheets that fluttered in the wind.

Missed.

Try again.
One hand held the rope ladder. He reached out for the sheet with the other. He caught it, but it ripped away.

Another gust of wind sent the ship heeling to starboard, and the sail began to tear. That would doom them all. They needed every sail to get to Scotland.

He reached out again. This time he grabbed the sheet and started to pull it in. Every inch took more strength than he thought he had. Finally he’d pulled it to the mast and tied it down. Then he leaned against the mast.

God’s blood but he was tired.

And frozen. The rain mixed with the frothy sea whipped at him. His feet felt wooden.

Step by step he descended. His feet finally hit the deck. Even rolling as the ship was, the deck felt like a gift from the gods.

The relief did not last long. He worked with the others to complete the trimming of the sails as the ship seemed more like a wooden toy batted back and forth.

When they finished with the sails, Patrick told the crew to tie lifelines to everyone on the top deck. They had been at sea during storms before, but previously they’d been anchored by their chains. None had ever walked a sopping deck with towering waves washing over them.

Fear was evident in their faces.

The wind howled. Lightning pierced the water not far ahead, and thunder roared like volleys of cannon. Then lightning hit the foremast and seemed to trail fire to the deck. One of the crew went down. Patrick ran over to him. He was dead. He lifted the body and took it inside. Unlike the bloody Spaniards, he deserved a proper burial at sea.

A Frenchie, he recalled. On the ship for mayhap two months. Not long. Despair settled in the pit of his stomach. What if he had done as the others wanted and headed toward Morocco? Sell the cargo and buy more cannons? Take up pirating?

He had talked them out of it by making promises he might not be able to keep. Now they all might die because of it.

 
JULIANA held Carmita as the contents of the maid’s stomach went into the pail that Manuel had left for them.

She could couldn’t even see the pail. All the lights had been quenched when the storm started. The danger of fire was too high. In between Carmita’s heaving, they held on to each other and the bed to keep from being thrown from one side of the cabin to the other.

Her own stomach seemed stalwart. But then she had eaten only a bite or so. Carmita had eaten even less.

“Senorita . . . you should . . . not . . .” Carmita tried before she started to heave again.

“Nonsense.”

The ship rolled again, so far to the left that she thought they must topple into the sea.

Carmita screamed and clutched at her.

Juliana wanted to comfort the young maid, but her terror was just as strong. Any words of comfort would be a lie.

The ship righted. The fury from outside came through the timbers. She heard the waves thunder against the hull. How could the
Sofia
continue to withstand such battering?

The ship rose again, then dropped suddenly.

Carmita started praying again. Loudly.

Juliana rolled against a wall. She prayed, too, then added a few Spanish curses she’d heard her father utter.

By the Holy Mother, she was not going to die like this. She simply would not.

 
 
T
HE storm subsided as dawn came. Gray crept through the clouds. The winds lessened, though they still blew strong. Exhausted men dropped where they’d stood.

Several had been wounded by loose sheets and objects sliding along the deck. One of the ship’s boats had torn loose and injured three men. One man was missing, probably lost at sea.

Patrick surveyed the moaning men lying on the floor in the surgeon’s cabin. He knew a few rudimentary things to do, but there were too many needing help. Kilil, the Moor who had shared his bench, had taken over the surgery and was doing what he could in binding wounds.

Then he thought the women might help. Mayhap it would do two things. Add more hands to tend the wounded when the rest of the crew was near dead from exhaustion, and give the men a reason to respect them.

He was desperate for sleep, had reached the end of his endurance. Since the takeover, he hadn’t slept at all. Diego had slept only for a very few hours.

All of them needed to keep their wits.

His side was bleeding again, reopened by the stretching and pulling of the past few hours, but his wound was minor compared to some of the others.

He went down the steps to the women’s cabin. Manuel was dutifully still there, sitting outside. His head lolled from side to side. He was asleep.

Patrick knocked on the door, waited a moment, then went inside without waiting for a response. It was obvious one had been sick, and he soon realized it was the young girl. Her face had a greenish tinge, and her dark brown eyes looked bloodshot.

The other woman, the Mendoza, had her arms around the girl. A Mendoza with a soul.

Or mayhap she was using the girl as a shield.

“The storm?” she asked uncertainly.

“Over. For the moment.”

A shudder shook her body, but he did not see tears. He had yet to see them.

She stood. She still wore the dark blue gown, but her hair was pulled back in one long, thick braid. Her face looked wan and tired.

She was also coping far better than he believed any other woman of his acquaintance would do. She obviously feared for her virginity and her life, and that of her young companion, but her back was rigid and her chin set and her eyes determined. Admiration rushed through him.

She glanced down at the wet and newly bloodied bandage. “You have opened the wound.”

“Does it matter that a slave bleeds?” he asked.

Her face reddened. “It matters if anyone bleeds,” she said shortly.

“The oarsmen wish your uncle had felt the same way.”

“He and the crew paid for it, though, did they not?” she said.

He had to grudgingly respect her defiance. She did not cower despite the signs that she was very badly frightened. Instead those tired eyes sparked with outrage.

“They tried bloody hard to kill us,” he defended himself.

“Some of the crew must have tried to surrender,” she persisted.

He shrugged. There was no point in reminding her that the oarsmen had been starved and beaten for months and, in many cases, for years. They wouldn’t recognize surrender.

“You did not want witnesses?”

He tensed. She was confronting the fact that had nagged him since he found the two women. She was right. He did not want witnesses. But he knew it was not in him to kill women.

Nor to see them killed.

He was one among one hundred. He was not sure how long he could keep the others from rape and more murder.

“You slaughtered them,” she persisted.

“They would have slaughtered us. I suspect you would have preferred that,” he added with bitterness.

“Nay,” she said slowly. “I would not want any man to die.”

“But given a choice?” he retorted.

“I had no choice.”

“Your wealth, that dress you wear, are the fruits of the labor that killed countless men. They died of exhaustion, starvation, whippings. Then they were rolled off the ship for the sharks.”

“I did not know.”

“Or care.”

“I do care,” she cried out. “I know it was terrible, no matter what you did, but . . .”

“No matter what I did,” he repeated softly. “What do you think I might have done, Senorita Mendoza?”

Her mouth trembled slightly as she sought an answer. To her credit, she did not dissolve into tears.

Then she finally spoke. “My uncle said you . . . they . . . were criminals, murderers, infidels.”