Chapter 31

M uch distrust between the crew of Orion’s Song and the king’s men, yet they worked together to do as Amaury commanded though it might so thoroughly break Fira’s heart it would cease to function.

Gripping the railing alongside her brother, she stared across the water widening between Amaury and her. It looked a dance his ship performed to evade Les Fléaux and prevent either vessel from following Orion’s Song as Fira wished one would do so he and his crew must battle only one. With the aid of the king’s men, surely those of Orion’s Song could defeat the smaller ship’s pirates.

Moments later, that one made it past The Pleiades , and Fira saw how it transpired when Orion’s Song tacked to put more wind in its sails. The sterns of Amaury’s vessel and his pursuer ran side by side, forcing him to focus on protecting his immediate crew.

Shortly, with little space between the great hulls, ropes were cast and the shouts and taunts of both crews swelled as each sought to board the other .

“Heavenly Father, preserve them!” Fira gasped.

As Rémy began drawing her from the railing, he said, “You do not want to see this.”

She did not, but she could not walk away from the man who had her heart in his keeping. “Nay!”

“Fira!” her brother rebuked, but though he could break her hold on the railing, he did not.

“I shall not move from here,” she said lest he try to argue her into compliance, which would be rare for him. Because of his stammering—even when in remission—he preferred action over speech. If he could affect change with few or no words, he did so. If he could not, he chanced words or concluded change was not as necessary as thought.

When he released her, she peered up at he who could become her largest brother if he did not cease growing—not quite a giant and, despite much silence, far from gentle except with those to whom he was devoted.

Though he had to feel her gaze, he looked to the approaching ship, next the king’s men working alongside the crew who had put Orion’s Song to flight.

Knowing he preferred to be among fellow warriors and would greatly aid their efforts since he appeared unaffected by the ship’s movement unlike several whose occasional heaving was seen, she pushed back windswept hair and said, “As long as we stay well ahead of Les Fléaux, I am safe. Help them.”

When he shook his head firmly, she followed his gaze to the other ships and nearly choked on a swiftly drawn breath. Not only was The Pleiades tight with its pursuer, but its crew—doubtless Amaury in the lead—crossed to the enemy’s ship, blades flashing as they pushed back some opponents and put others in the water.

“He prevails,” she whispered and was ashamed wonder in her voice betrayed the fear he would not. When her brother leaned into the railing to better view all that unfolded, she beseeched, “Amaury prevails, does he not?”

“God willing,” he murmured.

When she looked sidelong at him, past his shoulder she saw one of the crew draw near, his back bowed beneath coiled rope she assumed was needed aft. She assumed wrong, as proven when he dropped it just past Rémy. Then her brother bellowed, brought his dagger to hand, and swept around to confront the weasel-faced sailor who held a blade as bloodied as the back of Rémy’s tunic.

“Nay!” Fira screamed and snatched the dagger from her belt and whirled to put the railing at her back.

Though her brother was a squire, it was in name alone, his defense as swift to become offense as that of knights who practiced in Stern’s training yard. He had been stuck, possibly between the ribs, but the warrior of him lunged between her and his attacker and slashed with his dagger ahead of swinging the sword he freed from its scabbard.

The man of questionable human parentage whom she would have noticed had he been among the ship’s crew was swift. He slashed as he dashed side to side to evade Rémy’s blades, but only that, as if he did not fear the crew and king’s men coming for him.

The first to reach Fira was also unfamiliar as he should not be for how pretty he was despite a bruised nose. Too late, she understood the reason she did not recognize him when rather than aid Rémy, he snatched Fira’s dagger, whipped her in front of him, and pressed a blade to her neck. Too late, she understood how he could be so pretty when she felt breasts against her back and the only masculinity about his voice was a gruff edge to the warning, “Be still, else I shall spill yer blood, English.”

Fira’s brother-in-law, Sir Sinjin, had much of the Scots accent, and as all aboard attended to the threat to the Wulfriths, she guessed the one partnering with the man who cut Rémy was the same in command of the third ship that attacked The Pleiades and Orion’s Song on the day past—in command until she lost an argument with Gert’s brother that must have resulted in injury to her nose.

Obviously, when the second force of Les Fléaux engaged with the king’s men on the docks, Hugh and this woman made it aboard Orion’s Song unseen and, like rats, found places to hide until they could act. Now, for the threat to Fira’s life, those nearly upon the stowaways ceased advancing.

As Rémy looked from Hugh to the woman clothed as a man, next his sister who drew shallow breaths lest the blade slice her, something flared in his eyes. Some of it was pain over his injury, but more was rage. Regardless, he and the others must heed her captors until an opportunity presented to slay them without harming Fira.

“Down, Squire!” Gert’s brother commanded in French-accented English.

Rémy’s shoulders shuddered, and Fira imagined him slamming a door to keep rage inside. Eyes half hooded, he looked to the king’s men and crew, next over his shoulder at the smaller enemy ship, then dropped his sword and the dagger traced with Hugh’s blood. Would he relinquish his bow were his beloved weapon to hand? Or fly an arrow far more likely to make its mark than not?

Now he groaned, and as he reached behind and pressed a hand to his bloodied back, dropped to a knee.

“Rémy!” Fira put a foot forward but was snatched back.

“Unless ye would like to number among my English kills, Lady, still your body. ”

Kills… That a woman could claim such?—

As can you, her conscience reminded, though it was only one life she had taken and not intentionally—if she did not include the novice who would live had she not stolen out of Stern.

Hugh kicked Rémy’s weapons out of reach, then wagging his dagger, went wide around Fira’s brother to reach his partner. “Hear me, else two Wulfriths die!”

“We lose patience!” Sir Achard barked.

Settling against the railing alongside the Scotswoman, the odor of his long-unwashed body stronger than that of the sea, Hugh laughed. “It is my loss of patience that must be heeded.” Then he grabbed a handful of Fira’s hair, causing the blade to score her flesh.

“God’s eyes, Hugh!” the Scotswoman bit. “Do you kill her, we are worse than dead.”

“Shut your mouth, Islay!” he spat.

Having a name to fit the woman’s accent, Fira said, “Islay is right, but if you surrender?—”

Hugh yanked her hair again, once more scoring Fira’s neck and causing the woman to mutter over the pig of him. Though Islay may have turned pirate for hatred of the English, some of that emotion was reserved for this man.

“If you wish this lady and her brother spared what will not be spared Amaury de Chanson, you will do as I command,” Hugh said, then released her hair and pointed toward the battling ships and the second of Les Fléaux that approached. “Tell your captain to bring this ship about. If a trade must be made, I have the currency.”

Me, Fira thought. With many of The Pleiades’ crew having boarded the enemy ship, Hugh must play this well to turn all around.

Fira wanted to implore Achard and the captain to resist even if it cost her life so Amaury was not forever lost to Mace, but that would cost her brother the same. And the deaths of Hugh and Islay would not begin to compensate for the loss of Rémy.

Sir Achard knew this as well and said, “It will be done, but with two conditions?—”

“You are in no position to set conditions,” Hugh said. “Now order the captain to turn back and?—”

“The first condition is I send a man to tend Squire Rémy’s injury,” Sir Achard continued. “The second is the ship coming for us does not board ours. Agree, and we return to the battlefield.”

Hugh hesitated.

Islay huffed. “Do it, Hugh, else all Scotland has done for Les Fléaux could be for naught.”

He snorted. “Surely you mean all Les Fléaux has done for your scab of a country.”

She sucked breath, then in a voice so calm it disturbed, said, “That remains to be seen, as it will not be if De Chanson takes Gert—or slays she who but allows you to sip power from the rim of her goblet.” Meaning if he outlived his sister, survival would be his only gain.

“Your answer!” Achard shouted.

Hugh named the woman the foulest of her sex, then called, “Send a man over with the necessities—none of which is to be a blade—and wearing only undertunic and hose so I may be certain.”

It was done quickly, and as Rémy was eased onto his side, teeth so tight his jaw bulged, Sir Achard upheld his side of the bargain, likely with little resentment since the warrior of him preferred to give battle, participating fully in the task set him by the king. Under his orders, the ship came about and, lest an attempt was made to grapple Orion’s Song, arced well before its pursuer could alter its course. Thus, the change of plan would soon come to Amaury’s notice, and he would know something was amiss.

As the ship lurched then listed, Islay adjusted her stance and hold on Fira while the man tending Rémy stabilized his patient by fitting the coiled rope in the curve of the young warrior’s chest and drawn-up knees.

“How bad is he?” Fira asked as the sailor eased up Rémy’s tunic to expose the injury she could not see.

He did not answer, but Hugh said, “Quite bad, I wager, since I am good at landing a blade.”

“At being a b-backstabber,” Rémy’s voice made her startle, and she saw his eyes were narrowed on Hugh, “as are most too…afeared to face their opponent.”

Fira held her breath lest Hugh throw his second dagger at her brother. Though it would incite his enemies, as long as he had control of her, he could do what he wanted. Whatever his reason for not retaliating, silence beyond the sounds of men working the rigging and those battling on Gert’s ship prevailed.

It was Islay who broke it, though her words were so low they would have escaped Hugh even if that was not her intent. “Worse than a backstabber,” rasped she who was as much the enemy as he. Or perhaps not…

“It went deep,” said the man examining Rémy and looked to Achard near the sterncastle. “As I am no physician, I cannot know if an organ is damaged. All I can do is close it up to lessen blood loss until he is delivered to one more skilled than I.”

“Do it!” The king’s man nodded at The Pleiades . “We have come to their notice,” he said, and as Fira resisted turning her head farther than was safe for the blade at her neck, said no more.

Amaury would have preferred no sense made of the return of Orion’s Song than sense made by Gert whom he had backed into a corner on the forecastle after slaying two commanded to take him alive.

“My brother did not fail me,” she crowed in a voice so ragged it was as if torn in two and improperly stitched back together. Then she broadened her smile, revealing her upper incisors had gone missing and, with mock exasperation, said, “At least, not entirely.” Still possessing her sword, she swept it to the right. “I do not think these eyes lie in telling Hugh and our Scottish virago have your Wulfrith lady.”

He would have ignored her, certain she sought to distract him with her defeat imminent, but then his men on The Pleiades and several who had crossed to the enemy ship exclaimed over Orion’s Song.

Heart pounding harder, he swept a forearm across a brow as moist with blood as perspiration and took back a stride to gain time and space to confirm what must be a lie.

It was not. Orion’s Song returned ahead of Les Fléaux’s second ship. As it angled forward, above the near railing Fira’s bright hair danced in the air, evidencing she stood tight with one half a head taller.

Doubtless, it was Gert’s Scotswoman who held her, and alongside her was the spindly Hugh. Exceedingly doubtless, only those two enemies were on the ship. And beyond a doubt, it was at the dock they slipped aboard since the ship that made it past The Pleiades had no time to overtake and grapple Orion’s Song . Now, under threat of harm to Fira, Amaury’s and the king’s men returned to the fray.

“Did I not say?” Gert taunted, then expelled a laugh nearer that of a man than a woman. But then, in leading rough men and donning male garb and weaponry, it followed she had long abandoned whatever femininity she possessed .

“Orders, Captain?” one of his men called from the starboard side.

Amaury saw he and the others who prevailed against Les Fléaux held their ground with swords before them. Confident of the added protection of archers on The Pleiades , they awaited instruction now the pieces in this mortal game had increased both sides while the moves available to Amaury dwindled significantly—God willing, not tragically.

“Oui, give your orders, De Chanson of a thousand scars,” Gert drawled.

Not a thousand, though surely she wished that the result of keelhauling and laboring at the quarry. He did bear over a hundred, but few were visible for how minor the ones on his face compared to the rest of his body that he had been unable to shield as well as he had his head.

Having kept the crone in the corner of an eye, he turned his full gaze on her.

She lowered the tip of her sword to the deck and cupped her hands over the pommel. “Your orders, Captain de Chanson?” She believed she had him, just as minutes earlier he thought he had her. Unfortunately, just as he had been correct in that moment, she might be now.

Lord, will You never come my side? he silently sent to the heavens. And if not mine, why not Fira’s?

“As words fail you, not unlike when last you and I were on the sea, I will aid,” she said. “Providing you have a care for the Englishwoman, here your orders to The Pleiades , Orion’s Song, and your men who dared set foot on my ship—surrender or the lady dies.” Lowering her voice, she added, “Though I know her death would seal the fate of Hugh, the virago, and possibly me, if I am to be denied your life for Carl’s, I will settle for taking that of the lady so you suffer a small measure of my loss. ”

Those last words revealed she was aware she asked too much—that only a love as terribly consuming as hers and Carl’s would sacrifice numerous innocents to save the life of the other. Too, she had to know only a fool would believe Fira would be safe were Amaury’s surrender complete.

What this bitter woman wanted was great suffering ahead of a horrendous end to his life as she had thought achieved until learning he was not slain at the quarry. Everyone, including her brother, were but tools to correct what she deemed an injustice. Now, to ensure Fira and the others survived, Amaury must provide the only thing that might satisfy her perversity.

Lord, stay the side of she who enfolds my heart in hers, and the side of the king’s men and mine, he silently entreated. Regardless of what is done me, I will count it enough. And do You grant me strength of mind beyond the pain ahead of death, I will praise You.

“Give the orders, Captain,” Gert said slowly as if to accommodate one who spoke English to her French.

Amaury lowered his sword, also leaned into hands atop the pommel, also spoke slowly though he had cause for his switch to English. “Gertrude, leader of men as grasping as the husband more responsible for making you a widow than I, orders I shall give.”

Her nostrils flared, but not from anger over being unable to fathom his words. Her chill eyes told she had become acquainted with the language of those she terrorized.

“However, my orders will not be based on the dubious chance of saving the lady,” he continued. “Since I have no right to surrender the lives of many without giving them the opportunity to fight their way free of death, especially when their chances are exceptional now this ship is mostly under our control, my orders are non-negotiable. ”

In coarse French, she snarled, “You will not dictate?— ”

“As you know, that is the prerogative of one who has far less to lose than the enemy.” He glanced at the ships returned here, saw they no longer advanced and there was sufficient space between them that neither could grapple the other—yet. “Still I possess The Pleiades and Orion’s Song, and it will…require little effort and time to finish taking this ship. And you.”

More baring of teeth, then across a spray of saliva, she said, “Not before the lady is sliced ear to ear.”

Amaury breathed deep. “If you want the one thing that truly matters to you, she will be released unharmed.”

“I want my husband’s murderer!”

“Non, you want his captain whose orders he did not obey and then attacked, which saw him knocked overboard.”

Her lips pinched like those of a child who, rejecting what is told, stubbornly resorts to silence to maintain her stand.

“Regardless of how he went into the sea, I am what you desire. If my orders are followed, you shall have me to do with as you please and a chance for both your ships to outrun those wishing to avenge me.”

A muscle alongside her deeply lined mouth jerking, she sniffed loudly, swallowed hard, and considered the other ships. When she looked back, in her eyes was what might be acceptance. She could order the death of one woman, resulting in the deaths of her brother and the virago, herself, and the remainder of this ship’s crew, or she could trade Fira for Amaury and a chance to sail both her ships out of reach. For the sane, it was no choice. But how sane was she?

Of a sudden, her thin lips and greying teeth formed a smile—if an expression wrought by anticipation of inflicting pain could be named that. “Tell me how you wish this done, and perhaps I will agree.” She shrugged. “Or perhaps not.”