Chapter 32

T hey had an agreement. As told by a representative from each side who crossed in a boat from Gert’s ship to the two vessels returned to this watery battlefield, Amaury would trade Fira’s captivity for his. And doubtless be subjected to torture as heinous as what scarred him years earlier. Then death…

Lord, his revenge is in tatters as it should be, though not like this, Fira silently beseeched following her prayers for Rémy. Amaury and Mace must be father and son again.

“Will De Chanson keep his word, Hugh?” Islay rasped.

He glanced at she whose blade remained at Fira’s throat. “Providing the honor that angered many who once served under him holds, and his mind has not gone more adrift than ever his tongue.” He chuckled, nodded at Rémy. “A pity we could not get him upright to be seen. We could have struck a better bargain—two Wulfriths for…” He shrugged.

What more could be had? Fira wondered over what had been relayed to those on Orion’s Song as well as their pursuer by the two men in the boat who surely wished to put each other through. Fortunately, soon Amaury’s man would ascend the rope ladder ahead of Hugh’s and Islay’s descent, the latter empty-handed for Amaury surrendering the moment Fira was released. Simultaneously, his men who boarded Gert’s ship would return to The Pleiades, their safety assured by archers ready to loose arrows on what remained of the enemy crew.

If all went according to plan, Hugh and Islay would row to the smaller enemy ship, then it and its crew-crippled sister ship would depart unimpeded for the threat to Amaury’s life.

Painful though it was to acknowledge, Fira knew it would be better for him to die quickly rather than at Gert’s leisure. Thus, she considered entreating Achard to give chase and, if the enemy did not immediately slay their captive, fly an arrow to deprive them of perverse delight.

What if Amaury’s plan includes a means of freeing himself? reason argued. And forget not the Lord could intervene.

“Will your sister reward me?” Islay’s question returned Fira to the present.

Hugh’s whoop of laughter made both women startle. Blessedly, for some distance between Islay’s blade and Fira’s neck to compensate for the ship’s movement, the keen edge merely stung.

“Forgive!” Islay gasped.

Fira thought it was Hugh she beseeched until he said, “Apologizing to the enemy is among your many shortcomings for which my sister will not award a captaincy, not even that of the wee La Bonne Mort. Until your hatred of the English is of a strength to maim and kill without remorse, you will answer to me.”

Fira felt Islay’s deep breath ahead of angry words too low to venture beyond the man tending Rémy. “It was my Scotsmen under my command who made a way through the vile king’s forces, allowing us to gain this ship before its moorings were loosed. Had they followed your orders rather than mine, we would have been slain or captured.”

“That is how your vanity sees it, but my sister will not! Thus, I shall be rewarded.” Hugh thrust a hand between Fira’s lower back and the Scotswoman’s upper thigh. “And you know the reward I will seek.”

“Trespass further,” Islay hissed, “and I shall forget this blade is meant to keep us from being set upon, blaggard.”

As Fira translated her insult as a form of blackguard, he withdrew his hand. “It seems my Scotswoman is in need of correction, but it will wait until we are alone.”

“I am not your—” She broke off at Sir Achard’s approach.

“Near enough!” Hugh snarled.

The king’s man made it nearer by another stride and, after being assured Rémy’s injury did not appear mortal, set a hand atop his sword hilt and said, “Here is how the trade shall be done?—”

“I say how it is done!” Hugh argued.

Achard raised his eyebrows as if inviting him to do so in accord with the agreement that ensured Gert’s survival alongside Fira’s. Fail one side or the other, and one or both would die. Too, due to the fighting skills of Amaury and his men, the depleted enemy ships would stand little chance of returning to Scotland where the rest of the fleet awaited Gert whose leadership made her men the most feared pirates.

By Hugh’s silence, it was possible that realization wormed through his mind. If so, it did not come to light soon enough for Islay who demanded, “Tell how ye think this best done, King Edward’s foot licker.”

If that insult bothered, Achard’s expression did not betray. Shifting his regard to Fira, he asked how she fared.

Though she ached from standing and awkward adjustments made to compensate for the ship’s movement, it was nothing compared to what Rémy endured. “I am well.”

Achard looked past her. “Your name, Woman?”

Fira felt that one’s chin brush the back of her head as it rose. “Islay of Scotland.”

This time he raised only one eyebrow. “Is Islay of Scotland who is fluent in English of common or noble birth?”

Life teetering on a blade’s edge, Fira had not questioned that. As the woman was engaged in an activity nearly exclusive to men and wore tunic and chausses, she would have assumed her common. And the Scottish accent with which Fira was minimally acquainted would support that for sounding less refined. Had the king’s man heard something she did not, just as he had noted Islay’s facility with English? Certainly he looked nearer upon the woman Fira had only glimpsed when snatched back against the railing.

“Ye need only know I am Islay of Scotland, foot licker. Now what do ye propose to keep me from bleeding out this lady?”

“Oui, tell!” Hugh returned to the discussion.

Eyes fixed on Islay, Achard said, “Having a care for yourself and your lover should your blade?—”

“Not my lover!” she spat, and though Fira expected another sting from scored flesh, the blade remained steady.

Achard inclined his head. “It matters not to me with whom you cavort, Islay of Scotland.”

“Muc!” she spat.

Hugh guffawed. “It seems I am not the only one she names a?—”

“Pig,” Achard translated. “I allow that may be more deserved than naming you a harlot, Islay of Scotland. But now having made weapons of aspersions the same as youths and finding them impotent, let us return to the question of life over death.”

“I listen,” she said.

“At my signal, the boat will come alongside. When De Chanson’s man has ascended, you and Hugh will move Lady Fira to that railing.” He gestured. “Once she is released unharmed, Chevalier Amaury will yield to Gert, and you shall descend to the boat and be delivered to one of your ships.” His lids narrowed. “And hope we do not follow and drive your vessels onto the rocks.”

Hugh laughed. “Do it, and my sister will slay De Chanson.”

Achard’s expression remained nearly impassive. “I am no fool to believe he is other than a dead man in waiting.”

“Then you will follow,” Islay said.

He shrugged. “I may never be nearer the leader of Les Fléaux, and she may never again be so vulnerable. However, as I am no man of the sea, much depends on the loyalty of those of The Great Mercia Shipping Company. Regardless, you will not have to wait long for their determination.”

Again, Fira felt the woman’s chin rise. “Forget not the third ship I put in north of Ravenser?—”

“I put in,” Hugh contested.

She ignored him. “Those left on La Bonne Mort will be watching to rejoin these two.”

“Another depleted of much crew for those who fell to my men on the docks. And ’tis possible it has been taken by my forces who used the time of my absence to search out the source of Scotsmen-turned-pirate.”

Fira heard the woman draw breath to respond, but Achard said, “It is time to trade,” and motioned a sailor to the railing.

Soon I will be free and whole, Fira thought as he unhinged the door and called for the boat to draw near. Then Amaury will be a captive and likely whole no more. She swallowed hard, whispered, “May he know I love him and it strengthen his determination to survive. ”

“Best not to love,” Islay said low. “The more you do, the weaker you become. The weaker you become, the easier prey is made of you.”

Not merely advice someone had given her but experience, Fira guessed.

“He ascends!” called the sailor at the railing, and shortly Amaury’s man came off the ladder.

“Move aft!” Achard commanded, then, “Go, Hugh and Islay of Scotland and know this—if Lady Fira suffers further at your hands, your lives are as forfeit as that of your leader whether she falls to De Chanson or me.”

They began moving, the woman shuffling Fira sideways and Hugh leading the way with quick looks around to ensure none tried to take the hostage who would free them and Gert.

Sidelong, Fira saw Achard motion another man toward Rémy and felt the woman tense further as if fearing a ruse. But the man progressed no farther and aided the other in raising Rémy. Likely they meant to carry him from the railing, but once his feet were under him, his head came up. Then he was straining and demanding a blade with which to put through those threatening his sister.

“Enough, Squire!” Achard shouted.

His rebuke served, though only just, Fira guessed. Face dark, Rémy ceased trying to free himself and stared after the three who neared the opening in the railing.

Then Hugh was peering over the side down which the rope ladder coursed. “Make ready for us!”

“Ready!” the rower shouted.

Hugh glanced at the two women, looked to the king’s man. “We release the lady once De Chanson is prepared to surrender.”

With her back to Gert’s ship, Fira could not see Amaury, but knowing the moment her life was no longer in danger he would sacrifice himself, she choked down a sob.

“Best not to love,” Islay repeated.

Was she right? Though Fira would feel the hurt of his torture and death even were he a stranger, this hurt and that to come were worse for loving him. Still, she would not change what she felt. “You err, Islay. No matter how ill-fated love, better one’s heart hurt over its loss than no love at all.”

Before the woman could respond, Achard called, “There his signal. The time is now!”

“Nay,” Fira breathed.

“On my count!” Achard’s voice being loud enough to carry across the water, he thrust a hand high. “Three…two…one.” And sliced it down.

“I must disagree, Lady,” Islay said belatedly and withdrew the blade and released her.

Fira swung around and saw the top of Hugh’s head as he descended the rope ladder with Islay following. In that moment, what had not been clearly seen of the woman was seen. Beneath a cap from which dark brown hair escaped was a pretty face whose complexion was either warmed by much sun or naturally light tan. Above a sparsely freckled nose and cheeks were grey eyes that briefly met those of Fira who did not try to interpret what she saw there for needing to look upon Amaury.

He remained on the forecastle with his back to her and arms splayed, sunlight glinting off a long blade in one hand and a short one in the other. As Gert advanced ahead of her remaining crew who were no longer held at sword point by those returning to The Pleiades , he dropped his weapons.

“Lord be with him as I cannot be now,” Fira whispered. “And likely never again…”