Beloved Warrior (2 page)

She heard a familiar slap, and she stepped away from the door. Juliana knew from experience that interference would only infuriate her father more and bring more blows to her mother.

She heard steps and quickly moved away from the door. She felt sick. Juliana had been trained since childhood to please and obey her father. Any rebellion brought about harsh consequences for herself, but even worse ones for her mother. Her love for her mother was his weapon. A weapon he would use with no remorse.

Juliana turned to head toward her room. What would her mother do without her? She was her mother’s only reason for living. And now . . .

Juliana fought back tears.

“Senorita?” Carmita said shyly. “Are you in need?”

Juliana shook her head silently. The young girl had just recently been promoted to maid and was still uncertain in her duties. Would she be allowed to take Carmita with her? Or would that be unfair to the girl?

“No,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Do you wish me to help you dress for dinner?”

Juliana did not want to go to dinner. She did not want to see her father. She feared she could not hold her tongue and that would provoke him to more violence.

But she nodded and sighed in resignation. She would dress for the evening meal for her mother. Just as she would go to England for her mother.

 
“ONE last canter,
Madre
,” Juliana urged. “Our time is short.” Her mother nodded and they both led their horses along the golden sands of the beach.

The days had gone far too quickly. Juliana dreaded the passing of every hour.

She would sail in two days’ time. Her father had left to inspect the cargo of the ship. He and his brother, Rodrigo, owned a fleet of such ships.
Tio
Rodrigo would captain the ship that delivered her to Chadwick’s castle in the north of England.

Ahead of her, Juliana’s mother reined her gelding to a halt. Juliana drew up Joya, her Andalusian, as well. The salty spray of the ocean and the crisp breeze did nothing to lighten either of their spirits. Her mother turned toward Juliana and handed her a small leather pouch.

“What is it?” Juliana asked, accepting the bag from her mother’s gloved hand.

“Jewelry and some coins. Go, Juliana,” she said with sudden intensity. “Take Joya to the next town and hire a coach to Portugal, then take passage to England. My sister will find somewhere safe for you to go.”

“Is Viscount Kingsley so bad, then?”

“He was as a lad,” she said, her eyes clouding. “I remember too much. He used to like . . . hurting animals.”

“And you? What will happen to you? Father will know you helped me.”

“If I know you are safe, I will be happy.”

“But you will not be safe.” Juliana had witnessed, or heard, too many blows delivered by her father to her mother. She had received some as well. Her mother had not produced a male heir, and she never stopped suffering because of it. Juliana knew the courage inherent in this single act. If her father discovered she’d helped her daughter spoil his plans . . .

It was a risk Juliana would not accept. She would not take her freedom at the expense of her mother’s life.

“Not unless you come with me,” she said, holding tight to her mother’s hand.

“I cannot. In the eyes of God, I am his wife. She steadied her gelding as the horse pawed the ground, anxious to run again.“Your
padre
could not bear the shame of his wife running away. He would scour the earth searching for both of us.”

Juliana knew it was true. Her father was a proud and vindictive man. Still, she tried to convince her mother. “Your family . . .”

“They arranged the marriage. Nothing to them is more important than the sanctity of marriage. My sister might be able to help you secretly, but for me, no.”

“Then I cannot run away, either,” Juliana said. She reached and brushed away a tear from her mother’s cheek. “The cost is too great,
Madre.
I must marry the Viscount Kingsley.”

HEAVE! Lift!
Heave! Lift! Heave! Lift!

Sweat dripped down Patrick Maclean’s face, mingling with that on his body.

He tightened his grip on the splintery oar and heaved his weight forward, then pulled it back toward his scarred chest. His body strained to lift the oar in concert with the other prisoners on the bench, then plow it through the water.

Denny, the man next to him, faltered, and Patrick willed himself to take on the added weight. He couldn’t let the guards realize Denny struggled. His back was already worse than Patrick’s own. The man’s inability to comprehend orders made him a constant target.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.