Page 38

“Do not be alarmed, ma petite fille ,” the one-eyed man said as the thin one closed the door and barred her exit. “We have not come to hurt you.”

“Who are you?” Wenna demanded, backing toward the cradle, fighting her terror and swallowing the bile rising in her throat. “Touch me and I’ll scream!”

“Scream and we’ll kill your baby,” the one-eyed man replied, his tone calm, but his expression hard and vicious.

He would do it. He would kill her baby if she screamed.

“There now, that is better,” the man said, his hand on the hilt of the sword hanging from his belt. “Now come with us, ma belle , and no one will get hurt.”

The huge man, who looked more monster than human, started toward her, while the thin one with lanky hair guarded the door.

“My baby!” she gasped, throwing herself over the cradle, gripping it with all her mother’s strength, frantically determined to protect her child. “Don’t hurt him!”

“We don’t want your baby, ma belle . Just you.”

“I won’t leave him!”

“ Ma petite , you are making this very difficult.”

“I won’t leave my baby! You’ll have to kill me first!”

The huge man scowled, but the one-eyed man merely shrugged. “Oh, very well. We’ll take the baby. He will be worth something, too.”

Wenna’s eyes widened and a different sort of panic filled her frightened eyes. “Worth something? To who?”

“He should earn enough to cover the cost of his journey to Tangier. You, on the other hand, will fetch a lot more.”

Realizing he meant to sell her son as a slave, Wenna scrambled to her feet. “I’ll leave him! I’ll come with you. I’ll leave him here.”

The one-eyed man shook his head. “No, ma petite . We’ll take you both and maybe next time you will do as you’re told the first time, eh?”

“No, no please!” she cried, falling on her knees and lifting her clasped hands as she pleaded. “Not my baby! Please, not my baby!”

Sneering, the one-eyed man struck her hard across the face with a backhanded blow. Wenna fell, hitting her head on the side of the cradle with a sickening thud.

Gustaf cursed while Barrabas bent over her prostrate form. “Is she dead?” Pierre asked.

“Still breathing,” Gustaf replied.

“Pick her up and bring her.”

“And the babe?” Barrabas demanded.

“Him, too, of course,” Pierre replied as if that answer was obvious. “She’ll do anything we want if she thinks her baby’s life depends upon it. And it will.”

R ANULF FOLLOWED Gareth along the narrow ledge leading down to the cove. They’d tied their horses some distance away, in a small glade in a valley with a babbling brook at the bottom, then they’d returned to make their way along the perilous path.

Below, waves crashed and tumbled against the rocks, throwing frigid salt water over the men until they were drenched, droplets falling from their helmets and chins.

They would have been shivering, too, except that the effort of moving along this treacherously narrow trail was more than enough to warm their bodies.

Holding on where they could, they crept slowly forward.

Warm or cold, Ranulf would rather have faced a multitude alone than do what he was doing now. But show cowardice of any kind before his men he would not. And he would not turn back or shirk his part in the capture of men who might be responsible for the death of Hedyn and the others.

But oh, God , he prayed, as he inched along behind the Cornishman, don’t let me fall! Just get me down to the beach and let me fight as I’ve been trained to do .

Determined to do just that, Ranulf concentrated on holding on and moving his feet. He wouldn’t look at the water raging below, especially when they were near the end of the point and all too close to the crashing waves.

Gareth came to a halt and raised his hand. Ranulf did the same, while Kiernan and the others behind also stopped their slow and careful progress over the rough and slippery rocks.

“Once we get round the point, they might see us, if they’re watching,” Gareth said to Ranulf. “Chances are they aren’t, because God knows I wouldn’t be thinking anybody’d be coming ’round this way if I were them. Should we wait until it’s dark to go the rest of the way?”

Ranulf simply couldn’t imagine either himself or his armed men making their way safely along this path in the dark. “If they see us, how fast can they escape up the cliff or get to their boat?”

“It’d still take them a while, my lord. We should be able to run ’em down before they can reach the top or get the boat off the beach.”

If only he had some archers, Ranulf thought, although he didn’t want to kill those men. He needed them alive to answer questions, and it could be they were not, after all, the villains that he sought.

“We’ll take a moment to catch our breath, then we’ll start around the point. Gareth, I’ll take the lead from here, if I can get by you.”

“It’ll be a tight squeeze, my lord, but I think we can manage,” the Cornishman said, flattening himself against the rock to let Ranulf move slowly and cautiously past.

M YGHAL STARED at the overturned cradle in Wenna’s empty cottage.

He knew what that meant.

And he knew what he had to do if he was going to get her back.

I NTENDING TO RELIEVE himself, one of the smugglers headed for the craggy wall of the bluff a short distance from where the others huddled behind a pile of rock on the beach.

Swaying slightly, he yawned and scratched himself.

He was tired of waiting and annoyed that they’d been told they could have no fire on the beach.

England was a cold, dreary, godforsaken place, and if it hadn’t been for the wine they’d brought with them from the barque, he would have been miserable indeed.

He hoped Pierre and the rest of the crew weren’t late for the rendezvous, either.

It was bad enough on this beach in the day; at night, it would be worse.

He muttered a curse as he fumbled with the drawstring of his thick breeches. As he tugged hard on the knot, a stone rolled down from above. Dislodged by the wind, no doubt. He’d be glad to be back at sea, by God, not sitting on this shore without a fire, cold and hungry.

Another rock dropped, clattering to the ground beside his feet.

What if there was about to be an avalanche? the smuggler suddenly wondered, glancing up—to see Ranulf’s fierce visage and a sword in his upraised hand as he jumped from on high like an avenging angel bringing destruction from heaven.

The smuggler screamed, but he had no time to unsheathe his sword before Ranulf cut him down. Hearing him, his fellow smugglers jumped to their feet and drew their weapons.

One look was enough to tell the smugglers they were outnumbered, so rather than stand and fight, they made for their boat. They dropped their swords as they ran to have both hands free to shove it into the water.

The tide was against them, and before they could get it deep enough, Ranulf and his men were upon them.

A few left the boat and ran back for their weapons.

More abandoned the boat, their weapons and their fellows, and rushed for the path to the top of the bluff.

Shouting his commands, Ranulf sent Gareth and five of his men after them, while he and Kiernan and the rest of his soldiers dealt with those at the boat.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ranulf saw Kiernan lunge at one of the smugglers. “Don’t kill them,” he ordered as he raised his sword. “Catch them but don’t kill them!”

Then Kiernan was forgotten as Ranulf attacked a man with a long scar down his neck, wearing motley clothes and swearing in Italian.

“Surrender and you can live,” Ranulf told the man who gripped his sword as if it were a club. “There’s no need to die.”

A slew of foreign words, obviously a denunciation and refusal, issued forth from the man’s nearly toothless mouth.

Perhaps he didn’t know English, and if so, there’d be no way to get information out of him, Ranulf thought. But just because this fellow swore in those other tongues was no guarantee he didn’t speak English. Ranulf still had to try to take the man down while keeping him alive.

Ignoring everything else around him, Ranulf concentrated on his ragged opponent.

Patience, boy, patience, he thought, as Sir Leonard had admonished the lads in his care a hundred times.

Look for your enemy’s weakness. Let him strike first. Watch how he moves, how he holds his weapon.

Battles were won not with mere brute strength, but with patience and cunning, with skill and vigilance.

Winning was in the head, Sir Leonard used to say. Don’t lose yours.

Circling his enemy, Ranulf noted that he not only held his weapon clumsily, he moved like an ox on two legs. Deft Henry would have fairly danced around him.

The man raised his sword, bringing his arms too far back and throwing himself off balance before he brought his weapon slashing downward.

Ranulf easily sidestepped the blow and then, as the man stumbled back, he saw his chance.

Upending his sword, Ranulf struck the top of the man’s head with the base of the hilt as hard as he could.

Splaying his hand upon a pile of rock, the man groaned and staggered, and struggled to stand. Again Ranulf struck him on the head and this time, his opponent collapsed, his face in the sand.

Pleased and only slightly winded, Ranulf turned to go back to the boat. In that same moment, a sword sliced through the side of his tunic. And his flesh.

Holding his left side, the blood flowing between his fingers, Ranulf glared at the one-eyed man who’d struck him. This man knew how to hold to his sword and how to wield it, too.

Nevertheless, and despite his wound, Ranulf planted his feet—firm to the ground, as Sir Leonard used to say—and prepared to defend himself.