Page 53 of Ondine

Just as Anne screamed, Warwick realized that Ondine no longer held him, yet that scream took his attention and instinctively he sought the injured party, his sword drawn and at the ready as naturally as he breathed, mind and body ever attuned to danger and well honed from past services to his king.

And from that point on, it was madness for Warwick, madness and blind panic.

While Anne gasped prettily, Justin noted that Ondine was gone. Warwick took off into the crowd, bellowing her name.

A young girl selling pastries told him she’d seen a groom carrying an exceptionally heavy load of blankets from the great oak tree to the road.

Warwick, with Justin at his heels, rushed to the road.

Confused at first, Jake then gasped, remembering that a supply wagon had gone by—and that one of the merchants had mentioned it was bound for the shore and a trader called the Marianne .

The wagon carried a bulk of blankets that might easily have carried the slim body of a woman.

Warwick, cold and numb with terror, was ready to dash off alone. ’Twas Justin forced him to wait, until the ever adventurous Buckingham and his cronies could be summoned, with ten of the fleetest racehorses to carry them swiftly in pursuit.

* * *

Hardgrave held Anne, soothing her from the assault. Yet, in truth, the two whispered together.

“You must ride with them!” Anne told Hardgrave.

Hardgrave, never so subtle as Anne, answered in a fury she was forced to quickly hush. “Me! See here, lady, what if the filthy swine we paid coin to knows my face—”

“Hush! Only one has ever seen you—the captain of the vessel. That is why you must ride! If Warwick discovers the wagon has gone to the river dock, he’ll not stop until someone confesses to complicity!

Implicating us! The captain knows you. He must die in battle!

Would you have us both in the Tower, or exiled?

Or worse still, would you meet Warwick in battle again, without the king to demand that the blades be shielded? ”

“I’ll meet him again anytime,” Hardgrave said bitterly.

“Well, I am not prepared to reside in the Tower while you die a glorious death! You have failed, yet all can still be redeemed. Go!”

* * *

Warwick and his party of men raced with the wind.

The town slipped behind them as they swept along the road, past shady trees and valleys, rich and verdant rolling hills, flocks of sheep, and fields of grain.

Warwick shuddered as he rode, feeling blinded and maimed by the fear.

He was grateful still that he saved her from the hangman, but what a fool he’d been to think he might use her as a pawn.

A less arrogant man would have seen her endless beauty and courage, known that she would be an enchantress to humble the strongest man, to seize his heart . . . God in heaven, he loved her.

This love—it weakened, it crazed a man. Without Justin and Buckingham, he would have just set off and slain any in his way with madness, till he was brought down himself.

By the devil, he was no fool! Battle had always shown him cool, a warrior who fought with wits as well as brawn.

But this, ah, this love, it robbed him of sense and strategy!

It ripped his body again and again with fear.

Before God, it was dangerous, and though he would gladly lay down his life for her, that life might not prove to be enough.

If—Oh, Holy God! It could not be “if”! When he found her, he would make her safe!

He would wait for nothing before sending her away.

Her life was ever in danger for being a Chatham; if that precious life ever became forfeit, he would no longer own a soul.

“There, Warwick! I see her! The Marianne! ” Justin called from his side. “Third upon the river; last betwixt the fishing craft. Her sailors are casting the ropes away!”

It was true, he saw quickly. Sailors moved about the vessel, breaking her from the dock.

“Hard forward!” Buckingham called, and horses that had galloped hard were urged to greater speed.

They tore into the dockside town, clattering against cobblestones, causing all who ambled in their way to shriek and scamper for cover.

Carts of fruit and vegetables broke and fell, dogs barked madly, and men about their daily business paused under cover, gaping at this break of a work-weary day.

Warwick’s heart thundered along with that of his poorly used steed; he cried no orders, gave no heed to the others, and thought only to reach the Marianne before all the ropes could be broken, the walk hauled in.

He jerked in upon the reins, dismounting from the horse even as it came to a halt. He dimly realized that Hardgrave was at his side, eager to confront battle.

It was Justin, though, with the sense to attempt a cry.

“Hold, sailors of the Marianne! Hold, by order of the king! Captain of this ship, I charge you, hold!”

“Hold! Never!”

The captain, a lean fellow with a patch over his left eye, a filthy beard and evil leer, held tight to the rigging and bared his sword.

“Hey, mates? there’s not a dozen of them noble dandies; we’re two score!

The king’s order! Bah! Take us if you can, gents!

Mates, cast her away, these fellows might want a swim! ”

The command brought great activity. Men rushed swiftly to clear the remaining moorings, but too late, for Warwick leapt across the plank, his party a swarm behind him.

They were met with pistols and cutlasses, yet from the first onslaught, fewer in number but greater in skill, they attacked like righteous angels of God.

Warwick had barely laid down his first swarthy contestant before he noted that the captain of the vessel had already been engaged in battle by Hardgrave.

It appeared that he would speak even as he fought, yet if he’d decided to surrender, that thought came far too late.

Hardgrave smiled, expertly flicked the man’s sword aside, and skewered him with a deft blow.

A snarling fellow, short and muscular, toothless and minus his lower left earlobe, came at Warwick in a rush.

Warwick stepped aside, spun, and pinned him to the deck, quickly looking about for the next assault.

Bodies were down about the ship, sailors, or pirates, rather, it so seemed.

Blood spurted from Buckingham’s shoulder; he was fighting on with his pistol as a club.

Justin was engaged in combat with two blackguards and Warwick rushed to his side.

“Brother!” Justin laughed, avid with the challenge of it all. “You insult me! They’re but a pair of swine!”

“Rather insult you than bury you!” Warwick parried back, clipping the wrist of one of the fellows and sending him reeling to the deck, begging for mercy. Warwick stepped past him. He had no heart for slaughter—he sought only his wife.

“Go on!” Justin urged him. Buckingham, holding his injured arm, but smiling, came to them, and gazing at his friend, Justin continued with a broad grin, “This is but a sop-up now of a pig sty!”

“Find your lady,” Buckingham said, “and we’ll see whom we might discover to give light to this adventure!”

Warwick needed no further urging.

He found a ladder to a hallway leading aft. A foul odor warned him he neared the galley; instinct caused him to pause, an instinct well heeded, for two burly mates, apparently unaware that the battle was lost topside, came to block his way from the galley hole.

Warwick arched a brow at the pair, his sense of humor somewhat restored at their appearance. Their bulk was caused by roundness at the middle, and he thought that they looked like a pair of eggs.

“Give way, me gents; your mates are dying, and I’ve blood enough on my hands today.”

The one laughed and nudged the other. “Is he blind—or has he but one eye? There’s two of us, milord!”

“And if I kill one, what is another?” Warwick queried pleasantly in turn.

The one who had challenged him with laughter lost his surly smile; with a shriek of rage he came at Warwick. Warwick barely stirred, but narrowed an eye at the man’s angle of speed, and when he was almost atop him, he at last lifted his blade.

The sailor fell upon it himself, sinking slowly to the floor and staring upward, amazed to discover himself dying.

The second man stared at Warwick, then fled down the hall, entering the last cabin, slamming the door in his wake.

Warwick stepped over the fallen man and hurried toward the cabin, certain that it was the deceased captain’s, and equally certain that it would be where Ondine was being held.

Horrible images came to him, racking his heart and mind, as he quickened his speed.

Ondine . . . a captive of this loathsome crew!

With all her beauty, her fairness, her fire, her golden hair . . . If they had touched her—

If they had touched her, he thought grimly, he’d slit their throats to the very last man, mercy be damned!

There’d been so little time, he tried to assure himself.

But rape took little time, and murder even less.

That thought so enraged him, bringing his blood to such a chill of fear that he gave no thought to trying the door.

Instead he slammed against it with his shoulder in cold, deadly determination.

The door shuddered; he pitted his weight against it again, and the sea-rotten wood gave to his touch.

He held still, wary before entering, not wanting to discover a knife in his back from behind.

She was there; that he knew instantly. Her hands were strapped to the posts of the portside bunk—even her ankles were tied. Fury rose in him at the sight of her chafed and reddened flesh where those tight knots bound her, yet that fury was tempered by fear and confusion.

She slept, her hair a halo about her, her face ethereally beautiful and peaceful in that mist of flame and sunlight. For a moment he feared that she was dead, then her brows tensed in a frown; she shook her head as if fighting some inner fog, and her eyes opened.