The Reckoning by Sharon Kay Penman
“True,” Amaury agreed, “men do value such praise most highly. I can think of only one other tribute that they prize more.”
Ellen thought about that, then grinned. “Let me guess. It has to do with the male nether regions, and requires some woman to sigh, with a straight face yet, ‘Oh, my, how huge!’”
Amaury let out a whoop of laughter. “For a maiden, you know entirely too much about the wages of sin!”
“And so do you, my dear brother the priest!”
Ellen leaned over, gave Amaury a sudden, quick embrace, smearing lip rouge across his cheek. As he hugged her back, he found himself thinking that he’d recovered a treasure he’d long thought lost, the Ellen of the old days, the playful, saucy minx of a sister who delighted in teasing and being teased, the Ellen who had not yet learned what evil could befall the innocent, the Ellen before Evesham.
“I’ve not seen you so joyful for far too long,” he said. “But tell me the truth, kitten. Are you not at all nervous about living in an unknown land, wedding a man you’ve never even laid eyes upon?”
“Oh, mayhap once we drop anchor in Pwllheli’s harbor. But not now, not yet. You see, Amaury, Wales is not unknown to me. As far back as I can remember, it was a place of magic and mystery. How Mama loved to talk about her sister and Llewelyn Fawr, and how I loved to listen! Other girls my age were bedazzled by tales of King Arthur and Guinevere, but I’d be begging Mama for bedtime stories about Aunt Joanna and her Welsh Prince. Wales became my Camelot, and when Mama told me I was to wed my Llewelyn, I could scarce believe my good fortune. I felt as if I already knew him, for Mama had been right fond of him, and we both know she was not easy to impress. But to hear her talk, he sounded almost as perfect as Papa! And then…after Evesham, it was as if I were drowning, and Llewelyn alone could keep me afloat.”
Ellen paused, shot him a sideways look full of silent laughter. “I can confess to such foolishness now, for those childish dreams have somehow come to pass! But do you see what I’m saying? How could I be nervous about meeting Llewelyn when I’ve been half in love with him for most of my life?”
Amaury leaned back against the rail, studying his sister. She’d rarely looked prettier, for the wind had whipped high color into her cheeks and anticipation had given her a special sparkle. It amused him to discover that the folklore was true, that brides truly were radiant. But he was not so pleased to have his suspicions confirmed. Ellen’s polished, poised shell was just that, a shell. She was at heart still a romantic, still his little sister who believed in happy endings, that good must prevail over evil, over Edward. He could wish—for her sake—that it was otherwise. Yet her innocence might serve her well in Wales. If Ellen was already so sure that Llewelyn ap Gruffydd would be to her liking, he thought it unlikely that she’d be disappointed; people usually found what they were looking for, harvested what they sowed. Or so he hoped; Jesú, how he hoped!
“Amaury, look!” Ellen pointed, and as the ship crested a wave, he saw it, too, several birds wheeling toward the horizon.
Brian had turned as she cried out. A quick glance was enough for him to identify the birds as herring gulls. “They were heading for the Isles of Scilly,” he said matter-of-factly, as if recognition of flying, feathered specks was too commonplace to warrant comment. “The Isles lay to the west of us, but we’ll not be putting in there.” He had returned to the tiller, gave Ellen a jaunty grin. “I do not like the company the islanders keep. They’ve got more pirates lurking in their coves than we’ve got rats down in the hold!”
“That man is a marvel,” Ellen murmured to Amaury. “Does nothing scare him?” She sighed when the birds vanished from sight; it had been comforting to watch them skim the waves, winged proof that land was just over the horizon. It made her feel less lonely somehow.
When she turned back to Amaury, her mood had changed. “Do you believe that gratitude begets love?” she asked, very seriously now. “If it is so, then I shall cherish Llewelyn ap Gruffydd till the day I die. I do owe him so much, Amaury. He gave Mama what we could not, a peaceful death. She was like a soldier who’d not abandon her post, holding on to life for my sake. I knew how much she feared for my future; I just did not know how to ease her mind. But Llewelyn did that for her, let her die without regrets, in God’s Grace. I do not know how I can ever repay so great a gift, but I mean to try.”
Smiling, she slipped her arm through his. “I only wish I could have convinced you that there was no need to accompany me. I could not have a more devoted bodyguard than Morgan, bless his seasick soul. As much as I enjoy your wicked tongue, Amaury, I’d rather you were not within a hundred miles of the English coast. And you’ll be facing another long sea voyage back to France, still in the dead of winter. If any evil should ever befall you—”
“I’d come back to haunt you, never fear,” he said, making Ellen laugh in spite of herself. As they talked, they’d moved along the rail toward the ship’s bow, and as the prow cleaved through the waves, the spray it flung up was spangled by the sun, reflected shimmering arcs of iridescent color. When Amaury pointed this out to Ellen, she was delighted, exclaiming that they were riding a rainbow to Wales, and they both laughed, for rainbows were among the most auspicious omens.
After two days of fog and rain, it was good to see the sun again. It thawed the icy air, brightened the leaden sea to a more cheerful shade of blue, and raised all their spirits. Some of the Welshmen ventured out onto the deck, and Hugh started a dice game with Alain, the boatswain.
Hugh was the only one of the de Montfort party who had yet to suffer from seasickness. He endured the rolling, pitching waves with admirable aplomb, and shrugged off compliments about his fortitude by explaining that crossing the Channel was not as scary as crossing the Alps. Amaury was not surprised that by the second day out, the crew was treating Hugh as one of their own, for the affable young Englishman had an enviable knack for turning strangers into friends. In this Christmas season, he was even more obliging and good-humored than usual, for Ellen had arranged for him to be knighted before they left France, and he was still flying high. Like Ellen, he was drunk on dreams. Knighthood for a penniless orphan, Camelot for a dead rebel’s daughter. Amaury smiled to himself at sound of Hugh’s loud, ringing laugh. It was almost enough—almost—for him to start believing in happy-ever-after endings himself.
The wind was picking up again. As the sails began to billow, the cog heeled suddenly to the portside, hung there for a sickening stretch of eternity before finally righting itself. Even the sailors looked shaken, and two of the Welshmen and one of Amaury’s knights dived for the rail.
“Good God,” Ellen said faintly. “Will it discomfit you if I kiss the ground once we reach Pwllheli?”
“You say that now, but I’d wager you kiss Llewelyn first,” Amaury said, and Ellen’s smile came back.
“I ought to see how Juliana is faring. She had a dreadful night.”
That, Amaury didn’t doubt. Juliana’s suffering had begun as soon as the command had been given to “unfurl the sails.” So severe was her nausea that she’d eaten virtually nothing for days, and could not even keep down the syrup of ginger that Ellen tried to spoon into her mouth. She rarely left her bed, and they all were surprised now by her sudden appearance in the doorway of Ellen’s cabin. She paused, blinking in the glare of sun, and Morgan hastened over to offer his arm.
So did one of Amaury’s companions, Sir William Dulay. He’d been so solicitous of Juliana that Ellen suspected he was motivated by more than knightly courtesy. If he did have courtship in mind, it was a campaign most likely doomed to failure. Ellen had long ago realized a sad truth, that no man could compete with a ghost. She’d loved her brother Bran dearly, but she’d not deified him in death as Juliana had done. She could only hope that Juliana, too, would find a new life in Wales. Slipping her arm through Amaury’s again, she started cautiously toward the aft-castle cabin.
Hugh had joined Juliana by the time Ellen and Amaury made their way down the foam-s
“Hugh,” Ellen said warningly, trying to catch his eye. She prided herself upon being less gullible than most people. She did not believe in fire-breathing, flying dragons. She did believe that the earth was round, just as scholars claimed. She understood that the child’s fear of the dark was twin to the man’s fear of demons. But as she gazed out upon that endless expanse of blue-grey ocean, rational thought was submerged in purely visceral dread. God alone knew what hid in those murky, dark depths.
She needn’t have worried, though. Hugh had no horror stories to relate, was interested only in sharing his newfound knowledge of ships. He was sure they knew that King Edward’s royal galleys were more dependent upon sails than oars. But Alain said the Mediterranean galleys still relied mainly upon oarsmen for power. The Italian city-states of Genoa and Venice manned fleets with infidel slaves and convicted felons.
“Alain says that the oarsmen are flogged whenever the galley needs a burst of speed. And they are chained to their oarlocks, go down with the ship if it sinks. They even have to bite upon wooden gags when a battle begins, so that if they are wounded, they will not be able to cry out!” Hugh was constantly being surprised by man’s inhumanity to his fellow men. But even Amaury found himself agreeing with Hugh’s indignant conclusion, that a galley slave need not fear Hell, for he was already there.
Catching sight of Juliana, Brian yielded the tiller to another crewman, came over to tell her how glad he was to see her up and about. The sickness truly was worse for those who stayed penned up in their cabins, he insisted. Juliana could only nod weakly, unconvinced.
A shout from the rigging drew all eyes. Diego, the Spanish lookout, came slithering down the mast at breakneck speed. “A sail,” he panted, flinging up an arm toward the sun.
“Tell the master,” Brian ordered. Amaury soon joined him at the larboard rail, and they watched the horizon intently, silently, until a sail rose above the swells, triangular, as bright as blood. Brian said softly, “A galley,” no more than that, but Amaury felt a sudden chill.
“Brian? Are we in peril?”
“I’m not yet sure.” Brian’s eyes, sun-creased, were narrowed on that bobbing lateen sail. “It may come to nothing. But I’d say we have three reasons to worry. That it’s a galley, for these days merchants favor cogs or nefs. That it’s coming from those unholy isles. And that it’s not flying any banners.”
“I see.” Amaury’s voice did not betray him, revealed nothing of the fear churning his stomach, flooding his veins. He dared not look back at his sister. “I want the truth. If the worst comes, can we hope to fend them off?”
Brian’s shoulders twitched, a half-shrug. “We might,” he said slowly, “if those Welsh lads of yours are the bowmen they claim to be.”
“They are.” They’d not heard Morgan’s approach. Aside from that laconic assurance, he asked no questions, offered no counsel. But Amaury had encountered such reticence before, recognized it for what it was, the single-minded absorption of the soldier, the focused intensity of a man about to do battle. He gave the Welshman an approving look, thankful that Llewelyn had chosen so well, and as their eyes met, Morgan said quietly, “We’ll keep her safe, my lord, that I swear.”
The ship’s master had emerged from his fore-castle cabin, joining their vigil. Both of Llewelyn’s Dominican friars were on deck now, too, jostling for space at the rail with the sailors and Welsh soldiers and French-born knights. Ellen had to push her way through to her brother’s side, pulling Juliana along behind her.
“Can we keep them from boarding us?”
None but Amaury would know what that composed question cost her. Grateful that they’d not have to deal with womanly hysterics, the men hastened to assure her that she need not fear, that there was no danger to speak of, that even if it was a pirate galley, they’d be able to stave it off easily enough.
“God willing,” Ellen said softly, never taking her eyes from her brother’s face. He alone had not spoken, he alone had not lied. Reaching over, he caught her hand in his, squeezing her fingers so tightly that she had to suppress a gasp.
“I think,” he said, “that you’d best wait in your cabin, Ellen.”
“No,” she said, “not yet.”
Bran had once told her that when he’d been captured at the battle of Northampton, a prisoner who’d just heard his own death sentence passed upon him, it had all seemed very unreal, as if it were happening to someone else. Ellen felt like that now, as she watched the galley rise above the waves, sink down, rise again. It rode very low in the water. The hull was painted a garish red, the prow tipped in iron, like the battering rams her father had used in castle sieges. After a moment, she realized it served the same purpose, was meant to stave in the sides of its quarry. She had no doubts as to its evil intent, for its very appearance was predatory. Just as a rabbit froze instinctively when a falcon flew overhead, she knew that she was looking at a hawk of the seas, on the prowl for prey.
The galley was tacking, a navigational technique Brian had explained to Ellen in exhaustive if incomprehensible detail; she’d understood only that it somehow enabled a ship to sail against the wind. She would have expected it to plot a course to intercept them; when it did not, she felt a sudden flicker of hope. But Brian had begun to swear, in Breton and French.
“The whoresons are trying to get to windward of us!” Spinning away from the rail, he headed for the ship’s stern. “Ivo, hard on the helm!”
With that, the deck erupted into chaotic activity. Amaury disappeared in search of a weapon. At Morgan’s command, the Welsh bowmen clambered up into the fore- and aft-castles. Sir William Dulay took charge of the knights, who began to position themselves along the rail, while Alain emerged from the hold with an armful of long staves. They would, he explained to Ellen, be useful for fending off grappling hooks, or for breaking heads. Not that he thought it would come to that, God’s blessed truth! Her ladyship must not fret. These pirate scum would rue the day they’d taken on the Holy Cross. Why, the Welsh lads would turn them into pin-cushions, see if they did not!
Ellen found herself agreeing with him, and not just because she so wanted to believe. Morgan’s men had a superior vantage point from the heights of the fore- and aft-castles. Once the low-slung galley drew alongside and its crew sought to scramble up the cog’s steep freeboard, they’d be facing a murderous fire, arrows raining down faster than the eye could follow. She knew about longbows, for her father had been most impressed with this Welsh weapon, even predicting it would eventually supplant the crossbow. How could the pirates overcome such formidable odds?
And then, Diego, the lookout, shouted down from his skyward perch, “Oh, Jesus, sail ho!”
As the second pirate galley hove into view, Ellen felt a hand upon her shoulder. “Madame.” She turned, looked into the somber, ashen face of Friar Anian, the older of the two Dominicans. “I think we’d best go aft,” he said.
Once they reached the cabin, Friar Teilo tried to barricade the door with the sturdy oaken table, forgetting, in his agitation, that it was bolted to the floor. No one knew what to say. It seemed to take forever before he realized his mistake. He flushed bright red, looked suddenly so young and vulnerable that Ellen’s breath stopped. How many men would die ere this day was done? Blessed Lady, spare Amaury and Hugh and Morgan and Brian. Mary, ever Virgin, save our honor, keep us from sin. By thy goodness, deliver us from evil. Please do not let my brother die.
The cabin had but a single, small porthole; it was deep in shadow. Ellen sought to light a candle in one of the horn lanterns, but her hands were shaking too badly, and after she?
Teilo was slumped down on a coffer, clenching and unclenching his hands, rubbing his palms repeatedly against his worn wool habit. He fidgeted, then blurted out, “Is it true that…that when a ship is taken at sea, those captured are thrown overboard?”
Anian frowned, jerked his head warningly toward the women. Juliana had perched precariously upon the very edge of the bed, like a bird about to take flight at any moment. She said nothing but flinched away from Teilo’s words, and Ellen hastily shook her head.
“No, Brother Teilo. Whilst that might well happen during a sea battle, pirates care for naught but profit. They would much rather ransom their prisoners than drown them.” She swallowed dryly, hoping that her voice sounded more convincing to them than it had to her own ears, then sat down beside Juliana. The waiting began.
Their cabin was located under the aft-castle; they could hear men moving about above their heads, hear occasional muffled shouts. Teilo climbed onto a coffer, peered out the porthole. Because of the cog’s pitching, he could get only a glimpse of sea or sky. But then he tumbled backward, crying, “They have overtaken us, are manning their oars now!”
The noise on deck intensified. Occasionally they heard a scream, knew they were listening as men died. Juliana had closed her eyes, but tears were trickling through her lashes. Anian bowed his head, began to pray. The words made no sense to Ellen, sounded so garbled and slurred that she feared her wits were wandering. When she finally realized that Anian was entreating the Almighty in Welsh, she gave a sudden, shaken laugh. Their instant alarm was almost comical, but it was sobering, too. “Forgive me for interrupting, Brother Anian. Please…pray for us all.”