The Beauty of the Mist (4 page)

“Are there other boats coming?” he asked. “Other survivors?”

“None that we saw,” she whispered.

“How long were you in the boat?”

“Long.”

“How long?”

She didn’t answer, only shrugged her shoulders in return.

“Did your ship sink?”

She didn’t answer again. John found himself quickly becoming tired of speaking to the back of the woman’s head.

“Where’s the bloody surgeon?” he asked irritably over his shoulder, and moving—as he spoke—to the other side of the injured woman’s body. There, he crouched, facing the young woman.

“He’s coming, m’lord,” the ship’s mate responded, pushing into the circle.

“Who attacked you and how many ships were involved in the fight?” John asked, forcing his voice onto a more even keel.

Maria stared at her aunt’s closed eyes. Isabel was resting, at least. But she still couldn’t bring herself to lift her gaze and look at the man. She felt vulnerable, lost, and she fought to hide the tremors that were going through her body. She didn’t have to look about her to know that she was encircled by dozens of curious spectators, watching her every move, hanging on her every word. Like a prize doe, hunted and injured and brought to bay at last, she felt trapped. What were they going to do to them? The giant, the one asking the questions, was clearly in command, and the others obviously feared him. She knew she should, as well. He had called them the devil’s sisters.

“I need to know these things.” His voice was sharper than he intended, but still John reached over and tapped the woman gently on the shoulder. “How many ships?”

“Just one.” Her eyes flitted briefly to his face, but dropped immediately.

Her eyes were the color of jade, and John found himself staring as she lowered them. They were the most beautiful color, set in a face devoid of color. The paleness of her complexion only served to heighten the stunning effect of her green eyes.

“A French ship,” she continued. “Only one.”

John nodded. Looking into her face, he found himself at a loss for words. Letting his eyes drop from the young woman’s face to her exposed hands, he could see them trembling as they clutched the elder woman’s cloak. His eyes traveled up again quickly to her face. She was indeed young, very young. Beyond the pallid, dirty face and a tangle of black hair, he could see there existed a terrified, young woman.

A thin, drunken rattle of a voice could be heard on the outside of the throng of men surrounding them. The surgeon, a member of the Douglas clan and a man that John was sure had been sent along as Angus’s spy, slowly approached. He was a puffy, bleary-eyed monk with more of an interest in wine and a soft bunk than the welfare of either his fellow man or their souls. John’s face clouded with anger once again as he watched him taking his time in answering his summons.

“We’ll talk later,” the Highlander growled, standing at once as the surgeon sidled up through the crowd.

Ignoring the man, John gestured sharply to the mate. “The woman’s been out in this damp air long enough. Take her below; the surgeon can see to her there.”

“I shall stay with her?” Maria asked quickly rising to her feet and turning to the ship’s commander. The inflection of her words wavered between that of a command and a plea.

This time their eyes met, but only for an instant, before Maria averted her gaze in embarrassment.

“Aye,” John responded. “Of course. I’ll look in on you in a short while. My men will see to your needs. There are still questions that need to be answered.”

She nodded, then stood silently, waiting for the men to move her aunt.

There was very little space to clean up, and nowhere to spread out her wet, soiled clothes in the small room adjoining the large cabin where Isabel had been taken. A young boy had entered the cabin right behind them as they arrived and had, without a word, handed her a woolen dress and some linen undergarments. Maria had been thankful for the thoughtfulness of the gesture, but had not really known whom to thank. On deck, she’d seen many gentlemen and women standing about. Thinking about it now, she was surprised at the number of women aboard ship. Clearly, it was one of those ladies to whom she owed her gratitude.

Holding her wet garments up, she scanned the room helplessly. From where she was, Maria could hear the murmuring voices of her aunt, who had thankfully regained consciousness, and then the sound of shuffling feet moving out into the corridor. Finally giving up on the clothes, she placed them in a neat pile in the corner. There was a small wash bowl and pitcher set into a board along one wall of the tiny cabin, so Maria carefully swabbed at the painful open blisters on her palms and fingers. Wrapping strips of linen dressing around her hands, she tried unsuccessfully to tuck under the ends of the bandages. Having both hands reduced to nothing more than raw flesh made it almost impossible. Besides, even at this she was a novice. She shook her head with disgust. Unskilled in even the simplest of tasks.

With frustration and disappointment pulling at her, Maria tearfully jerked the wide, forest green sleeves of the woolen dress down over her wrists. Then, dashing a glistening droplet from her cheek, she yanked open a narrow door and stepped into Isabel’s more spacious cabin.

Her aunt’s eyes traveled to her at once from where she lay. Maria watched as the older woman put her finger to her lips, hushing her for the moment. The young woman complied and stood back, waiting as the surgeon’s boy gathered together the bloodied dressings from the small table.

“You were lucky, m’lady,” the surgeon rasped, reentering the spacious cabin. “The ball just grazed you. But your sailor had no chance.”

“Then he is dead?” Isabel asked.

“Aye. Dead and gone to his Maker.” He glanced back at the older woman. “Sir John wants to know the man’s name. For the prayers when we put him into the sea.”

“I...I don’t know it.” Isabel said with embarrassment, looking at Maria.

“His name was Pablo,” the young woman whispered quietly. Maria had asked him as she struggled to take his place at the oars. But she knew his soul reached his Maker long before their prayers would.

“Pablo,” the man repeated shortly, turning to Isabel. “Very well. Tell me, was it your ship? The one that went down?”

Isabel shook her head quickly in denial.

“Ah, well.” The man started for the door, but then stopped before Maria and pointed to a small bowl of liquid and some clean dressings. “I’ll leave these with you. You might change her dressing if it begins to smell badly. And Sir John will be down directly. He appears to be impatient to have some questions answered. But don’t worry about your mother, my dear. She is going to be fine.”

“She is not—” Maria caught herself, “—not going to die, then?”

“Nay, lass,” the man wheezed wearily, before turning again for the door. “I’ve given her something to make her sleep. I’ll send the lad back in a wee bit. If you need me, have him fetch me.”

Without any further ceremony, the man shuffled out into the dark corridor with the young boy at his heel.

Maria waited until the cabin door was shut behind them, then moved quickly to the side of her aunt’s bed.

“They are Scots!”

Isabel patted the blanket next to her, and Maria sat down at once.

“I can see that, my dear,” Isabel concurred, her eyes taking in the elegant furnishings of the cabin. “And not just any Scots. No doubt, this is part of the fleet that your brother summoned to come and take you back to their king.”

Maria surveyed the cabin, as well. Though her experience aboard ships was somewhat limited, the size of the room surprised her. Running her swollen fingers over the fold of crisp white linen that covered her aunt, Maria glanced at the rich, burgundy damask drape that hung around the bunk, and the matching coverlet. A window seat beneath a small glazed window was covered with velvet cushions, and carved chairs surrounded a table that held fine crystal and several plates of cheese and fruit. An odd discomfort spread through her as she realized where the ship’s commander had put them.

“This was to be
my
cabin!” she cried in dismay.

“You aren’t going to put your old auntie out, now, are you, dear?” the older woman chuckled.

Maria took Isabel’s hand. “What am I to do? What would they think if they find out who we are?”

“Does it matter what they think?” Isabel yawned and stretched her body in the comfortable bed.

“If I am to be their queen...” Maria whispered.

“You are right.” Isabel agreed, keeping her voice low. “If you
are
to be their queen, then I’d say, you have already lost any chance at their respect. After all, you’re supposed to be sitting high and dry in Antwerp, waiting for them to arrive, not rowing in the open seas in an effort to escape them. But that’s assuming you ever do become their queen.”

“I can’t tell them who I am.” Maria said decisively. “I am going to Castile, not to Scotland.”

“You...” Isabel yawned again. “You are going to Antwerp, my dear. That’s where they are headed.”

Maria looked at her aunt helplessly. “But I can’t. Can you imagine the embarrassment? I wouldn’t be able to face Charles. He would never forgive me. Being found adrift at sea by the same people sent to convey me to their home. By the Virgin, the shame that would come of it.”

“I thought none of this mattered. I thought you had resigned yourself to accept your brother’s wrath.”

“I
had
resigned myself,” Maria said despondently. “But that was when I thought we could face him from afar. Not when I thought we’d be dragged back and handed right over to him. You know the power that he wields. How persuasive he is. Never in my life have I won an argument with him tête-à-tête.”

Maria sighed. Though she hated the thought of it, since she was little, she had always let her brother have his own way. Charles was a bully as a child—he was just a more powerful one as an adult.

“Why can’t we go on as we planned?” the young woman pleaded. “I don’t want to go back, Isabel. I can’t.”

Maria watched her aunt fighting off the drowsiness that was overtaking her. “You ruined the longboat, child.”

Maria could not help but smile. “You know very well that I don’t mean rowing.” She turned her head and stared at the small window. “We must find another way. We must be close to Denmark. If we can reach Copenhagen, perhaps we could hire another ship to take us to Castile.”

Isabel opened one eye and tried to focus. “But it’s too far to swim, Maria. And I’m just feeling warmer...”

Maria watched the smile tug at her aunt’s lips before the older woman visibly gave in to the effects of the medicine.

“We have to think of a plan,” Maria whispered, mostly to herself. “I can’t give up hope. Perhaps we can employ someone’s help. There are many on this ship...”

“The commander,” Isabel said, her eyes fluttering open a bit. “The Scot. Sir John, they call him. There is a young and handsome man. Certainly as good looking as any sailor
I
ever came across in my life.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Maria asked as she smoothed a silver tendril of hair from Isabel’s face.

“Hmmph!” Isabel closed her eyes again. “And to think you’ve already been married once!”

“Isabel!” Maria protested, a blush reddening her cheeks. But her aunt was fast asleep.

If there was one thing John Macpherson hated, it was being in the dark.

The small wick lamp he was holding created a small orb of light in the gloom of the corridor, and as he lit the lantern hanging on the wall, John nodded to the young sailor guarding the cabin door.

“Any news?”

“None, m’lord.” The man blurted out. “When I took the trencher of food in earlier, the older lady was asleep and the younger one was just pacing the room. She said nothing at all, m’lord. But I heard her latch the door when I went out.”

John pushed past the man and rapped on the door.

A flurry of quick steps and the sound of someone struggling with a latch could be heard on the other side. There was a pause and then, as the door opened slightly, the Highlander found himself staring down into a set of shining green eyes that peered apprehensively back at him.

“May I come in?”

She hesitated a moment, then turned and gestured vaguely into the darkness of the room. “My...she is sleep.”

“I won’t stay long.” John said, ducking his head as he brushed past her and into the cabin.

Maria stood uncertainly by the open door, unsure of what to do. She couldn’t object to his barging in; after all, this was his ship. With her throbbing hand still on the door latch, she pressed her back against the panel of the cabin wall. Outside the little window beyond the huge Scot, the gloom had quickly deepened with the onslaught of night, and the young woman welcomed the growing darkness. She watched him as he gazed closely at her aunt and then at the pile of clean dressings and bowl of water that sat on a table.

As he turned, the light of the lamp shone clearly on his dark features. She could look at him from where she stood without the fear of being noticed. What Isabel had said was the truth. The man’s features could be considered handsome. Extremely so. But in Maria’s mind the fierceness of his expression only served to mask his fine looks. She let her eyes linger. His shoulders seemed to fill the room. He was a powerful man. His black hair, he wore long but tied back with a leather thong. She watched as his eyes carefully surveyed the cabin.

Sensing that he was being watched, John swung the lamp back in her direction, and saw the young woman turn her eyes downward. She was a small thing, hidden in the shadowy darkness. It occurred to him that she would melt right into the dark panel behind her, if she could.

Now Maria knew it was her turn to be watched. Once again, she fought the fear that was rising within her, making her too apprehensive to look up at him, to return his gaze. The familiar flutter in her stomach told her that once again, she was unprepared—no, incapable of dealing with life. With real life.

It was true. All her life she’d been protected, isolated from the company of men. Of her father, Philip the Fair, she had no recollection. With the outpouring of her mother’s grief after the mysterious death of Philip, Maria had been taken away and brought up surrounded by women in a convent in Castile. She almost never saw her brothers or even heard from them until the eldest, the Emperor Charles, arranged for her to join her betrothed, the sixteen-year-old King of Hungary. The boy king she’d been promised to at age three and then wed to at seventeen. Until the moment she left the safety of the convent walls, Maria had never—aside from her aged confessor—had any occasion to deal with any grown man directly.