on the bottom of the tiny boat as one of the arrows found its way to her sire’s chest, dropping the man on to the wet sand.
She screamed again and wrapped a hand around Richard’s leg. Before he could free himself, an arrow from one of Warehaven’s archers pierced his shoulder. Richard jerked back in pain, only to trip over the woman still clinging to his leg.
‘Hold him down!’
Isabella stared at Dunstan’s rough-looking soldier as if through a heavy, thick fog. They had killed her father. The tightness building in her throat and stomach intensified. She could barely imagine the pain and agony her mother must now be suffering. What would she do?
‘Help me!’
Help him?
He wanted her help with his commander? Isabella shook her head, brokenly whispering, ‘No.’
She couldn’t—she wouldn’t help any of them. They’d stolen her from Warehaven, killed her father before her eyes and had forcibly dragged her from the rowing boat into this ship as if she’d been nothing more than a sack of grain.
And then, when she’d tried to climb back over the high side of the vessel, intent on reaching the beach to help her father, this man—this filthy, ragged-haired, scar-faced knave—had bodily carried her into Dunstan’s small cabin beneath the aft castle.
‘Damn you, woman, help me.’
‘No. Get one of your men to help.’ Dunstan’s well-being would be better trusted to one of his own men than to her.
‘They are all needed on deck.’
She knew that. Of course the men were all needed on deck—to man the oars in the hopes that rowing would lend the ship enough speed to get away before her father’s men unleashed flaming arrows.
Isabella hoped a few of those arrows found their mark and set this flat-bottomed oak ship blazing. The single square-rigged sail alone wouldn’t be enough power to get this cog away fast enough.
Maybe, if she were lucky and God saw fit, she along with these men would find themselves back on Warehaven’s beach in a very short time.
‘Get over here and help me or I will send you to your maker.’
‘Then do it and be done with me!’ She would rather die than make landfall at Dunstan.
The dagger in his hand wavered briefly before he tightened his grip on the weapon. As quick as a darting snake, he reached out with his free hand and grabbed her arm. ‘You are far too eager. I’ll not grant you such an escape from what Lord Dunstan has planned.’
‘He murdered my father!’ She tore her arm free. ‘Do what you will.’
‘Murdered? We were defending ourselves. Besides, you don’t know if your sire is dead or not. He could simply be injured the same as Lord Dunstan.’ He tipped his blade towards the man on the pallet. ‘However, if his lordship dies you will belong to me instead.’ He narrowed his eyes to mere slits. ‘And rest assured, I will make every remaining moment of your life a living hell.’
Could her father still be alive? A tiny flicker of hope sprang to life. A flicker she quickly doused in fear that her relief would be short-lived. No. She’d seen the arrow pierce his chest. Had seen him sink lifeless on to the beach. Since he’d not been protected by chain mail—he’d been dressed for a celebration, not battle—he couldn’t have survived. Isabella choked on a sob.
‘Is that what you want?’ The man leaned closer to her, crowding her in the already small confines of this cabin. ‘Do you value your life so little?’
When she didn’t answer, he warned, ‘If the thought of becoming mine doesn’t frighten you as it should, don’t forget that there are over a dozen more men on this ship who would gladly make you suffer unimaginable horrors should Lord Dunstan die.’
The deadly earnest tone of his voice made her realise that his threat was not an idle warning. But it was the cheers from the men on the deck and the sound of oars scraping across wood as they were pulled into the ship that dashed her hopes of freedom. The sounds of a sail being hoisted and unfurled as it caught the wind to take her far from her home made his threat even more deadly.
Self-preservation overrode her desire to give in to uncontrollable tears and wailing, prompting her to join him near the bed built into the side of the ship.
Dunstan’s man had used the dagger to remove his commander’s clothing. She stared at the blood covering Dunstan’s chest and bedclothes. Like her father, Dunstan hadn’t worn armour either, making his body an easy target for the arrow to pierce. If they did nothing, the man would likely die from loss of blood.
The thought of his death did not bother her overmuch, since he deserved nothing less, but if he died while aboard this ship...what would happen to her?
No. She would not worry about that. Instead, she would assist Dunstan’s man in caring for his overlord. The knave would heal. She would ensure that he’d soon be hale and hearty. Otherwise, how would she gain her own measure of revenge?
Swallowing the grief threatening to choke her, and willing her resolve to stand firm, she asked, ‘What do you wish me to do?’
‘I have already given him a sleeping potion.’ The man wrapped his hand around the shaft of the arrow still lodged below Dunstan’s shoulder. ‘Now, I need you to hold him up.’
Isabella shivered. No matter how many times she’d watched her mother employ an arrow spoon to remove the tip, shove the arrow the rest of the way through one of Warehaven’s men, or break the shaft leaving the arrow tip in place, the operation had never failed to make her ill.
Even though she knew the answer, Isabella asked, ‘Can you not simply pull it free?’
The brief grunted response required no explanation. The arrow was nearly all the way through Dunstan’s body. Without an implement to dig the tip out, they could try working the shaft free of the tip and leave the tip inside for now. The other option was to shove the arrow the rest of the way through his body, while hoping everything stayed intact, then either snap off the shaft or the tip at the tang and remove the weapon.
Either option meant someone was going to have to hold him up and try to keep him from thrashing about if the pain seeped through the fog of his drugged sleep, while someone else worked the arrow free.
She doubted if she was strong enough to hold him, but she preferred that task over the other more gruesome one. Besides, there was no one to protect her and God only knew what the crew would do to her if she bungled the procedure enough that Dunstan died.
Isabella shivered and set aside the dark images forming in her mind. She took a deep breath and then knelt on the bed to support Dunstan’s body. Between the two of them, they rolled Dunstan on to his side, his stomach and lower chest propped against her bent legs.
The man poured more liquid from a small bottle into Dunstan’s mouth. If he was using the juice of poppies, he could very well send his master into a deep, permanent sleep. And the blame for his death would be placed on her.
‘Are
