terror of the pirates attack had… Her father was dead! The pain of knowledge returned like the thrust of a sword in her breast.
Tears welled up in her eyes and fell in a hot cascade down her cheeks. She sobbed for several minutes as her grief overwhelmed her. It was hard to believe that the man she had loved so dearly was lost to her forever…but she had seen the blow that had felled him and believed he must have died of it.
What of her brother? Eleanor’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom of the cabin now, and she began to glance around her, trying to make out what the shapes were. There were no bunks or divans here, merely a collection of sea chests—one of which had caused her to have a nasty headache—and a table and stool pushed hard against one wall. Did these men never sleep? But there was a roll of blanket spread on the ground near her—perhaps that served as a bed on this war galley?
One thing was clear: she was alone. Her brother had not been thrown in here after her. Where was he? What had happened to him? Their captor had so far been gentle enough to her…but had Richard been treated differently? Was he still alive? The questions tortured her, increasing her own fear of what was to happen.
She tried to get up and found that she could stand, although her head was still spinning and she felt sick, but she kept upright and did not fall. After a moment or two she managed to walk towards the table on which were spread what she realised were charts and maps of the sea, also various instruments for calculating distance by the stars. Clearly the captain of this vessel was more educated than his appearance allowed, and with that knowledge came a lessening of her fear.
If he was intelligent she might be able to reason with him herself, to arrange for a ransom to be paid. Sir John often traded with the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. A message could be sent to him…he would pay for her and Richard’s release. Perhaps all was not yet lost.
She finished her water and sat down to look at the charts before her. The captain had clearly been plotting a chart—and seemed to be heading for the great city the Christians still called Constantinople, though it had been renamed Istanbul by its conquerors, which lay on the shores of the Bosphorus Straits. She was being taken there to be sold in the slave markets! She had imagined the galley’s base would be Algiers, perhaps because the captain spoke French so well.
The French were more at home in these waters than most of the other Western countries. Some years earlier the Turks had signed an agreement that they would allow only the French flag to trade freely and safely in their waters, though of course there were other merchants who made individual agreements. There were also those who roamed where they would and took the consequences, as their kinsman’s ship had—but only the French had the protection of the Sultan himself.
Her fate would be the same wherever she was taken!
Eleanor shivered as the realisation hit her. It was easy to make the decision to be bold and demand she be ransomed, but why should the Corsair captain listen? He could quite easily sell her—perhaps to the Grand Turk himself—and then she would disappear into a harem, never to be seen again. She shuddered at the thought of what her life would be like in such a place.
The idea of being a man’s concubine appalled her. No! It must not happen. She would not let it happen. It was all a question of money. The Corsairs had taken prisoners to sell them in the slave market. What would her value be on the auction block? She had no way of knowing—but surely it could not be so very much? Her mother’s cousin would pay twice as much to have her back.
Eleanor had no doubts that Sir John would do his utmost to recover both her and Richard. If he had heard of the fate of his ship, he might even now be trying to trace them. Her head lifted, her expression proud and determined. No matter what happened to her she would fight—she would live as her father had bid her—and perhaps one day she would be returned to her family.
But where was Richard?
Mohamed Ali Ben Ibn frowned as he thought about the woman they had captured; she had lain in a fever for several hours after they had taken flight from the Spanish war galley and at first he had thought she might die. That would have been a great loss.
He had seen her quality immediately and ordered her taken as his personal share of the plunder from the merchant ship. Unfortunately, they had not managed to snatch much else of value before they were forced to abandon their prize.
There was the boy, of course. His delicate features would appeal to certain men in the slave markets of Constantinople, and another woman. She was young but not beautiful and would fetch a moderate price—but his woman was more of a prize than he had imagined when he first spotted her.
That glorious hair! He had been shocked when he removed the hood that covered it to attend to her wound, and at first was elated by the value of his prize. But now there were rumblings amongst the crew because their prize was so small. He had been determined to bring the woman to Istanbul at once—and he knew exactly what he was going to do with her—but the crew was dissatisfied with their share.
He must make sure that none of them got near enough to her to see what a beauty she was. Not a hair of her head must be touched—and she must not be violated, for then her value would be lost. He would take her to a certain house on the shores of the Bosphorus where she would be safe from prying eyes—and then he would begin his bargaining.
In the meantime he must find a way of pacifying the crew. He took out the gold ornament he had discovered tucked beneath the girl’s dress when he tried to loosen her bodice—Western women wore such ugly, restricting clothes it was a wonder any of them could breathe!
He saw that the little cylinder of gold was studded with precious stones, and noticed the stopper at the top. Opening what he had imagined was a scent flask, he discovered the tiny manuscript and drew it out. His face paled as he discovered what it was and he dropped it as though his fingers had been burned.
Mohamed Ali Ben Ibn was a Corsair by necessity, not birth. He had been educated in the best schools of his homeland before being captured by Spaniards, and forced to work in their galleys for long years before he had escaped, vowing revenge on the men he hated. Since then he had roamed the seas in search of prey—and he had been successful. He was now a wealthy man and owned a beautiful house, to which he would one day take a woman of his own beliefs, and make sons with her.
His brow furrowed as he looked at what he knew to be cursed. That manuscript was a part of the treasure of the Abbot of the Far Cross—and the legend was that anyone who sought to benefit from the sale of this treasure was doomed to a terrible death. The Saracens who had looted the Abbey and killed the monks had all died violently soon after and it was said that the treasure was scattered far and wide. How had the woman come by it? And why did she wear it around her neck like a talisman? Was she of the true faith and not a Christian as he had supposed?
He was a superstitious man. The treasure must be returned to the girl! Mohamed would find some other way of satisfying his crew. He would give them gold from his own coffers—and he would make sure he recouped his loss from the sale of the girl!
Eleanor was visited twice a day by the captain of the galley. He brought her food and water, and he returned her father’s treasure to her. She had not noticed its loss at first, and was surprised when he gave it to her.
‘Why have you returned this?’ she asked. ‘It is valuable. My family has money. My kinsman will pay a high ransom for me—twice my price in the slave market.’
He glowered at her. ‘Drink and eat, woman.’
It was all he ever said to her
She
