Lindsay McKenna - Lord Of Shadowhawk

Tray swallowed hard, forcing down the gorge that wanted to rise. The smell of death clung like a nauseating perfume aboard the four-masted ship. Blood was being washed from the upper deck with bucket after bucket of seawater. Tray could not shut out the moans and cries coming from below the deck.

“Sergeant Porter said you wanted to see me immediately,” Tray said tightly, his mouth pulled into a thin line. God, the carnage and waste that surrounded them! And looking steadily at Vaughn’s amused features, Tray felt even sicker. His half brother was actually enjoying the swelling sound of pain that rose around them from the Irish prisoners below.

Vaughn’s crooked smile disappeared and he flicked a look of anger toward him. “Speak to me in English, damn it! I won’t be caught speaking Welsh.”

It was Tray’s turn to smile, but it was a bloodless one, matching the pallor of his flesh. “You’re still half-Welsh, whether you want to acknowledge it or not.”

“Yes, and you revel in the fact you’re nearly all Welsh like a pig rolling in the mud!”

Tray drew his black wool cloak more tightly around himself. The winds were icy, like Vaughn’s fury. “I’m Welsh, in body and in spirit. The few drops of English blood bred in me have long since been given back to the soil of our land.”

“Enough of this. I didn’t ask you to come here to discuss our unfortunate mutual lineage.”

Tray gazed at his half brother. As usual, their meeting was barbed and double bladed. Hate kept their liaison alive. “Why did you send for me, Vaughn? I’m not interested in this—this—”

“Bloodletting? Call it an eye for an eye.” Vaughn raised his arm, pointing to the cart below being filled with bodies. “I evened up the score.”

Tray’s voice grew deadly quiet. “What are you talking about?”

“Paige. Didn’t you know? It was my cavalry unit that broke the back of Tone’s rebellion near Wexford. We rode down the Irish throats and gave them exactly what they deserved for revolting against England.”

Tray’s eyes flashed thunderstorm gray as he stared at Vaughn. “Get to the point, Vaughn. I won’t waste my precious time on your tales of carnage.”

Vaughn laughed. “That’s right. I forgot, you get squeamish around men who are doing a man’s job. Can’t stand the sight of blood. Can’t fight.” His lips pulled away from his teeth. “You couldn’t even defend Paige when she needed a man to protect her!”

Tray stiffened. “Swords and pistols don’t change things, Vaughn. They only create more hate and thirst for vengeance. No, I don’t condone your soldiering. I don’t condone war.”

“That’s why you let Paige wander down to that beach alone!”

“Paige has been dead thirteen years, for God’s sake! Let it rest!”

Vaughn turned away, resisting the urge to strike Tray’s stubbornly set features. He took a few deep breaths, trying to wrestle with his explosive temper. When he turned back around, his blue eyes were midnight colored as they scorched Tray.

“Father wrote and told me that you need another hand to work on that farm of yours. There’s an Irish brat of nine or so years in cell two. Go get him and take him home, and tell Father it was the best I could do. He doesn’t like the Irish any more than I. If you don’t want him, Father can arrange to send him to one of our coal mines.”

Tray’s mouth tightened. “Are you using nine-year-old boys to win Father’s favor now, Vaughn?”

Vaughn’s features whitened and he stalked back toward Tray, his hand clenched into a fist. Tray tensed, and the movement halted Vaughn. There was a dangerous quality to his Welsh half brother, and the look in his colorless gray eyes warned Vaughn that for all the peaceful tenets of Tray’s life, he would be a formidable adversary if provoked. Tray outweighed him by a good two stone. Although he would be hampered by that club foot, which was encased in a specially made boot, he had seen Tray move with startling agility.

“Just take the boy and be gone!” Vaughn whipped his cloak around himself, shouldering past Tray. He hesitated a moment at the top of the gangway. “Don’t be here when I get back, half brother.”

Tray watched Vaughn stride down to the wharf, snarling orders to the sailors. Grimly, Tray turned and tried to prepare himself for what had to be done. Walking across the wet, slippery deck, he ducked into the first hold and down stairs dimly lighted by lamps.

The stench of vomit, blood and excrement assailed his nostrils and he hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. Tray’s stomach knotted as he surveyed the hastily erected cells containing the survivors of the Irish rebellion. A sailor standing guard came to attention.

“Sir?”

Tray hated speaking in English but switched to it from his native Welsh. “Show me where cell number two is,” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Prisoners clung to the iron bars, crying out as Tray and the sailor passed by them.

“Water, sir! Take pity upon us. Water…”

Tray glared down at the sailor, who stood several inches shorter than himself. “Why haven’t these people been given water?”

The sailor flashed him a smile. “Why, sir, these aren’t people. These are animals.”

“Now look here—”

“Captain Trayhern’s orders, sir. The lot of ’em gets water twice daily. A cup in the morning with their bread and a cup in the evening.”

A desolate cry shattered the murky atmosphere and Tray snapped up his head. Halfway down the darkened aisle he saw a young, red-haired boy fighting two sailors who were trying to drag an unconscious girl out of a cell.

“No! Don’t take her! Don’t take her! You can’t! You—”

One of the sailors reached around and with a vicious thrust of his foot sent the boy flying off his feet. Tray lunged forward. In four strides he reached the cell and shoved the sailor away from the girl, who had been dropped on the floor between them.

“You dog,” Tray snarled, pushing the burly sailor back. He looked up at the other sailor. “Get back, both of you.” Tray saw the boy slowly get to his knees, blood trickling from his nose and mouth.

“This is cell two?” he asked one of the sailors.

“Aye, sir, it is.”

“Then begone!” Tray turned to tend to the girl.

“But, sir, she’s near dead. Captain Trayhern’s orders were to take her off the ship. We can’t have the dead smelling up the ship for the journey to London.”

“No! You can’t take her! She’s alive! Alive!” The boy launched himself at Tray, his small fists beating on him with unrelenting fury.

“Easy, boy,” Tray breathed harshly, gently gripping him and holding him at arm’s length. “She’s going nowhere.” Tray looked up, daring any of the sailors to protest his decision.

The guard shuffled uneasily. “But, sir, Captain—”

“I’m Lord Trayhern. My brother wanted these two for my estate. Now I suggest you stand aside so that I may take them out of this hell!”

The sailors and guard stiffened, their eyes widening. “Lord Trayhern? The Earl of Trayhern’s son?”

“That’s right.” Tray jerked his head toward the dimly lighted opening at the other end of the passageway. “Leave us. Immediately!”

Tray waited until the English sailors had left and then released the boy. Instantly, the child dropped to the girl’s side, his young face puffy and swollen from the blows he had received. His blue eyes were mutinous and filled with hate as he dared Tray to come any closer to the girl whom he embraced with his thin arms.

Tray turned and faced the boy, his bulk filling up the small passageway, blocking any attempt at escape. His square face was shadowed as he squatted down beside them. The hardness melted from Tray’s features as he broke into Gaelic, the native language of Ireland.