Beloved Warrior Read Online Free Page B

himself. Manuel was a handsome lad with black hair and lively dark eyes. At least they had been lively when he’d first come on board. The last six months had taken their toll on him.
    He busied himself with the beans. To do anything else would invite unwanted attention. But he glanced at the guards who were drinking wine. Their heads were nodding, and they would not be relieved until shortly before dawn. God bless Manuel, but Patrick flinched knowing what the lad must have suffered to get the key and the opium.
    After gulping the beans and handing his tin plate back to Manuel, he leaned against Denny, who leaned against the next man, who leaned against the side of ship for sleep, but Patrick’s eyes never left the guards.
    Eventually, he noticed the guards’ eyes were closed. Manuel quietly approached the sleeping guards. One sprawled against a wall, his eyes shut. Two others rolled over. The fourth, obviously aware that something was amiss, tried to rouse his companions. He had just opened his mouth to speak when Manuel quickly slit his throat, then calmly slit the throats of the others.
    Patrick felt no regret. Those particular guards had wielded their whips with pleasure and had tormented Manuel. But he found himself aching for a lad who committed the acts so coldly.
    Then Manuel was next to him, unlocking the chain that anchored the men to the bench. Denny stared at him, puzzlement in his eyes. But the Moor next to him, Kilil, had seen what had happened and was instantly on his feet.
    Patrick had learned Spanish in the past eight years. He’d had to in order to survive. He also spoke English, Gaelic and French. He’d learned a few Arabic words from Kilil.
    He left the bench and went down the aisle with Manuel, unlocking each chain, whispering to each man on the aisle, asking for silence. As stunned as they were at their new circumstances, they complied. Mayhap part of it was stark terror. They all knew the price of mutiny.
    Patrick went to the dead guards and checked for keys to the grate that covered the entrance to the hold. Their freedom depended on getting that grate open. But as he feared, there were no keys. He relieved them, though, of their daggers and a cutlass one wore. After a second’s thought, he added the bloodied whip to his cache of weapons, along with the short sticks the guards had used to beat the prisoners.
    Two men appeared at his side. He knew neither of them well, though he thought they had been oarsmen for at least two years. But they had been at opposite ends of the ship and talking was not permitted.
    He recognized from their manner that they were natural leaders. Good or bad, he didn’t know, but he wanted them on his side. Needed them. He handed each man one of the daggers he had taken. He kept the cutlass for himself.
    “We have to wait until the guard changes,” Patrick explained. “They will open the grate then.”
    “Nae if they dinna hear the ones they replace. And those seem well dead, the devil take their black souls.”
    Patrick recognized the thick brogue of Highlands from the taller man.
    “I am Spanish,” said the other in accented English. “I can mimic the guards. The devil knows I have heard them too many times.”
    “Good,” Patrick said. “We will prop the dead guards up where they are barely visible, just enough to fool their replacements.” In the dim light, he studied the man’s face. “Try the answer now.”
    The Spaniard did, almost a perfect mimic of the captain of the night guard.
    “You will do,” Patrick said in English.
    “Gracias,” the Spaniard said in a voice laced with irony.
    Patrick wasn’t sure how much time they had before the relief guards descended. He helped the Scot and the Spaniard drag the bodies to the bottom of the stairs leading to the locked grate above; together they positioned the guards to make them look as if they were engaged in a game of chance.
    The other oarsmen remained on their benches, either in fear or confusion.