”If you hadn’t been asleep, God curse you”
”If you could shoot an arquebus as well as you shirk your duty-”
The fist fight was brutal and short. Malcolm and Kit watched wordlessly. Malcolm, at any rate, had no intention of soothing the shaken soldiers. When it was over, Amaro sported a broken nose and Lorenco spat out a couple of teeth.
”I suggest,” Kit said coldly, “that you bury the man you have murdered. Do so at once. When you have finished, we will begin Matins.”
The soldiers grumbled into the stubble of their beards and went in search of shovels to dig the grave.
Margo sat in her prison until nearly mid-morning, overhearing the sound of violent quarrels between her captors. Whatever Kit and Malcolm were doing, it was creating havoc. Good! The gunshots the previous night had jolted her out of nightmares. She had no idea what had happened, but hoped neither Malcolm nor Kit had been directly involved. Her greatest terror was that Kit would die before they could make good their escape, leaving Malcolm alone in a hostile camp of abruptly suspicious Portuguese.
The soldiers came for her shortly before mid-morning. She was clad only in a rough shirt that covered her to her thighs. Margo snatched the blanket and wrapped it around her waist as a skirt. When that hideous Sergeant Braz seized her wrists, Margo spat in his face. He backhanded her into the wall. She slid to the floor, weeping and holding her face. Dimly, she heard Kit’s voice, speaking angrily in Portuguese.
Then Malcolm appeared out of the blur. She retained just enough sense not to throw her arms around him. He helped her to her feet, then escorted her outside. A table and chairs had been set up in the fort’s open courtyard. The military governor-Margo shuddered at the memory–sat in the front row of seats. His soldiers stood guard, looking like they’d been in a fist fight half the night. Other men squatted on the ground or stood in uneasy clusters, watching the proceedings.