“Captain! Sails off the starboard bow!”

Anwen grabbed her spyglass. She trained it on the spot where Monkey was pointing.

“Did you see their colors?” she asked him.

“No ma’am. She slipped into the mist before I could make her colors,” Monkey replied.

“Good eyes, Monk,” she replied.

“Captain, we don’t have the guns to fight this one,” Monkey told her.

“Man’o’war was she?”

“Aye and close to 100 guns I’d wager. More than twice ours and likely triple our men too.”

“We don’t fight man’o’war. Strike the colors Monk.”

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“Aye captain.”

The man scurried away, nodding his head at Asena as he passed her. Asena was 12 now and like Anwen herself, felt the call of the sea. Anwen could hardly deny her. She knew land felt like a prison to her daughter much like it did to her. The years in the forge with her father had give her the strength and endurance to weild a sword, haul gunpowder kegs, lug shot for the cannons, and climb high into the rigging. Asena made her way to Anwen.

“You shouldn’t be shirking your duties,” Anwen told her without looking away from the spyglass in her hands.

“And you shouldn’t worry about ships that aren’t there,” Asena retorted.

“Oh she’s there,” Anwen muttered. “I can feel it in my bones. She must be English or Spanish, though the Spanish don’t come nearly this far north. Must be English then.”

Anwen continued muttering as if voicing her bad feeling to her daughter and herself would make her feel less uneasy. But Asena was no longer paying attention to her mother.

“The bloody fucking English,” Anwen muttered to herself. “Aytigin! Sails on the horizon! English colors!”

“Alright ye scurvy dogs! Look sharp and be prepared to fight! She’s ahead of us for now but she could turn around at any time! Look alive! Stow the loot where it’s least likely to be taken from us!”