There was a snorting of appreciative sniggers. ‘Sure you had one in the first place?’ one demanded. ‘Reckon it’s a fair few years since you used it.’
‘Can’t see it, can he?’ another grinned. ‘All slobber and lard, he is.’
‘Muscle, all muscle,’ cried the drunk. ‘I’ve not a pinch o’ fat on me, and will prove it if any of you lot wants a grapple. As for using it, I’ve a prick well prized, I’ll have you know, and have helped many a fair maiden from her swoons. I piss when pissed, and swive better than most when sober.’
The crane driver was now boxed in. ‘You stupid fuckers, get out my way,’ he yelled. ‘And take that dirty little bugger off with you. I’ve work to do.’
The drunk lay flat on his back before the crane’s squeaking wheels, and waved two sodden arms above his head. ‘Slaughter me now, would you, you heathen murderer? And me a decent God-fearing man. My father were a priest, he was, and my Ma the best whore in Leicestershire, me uncle were the Pope and me brother a king. So, touch me if you dare.’
‘Chuck him in the river, lying scum,’ decided one of the sailors, dumping his load on the ground. ‘We’ve a ship to unload. There’s little enough work this time of year and I’ve sore need of a day’s wages. Kick the little toad off the quay.’
A discussion followed and bets were taken as to whether the drunk, being already full to the bilges with liquid but possibly carrying sufficient ballast to compensate, would float if cast to the waves. The drunk began to sob again and wiped his one eye and his nose on his sleeve. One aggravated sailor kicked him in the ribs, the drunk grabbed the offending foot, and hauled. Both drunk and sailor sprawled together, flailing at each other’s faces.
‘Mind me eye, ’tis the only one I got,’ whined the drunk. ‘Attack a poor disabled soldier, would you, you vicious devil? Hero of Tewkesbury, I am, blinded by that bloodthirsty little bastard Edward of Lancaster himself.’
‘Call the Watch,’ complained the crane driver. ‘Or it’ll be nightfall before I get this bloody ship unloaded.’
‘Send the swiving liar back to Tewkesbury,’ someone snorted. ‘Maybe he’ll find his missing eyeball under a bush.’
‘Then reckon it’ll have a right few good tales to tell of all it’s seen over the years,’ chuckled the drunk.
It had begun to rain more heavily. A cold grey sleet closed in the sky and beat down across the river, water pelting on water, as the tall dark man from the alleyway inexplicably reappeared, unseen by the quarrelling rabble. He did not look around but lowered his hat a little and wandered up the deserted gangplank onto the swaying deck of the carvel.
Meanwhile a solitary woman had appeared in the alleyway. After a few moments peering from the shadows, she entered the main street portside, watching the furious bundle of arguing sailors and dock workers. Clearly she was young and fashionably dressed, so evidently a lady of some substance, but being well wrapped against the weather there was little of her to recognise. Beneath the swirls of cape and skirts, her small feet, waterproofed by pattens, were leather shod and her fur-lined cloak enveloped her. Its hood covered her face in shadows and neither her hair nor headdress could be seen. Something of her stance, however, and her expression, could be glimpsed as she shook her head, dislodging the stream of rain water that dripped from the brim of her hood.
But it was the air of frightened expectation that made the young woman particularly noticeable. She moved without confidence, darting from shelter to shelter while staring out intermittently at the river and its craft. Her hands, small and gloved, wrestled with each other, her fingers knotting as if in permanent indecision. She had come, it seemed, where there might be great danger. What she risked was in no way clear. But risk there evidently was.
Someone had come out from the tavern doorway. He stood just out of the rain as he watched the scene before him. He did not seem at all interested in the tumble and hassle around the inactive crane, where the Watch had at last been called and another argument had promptly broken out. Here the difficulty was aggravated by the sudden disappearance of the drunk who had started all the trouble, and now explanations between the sailors, the crane driver and the constable had grown increasingly complicated.
The newcomer from the tavern ignored this extraneous inconvenience. He had been concentrating only on the ship bobbing gently at the quayside, but he soon noticed the pacing woman, his attention inevitably attracted by her furtive behaviour. He immediately became curious.
Anticipating no motive for entering the freeze and soak of the open port, this man remained in the tavern’s porch. Yet despite his shelter, the man was quite noticeable, not for his figure, which was small and unprepossessing, but for the grandeur of his clothes. A silken chaperon, expensive but quite unsuitable for the season, was clamped over carefully curled red hair, and his rings were worn outside the leather of his gloves, declaring status. Yet although clearly a personage of standing, he now seemingly preferred anonymity, choosing to watch while remaining unwatched. But now, his attention divided. It was the nervous woman who now interested him the most as he watched her, eyes narrowed, squinting through the rain. Yet she seemed oblivious of him as she flung off her hood, revealing her face, wiping the rain from her eyes before pulling back the hood’s protection. Turning away at once, she did not see the man in the tavern doorway nor notice his sudden indrawn breath or how his fingers twitched towards the elaborate pummel of his sword.
Midst the wintry damp and dreary inactivity of the dock, the arrival of one small carvel appeared to have changed everything. The unloading finally began. The crane squeaked as it hauled and swung, the crates banged and streamed salt water, the men shouted from deck to shore, and from shore to ship. Men stomped wet boots on the cobbles, set back their shoulders and rolled up their sleeves, dragging the cargo crates from the dockside to stack the carts and from cart to warehouse. The sumpter ponies drooped their heads, dejected in the rain as the wind bit their ankles.
Yet beyond the noises of unloading, the dock was a place of unexplained patience. There were, it seemed, those who waited, noticed or unnoticed, and had business they preferred to keep secret. The woman, although she appeared unaware of all else, had been seen by the gentleman in the tavern. He, although perhaps originally in the company of the thin man in the sheepskin cape, also preferred to keep hidden. Sheepskin cape, having long since left the tavern, was now onboard the ship and had not reappeared. Meanwhile the drunk, presumably unconnected with all these silent and watchful shadows, had left before risking trouble from the law.
The carvel’s captain briefly walked the poop deck, inspected his moorings, turned to discuss something with his two companions, shook his head, scratched his beard and strode once more below. The ship grew quiet. What happened below decks remained unseen. A handful of busy traders were no doubt still conducting their business and sheepskin cape was doing whatever he had come to do. Yet someone else, apparently unknown to all others, had boarded the carvel alone. There being no visible obstruction to his actions, the red-haired gentleman now made a quick decision. He left the tavern’s porch and marched into the rain, crossed the open street to where the waiting woman still stood hesitant and fearful. He came up to her from behind, and put both his hands hard down on her shoulders. She turned with a gasp, and looked into the width of his exceedingly satisfied smile.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
