"Wha…? Go 'way…"
"I will if you tell me where I can go to piss."
One bloodshot blue eye opened. "Hey, Justin…" The rest of his words were swallowed up in a yawn, and Justin had to shake him again. "I use the privy out on the docks…"
The glare of sun off the river was blinding, and when nearby Holy Trinity Church began to toll, Justin felt as if the bells were echoing inside his head. But by the time he got back to the warehouse, he thought he was likely to live and was furious with himself for wasting so much of this day. The sun was so high in the sky that it must be nigh onto noon.
Bennet was still sleeping, and Justin roused him only by threatening to pour water on his head. Blinking owlishly, he peered out of a cocoon of blankets, sounding puzzled and peevish. "Why are you up? Is the place on fire?"
"I have things I must do today. So do you, Bennet."
"Yes, go back to sleep." Bennet tried to burrow under the blankets again, but Justin persisted and he reluctantly poked his head out. "Do what you must, then. We can meet back at the tavern tonight. I ought to be able to drag myself out of bed by then.."
Some things never changed. Even as\a lad, Bennet had been one for sleeping the day away if he could. Justin retrieved his sword, thankful that it had survived their drunken carousing with nary scratch, and braced himself before opening the door and stepping back out into that painful dazzle of pure white sunlight.
He returned to the castle before resuming his search for the missing sailors, checking upon Copper and checking in with the Earl of Chester in case there had been new developments that he needed to know. He did not run into Thomas de Caldecott and was grateful for that. The last thing his throbbing head could take would be another shouting match. After stopping at an apothecary's shop where he bought wood betony for his headache and saffron potion for his hangover, he headed for the quays.
Chester was a river port, and the larger ships were anchored downstream. Smaller boats were tied up at piers, and the tide was running high enough to lap at the western town walls. Justin's expectations were low after the previous day's failures, but he was to get a pleasant surprise. The second ship's master he spoke to, captain of a sturdy merchant hulk christened the Gulden Vlies, told him that he was indeed lacking three members of his crew, hitherto reliable lads who'd deserted without any warning whatsoever.
This entire voyage had been accursed, he complained bitterly. First he lost three good men, and since then it had been one misfortune after another, leaks to be caulked, a mainmast to be repaired, shrouds to be replaced; he'd be lucky if they sailed by Michaelmas, he predicted dourly. Once he saw that Justin was not a candidate for his crew, he had no further interest in prolonging the conversation, but Justin was able to extract the names of the missing men: Geertje, Karl, and Joder.
Failing to get anything else from the ship's master, Justin spent the rest of the day tracking down crew members from the Gulden Vlies. This was a process as frustrating as it was laborious. The ship was moored in the estuary, and the few sailors he found ashore either spoke only Flemish or claimed to know nothing about the disappearance of their shipmates. He was concluding that he'd have to find a way to get out to the hulk when a small, wizened man with skin like leather sidled up to him. He had such strong Flemish accent that his French was not easy to understand, but Justin's hopes soared when he grasped that this was the cook of the Gulden Vlies. He could not help, but he knew one who could, he said, looking pointedly at the money pouch attached to Justin's belt.
With Baltazar, the cook, scurrying to keep pace, Justin began another search, this time for the ship's helmsman, who was a kinsman of the missing Karl. They finally found him in a cramped, dingy alehouse so poorly lit that it was like going into a tunnel. Rutger looked to be between thirty and forty. He had a deeply lined face framed by lanky fair hair, close-set blue eyes, and the truculence of a man who'd been drinking for most of the day. With Baltazar acting as his translator, Justin attempted to find out what Rutger knew of his cousin's disappearance. But Rutger did not want to talk to Justin about anything at all, especially Karl, and cursed him out in slurred, thick Flemish when he persevered.
Justin at last conceded defeat, at least for now, and retreated out to the street, where he paid Baltazar the agreed-upon sum and arranged to try again when Rutger had sobered up. From the way Baltazar smirked, Justin suspected that Rutger had been drunk for most of their time in port, but he had no other leads. Unless he could persuade Rutger to tell him what he knew, he'd reached a dead end. Refusing to consider what he'd do if Rutger knew nothing useful, he headed back toward Bennet's tavern.
He'd begun feeling better as the day wore on. His head's pounding had subsided to a dull ache, and by mid-afternoon, he'd recovered enough of his appetite to buy a roasted capon leg from a street vendor. It was cold and greasy, but he expected no better fare from a peddler, and he was hungry enough to go back for a second helping, giving the bones to a skinny stray dog. His mood had improved, too, as his body recovered. It was too early to despair. He'd accomplished quite a lot this day. He'd confirmed his suspicions about the sailor-outlaws. They all had names now, had become flesh-and-blood men, no longer figments of his imagination. He would keep after Rutger until the helmsman agreed to talk. If need be, he'd buy the Fleming enough ale to swim in.
The sun had set, briefly turning the brown waters of the Dee to a muddy gold. Dusk was smothering the last of the light, and fewer people were out on the streets. As he neared the tavern, Justin became aware of a prickling at the back of his neck. Twice before that afternoon he'd experienced the same feeling, a sense that he was being watched. He had no evidence of that, had seen no one who'd looked either familiar or suspicious. But his unease lingered, for he'd learned to trust his instincts.
When he reached the tavern, he paused in the doorway to study the street but saw only passersby hurrying home through the deepening twilight, a beggar being berated by a stout man in a green felt cap, a thin, pale whore haggling with a prospective customer over her price. He was still not satisfied, and he vowed not to repeat last night's mistake. It was sobering to realize how vulnerable he would have been to attack as he and Bennet had blithely weaved their way homeward.
The tavern was already crowded, a mix of sailors and regular customers from the neighborhood, and several trestle tables had been set up to accommodate them. Justin had no trouble finding seat, though. Berta at once hurried over to escort him to a corner table, shooing away the men already there. When they protested, she insisted, "Ben said he is to get whatever he wants," and that seemed to end the argument. Ben had been called away, she explained to Justin, but he'd soon be back. "He said you ought to wait for him. And I'm not to charge you for drinks."
There was something to be said, Justin decided, for having a friend who ran a tavern. Berta soon brought over a flagon and a cup and even offered to send someone out to the cook shop for food. Feeling like royalty, Justin declined and watched a rowdy dice game, taking an occasional swallow of Bennet's truly awful red wine, and pondering ways to win Rutger's trust. His fatigue soon caught up with him, and leaning forward, he rested his head on his arms and fell asleep.