Jane screamed and fell on her knees beside her husband, ineffectually patting his hand. ‘You’ve killed him!’ she accused her brother tearfully. ‘You’ve killed him.’
‘Poppycock!’ Oliver exclaimed scornfully. ‘It was the merest tap. He’ll regain consciousness in a minute or so. I’m off to bed.’ And, as good as his word, he left the room.
He was quite right. It might have seemed an age to those of us anxiously awaiting Master Armiger’s recovery, but in fact I doubt that it was more than a couple of minutes before he stirred and asked dazedly, ‘What happened?’
‘Master Cook hit you,’ Will Lackpenny informed him, and made no attempt to conceal a smile. He had an assault of his own to avenge, and I guessed he was deliberately trying to foster trouble between the two men.
Master Armiger struggled to his feet, spurning my proffered assistance, and turned venomously on his wife. ‘Your brother will regret his actions, madam,’ he barked, ‘and when you see him, you may tell him I said so. Now, you may help me up to bed.’
Jane nodded, gulping a little, but once she and Robert had quit the parlour, Will expressed what I was thinking.
‘I don’t suppose any threat that Master Armiger can make will worry that great madman.’ His lips thinned. ‘He has the advantage of weight and height and knows it. I can’t imagine that even someone as tall and well built as you are, Master Chapman, would be a match for him.’
Recalling my treatment at Goliath’s hands, I could only agree. ‘No, indeed,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid Master Armiger’s words were as empty as that jug there.’ I indicated the ewer that had held the supper wine. ‘Nor can he prevent Master Cook from travelling to France with them.’ I added maliciously, ‘Mistress Armiger won’t care very much for that, I fancy. Oliver appears to be a very strict and watchful brother.’
Will’s face fell, then took on a strange expression that it was impossible to interpret. ‘We’ll see about that,’ was his only answer.
Thirteen
By the following day, the wind had dropped and the rain clouds blown away to the west, revealing a morning of chilly sunlight. While we were all still at breakfast, the master of The Sea Nymph sent word that he would be sailing on the afternoon tide, adding a polite request for all passengers to be aboard by noon.
I think we were all relieved not to be spending more hours in one another’s company within the narrow confines of the inn. The hostility between Robert Armiger and his brother-in-law was no better for a night’s sleep and sober reflection and although Oliver Cook had apologized handsomely for knocking the older man down, pleading a hasty temper and having, from boyhood, always been too handy with his fists, Robert’s bruised and swollen jaw prevented him from accepting the apology. Will Lackpenny, too, regarded the cook with resentment from a blackened eye. He was offered no expression of regret, nor could he fail to notice the grin of satisfaction that split Oliver’s features whenever he looked at him. In consequence, breakfast had been a meal of sullen faces and strained conversation until the master of The Sea Nymph’s message was relayed to us by the landlord.
The succeeding bustle to pack our saddlebags, to get them carried aboard ship, to settle our accounts and to make all necessary arrangements for the stabling and feeding of the horses until our return gave us each something to occupy our minds and keep us busy.
‘It will be very cold mid-Channel,’ Eloise warned, ‘so wrap up warmly. And remember to put your hat on the right way round.’
This had been one of her running jokes ever since that first morning when I had accidentally put it on back to front. At first, it had irritated me, but it had now ceased to do so to the extent that I jogged her memory whenever she forgot to mention it, so I grinned in acknowledgement. She was standing very close to me, smiling up into my face, her lips slightly parted, her eyes half closed in amusement. I felt my breath catch in my throat and, almost involuntarily, had encircled her with one arm when one of the inn servants rapped on our bedchamber door and asked for the baggage he was to convey to the quayside.
‘A close call, Roger,’ she mocked, following the servant out of the room.
We were the last down and found the other six already aboard The Sea Nymph and waiting impatiently for our arrival. But even when we and our saddlebags were safely conveyed across the gangplank, and though the sails were set and the tide on the turn, there was a delay.
‘What are you waiting for, master?’ Robert Armiger demanded angrily. He had a hand clamped to his swollen jaw, which was obviously causing him some trouble. ‘What’s keeping us?’
For answer, the master went forward to greet a middle-aged man whom I had seen in conversation with the landlord in the courtyard of the inn just before Eloise and I came away.
‘Monsewer Harcourt,’ he said, and when the man smiled familiarly, added, ‘welcome aboard.’ He signalled to one of the hands to fetch the newcomer’s baggage, still standing on the quay. ‘This French gen’leman’s sailing with us,’ he informed the rest of us, before striding away to resume the command of his ship.
‘Raoul d’Harcourt,’ the Frenchman said, introducing himself to the rest of us, but offering no further information.
Attempts by William Lackpenny to draw him out encountering only the briefest of responses, the rest of us eventually lost interest and left the monsieur to his own devices. As we had now left the shelter of the harbour and were embarking on the choppier waters of the Channel, I went below with the two women.
It’s no good expecting me to write in detail about the voyage. I know as much about ships as I do about horses: that they are useful for getting you from place to place, but very little else.
It was a rough crossing, I can tell you that — far rougher than we had been led to expect by the ship’s master when we left Dover. A nasty squall blew up when we were halfway across. Black clouds appeared on the horizon, trailing rain and sleet in their wake, and accompanied by the bleak, ominous light that presages an easterly wind.
I had been up on deck for a while by then, with the other three men I thought of as belonging to our party. I had no idea where John Bradshaw and Philip were sheltering, and the Frenchman had disappeared. When the weather suddenly worsened, it was borne in upon me that it was going to be a game of bravado, a competition as to who could prove himself a man by remaining on deck and impressing us all later with stories about the size of the waves and the gusts of wind that had nearly blown him off his feet. Will Lackpenny was particularly anxious to prove himself a better man than the rest of us. (He was, of course, hoping to command Jane Armiger’s respect and admiration.) As for Robert Armiger and Oliver Cook, their natural antipathy forced them into contention. They were behaving like children, although the latter was better equipped to play the game without coming to serious harm.
I wasn’t such a fool. I retreated below deck again to join the two women in the master’s cabin, which had been put at their disposal. I tried to persuade Robert Armiger to join me, but he refused, with the assurance that he found the fresh air bracing after being cooped up in the inn at Dover. Eloise was at first inclined to taunt me with cowardice, but the continued lurching and plunging of the ship soon changed her mind and even made Jane Armiger begin to fear for her husband’s safety.
Somewhere around mid-afternoon, he descended to the cabin, looking distinctly green about the gills and cursing Will Lackpenny for a pig-headed fool. ‘He’s letting Oliver goad him into braving the elements and into proving that he’s as good a man as that behemoth. He’s an idiot. I told him so. “You’ll be forced to take shelter below in the end,” I said.’