His ship was the reason why he had been out tonight. He had been hoping to see a sign of it coming towards land, but the horizon was devoid of hope, offering only an evil darkness that foretold of the storm. This meant that his ship was either in the middle of the storm, or had already foundered. Neither option was attractive. Thomas had invested heavily in this shipment. Over fifty tuns of wine, all paid for by himself. If that lot was at the bottom of the sea, he would be severely out of pocket. It was enough to make him scowl as he marched back towards the castle.
There was a figure walking towards him in the gloom, and he slowed his steps. Living in the castle of Ranulph de Blancminster, one took no chances, for it contained the most unpleasant group of felons, thieves and outlaws Thomas had known. If one of them was out in this weather, he could only be enormously drunk, and in that state was more likely to pull out a sword and run him through than ask him to move aside. The locals were just as likely to try to kill Thomas if they could do so with any chance of escaping afterwards. No one liked the Lord of the Manor’s Sergeant.
In the past, Thomas had relied on the fearsome reputation of his men to keep order. The peasants were a quarrelsome group at the best of times, but now they were furious because their taxes had risen sharply. Thomas had taken to spreading word of how he had found Robert, his gather-reeve, just to ensure that people were too scared to harm the fellow. But a drunk might forget his fears, and Thomas was the Lord’s administrative officer, detested even more than the man who collected the taxes.
The shape hesitated, almost seemed about to turn away and hide among the trees, but then came on, and Thomas felt his hand make its way towards his sword almost as though it went of its own will and without his compliance.
‘Thank God!’ he muttered when he recognised the man. ‘What are you doing out here, Brother Luke?’
‘Coming to see you!’ Luke said, and his face held an unpleasant, set smile.
There was no sleep for Jean de Conket and his Breton crew, that terrible night.
It had looked so easy, nom de Dieu! The great lumbering cog, obviously overloaded with tuns of good Guyennois wine, hides and skins, maybe even a little gold, and yet the master had managed to evade him, Jean de Conket, with his ponderous vessel. It was galling to think that he had been beaten by superior seamanship, but Jean was nothing if not a realist. He had been outmanoeuvred by the master of the cog. Perhaps the wind and rain had played their part, but that meant nothing to Jean. He took it as a personal affront that another seaman had beaten him. Then there was that knight …
Yes, that bastard who had marked him. Jean flexed his arm, grimacing at the pain. Surely it wasn’t so bad; his dip in the sea must have washed it clean. Jean had faith in the cleansing properties of seawater. It was pure good luck that his plight had been witnessed by two of his comrades, who had immediately taken steps to save his life. If they had stayed on the cog, they might have won her and slaughtered the knight and the master, but that would have been little satisfaction to a corpse. Jean was glad they’d come to his rescue. The alternative was a hideous death. Some weeks hence, his corpse would have washed up on a shore somewhere, the eyes empty sockets, his clothing shredded, bite marks all over him, like any number of bodies spat out on coastlines after every storm. All sailors had seen them, and all felt the horror of suffering the same fate. The thought made him long for home and safety.
There was no possibility of turning into the wind to try to make their way home now. All the crew knew that. They sat huddled on the thwarts, their oars lashed to the deck as the winds grew in force, while their master bound himself to the mast, his eyes searching for that damned ship all the while, his senses alert to the sounds of straining rigging, tortured wood, and, most important, the thunderous roar of waves crashing on the rocks which he knew lay about the west of England. If they were thrown onto those rocks, their ship would shatter in a moment, and he and all his men must die. In the dark of night like this, Jean feared those rocks more than anything. This ship was a good size, about five and twenty yards long, and with a keel of beech, while the framing, stem and planking were of good Breton oak, but if flung onto rocks by this sea, she would last no longer than a coracle.
Where had the cog gone? It had disappeared as the rain started lashing down again, concealed behind a wall of water. At first, Jean and his men hoped that they might be able to regain her after their abortive withdrawal; Jean in particular had prayed for this. He wanted that tall, dark-haired knight to eat his steel. No man had ever wounded Jean de Conket so cruelly before! The murderous, white-livered Englishman would pay for that!
He hoped that the Englishman was dead, that the cog had hit a rock and sunk. No, he didn’t wish that, he told himself with a grin. He wanted that knight to feel Jean’s blade in his ribs. Also, he wanted that cargo. Better by far that the Anne had lost her mast, that she had wallowed like a hog in a pond for ages, so that all her crew were unwell. Jean and his men would find her later, when the rains had stopped and the wind died down, and the seas grown calmer.
Tedia woke as soon as the door opened. ‘Isok? Is that you?’
The storm was raging now. The wind caught at the open door and slammed it back against the wall, the gusts scattering the bright sparks from the nearly dead fire in an orange cloud.
‘No. Not Isok, my dear.’
Tedia relaxed. ‘Mariota! Is Isok safe?’
‘Yes,’ her aunt laughed, pushing at the door with main force until she could reach through the hole and bind the thong which held it. ‘He’s fine.’
‘Oh, good.’ There was an odd tone in Mariota’s voice, as though she was angry or bitter about something. Still, Tedia was too tired to worry. She felt her eyelids closing. As she did so, she was aware of Mariota shaking her blanket from her shoulders. Her legs were sodden, as were her skirts. Tedia thought she looked like a woman who had been through a downpour.
At last Simon felt the sand scraping at his knees, then a rock snagged his shin, and he could set his feet on the sloping beach. In the thin morning light, he stumbled on through the shallows, the slash in his shoulder hurting abominably; his teeth were set into a snarl of determination as he forced himself on, dragging his burden.
The moorstone grey of the sky had faded gradually while Simon had clung to his timber, and now above him was a gleaming blue vision that was as clear, distinct and perfect as the inside of a polished bowl, except this had no flaws or scratches, only occasional soft clouds like finest lamb’s wool. Of the previous night’s storm there was no hint. Simon guessed that there would be a thin line of blackness at the far horizon to give a hint of the filthy weather heading onwards, but in his present state he didn’t care. All he knew was that it had gone, and that he had somehow survived.
He pulled the body with him up the beach with what little strength remained in him, and dropped it when they were far enough from the water, sinking to his knees. There was no sound, and Simon eyed the boy for a moment with a sense of alarm.
When the mast had gone and the ship had grounded, the graunching noises grew. Only when he realised that the sound came from the ship’s main timbers as they began to break up, did Simon understand that the ship was doomed. Then a man went below and reported that there was a huge hole in the ship’s bows. She must sink. Gervase said tiredly that it was every man for himself, but insisted on being left behind. He would die with his Anne, he said. Simon had been about to leap into the depths when he heard the keening.