by Peter Telep
Christopher let out a groan as he scrambled back to his feet, and before the man that had thrown him could get another opportunity, he set his boots in motion to pursue Seaver.
All of the fighting had brought the loaders of the wharf over to the shore end of the pier for a better look. There were no human obstacles in his path to pursue Seaver. He looked beyond the short man and saw that Marigween was being forced up the gangplank.
He hated leaving his friends, but what else was there to do? The cog’s sail was completely unfurled, its anchor lifted, its mooring ropes drawn in. Her bow was pointed toward the open channel. She was as ready as ever to set sail—with Marigween on board.
His boots clanked loudly over the timbers. Seaver was remarkably fast for a man with such short legs. And he did not waste an ounce of strength to tum around to see how close Christopher was. The short man hit the foot of the gangplank and screamed some thing about the plank to the deck crew. Christopher assumed they’d try to drop the plank before he reached it. He saw men armed with longbows gather in the aftercastle. Then an arrow arced in the air and stuck with a reverberating thud in the timbers only a yard ahead of him. He nearly tripped over the arrow as he veered around it. He heard the awful twanging of more bowstrings as each sent an arrow down toward him.
Christopher now knew it didn’t matter if the Saxons dropped the gangplank or not. He would never make it that far. Reflexively, he raised his arms in the air as a futile shield, then altered his course to the immediate left. He reached the edge of the wharf and kept running straight into the breeze.
The fall was over nearly before it had started, and the water rushed up, around, and then over him. The many sounds of his engagement with the cog’s archers were cut off by a single drone of bubbles. He reached a point where his momentum and weight no longer propelled him downward, and he began to rise. He used the heel of one boot to wrench off the other; then he reached down and tore off the remaining one. He let his head come furtively above the surface. He drew in a long breath and blinked his eyes free of water.
He was about twenty yards from the rudder of the cog. The ship was pulling away from the wharf, and already, there was a twenty-foot gap between it and the mooring.
Clenching his teeth, he paddled like a dog toward the cog. Though the water provided better cover than the pier, it was still impossible to hide, and the archers unleashed more arrows in his direction. This was not unlike his escape from the castle of Shores, when he’d plunged into the moat and had swum to shore while under the fire of the Saxons. But back then he’d been swimming away from the bowmen, not toward them. And back then, once he’d reached the shore, he’d taken a hit. The memory made him shudder.
The aftercastle of the cog was crowded with archers, each jockeying for a better position, two actually fist-fighting over a chance to kill Christopher. And some where behind them, somewhere within the bowels of that boat, was Marigween.
Arrows raked the water. Many arrows. So many that he quickly ran out of places to swim. He’d dart right to find an arrow, left to find its brother, and for ward to find its sister falling straight for him. Every move seemed fruitless. The closer he got to the cog, the thicker the fire became. If he miraculously reached the rudder of the ship and was able to hang on to it and somehow climb up it, what would he do once on board? It would be himself versus an entire merchant man’s crew. The whole idea of going after the ship suddenly made no sense. He’d be captured along with Marigween and the both of them would be subjected to Seaver’s torture. He’d be no good to Marigween then. He would just die with her. Free, there was still a chance he could do something. He could catch up with Seaver at their next port of call. Lay a trap. Something.
But he had to stay alive to do any of that. He ducked under the water and swam fiercely toward the pilings that supported the wharf. He found the heavily barnacled surface of one of the poles and paddled around it, putting the deck of the wharf above him. The pier’s wide expanse was a more-than-adequate shield from the arrow fire. He listened as the shafts thocked and skittered, studied the slots between the timbers some ten feet above as waves lifted and dropped him. Then he looked down and saw the stern of the cog float away from the last trio of pilings. The ship was headed northwest into the channel. The occasional metallic pulley-work of its rigging reflected brief bursts of sun light.
Christopher’s arms and ribs were sore from being pounded by the deck crew, and his stomach screamed for food. His legs were exhausted from running and swimming. He was emotionally drained by Marigween’s near-escape, recapture, and the uncertain fate of his son. Framing this chaotic picture that was his life was the hard, wooden fact that Lord Woodward had been murdered and Christopher, the most likely suspect, had dis appeared from Shores.
He brushed aside a chunk of brown seaweed, then swam from under the cover of the wharf. He felt guilty as he looked up at the sky, about to ask: what will be? It had been too long since he’d tried to employ Orvin’s art.
He’d strayed from it because the sky had never revealed anything to him.
But this time the azure wash loomed down and scooped him up into its presence. And there, in the sky, he saw something, felt something he had never experienced before.
PART THREE
THE SAILORS OF SHORES
1
“How many did I lose back there? Three, four men?” Jobark asked, then huffed in disgust. “I want to know who that boy was—and I want to know now.”
Seaver turned away from the captain’s glower and set his palms on the rough wood of the parapet in the forecastle. He looked out across the sea.
The Seajewel was in the center of the Bristol channel, and to her east, the rocky coast was a line that meandered on the horizon. Several gulls took advantage of a southwest breeze and glided overhead, while others perched on the sea near dark, floating plains of seaweed. It was a superb day, perfect for sailing. The wind fully lifted the two thousand square feet of sail, and the sky was devoid of all but the thinnest, highest of clouds.
However, Jobark’s attitude robbed the day of its beauty. Seaver thought about where to begin—
“You will not put your back to me. I lost my boatswain. Can you replace him?” Jobark grabbed Seaver’s arm and yanked him around. The captain’s eyes narrowed and a muscle in his cheek twitched.
“I’ll get you a new boatswain at our next port of call,” Seaver assured him steadily.
“You’d better, true enough.”
Intimidation was something Seaver was used to, and it would take more than a ship’s captain to quicken his pulse. His fate did, however, rest in this man’s hands,and that meant that a bit of skillful diplomacy was in order—to keep him on the deck of the cog instead of floating along with the seaweed. “You wanted to know about the boy. His name is Christopher, though I like to call him Kimball. And one of the others back there, the tall archer, he is his friend. They, and one other, escaped from me.”
A light came into Jobark’s eyes. “So they are the reason you fled the castle. Your recompense to Kenric would have been your life. But what were the two boys doing here? Hunting you?”
“I’m not certain. But it seems your red-haired Celt girl is Christopher’s bride. Perhaps all of them were tracking me and she accidentally got caught.” Seaver frowned as he thought about that further. “Then again, no one would’ve been able to track me here.”
“You’re too good a scout, eh?” Jobark asked with a whisker of sarcasm.
Seaver was too intent on trying to account for the squire’s presence in Blytheheart to bother with the barb. He thought aloud: “The archer was with him. Did they come after me for revenge? How would they have known I had escaped from the castle? They must’ve spotted me. But revenge. That’s not their code. And even if they were on some quest to capture and bring me to justice, why would Kimball take along his bride”? Another fact surfaced. “He asked me about his child!” Excited, he gripped Jobark’s shoulders. “I must spea
k with a member of the gang that took the Celt girl.”
“Unhand me, Seaver,” Jobark ordered quietly, a threat rather sloppily disguised in the request.
Seaver released the captain and was about to continue when Jobark waved a hand in front of his face. “You are wasting your time. Why not obtain answers from the girl?”
“Yes,” Seaver agreed, warming with the embarrassment that he hadn’t thought of that in the first place. “I’ll go to your cabin now.”
He turned to leave, but found the captain’s out stretched arm in his way. “And I’ll go with you,” the man amended.
Seaver flipped the skipper a wounded look. “Have I lost your trust?”
Jobark sniggered. “She was the bride of your enemy. You want her dead, of course. But she’s not yours to dispose of. She belongs to me—and I will decide what’s to be done with her.” He took a step closer to Seaver, let the hand of his blocking arm fall upon the shorter man’s throat. Jobark tightened his grip until it hurt Seaver, if only a little. “If she dies, shall we say unexplainably, then you will be keelhauled, true enough.”
“Oh, no,” Seaver assured the man, “I don’t want her dead. Dead she means nothing. I’ll catch those young Celts and reel them in with her.”
“Only after your work for me is done,” Jobark corrected. Seaver nodded. “Of course.”
They questioned the Celt girl, but she glared at them in muted defiance—even when Seaver promised to tell her what had happened to her child. Unfortunately, she read easily through his lie. Seaver clenched his fists and suggested torturing the information out of her, but Jobark wanted her body smooth and unbludgeoned for his nightly pleasure.
The Celt girl’s eyes were now even more troublesome to Seaver. The dull from pain look had waxed into a narrow, red rage that was carefully contained. He reached the resigned conclusion that if they did torture her, she would continue to remain silent—and still fix him with those eyes. Perhaps they’d be able to draw tears from her, but nothing more. As in the past, it was the ones who took their pain in silence that fully unnerved Seaver. Disgusted, he left the cabin, leaving Jobark alone with the young woman.
On deck, he questioned a few of the crew, and was directed to Gar, the deckman working the bowline. Fighting the dipping and rising of the ship, Seaver staggered from stem to bow, leaned back on the snatch for the anchor cable to brace himself, then accosted the rail-thin man. “You were one of the fellows who got the Celt girl, yes?”
“Aye,” Gar said, the muscles in his arms taut as he adjusted the tension on a line. He regarded Seaver for a half second, then turned his gaze upward to the point where his rope divided into two ropes, one of which was fastened to the topmast, the other snaking out of sight behind the sail. “But let me say thanks, first.”
Seaver frowned. “For what.”
“For that little slap and throw back there. Helped us plank off the chief. Hated that dog. We can do our jobs without his barking.”
So Seaver was a hero to the remaining members of the deck crew for getting rid of their boss, the boatswain. “You’re welcome,” he said, lapping up the credit. “Now tell me about a baby.”
“Not much to tell. We left it behind.” “Was it still alive”?
“It was; but I bundled it so tight it couldn’t breathe.” Gar reported this fact with stoicism, keeping any remorse he might have had to himself.
Seaver pushed up from the anchor snatch and took a step toward the man. “Where did you leave it?”
Still focused on his rigging, Gar raised a hand and cautioned him back. “Behind the Customs House.” He thought about that, then reaffirmed, “Aye, we left it back there.”
Seaver toyed with the facts, then considered the questions that spun up out of them. What if the child had survived and someone had found it? If he could get his hands on that baby, he’d have a prize even more valuable than the squire’s bride, who, according to Jobark, didn’t belong to him anyway. If he tried to use the Celt girl, there would always be Jobark in his way. If he had the child, Christopher’s child, then, indeed, he would have the squire.
With the situation as it stood, that thought would, for now, have to be tucked away. The odds of the child’s surviving were pretty slim anyway. He placed himself in the squire’s position. If he were Christopher, he’d come after the Seajewel, try to catch up to and or beat the ship to the next port. The latter was highly unlikely, but Seaver had learned not to underestimate the boy._He wished he could use the squire’s bride to lay a trap. He thought of killing the captain. No, then he’d never get home. Abruptly, he was hit with an icy breath of realization. He was becoming the man he’d sworn he’d never be. He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t let his thirst for vengeance keep him in Shores and tum him into a fool. He knew that quest could blind a man. He was too smart to let that happen. He had to slow down. He had to remember his own life. He had to think about what would happen after, say, he got his revenge. What then? There would still be nowhere to go but home. Why not abandon the whole idea of killing Christopher and just go to Ivory Point? The problem with that was a certain feeling that struck him when he’d first seen Christopher back on the wharf. As improbable as the squire’s appearance had been, it had, all at once, felt natural and inspired by Woden. Yes; he would return to Ivory Point. But if Woden had gifted him with the opportunity for justice and he did not take it, then he might suffer his God’s wrath. Woden did not act on chance; he willed what would happen. And Seaver should not deny the deity his wish. It was true that Seaver wanted revenge,that it would taste like sweet meat. But he could turn away from it—turn away from a chance to destroy the boy who had destroyed his command. He knew he was not obsessed; he simply respected and feared his God.
If he let Woden guide his step, he would never lose sight of his true course. Faith in the Master’s wishes was everything. And what the Master wanted now was the young squire killed.
2
Christopher sat with the others in a private din ing room of the Bove Street Inn. The breeches and shirt Doyle had given him to wear were warm and dry, but still not enough to smother the cold. Brenna, who was seated to his left, asked him time and again if he was all right, and she kept putting more and more food on his plate. He was glad she cared, even though her concern was excessive.
Doyle sat at his right, and Montague was opposite Doyle. Orvin was at one end of the table, Merlin at the other. Christopher eyed the group a moment, wondering where their grave faces were, where their concern was, where their urgent desires to help him were hidden. Why did they have to stop now? His frustration found his throat. “She’s out there with him and we’re sitting here eating lunch.”
“You have to eat,” Brenna insisted, her voice sounding like it had come through teeth as clenched as his were.
She was, of course, right. He felt hungry and miser able, and was in no condition to sprint off after Marigween. Besides that, they had to figure out how to catch up to the cog. He’d run off half-cocked, and all that had gotten him was wet.
“Who’s paying for all this?” Doyle asked no one in particular, just before forking a steamed chunk of carrot into his mouth.
“I am,” Merlin said.
“Hold a moment,” Orvin shot back from across the table. “I thought you lost your purse when those boys stole our mules.”
“What boys?” Brenna asked.
“Forget about all of this!” Christopher shouted, then rose. He beat a fist on the table. “We have to catch up to that ship!”
Brenna’s hand found his wrist, and she began to tug him down toward his chair. “Easy,” she said, quieting him. “We’ll leave as soon as we can.”
“That’s right,” Doyle said, chewing loudly.
Christopher shrank to his seat, feeling asinine for the outburst. He had to regain control of his emotions, untie the knots and replace them with a fresh new streak of determination. That was, of course, what he told himself. Accomplishing the task was another matter
altogether.
Montague reached across the table with his fork and poked Doyle on the top of his good hand.
“Ouch! What was that—”
“We’ve a lot to talk about,” Montague said. “Don’t make any plans until we do.”
Doyle glared at the fat man a moment, then shook his head in apparent disbelief.
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, Doyle. Besides, if someone who knows you’ve been banished spots you, word’ll go back to the king. Then you won’t only be banished. You’ll be hunted,” Brenna said, sounding a bit too assuming to Christopher. “We’ll man age all right.”
“I wasn’t aware my banishment extended past Shores,” Doyle said. “Or did I misinterpret the king?”
“I thought you were—”
“Here we go again,” Christopher interrupted Brenna. “We’re discussing trivial points when the mother of my son is on a ship full of Saxons.”
Montague lowered his tankard from his lips. “They won’t kill her, laddie. Not just yet. The way I read what I saw back on the wharf, that little Saxon’s going to use her as bait. And you’ll play right into his trap.”
“No he won’t,” Doyle said curtly. “Not with us help ing him.”
“Like I said, laddie. We’ll talk about that later.” There was no mistaking the displeasure in the fat man’s voice. It seemed he wasn’t thrilled about Doyle’s instantaneous decision to help rescue Marigween.
Christopher stared glumly at his food. He’d already eaten the potatoes, com, and carrots that Brenna had piled there, and all that was left was the lamb. But he was full, and the meat looked too raw for his taste. He took a sip of cider from his tankard, set it down on the table, then sighed. “All right. How do we get Marigween back?” He looked to Orvin.
