by Peter Telep
He reached the main kitchen of the inn. Two scullery boys were busy bringing in wood for the main hearth, chiding each other in the process. He slipped unnoticed past them and arrived at the back door. He stepped out into the slightly colder, damper air of the night.
The inn’s main stable was approximately one hundred yards south, with its doors sealed for the night. Doyle froze as he spotted a lone hostler who walked along the wall of the building. The man rounded the corner of the stable and then was gone.
Keeping his own head low, Doyle stepped away from the inn and moved past a string of six or seven merchant’s carts. He tracked over the low weeds and dewy grass until they broke off at St. Thomas Lane. A nightin gale chirped somewhere nearby, but its enchantment was lost on Doyle. He listened for only one sound: the Vespers bell.
He walked briskly down St. Thomas Lane until he came to Guild Street. He noted a faint mist coming in from the south and cursed its appearance as he turned left, picking up his pace to a near-jog. A small knot of men loitered outside a tiny tavern to his left. Each man had a tankard of ale in his hand. Doyle felt their gazes turn toward him, though he paid them no heed. “What’s your hurry?” one called out.
“Wife’s waiting for me at the cathedral,” he answered curtly from behind his hood.
That drew a chuckle from the men, who he decided were both bachelors and atheists.
Doyle passed several farmers and fishermen on the street, their tattered livery betraying their work. He slowed his pace down a bit so that he wasn’t as obtrusive, but as he neared the wharves, he felt his stride return to its near-jog. He rounded the corner and stepped onto the third wharf. The deck of the Pict cog came into full view.
Four sailors were gathered on the deck, along with Montague and Jennifer. Montague spoke to the Picts while Jennifer translated.
So that was it. Montague was here to draw out the remaining members of the crew, who were obviously guarding the craft. The fat man was taking a big chance, putting Jennifer in a position where she could be kid napped—just as Marigween had been. If the four sailors decided to do that, there would only be Montague in their way.
Correction. There would be nothing in their way. Doyle shot toward one of the pilings that rose a yard or so above the deck of the wharf, and there, hunkered next to it, hoping the Pict sailors on the deck had been too preoccupied with their conversation to have noticed him. He still had a clear view of the deck and would now not be spotted by the sailors. After two more exchanges, Jennifer and Montague turned and left the men, crossed onto the gangplank, and exited the ship without incident. They spoke softly to each other as they reached the wharf, then turned and headed toward the shore. Doyle admired the cut of Jennifer’s shift, noticing it only as she drew closer. Her large, full breasts seemed to burst out of the garment. He stood, moved away from the piling, then adjusted the crossbow under his arm.
“Oh, who are you?” Jennifer gasped.
“It’s me,” he said, pulling back his hood enough to reveal himself.
“Laddie, what are you doing here?” Montague asked, clearly annoyed.
“I’d like to know the same of you,” he answered in a similarly heated tone.
Montague resumed his walk, urging Jennifer with a hand to do the same. “Come on, now. They’re watching us.”
Doyle joined the two, asking, “You were trying to draw the rest of them out, weren’t you”?
“Yes,” Jennifer answered, “and I told him we’d already tried. Those last four will not leave the ship.”
“That was pretty foolish, Monte,” Doyle said. “Did you really think it would work”?
“I’ve worked greater miracles than that,” the fat man said, sounding as smug as he was wounded.
“Then you’d better start laboring,” Doyle suggested dryly. “We’ve a mist coming in from the south that’s not going to aid us. And where’s our night wind you predicted?”
“Wind or not it won’t matter. We’ll row her out if we have to. And the rest will take care of itself.”
“You had better be right,” Doyle said, then he regarded Jennifer. “You’re coming with me.”
“No, she’s going back to the inn,” Montague corrected.
“She’s not leaving my sight,” Doyle recorrected. Jennifer hemmed.
“What?” Doyle asked.
“’I’ll go with you,” she said.
“You know that’s not what your mother wants,” Montague reminded her, assuming—to Doyle’s amazement—a parental tone.
“I’m getting on that cog with all of you. And no one is going to stop me.”
Doyle smiled to himself; she sounded a lot like Brenna. She wanted to help and refused to be turned away.
A knell came from the great bell tower of Saints Michael and George Cathedral, the first of what Doyle knew would be seven.
“It’s time,” he said, then lunged forward into a sprint as he waved for Jennifer to follow.
“Don’t stray from the plan,” Montague called after them.
Doyle shook a fist in the air as his answer, and it took a moment longer for him to fully appreciate the irony in the fat man’s words.
10
Christopher swam with Brenna between the barnacled pilings supporting the wharf. The water chilled him but was calm and appeared near-black in the shadow cast over it by the pier above. The Pict cog was a half dozen pilings ahead on their left. Unencum-bered, they would bridge the distance before the last Vespers bell resounded, but with Brenna weighted down with her crossbow and quiver, and he with a dagger sheathed and strapped to his calf as well as a shortbow and quiver provided by Montague slung over his own shoulders, he guessed it would take them a few moments longer, a few moments they didn’t have.
They should have been closer to the cog in the first place, but there had been some movement on the wharf. They had heard the footsteps of two persons, and later, a third, that had made them back away from the ship. Brenna had wanted to stay close, and though he didn’t want to admit it now, he’d been the one to suggest they move away and wait to see what was happening. He should have listened to Brenna instead of his apprehension. He hated being wet, but he hated being wrong even more.
He cocked his head to Brenna and saw that a slight grimace of exertion tightened her features. She caught his eye and flashed him a brief smile. He still could not believe that he had let her come with him. He’d reached the decision on spite. She’d fought her war of attrition, had worn down his defenses while simultaneously feed ing his frustration until he’d given in to her will. And then all at once he’d told her that not only would she come along, but she would be with him, and the two of them would be the first ones aboard the cog, the first ones to face the remaining sailors. He’d told her to make sure her soul was prepared. She’d smirked and thrown the same words back to him.
What Christopher was taught about women and what he saw in Brenna were kingdoms apart. Women bore children, controlled the household, loved, honored, and respected their husbands. They spoke discreetly and kept silent as much as possible, dressed respectably, and lived chastely. Women were a score of other enviable things, and most of them had nothing to do at all with Brenna, or rather, she’d have nothing to do with them. The submissive way of the wench was clearly not her way. But Brenna had not been courageous and bold when he’d first met her. She had traveled from Gore to Shores, and along the way had avoided a rape to become a woman stronger than any other he had ever encountered. And his rejection of her had somehow added to her mental strength. She had a little trouble keeping up with him as they paddled together, but he sensed that her bravery was equal to his own. Though some would not tolerate such behavior from a woman, he could not help but admire her for it. He felt now as he had on the bluffs of Blytheheart, when her take charge attitude had lifted his spirits. He had thanked her then and wanted to thank her now, but he kept silent. She hadn’t understood his gratitude the first time; it was just as well.
“Are
you all right?” she asked, looking back at him. He hadn’t noticed he had fallen behind her. He nodded, then swam hard to arrive at her side. “All the way, now,” he said, out of breath. “All the way. And I’ll go first.”
“All right,” she answered, then accidentally swallowed a bit of seawater. She grimaced and spat several times, then joined him.
Soon, they neared the weathered stem of the cog. The gulping noises here and there along the ship’s keel were loud enough to cover their approach. Christopher placed his hand on the ship’s rudder and felt how dangerously slimy it was. He threw his head back to survey the climb.
The rudder was actually two long separate pieces of timber bound together by four evenly spaced rusted iron couplers. Just below each coupler was an iron hinge that attached the rudder to the stem, affording thumb’s-length gaps between the two. He kicked up, reached for the second hinge, and managed to lock three fingers onto it. He found the first submerged hinge with his foot and squashed a few toes into the gap. By the time he reached the third hinge, he was out of the water. His soaked clothes drizzled onto a blinking Brenna. Christopher’s quiver had become a tankard, and he felt its sling tugging much too heavily on his shoulder. He didn’t want to conspicuously dump the water out of it all at once so he paused, dumped a little, then a little more, then finally tipped the sack as far as he could without losing his arrows. Brenna picked up on his mis take, and as she reached the second hinge, she quietly emptied her own quiver.
There was a rectangular hole in the stern, just below the aftercastle, and extending from the hole was a large post that impaled and was bolted to the rudder. Christopher knew that behind this hole lay the tiller room. They had the option of climbing past the rudder post and squeezing into the small cabin, or going higher and slipping into the aftercastle itself, utilizing the wooden parapets for cover. The latter was the original plan and still seemed valid. He climbed past the rudder hole and let both of his hands fall onto the lower portion of a parapet. He pulled himself up and peered over—the wood, saying a silent prayer that no one was in the aftercastle.
It was empty. In fact, no one was on the entire deck. But he knew the remaining Picts would soon be drawn out. He climbed over the parapet and fell gently to his knees in the aftercastle. He stripped off his quiver and shortbow, then crawled back to the rear parapet, where Brenna’s hands had just appeared. He reached over, grabbed her wrists, and drew her up and over the wooden bulwark. Sniffling, she sloughed off her bow and quiver and crawled to the forward parapet, turned and let her back fall gently on it, then released a slightly repressed sigh.
Christopher stared through the mist that clung to the briny air. The moon was nearly full, resting on a black, pinpricked blanket. Silver light shimmered through the moisture and found Brenna. She’d pulled her hair back from her forehead and braided it in a single ponytail. Still glazed in seawater, long eyelashes flashing, she looked younger, something to marvel at—even while wearing a pair of Doyle’s breeches and drawstring shirt. She had not balked when he’d told her she couldn’t wear a shift for the swim; the fact was already obvious to her. And she was perfectly comfortable in his blood brother’s clothing, too comfortable, some would argue—but not him. For a moment he wished that it had been she instead of Neil that had accompanied him to rescue Doyle; she wouldn’t have been as nervous or complained as much as the short archer had. In that respect she was like Doyle, just as pensive and calm while in danger.
He made a quick survey of Pier Street. A long cart pulled by a team of four rounseys rattled its way east. Two cloaked figures sat in the cart, one gripping the team’s reins. They’re as late as we are, he thought with a half grin.
The cart was piled high with straw rushes, rushes Christopher knew had been moistened with lard. As the cart came directly opposite the first wharf to Christopher’s left, he shot Brenna a look, and the both of them gathered their weapons. Brenna slipped a foot into the thin, iron-looped head of her bow while her hands found the cranks of the attached windlass. She cranked her bowstring into place. Christopher pulled back and released his bowstring several times to free it of water, then nocked an arrow into place. He huddled against the parapet and aimed at the hatch just past the single vertical spar that was the mainmast with its attached rigging and furled sail. Once again, he looked to the wharf.
With wooden wheels wobbling slightly, the approaching cart created a minor cacophony that competed with the hoofing of the team that pulled it. Then it veered off of the cobblestoned street and crossed onto the pier.
Christopher turned to Brenna. Her gaze shifted from the cart to him for a brief second, then fell on the main hatch. She shelved her crossbow on the top of a parapet and let her hand fall gingerly around the weapon’s long trigger. She closed one eye and drew in a deep breath. She no longer had that heavens-lit youthful appearance; he saw her now as a grim fighter, one resigned to the bloodshed of combat. And as his gaze went to the hatch, to the cart, and then returned to her, he thought for a second that she could have been the one. Looking at her now, poised, the bow as natural and comfortable in her hands as the washboard he’d seen her use moons ago in Shores, he thought that she could have killed Woodward. He imagined her in the brambles of the eastern wood, where Woodward had taken the bolt.
Had she been watching Christopher? Following him? Had she been the one to help?
Christopher averted his gaze, as if that would do the same to his thoughts. He did not want to believe his rekindled suspicions. She was a chambermaid from Shores, a young and innocent woman who could fire a crossbow. She was not a murderer.
But she looked more than capable of killing now.
He heard the cart come to a halt, and turned to see the two figures climb down and move to the tailgate. Their hooded cloaks might have disguised their features, but Christopher easily recognized the gait of his mentor Orvin, and had witnessed enough of Merlin’s slow and measured steps to be able to tell which was the druid—even if the wizard had been accompanied by a stranger. The two old men began unloading the greased rushes onto the wharf.
A half-muted sound came from beneath the main hatch: its bolt being slid aside. The door yawned open,guided by a hand whose owner was obscured in shadow.
“Wait,” Christopher whispered to Brenna, then stared down the end of his arrow, his right hand trembling slightly as he fought to keep tension in the bowstring and the arrow squarely nocked.
The man who came from the hatch was a short sailor, probably Neil’s height, with a similar stocky build that made him an easier target. He stepped over the framework of the hatch and moved toward the starboard railing. The Pict brought something up to his mouth and then chewed on it. His dinner had probably been interrupted by the cart’s arrival. He reached the railing and leaned over it, then swallowed and squinted into the distance.
“Wait,” Christopher whispered again. “I will,” Brenna gritted out softly.
Christopher turned his head slightly and saw what the sailor saw: two cloaked figures unloading rushes near the shoreline end of the wharf. It was, admittedly, an odd sight.
The sailor shouted something in Pict, his voice split ting the night and Christopher’s nerves. Christopher’s fingertips were moist with perspiration, and he felt his grip on the arrow begin to falter. He relaxed the tension in his bow, held the arrow between the middle finger and forefinger of his left hand, and then wiped his right hand on his shirt, which he’d forgotten was still wet. His face, which should have been a little more dry by now, was still wet with a mixture of new sweat and lingering seawater.
“What are you doing?” Brenna asked, shooting him a perplexed look.
“Nothing,” he whispered curtly, then caught some thing in the air and sniffed again.
Over Brenna’s shoulder, Christopher saw a faint glow arise from at least three thatched roofs of the peasant tofthouses that encompassed the abbey. Were he closer, he would have seen that the glow actually came from quicklimed arrows that had
been ignited and shot into the mud and straw, but from his vantage point he still saw enough to know that Doyle was an accurate and busy marksman.
A new light came from one of the windmills. And then he spotted another shooting star arc over and then vanish behind the abbey’s curtain wall. Sudden flames arose from within a few select guild shops along Pier Street. Shop windows soon clouded with smoke. These targets had been carefully chosen by Montague, for there were certain individuals that he wanted to see put temporarily out of business for some reason, and Doyle’s bolts were summarily doing the trick.
Christopher wasn’t the only one that noticed the scattered flames. The Pict sailor let out another cry directed at Merlin and Orvin, but cut himself short as he, too, took in the fires. He turned and shouted in the direction of the hatch.
“Now,” Christopher ordered Brenna, wanting to wait for another Pict to come up on deck but hearing the word slip prematurely from his mouth.
It seemed she fired even before he’d finished the word and Fwit! her bolt split the air, homed in on the Pict at the railing and caught him in the neck as he was turning around. The sailor was carried by the wave of the bolt and thrown back into the railing. The sound of his col lapse was remarkably small, as if he’d fallen on hay.
Christopher listened to Brenna grunt, then caught her on his periphery struggling with her windlass as he trained his bow on the hatch.
“Hurry.”
“I am. Wet bowstrings aren’t exactly easy to work with.”
Letting his gaze shift slightly to where the sailor lay, Christopher could see the shadow of the bolt sticking familiarly from the Pict’s neck. Brenna knew just where to hit him and had severed his jugular vein.
He heard the footsteps of the second sailor as the man ascended the unseen ladder below the hatch, then saw the back of a shaven head as it rose into view.
Fwit!
