Blanche pushed herself to her knees, hands spread before her, breathing heavily. Her vision cleared and she saw the dagger had fallen within her reach. Ronec was clutching his shoulder and ashen and hadn’t noticed. As he came to haul Blanche to her feet she threw herself at the dagger, grasped it and stabbed out wildly. It embedded in his thigh and he screamed.
‘Three strikes to me,’ she whispered, smiling up at him triumphantly.
‘You’ll die for this, whore.’
‘I won’t die alone,’ she crowed, looking him up and down. Ronec looked at the blood welling on the front of his trouser leg and frowned. His cream-coloured tunic was already crimson at the shoulder. He was growing paler and paler. Blanche had seen men die before. She’d been the cause enough times. Some deaths had caused her to mourn, others had left her impassive. If Ronec died she would sing with joy. But if he didn’t, she was damned.
‘Get her out of my sight,’ he wheezed.
Hands seized Blanche from behind, pinning her arms, clutching her waist and that had to be her only satisfaction as his men pulled her upright and dragged her up the cliff path. She looked back and saw Ronec being carried up by four of his men. His shoulder had been dressed in makeshift bandages and a rope tourniquet was around his thigh. He drew near and despite his obvious pain and the sheen of sweat on his brow, he gave Blanche an evil smile as he was lifted into his saddle.
‘The Prévôt will hear that you attacked me at first light. Your fate will be in his hands. A woman with no man to support her, who attacked an influential member of the community? You have no friends. You are alone.’
Her legs gave way. Alone. No more than she deserved.
She was bundled on to her horse and her hands bound behind her back so she could not seize the reins and make a bid for freedom. With a man at either side holding the bridle, she was taken to Ronec’s home and pushed into a storeroom, not unlike the one Jack had been kept in when he first arrived. She screamed and bellowed, but no one came. Finally, she sank on to the floor in despair. Her face and belly ached and her throat was parched. Unlike Jack’s room, there was no straw pallet to lie on.
Jack was alive. That was the only victory she could claim from the day. At least he would return to England in safety. Despite her taunts, Ronec was unlikely to die from the blood loss as the wounds weren’t severe enough to be fatal. Infection might taint his blood. It struck her as ironic that her life would depend on his.
She’d ruined everything. She’d been so close to true happiness but now Jack knew what she was and he had gone. He’d forgiven her for so many lies and secrets but seeing what she truly was had been too much, even for a man so understanding and compassionate.
And he was right to condemn her. She had been the gentle, innocent woman he wanted her to be but life had hardened her. Vengeance had allowed her to become a killer and thief. She was no better than the wreckers. The weight crushed her like the boulders that lined the shoreline around her home.
Her only consolation was that he had recognised her and knew she had called off the attack. The hand he raised in answer to her own had to be a simple acknowledgement of that. If he bothered to think of her at all, she hoped that in time he would remember the times they had been fond of each other instead of the lies and deception. The memories of the happiness she had felt in Jack’s company and the ecstasy she had known in his arms were her only solace now. Whatever fate she was due, she was alone and friendless and could do nothing but wait to see what the morning would bring.
Chapter Eighteen
It was mid-morning when Jack stood on Winch Street in front of Fortin and Rudhale’s Bristol offices. He was travel stained and weary from the week-long journey first to Roscoff then to England, but old Gilbert Rudhale greeted him warmly. Jack felt embarrassed he couldn’t quite return the embrace with genuine affection that the reunion obviously merited. It was clear the wine merchant was obviously pleased to see him back.
‘We received your last report,’ Rudhale explained. ‘When you didn’t follow as expected we feared you had been lost at sea.’
Jack explained his predicament over bread and cheese, accompanied by a bottle of extremely good wine, omitting certain facts that he had decided would be his secret until the day he died. He finished by asking if Rudhale knew where Jack had lived. Rudhale named a village where a house could be found and, in a sorrowful voice, where Margaret’s resting place was.
It was within half a day’s easy ride and Jack decided to leave straight away. As he thanked Gilbert again, another man entered. This was Henry Fortin and the entire process was repeated, but as Jack finally exited, Henry exclaimed, ‘Your chest! Did you take your chest?’
Jack raised his brows.
‘You leave a chest here when you travel. I believe it is important documents you want to keep safe.’
As Gilbert bustled off to find the item, Jack commended himself on his foresight. Not everything he owned was at the bottom of the sea. He was presented with a substantial-sized box with two locks but only one key. He tried it in both locks but it refused to turn in the second. Presumably, Jack had hidden the other for safekeeping and he suppressed his irritation at himself for being so conscientious.
‘A man came asking after your whereabouts not three days past and if you had left anything,’ Henry said. ‘I didn’t like the look of him, pasty-faced whelp who couldn’t recognise a good Burgundy from a slice gut! I told him to be off.’
Hiding his regret at the missing key, Jack thanked them once again, strapped the box to the horse’s pannier. He rode away, pondering who might have been looking for him.
Rain was threatening for the entire of Jack’s ride to the village of Rooksridge. By the time he had found the burial ground there was a steady shower of fine rain that penetrated every layer Jack wore. He ignored the discomfort and knelt before Margaret’s grave, clutching her cross in his fist. His eyes were dry and he thought it odd that he couldn’t weep now. Maybe it was exhaustion that led him to feel so numb, but the grief was not as raw as it had been when Blanche had given him the cross and the memory had returned.
He pushed Blanche from his mind. His wife’s grave was not the place he wanted to think about the woman who had briefly been his lover but his mind kept returning to the final time he had seen her. She had called off the attack and he suspected she had done so before she had seen him because the sail had already turned before he had run on to the deck and they had seen each other. It tortured him not to know why she had done it and he had to suppress the urge to return to discover the mystery.
He waited at the grave until the shower turned into a torrent then walked the short distance to the house that was apparently his. Neighbours nodded to him as a friend. He couldn’t face admitting he didn’t recognise any of them so murmured polite greetings and passed on.
The house came as a surprise. He was wealthy. He hadn’t expected that and Master Fortin hadn’t mentioned it. Why an agent for a wine merchant would hold property as substantial as he appeared to was something Jack didn’t fully understand. The house was three storeys high, with the timber-framed gable end facing on to the street. A shop selling wooden cups and bowls took up the front space downstairs but once he had taken the second door down a passageway, Jack found himself in an airy room away from the noise of the street. The light was familiar, a warm glow through the small-paned front window where sheets of horn had been nailed. There was a pervading smell of mustiness and neglect, but beneath that was a layer of familiar sandalwood, beeswax and straw. This was the kitchen and he remembered sitting with Margaret while a large grey and white cat slunk around their feet. He smiled at the memory and wondered what had become of the cat. The hearth was clean and free of ash and no lingering scent of cooking remained. Clearly, Jack hadn’t bothered to find a tenant for the property once he left.
The furniture that remained—a heavy table, a sturdy chest and four low-back
ed chairs—were covered with a layer of dust. If there had been hangings on the walls they had been removed for storage. Jack examined the furniture, feeling the association with his belongings but not particularly caring for them. The chest was unlocked but contained only the wall hangings and some plain candlesticks. A stub of candle remained in one so he sparked a flint and lit it, then shut the lid and made his way upstairs, his recollections strengthening with each footstep.
There were two rooms on the upper floor. The larger was the bedchamber he had shared with Margaret. He couldn’t face crossing that threshold yet so went instead into the smaller room at the front that he recalled had been his private chamber. As in the kitchen, the furniture was dusty but a small chest pushed beneath the table in the corner caught his attention. To a casual observer it might have been missed, but Jack was looking for anything significant and the beam of sunlight caught the clasp. He picked it up and discovered that behind the chest was a small hole, big enough to put his arm inside but not more. He laughed, remembering this hiding place in a flash. He rooted inside and produced a large key. Holding it in his hand he knew without question it was the missing key that fitted into the lock of the chest.
The box contained more papers. Jack’s scalp prickled as he recognised the writing that matched what he had found in the box Blanche had taken from Ronec. He sat on the table, lifting the sheets to the light and reading his past and discovering himself.
When he finished he sat deep in thought, clutching the papers tightly. He was wealthy. Considerably so. More than that, he knew why.
He was an envoy for the Crown. His work with Fortin and Rudhale had been a subterfuge to explain his business abroad. That explained the coded account in the tablet. He looked at the other object he had found. A heavy ring engraved with the initials JS. John Sutton. His initials. His name.
Jack would have laughed if he had not been so weary. A spy after all! There was still no cipher but the chest had also produced a single letter bearing a name and a wax seal. Richard Marten, resident outside Portsmouth. Jack needed to retrace his steps back to the port to discover what that man could tell him.
It was growing late. Jack finally steeled himself to enter the bedchamber. It was cowardly to delay any longer. He had seen the place where Margaret now rested. He owed it to her to see where they had lain together. The room was empty as he expected, save for a settle and a bedframe with no mattress, only the strings running back and forth. Spiders had begun to make webs between them. He perched on the edge of the frame and rested his hand against the headboard. The memories were clearer now he had a place to associate with the woman. He sat and remembered Margaret and the time they had shared, not with the all-encompassing grief, but with a blend of sadness and fondness.
‘Forgive me, my love,’ he murmured. ‘I didn’t know. I would have come if I had known.’
He listened for an answer but knew her shade had passed beyond hearing. They had loved each other but she was gone. She had been a loving and warm-hearted woman and Jack suspected Blanche had been right, that she would not have wanted him to live alone dwelling in the dark place he had exiled himself to. Blanche’s face passed before his eyes and he felt a twinge of pain. He loved Margaret, even if his mind refused to stitch together the whole tapestry, but he knew also that a substantial part of his heart was filled with Blanche. He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes.
Whatever she had done, he couldn’t stop the swell of love that rose at the thought of Blanche. Beneath the resentment was an affection as true and deep as anything he had felt for his wife. He pictured her asleep in her tower. The moonlight would be streaming through the threadbare hangings and bathing her as she slept. He hoped her dreams were peaceful.
Jack spent the night sleeping on the settle rather than in the empty bed. The next morning he closed up the house and began preparations for his trip back to Portsmouth, hoping that a meeting with Richard Marten would complete the missing pieces of his life.
* * *
Richard Marten was a severe-faced man of fifty. He lived in a sprawling manor house along the river from Portsmouth. He welcomed Jack and listened to his tale of memory loss. He gave brisk orders for a room to be prepared. Jack presented Marten with the tablets he had discovered in the case, apologising for his inability to translate them. He bathed and changed into fresh clothes before joining Marten to dine.
‘You seem different, John,’ Marten commented as they sat beside the fire. ‘More peaceful. Less set on a course to destroy yourself.’
Jack considered Marten’s words. Even being called by his true name was odd. He still thought of himself as Jack, though in time he would doubtless grow used to John again. He did feel calmer. The man who had courted death was a stranger to him now.
‘Can a blow to the head do that?’ he wondered aloud.
‘I don’t know. It might. Nothing else has influenced you, has it?’
Jack paused before answering. ‘Nothing significant. I remember some emotions but not everything. I feel like I’m watching a tapestry of my life as if it belonged to someone else. I know I should recognise things but they seem strange to me.’
‘Will you work for us again?’ Marten asked.
Jack shrugged. ‘I might as well. There is very little to keep me here.’
Marten raised an eyebrow. ‘You said the same before. There are always places a man of your skills can go and work that needs to be done. The succession in Brittany is still not settled and you would doubtless be useful there.’
Jack frowned. Brittany was the one place where he had felt a bond strong enough to hold him. And was the one place he had vowed never to return to. Blanche had turned her ships away. Why? It nagged him like a sore tooth. Could he let the resentment go? Blanche had accepted his offer right before he had thrown it in her face. Could he live with her while knowing what she was? His heart, his body screamed that he could. Only the stubborn part of his conscience refused to yield.
He realised Marten was waiting for an answer.
‘I don’t know. Let me spend a few days here trying to remember what I can. I’ll answer as soon as I am able.’
‘Try not to wait too long,’ Marten cautioned.
Jack slept long into the following morning. It had been too long since he had slept in a proper bed. The last time had been when Blanche had lain in his arms but remembering that only twisted his stomach into knots.
Marten was waiting when Jack entered the long central hall in search of breakfast.
‘While you are staying here I have a task for you.’
He delved into the deep folds of his gown and produced Jack’s wax tablets. ‘I haven’t looked over these. The task can be yours.’
He led Jack into a smaller chamber and placed the wax tablets on a sloped scribe’s desk beside a scroll.
‘This is the cipher. Perhaps if you translate it yourself you will remember it.’
Marten took another scroll to the chair by the fire and Jack began his task, carefully transcribing the symbols and words on to a fresh tablet. The report was dull, a series of thoughts and statements about the situation in Brittany. Place names where support was wavering or strengthening.
Jack translated without much interest, but halfway down the second tablet something caused his heart to stop.
Sea Wolf. Blaze Mor. Pirate. Rumoured ally? Investigate and remove?
He exhaled loudly in a jagged breath and covered the tablet with a trembling hand. Here before him was the evidence in his own hand that he was a danger to Blanche. She should have let Ronec slit his throat on the beach that first night. He didn’t want to contemplate what might have happened if he had recalled how to read the code while he was living in her house.
‘What have you found?’ Jack hadn’t realised Marten was standing behind him. He could not erase the words, so unwillingly moved his hand.
Marten r
ead it and shrugged. ‘An ally, as you suggest.’ He sighed. ‘Removal will not be necessary, though I commend you for the discovery.’
Jack sagged with relief. Blanche was safe. It was at that moment, when his heart lurched and soared, that he realised how deep his love for her was. The thought that he might have been the instrument of her downfall was appalling.
‘Come, I have something that might interest you,’ Marten said.
Together they walked to the gardens where a number of the children of the household were enjoying a brief respite from work in the company of a grey terrier. They ran after a ball, laughing and squabbling while others munched on pastries from a trestle table.
‘See that boy there,’ Marten said, gesturing to a black-haired child.
The boy’s profile was familiar, but it was only when he turned that Jack realised why. The angular jaw was hidden beneath boyish chubbiness and the nose was wider, but the black hawklike eyes were the ones he had last seen staring at him from the deck of White Wolf.
While he was in France, Jack had grown used to not recognising anyone, and the gradual fitting of faces to names after his return to England had been disconcerting. To see a face he knew intimately on a person and in a place it should not be was a great shock. He feared his brain was still addled and he was putting faces where they did not belong.
‘Who is he?’
‘A French lad. A ward of our King.’
Blanche had said her son by Yann was living in another household but she had never said where.
‘What is his name?’
‘Fransez Tanet,’ Marten said. He pulled at his greying beard and his gentle eyes filled with sorrow. ‘That poor boy has already lost one parent to the French. He will likely become an orphan before the summer is out.’
Was there another, deadly, secret Blanche had withheld from him? She had not seemed ill. She was strong and full of life. Thoughts of Margaret filled Jack’s mind. Arriving too late to be by her side at the end. Finding only the grave to mourn at. All his fury and resentment at Blanche’s deceptions were swept away on a tide of unbearable grief.
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