A gangplank was laid of deckboards and the horses led up from the hold in short order. There was a stable with a small paddock halfway up the bluff into which the horses were turned, while the passengers followed the captain up a twisting path to a large building that backed against the cliff. It was square and solid and made of the same black rock as the pier. Johanna, looking over her shoulder, saw the Faucon’s crew lading bundles and boxes to the end of the dock and vanishing around a corner. She wondered if she’d missed a warehouse built at the water’s edge.
The heavy wooden double doors of the keep opened at their approach, and the captain took two strides and embraced the man standing in the opening. He was half a head shorter than she was and an arm’s length broader but she nearly raised him off his feet. He let out a booming laugh and pulled her down into a loud, smacking kiss. Jaufre nudged Johanna and they looked on, grinning, as Alaric looked at first startled, then revolted, and finally resigned.
They trooped inside, where the first floor of the stone keep was taken up by one enormous room. A set of stairs climbed the back, north-facing wall, in which a great stone fireplace was set with a stack of logs that burned with a welcome warmth. Next to the fireplace a door opened out the back, through which wafted the enticing scent of baking pastry. Two long tables had been set up in the center of the room, benches on either side and a chair at the head of one of them. “Sit!” their host boomed, his deep voice echoing off the stone walls. “Sit and break your fast.” His French was rough but perfectly understandable. He sat in the chair and had the captain sit on his right. “And who are all these lost waifs seeking shelter from the storm?”
As if in counterpoint thunder cracked in the distance. “Me, for one,” the captain said dryly. Her crew pattered inside and closed the doors behind them before taking their places at the second table. At some unseen signal servants entered from the door at the back bearing platters of large, crescent-shaped pastries stuffed with minced onion, root vegetables and some kind of meat, well spiced—Johanna watched Shasha take a bite and immediately begin cataloguing the ingredients—and pottery mugs of small beer.
“So? Who are these people eating at my table? Or is it a mystery again?” Their host winked.
“It is not a mystery, so far as I know,” the captain said, “but first I should perhaps introduce you to them, Hugh. Allow me to make known to you one Hugh Tregloyne, the master of this keep.” She made a graceful gesture with one hand. “Your guests may introduce themselves.”
One by one they went around the table and did so. Alma and Hayat were examined pretty thoroughly and Tiphaine would have been chucked under the chin if she had been within arm’s reach. If Tregloyne’s gaze rested on Alaric’s face a little longer than on the rest of their faces, and if he looked backed forth between Alaric and Angelique, and if he drew any conclusions, he was tactful enough to say nothing. Oddly, his gaze lingered longest on Jaufre.
“So,” he said when they were done. Lightning flashed outside the back door, thunder rumbled again, and rain followed immediately, an instantaneous deluge that stopped almost as soon as it started. “All the way from distant Cathay. Welcome to Glynnow.” His voice mocked without being offensive. “What would such world travelers want with Cornwall, then?”
They looked at each other. “Well, sir,” Jaufre said, “we are interested in wool.”
Tregloyne stroked his chin. “Buying or selling?” He heard Jaufre out, and at the end shook his head, much as the captain had. “The tax will eat you alive, young Jaufre. Every city and town you travel through will levy a charge, and the ports!” He threw up his hands.
“How do the graziers feel about all these taxes?” Jaufre said.
Tregloyne snorted. “How do you think? And the local merchants and traders as well. But there is no other way to get their goods to market.”
“What if we camped between towns?” Jaufre said. He looked at Angelique. “And what if we shipped from a small port, with whom we had negotiated a reasonable shipping and lading tax, hired locally for lading, and contracted a favorable rate with a single ship to transport goods?” He let them think about that for a few minutes. “It would remain a small business, obviously. Although I know a Venetian trader with his own ship who might be able to find his way to Harfleur, the wind and gods providing.”
The captain sat up. “Who would that be?”
“Giovanni Gradenigo, of the family Gradenigo,” Jaufre said.
“I have heard the name,” the captain said. She looked at Jaufre with growing respect. “A sea route to the wool markets in Venice, avoiding the overland fees and expenses, would greatly increase your profit. Always supposing this Gradenigo’s price for transporting it could be kept to a reasonable amount.”
“I believe it could,” Jaufre said. “Captain Gradenigo has a wish to build his own business, apart from his family’s.” He thought of their crossing of the Middle Sea. “And he is a fearless sailor.”
“Better an old sailor than a fearless one,” the captain said dryly.
They sat in silence for a few moments. “A business small enough not to attract attention,” Tregloyne said.
“Obviously,” Jaufre said with a smile. “A place called the Shropshires has the best wool, or so I’m told. How far is it from here to there, and how bad are the roads?”
Tregloyne sat forward, his interest now fully engaged. “The condition of the roads I can’t tell you,” he said. “I’ve stayed close to home these last few years. The road used to be good from Exeter on, but the royals have been very busy trying to stab each other in the back and they’re not particular about trampling who gets in their way betimes. I can give you a few names, though, if you wanted to look for yourself.” He thought, frowning. “You would want to make for Ludlow,” he said at last. “It’s in the heart of the Shropshires, about seventy leagues from Launceston, the nearest market town, which is eight leagues from Glynnow. Before making any firm plans, I would recommend that you travel the route, and talk to such graziers as might be interested, and examine the quality of their wool. Do you know anything about wool?”
“I know where it can be sold at a profit,” Jaufre said. He smiled at Shasha and Johanna. “And I know all the ways it can be fiddled to seem to weigh more than it does.”
Tregloyne let out his booming laugh. “I’ll just bet you do, young Jaufre of Cambaluc.” He saw Jaufre’s look and said, “Yes? What is it?”
Jaufre hesitated and glanced at Alaric. “I just wondered if perhaps you had heard of a family called de Beauville.”
“De Beauville,” Tregloyne said, eyes fixed on Jaufre’s face in a disconcertingly intent stare. “De Beauville. There was a family of that name. Expatriate Normans, granted land by Henry III, or perhaps it was John Lackland. The property was outside Launceston, I believe.”
Jaufre swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “‘Was?’”
“There were four sons, as I recall,” Tregloyne said, matter-of-fact. “One of them was shipped off to the Templars.” He glanced at Alaric. “The first died at Stirling. The second died at Methven. The third died at home of the bloody flux.” He shrugged. “All died without issue. Their father made some effort to find the fourth son and return him home to take up his father’s estate and provide it with heirs. It came to nothing, unfortunately, and he died soon afterward. The estate reverted to the crown.”
Jaufre let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “Did you know them? Any of them?”
Tregloyne shrugged. “The elder son, to nod to on market days. He was a short, fierce fellow, dark-featured and very bellicose.” His eye again wandered over to Alaric. “Much like his father, and two of his brothers. The fourth son was tall and fair. Were they some relation to you, young Jaufre?”
A hand slid into his, and Jaufre felt Johanna’s presence warm and solid next to him. “Possibly. It doesn’t matter now,” he said, a wry twist to his mouth. “Not if they’re all dead.”
“If you could prove your paren
tage,” Tregloyne said, “the estate—”
Jaufre cut off the words. “I couldn’t, and I wouldn’t. And besides, I’d rather attract as little official attention as possible.”
“Oh? Is there something I should know?”
Jaufre smiled. “No, sir, I do assure you. We have left behind no unpaid debts, and no enemies.” He looked around the table. Everyone stared soberly back. No living ones, that was. Except perhaps for Dai Fang, and one could not imagine Wu Li’s widow ever leaving Cambaluc, and certainly her reach would never extend as far as England. “It’s just that any business is better conducted as far from the official eye as possible. It won’t be possible forever, of course, we will require our own charter eventually, but I’d like to keep as many hands out of our pockets as possible.”
“Understood,” Tregloyne said. “And, young Jaufre, if you manage to put together enough of a supply chain to fill a ship the size of, oh, say the Faucon—” He grinned at Angelique “—Glynnow would be a port willing to keep its lading tax—what did you call it—reasonable.”
Calling a one-ship dock a port was something of a stretch, Jaufre thought, but they would see what the numbers added up to before they made any firm decisions. Still, he liked Tregloyne, and Angelique felt like someone they could do business with. Wu Company could do much worse.
That evening they gathered around the fireplace and sang and played for their host, to such effect that he was moved to enthusiasm. “God’s teeth, are you sure you’re merchants? You sound like professional minstrels!”
“We learned from the best,” Alma said.
“The best taught you well,” Tregloyne said. “Now let’s have that drinking song again,” and he beat time on his thigh from first verse to last. “You know,” he said, when they were done and everyone was quenching their well-earned thirst with watered wine, “a group of traveling minstrels is welcome everywhere.”
He met Jaufre’s eyes and nodded. “Every village and town and city, every manor and castle. In the towns, you could time your performances to market days, when all the farmers and graziers come in to trade. A man is always eager to pass the time of day with travelers. It’s the only way to get the news.”
They digested this in silence for a moment. Jaufre, looking around the table, saw no serious objection to the idea, although Alaric did cast up his eyes.
Next to him, Johanna stirred. “Tell me, sir,” she said, “do the English race horses?”
Their host and the captain retired up the stairs, Alaric averting his eyes from the spectacle. “Well?” said Jaufre. “What do you think?”
“If we go in telling the truth, we should be prepared to be hung at the first crossroads we come to,” Firas said.
Shasha nodded. “There will be strong, entrenched interests vested in keeping things the way they are. Our plan will be money out of their pockets, and they won’t like it.”
“Perhaps…”
“What, Hayat?”
“Tregloyne said we’d be welcome at manors and castles, too. If we could gain the sponsorship of a lord—”
“But then he’d want his share of the profit,” Jaufre said.
“So will Tregloyne, and so will Captain Angelique,” Hayat said.
“But they’ll earn their share.” Jaufre scrubbed both hands through his hair. “It’s like being nibbled to death by ducks.”
“We don’t own a ship,” Firas said, “and even if we did we don’t know how to sail it. We don’t own a port, on either side of the Channel. We were never going to be able to do this alone.”
Jaufre made a rueful face. “No.” He looked at Hayat. “We’ll travel to this Ludlow, by way of Launceston. We’ll keep our eyes and ears open, and if we see someone who might help us—”
“And who we think won’t hurt us,” Alaric said.
“Then we’ll see.” Jaufre shook his head and gave a short laugh. “It’s a good idea, Hayat. It’s just that we’ve been independent for so long, with no ties.”
“Gradenigo—”
“He had no power over us beyond our contract,” Johanna said. “Accepting a lord’s protection would be different.”
“Especially when he finds out we can sing,” Tiphaine said, yawning.
Jaufre ruffled her hair. “And that you can juggle.”
They bedded down around the hearth, but Jaufre found himself too restless to sleep. He got up and went to the back door, whose bar was more easily raised than the immense oak beam across the front doors, and slipped outside.
The square house had been built on the right side of a swift-running stream set between steep banks. A footpath led up the side of the stream. He followed it and in a very short time gained the top of the cliff that ringed the little bay. The moon was nearly full and the sky was cloudless now and the sea calm, so that he could see every slab, every pillar and pinnacle of rock as it rose out of the water, the tiny white ruffles of foam on the rocks, and the sand of the little beach. The bare mast of the Faucon barely bobbed as the ship sat sedately next to the rocky pier. From here, in the moonlight, it was easy to see the channel between the two rocky pillars the captain had guided their ship so confidently and competently through that morning.
In this light, from this angle…he squinted. Those two rocky pillars looked almost manmade, or rather as if their original forms had been at least in part deliberately shaped by the hand of man. He wondered how long Tregloyne’s people had been living at Glynnow, and how long ships had been landing goods here.
There was mostly grass and a few shrubs on the cliff. Too much wind for trees, perhaps. Farther up the stream he saw a clump of houses clustered on both sides of it, and some turned earth beyond them. Where Tregloyne’s people lived, probably.
There was a sound behind him and he turned to behold Johanna standing before him. She had undone her braid, leaving her hair a mane of ripples and curls, each one kissed by moonlight. She was carrying their blankets over her arm.
His heart began to thud against his ribs.
She smiled, and turned to shake the blankets out and lay one neatly on top of the other. She turned back to him, waiting.
He stepped forward to slide his hands around her face. “Johanna.”
“Jaufre.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am,” she said, and raised her face.
He kissed her, sliding his arms around her and pulling her in so tightly that she uttered a slight protest. He loosened his hold immediately. “I’m sorry,” he said. His head dropped back, his eyes closed, his blood pounding in his ears. “I have wanted you for so long. Loved you for so long.”
“I know that now,” she said, tracing his lips with a fingertip. “I’m sorry I was so silly.”
“I should have said something sooner.”
“I should have known.”
“It almost killed me when you went to Edyk.”
She raised her head at that. “I’m not sorry I went to him, Jaufre. I won’t ever be sorry. I loved him, too. If he had wanted me to, I would have been with him again in Gaza.”
“I know.” And he had known, and it had nearly killed him to say nothing then, too. “I wanted you to come to me.”
“And now I have.”
His heart seemed to have lodged somewhere up in his throat. He was so hard he couldn’t bear the touch of clothing against his skin. “I don’t know if I can go slowly.”
She smiled. “We’ll go slowly,” she said. “Later.”
She stepped back and her hands went to her girdle. It fell, and so did her tunic, and her trousers. She stood naked before him, proud, perhaps a little shy.
He couldn’t get out of his clothes fast enough, and then finally they were laying together on the blankets, skin to skin, and he finally had his hands on her, on the golden skin turned silver in the moonlight, on the breasts like apples, on the curve of her belly, on the curls between her legs. He knew her so well, had known her most of his life, and still there were mysteries to be found. The creamy taste
of her skin on his tongue. The velvet of her nipples. The sweet curve of her hip. The length of her legs, thigh, knee, calf, down to her ankles and back up again, lingering, savoring, feasting.
She was moving restlessly beneath him now, reaching for him. He caught her hand and held it down, and slid his fingers between and up. She was ready for him, hot, wet, clutching at him, trying to draw him in. He exulted in it, wanted to shout it from the top of the cliff. Oh yes, she was ready.
She would be more so. He found the place and rubbed, gently but firmly, with the tips of his fingers. He heard her gasp and he looked up and saw her head raised, watching him. She saw him watching her, and arched her back and opened her legs more.
Johanna exulted in the feel of Jaufre’s hands on her where she had imagined them to be ever since that yurt in Kuche. She couldn’t catch her breath. She raised her hips and pushed against his hand. “Harder,” she said, and she could hardly recognize her own voice. “Harder, faster, oh, Jaufre, oh—” Her hips thrust, raising her body into a bow of flesh and bone straining toward that one glorious end.
She fell back, panting, and he settled in between her legs. “Take me in your hand,” he said, and she could hardly recognize his voice, either.
She reached between them and closed her hand around the hard, hot length of him. She had watched, covertly, from time to time, curious, trying to imagine what lay beneath his clothing, if he was like Edyk, or different. He was both, she discovered now, like and different, and he was Jaufre, which made him something else altogether, something more. She tightened her grip and it was his turn to throw back his head, eyes closed, mouth tight. He was wet at the tip and she rubbed it with her thumb, and his breath hissed out. “Johanna,” he said, and she shivered at the sound.
She rubbed the tip of him against her, up and down, up to the place that was the seat of all this frenzy of need, down to where he would come inside her, up again, down.
“Johanna!”
Silk and Song Page 63
