She said it looking him full in the eyes and that shook him again. She had very strange eyes — an odd green-blue. Unnatural.
Quickly Wulf crossed himself and hurried her, all stinking and wet as she was, up through the under-storage and the crew’s quarters, then over the heaving deck towards the captain’s cabin under the fighting castle. He couldn’t get her there fast enough. Anne, angry at his rough treatment, played the only card she had.
‘You should be careful, very careful. If I choose, I can see into your soul, though it is foul and very black.’
That did it for Wulf. He didn’t care if she was worth money or not; when he heaved the door of the cabin open without even being asked to enter, he threw Anne through as if she’d been plague goods. It hurt when she hit the deck, hurt her knees and her elbows, but she made no sound.
Annoyed though as he was at Wulf’s treatment of valuable merchandise, Anne’s stoicism impressed the captain of the galley, Maid of Bremen, out of Kiel.
Gaspar Neidermeyer saw himself as a specialist, a well-respected one, and this woman, and those like her, were the reasons for the pride he took in his trade.
He made an excellent living carrying human flesh, women principally, up and down the shores of Portugal, Spain, France, even the Barbary Coast and through the Mediterranean; he’d also traded north as far as Denmark on occasion.
He delivered on his contracts promptly, delivered what was expected, on time and alive, if at all possible, and kept his mouth shut. Discipline and self-control — those were his watch-words, the key to any successful business — and he expected the same from those who worked for him.
Therefore, yes, he was angry at Wulf’s poor handling of valuable goods — that would be dealt with a little later — but he looked with professional interest at the girl on the floor of his cabin.
Filthy and bruised as she was, she represented a pleasing turning point in his life. She was very important to someone because he was making so many solid gold Angels out of her safe delivery: ten on taking the contract up when she’d been brought to his ship, with ten on arrival at the other end. Because of this one girl, he had real hopes of acquiring another neat little galley, Star of the Sea, currently being refitted in Kiel harbour, much sooner than he’d thought possible.
Then Gaspar wrinkled his nose disgustedly at Anne’s stench as she tried to stand. He’d have to do something about that if he was to spend any time with her. Her captors, those he’d contracted with, had not said anything about delivering her intact so presumably her virginity, or otherwise, wasn’t an issue for them. Still, he was a fastidious man and didn’t like to bed dirty women: she would have to be washed.
‘Take your clothes off. They’re ruined and I have others.’
‘Have we been introduced?’ She responded in French, and the tone was dry as a bone. That made Gaspar laugh. Was it good the girl still had spirit? He found it tedious when women wanted to talk. She spoke good French, though, better than his.
‘Gaspar Neidermeyer. I am the captain of this ship.’
‘Lady Anne de Bohun.’
Gaspar frowned again. She said it as if she believed it. He shrugged. Perhaps it was true, perhaps she was a noble lady. That was no concern of his and it wouldn’t help her now; he owed loyalty to the people who were paying him.
‘Captain, I’m cold, and wet and hungry. And yes, I would dearly like dry clothes. I’d be very grateful if you could give me water to wash with — and leave me to this cabin. I can pay you for it.’
She made him laugh, but he shook his head at the futility. She must be stupid also. What did she think she was doing here?
‘Girl, you could be Mary, Queen of Heaven for all I know, but I still wouldn’t give you my cabin.’
As he guffawed at his own joke, Gaspar looked Anne over a little more carefully and saw an attractive body under the filthy clothes. Perhaps she was pretty too, though her face was too swollen from bruising to tell — that was to be expected.
‘Captain, I can see you are a very clever man — this is a fine ship. I know about ships. I have a number of my own. I’m a merchant.’
Something tugged at the captain’s mind. A female merchant. He’d heard of one, in Brugge, was it?
‘Yes. I trade out of Brugge. I trade with my guardian, Sir Mathew Cuttifer. He’s very wealthy and I too have resources. Treat me well and it will be to your advantage.’
The mind-reading trick didn’t faze him, he’d seen it at too many fairs, but if she was who she said she was, that changed things. Perhaps, just to buy a little time to think this novel situation through, he’d arrange for hot water from the galley.
Judging the roll of the ship nicely, he stood. Anne looked at him measuringly. Not particularly tall, somewhere in his twenties and compact, with a hard-fleshed face and unnaturally broad shoulders for a short man; and he had quite delicate hands. A scholar would be proud of such hands, so white and fine.
Then desolation swallowed her. What did it matter what this man looked like. She was his captive. Would she ever see any of them again? Her son? The king? And Deborah?
A sudden, dark void threatened, so bottomless, so powerful, Anne nearly fell. Perhaps it was the ship rolling?
Gaspar put out a hand to save the girl against his better judgment. He’d seen the anguish, but he did not allow himself emotional involvement with cargo. Ever. Trade was trade. They all went the same way in the end — to their buyers.
‘There are clothes in the coffer. I’ll get water.’
Then he was gone in three quick strides, a dancer partnered with the lurch of the sea. And even though she heard the key turn in the lock, Anne was grateful in some small part of her being. Odd how the mind worked in so many layers: one part of her was a storm of misery and fear; another was calmly calculating how she could use this man. The question was, in the violent, silent hurry of her capture — what had she been left with?
Anne’s fingers stole to her throat. The little filigree cross of pearls and garnets, the gift from Mathew Cuttifer and Lady Margaret a long time ago, was still there on its fine gold chain. The filth on her body, even caked between her breasts, had effectively hidden it. That was something.
But she had another, secret resource, one she hardly dared search for in case her captors’d found it. She’d been taught the trick by Sir Mathew Cuttifer, and since the attack last winter, he’d insisted she adopt it for her own security.
Security. That brought a bleak smile to Anne’s face as she ripped off the rags of her dress. Once it had been pale grey-blue silk with a fichu of web-fine embroidered gauze at the breast and throat; now it was slimy green-black with the filth she’d been lying in for who knew how long? But, yes! They were still there, nestled in carefully constructed little pockets sewn high up into the seams, under the pit of each arm: two flat-cut diamonds on one side, a ruby and a brilliant star sapphire on the other. Much smaller than coin money, but far, far more valuable. God bless Mathew Cuttifer for his foresight.
Where to hide the four stones now?
Naked, shivering and streaked with filth, Anne padded over to a coffer under the thick-paned cabin window. Heaving up the lid, she found a number of dresses, many made from expensive fabrics and well cut, though several still smelled of the bodies, and the long-contained sweat, of the previous owners. There were even the robes of a postulant nun: all that remained of some poor unfortunate scooped up from her convent and now lost forever. Anne shivered as she handled the robes of the novice, dropping them quickly as if they hurt her hands. Consciously she blocked the image as it came — herself in nun’s clothing.
Determined not to be caught unclothed, Anne riffled through the rest of the clothes at speed, at last finding something she could bear to put on: an old, but clean linen shift for underclothing and a kirtle of dark green wool — good quality, very soft — laced at the front with a crimson silk cord. The previous owner had been quite fastidious in her person since the dress did not smell of anything, not even o
ld perfume.
Looking around, Anne also found a large pewter water jug held by its own bracket above the captain’s bunk; she could begin to clean herself.
Gaspar Neidermeyer was unused to performing domestic tasks; normally his cabin boy kept his clothes in order, brought his food, and organised such washing as he allowed himself. Yet today, the bemused captain found himself back at the door of his cabin with two leather buckets full of hot, fresh water, no less — part of the ship’s precious store of collected drinking water.
And, as he stood outside his cabin, he found himself tempted to knock. Stupid. Shaking his head at such folly, he pushed open the low door.
‘Hot water to wash with ...’ The words stopped of their own accord. The cabin was empty.
‘Thank you, captain. You are kind.’
The girl was behind him, pushing the door she’d hidden behind closed with one fluid moment as she whipped the captain’s dagger from its place on his belt. An observant girl, she’d seen it earlier — and the captain had no hands to stop her.
‘This is not intelligent, girl.’ He was annoyed, regretting his gesture. There was never gratitude from cargo, no matter how well they were treated.
‘Strangely, captain, I do not agree. Sit on the bed.’ He paused for a moment, then, watching her eyes, grudgingly agreed, depositing the buckets on the deck first.
Mentally he shrugged. This would end soon enough, and if she wanted to make a dangerous little game out of their inevitable physical relationship — well, that was a change at least from the ninnies who wept and wailed.
‘Such a shame we’ll never ever know each other better, in any sense, captain.’ Now she’d moved towards him, quite close, but anger at her presumption was close to the surface and he shook his head from growing irritation; the sudden movement accidentally slid the tip of his own very sharp knife across his face. He could feel blood!
‘Enough. This is dangerous.’ Abruptly, he tried to rise from the bed, but there, for once, his ship caught him. The cabin tilted and Gaspar was thrown back against the wall above his cot, cracking his head painfully on the shelf set above it. He collapsed onto his bed, groaning.
Anne, however, stayed on her feet and that moment was enough for her to reclaim the initiative — she had prepared well in the few minutes he’d been out of the cabin.
Knife between her teeth, she bound the captain’s hands behind his back with the lacing cords of one of the dresses in the coffer: silk was strong, it would not break easily; then his feet and, lastly, a length of ripped linen for a gag.
The captain lay groaning as consciousness returned — and with it the dawning knowledge he’d been outsmarted. That made him furious and he convulsed his body, violently trying to sit up.
‘Lie still or ... oh, very well. I don’t want to do this.’
Anne picked up a sturdy joint stool and brought it down sharply on the captain’s skull. She flinched — there was a nasty, muffled ‘wock’ and he slumped back onto the cot, out cold.
She’d never done that before, actively hurt someone, and it shocked her; it had seemed the natural thing to do, and so easy. Then, as she stood in awed, shaky contemplation of the unconscious man on the bed, her mind worked: get out of here — quickly! They’ll come to find him very soon!
Then Anne laughed, relieved. Of course, the men of this ship would think the captain was pleasuring himself. They’d wait to be summoned. That would buy her priceless time.
The captain’s own waxed-skin bag was hanging behind the door. It was cunningly made with a flap attached to the neck, which could be stuffed, like a lid, over the contents and the sides laced tight over the top to keep out water. In went a rough blanket, a pair of women’s soft leather slippers, another kirtle ... but, meanwhile, a plan was forming, a terrifying, reckless plan, the only thing she had on her side. But she needed different clothes to make it work, men’s clothes. Instantly she stripped off the green dress, throwing it too into the bag, hastily knotting all but one of the jewels into the hem with unsteady fingers.
The captain’s own clothes were in a brass-bound sea chest: a spare pair of light leather breeches, a woollen jerkin and a heavily waxed sea cloak. There were even sea boots, which, when Anne tried one on, came almost up to her hips, they were so huge. She discarded them, they’d be too heavy and if she fell into the sea, they’d drown her.
Hastily she tied her still filthy hair high on her head and then, shivering at the sweat smell, pulled Gaspar’s spare jerkin around her, tying it into a neat shape with a broad leather belt: his knife made short work of an extra hole for the buckle.
The breeches were another matter; they dragged on the floor and were more the width of her hips than her waist. Quickly she unfastened the belt and pulling the breeches high under her arms, hauled everything tight with the captain’s belt again.
The clothing, swaddled around her body, added bulk, especially when she pulled the sea cloak round her. Finally, folding up the bottoms of the breeches, she left her feet bare, the better to grip the deck. For that was her intention: get out onto the deck, now that night was falling and ...
Then what? Quickly she grabbed a heel of black bread and a large piece of cheese from a pewter plate on the chart table — a late supper for the captain, no doubt — and drank all she could from one of the buckets.
It was a fine evening, but Wulf was annoyed. He’d been left alone at the wheel whilst the current watch went to the galley to eat. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have minded, but he’d been ribbed all day about being bested by the cargo they were carrying, for others had seen and heard the exchange with Anne. Wulf was offended and embarrassed, but it was best to ignore them all, pretend he was above their jibes. It’d be forgotten by tomorrow if he added no fuel to the fire.
But he wouldn’t forget the cause of his humiliation. He’d really appreciate teaching the girl to mind her manners when the captain had finished with her and she was back in the hold.
‘Don’t turn around.’ It was a whisper. A woman’s voice. Her! Then he felt the brief, cold peck of a blade through his clothes, prinking the flesh of his back.
‘Don’t you listen, Wulf?’ He’d tried to turn, so Anne allowed the knife to just pierce the skin above his kidneys. He swallowed as his own warm blood trickled down his arse — he could feel it.
‘I said I wouldn’t hurt you, but that depends. Lash the wheel. Go on. Lash it!’
Now the dagger was at the base of his throat, unwavering, as was the tone of her voice. Hard. Unwomanly.
‘Hurry, Wulf, we have much to do.’
Fumblingly, Wulf, who was at bottom a coward, especially when confronted with things he did not expect, did as he was told.
‘Better. Much better, Wulf. Now, where are the boats?’
He was confused. What was she talking about?
‘Mistress, we’re on the only boat I know.’
Her voice was sharp from fear. ‘A rowing boat. There must be one on board. A lighter?’
There had to be one; every galley had to be able to row crew into harbour if the ship itself had to stand off the port, out into the roads.
Wulf’s mind was beginning to work. He had to stall her, she was only a woman. The blade was real enough but she was a tiny thing ... he’d be a real laughing stock if she bested him now.
‘No lighter, mistress. Had to leave it behind for repairs. Ow!’ Anne deliberately slashed the soft flesh of his throat, not deep enough to do much damage, but enough to make blood cascade down onto his jerkin. It was a very sharp knife.
‘I don’t believe you, Wulf. Where is it? Quickly!’
Unwillingly his eyes strayed to the canvas-covered shape lashed below them on the deck. She picked up the slight movement of his head.
‘I see it. Come.’
Anne had no pity because there was no time and as she hurried the bleeding seaman in front of her, prodding him down the stairs as the ship lurched and rolled beneath them, her mind was working fast.
It was
a small coracle that Wulf showed her when he peeled the canvas back. Perhaps he was right, perhaps there was no lighter and this was all they had. She had no time to find out. It had one outstanding advantage, though, for it was light, light enough for just one man and a girl to heave over the side, if she could just persuade him to do it.
‘Wulf, I’ve been unfair. And you’ve been kind to me.’
The words stuck in her throat, but still she said them. The man, wounded as he was, looked at her warily.
‘If you help me now, of your own free will, there will be a reward for you. If you do not, I shall curse you, waking and sleeping. Which is it to be?’
She looked at him, unwavering, as she hissed the last words and Wulf dropped his eyes first. He was scared. He’d been scared of her ever since he’d hauled her up on deck earlier today.
‘It’s an easy choice, Wulf. But you’d better think quickly.’
Now she used the soft, soothing voice that Deborah had taught her to use with wild or maimed animals. He reminded her of a dog that had been badly treated; perhaps she could reach him, but the moon was rising, and the cold light caught the edge of the blade in her hand.
Wulf swallowed. The girl might sound calm, but she was holding it against him, poised over his heart in such a way that suggested she could strike quickly.
He found himself nodding, ‘What have you got?’
‘This.’ Anne opened her other hand and held it close to his eyes. The small, flat diamond lay in her palm like a cold star. Involuntarily he moved to take it from her, but the knife touched to the skin above his heart.
‘Be careful, Wulf. You and all your family will wither away if I curse you.’
Ice touched his spine — he believed her.
‘Throw it down into the water.’ She was nodding towards the coracle. ‘Quickly.’ The seaman made up his mind; he’d think of an excuse later, somehow. That diamond would buy him out of this ship, and take him home, get him a farm, even, if he could just ...
‘Do it!’ It was a command as, from the direction of the captain’s cabin, loud, insistent thumps began; the coracle was heaved out of its bonds and thrown into the sea.
The Exiled Page 25
