by Warhammer
Frau Bergen's house lay on the outer of Thurk's two rings of buildings, long and narrow and roofed with sodden thatch that leaked constantly. Barging open the door, he had to bend to enter and squeeze himself into the kitchen inside. It was cold, no fire had been lit, and there was no sign of Frau Bergen. He turned to his right and pulled aside the curtain that marked his area. Inside was a crude straw pallet, a chair that was far too small for him, and a little table. The one luxury was a fraying rug spread next to the mattress.
Tossing his sack to the floor, Ruprecht slumped onto the bed and closed his eyes. The dripping of rain through the thin roof splashed just behind his head, dribbling down the curtain that served as a wall between his bed and the bed of Frau Bergen. Three other boatmen - Tuard, Schmiff and Hayen - had similar quarters taking up the rest of the house. Luckily, it seemed they were out working, or perhaps looking for work, and Ruprecht had a rare moment of solitude. He had become accustomed to his own company out on the fens, and the endless chatter of Frau Bergen and the others had become a misery to him; he often slept on his boat when the rain was not too severe.
Cursing the weather, the gods, Kurt Leitzig, Marius van Diesl and life in general, Ruprecht tried to block out the continuous dripping, and eventually weariness pulled him into sleep.
The sound of clattering pans woke Ruprecht, and he opened his eyes. The rain had stopped, though the odd drip still fell from the roof, and he could smell wood smoke. He lay there a while longer, not moving in case he attracted attention to himself, as he was still in a sour mood and had no stomach for making pleasant talk with any of the house's other occupants. As he lay there listening to the clattering of clay pots and shuffling feet, his stomach grumbled in reminder of his hunger. Soon, the smell of boiling bacon joined the scent of smoke, and he roused himself, pushing himself up from his pallet and stretching his tired back. Pulling back the curtain, he stepped into the kitchen. He saw that it was dark outside.
Frau Bergen was busying herself by the stove, stoking the fire with an iron rod, her back to Ruprecht. Hearing him scrape a chair back from the table, she turned, and a smile broke her weathered face.
'Hello Ruprecht, dear,' she said, standing up, the pain of arthritic joints showing in her expression. 'I didn't realise as I had company today.'
'Where are the others?' Ruprecht asked, resting his elbows on the unpolished wood of the table and catching a splinter.
'Young Schmiff is out lending a hand to Herr Tolster, mending nets,' Frau Bergen told him, bustling over to examine the splinter in his elbow, ignoring Ruprecht's moan of protest. 'I don't know as much about the other two. I hear Hayen took boat last night with Master Welchsen, but he's back, I saw him in the crowd at the market post.'
'What crowd?' Ruprecht asked, wincing against the sting as Frau Bergen dug at the splinter with a broken nail. There were barely enough people in Thurk to be called a crowd even if they all gathered together in one place, and half the village would be away fishing at any one time during the spring.
'There came a messenger, from the 'burg no less,' the frau said, showing him the extracted splinter in triumph. 'Ham broth?' she offered, waddling back to the fire.
'That would be very fine indeed,' Ruprecht said, rubbing at the blood trickling down his arm. 'A messenger from Marienburg you say? When?'
'Oh, 'bout fourth watch I'd say, perhaps a little after,' Frau Bergen said, pouring a thin stew into a cracked bowl and grabbing a wooden spoon off the shelf beside the stove. 'His horse was fairly lathered, old Tam was telling me.'
Ruprecht smiled to himself at the remark. Frau Bergen was over forty years old, and her referring to Tamitha de Gouyt as old was pretty rich considering they were roughly the same age.
'So what was the message?' Ruprecht asked the old lady as she placed the steaming stew in front of him.
'I don't know dear, I didn't hear, I was over at Fraulein Kemper's helping with the new ked,' she replied. 'Such a lively little lad, the spit of his father.'
'Didn't Tam say what the message was?' Ruprecht asked, picking up the spoon and stirring the broth.
'She didn't hear neither.' Frau Bergen said as she filled a bowl for herself and sat opposite Ruprecht. 'He brought notices with him though, pinned one up on the market post, but I never had me letters, so I can't read what it says.'
'I'll go and read it later.' Ruprecht said, blowing at a spoonful of stew to cool it. A bit of gristle wobbled in the murky gravy, but he put it from his mind and stuffed the spoon in his mouth, swallowing quickly. Too quickly, he burnt his throat and sputtered.
'Easy there, Ruprecht, dear.' Frau Bergen warned. 'No need to go a-hurrying your scran. Is it alright?'
'It's very good.' Ruprecht lied between coughs.
They sat there eating and not speaking until both had finished. Frau Bergen cleared away the bowls, and then returned to the table with her pipe. Lighting it, she leant her chair back and gazed at Ruprecht out of the corner of her eye.
'You go see the little wench again?' she asked suspiciously. 'You're always quiet after you've been out to see the red girl.'
'Yes, I visited Ursula today.' Ruprecht replied stiffly. Frau Bergen said nothing, but her expression spoke her disapproval at full volume. She puffed a few more times on the pipe, still looking at Ruprecht. He felt awkward under her shrewd gaze, but was too polite to leave straight away.
'I need next week's rent paying tomorrow.' Frau Bergen reminded him. Ruprecht nodded, looking away. 'Don't tell me you're a bit short again, dear.' the landlady said, seeing his disconsolate expression.
'Fish didn't bite today, I had nothing to sell,' Ruprecht explained with a sigh. He knew what was coming next and squirmed inside.
'Well, dear, that is a shame, and no mistaking,' Frau Bergen sympathised. She adjusted the heavy linen of her blouse and leant forward, exposing the wrinkled cleavage of her chest. 'There's more than one way to pay your dues, as I've told you before.'
Glad Bergen had probably once been a very pretty woman, Ruprecht considered, staring towards the stove and avoiding her gaze. Even Ruprecht, who had avoided any company when possible, had heard the tales of her bedroom adventures before she had settled down with her late husband. Since his death, just before Ruprecht's arrival, it seemed she had been trying to catch up on missed time. It wasn't that she was particularly ugly, and he knew she washed at least once a week, but the thought made his stomach churn. Luckily, each previous offer of alternative payment for lodgings had been followed by a catch the next day, and he had managed to avoid the issue. Glancing at her leering face, trying not to imagine it contorted in the throes of passion, and failing, Ruprecht decided he'd sooner sell his boat than take up her offer.
'I'll go and check the post, see what this message is,' Ruprecht said quickly, standing up. He strode to the door and turned back just before leaving. 'I'll have the rent for you tomorrow evening, one way or the other.'
'The other way by me, dear,' she called out after him as he ducked under the lintel into the cold night air. With a shudder that wasn't caused by the chill, Ruprecht pulled up his hood and set off down the street.
Thurk's market post was pretentious in the extreme, considering the only market that took place was the daily buying and selling of fish. Everybody grew their own vegetables, and occasionally flour was brought in by someone travelling from the mill ten miles nearer Marienburg, but that was all the trading the village ever saw. However, it did serve as a focal point of the village and was where edicts declared by the Count of Marienburg were pinned up, as well as other important notices.
A flickering torch was nailed to the top of the post, and thin trickles of lamplight shone out of the narrow windows surrounding the central square, but Thurk was otherwise as dark as pitch. The heavy clouds in the sky blocked any moonlight, and Ruprecht carefully negotiated the puddles and water-filled ruts leading up to the market post. A piece of paper was nailed to the post beneath the torch, the ink, having run in the rain, made the words difficu
lt to read. Squinting in the light of the flame, Ruprecht could just about make out what was written there.
GANEFUL EMPLOYE OFFERED!
Mercenaries, Maids, Horsmen and Artesans of all manner are required for an Expedition to the East.
Lady Halste gives Notice of the due Assemblage of a Caravan to the Greye Mounts. All Manner of Opportunities for those of an Adventurus and Brave Spirit awaite. Payment as agreed by Guild Law, or individually agreede for Specialists and Dogs of War.
Inquiries to be Directed to the Sign of the Haggard Fox, Elswilrod, Marienburg.
Ruprecht stood there a while, re-reading the notice, deep in thought. It was, he concluded, a perfect opportunity. Not only could he sell his boat for some gold, but he could actually get paid for travelling back to Talabheim. He could leave miserable Thurk behind, start over again plying his trade on the Taal, sweeping away the years with van Diesl and their bloody ending.
The only problem was Ursula. He would never be able to convince her to come with him. He was also sure that, when he was gone, she would soon starve to death out in the marsh. She was capable of looking after herself, but her self-inflicted solitude had robbed her of all inclination to hunt game or go fishing. If Ruprecht hadn't visited her regularly over the past year, her bones would be laying out there in the Cursed Marsh, picked at by worms and fish.
And yet, how long was he supposed to kick his heels in this cesspit of a village, waiting for her? Ever since she had rescued him from Leitzig, he had been a faithful companion to her. On the weeks of trekking to Erengrad, he had helped her, clothed her, fed her. It had been his idea not to return to the Ostermark, to take ship at Erengrad to avoid possible pursuit by the Osterknacht, and possibly other witch hunters. Without him, she wouldn't have even reached the fens, he realised. He had cajoled her, argued with her, tried everything to persuade her to start living properly again, earning her scorn numerous times, and all to no good end.
Perhaps, without him as a crutch, she'd be forced to fend for herself, he thought. Starvation has a way of focussing the mind better than any prayers. When her hunger got too much, she would realise what she was doing to herself.
But no matter how much he tried to justify it, Ruprecht knew he was simply coming up with excuses to leave. Any way he looked at it, he was deserting her, leaving her to the whim of the gods. The thought made him sick and guilty. All her life she had been abandoned by the very people who should have looked after her, and he was about to do the same.
It didn't matter though, he had made up his mind. If Ursula wanted to waste away in this forgotten marsh, then he couldn't stop her. He wasn't going to stay here to rot away his life.
With a heavy heart, Ruprecht trudged back to his lodgings. He mumbled something to Frau Bergen before hiding himself behind his curtain and then lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. As much as it pained him, he knew that if he didn't leave now, he never would. For all his concern for Ursula, for all the hardships they had suffered together, he was still going to leave. He had done enough by her, had saved her from death and risked his own life in the doing. Now it was time for Ruprecht to look after himself and perhaps find some happiness in his life once more.
The only question was whether he was going to tell her. Would he slip away like a thief, leaving her to wonder what had become of him, or was he going to take his boat up there tomorrow and simply tell her. She would be understanding, she would tell him that it was the right thing to do. She would probably even smile, wish him luck, give him a hug and say she was glad for him. And, in all likelihood, she would be telling the truth, and that was what cut him to the core. Naive, trusting and loyal, Ursula would genuinely support Ruprecht, not knowing that it would make it easier on him if she called him a traitor and cursed his name. At least that way, parting would be less sorrowful.
But he had to tell her, it wasn't his way to skulk away. It was punishment for his betrayal, his own penance for abandoning her. For a moment, he wondered if this was how Ursula felt all the time, why she shut herself away from everyone. It didn't seem so foolish now that he was wracked with self-loathing and doubt.
Tomorrow, he told himself as the regular snoring of Frau Bergen soothed him into sleep. Tomorrow I'll tell her.
The bang of the door and a sudden coldness woke Ruprecht, and he could hear the wind outside and the hammer of rain on the roof. Jumping up, he snatched up his warhammer, which lay next to his mattress, and shouldered aside the curtain.
In the middle of the kitchen, soaked to the skin, her dress covered in mud and grass, stood Ursula. Her face was flushed, her hair matted with filth and weeds, her eyes a mad stare.
'What's wrong? What's happened?' Ruprecht said, hearing Frau Bergen stirring in her room behind him.
'Nothing's wrong, nothing!' said Ursula. 'It wasn't a vision, but he sent me a sign all the same.'
'A sign?' Ruprecht was confused. 'From who? What kind of sign?'
'Sigmar has sent me a sign, telling me what I should do,' Ursula's chest heaved as she panted for breath.
'This floated to my door yesterday. It's a sign! You were right, we have to go back to Marienburg!'
In her hand, she held out a crumpled piece of sodden paper.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sea of Claws
Spring 1711
Wind whistled through the rigging of the Graf Suiden in time to the heavy lapping of the waves against the greatship's hull. Overhead, a clear blue sky stretched to the horizon, broken by scudding grey clouds. To the south, just along the horizon, lay the coast of the northwestern lands of the Empire. The shouts of the bosun and his mates roared out over the sounds of the ship as they passed the order for the crew to tack. The hands came scurrying up from below deck, turning out to their stations, eyes turned towards the quarterdeck where their captain, Edouard Leerdamme, stood surveying the performance of his crew.
One of the few privateer captains not to have joined the Count of Marienburg's new navy, Leerdamme earned his fortune hunting pirates and selling captured ships for prize money offered by the count. He was known with grudging respect as the Butcher Captain, for his uncanny ability to find battle every time he and his crew ventured forth. In navy parlance, the list of killed and wounded was called the butcher's bill, and Captain Leerdamme charged highly, and ventured forth frequently. Despite the obvious dangers, there was never a shortage of sailors volunteering to fight for him, for those that survived could earn considerable prize money in just two or three stints on board.
'Bring her onto the starboard tack, Master Verhoen,' the captain told his officer of the watch, casting a glance at the squat man next to him.
Verhoen nodded in acknowledgement. Striding the rail at the front of the quarterdeck, he began to bellow orders to the officers below. Leerdamme began to count under his breath, watching the proceedings carefully. The men heaved on the ropes, as Lucas Verhoen gave swift commands to the hand at the wheel.
'Steady there, you hasty dog!' he heard the master curse as the steersman turned too fast and the sails began to flap dangerously at the lack of wind. 'Back a point!'
With the rumble of rope through blocks and sheaves, and the creak of the rigging under the pressure, the Graf Suiden slowed and swung ponderously to starboard. For a moment her motion was almost completely checked, all way lost as she passed through the eye of the wind, and the forecastle dipped dangerously downwards, the bow crashing heavily into the waves.
Leerdamme was about to step forward and take command, lest the sails be taken aback against the mast and the whole ship caught in irons, when the massive vessel slipped into the trough of a wave and heeled over, swinging around to starboard with enough force to tumble a few of the less steady sailors from their feet. With a booming crash, she rode over the wave, her bowsprit pointing high in the air, and then plunged down the far side with a great wash of water rising up over the forecastle. Leerdamme swayed with the movement, suppressing a laugh as Verhoen grabbed the rail to steady himself.
&
nbsp; 'Hogs like a dog at its bowl, don't she now!' Leerdamme said to the ship's master as he pushed himself upright.
'Johan Haukes has a lot to damn well answer for, with his new-fangled designs, that's for sure,' Verhoen said.
'Ah, hush now, Lucas, she's the finest ship to be built in the last fifty years, and you know it.' the captain said with a wink. 'None faster or turn quicker than this beautiful bitch!'
They watched the hands make fast and then file down below.
'So how long was it this time?' Lucas asked, turning to the captain. 'Felt slower to me.'
'I don't bloody well know how long it took.' said Leerdamme, his smile gone. 'You well made me lose count when you had the maincourse flapping faster than your sister's lips!'
'A month out of Marienburg, with a new ship and half a new crew, what do you expect?' said Verhoen. 'Manaan himself would be hard pressed to tack properly.'
'Don't blaspheme, Lucas.' said Leerdamme with a scowl. 'I'm going to tack them back and forth the length of the Sea of Claws if they don't get it right. Officers and men don't have their drinks ration until they get it right, you tell them that and watch them jump.'
Leerdamme stomped across the quarterdeck and down the steps to his cabin, and Verhoen winced as he heard the door slamming, rattling the frame.
'Call the order to tack, Herr Gringen,' the master called to his mate. 'Let's do it again!'
For another week, the Graf Suiden forged northeast along the coast of the Empire, while Leerdamme put his officers repeatedly through their paces. On the fortieth day since leaving Marienburg, a hail from the masthead brought the captain up to the deck.
'What do you see?' Leerdamme shouted up to the man, his deep bellow easily carrying over the wind.
'Something to southeast. Looks like smoke,' came the man's reply.
'Get my eyeglass,' Leerdamme told Verhoen, taking hold of the rigging. He looked up at the mast as it circled across the leaden sky, a wave of giddiness threatening to send him tumbling to the deck. As the master returned with his telescope, he rammed it through his belt and began to climb.
