Dawn on a Distant Shore by Sara Donati

head on the corner of the stall.
    The crowd fell silent,
in surprise or horror, Nathaniel could not tell. Young Pépin's rage was
suddenly gone: he shook himself as if he could not quite believe what he saw.
    Jones was prodding the
butcher with his toe. When he got a groan in response, he nodded.
    "Right," he
bellowed, hooking his thumbs in his wide leather belt. "It's the
magistrate for you both, innit?"
    But the young farmer
seemed not to hear him at all, or not to care. A bottle was making the rounds,
and he took a long swallow, staring fixedly at Denier's heaving form.
    Jones cleared his
throat loudly and flushed the color of his uniform. A vein began to throb in
his forehead.
    "High time to be
away," Nathaniel said, and heard Robbie's grunt of approval. But it was too
late; Jones rounded on them and pointed to Robbie, easily the biggest man in
the crowd, twice his own size. "You haul the carcass to my sledge over
there."
    "The pig?"
The old woman grinned, her gums showing dull red. "Or Denier?"
    Jones's eyes moved
over the massive back of the dead animal, and Nathaniel could see him calculating.
"Both. The pig comes along as evidence."
    "And dinner,
forbye," muttered Robbie.
    The young farmer's
attention shifted from the pig to Jones, and his brow creased in understanding
and the first glimmerings of new rebellion.
    "What are you
staring at, boyo?" Jones stepped toward him. "It's the magistrate for
all of youse, a pig and two frogs--"
    "And a Welsh
horse's ass," added Robbie in French. There was a single loud guffaw
followed by a wave of uneasy laughter.
    "What was
that?" Jones roared. "What was that?"
    Robbie raised a brow.
"I said, the lad's got nae English."
    "Then bloody tell
him in French," snapped Jones. His gaze fixed on Nathaniel. "You there,
Jacques. You look a right enough frog to me. You tell him."
    Nathaniel considered.
He could do what this little man was commanding him to do, or he could do what
he wanted to do, and show him his back and his contempt. There was no chance
now that Jones would be of any use to them in getting Hawkeye and Otter out of
gaol; the question was, how badly could he get in their way.
    "Permit me,"
said a familiar voice. Nathaniel sighed inwardly, not especially surprised to
see Angus Moncrieff pushing through the crowd. Well dressed, straight of back,
he nodded to Jones and in swift, Scots-accented French he explained to the
farmer what he needed to know. When he was finished, he turned to Nathaniel and
Robbie.
    "Moncrieff,"
said Nathaniel.
    A brief smile in
response. "Nathaniel. I'm pleased to see ye here at last."
     
    Moncrieff suggested a
place near the docks that would be close to empty early on a workday morning.
Because it was cold and there was no way to avoid the conversation, Nathaniel
and Robbie went with him to the small tavern in the shadows of Notre Dame de
Bonsecours.
    It was a clean tavern,
warm, and the smells of fresh bread and mutton roasting over a slow fire were
inviting. There were only two other customers: a middle-aged man crouched over
his ale, and a young sailor with a heavily bandaged leg. The first seemed to
have no interest in anything but what he found at the bottom of his tankard;
the second snored loudly, his tar-stained hands crossed over his chest and his
head thrown back against the wall.
    The serving woman
greeted Moncrieff by name, and showed them to the best place near the hearth.
    Before they were
settled, Moncrieff said, "So tell me, man. Have ye guid tidings from Paradise?"
    A broad smile broke
out on his face when he had heard Nathaniel's news. He was all curiosity and
good wishes, asking for details that would interest few men.
    "We must drink to
your guid fortune, and your lady's health," he announced finally.
    The serving woman
brought them tankards, kicking up her skirts to flaunt her ankles as she crossed
the room. Moncrieff watched her go, tucking his pipe into the corner of his mouth
with a thoughtful expression.
    "A friend of
yours?"