obviously overloaded with tuns of good Guyennois wine, hides and skins, maybe even a little gold, and yet the master had managed to evade
him
, Jean de Conket, with his ponderous vessel. It was galling to think that he had been beaten by superior seamanship, but Jean was nothing if not a realist. He had been outmanoeuvred by the master of the cog. Perhaps the wind and rain had played their part, but that meant nothing to Jean. He took it as a personal affront that another seaman had beaten him. Then there was that knight …
Yes, that bastard who had marked him. Jean flexed his arm, grimacing at the pain. Surely it wasn’t so bad; his dip in the sea must have washed it clean. Jean had faith in the cleansing properties of seawater. It was pure good luck that his plight had been witnessed by two of his comrades, who had immediately taken steps to save his life. If they had stayed on the cog, they might have won her and slaughtered the knight and the master, but that would have been little satisfaction to a corpse. Jean was glad they’d come to his rescue. The alternative was a hideous death. Some weeks hence, his corpse would have washed up on a shore somewhere, the eyes empty sockets, his clothing shredded, bite marks all over him, like any number of bodies spat out on coastlines after every storm. All sailors had seen them, and all felt the horror of suffering the same fate. The thought made him long for home and safety.
There was no possibility of turning into the wind to try to make their way home now. All the crew knew that. They sat huddled on the thwarts, their oars lashed to the deck as the winds grew in force, while their master bound himself to the mast, his eyes searching for that damned ship all the while, his senses alert to the sounds of straining rigging, tortured wood, and, most important, the thunderous roar of waves crashing on the rocks which he knew lay about the west of England. If they were thrown onto those rocks, their shipwould shatter in a moment, and he and all his men must die. In the dark of night like this, Jean feared those rocks more than anything. This ship was a good size, about five and twenty yards long, and with a keel of beech, while the framing, stem and planking were of good Breton oak, but if flung onto rocks by this sea, she would last no longer than a coracle.
Where had the cog gone? It had disappeared as the rain started lashing down again, concealed behind a wall of water. At first, Jean and his men hoped that they might be able to regain her after their abortive withdrawal; Jean in particular had prayed for this. He wanted that tall, dark-haired knight to eat his steel. No man had ever wounded Jean de Conket so cruelly before! The murderous, white-livered Englishman would pay for that!
He hoped that the Englishman was dead, that the cog had hit a rock and sunk. No, he didn’t wish that, he told himself with a grin. He wanted that knight to feel Jean’s blade in his ribs. Also, he wanted that cargo. Better by far that the
Anne
had lost her mast, that she had wallowed like a hog in a pond for ages, so that all her crew were unwell. Jean and his men would find her later, when the rains had stopped and the wind died down, and the seas grown calmer.
Tedia woke as soon as the door opened. ‘Isok? Is that you?’
The storm was raging now. The wind caught at the open door and slammed it back against the wall, the gusts scattering the bright sparks from the nearly dead fire in an orange cloud.
‘No. Not Isok, my dear.’
Tedia relaxed. ‘Mariota! Is Isok safe?’
‘Yes,’ her aunt laughed, pushing at the door with main force until she could reach through the hole and bind the thong which held it. ‘He’s fine.’
‘Oh, good.’ There was an odd tone in Mariota’s voice, as though she was angry or bitter about something. Still, Tedia was too tired to worry. She felt her eyelids closing. As she did so, she was aware of Mariota shaking her blanket from her shoulders. Her
him
, Jean de Conket, with his ponderous vessel. It was galling to think that he had been beaten by superior seamanship, but Jean was nothing if not a realist. He had been outmanoeuvred by the master of the cog. Perhaps the wind and rain had played their part, but that meant nothing to Jean. He took it as a personal affront that another seaman had beaten him. Then there was that knight …
Yes, that bastard who had marked him. Jean flexed his arm, grimacing at the pain. Surely it wasn’t so bad; his dip in the sea must have washed it clean. Jean had faith in the cleansing properties of seawater. It was pure good luck that his plight had been witnessed by two of his comrades, who had immediately taken steps to save his life. If they had stayed on the cog, they might have won her and slaughtered the knight and the master, but that would have been little satisfaction to a corpse. Jean was glad they’d come to his rescue. The alternative was a hideous death. Some weeks hence, his corpse would have washed up on a shore somewhere, the eyes empty sockets, his clothing shredded, bite marks all over him, like any number of bodies spat out on coastlines after every storm. All sailors had seen them, and all felt the horror of suffering the same fate. The thought made him long for home and safety.
There was no possibility of turning into the wind to try to make their way home now. All the crew knew that. They sat huddled on the thwarts, their oars lashed to the deck as the winds grew in force, while their master bound himself to the mast, his eyes searching for that damned ship all the while, his senses alert to the sounds of straining rigging, tortured wood, and, most important, the thunderous roar of waves crashing on the rocks which he knew lay about the west of England. If they were thrown onto those rocks, their shipwould shatter in a moment, and he and all his men must die. In the dark of night like this, Jean feared those rocks more than anything. This ship was a good size, about five and twenty yards long, and with a keel of beech, while the framing, stem and planking were of good Breton oak, but if flung onto rocks by this sea, she would last no longer than a coracle.
Where had the cog gone? It had disappeared as the rain started lashing down again, concealed behind a wall of water. At first, Jean and his men hoped that they might be able to regain her after their abortive withdrawal; Jean in particular had prayed for this. He wanted that tall, dark-haired knight to eat his steel. No man had ever wounded Jean de Conket so cruelly before! The murderous, white-livered Englishman would pay for that!
He hoped that the Englishman was dead, that the cog had hit a rock and sunk. No, he didn’t wish that, he told himself with a grin. He wanted that knight to feel Jean’s blade in his ribs. Also, he wanted that cargo. Better by far that the
Anne
had lost her mast, that she had wallowed like a hog in a pond for ages, so that all her crew were unwell. Jean and his men would find her later, when the rains had stopped and the wind died down, and the seas grown calmer.
Tedia woke as soon as the door opened. ‘Isok? Is that you?’
The storm was raging now. The wind caught at the open door and slammed it back against the wall, the gusts scattering the bright sparks from the nearly dead fire in an orange cloud.
‘No. Not Isok, my dear.’
Tedia relaxed. ‘Mariota! Is Isok safe?’
‘Yes,’ her aunt laughed, pushing at the door with main force until she could reach through the hole and bind the thong which held it. ‘He’s fine.’
‘Oh, good.’ There was an odd tone in Mariota’s voice, as though she was angry or bitter about something. Still, Tedia was too tired to worry. She felt her eyelids closing. As she did so, she was aware of Mariota shaking her blanket from her shoulders. Her
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