by Peter Telep
“I would’ve been surprised if he hadn’t,” Christopher added. He would have allowed himself a smile if he hadn’t been under the scrutiny of the citizens of Magdalene. “It’s too late now. We’ll just have to see what the marshal says.”
“He’s not going to help us,” Doyle said.
“We have to at least try,” Christopher countered.
They entered the marshal’s office and found the man seated behind his warped desk. There was a tray that contained a piece of blackened meat and a half-eaten loaf of dark grain bread on top of the desk, along with an inkwell, quill, and a small pile of scrolls.
The marshal looked up and regarded them with tired-looking eyes. “And what problem have you to dump in my lap?” he asked, then cocked his brow and resumed chewing his food with what was left of his teeth.
Christopher opened his mouth, but Doyle was already answering, “We’re from the cog that just docked, sir. And we have some questions.”
The marshal swallowed first, then decided to react. “From the cog, eh? Well, I’ve some questions for you first.”
“We’ll answer your questions,” a familiar voice came from the doorway opposite the marshal’s desk. Christopher turned. Montague was supposed to be taking care of business with the customs master back on the wharf, namely the business of explanations, which in truth was really the business of lies. Why he was here was anybody’s guess.
Doyle did not feel like guessing. “Monte … what are you—”
The fat man waved his partner’s question off with a hand, then paraded into the room, trailed by a worried looking Orvin. “It’s all taken care of, laddie.” He turned his head toward the marshal. “What is it you want to know”—he hemmed—“kind sir?”
“That is a Pict cog you’re sailing,” the smaller man began, narrowing his eyes. “Just how did you come by it?” “Why sir, that is a cog out there. Not a Pict cog. And she’s a fine vessel. Been in my family for a long time. She was stolen by the Picts and only recently recovered.
Forgive our foreign sail and lack of banner. We shall take care of those discrepancies immediately.”
Orvin moved to Christopher, seized his arm, and led him to a far comer of the room while Doyle and Montague tightened their half circle on the marshal.
“Young saint, we must act swiftly. That lout is going to mean the death of us all. Word of the ship’s theft will reach here soon.” Orvin’s voice was as creased with tension as his face. “We went to the customs master, and Montague lied to him as well.”
“What about the Saxon cog?” Christopher asked. “Has anyone seen Marigween?”
“Better you should hear it from me,” Orvin said softly. “The captain of the cog was lost. There was a mutiny. The first mate has assumed command.”
“Did you speak to him?” he asked, feeling his hands begin to tremble.
Orvin shrugged. “How?”
Christopher had forgotten that he was the only one of the group that spoke Saxon. He turned toward the half open door. “I have to talk to him.” He darted toward the daylight.
“No, wait, young saint!” he heard Orvin cry behind him.
“Where’s he off to?” Montague asked, interrupting himself from his conversation with the marshal.
“Doyle, go after him!” Orvin ordered.
Running through the streets of a port as busy as Magdalene was no small feat. But if Christopher attempted to do the same in Blytheheart, he would not get very far, for that port’s streets were twice as congested as Magdalene’s. Rounding shoulder after shoulder, startling farmer and merchant alike, Christopher steered himself into the wind, in the direction of the wharves. He did not look back to see if Doyle followed; surely he did.
By the time he set foot on the wharf, he was wholly out of breath and felt beads of sweat march in lances down his spine. The sandals he had found in the crew’s quarters flapped noisily and hollowly against the pier. Then he felt a hand slap on his shoulder and drag him to a stop. The hand wrenched him around.
Doyle eyed him with disappointment, but said nothing. “Let,” Christopher panted, “me go. I have to talk to them.”
“Not alone.”
One of the marshal’s guards stepped up, his armor looking hot and heavy, his face reflecting that sentiment. “Trouble here?” He looked to Doyle. “Caught a thief have you?”
“No, sir. Just a friend,” Doyle said. “No trouble here at all. Sorry to have bothered you.” Doyle made a rather unceremonious bow that was perhaps a little too much tribute to pay to a lowly guard.
A guard. One of the marshal’s guards. A show of arms. A threat. The idea congealed, and Christopher took the man by the elbow. “I need to borrow you, sir, only for a moment. You will say nothing, not that they’d understand you anyway. I am just going to have a chat with the first mate of that Saxon cog, there, and your presence will, shall I say, reinforce my words.”
Doyle looked confused. “What now, Christopher?” “Have a pinch of faith in me. And watch my back.” “I’ll play none of your games,” the guard protested, his teeth coming together like a dog that had just snapped. “Oh, come on now, sir. A single moment of your time.
You may help to save a woman’s life,” Christopher urged. “You’re not lying?” he asked in a warning tone.
“No,” Christopher said, then he dropped his voice to sound as grave as he felt. “Not about this.”
The guard thought it over, then rolled his eyes and finally shrugged his resigned agreement. They walked to the gangplank and stopped at its foot. They were spot ted by two of the deck crew from the rail, and one of them, a lanky, dark-skinned man, appeared to recognize Christopher. He turned and muttered something to the other crewman.
“I want Seaver,” Christopher called up to the Saxons, “and the girl he has.” He burned with the desire to rush up the gangplank, choke life out of these fools, and then rush down into the hold. He ground his teeth and tried to think logically, tried to make the trembling go away.
“Ha! Only Woden knows where that rat is now,” the man called back. “And I thought you were a Celt.”
“What did he say?” Doyle asked.
Christopher shushed his friend while keeping his gaze on the Saxon. He cocked a thumb toward the guard. “This man is prepared to call the garrison. On the mar shal’s order we’ll board this ship.”
“Have you no ears? Seaver is gone. And he took the girl with him. Houge thinks Seaver killed the captain and dumped him overboard—and I think so, too.” The Saxon’s gaze lifted to the port behind them. “Houge’s out there right now searching for the rat.”
“What’s he saying?” Doyle asked impatiently. “Come on, Christopher.”
The guard’s patience had also worn thin. “I’ve a job to do, young fools. I do not know what this is about, but I am not aiding foreigners.” With that, he spun and marched away, his armor jingling a testy little tune.
Christopher watched him go a moment, then he regarded the Saxons. “Tell Houge Christopher of Shores will have a word with him when he returns.”
The sweaty Saxon smiled at his shipmate. “Christopher of Shores,” he repeated mockingly.
Christopher bit back a reply, deciding not to waste any more of his breath on these swabs. “Well,” he said, looking somberly at Doyle, “maybe Seaver has taken Marigween off of the cog.”
“Yes, he has, and we’ve no time to waste,” Doyle said, indicating with his head toward the shore.
2
Brenna stood in the forecastle and leaned back against the post. She looked up past the rooftops of Magdalene to the tree-shrouded bluffs, where some of the leaves had changed from a pale green to a light shade of yellow. She felt a twitch in her wound. Her arm had remained swollen and still throbbed. She had hoped that by now at least one or both of the ills would have ceased. The sling helped ease the pain, but consequently, it made her feel defenseless. She’d come so far, proved so much to herself, only to be shot down into the world of invalids
. Perhaps that was an exaggeration, but it felt real enough. Christopher had told her of the news concerning Seaver and Marigween, and now he and Doyle were out scouring the port. She decided she would not stand around and do nothing. She would help search herself—despite Christopher’s orders to the contrary. Merlin and Jennifer were the only ones left on board the cog, for Montague and Orvin were still off discussing the cog’s cargo with the customs master. She turned away from the skyline of the port to the starboard rail, where Merlin stood stroking his beard pensively and mumbling something to himself. She remembered a question that had occurred to her earlier. “Merlin?”
The druid did not look up. “Merlin?”
The old man’s head jolted back. He opened his eyes very wide, and at that moment Brenna assumed he had spotted her, but he stood, looking through her, then he whirled around, muttered something, and headed for the main hatch.
She had been warned about the magician, but thus far he had proven to be a kind, gentle old man—and a very good doctor. This bizarre behavior seemed uncharacteristic of the druid. But she had been warned. Orvin said that Merlin was in a good-hearted phase now, but he might easily slip back into evil. Brenna was not sure what that meant, but she hoped his current behavior was not a sign of bad things to come. All she had wanted to do was ask the old man for advice. Brenna assumed there was no better man to go to for advice than Merlin, he who advises the king of Britain. But her question involved love—and what did the druid really know about it? Maybe he knew a lot. She’d shelve the question for now and start off on her search. She won dered if she should tell them she was leaving, then decided it would be wise to let one of them know.
Brenna found Jennifer in the captain’s quarters. The blond woman pulled on a shift that might have come from one of the cargo crates. Brenna felt her stomach tighten with jealousy over the other’s clean garment, and she wanted one for herself. But before she could voice that notion, Jennifer was already lifting another shift from the captain’s small trestle bed. “I found one for you too, Brenna. There’s a whole box of them down there, clean and neatly folded. I wager they fetch a few deniers.”
She had, at first, been slightly intimidated by Jennifer’s presence, though the blond woman’s attention rarely strayed from Doyle. She clearly had no eyes for Christopher, but she was an exceedingly buxom and beautiful woman. Brenna could only imagine having breasts such as Jennifer’s. During the past two days, Jennifer had been soft-spoken and polite, and Brenna had not really had the opportunity to get to know her. The young woman was clearly offering more than a shift, and it seemed they had been thrown together for a purpose. Doyle had compared them to each other. Yes, they were both strong, and, she thought cockily, a bit beautiful. Were it not for their strikingly different hair,they could almost be called twins—certainly in temperament. But while Jennifer had clearly won Doyle’s favor, Brenna and Christopher’s relationship was still a fact of the past. Perhaps Jennifer could provide her with a course of action. There was always something to be learned, and Jennifer had, after all, encountered many men. But those were not relationships in the conventional sense. She had vowed not to judge the woman, though when she had first learned of Jennifer’s harlot ing, she had immediately condemned her. But then she had met the young woman, had seen how she wanted to help Christopher and how Doyle regarded her. Brenna could not envision herself as a whore, but for some it was obviously a comfortable and profitable lifestyle. She wondered how sinful it really was. Would every whore bum in hell? Even someone as selfless as Jennifer?
Brenna crossed to the bed and took the garment. “Will you help me put it on? It’s hard with this sling.”
Jennifer nodded and helped her take off the shirt and breeches Doyle had let her borrow.
“I’m going ashore to help search for Marigween,” she told Jennifer.
“So am I,” Doyle’s girl friend said.
They exchanged a smile. It was an odd moment of shared thought, shared action and reaction. “You just cannot sit here, can you?” Brenna asked rhetorically.
“No,” she said, fastening the drawstring at Brenna’s nape, “and if we do not help, those two will never find Marigween.” Jennifer moved in front of Brenna, then helped her back into her sling. “There. You’re much prettier now. And we’re off.”
“What about Merlin?” Brenna asked, hesitating.
Jennifer drew back. “Have you seen him of late? He acts mad.”
“Yes, he does. But we should at least try to tell him we’re leaving,” Brenna suggested.
“I’ll go to him, then I’ll join you on deck.”
Jennifer left the quarters, and in a few moments Brenna was on the now windswept deck, trying to find the tight angle so that she wasn’t smothered in black curls. Jennifer appeared after a few moments, shaking her head. “Forget Merlin. He’s in a world of his own. My words were to the walls.”
“Is that mumbling he does part of his religion?” Brenna asked. “Does he even have a religion?”
Jennifer shrugged. “I’ve heard only rumors about the druids, so I’ll only chance to say that he’ll be all right. Let’s make haste.”
They climbed down from the cog and began a brisk, steady walk over the wharf. Jennifer kept close to Brenna, and at one point said softly, “I’ve a dagger strapped on my calf—in case of trouble.”
“Where’s mine?” Brenna asked in mock seriousness. Jennifer grinned. “I should have thought about that.
You still have a free hand—and I know you can use it.” Once past the street that paralleled the bay, Brenna stopped and looked around. They were at an intersection of side streets. The gable-roofed storefronts were so numerous and packed so tightly together that they made Brenna feel a bit too closed-in. The entire scene reflected the immensity of their task. “Where do we start”? she asked.
“Seaver would not stay here—especially if he assumed we’d find him. So what would he do?” Jennifer posed.
“Leave,” Brenna said, knowing Jennifer was going somewhere with the conversation but uncertain of its final destination.
“On foot?” she asked.
“No, they would need mounts—ah, yes, the stables.” Jennifer turned to peer down the east side of the street,then looked to the west. “We just have to find them.”
After walking several blocks, and growing more and more frustrated, they stopped a large-bellied hawker who stood in the street and handed out samples of the day’s ale. He gave them the directions and a long, exaggerated wink that sent a chill through Brenna.
At the stables they accosted the chief hostler, who had a mouth so tiny it looked as if he had never smiled once in his life.
“He’s a short man,” Jennifer explained again to the man. “And she is very fair and has long, red hair. She’s rather beautiful, I’m told. Are you sure you have not seen them?”
The hostler shook his head negatively as he had before. “Have you not chores to attend to? Why must you bother me so? I’ve enough trouble as it is without the likes of you wenches to raise my temper further.”
Jennifer bristled. “We’ll leave you then. And we apologize that our simple questions have annoyed you. Come on, Brenna.” She spun around, dug her right foot into the sandy earth, and kicked back, sending a small cloud of dust and dirt onto the hostler’s boots. And then she stomped off.
“Go on, leave! And don’t return!” the hostler shouted.
Brenna hurried to catch up with her heated friend. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said loudly, still aghast over the other’s defiance. “He was just in an ill mood.”
“You two? Wait!” a voice cried from behind them.
They turned in unison. A hostler apprentice, his clothes dusty and trapping stray horsehair, ran up to them and stopped. “I heard what you asked Terry,” he said, out of breath. “He should have told you that last night two mounts were stolen.”
Brenna seized the boy’s shoulders. “What else do you know?”
His com
plexion lightened a shade, and the boy visibly shivered. “Th-th-th-that’s all. But the two you seek may be the culprits. I was just thinking that.”
She released the hostler and smoothed out his shirt. “And you thought well to tell us.”
“I must be off. Terry will punish me if he discovers I’m gone.” He spun around and jogged off, back toward the stable.
Brenna regarded Jennifer, opening her eyes as wide as she could. “Do you believe—” she began, then cut her self off.
Jennifer was already nodding. “Seaver and Marigween are not here. Let’s go back to the cog. Christopher and Doyle will probably return soon. We can tell them this. In the meantime, let’s think about where that little Saxon would go from here.”
They turned down several streets until they were on the main east-west road that would take them to the shoreline. Brenna thought hard about where Seaver would go, but she kept abandoning that question and focusing on what seemed the more important matter of winning back Christopher’s love. And then she would curse herself for thinking such a thing, then reward herself for her rekindled hope. She loved him, hated his situation, wanted to help him—but, in truth, did not want him to find Marigween. Yet she would not prevent him from finding her. In fact, what she and Jennifer had just learned would certainly help him.
Brenna had been very ill once, and the pain had been a hot knife in her stomach. Her mother had told her she’d eaten some sour food. She remembered the feeling distinctly, for when she thought of her life now, that same unsettled and nauseating experience returned. She could not reach a moment of clarity, a moment where she would know—without question—what course she should take for her life. She wanted that badly, wanted him badly. Why was she helping him to get farther out of her life? She wished she could fully and truthfully answer that question for herself. She had once said she wanted to be his friend. Yes, she did want to be his friend—but that would be only part of a much deeper experience she wanted to share with him, something that was greater and more heart-encompassing than their first relationship.