Ludovic stared across the little bay to the pier where The Fair Rouncie bobbed complacently at her mooring. “I wonder,” he said very softly to himself, “if she might still be waiting after such a time.”
Gerald looked up, catching the words on the breeze. “What was that? She? The ship’s here already. Who else should be waiting?”
“Nothing,” said Ludovic eventually into the pause. “No one. It no longer matters at all.”
The gulls wailed, hovering in the colourless sky. Although shortly after midday, the sun was winter low, a hazy luminosity through the cloud. The horizon, flat and empty, gleamed with a grey opaque sheen. The ocean was calm, the breeze wistful, the small cog bumped her rhythmic planks against the quay and Ludovic and Gerald’s approach was greeted with an echoing cheer. They climbed aboard, Kenelm beaming at the gunwales and ready with an eager arm. The crew crowded around, hoping for stories of piratical wickedness, dismemberments and heroism, moonlit escapes and vengeance on the high seas. Gerald and Ludovic plodded down to the captain’s cabin, the captain himself at their heels, Ellis was sent smirking and proud to his post and the drizzle increased to a light patter of rain across the deck.
Ludovic shrugged out of his damp sheepskin and threw himself on the bed, stretching out his legs and closing his eyes. Gerald sat on the edge of the desk. Kenelm said, “Well, well my lords, and what a blessed relief it is too. I was thinking maybe you was both full dead, and told your noble friend so. Wot a mighty relief it were when I saw that little bugger Ellis turn up, with the story of wot was really happening.”
“What noble friend?” demanded Gerald.
“The one you was with, my lord,” Kenelm explained. “When you come aboard at St. Katherine’s telling of them warrants, and how you must both come to Flanders with me at once. The one as took Lord Ludo’s horse. Come back riding the beast, he did, asking for me at the docks to see if all was well.”
Gerald grinned. “So William wasn’t arrested himself. That’s great news.”
“Said as how he’d been questioned but his words believed, and was let go without no trouble,” said the captain. “When I said as how my lad Ellis had come back that very morning, and followed on with all the news wot the boy’d given, well, your friend sighed a great sigh, said as how he was almost sick with relief. He gived me a letter for you and a purse for helping set up in Flanders.” Kenelm handed both letter and purse to Gerald. “Now we must wait till early evening for high tide,” he continued, “and then will be off due east, with fine weather and a good moon to guide us safe across the ocean.”
Gerald had opened Berkhamstead’s letter and was already reading. Ludovic smiled at Kenelm. “Thank you my friend. You’ll get the Rouncie careened yet, I promise.”
“Three, four hours, and we’ll have the sheet slapping full,” Kenelm nodded, turning to leave. “I wish your lordships good rest, and will send down the boy to warn you afore we slips our ropes.”
The cradled roll of the ship and the faint slap of the waters on wood remained gentle. The little oil lamp swung from the beams, circling its light around the small space. Gerald read the Earl of Berkhamstead’s letter and then passed it to Ludovic. “Nothing new Lu. Will wishes us health and good luck and may try and travel over to Flanders to meet up with us next year, but he’s as happily wed as a man can expect these days, being cosy at home and hoping for sons to follow. Has had no further contact with the prince but writes that matters remain peaceful, with no plans afoot either good or bad.”
Ludovic waved away the letter. “I’ve had enough of scheming, Gerry. I’m sick to my teeth of this business and its consequences. Brice and his vile pirates sit like stones in my gut, and I carry my own black cloud around my shoulders. I dearly wish myself back home in Sumerford, and my girl in my arms.”
“Ah. I’d forgotten about her,” said Gerald.
“I try to forget,” Ludovic murmured, “but my dreams come back like sour indigestion after a good meal. I thought myself tired of Sumerford but I know nothing of Flanders and have no interest in new shores. So dream your own dreams Gerry and leave me alone until we sail.” He turned, facing the wall, eyes closed.
It was shortly after Ellis had brought them supper that everything changed again. Gerald sat at the desk, spooning his cabbage gruel. Ludovic balanced his bowl on his knee. The soup was tepid, thin and bland without salt. The wooden bowls were slightly unclean. Gerald sighed. “And this is while we’re at dock. So from now on it will be worse.”
“I cannot think,” said Ludovic, “all things considered, that the quality of our food is of any major importance. Dream of war instead, my dear, and fill your stomach with the coming glory of a Plantagenet prince again, crowned in bloodshed.”
“You know,” Gerald said between mouthfuls, “you’re becoming damned bad company, Lu. Between your cheerful monologues and this rancid muck, I shan’t even notice a little innocent biliousness at sea.”
The soup was never finished. The grey drear of the quiet cabin split abruptly into agitated confusion. The marching of heavy feet over the deck above, the jangling and clank of spurs and swords; the shouting and disruption were sudden and ferocious. Gerald’s spoon wedged in his mouth, the bowl spinning to the floor as he leapt up with a gulp. Ludovic spun around, swung his legs from the bed and stood, buckling on his steel. “Trouble,” said Gerald.
“They’ve come for us,” said Ludovic.
“Impossible.” Gerald whispered, cautious, listening. “How could anyone possibly know where we are?”
“Come on,” Ludovic said, “we need to find a place below. Kenelm will cover for us if he can.”
They heard the demands clearly from above, their own names and titles spoken loud, then orders to search the ship. Boots, ten men perhaps, more voices and Kenelm’s plaintive complaints. “I shelter no villains, my good man, nor harbour fugitives. I’m an honest sea captain, awaiting the tide, and I’ll have you remember that.”
“Seafaring for what business? What trade? And what cargo do you carry?”
There was a pause. “As it happens, I’ve no cargo onboard as yet. My supplier, a mean bastard he is, has let me down again, and me coming all this way for wool and linen bound for Flanders. But I’m going anyhows, as being expected to pick up the return cargo in Antwerp. And will be late for tide and cargo both,” Kenelm warned, “if you keep me on a fool’s errand.”
“I’ve no interest in your trade, you imbecile,” the louder voice answered. “And if you call this a fool’s errand, then the fool is you. No sailor chooses the danger of a crossing without a full hold to cover his costs and his risks. Now, out of my way and let’s see who’s hidden below.”
“No sight nor smell, Sir Jerrid,” calling from the prow.
“Nor aft, sir.”
But in the deserted cabin a small lamp swung, wasting its oil, and across the floor was spilled soup and a pair of wooden bowls, their spoons discarded. “There’s been two men here until moments gone,” the guard reported. “Signs in the cabin of supper interrupted, and a cloak tossed on the bed.”
“Mine,” said Kenelm, growing gruff from complaints. “Can I not sit in my own cabin now, without the king’s men accusing me of crime and clandestiny? I was enjoying a hot pottage with my mate when your cursed troops come spoiling my rest, and the last good sup afore I takes the tide.”
“Forget the tide,” said the guard’s captain, “till you produce what I’m after. I’ve information as to the Sumerford brothers aboard your ship, and will not leave without my quarry. In the meantime, your name will be taken and remembered. Those who work against the king’s own majesty are like to suffer for it sooner or later.”
Ludovic shoved Gerald into the darkest shadows. They had crept downwards to the depths of the hold, each man with a tight grip on the hilt of his sword. The stench made them reel. First past the sweaty squash of the crew’s hammocks slung high in the utter dark, places for others to sleep below amongst the stores, their belongings piled and sc
attered where they might. The huge trunk of the cog’s mast stood mid ship, then on down to the bulk of its foundation. Around this the spare sails and ropes were stacked, lashed tight against the danger of storm, leaking their smells of old adventure, salt and tired damp. With days at anchor making for easy cleaning, the planks had been sluiced and swabbed, but rat urine and human excrement still found their own level and the wet wood still reeked of a thousand nights in rough seas with a groaning crew unable to void bellies or bowels up on deck.
Ludovic crept lower, Gerald keeping close. Deep below the water line, the hull carried ballast instead of cargo; barrels of ale and the weight of ancient untanned sheep hides lying on stone and planks, pieces of an old mast now rotted, and the coils of unwanted rope long since frayed.
“What’s that you’re holding?” whispered Gerald.
“An axe,” Ludovic answered. “Kept for chopping down the mast in case of capsize in the worst storms. Never yet used, I thank the Lord. Perhaps now it will.”
“Dear God,” murmured Gerald, “are we come to that? And against the king’s men? If we’re caught, they’ll have our heads.”
“I know,” said Ludovic. “But I shall have theirs first.”
Gerald found the end of the shadows and crawled, bent low. “Bloodshed after all, Lu?”
Ludovic crouched into the same dark angle. “Hush, my dear. They’re coming.”
A sharp voice, too clear and too close. “The buggers came this way. Coils of rope disturbed, look.”
“This isn’t the king’s fleet, fool.” Someone held a torch, small wavering flames barely opening the darkness. “They’ll not be strict nor shipshape. A loose rope means nothing.”
“But footsteps do. Marks in the dirt over there.”
“A crew of twenty or more. There’ll be dirt and there’ll be marks. Don’t be a damned fool and report to the captain up above.”
“I’m looking around first, like we’ve been ordered. There’s sommit amiss. I can smell fear and hear breathing.”
“I reckon I’m breathing, idiot, and you too I hopes. As for fear, I’m as shit scared as a good soldier has a right to be in these nasty wet places with a floor as slips from beneath your boots. Let’s get back on land quick as we may. There’s no ruffians hiding here.”
“Ships don’t scare me,” said the other man. “Did the fishing run over to Brittany many a season when I were a lad. And I’m telling you, there’s sommit amiss. You bugger off if you’re queasy. I’m following my orders.” A large hand probed the shadows. Fingers tested the feel of wood, the ooze of briny water and encrusted salt, then moved on to sturdy broadcloth and the warmth of the man within. “Gotcha,” yelled the guard, and grabbed.
Gerald stabbed down with the blade of his knife. The guard yelped and jumped away. Gerald followed him out into the flickering torchlight. Both guards yelled and one stumbled back, his wrist pouring blood. The other cursed, one angry step forwards, his sword slashing straight to Ludovic’s neck.
Ludovic swung the axe. Carrying all his pent up frustration and pointless, inescapable misery, the blade reflected the torch flame into sudden blazing light. The guard dropped his sword, gurgled, open mouth filling scarlet, and fell heavy.
“You’ve killed the bastard,” muttered Gerald. “This is it, Lu.”
Ludovic nodded and opened his fingers, letting the axe tumble. He stared down at the dead guard at his feet. The man wore chain mail, split across his chest by Ludovic’s thrust where the king’s colours now hung limp either side of crushed bone. The guard’s eyes were open, staring up glazed and blind at the frisking end of a rat’s tail disappearing into darkness. Ludovic bent and retrieved the torch, its flame spluttering in the damp. “I should not have killed him. I meant only to silence him.”
“Well, you’ve certainly done that,” said Gerald. “An axe will silence most men. So take a deep breath, little brother. We’re about to discover the truth about Purgatory.”
Yelling once again, a reverberation of fury, more tramping feet and jingling steel. Sir Jarrid strode into the pale light, his sword unsheathed. “So, my lords. It’s Gerald and Ludovic Sumerford, no doubt. I’ve a warrant for your arrest gentleman, and will have the greatest pleasure in fulfilling it.”
“I appear to have killed one of your men, sir,” said Ludovic. “I apologise. An unfortunate accident.”
Sir Jarrid said, “I doubt an accident my lord, but a great mistake without doubt.” The nine guards surrounded Ludovic and Gerald, dragging their arms behind them and forcibly roping their wrists. Gerald was thrown to his knees in the dead man’s blood. He swore and struggled up but was pushed down again.
Ludovic balanced, braced wide legged against the push of the guards. His hair was in his eyes, every muscle screamed, his shoulders ripped hard back. “It seems this year,” he grinned, “Christmas will not be spent at court after all.”
“Downriver a little I expect, my lord,” the captain of the guards said. “It’s the Tower will see your final celebrations, and the executioner’s block for Epiphany.”
Chapter Forty
The child had been crying all night, first frantic, his screams becoming faint and fitful as dawn crept up beyond the castle turrets. Sweat was slick through the swaddlings, the baby’s face was wet and red with suffering and effort, exhausted with voicing pain and securing no release. The downy ginger fluff across the top of his small round head was now flattened over the scalp in damp stripes. The unmistakable smell of dysentery was strong.
The nurse held the little boy tight, rocking him gently and kissing his tiny screwed up lashless eyes. The child whimpered. His flesh had hollowed, cheeks sunken around the small panting mouth. Three days of violent cramps and shitting would have weakened a strong man. The Sumerford infant was only six months old and unlikely to live much longer. He had known his first Christmas and gurgled at his epiphany gift, shaken the ivory rattle in a chubby fist and stuffed the ring into his toothless chuckle. Ten days later he was dying.
Alysson leaned over the nurse’s shoulder, gazing down at the child. The nurse shook her head. “I’ve done all I’ve been told, Mistress,” she said, looking up. Her eyes were pink. “The wet nurse has been sent off and another girl brought in, but the poor mite has not the strength to suckle. Master Penbridge has prescribed the mediks and I’ve spooned them between the poor little soul’s lips, but I doubt he’s drunk more than half. Now the apothecary reckons cockerel’s blood and Genoa treacle is the best thing for the dysentery but Master Penbridge won’t have it and insists on boiled water and earth of alum. But there’s naught makes any difference. I knew an old man in the village once, had the diarrhoea real shocking, like to die. But just shit his guts out for a day and a night, then sat down to roast boar and a cup of ale and reckoned it done him good.”
“But Master Eddie is just a little baby,” whispered Alysson, “and is too young to fight such a terrible illness. Kings have died of it in the past, you know, so I doubt there’s a real cure whatever quarrel Master Penbridge and the apothecary get into.”
“This babe may not be a king, but like to be an earl,” the nurse said. “Lord Humphrey will sob his poor heart out if the little lad dies.”
“I shall myself,” sighed Alysson. “But I think there’s nothing more to be done. Certainly Master Penbridge will be here again within the hour, but it’s Father Dorne I believe I ought to be calling.”
The nurse shook her head. “Her ladyship will decide. For myself, I wish the poor mite’s mamma would come see her son and bring some last comfort.”
“I will suggest it again,” said Alysson, moving away. “But it’s unlikely she’ll come. And Lord Eddie barely knows her anyway, and will hardly miss what small comfort she could bring. It’s his father will cuddle him at the end.”
“Don’t be a fool, Alysson,” said the Lady Jennine, sitting up in bed. “The child is forbidden to die. After all that monstrous suffering I went through to bring it into the world? It would be appallingly un
fair if all that were for nothing. Besides, this is supposed to be a rich and noble household, isn’t it? Can’t they cure a few passing shits?”
“I don’t think so.” Alysson sat on the edge of her mistress’s bed and stared at her toes. “Perhaps you should go and see the poor child. Comfort him. He’s in such distress.”
“And risk catching whatever dreadful sickness the brat carries?” Jennine sighed and curled back under the covers. The fire had not yet been lit and the early morning chill was bitter and damp. “How could you suggest such a thing? You’ve become very irritating lately, my girl. Just because your wretched lover has disappeared yet again, there’s no need to take it out on me.”
Alysson continued to stare at her toes. “You should go and hold your son,” she said quietly. “Not because the child will care very much, or because there’s the slightest likelihood of you suffering for the lack of him afterwards if you do not, but simply because this is your child and he’s dying.” She looked up suddenly. “Perhaps it will bring comfort to someone, even if only to Lord Humphrey. And trying to do the right thing, especially at times of tragedy, is always important. Terribly important, for your own sake. Besides, the dysentery isn’t catching. Everyone knows that.”
From over the pink feather coverlet tucked up beneath her chin, Jennine glared. “How dare you lecture me, Alysson. The wet nurse has poisoned my child and must be dismissed. And if you aren’t careful, my dear, I shall dismiss you too.”
“Poor Thomasine has been dismissed. And you can send me away today for all I care.” Alysson stood, crossing over to the empty hearth where she kicked at the old ashes and began to lay the fresh twigs brought already by the page and stacked by the grate. “Ilara’s back at home with Dulce so I can go and stay there again and be just as comfortable, I assure you.”
The lady in the bed sniffed. “Oh yes, living on cabbage water. Honestly Alysson, you’re as ungrateful as that child of mine.”
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