Uncovering The Merchant's Secret. Elisabeth Hobbes
‘What is wrong?’
‘A storm. Worse than I expected,’ Nevez growled.
The wind tore at John’s cloak with violent fingers, trying to pull it from his body. He shivered and took a deep breath of the chilly salt air.
‘We could find shelter somewhere, along the coast,’ he suggested.
A wave crashed over the prow, tilting the cog and causing the three men to lurch against each other.
‘Not here. There are hidden coves where a ship might hide safely,’ Nevez said, adding to John’s suspicions that his host was involved in smuggling, ‘but this stretch of water is the home of pirates.’
‘They sail under the banner of Bleiz Mor along this stretch,’ the first mate added.
John narrowed his eyes. The name was unfamiliar to him.
‘Loup de Mer, Monsieur Langdon. The Wolf of the Sea,’ Nevez explained in a growl. ‘His ships are both known by a black sail adorned by a white pelt. He has preyed on the French ever since they attacked Quimper, but perhaps he will not be particular at this time of year.’
If what Nevez said was true, the oddly named man was a mercenary, rather than a pirate, and one who shared the same sympathies as the English. John reminded himself to make a note in case his masters were unaware of the man’s activities. A grinding sound ripped through the cog and the hull juddered, and John dismissed the thought.
‘We’ve hit something,’ he exclaimed.
‘Impossible. We’re nowhere near rocks.’ Nevez laughed. He grabbed John’s shoulder and pointed. ‘See, the lights on the cliff are close. That is the harbour. We have made better speed than I had thought. We will not die tonight.’
John looked. The light that glowed brightly on the distant shore should guide them to safety. He wished he were in command, rather than a passenger, because the sound was unsettling.
Nevez shouted orders and the Sant Christophe pitched slightly as she turned towards shore. John scanned the blackness. Nevez’s tales of pirates had slightly alarmed him, but there was no sign of any other vessel. He didn’t doubt Nevez’s words.
‘Come below, Monsieur Langdon,’ Nevez suggested. ‘In my cabin I have a bottle of fine wine. Perhaps you could recommend it to your associates in England. I can give you a fair price.’
‘I will shortly,’ John said. ‘I must complete a letter first.’
He went to his quarters in the small area at the bottom of the boat curtained off from the crew. By lantern light, he added a note to the report on his tablets he had been writing on the journey. He noted the mention of the oddly named ‘Sea Wolf’, but paused before committing anything to paper about Nevez. The Captain was most likely a smuggler, but to name him would be a poor way to repay the kindness. In the end, he added a single line about smugglers in general and locked the leather wallet in his document case. He put the key safely in his roll of clothing, nestled beside a thin plaited curl of Margaret’s hair. He rubbed the corn-blond braid between his fingers, sadness and remorse welling up inside him. He still found it unbelievable she was not back in England as she had been each time he had returned. How carelessly he had treated her devotion, never thinking one day she would not be there patiently waiting for him.
A scraping noise made him jump in surprise, dragging him from his memories. It sounded as if something was ripping through the bottom of the boat and the floor vibrated. Cries of consternation came from the deck above and he realised that the scraping was true and the cog had collided with something. He ran up on deck and found Nevez leaning over the side, glaring.
‘That is no lighthouse. This is the work of wreckers. We have been tricked.’
‘What can we do?’ John asked.
Nevez smacked the rail with his fist. ‘Nothing! The hull is breached. There is a small rowing boat, but, other than that, our lives are in the hand of fate.’
Around them, men were throwing barrels and chests overboard and clinging to them in the hope of floating to shore safely.
‘Quick, to the boat,’ Nevez shouted.
‘One moment,’ John called. He was already running across the tilting deck to the galley. The letters to Masters Fortin and Rudhale could be rewritten, as could the report for King Edward’s Lieutenant, but the box also contained certain letters of importance to him from Margaret that he could not bear to lose. He took the steps two at a time and landed up to his ankles in water. He grabbed the document case, grateful it was small enough to stow in a satchel. He slung the satchel across his body so it hung beneath his arm and fastened his cloak over the top. There was no point being safe from drowning to freeze to death.
The boat pitched and he had to scramble on to the deck on his hands and knees. The deck was deserted. Nevez’s rowing boat had moved away.
‘Wait for me,’ John shouted.
‘Swim to us,’ Nevez yelled.
John took a running jump into the sea. The waves enveloped him, pulling him down into the black, crushing coldness that left him gasping for breath. He surfaced, his lungs begging for air. As he broke through the water he discovered that, contrary to what he had thought, he cared very much about living.
He had no time to rejoice in this newfound appetite for survival or recover his breath because a large piece of wood struck his shoulder from behind. His arm went numb. He kicked his legs, propelling him towards the small boat. Something tore at his leg and he realised he was closer to the rocks than he realised. The rowing boat would risk being smashed if it came close. If he was near to the rocks, he could not be too far from the shore.
‘Go without me,’ he bellowed.
He could scramble over them towards safety. He aimed for the rocks when something hit him from behind, forcing him head first on to an outcrop. The impact left him reeling. He flailed and was slammed once more on to the rocks. Something warm trickled down his face, but he had no time to examine the wound.
John clambered up the rocks and crawled on his belly in the direction of the light that was burning on shore. Facing brutal wreckers would be safer than a certain death by drowning. After much slipping and sliding that left him grazed and bruised, he staggered on to a beach. He tripped over a body of one of the crewmen who had not survived the waters and gave a sob.
His head was spinning. There seemed to be two moons shining down, but even so he was finding it hard to make out anything in the moonlight. He felt his head and his fingers came away wet and sticky with blood. The sensation made him nauseous.
John staggered further up the beach, but when the hard sand changed, he slipped and lay on the damp shingle. He rolled on to his back, tangled in his cloak, and lay there. Time lost meaning and it could have been a day or a minute before he first heard the voices that called to each other across the shore. The wreckers had come.
Among the coarse sounds, John was convinced he heard soft female tones that did not belong in a place of such devastation and death. He caught a scent of something floral that was at odds with the odours of sea and blood. He decided he must be dreaming, or was at last to be reunited with his wife and a feeling of peace descended on him.
‘Margaret?’ he mumbled. ‘I am ready for you.’
He could not keep his eyes open and had no strength left to do anything but surrender to whatever fate held in store for him.
The fires had been lit in the church windows again.
Blanche Tanet slammed down her comb as soon as the faint scent of smoke reached her. Her bedchamber on the top floor of the tower room had windows at each side and she could see both shores that the castle overlooked. She leaned out, looking towards