Uncovering the Merchant's Secret
Auteur
Elisabeth Hobbes
Lezers
17,6K
Hoofdstukken
20
Chapter One
‘Are you telling me there is not one single ship that can take me to St Malo before the week is up?’
Captain John Sutton placed both hands on the table, leaned across towards the Harbourmaster seated behind it and tried to keep his temper in check. ‘You assured me I would not have to wait more than two days and that was two days past!’
The Harbourmaster shrugged in an offhand manner. He rolled his eyes to the group of men huddling around the fire with mugs of wine as if to ask them to bear witness to the unreasonable demands of the English traveller. Given John’s inability to establish the existence of any ship, it seemed the Harbourmaster’s office was the centre for a nightly social gathering of local merchants and seafarers rather than a place to organise transport.
John gripped the edge of the table, fingernails digging into the solid oak in frustration. A captain should have command of his own ship, not have to resort to begging for passage on another man’s. Much as he would like to wrap his hands round this Breton neck and squeeze some sense into the Harbourmaster, he doubted he would leave the room alive if he attempted such a thing. He was half-tempted to do it anyway and risk the consequences. Since the death of his wife, he had fought the impulse to gamble with his life until someone ended it for him. Joining Margaret was enticing when he had little to live for any longer.
‘Things are difficult at the moment,’ the Harbourmaster said, shrugging once more. ‘The war with the English has taken its toll on our industry. Many have had to give up their business. Now with matters in Brittany being as they are...’
The Harbourmaster tailed off as John bared his teeth. Matters in Brittany were precisely why John was attempting to make the journey from Concarneau to St Malo in such haste. Although the English and French kings had declared a truce, the issue of the Breton dukedom had not been settled. Charles de Blois and John de Montfort had fought bitterly. The English success at Cadoret followed by the siege of Quimper had caused losses on both sides, but de Montfort’s death the previous autumn had left only a five-year-old heir as claimant. Now was the ideal time to be travelling safely back to England.
‘That is entirely why I wish to leave with urgency. I have a report to give to my associates in Bristol regarding the state of their vineyards. Surely it is in the interest of merchants here that trade between our countries is not disrupted more than necessary.’
John gave a tight smile and spoke loudly so that all in the room could hear his words.
‘I was informed that Concarneau was a thriving port and I would have no difficulty finding a ship to take me to Plymouth. Now I find I cannot even get around the coast of Brittany. Clearly, my information was incorrect and I shall be sure to make it known as widely as I can when I eventually return home so that other travellers do not find themselves caught in the same situation in this dog’s piss of a town!’
There were mutters from the men by the fire who had not missed John’s intended insult—hardly surprising since he had deliberately raised his voice at the end of his sentence. Disparaging comments about the reputation of their home would not be tolerated. John whipped round to look at his audience, fists bunching. He relished the thought of a brawl to rid himself of this frustration. It dulled the ever-present lump of lead in his chest where once a heart had beat.
The Harbourmaster, perhaps prompted by his audience into defending the town against such open criticism, pushed himself from his feet and came around the table. He looked up at John—a good head taller than the Harbourmaster—with an appeal in his eyes.
‘It is only just March, monsieur. Many captains will not risk putting to sea at all until later in the year. If you were to consider taking a slower vessel through the rivers, I could direct you to three captains prepared to leave within ten days.’
The time of year could not have been worse. John’s shoulders sagged as he imagined repeating this ritual daily for the next two months until conditions at sea became more favourable. By then, of course, the de Montfort faction would have rallied and hostilities would begin once more. It would be quicker at this rate to hire a horse and make the journey to St Malo by land.
‘I will return tomorrow and ask again.’ John set his shoulders and adjusted the clasp on his cloak. ‘Perhaps you will have better news for me. Good evening.’
The Harbourmaster’s eyes flickered to the pouch at John’s belt. He had already profited daily from John’s generosity in the misplaced hope that it would speed matters towards a resolution. Not tonight, however. John folded his arms across his body and planted his feet solidly on the earthen floor, making it clear that his hand was going nowhere near his scrip of money. He gave a curt nod and headed from the office into the street, slamming the heavy door behind him.
He exhaled angrily and let off a string of swear words in English, causing passers-by to pause and look at the disturbance before continuing on their way. The short, explosive sounds were perfect for expressing his anger and frustration so well and he felt a little better. It was strange to him that after almost four years of living most of his time in France, his native language sounded harsh to his ears. He spoke French as fluently as any man, which made his task easier. He even dreamed in the language now, but reflecting on how far his self-imposed exile had brought him from home caused an unexpected wave of homesickness and grief to engulf him, making him reel.
A lump filled his throat. He knew from long experience it was an affliction that was best treated with a couple of jugs of wine. Not at the respectable inn where he had taken lodgings, but somewhere less reputable where a well-dressed blond Englishman would cause heads to turn, tongues to wag and, with luck, fists to fly.
He stormed away from the Harbourmaster’s office towards the narrow winding alleys that led down to the port rather than up to the town, intending to find a welcoming establishment in which to drown his frustration, but had not taken more than half a dozen steps when someone fell in beside him. He glanced across and recognised the man as one who had been drinking in the Harbourmaster’s office.
‘What is your name and business, monsieur, that you should need such rapid transport?’
John bridled at being asked in such a blatant manner. His hand instinctively reached for his dagger, but he stopped and withdrew it. He ran his eyes quickly over his questioner’s clothing. The man wore the thick cloak of oiled leather lined with fur and a hat familiar to anyone who had spent time around sailors. Perhaps this man could prove to be his salvation.
‘My name is Jack Langdon,’ John said. ‘I am a simple merchant. An agent for an association of wine buyers in Bristol. They have asked me to assess the current status of production and quality. Now I need to return to England to report on my findings.’
It wasn’t a lie, but nor was it the whole truth. Captain John Sutton, aide to the King’s Lieutenant in France, was no more. Now he was plain Jack Langdon, a merchant who travelled the length of western France and saw plenty to report on his travels that his other masters found of use.
The questioner’s face brightened, radiating honesty that immediately made John suspect trickery.
‘Then it is fortunate we meet, monsieur. I heard what that useless son of a putain told you back there, but he is misinformed. I’m Petrus Nevez. I am Captain of the Sant Christophe. I transport cargo via the coastal route back to my home in Roscoff. I am setting sail round the coast at first light. My ship is a small vessel, but if you can pay then I have room, monsieur.’
John considered the offer. Roscoff was not as close as he needed to be, but it was a damned sight closer than he was now. From there he could find another ship, or if necessary, travel by land to St Malo.
‘You are happy to travel at this time of year?’
Nevez grinned slyly and John wondered if the sailor’s cargo was legitimate or not. That might be something to investigate as he travelled. Smugglers could be useful in a war, if they had the appropriate sympathies.
‘What are your terms?’
Nevez named a price that caused John to wince inwardly. He had little choice, however, so with an enthusiasm he did not entirely feel, he shook hands and memorised the location of the vessel Sant Christophe.
Nevez skulked away towards the port. Not wishing to follow the Captain, John changed his mind about seeking out somewhere to drink and returned to the inn that had been his lodging for what felt like eternity. He settled on to a bench as close to the fire as he could manage and called for wine and something to eat. Jeanne, the youngest daughter of the innkeeper, sashayed over bearing a tray, hips moving enticingly and shoulders pushed back so her breasts jutted forward. She greeted him with a smile that John felt was almost genuine.
‘Did you find your ship, Monsieur Langdon?’ she asked as she handed him a steaming bowl. John ate a couple of mouthfuls of the creamy fish stew before answering. It was excellent.
‘Yes, I did, mademoiselle. Please tell your father I shall be leaving at first light.’
Jeanne pouted and held the wine cup out. ‘That’s a pity. I shall be sorry to see you leave.’
As John took hold of the cup, she quickly moved her hand so that her fingers were resting against his. She gave him a coy smile that belied the hardness in her eyes.
‘Perhaps you do not wish to spend this night alone?’
John sighed inwardly and disentangled his fingers, placing the cup beside the bowl on the table. ‘Thank you, but, no. My answer is the same as it has always been and always will be. I want no woman in my bed.’
Along with the other daughters of the innkeeper, Jeanne had made the same offer every night since John had arrived. When he rebuffed her every night, she accepted the rejection without rancour and did not waste much time before seeking out another potential customer. This night, she placed the wine flagon on the table and lingered beside him, regarding John with her glinting dark eyes.
‘Monsieur Langdon, you look at me with longing in your eyes, but refuse, even though my price is fair. How long is it since you last had a woman in your bed?’
Too long, was the answer to that question. His grief could have sent him down two paths: spending himself in the lap of any willing woman until their faces and bodies blurred, or provoking fights to make his blood rise and leave him with tangible aches. John had chosen the latter path and it had been a year at least since he had last tumbled into bed with a too-expensive whore in La Rochelle, drunk and unable to resist the lust that consumed him. Two more before that since he had last woken in the arms of Margaret, the wife he still missed.
He examined Jeanne. She was witty and passably pretty. She might once have been beautiful before years of working on her feet and her back had caused the lines round her eyes and lips to harden. He could engage her services and relieve himself of the physical needs that tormented him. He had no doubt she would prove to be an able and entertaining companion for an hour or so, but what then? She might satisfy the needs of his loins, but would not heal the grief that filled his heart.
‘I am sorry, Jeanne,’ he said kindly. ‘I made a vow that I would have no woman but my wife and it is one I intend to keep.’
John reached for the small cross that lay against his skin and closed his fist round it. He rubbed his thumb over the small garnets set into the front, then the engraved initials J and M side by side on the back.
‘Is that your wife’s?’ Jeanne asked.
‘Yes.’
‘She waits for you in England?’
John’s throat tightened. He raised his head and smiled grimly. ‘She waits for me beyond the grave.’
‘I apologise.’ Jeanne’s face was a picture of devastated embarrassment.
John shook his head. ‘No need. You could not have known.’
He lifted the cross to his lips, then slipped it back beneath his clothing.
He pushed his bowl away and stood, appetite gone. ‘Goodnight, mademoiselle.’
He took the flagon with him and went to the small bedroom in the attic. It cost him dearly, but having privacy rather than sharing with nine others in the communal bedroom was worth the expense. He lit a taper and by the dim light he packed away his belongings. He wrote a short note, detailing what he had discovered on his travels, sealed it with his signet ring and addressed it to Masters Fortin and Rudhale at their Bristol wine warehouse. This he would ask Jeanne to send via one of the inland ships that travelled the slow river in case he never reached his destination to deliver his report in person. There was another report for other eyes that he would not trust to the hands of anyone else. He possessed a pair of wooden-backed wax tablets, bound together as a book. If it became necessary, he could apply heat and erase his words. John scratched a few lines swiftly in the code known to no more than twenty men back in England. He wrapped the tablet book safely in a leather wallet and put it in a small document case. That had been a gift from his father, small enough that he could take it travelling with him without too much trouble, and watertight in case he was travelling in inclement weather.
Only after he had made all his preparations to leave did John Sutton allow himself to drain the flagon, lay his head on his arms and let his eyes fill with tears at the memory of his wife who now lay buried beneath the Devonshire soil.
The journey was rough round the end of the peninsula and as they reached the open seas, but no worse than expected for the time of year. All the same, John was glad when they started keeping the long, sweeping curve of land in view.
The cog was similar enough to John’s old ship, The King’s Rose, for him to feel at home. He spent the time drinking, laughing and gambling with the crew and found against all expectations that his spirits were high. It had been too long since he had been merry without the feelings of grief bearing down on him. He’d cut himself off from friends when he had left England in mourning, unable to bear the reminders of happier times. Maybe company was what he had needed after all, rather than isolating himself and brawling with strangers to jolt the numbness in his heart back to life.
Three days out of Concarneau, the weather grew worse. By mid-afternoon on the third day of the voyage, the clouds obscured all light and the small cog creaked ominously on waves that were increasingly violent. Now night had fallen and they were in no sight of the port Nevez had sworn they would make by dark.
John made his way from the small cabin along the planks laid down over the hull to the prow. Nevez and his first mate were gesticulating wildly at each other and the coastline, which pitched and rolled in the distance.
‘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.
