Martyr's Fire (19 page)

E
NGLISH
C
HANNEL
, L
ATE
S
PRING
—AD 1313

“M’lady?”

Isabelle ignored the voice behind her. She knew it belonged to the sailor that she’d sent on an errand. He’d delivered the information that she had needed. His body odor was horrible enough to be noticed, cutting through all the other odors of the docks, from fish guts to spoiled food to the smell of urine at the corner of every alley.

“M’lady?” His voice was louder, more insistent.

She finally turned, within the shadows of the overhang of a building on the street. Beyond, she could see a glint of water of River Hull, which opened here to the channel between England and the mainland. It was good to be free again, but this was not a moment to think of the circumstances that had led her here. Instead, she had an important matter at hand.

“My business with you is finished,” she said, finally turning to face her follower.

Indeed it was. Isabelle had followed Thomas here and had felt fortunate not to lose him when he disappeared for far too long between the outlaws and this port, where he had boarded a ship on the docks of this town, Kingston upon Hull. King’s Town upon the River Hull. Twenty years earlier—around the time that her father Lord Mewburn had taken Magnus—King Edward and a hunting party had chased a hare that led them to the banks of the River Hull. The King had not only been charmed by the
beauty of the scene of waters and hills, but had realized the potential of the site for shipping. He’d purchased the land from the Abbott of Meaux, issued proclamations to encourage development, and given it the royal name, King’s Town.

It was rapidly becoming the foremost port on the east coast, prospering by the shipping of wool and woolen cloth, and importing wine. The shipping destinations were so diverse that Isabelle had had to hire this sailor to report back to her about the destination of the ship on which Thomas had paid for passage. It could have been headed to Scotland in the north, across the channel to Holland or France, or as far south as Spain.

When the sailor had returned with the information that Thomas was going to Lisbon in Portugal, she’d considered her money well spent, especially after the sailor found her another ship with the same destination, leaving a few days earlier than Thomas’s. She would be waiting for Thomas when he arrived, able to finally learn what he intended by fleeing England.

“I know you have no further business with me,” the sailor said, nodding and bowing. He smiled, showing pride in his single tooth. “Yet there is another who sent me to request a meeting with you. The man you inquired about on the ship that goes to Lisbon the day after next.”

Thomas. She should have known he would have found out about her. It seemed always that he was a couple of steps ahead. For all she knew, Thomas had only made it appear that the Priests of the Holy Grail had conquered Magnus, and this was simply another part of his game.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“Follow,” the sailor said, pointing down a street.

With the ever-present gulls swooping and squawking above, Isabelle remained a few paces behind, but the wind was blowing the wrong direction, and even at that distance, the man’s odor was as repellent as his appearance.

Thomas.

She was alone here, trusted by those who sent her to complete her task.

Alone. There would be nothing to stop her from betraying those who sent her. And their cause. She had half-decided that she would do it, if only Thomas would agree to flee from them with her. He had gold. She had gold. They could board a ship together. Find a place safe from Druids. And both of them could leave the battle and live in peace. It was dream that she’d first forced away from her thoughts, then allowed to return again and again, so that it almost seemed real.

Thomas.

Thinking of him, she lost her customary caution and turned into the alley behind the sailor. He stepped into a doorway, and when she followed, he sprang out again, holding a knife low, its blade pointed upward. The expert move of a man accustomed to a street fight, a man prepared to sweep the point of the blade into a man’s belly. Or, like now, her belly.

“Into the doorway,” he ordered, motioning with the knife.

She did as commanded.

“Your gold first,” he said, standing so close that his breath washed over with a stench of sewage. “If you scream, you’ll only have time to scream once, and it will be lost among the gulls. It will be your last scream, and I’ll have the gold anyway.”

“My gold?”

“Don’t play innocent with me. I know you have plenty of gold. You’ve paid me, and you’ve paid to secure passage to Lisbon. You may be wearing clothing of a peasant, but your skin is too fine and your body too nourished to be a commoner.”

He grinned widely, showing gums again and the single tooth. “And a commoner would not be stupid enough to follow a sailor into an alley. You’re about to discover why a woman like you should never travel alone.
The gold is in a pouch hanging from your neck. Safe from pickpockets, perhaps, but not from me.”

Isabelle reached to her neck and pulled out the pouch.

Keeping his knife at the ready, he reached out with his other hand. She reached across, and as he took it, she raked her nails across the top of his hand.

He grunted with pain and stared at the scratches that welled with blood.

“That will cost you,” he said. “I had been intending to kill you quickly, but now there will be nothing gentle about it. And I’ll make sure I enjoy it.”

Isabelle forced herself to look into the filth of the man’s face. Both the filth of grime and the filth of his leer.

“Think about your hand,” she said, “and ask yourself if anything about it feels strange.”

He waved his knife at her. “No tricks. It won’t gain your freedom.”

“There’s no trick at all,” she said. “But you will notice I have a second pouch around my neck.”

She pulled at the cord and lifted out the pouch, leaving the cord around her neck. She shook the pouch to indicate there was no jangle of gold coin. “And your hand. A strange sensation? Burning?”

The sailor frowned. He shook the hand that she’d scratched.

“Ah,” she said. She held out her own hand. “You’ll notice I’m very careful never to touch my eyes or mouth.”

The sailor’s frown turned into a grimace, and he shook his hand harder, as if a dog were attached to it. “What madness is this?”

“Not madness, but a fast-drying poison from a foreign land where soldiers there use it to coat the tips of their arrows. All it takes is a scratch from the arrow, and the person dies within minutes. Those soldiers have arrows, but I prefer to coat my own nails with it.”

She smiled. “This pouch contains pills to counteract the poison. I keep the pouch with me as protection, should I ever accidentally scratch myself.”

“Open the pouch,” he grunted, threatening her with the knife. “Now.”

Isabelle spilled the contents of the pouch onto her palm, showing small tablets of compressed herbs and powders of various sizes and colors.

“You’ll see your guts spilled on the dirt if you don’t give me the pill by a count of three.”

“You can count that high?”

“One …” He grunted again with pain, and terror crossed his face.

“The burning,” she asked, “it’s climbing your arm?”

“Two …” He was frantic, and she feared he would thrust the knife in his panic.

Isabelle daintily plucked a small pill from her palm and handed it to the sailor. He popped it into his mouth and forced it down with an audible swallow.

Isabelle cupped her hand and poured the remainder of the pills back into the pouch. She tightened the top of the pouch with the cord and dropped it below her neck again, out of sight in her clothing.

She watched the sailor with a smile on her face.

His own expression was a puzzled frown. It didn’t last long. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he sagged to his knees.

“I had wondered what that pill would do,” she told him, not even sure if he could hear anymore. But, of course, she knew exactly what it would accomplish. No Druid reached her age without a comprehensive knowledge of herbs and roots, and every Druid held such a pouch to cover a wide range of contingencies.

She sighed. “I suppose it’s obvious, isn’t it, that I gave you the wrong one.”

On his back now and crumpled in a contorted fashion, he could not answer.

She stepped over him, and, breathing through her mouth to avoid his stench, plucked her gold pouch from his open hand.

She took a step away, then spun around and grabbed his knife.

The sailor had definitely been correct about one thing. It was dangerous for a woman to travel alone.

She kept the knife.

“I’ve already said it once. Board this vessel alone, or not at all.”

Thomas, in reply, merely shifted the puppy beneath his arm to the other. It was a deliberate act, done slowly to show he had no fear of the loud sailor. It was also a difficult act. The cloak Thomas wore did not encourage his movement. Yet he would not ever consider traveling without the cloak. Thomas understood well why Hawkwood had worn such a garment. It concealed much of what he must always carry hidden upon him.

The sailor facing him jabbed a dirty finger in the air to make his point. “A dog and all its fleas. We’re not interested in having a beast wander around underfoot, tripping one of us and sending a man overboard. Or dropping filth for one of us to step upon. Hah! Might you be thinking this is Noah’s Ark?”

The sailors around him, always eager to watch a confrontation, laughed loudly.

“Aargh! Noah’s Ark! Good one, Cap’n!” The laughter continued in waves as that joke was passed from crewman to crewman.

Thomas had secured passage upon the
Dragon’s Eye
, a merchant ship, one that was already near full with bales of wool from the sheep that grazed on the hills of the inland moors. It was one of the few merchant ships not owned by the Flemings or Italians. That he had been able to barter his passage in English had been a blessing; facing the jeers of the sailors was a small price to pay.

As he stared at the sailor, silence finally settled upon them, broken only
by the constant screaming of gulls as they dipped and swooped for the choicest pieces of garbage on the swells of the gray water beside them.

“This creature once saved my life,” Thomas said calmly, “and you will receive the full price of passage for him.”

The sailor squinted. “Eh? You’ll pay double just to keep the mongrel beside you across the North Sea and down the Atlantic?”

Thomas nodded. Around him, the stench of rotten fish, of their entrails discarded carelessly in the water, of salt-crusted damp wood forever soaked with fish blood, and of mildewed nets.

Now he looked directly into the sailor’s eyes, bloodshot and bleary above a matted beard.

“Double passage,” Thomas repeated firmly. To prove his point, he quickly produced another piece of gold.

The sailor in front of him coughed politely.

“Well, we welcome you aboard. You and your companion.” The sailor smiled, but there was no kindness in his eyes. “It would appear you both deserve to be treated like kings.”

A deck hand led Thomas to the rear of the
Dragon’s Eye
and chattered like a man who was far too accustomed to lonely weeks at sea with a crew of only eighteen, none with anything new to discuss.

“You picked a fine ship, you did,” the deck hand said. “A cog like this handles the roughest seas.”

The cog was over one hundred feet long, with a deep and wide hull to hold the bulkiest of cargoes. Thomas stepped around the bales of wool. Above him, the single sail was furled around the thick, high center mast.
Thomas had seen cogs leaving the harbor with open sails and knew it was large enough to drive the boat steadily in front of any wind.

“It’s not fast, nor an easy boat to maneuver,” the deck hand continued, like one eager to impart knowledge, “but it’s almost impossible to capsize.”

He lowered his voice. “And its high sides make it difficult to be boarded at sea by pirates.”