The Marsh King's Daughter (47 page)

Martin's destination was the cog moored next to the nef, a fine-looking vessel which Miriel recognised from the previous day as soon as she saw the red and gold banner rippling on its castle.

'Belongs to Stephen Trabe,' Martin said. 'Ever heard of him?'

Miriel shook her head. 'Should I have done?'

Martin shrugged. 'Not particularly, but he has had a notorious career. At the moment he is a respectable servant of our young King, but in the past he has made his living from unsanctioned piracy.'

'And he is your reliable source?'

'Trabe is intimate with haunts that others of us would fear to tread,' Martin said ruefully as he halted at the foot of the cog's gangplank in response to the challenge of two burly guards. One of them boarded the vessel with Martin's message, and moments later they were ushered on deck and brought into the presence of a fair-bearded man seated on a barrel.

He looked neither disreputable nor piratical to Miriel's gaze, save perhaps for his loudly striped cloak. His hair and beard were neatly combed and his tunic and chausses were fashioned of the finest wool and linen.

Martin introduced Miriel and said, 'You have already told me what you know, but I would have you tell Mistress Willoughby too.'

Trabe sucked his teeth. 'And what would Mistress Willoughby's interest be in Nicholas de Caen?' he asked, his bluntness revealing that he was not as polished as he appeared.

'He was a dear friend of mine,' Miriel answered, 'and I owe it to him to know as much as possible.'

'You owe it to him?' Trabe raised an eyebrow.

Miriel flushed, but met him stare for stare. 'Yes, I do.'

Trabe's brow rose another fraction and so did the corresponding mouth corner in a sardonic smile. 'There is little enough to tell, mistress.' He spread his hands. 'In this trade it is very easy to make enemies. Someone wanted rid of him and offers were put about in certain quarters, including mine. A rich payment in return for ridding the world of Nicholas de Caen. I declined because I no longer swim in waters quite so murky, but there were others willing to take the bait.'

Miriel whitened and swayed. Martin reached an arm to support her but she pushed him aside as if swatting a fly. 'I thought as much,' she said huskily. 'I knew that his death was no accident; he was too good a sailor.' She swallowed, feeling sick, but filled with a renewed sense of determination. 'Do you know who put out those offers?'

Trabe shrugged. 'As to that, I have not an inkling, except that their agent was a tall man with red hair and beard and a bad French accent - English was his native tongue. The description would fit any of ten thousand men. I had never encountered him before.'

'And you are sure he gave nothing away about his paymaster?' Martin asked.

'I am sure. Jesu, I would like to know myself.' Trabe scooped his hands through his hair. 'I did warn de Caen on the eve of his departure for Normandy, but there was no time for him to take precautions. God rest his soul.' Trabe touched a gold cross at his throat and looked at Miriel. 'Do you have any thoughts, mistress, on who might have wished him enough ill to seek his death?'

Miriel locked her knees to stay on her feet. 'None,' she whispered, thinking of Robert. He had motive enough, and she knew the passion and cruelty that went sword in sheath with his smothering tenderness. But was he capable of murdering in cold blood? As Trabe said, theirs was a trade where it was easy to make enemies. There were likely as many candidates as there were red-bearded men . . . but some were more likely than others.

Magdalene leaned against the bolsters, seeking to quench the heat of her body against the coolness of the linen. A nagging headache throbbed at her temples, her breasts were tight and sore with milk and there was a dragging pain in the small of her back. The linen pad between her thighs was damp and uncomfortable with fluids from her draining womb, and she was aware of an underlying unpleasant smell. It irritated her nose and made her queasy. The ravenous appetite of the previous two days had vanished to leave her gagging even at the thought of bread and cheese, but her mouth was dry with thirst.

'There is nothing wrong with me,' she said aloud and was encouraged by the strength of her own voice. How could she be sick when her lungs still commanded such power? By her side, the swaddled baby gave a sudden start in his sleep and clenched his little fists, but she had only fed him an hour ago and he did not waken. Her heart filled with a great flood of love and her eyes with tears. 'Nick would have been so proud of you,' Magdalene whispered, 'so proud.' She pushed her forefinger gently through the curl of his fist and watched the miniature fingers tighten around her own, the nails like tiny shales of pink glass. 'I will make you into the man he would want you to be,' she said, the vow like an anchor, grounding her to life, giving them a future beyond this bedchamber and the bed upon which she had borne him.

She fell into an uneasy doze, patterned with strange colours, sludgy but violent, and dreams of wading through sucking mud towards a shoreline that came no closer. Exhaustion crept up on her and it became increasingly difficult to pull herself free of the mud's clinging embrace.

The sudden slam of the door on its hinges awakened her with a cry and a start. For a moment the colours and the mud persisted. As her vision slowly cleared, she drew a deep unfettered breath.

Alyson Wudecoc hastened to the bedside, her normally pale complexion flushed and her eyes as bright as if she had just drunk a quart of wine. Carried in her hand was an unrolled square of vellum inscribed with lines of erratic brown writing hung with a red seal. There was also another packet, as yet unopened.

'Wonderful news, Magdalene!' she cried, wafting the vellum at the new mother and handing her the packet. 'Nicholas is alive!'

'What?' Magdalene strove to sit up amongst the bolsters. A drum-roll of pain pulsed within the hollow of her skull. Alyson's words were difficult to understand, as if shouted from a distant shore.

'He's being held for ransom in St Peter Port on the Isles de Genesies by a fisherman who plucked him out of the water,' Alyson said breathlessly.

'Praise be to God!' Magdalene crossed herself. Scalding tears filled her eyes and brimmed over. She wiped them away on a corner of the sheet, her body shaking. Alyson's arms swept around her, and for a moment the two women clung to each other.

'That's a personal letter for you,' Alyson said at length, gently releasing Magdalene and pointing to the packet. There was a troubled frown on her face for Magdalene was as hot as a forge and there was a faint but unmistakable smell of tainted flesh.

Magdalene reclined against the bolsters. In the aftermath of her tears, everything was suddenly such an effort, and although she had but recently woken, she felt exhausted. 'I am not lettered,' she said to Alyson. 'You read it to me.'

'They want five hundred marks for him,' Alyson warned as she took the packet and broke the seal. 'Martin says he thinks we can raise it, but you'll have to sell the St Maria and the Pandora.'

Magdalene shook her head and then wished she had not as the pain knifed through her skull. 'I don't care,' she said. 'I'll pay any price to have him back ... to see him again.' She looked at the sleeping baby, and new tears filled her eyes.

'Martin's raising the ransom even now,' Alyson murmured soothingly and began to read the letter. Magdalene closed her eyes.

My beloved wife, greetings. I hope this letter finds you in as good health as I am myself. I counsel you to be of stout heart, for although the Empress is lost, I am not and hope to be with you and our child very soon.

The words continued, flowing over her like cooling water. How much he was thinking of her, how she must rest and not worry. All would be well. It was a peaceful notion and she clung to it, sinking ever deeper into its embrace.

Alyson finished the letter and looked at Magdalene. Very gently she laid her hand against the young woman's burning skin, then lifted the covers and sniffed. Hand over her mouth, she replaced the sheets and stood away from the bed. Then, on tiptoe so as not to wake the patient, she left the room and went in search of a physician.

After leaving Stephen Trabe, Miriel returned to The Ship in a daze. She had much to think upon. She knew that the easiest path was to be deaf to all that she had been told, to pretend that none of it had ever happened. Bury it deep and continue her life with the force of will not to look over her shoulder. It was probably the wisest path too, and the pragmatic side of her nature, the one her grandfather had fostered within her as a small child, said that she should follow it. But there were other sides of her character bequeathed by different elements, and they barred the way, turning her back on to a road that was narrow and difficult and strewn with thorns.

She chewed at the nail of her index finger which was already worn almost to the quick. If Robert had plotted Nicholas's death, then she was almost as much to blame, for without her adultery, Robert would never have been prompted to act. Yet she had no proof and could hardly ask Robert outright if he had paid someone blood money to murder his rival. It was likely that Nicholas had enemies of whom she did not even know. Which brought her back in a far from neat circle to the smooth, easy path, barred from her by conscience and guilt.

'God curse it!' she snapped and in sheer frustration snatched her small gilded mead horn from its stand and hurled it at the wall.

The horn struck and bounced off, splashing the white lime-wash with teardrops of pollen-yellow, and Will leaped in the air and began to bark. Miriel stared, thinking that the stain should be blood-red. She badly wanted to hurl something else, but she clenched her fists at her sides. Wrecking the room might ease the pressure of her frustration, but it would not solve her dilemma. Flinging from the table, she paced the length of the room like a caged animal, and ignored Will worrying at her skirts.

There was a knock on the door and Elfwen poked her head round. 'Master Wudecoc's below and asking to speak to you privately. Shall I send him up?' Her eyes travelled to the amber splashes trickling down the wall. Out of tidy habit she went to pick the mead horn from the floor.

'Leave it,' Miriel snapped. 'I'll do it myself. And yes, tell Master Wudecoc to come up.'

• Elfwen nodded and, giving Miriel the slightest look askance, left the room.

Miriel stooped to the horn. A piece of the enamelling had broken off and its polished surface was scraped with chalky lime. She dusted it on her skirt. Like herself, it had been unfairly battered by life but, although bruised and damaged, was still intact. She smiled bleakly at the whimsy and lifted her eyes to the door as again it opened on a knock, and this time Martin Wudecoc stepped over her threshold.

'What can I do for you?' she asked. This morning they had parted in silence, each weighed down by the burdens laid on them, and neither able to talk. It had been difficult and uncomfortable, and she was surprised to see him now.

Surprised too, as she looked at him, to see fire in his eyes and hope imprinted on his dragged-down features.

'It is what we can do for each other, mistress,' he said. 'News came an hour ago that Nicholas is still alive. He was saved from drowning by a Genesies islander who is now demanding a ransom to protect him and send him home whole.' He waved a square of vellum at Miriel.

A shock of joy surged through Miriel. 'Say it again,' she commanded. 'Say it again so that I know I am not dreaming.'

Martin repeated his words and with a cry, all constraint forgotten, she flung herself into his arms, and once more used his breast as a support for overwhelming emotion.

'I knew he couldn't be dead; I knew it!' she laughed, and could not prevent a whoop of exultation. Will joined in, his yap rising to a howl in competition. Miriel sobered and, scolding the dog, wiped her eyes. 'I'm sorry,' she said, 'but I could not help myself, the news is so wonderful.'

Martin smiled briefly to show that he shared her sentiment, but added a word of caution. 'Indeed it is, mistress, but he is not safe yet, and to ransom him, we will have to sell at least two of the ships. With the Empress lost, it will leave him small hope of fulfilling his obligations unless he hires others vessels - and for that he will need money.'

Miriel drew a deep breath, and with it donned the mantle of hard-headed businesswoman. 'Is this the ransom demand?' She indicated the vellum.

Martin handed it to her and she studied it.

'Five hundred marks.' She frowned at Martin. 'He doesn't want a fortune, does he?'

Martin grimaced. 'This Guichard le Pecheur knows that he has a golden goose in his hand. It may be that we can negotiate a lower sum, but with another price already on Nick's head, I do not believe it will be wise to tarry. Magdalene has given her permission for me to seek buyers for the St Maria and the Pandora.'

'No,' Miriel said forcefully. 'You cannot sell the ships.' 'We must. We can raise perhaps a hundred marks in coin, but not the sum demanded.'

'Will le Pecheur accept instalments?'

'He might, but not small ones. Once Nicholas is free, he might not feel so inclined to pay up.'

Miriel bit her lip and turned away to pace the room, but this time in slow, measured thought. At the window she paused and looked out on the bustle of the courtyard below: a cartload of supplies arriving; a groom busy with a curry comb on a guest's mount; a woman collecting eggs from the hen boxes.