30

Tuda lay on the planks, his leather cap black with blood.

An arrow jutted from his temple, his arms and legs thrown just as they had fallen, powerless to move. Blood and dark matter from his ruptured horse-hide cap spilled across the deck as the ship inclined.

Simon fell to his knees.

Oswulf wailed, and Gilda had to take the tiller as her brother knelt on the deck and made every effort to shake Tuda back to life.

Simon was shocked beyond words. He knew Tuda’s family, with their landmark henhouse. Simon could not bring himself to imagine the grief Tuda’s loss would bring throughout New Forest.

“They killed our Tuda,” cried Oswulf.

When Oswulf resumed his place at the tiller, his jaw had a determined set, and there was no talk of turning back, or of the price of the voyage, as the ship rode the swift tide and the rising wind.

“The Devil take you, Simon,” said Oswulf after a silence, “and the old king and the new king Henry, or whoever it will be, and all the rest.” He spoke in anger, but like someone resigned to whatever further disgrace would take place.

Gilda stood beside her brother in a show of sibling concord, united in their fury and sorrow. Simon understood that to Gilda, her brother was both a responsibility and a source of support, but Simon was disappointed in her. He doubted that he would ever again enjoy Gilda’s smile, or take pleasure in her touch—or ever want to.

Walter shrugged off his hunting mantle and spread the soft-woven, forest-green cloth over the crumpled form of the fallen Tuda.

“This is a great pity,” said Walter, with a bow toward Gilda and her brother. His gesture was especially gracious, as he crossed his arms over his breast and inclined his head in prayer. His silent entreaty to Heaven complete, Walter said, “I will pay any price you ask.”

His statement was not made in English, but it was easy to understand. This was not the first time that Simon had admired Walter’s command of the moment, but he marveled that a nobleman of such high feeling could, at the same time, be such a burden. His remark was understood well by Oswulf and Gilda and, stricken though they were, this act of homage evidently touched them.

And the Tirel family was known to have no shortage of silver. Oswulf ran his hand through his hair, perhaps calculating what their voyage might bring.

Gilda said, in a tone of devotion quite unlike her recent, smart speech, “Lord Walter, God help us all.”

Another arrow hummed across the ship, but two or three subsequent projectiles splashed wide to the stern, the archers beginning to lose the range. The skills of the bowmen no longer mattered, Simon knew. Somewhere ahead, along the waterway’s broad mouth, in ships they had pressed into service, the royal guard would attempt to capture the Saint Bride.

Simon squinted into the salt spray. He associated the sea with shipwreck and storm. On horseback Simon felt he could equal the efforts of the royal guard, and he was not afraid to fight with his feet planted firmly on pastureland—especially with Walter battling at his side.

But Simon did not see how they could survive a sea skirmish. Prince Henry would surely be the next king of England—Simon was sorry that he would not survive to see the new king take on his responsibilities, and to learn what improvements, if any, he might make over his late brother’s reign.

Both the immediate future, and the following years to come, would remain unknowable. He and his shipmates, Simon believed, would be dead too soon to afford them any experience beyond the taste of this salt wind and the sight of the approaching seaway.

But the Saint Bride showed spirit.

Buoyed, no doubt, by the promise of reward, Oswulf did not give evidence of any further second thoughts. He let the big freighter bank harder, until the side of the ship cut through the water and her passengers had to cling to keep from falling overboard.

The marshal’s forces had evidently commandeered three ships, but with summer weather promising pleasant passage for fishermen and merchants alike, most of the speedy vessels were already abroad. The shipyards offered vessels under repair, at such short notice, and two of these were lumbering craft with weathered-darkened sails and tar-clogged rigging.

These ships were slowly making way, and Simon wondered if the dim enthusiasm of the mariners, pressed into emergency service, might be the cause of the halting way the sails were shaken out, the oars slow to stir the water.

Soon only one boat—with a fresh, white sail—breasted the swells in the Saint Bride’s wake. She was a swift vessel, with a cunning shape to her prow, and she was on a course to intercept the speeding freighter. But stoical despair had been replaced by the first stirrings of optimism. Simon reasoned that the Saint Bride had such a head start, and was so expertly helmed, that no pursuer stood a chance.

But this following craft was amazingly fast in the water, and painted with a long red stripe just below her top rail. She was not a large vessel, and Simon tried to take heart in the fact that in a collision the smaller craft would be at a disadvantage. Several men clung to the rails of this vessel, using their weight to counterbalance the fleet little ship as she heeled, on a course to follow the larger ship.

Or, perhaps, to intercept her. The foam was white at her prow.

“What swift little seacraft is that?” Simon asked wonderingly.

“The Saint Victor,” said Gilda evenly, “built this past winter from old timber by Mewan and his sons.”

Old timber meant that although she was a newly Christened vessel, her wood was not green, and she would not be subject to swelling or leaking. She would be able to maintain her speed.

“Simon, what should we do?” asked Oswulf, for the first time showing deference to Simon’s judgment.

“Outsail her, Oswulf,” said Simon. “Look, she’s hitting our wake.”

“She’ll cut across our spray,” said Oswulf, “and then she’ll work back to intercept us.”

“She can’t be that fast,” protested Simon.

Oswulf said, “I sold Mewan the canvas myself, the best Flemish linen. Fast does not do her justice.”

Simon’s hopes began to falter.

“Not,” he asked, “Mewan of Docken?”

Oswulf gave a regretful nod. “The very one.”