31

Mewan of Docken was a famous shipwright, whose vessels sailed faster than a prayer, as the saying went, and the fruits of whose talents only a royal court could afford. But the Saint Bride had a reputation of her own, and Simon did not allow himself to despair.

Simon counted four crossbows in the following ship—the heavily built sort used in sieges and skirmishes, each weapon bolted and ready. The fast little ship was already little more than a long bow shot away.

Simon could also make out the unmistakable identity of the individual leaning forward in the prow. Marshal Roland kept his balance with care, a lance in his grasp, as he turned to give commands to the man at the tiller, one of the men nearby rising to adjust the crisp, new sail. Simon was glad to see the marshal alive, and yet the sight gave him only unsettled relief.

The marshal called something into the wind, his voice warped by the breeze, enjoining the Saint Bride to halt or escape any hope of mercy. It was hard to make out his words.

Roland’s face was swollen, the sight of his nose caked with blood even now giving Simon’s fist a memorial twinge. Climenze, the undermarshal, put out a hand to steady the marshal.

Roland used the lance as a staff, propping himself up in the bow of the sailing vessel. It was easy to see Roland calculating the distance before he could begin plunging the long, iron point into the fugitives on the Saint Bride.

“Lighten the ship,” commanded Oswulf.

No one moved, certain that they had misunderstood.

“Go on,” said Oswulf, “the burghers of Brugge will have to eat leftover rinds for supper.”

Gilda responded by hopping down into the hold and hefting out a wax-gray cartwheel of cheese. Unaided, she tumbled this wheel down the sloping deck, and wrestled it into the water. The cheese plunged below the surface, only to reappear again, bobbing and sinking by turns among the swells.

Nicolas and Simon joined her, and soon even Walter was lending a hand, lightening the ship’s load. Their efforts caused the vessel to bound more freely over the choppy water as the river current met the salt expanse, and the wind grew fresh.

Wheels of cheese bumped together and slowly spun on the surface in the ship’s wake, looking like random stepping stones for an unearthly titan. This waste of valuable freight—and delicious bounty—pained Simon and made him feel all the more responsible for the day’s grief.

But for a while this loss of ballast did speed the ship along, and Simon believed that with every heartbeat the white sail of the Saint Victor was more remote.

“I told you,” exulted Simon. “We’ll leave her in our wake.”

“She’s switching back,” said Oswulf, “to cut us off.”

She’s not, Simon wanted to protest.

Oswulf grimaced into the salt spray. “The Saint Victor will play the foxhound, and we’ll all see what it’s like to have our throats open to the weather.”

If Certig were here, thought Simon, the old servant would think of a dozen reasons for optimism—each of them false. Simon hated to let the thought enter his mind, but at last it could not be denied.

Oswulf had been right.

The big freighter, which had seemed so admirably swift before, now wallowed with the swells, the sleek, smaller vessel gaining on her easily as the afternoon began to lose color and the late-day shadows began to define the waves of the open Channel.

Simon felt the first drops of rain and saw what was about to happen as though this gift of insight fell also from the sky.

Every one of his companions was in danger because of Simon, his logic counseled him. He believed further that only he could perform the act that would halt the actions of a dangerous and powerful man and at the same time allow his shipmates to be held blameless.

“Walter,” said Simon, “give me the broadsword.”

Walter did not respond, clinging to the side to keep his feet steady.

Simon realized that he had failed to remember an important element of courtesy in his request, and so he asked again. “My lord, if you would please be generous enough to allow me to hold the blade for a moment.”

This phrasing both dignified and softened Simon’s request, and he held out his hand expectantly.

Preparing to confront Roland was not the only reason to take possession of the broadsword—Simon felt that taking such a deadly weapon away from Walter would help to ensure that he and Oswulf could do business without the nobleman doing something impulsive and fatal.

Walter did not make a move to surrender the weapon. His hand rested on the brass pommel of the sword, and he half closed his eyes, weighing whether protocol or necessity demanded that Simon take the blade.

“My lord is pleased to bear this sword,” said Nicolas on his master’s behalf, “in your defense, and in furtherance of his own honor.”

Nicolas was calm, but Simon had recently learned to see through the apparent unruffled air of his associates. Nicolas would rather Simon drew the aim of every crossbow in the approaching vessel, leaving his master unhurt. It would not be proper, however, to say as much.

Simon was no longer a mere varlet, and no longer a novice at witnessing bloodshed. “As my father’s son,” said Simon, “honor requires me to defend my companions.”

Walter said, with a smile, “Well spoken, Simon.”

This was high praise, if brief, but Simon felt that Walter was quick with a compliment because he expected that soon Simon would be beyond the reach of human acclaim. And yet Walter still made no move to yield the sword.

Simon did not expect to survive this encounter that approached, angling in on the sleek, white-sailed vessel. He saw his verse in a poem of the day’s events, Roland’s lance plunging into Simon’s chest, his heart’s blood flowing, even as he countered with a thrust of the sword, taking Roland’s life. Or, as it might happen, failing. Simon was sick at the thought, and yet he was determined.

Walter drew the weapon.

He hefted it in his yellow-gloved hand, the very hand still stained with royal blood. And perhaps Simon was surprised at what Walter did next. Some corner of Simon had hoped that the nobleman would deny him the weapon, and claim that Walter Tirel alone had the name and dexterity equal to slaying the royal marshal.

Walter held the weapon across to Simon, hilt first, bracing his feet against the motion of the ship. Simon had to laugh inwardly, mocking his own aspirations. He had been hoping the sword would not be given to him, even as he had half hoped it would be. Here it was, the well-balanced blade. It felt good in his hand.

Simon said, “My lord, I thank you.”

Even if Simon succeeded in striking down the marshal without injury to himself, the little ship that was drawing so near was bristling with crossbow quarrels, and Simon could recite the verse that recounted his blood joining Tuda’s, staining the long, smoothly planed planks.

The rain sifted down.

When the voyage arrived at an abrupt stop, time—which had paced slowly—began to take on momentum again. The Saint Victor angled to a halt directly ahead of the freighter, and to avoid a damaging collision Oswulf had to turn the Saint Bride across the wind. Gilda adjusted the sail, tying an efficient knot, and both vessels came to in the easy swells.

The two vessels were still a long spear’s length apart, but a grappling hook was produced among the marshal’s crew, and the long pole with its iron claw was extended across the space.

Nicolas tugged at Simon’s sleeve.

“The marshal,” advised Nicolas in a low voice, “is wearing body armor under his mantle.”

“How do you know that?” marveled Simon. This meant that the marshal would be proof against a thrust to his body.

“My lord Simon,” said Nicolas, his gray eyes blinking against the rain, “last night I slept but little. I spied upon the lord marshal.”

“Did you?” asked Simon in a tone of respectful wonder.

Nicolas gave a smile, as much as to say, I did indeed.

The grappling pole had found purchase on the side of the Saint Bride, the iron talon damaging the wood. The smaller ship closed the gap, fell away as a swell collapsed under it, and then rose up again, nudging the freighter. Other hooks were handed up, binding the two ships together. The big ship’s mast rocked, and wooden pegs complained along the length of the keel.

Until that moment Simon and his crew had been free, however straitened their hopes.

Now they were prisoners.