The waves were mountains and the valleys between them deeper and darker than the night fast coming out of the west. Among the chaos of wind and water, the shrieking power that threatened destruction to the Lady Margaret and all aboard her, the treacherous thought came unbidden. A woman on board. What should a seaman expect? But the Dane dismissed the superstition immediately, settling in to fight the sea. Freezing water in his face, darkness coming on, terror nesting in his bowels, he remembered that other voyage, years ago, when he’d taken Anne and Deborah to Whitby on the Lady Margaret. His own fear, and that of his men, had been groundless then, in that storm, and they’d be groundless now. He’d not give in or give up, because he wanted to live. And he wanted her to live. He’d fallen in love with Anne on that first voyage and nothing had changed in the years since. He’d bring them to land. He had to. He’d won against the wind and the sea before and he would again. Today.
Through the fast-dying light, he knew it was there, the coast. They were nearly in safe harbor, nearly, if they could just hold on, hold the Lady Margaret from breaking up.
“Bail! Bail—all hands. Bail!”
But the cog’s bow went under again, and she had only just struggled up, shrugging off the weight of the water streaming down her high, planked sides, when yet another black hillock hurled spume toward them as the mountainous crest toppled down.
Leif had been lashed to the tiller hours ago but even he felt numb as he saw what was coming. He had trimmed the sail as tightly as he could, leaving only just enough for the helm to answer. But now, as he hauled on the tiller and hauled again, there was an almighty crack—the sail on the mast below the sterncastle shook loose and bellied wildly, yards trailing and whipping.
Leif bellowed without thought, “Let it fill, then lash it tight. Hard!” The few men who remained on deck leapt to obey. This was life or death and they were all in it together.
Willing hands grabbed at the sheets and Leif breathed in, a great swallow of cold air, and hauled on the tiller again with the strength of the desperate as the wave bore down toward the prow. But she answered, the helm answered, and the Lady Margaret began to tack across the face of the wave, diagonally, and up! And then she was at the top and sliding down, planing down into the valley below without being swamped. A miracle! Praise be! For before the Lady Margaret journeyed down into darkness, Leif glimpsed heaven. Last light and a gap in the flying spray showed him what he sought: the breakwater of the port of Delft. His strength would serve; he would make it serve.
“Captain!” The shout came from his mate. “Another one!” Another giant crest, and the Lady Margaret was heading straight toward it.
“Get below!” His voice was great enough to be heard above the storm and he knew they would obey him; there was nothing the men could do now that the sail was lashed. This was for him now, him alone. As the wave barreled toward them, the howling dark personified, he began to count, “One, two, three,” as, measured, careful, powerful, he wrenched the tiller around once more…
Anne, below, bailing beside the men and up to her thighs in water, did not have time to pray, but she felt no fear. She would not die here. Not yet. This was only bad luck and the wrong season. She had not served her purpose.
Yet.
When the Lady Margaret entered the pool at Delft, she was listing and damaged. The last part of the blow had swept two men from the deck and broken away a section of the rudder; it asked much of Leif to bring her to the quay without causing havoc to the carracks, hulks, cogs, and even one great caravel already docked there.
But Delft was serene in the clear night as they tied the Lady Margaret to the wharf by what was left of her sternpost and a line from her bow. And Anne, after the fear and the cold of the storm, turned her mind to the next part of their journey. At least she was feeling warmer, having changed into her one dry traveling dress. Her clothes were good without being showy—the kind of garments a lesser merchant’s wife might wear. She turned toward the exhausted captain.
“Leif, I have much to thank you for, and amends to make. We stand here tonight because of your great skill and strength. I am very grateful.”
Leif did not speak, his gaze sweeping the deck of his ship. It was a painful sight, one that offended him. He shook his head. “Skill? I doubt my master will regard it as such.”
The Lady Margaret was a mess. Giant hands had tried to rip her body apart and, being frustrated, broke all that could be found on deck, most principally the upper structure of the sterncastle.
“Leif, I know the damage will take money and time to mend. I can provide the coin.”
He turned on her, dark-eyed with fury. “I hope he’s worth it to the country, lady. And to you. Men died for him today.”
Anne said nothing. The Dane was right: his men had died so that she could reach the king. That was her burden to carry. Another one. But she was exhausted too and felt a spasm in her jaw as her teeth clattered together. They needed food, warmth, and sleep.
“We will speak of this tomorrow. And find men who can do the work while we are”—she stopped herself from naming their destination—“away. Now, do you think we might find an inn that is even a little respectable?”
Leif guided her down the gangplank, the fingers of one hand laced with hers. “Depends on your definition of respectable, lady.”
Anne laughed, she couldn’t help it. “Seaports. I remember Whitby some years ago. Don’t you?”
He wished she’d not said it, not made him recall; he’d banished the knowledge of what he felt for her while fighting the storm. Now, on the dark quay, with light spilling from a noisy alehouse as a drunk fell out of the door, abusing those within to whoops of laughter, there was a moment when Anne looked into Leif’s eyes and accepted—as she’d not allowed herself to before—that this man was hers, body and bone.
She had to tear her eyes away from his, and found her fingers still clasped in his own: big, strong, and scarred. Hers were tiny in comparison. “I am so sorry for all the trouble, Leif. And for your men.” She uncoupled their hands gently and tried to joke, though there was an odd edge in her tone. “I did not raise that storm. Please believe me.” She intended to be ironic, but her voice broke and suddenly she looked what she was: young, vulnerable, and crushed by responsibility. Pity and compassion fused within the sailor’s heart and almost stopped him breathing. Without thought, he reached out to enclose Anne within his arms—to give comfort, to seek comfort—but one look from the girl stopped him. “Food. And warmth?” Her voice was almost under control. She would not let herself take what was offered. To do that would destroy… what? Too much, that was all she knew. Too much. Herself included.