Chapter 23

Port of Grimsby

South bank of the Humber Estuary, Lincolnshire

T he foul-mouthed pirate did not mean to be accommodating, but once more Herman had exceeded the expectations of Sinjin Daschiel who captured him in Boston after recognizing him as a brigand encountered on Wulfen. And Baron Wulfrith was just as impressed with the pirate’s ability to impart information with few—if any—words. For Herman’s fleeting, wide-eyed look at someone coming around a building at the near end of the docks of Grimsby, yet more information.

Though he whose hands were bound to his saddle feigned ignorance when the baron demanded to know that one’s identity, those who had left Wulfen Castle in the care of Warin Wulfrith were on the hunt again. Gallingly, their efforts proved fruitless, their new quarry more slippery than Herman.

“God smite him!” the baron voiced anger. As the loss of their prey could make it more difficult to recover his sister, he could not be faulted. And certainly not by Sinjin who, more given to expletives, aspired to swallow those offenses before they reached his tongue.

When all reined in, Herman laughed—if one could call it that. It was the giggle of a girl, in this case an unsightly one with decaying teeth. Then came a singsong sigh. “Do not feel too bad, Englishmen. That brother-in-arms I could not capture either, though I have known his ways since it was Le Fléau we served rather than—” He snapped his teeth closed.

Hector Wulfrith urged his steed alongside the palfrey provided their captive to travel from Boston to Grimsby where The Great Mercia Shipping Company’s vessels were to collect the balance of wine bound for Scotland and he had hoped to overtake Sir Achard Roche. “Le Fléau,” he said. “Singular, unlike Les Fléaux whose attacks on our waterways and coastal towns and alliance with Scotland make theirs a fairly different enterprise from what De Chanson no longer helms.”

So you hope, Sinjin thought. For the sake of Hector’s wife and her cousin, Mace, he needed his missing kin innocent of illicit activities—that The Great Mercia Shipping Company be a legitimate venture as the cornered Charles and Richarde proclaimed when Herman was produced after he was caught spying on the two. Rather, a mostly legitimate venture since Charles grudgingly confirmed De Chanson was the greatest shareholder and intended to use his ships to end piracy against the English.

When asked why the French De Chanson concerned himself with ill done England, Richarde had said, Much Les Fléaux is in debt to the chevalier. And said no more.

“Well?” the baron prompted.

Herman shrugged. “I know not these scourges of the English of which you speak.”

“And yet you just told you served Le Fléau.” Some might think Hector Wulfrith’s smile pleasant, but Sinjin knew it portended danger to any who threatened those dear to him.

Herman snorted. “For all the years English have ravished my country, and despite your nobles speaking the language of their ancestors who traded France for this wet island, our accents are beyond your grasp.” He hitched his lip, exposing dark, receding gums. “You hear what you want to hear. Of course, some fault is mine since I know only enough of your ugly language to repay the ill done my country.”

The baron’s hand shot out, gripped the man’s neck. “I have not the patience nor time to discuss injustices done our respective countries,” he growled as Herman proved he was not witless enough to struggle, which would cost him the bit of breath still permitted him. “Though you deny knowledge of my sister, I wager you were involved in what happened to her in Boston. Of course, I suppose your end will be the same regardless of what you tell—that is, excepting what happens between now and the scaffold, pirate.”

Unbeknownst to Herman, the threat of torture was an empty one coming from a Wulfrith. Or so Sinjin mostly believed since even God’s representatives on earth sometimes failed to do the godly thing when the ungodly could save loved ones.

Like a fish plucked from the water, the man opened his mouth and moved his tongue as if to tell things whose knowledge he disavowed.

Releasing him, the baron commanded, “Speak.”

That he did, though time would tell if he spoke true about what was in the town of Ravenser Odd on the other side of the estuary that was over a day’s ride and in the direction Achard’s contingent moved. Most importantly, would it lead to Fira or further distance them?

For tidings delivered last eve, a miracle might be needed. As Georges reported neither of Amaury’s ships put in at Grimsby to load the second cargo of wine for Scotland, one of two things happened. When they departed Boston, the winds blew them off course, or they encountered enemy vessels.

Amaury wished it the former but feared it the latter. Though wayward winds were common in the channel even in spring, captains who sailed within sight of land were usually assured of a good passage absent violent storms that could break a vessel on the rocks. Since for over a sennight there had been no storms of note, likely Les Fléaux had sprung a trap.

A miracle, Lord, Amaury sent heavenward. Otherwise, in trying to keep this woman safe, I have done what I sought to avoid, endangering—perhaps ending—the lives of many who might have been saved had I captained a ship, even if only to sacrifice myself to preserve them.

Determinedly, he moved his thoughts to other things Georges had learned during his visit to Grimsby. There was no evidence of pirate activity there, which the king’s man and his growing contingent sought before continuing north to search the Yorkshire side of the estuary. Outside of news gathering, Georges dispatched another missive to the Baron of Wulfen and one to Alice should he appear at the inn. Lastly, he purchased a gown and hose for Fira who was so grateful one might think them spun of silk rather than common thread. But then, she who tramped the wood and had put an arrow through a man was unlike most ladies.

“Is that Grimsby?” she asked, having quietly come up out of sleep.

Amaury looked down at where she sat the saddle before him, lingered over the top of her red-blond head, then returned his regard to sun-lit buildings visible above the town’s enclosing wall. “It is, my lady. How fare you?”

She shifted as if inventorying her hurt places. “My healing continues apace, and surely for sleep during the ride.”

“Rarely did you rouse, and when you did, it was brief.”

Some music about her long sigh, further she beguiled in saying, “You make a very fine bed, Amaury de Chanson.”

Not a good place for his mind to go. Fortunately, they were astride and in the company of his men and Donal.

As he determined it best not to respond, her breath caught and she looked up at him with green eyes whose redness had resolved. “Forgive me for ill-chosen words that reflect almost as poorly on the Wulfrith name as seeking kisses I ought not.”

Deciding it best not to comment, he said, “I am pleased by your recovery,” then told of Georges’ visit here on the day past that included the dispatch of missives.

After thanking him, she wondered aloud how far the king’s contingent advanced north of Grimsby, glanced at his men and Donal flanking them, then asked if he thought the wind or Les Fléaux were responsible for his missing ships.

“I fear I have been bested by my enemy—for now.”

“Because you came for me?”

“Because I should have remained distant from my son until my business with Les Fléaux was finished. Hence, I am to fault, just as I am to…blame for what befell you in Boston and at the abbey. Be assured, as soon as possible I will make it right.”

“It being the problem of me,” she murmured.

Though he deemed her that, was she truly? Discomfited by what might be the answer, he said, “Oui, the problem of you,” then moved his thoughts to what lay ahead that could determine all.