Uncovering The Merchant's Secret. Elisabeth HobbesЧитать онлайн книгу.
Chapter Fourteen
March 1346
‘Are you telling me there is not one single ship that can take me to St Malo before the week is up?’
Captain John Sutton placed both hands on the table, leaned across towards the Harbourmaster seated behind it and tried to keep his temper in check. ‘You assured me I would not have to wait more than two days and that was two days past!’
The Harbourmaster shrugged in an offhand manner. He rolled his eyes to the group of men huddling around the fire with mugs of wine as if to ask them to bear witness to the unreasonable demands of the English traveller. Given John’s inability to establish the existence of any ship, it seemed the Harbourmaster’s office was the centre for a nightly social gathering of local merchants and seafarers rather than a place to organise transport.
John gripped the edge of the table, fingernails digging into the solid oak in frustration. A captain should have command of his own ship, not have to resort to begging for passage on another man’s. Much as he would like to wrap his hands round this Breton neck and squeeze some sense into the Harbourmaster, he doubted he would leave the room alive if he attempted such a thing. He was half-tempted to do it anyway and risk the consequences. Since the death of his wife, he had fought the impulse to gamble with his life until someone ended it for him. Joining Margaret was enticing when he had little to live for any longer.
‘Things are difficult at the moment,’ the Harbourmaster said, shrugging once more. ‘The war with the English has taken its toll on our industry. Many have had to give up their business. Now with matters in Brittany being as they are...’
The Harbourmaster tailed off as John bared his teeth. Matters in Brittany were precisely why John was attempting to make the journey from Concarneau to St Malo in such haste. Although the English and French kings had declared a truce, the issue of the Breton dukedom had not been settled. Charles de Blois and John de Montfort had fought bitterly. The English success at Cadoret followed by the siege of Quimper had caused losses on both sides, but de Montfort’s death the previous autumn had left only a five-year-old heir as claimant. Now was the ideal time to be travelling safely back to England.
‘That is entirely why I wish to leave with urgency. I have a report to give to my associates in Bristol regarding the state of their vineyards. Surely it is in the interest of merchants here that trade between our countries is not disrupted more than necessary.’
John gave a tight smile and spoke loudly so that all in the room could hear his words.
‘I was informed that Concarneau was a thriving port and I would have no difficulty finding a ship to take me to Plymouth. Now I find I cannot even get around the coast of Brittany. Clearly, my information was incorrect and I shall be sure to make it known as widely as I can when I eventually return home so that other travellers do not find themselves caught in the same situation in this dog’s piss of a town!’
There were mutters from the men by the fire who had not missed John’s intended insult—hardly surprising since he had deliberately raised his voice at the end of his sentence. Disparaging comments about the reputation of their home would not be tolerated. John whipped round to look at his audience, fists bunching. He relished the thought of a brawl to rid himself of this frustration. It dulled the ever-present lump of lead in his chest where once a heart had beat.
The Harbourmaster, perhaps prompted by his audience into defending the town against such open criticism, pushed himself from his feet and came around the table. He looked up at John—a good head taller than the Harbourmaster—with an appeal in his eyes.
‘It is only just March, monsieur. Many captains will not risk putting to sea at all until later in the year. If you were to consider taking a slower vessel through the rivers, I could direct you to three captains prepared to leave within ten days.’
The time of year could not have been worse. John’s shoulders sagged as he imagined repeating this ritual daily for the next two months until conditions at sea became more favourable. By then, of course, the de Montfort faction would have rallied and hostilities would begin once more. It would be quicker at this rate to hire a horse and make the journey to St Malo by land.
‘I will return tomorrow and ask again.’ John set his shoulders and adjusted the clasp on his cloak. ‘Perhaps you will have better news for me. Good evening.’
The Harbourmaster’s eyes flickered to the pouch at John’s belt. He had already profited daily from John’s generosity in the misplaced hope that it would speed matters towards a resolution. Not tonight, however. John folded his arms across his body and planted his feet solidly on the earthen floor, making it clear that his hand was going nowhere near his scrip of money. He gave a curt nod and headed from the office into the street, slamming the heavy door behind him.
He exhaled angrily and let off a string of swear words in English, causing passers-by to pause and look at the disturbance before continuing on their way. The short, explosive sounds were perfect for expressing his anger and frustration so well and he felt a little better. It was strange to him that after almost four years of living most of his time in France, his native language sounded harsh to his ears. He spoke French as fluently as any man, which made his task easier. He even dreamed in the language now, but reflecting on how far his self-imposed exile had brought him from home caused an unexpected wave of homesickness and grief to engulf him, making him reel.
A lump filled his throat. He knew from long experience it was an affliction that was best treated with a couple of jugs of wine. Not at the respectable inn where he had taken lodgings, but somewhere less reputable where a well-dressed blond Englishman would cause heads to turn, tongues to wag and, with luck, fists to fly.
He stormed away from the Harbourmaster’s office towards the narrow winding alleys that led down to the port rather than up to the town, intending to find a welcoming establishment in which to drown his frustration, but had not taken more than half a dozen steps when someone fell in beside him. He glanced across and recognised the man as one who had been drinking in the Harbourmaster’s office.
‘What is your name and business, monsieur, that you should need such rapid transport?’
John bridled at being asked in such a blatant manner. His hand instinctively reached for his dagger, but he stopped and withdrew it. He ran his eyes quickly over his questioner’s clothing. The man wore the thick cloak of oiled leather lined with fur and a hat familiar to anyone who had spent time around sailors. Perhaps this man could prove to be his salvation.
‘My name is Jack Langdon,’ John said. ‘I am a simple merchant. An agent for an association of wine buyers in Bristol. They have asked me to assess the current status of production and quality. Now I need to return to England to