Another man grasped his shirt and whispered, 'They will come tonight, you're sure of this?'
'God's bollocks, those sons of bitches had better be here. I I'm not hanging around with you lot on board, that I can promise you.'
The man's eyes narrowed with anxiety. 'But if something happens to prevent —'
'They'll be here,' the captain said firmly, as if he was trying to pacify a child. 'They'll have had watchers posted ever since we sighted land. They'll not risk leaving us here longer than they have to.'
He edged away and strode rapidly towards the bow, as if trying to put as much distance as possible between him and his unwelcome cargo.
The men made pretence at closing their eyes, but Faramond knew they could no more sleep than he could. It was not just the stiffness of their bodies, the hard boards and the cold keeping them awake; God knows they were used to worse than that. No, what would not let them rest was the fear of what might happen in the next few hours, days and weeks. They'd had plenty of time to think during the voyage, and imagine too — imagine just what could happen to a man trapped in a foreign land among his mortal enemies. Approach the wrong person or betray yourself by the wrong word and death would be the least of your troubles.
It was not for nothing that King John of Anjou was known far and wide as the worst of the Devil's brood. Rumour abounded in France that John had ordered Hubert de Burgh to castrate his sixteen-year-old nephew, Arthur, the rightful heir to Anjou, and to gouge out his eyes as the lad lay chained and starving to death in John's dungeon at Falaise. And when Hubert had refused, John had brought the boy to his castle at Rouen and kept him imprisoned there. One night at Easter, when John was drunk after dinner, he had slain his nephew with his own hand and, tying a weighty stone to the corpse, had cast it into the River Seine. If a man could so cruelly plot the murder of his own kin, the exquisite torture he might devise for a French spy, before death mercifully released the victim, was beyond any normal man's imagination.
And Faramond and his companions would be depending for their very lives on strangers whose loyalty was at best dubious, for hadn't they already betrayed their own king? A man who might have been on your side yesterday could just as easily betray you tomorrow. Some men change their allegiances swifter than birds in flight change direction.
Yet, as Faramond had tried so hard to convince his beloved wife, this was a just war, a noble cause to depose a wicked tyrant. Even the Pope had denounced him. Any man who rid the world of King John, an enemy of God and the Holy Mother Church, would be assured of the papal blessing. Of course, the Pontiff had not said as much in so many words, but his meaning was clear to all, and thus it followed that any man who helped to depose this tyrant would be blessed by God Himself.
Faramond had repeated these arguments to himself as he lay awake on the tossing ship, retching over and over again. God was on their side. And now, sick with fear at what the coming hours would hold, he tried to remind himself of that again, but he knew all the tricks of rhetoric and he could not convince himself this was God's work as easily as he could persuade others. All he could think of, as he sat shivering on that deck, was capture, humiliation, torture and then . . .
St Julian and all the saints, I beseech you protect me. He patted at the front of his tunic, feeling for the small silver reliquary containing a tiny fragment of the bone of St Julian of Brioude pinned beneath a piece of polished rock crystal. His wife had sold all the jewels she owned to buy the relic, so desperate was she to keep her husband safe.
One of the deckhands who had been keeping watch frantically beckoned to the captain, who was at his side in an instant, peering out towards the land. It was dark now and only the tiny red rubies of flame strung across the rise above the marshes marked out the village fires. The deckhand was pointing at something out on the marsh, and the captain nodded. He raised a lantern, allowing the light to shine out over the rail before lowering it hastily, repeating the signal several times in quick succession.
Then, sidling across to where Faramond and the other men sat, he shook the nearest man awake.
'Boats are on their way. So be ready to move quickly. And not a sound, not till they tell you it's safe. The marsh has many ears.'
As quietly as they could, Faramond and the others fastened their cloaks ready, and checked for the hundredth time that their scrips and bundles were securely fastened. They were travelling light, no papers, only a few spare clothes, and a bite or two to eat. They carried nothing which could slow them down if they had to run, except the round flat silver ingots strapped to their chests inside their shirts. Those were cumbersome, and already chafing the skin. But they were indispensable; men would have to be paid and paid well.
The captain, motioning them to keep low, beckoned them across to the gap in the rail, where a rope ladder was already being rolled out. Faramond was so stiff from the cold he could hardly stand up, never mind keep his balance on the rolling deck. In the end he dropped to his knees and crawled across it. Reaching the safety of the rail, he crouched, peering through the gap.
As his eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness, he saw three shapes below moving across the water towards the ship. He couldn't hear the oars of the little craft entering the water above the noise of wind singing through the rigging of the ship and the constant slapping of the waves against her hold. But the oarsmen were plainly skilled at their craft and that knowledge at least gave him comfort.
His stomach had tightened so much it hurt. He glanced over the rail. The rope ladder was flapping wildly against the boat each time she yawed. It seemed a very long way down. In the darkness, it looked as if the ship was riding upon a vast mass of writhing black maggots feeding on some gigantic beast that lay dead beneath. Faramond shivered, and not just from the cold.
The first of the boats was drawing alongside. A man was standing up at the back of the craft, rowing with a single oar that he rocked from side to side, trying to bring the little boat level so that the man in the bow could catch the rope from the ship. Just as the deckhand was about to toss it down to him, there was a sudden sharp pip-pip-pip call like that of a plover from the boat behind. Then Faramond saw to his alarm that just as swiftly as they had drawn alongside, the boats were retreating back into the darkness.
'Wait, where are you going?' Faramond yelled, completely forgetting the captain's warning for silence, but the captain was standing transfixed, staring up the haven towards the channel between the island of Yarmouth and the mainland.
He began barking orders. Before he realized what was happening, Faramond felt himself in the grip of powerful hands, being forced towards an open hatch.
'Get in there, hide, hide!'
He was pushed down the rickety wooden ladder with such force that he lost his footing half-way down and fell, landing in thick, slimy water. It was only a foot or so deep, but the planks beneath were so slippery he couldn't get a footing to stand up. For a moment he thought the fall had blinded him for he had rarely known such complete darkness, but he could hear the curses of his companions as they splashed around him in the filth. A foul stench engulfed him, making him choke. It was as if he had been thrown into a lake of rotten eggs. The air was rasping in his chest as he struggled to breathe. Then he heard the grating over his head being pushed back into place.
A voice that he recognized as the captain's yelled down, 'If you want to live, keep as still and quiet as dead men. There's a ship, one of King John's, bearing straight for us. If they board us . . .'
If the captain said more, Faramond didn't hear him, for a wooden hatch was slammed down on top of the grate and they heard the bolts being shot home.
The men in the hold did as they were bid: despite the misery of sitting in the freezing water, they instantly ceased splashing about trying to stand. The water sloshed back and forth over their backs as the ship rolled, and the crashing of the waves breaking on the wooden hull outside reverberated through the darkness. Above them they could hear shouts and bellowed comm
ands, but the thick wood of the deck muffled the sound. Faramond was aware of the noisy gulping of the others around him, their lungs aching from the struggle to breathe through the gas that rose from the stinking water.
Then something heavy grated against the timbers of the hull. Had the ship caught up with them? Were the king's soldiers leaping aboard, prepared to search every foot of the Santa Katarina? Despite the captain's warning, Faramond crawled through the stinking water, feeling his way cautiously towards the hull, where no light would fall on him if the hatch was opened. Around him he could hear the others doing the same, cursing under their breath as their hands and limbs were grazed on the rough beams of the ship.
They were listening hard for the sounds of feet above them, boxes being overturned or arguments breaking out, but they could hear nothing above the sound of the water, not even voices. Perhaps the captain had managed to persuade the king's men that the barrels of wine and other stores on the deck were all the cargo he carried. It was so dark that Faramond's eyeballs hurt as he strained to see into the blackness above, searching desperately for that first crack of light that might give them warning the hatch was being opened.
Then he saw it, a line of orange so bright and yet so thin he thought for a moment his eyes were playing tricks because he was staring too hard. He saw another line of light flickering. He shrank back, wondering if he should duck his head below the water and how long he could hold his breath if he did. But the light was not coming from where he thought the hatch was, though in the darkness it was hard to remember. Then he smelt it, just a whisper of it; the stench from the water was so overpowering that it was hard to be sure and yet there was a waft of something new . . .
'Smoke!' someone yelled from the darkness. 'They've set the ship afire.'
Every man tried to beat his way through the water to the ladder. They were groping around for it in the darkness, catching hold of beams and the bodies of the other men, until with a cry someone felt it. Faramond himself grabbed hold of it just moments later and found other hands as cold as the dead also grasping the ladder and trying to force themselves on to the rungs. But the first man was already at the top. They could hear him battering at the grill, shouting and yelling.
Another climbed up, pitching him off into the water; he fell heavily with a single scream, instantly followed by silence.
'It won't shift. They've locked it! They've locked us in!'
'Let me try,' others shouted, but Faramond wasn't one of them. He splashed and crawled his way back towards the side of the hull. Fumbling for his knife, he started hacking at the wood, trying beyond all reason to make a hole in the ship's timbers. As he did so, he knew it was useless. Even if he could chip his way through the wood with his small knife, what chance would he have of making a hole big enough to crawl through before the water poured in and dragged them all to the bottom? Yet still he slashed away, desperately trying to split the salt-hardened timber.
Around him he could hear men screaming or praying. Above them, louder by far now than the crash of the waves, was the roar of the flames as they raced through the oil- soaked and tar-coated timbers. Smoke was trickling down into the hold, mixing with the bilge gas. Faramond was choking. As the timber above their heads blazed, the heat rolled down as if they were trapped inside a vast oven.
Faramond clutched his reliquary through his shirt. 'Holy and blessed St Julian, save me, save me!'
There was a huge crash as the mast toppled into the sea, followed by another as the castle collapsed on to the deck, driving the timbers into the hold below. The last thing Faramond saw was the blinding orange flames licking over a great beam of wood as it hurtled towards his face. It struck him with a force that was almost merciful, sending the poor wretch instantly into the darkness from which there can be no return.
As soon as Talbot's sharp eyes had seen the three tiny craft creep out of the marshes and glide towards the ship, he had made his way gingerly down the hillside, the better to see where they might put ashore.
Raffe's whole attention was directed towards the land, trying to see if the traitor was also watching for the men to be landed. So it wasn't until he glanced back at the water to mark the progress of the little boats that he saw the king's ship. It was racing up towards the Santa Katarina.
The captain and crew on board the Katarina had seen it too. They had already launched their shore boat and were sculling away from their ship, but not before the crew had cut her anchor and tossed their blazing torches into rope and tar barrels they'd stacked on the deck. The shore boat disappeared up the River Bure and melted into the darkness as the flames on the ship took hold, lighting up the sea around. Later the captain and the crew would claim alms and shelter as poor shipwrecked sailors, for what could anyone prove against them, now that all the evidence was going up in smoke?
But aboard the king's ship the sailors and soldiers had far more to worry about than the vanishing craft. Every man aboard was racing to try to lower the sail and bring their vessel about before they collided with the drifting fire-ship. They finally managed to steer their boat clear of the Katarina, but only just. They dropped anchor at a safe distance where wind and tide would not drive the blazing ship into their own vessel.
There was no use in the king's men trying to board the Katarina now. The fire had taken hold from bow to stern, sending flames and smoke leaping into the tar-black sky. Only the sea could dowse those flames now and it would do so soon when the whole flaming ball sank beneath the waves for ever, carrying all her secrets with it.
This time Raffe heard the crackle of twigs as Talbot slipped back into the thicket beside him.
'It's too late. The crew got off the ship, but the Skeggs didn't.'
Talbot, like most Englishmen, had been born hating the French, calling their soldiers 'Yellow Skeggs' in mockery of their emblem the fleur-de-lis, but despite this there was a rare note of pity in his voice.
Raffe groaned. 'The king's ship must have been lying in wait, thinking to catch all involved, but how the hell did John's men find out?'
'Don't look at me! Maybe one of the marsh-men tipped them off,' Talbot said. There's always those ready to take money from both sides, if they can get away with it. You can't trust a marsh-man, the only loyalty he has is to his own pocket.'
There were many who had cause to say the same thing of Talbot, but Raffe wasn't one of them, not yet, anyway.
Talbot nodded his head towards the ship blazing in the darkness. 'I reckon that bastard of a captain cut those poor runts' throats when he saw what was afoot. Didn't fancy being caught red-handed smuggling Skeggs into England and couldn't risk leaving them alive to talk after he scuttled off. Far as I could see, no one jumped overboard, and if they were alive they'd jump whether or not they could swim. Any man would sooner drown than burn.'
The two men were silent for a moment. They had witnessed the agony of flames before, had heard the screams, seen the blistered flesh, still saw it in their nightmares. The Saracens at Acre had a terrible weapon. Greek fire, they called it. They'd throw clay pots against the wooden siege towers and down on to the attacking men. The pots burst into flames and burned with a fire as fierce as a blacksmith's furnace. It stuck to wood, leather, metal, flesh, everything. Water wouldn't extinguish it, only vinegar, and where do you get that in the midst of a battle? They'd seen men reeling away, blinded, their faces aflame, roasting alive in their own armour, until they'd fallen on the mercy of a spear or sword. Both men knew only too well what a man would do to end the agony of burning.
Talbot tugged urgently at Raffe's arm. 'Look there, between those trees.'
Raffe glanced across at the rise. A lone figure sat on horseback, watching the burning ship. Raffe, motioning Talbot to follow, crept forward. It was dark, but even so Raffe could see from the cut of the long, heavy cloak that this was no marsh-man.
The horse shuffled restlessly sideways. Its rider gathered the reins and turned the beast's head, preparing to leave. As he looked back for one l
ast time at the ship, the light from the burning vessel revealed the full profile of the man's face. It was so familiar that Raffe could have drawn it from memory.
'God's blood,' he breathed. 'Do you see who that is? That's Hugh, that's Osborn's brother.'
Talbot threw his arm over Raffe, pressing his head down hard into the dirt, just as Hugh dug his spurs into his horse's flanks and cantered off straight past the thicket in which they were sheltering. As soon as the muffled sound of hoof-beats had faded, Raffe sat up, brushing dried leaves from his face and spitting out bits of twig.
Talbot whistled through his teeth. 'So that's your traitor. 1 always hated the bugger.'
Raffe shook his head in disbelief. 'Unless I'd seen it with my own eyes, I'd never have believed it. I knew it had to be one of Osborn's men, but his own brother! Satan's arse, Hugh fought for John in Aquitaine.'
'As did you,' Talbot reminded him. 'And it didn't make you love the bastard.'
'I loathe John, but I'd never give aid to England's enemies, not even to save my own life.'