AT THE SEASIDE
The sea rose and fell off the coast near Edinburgh, whispering into silence. The night was quiet. Conn, walking up from the dock, looked around him.
I shouldn't have stopped off here for so long.
He shook his head at himself, marveling at his own foolishness. He had come down to the docks at Queensferry, the port of Edinburgh. He had intended to do some trading, mayhap for some things his mother or father might like. Daggers from Spain. Fine linen. Tableware. The merchants all had warehouses here, and it seemed likely he could get a good price here. However, where there were merchants, there were also bandits. The docks were dangerous enough by day: a man with coins in his purse could expect some violence if he wished to keep them longer than an hour. By night? Violence was inevitable.
Conn drew in a breath. I could get killed.
“You great lummox,” he swore at himself. “This is madness.”
He looked around, scanning the black recesses of shadow pooled beside the warehouse, painting the stone of the quay with dense darkness. The buildings were all silent now, the bustle of the day departed. He heard the scuff of something on wood and looked at the quay, heart thudding. There was no one to be seen, only a small sailboat, riding against the jetty.
Probably just the boat, scudding on wood.
He let out a shaky breath and continued. The night was dark, barely lit by the thread of moon that rose. The whole of the dockyard transformed at night, becoming a shadowy place, visited by formless terror.
Footsteps.
Conn looked around, feeling his heart pounding. This time it was feet. He couldn't deny it.
“Who goes there?” he called out.
No answer. The port at Queensferry stretched out, eerily quiet under an almost moonless night. The sky was sapphire-dark, studded with frosty stars. Even though it was early summer, and not too cold, Conn shivered. A soft breeze buffeted him, snapping his tunic against him. He heard a mournful howl.
It was just a dog, he told himself. It wasn't footsteps. Just dogs, investigating; looking for scraps.
“Come on,” he chided. He looked around, shivering, knowing he had been foolish to come here. He should go now, before something bad truly did happen. He felt a fool: having narrowly escaped outside the town, why did he insist on putting himself once again in danger? This was daft!
He turned away from the dark water and walked, briskly and stiffly, toward the buildings. Where two men stepped out from behind a stack of boards.
“Here, laddie,” a man grated harshly. “Give us yer purse.”
“Aye,” the other man said, grinning to show white teeth, one missing in the lower arc. “We don't want fightin'.”
Conn looked from one to the other. He had brought his dagger, but he didn't want to draw it yet. He lifted his fists.
“Aw, come off it, laddie,” the first man said, not-unkindly. “Gi' it tae us.”
“No,” Conn said stiffly, surprising himself.
The instant he said it, so defiant, he regretted the bravado.
Give them the purse, you daftie. It's silver. They could kill you.
It would be better to live and lose some of his coin than die here on the docks, lost without the chance of ever being found again.
“Come on.”
He shook his head, stubbornly. “No,” he said again.
“Aw, laddie,” the tall man, gap-toothed, said with regret. He raised a fist and, as casually as if he had been hauling nets, struck him.
Conn reeled as the blow knocked him backward. He hissed out a shocked breath, knowing that his eye would be swollen shut, wondering idly if anything was broken. Time seemed to stand still for a moment and then, as the hands made a grab for his pocket, he staggered forward, awareness returned.
“Ugh!”
He howled a cry of rage and struck out at the tall man, trying to kick the shorter, stockier one, who made a lunge for his side, reaching for the pocket at his side, where his coins were housed. The space around him became a hail of fists and kicking legs. He struck one man on the chest and felt a blow connect with his arm, driving him back. He landed a kick on a shin and was returned one.
The three of them stepped apart, circling each other. None was unscathed. Conn's right eye was glued shut with swelling and bruising, while the big man was rubbing his arm. The shorter, broader man was shaking the fingers of his right hand, leaning on one side more heavily, favoring one leg.
“This be a fighter,” the shorter man said, laughing breathlessly. “Gi' it tae him.”
The tall man thumped him hard while the shorter man tripped him. Then, before he could stop them, the shorter man reached into his pocket while he lay on the quay, numb, gasping for breath, and took his coins.
“Got them!” he yelled in triumph. The two men laughed. After kicking Conn in the ribs as an added measure to keep him stunned, they ran away.
“Hey!” Conn shouted, feeling his ribs ache where the bruise from the kick blossomed. He spat out blood and drew himself to his feet. “You bastards!”
“We got it!”
The men whooped with delight and Conn had a last glimpse of them, outlined in silver against the wavering dark blue horizon, before they turned right, heading for the docks.
“Hey!” Conn shouted. It was too much for him. The tedium of the wait, the humiliation of it and of the attack on the road, all added up.
Without thinking, he ran after them.
“You scoundrels!” he shouted. “Give me my purse!”
He stormed down the docks behind them, hearing them laughing, self-satisfied, as they loped off. He paused, judging which way they went, and then headed left. He appeared from around the large warehouse just in time to see them board a ship.
Without thinking, he ran lithely up the gangplank behind them. He was determined to recoup his losses from those two, if he had to fight them hand-to-hand for it. The barefaced brigands!
Conn looked around. He had never been on a ship before – not that he remembered, anyhow. The deck rose and fell, sighing, with the crest and trough of waves. The wind sighed around them. He tried to lurch forward to where the two men gathered at the stern, but he found it was hard to keep balance and he fell, running forward. He scrambled up.
“Off!”
As he raced up the deck, he realized, with some alarm, that the ship was manned as if for sail. The rigging was billowing, a man at the tiller. Sailors were hauling ropes.
“Oh, no...”
He looked round, desperate, just as the plank was hauled in and the ship cast off. The wind was crisp and rising, and it caught the sails with a sigh, cracking the canvas as they creaked from port.
“Hold it!” he shouted. “There's a mistake...”
“Trim the sails!” a voice shouted authoritatively. “Tack south! We've a wind.”
Conn felt his heart sink. He was on board. He was headed somewhere – Heaven knew where.
He had stowed away.
Quite without meaning to, he had illegally boarded a ship and now he was heading, with no provisions or cash, into open sea.
“Wait,” he shouted again. However, the wind was cracking in the canvas and no one could hear him. He looked around wildly.
Somewhere at the end of the deck, he caught sight of the white shirt and brooding musculature of the tall brigand. He strode over.
Without thinking, he hit the man hard in the chest, just below the ribs.
“Ugh!” he shouted. He stepped back, fist out, prepared to strike.
“Hang on, Beiste,” the shorter man shouted urgently. The tall man stopped. Blinked.
Then he started laughing.
“Bless me!” he said. He laughed some more. The shorter man joined him and together they surrounded the dumbstruck Conn, laughing together.
“It's him!” the shorter man said, choking with mirth. “The slim blighter. He followed us!”
“A fine joke!” the bigger man agreed, grinning at Conn.
Conn, who thought his days were numbered, was surprised. He almost fell when the man gripped his shoulder.
“Welcome aboard, laddie,” the man said genially. “We're for France.”
Conn stared. His heart stopped. He hadn't planned it. Hadn't expected it. Hadn't done anything to make it happen. Nevertheless, here he was, on board a ship, surrounded by companions.
Sailing for the coast of France.
Leona, he thought, mind reeling with shock and amazement mixed. I'm on my way.