Uncovering The Merchant's Secret. Elisabeth Hobbes

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Uncovering The Merchant's Secret - Elisabeth Hobbes Mills & Boon Historical

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ask Jeanne to send via one of the inland ships that travelled the slow river in case he never reached his destination to deliver his report in person. There was another report for other eyes that he would not trust to the hands of anyone else. He possessed a pair of wooden-backed wax tablets, bound together as a book. If it became necessary, he could apply heat and erase his words. John scratched a few lines swiftly in the code known to no more than twenty men back in England. He wrapped the tablet book safely in a leather wallet and put it in a small document case. That had been a gift from his father, small enough that he could take it travelling with him without too much trouble, and watertight in case he was travelling in inclement weather.

      Only after he had made all his preparations to leave did John Sutton allow himself to drain the flagon, lay his head on his arms and let his eyes fill with tears at the memory of his wife who now lay buried beneath the Devonshire soil.

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      The journey was rough round the end of the peninsula and as they reached the open seas, but no worse than expected for the time of year. All the same, John was glad when they started keeping the long, sweeping curve of land in view.

      The cog was similar enough to John’s old ship, The King’s Rose, for him to feel at home. He spent the time drinking, laughing and gambling with the crew and found against all expectations that his spirits were high. It had been too long since he had been merry without the feelings of grief bearing down on him. He’d cut himself off from friends when he had left England in mourning, unable to bear the reminders of happier times. Maybe company was what he had needed after all, rather than isolating himself and brawling with strangers to jolt the numbness in his heart back to life.

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      Three days out of Concarneau, the weather grew worse. By mid-afternoon on the third day of the voyage, the clouds obscured all light and the small cog creaked ominously on waves that were increasingly violent. Now night had fallen and they were in no sight of the port Nevez had sworn they would make by dark.

      John made his way from the small cabin along the planks laid down over the hull to the prow. Nevez and his first mate were gesticulating wildly at each other and the coastline, which pitched and rolled in the distance.

      ‘What is wrong?’

      ‘A storm. Worse than I expected,’ Nevez growled.

      The wind tore at John’s cloak with violent fingers, trying to pull it from his body. He shivered and took a deep breath of the chilly salt air.

      ‘We could find shelter somewhere, along the coast,’ he suggested.

      A wave crashed over the prow, tilting the cog and causing the three men to lurch against each other.

      ‘Not here. There are hidden coves where a ship might hide safely,’ Nevez said, adding to John’s suspicions that his host was involved in smuggling, ‘but this stretch of water is the home of pirates.’

      ‘They sail under the banner of Bleiz Mor along this stretch,’ the first mate added.

      John narrowed his eyes. The name was unfamiliar to him.

      ‘Loup de Mer, Monsieur Langdon. The Wolf of the Sea,’ Nevez explained in a growl. ‘His ships are both known by a black sail adorned by a white pelt. He has preyed on the French ever since they attacked Quimper, but perhaps he will not be particular at this time of year.’

      If what Nevez said was true, the oddly named man was a mercenary, rather than a pirate, and one who shared the same sympathies as the English. John reminded himself to make a note in case his masters were unaware of the man’s activities. A grinding sound ripped through the cog and the hull juddered, and John dismissed the thought.

      ‘We’ve hit something,’ he exclaimed.

      ‘Impossible. We’re nowhere near rocks.’ Nevez laughed. He grabbed John’s shoulder and pointed. ‘See, the lights on the cliff are close. That is the harbour. We have made better speed than I had thought. We will not die tonight.’

      John looked. The light that glowed brightly on the distant shore should guide them to safety. He wished he were in command, rather than a passenger, because the sound was unsettling.

      Nevez shouted orders and the Sant Christophe pitched slightly as she turned towards shore. John scanned the blackness. Nevez’s tales of pirates had slightly alarmed him, but there was no sign of any other vessel. He didn’t doubt Nevez’s words.

      ‘Come below, Monsieur Langdon,’ Nevez suggested. ‘In my cabin I have a bottle of fine wine. Perhaps you could recommend it to your associates in England. I can give you a fair price.’

      ‘I will shortly,’ John said. ‘I must complete a letter first.’

      He went to his quarters in the small area at the bottom of the boat curtained off from the crew. By lantern light, he added a note to the report on his tablets he had been writing on the journey. He noted the mention of the oddly named ‘Sea Wolf’, but paused before committing anything to paper about Nevez. The Captain was most likely a smuggler, but to name him would be a poor way to repay the kindness. In the end, he added a single line about smugglers in general and locked the leather wallet in his document case. He put the key safely in his roll of clothing, nestled beside a thin plaited curl of Margaret’s hair. He rubbed the corn-blond braid between his fingers, sadness and remorse welling up inside him. He still found it unbelievable she was not back in England as she had been each time he had returned. How carelessly he had treated her devotion, never thinking one day she would not be there patiently waiting for him.

      A scraping noise made him jump in surprise, dragging him from his memories. It sounded as if something was ripping through the bottom of the boat and the floor vibrated. Cries of consternation came from the deck above and he realised that the scraping was true and the cog had collided with something. He ran up on deck and found Nevez leaning over the side, glaring.

      ‘That is no lighthouse. This is the work of wreckers. We have been tricked.’

      ‘What can we do?’ John asked.

      Nevez smacked the rail with his fist. ‘Nothing! The hull is breached. There is a small rowing boat, but, other than that, our lives are in the hand of fate.’

      Around them, men were throwing barrels and chests overboard and clinging to them in the hope of floating to shore safely.

      ‘Quick, to the boat,’ Nevez shouted.

      ‘One moment,’ John called. He was already running across the tilting deck to the galley. The letters to Masters Fortin and Rudhale could be rewritten, as could the report for King Edward’s Lieutenant, but the box also contained certain letters of importance to him from Margaret that he could not bear to lose. He took the steps two at a time and landed up to his ankles in water. He grabbed the document case, grateful it was small enough to stow in a satchel. He slung the satchel across his body so it hung beneath his arm and fastened his cloak over the top. There was no point being safe from drowning to freeze to death.

      The boat pitched and he had to scramble on to the deck on his hands and knees. The deck was deserted. Nevez’s rowing boat had moved away.

      ‘Wait for me,’ John shouted.

      ‘Swim to us,’ Nevez yelled.

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