Uncovering The Merchant's Secret. Elisabeth Hobbes
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was it the whole truth. Captain John Sutton, aide to the King’s Lieutenant in France, was no more. Now he was plain Jack Langdon, a merchant who travelled the length of western France and saw plenty to report on his travels that his other masters found of use.
The questioner’s face brightened, radiating honesty that immediately made John suspect trickery.
‘Then it is fortunate we meet, monsieur. I heard what that useless son of a putain told you back there, but he is misinformed. I’m Petrus Nevez. I am Captain of the Sant Christophe. I transport cargo via the coastal route back to my home in Roscoff. I am setting sail round the coast at first light. My ship is a small vessel, but if you can pay then I have room, monsieur.’
John considered the offer. Roscoff was not as close as he needed to be, but it was a damned sight closer than he was now. From there he could find another ship, or if necessary, travel by land to St Malo.
‘You are happy to travel at this time of year?’
Nevez grinned slyly and John wondered if the sailor’s cargo was legitimate or not. That might be something to investigate as he travelled. Smugglers could be useful in a war, if they had the appropriate sympathies.
‘What are your terms?’
Nevez named a price that caused John to wince inwardly. He had little choice, however, so with an enthusiasm he did not entirely feel, he shook hands and memorised the location of the vessel Sant Christophe.
Nevez skulked away towards the port. Not wishing to follow the Captain, John changed his mind about seeking out somewhere to drink and returned to the inn that had been his lodging for what felt like eternity. He settled on to a bench as close to the fire as he could manage and called for wine and something to eat. Jeanne, the youngest daughter of the innkeeper, sashayed over bearing a tray, hips moving enticingly and shoulders pushed back so her breasts jutted forward. She greeted him with a smile that John felt was almost genuine.
‘Did you find your ship, Monsieur Langdon?’ she asked as she handed him a steaming bowl. John ate a couple of mouthfuls of the creamy fish stew before answering. It was excellent.
‘Yes, I did, mademoiselle. Please tell your father I shall be leaving at first light.’
Jeanne pouted and held the wine cup out. ‘That’s a pity. I shall be sorry to see you leave.’
As John took hold of the cup, she quickly moved her hand so that her fingers were resting against his. She gave him a coy smile that belied the hardness in her eyes.
‘Perhaps you do not wish to spend this night alone?’
John sighed inwardly and disentangled his fingers, placing the cup beside the bowl on the table. ‘Thank you, but, no. My answer is the same as it has always been and always will be. I want no woman in my bed.’
Along with the other daughters of the innkeeper, Jeanne had made the same offer every night since John had arrived. When he rebuffed her every night, she accepted the rejection without rancour and did not waste much time before seeking out another potential customer. This night, she placed the wine flagon on the table and lingered beside him, regarding John with her glinting dark eyes.
‘Monsieur Langdon, you look at me with longing in your eyes, but refuse, even though my price is fair. How long is it since you last had a woman in your bed?’
Too long, was the answer to that question. His grief could have sent him down two paths: spending himself in the lap of any willing woman until their faces and bodies blurred, or provoking fights to make his blood rise and leave him with tangible aches. John had chosen the latter path and it had been a year at least since he had last tumbled into bed with a too-expensive whore in La Rochelle, drunk and unable to resist the lust that consumed him. Two more before that since he had last woken in the arms of Margaret, the wife he still missed.
He examined Jeanne. She was witty and passably pretty. She might once have been beautiful before years of working on her feet and her back had caused the lines round her eyes and lips to harden. He could engage her services and relieve himself of the physical needs that tormented him. He had no doubt she would prove to be an able and entertaining companion for an hour or so, but what then? She might satisfy the needs of his loins, but would not heal the grief that filled his heart.
‘I am sorry, Jeanne,’ he said kindly. ‘I made a vow that I would have no woman but my wife and it is one I intend to keep.’
John reached for the small cross that lay against his skin and closed his fist round it. He rubbed his thumb over the small garnets set into the front, then the engraved initials J and M side by side on the back.
‘Is that your wife’s?’ Jeanne asked.
‘Yes.’
‘She waits for you in England?’
John’s throat tightened. He raised his head and smiled grimly. ‘She waits for me beyond the grave.’
‘I apologise.’ Jeanne’s face was a picture of devastated embarrassment.
John shook his head. ‘No need. You could not have known.’
He lifted the cross to his lips, then slipped it back beneath his clothing.
He pushed his bowl away and stood, appetite gone. ‘Goodnight, mademoiselle.’
He took the flagon with him and went to the small bedroom in the attic. It cost him dearly, but having privacy rather than sharing with nine others in the communal bedroom was worth the expense. He lit a taper and by the dim light he packed away his belongings. He wrote a short note, detailing what he had discovered on his travels, sealed it with his signet ring and addressed it to Masters Fortin and Rudhale at their Bristol wine warehouse. This he would 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.
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.
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