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 report on
my findings it wasn't a lie, but nor was it the whole truth.