seething mass of water, waves churning a bilious gray green beneath a leaden sky.
A few gulls bravely wheeled below slate-colored clouds scudding before the wind. Behind them hung the denser, darker roiling mass of an oncoming storm.
That louring, threatening mass assured Gareth that his worst fears had come true; they’d be trapped for days. Looking at the cauldron the Channel had become, he confirmed that not a single ship had ventured out.
One glance at Emily’s face as she stepped down to the ground told him he didn’t need to explain the situation to her.
He turned as Gustav Juneau clambered down from his perch to join them.
“There is an auberge we know-this way.” Gustav pointed with his whip to a narrow street leading away from the square. “It is close to the quay, and the people who run it know us.” He glanced at Gareth. “But come and see.”
Gathering Watson, and with Emily on his arm, leaving the others with Pierre Juneau to watch over the carriages, Gareth walked beside Gustav deeper into the dockside quarter.
The auberge Gustav led them to proved perfect for their needs, not least because its guestrooms were all presently empty. Gareth immediately negotiated to hire the whole of the upper floor. In addition, the auberge was within easy reach of the docks, with a direct route to the main quay, and, situated as it was, its common room was always full of sailors.
The owner and his wife, the Perrots, were delighted to accommodate them. “This weather!” Monsieur Perrot gesticulated. “It is very bad for business.”
“True,” Gareth said, “but before you welcome us, there’s something you should know.”
At his insistence, the Perrots sat down with him, Emily, and Gustav at a table in one corner of the common room As he had in Marseilles, he commenced their tale. And as had happened in Marseilles, Emily-this time aided by Gustav-took over.
The Perrots were understandably horrified, but Emily won their sympathy, while Gustav whipped up their nationalistic fervor, until Perrot slapped the table and declared, “You and your party must come to us. We will aid you in this-and our company”-he gestured to the crowded room-“will be happy to assist in foiling this villain.”
Madame Perrot nodded, a martial light in her eye. “He and his heathens will not be able to set this inn alight-it is built of good sound stone.”
Another of its many attributes. Despite his ongoing concern, Gareth knew a moment’s relief. He couldn’t have wished for a better billet, especially given they would, it seemed, be spending several days there.
Emily and Madame went upstairs to survey the rooms. Gustav, after a word with Perrot, stumped out to look at the stables. Gareth and Perrot reached agreement on the charge. Gareth paid half then and there, the other half to be paid on the morning of their departure. As to when that might be…
Appealed to, Perrot pursed his lips, shook his head. “Three days? It may be more. If you go down to the quay later this afternoon, I can tell you who to ask.”
Smothering his frustration, Gareth inclined his head. “Thank you.” He looked across the common room as Emily returned down the stairs. “We’ll go and fetch the rest of our party.”
They used the rest of the afternoon to settle in. At Gareth’s suggestion and Emily’s insistence, Pierre and Gustav would remain with them for the night, then start back on their long journey home in the morning.
After checking with Perrot, apparently a connection of a connection of the Juneaux, after lunch, Pierre and Gustav headed for the warehouses to see if there was any merchant with goods he wanted to send south.
Shortly after, armed with detailed directions, Gareth set out with Mooktu, Bister, and Jimmy to consult with the local weatherman, an old sailor whom the locals relied on to read the skies, the winds, and the waves.
When they reached the main quay, Jimmy’s eyes grew wide. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many fishing boats, not all at once. Not even at Marseilles.”
“I’ve heard this is the biggest fishing port in France,” Gareth said.
Mooktu nodded toward the neatly sculpted basin in which the fleet bobbed, as protected as they might be from the raging wind. “That is well thought out-a safe harbor.”
“Indeed.” Gareth hoped that would prove true for their party, too.
They found the old sailor.
What he told them left them grim.
“Four days!” Bister trudged alongside Gareth as they returned to the auberge.
There was nothing to say. The old man, his hearing all but gone yet his sight as sharp as ever, had stated categorically that the weather would worsen before it got better, that although the worst of the sleet would be gone by tomorrow, the wind would blow from the wrong quarter for the next three days.
On the fourth day, the weather would turn fair. They would, the old sailor had assured them, be able to set sail then-but not before.
As they neared the auberge, Mooktu studied it, stated, “It is as well that we have such solidly built walls behind which to wait.”
There was nothing to say to that either. Every one of them understood that for the next three days they would essentially be trapped. Fixed in one place. The cultists would soon know where they were. And then…they could expect the might of the Black Cobra to be unleashed against them.
That evening, before they sat down to their dinner-served early so the Perrots and their sons and daughters would be free to deal with the evening trade-Gareth and Emily spoke again with their hosts, restressing the likelihood of an attack.
“There’s no chance,” Gareth warned, “that they’ll leave us alone. It might not be tonight, it might not be tomorrow, but it’s an absolute certainty that a major attack will come.”
He was starting to understand why the French and English had over the centuries so often warred; the French, it seemed, were as enamored of a “good fight”-meaning one where they could indulge in the name of justice-as any Englishman.
The Perrots were unquestionably eager to meet the challenge.
“I will speak with our friends this very evening,” Perrot declared. “They are trapped by this weather, too, and will be glad of the chance for action.”
Unsure just what help might be coming his way, Gareth nevertheless gratefully inclined his head. “We will be happy to have whatever assistance your patrons might offer.”
The news spread. Gradually at first, then with increasing momentum. Every hale and hearty soul who crossed the Perrots’ threshold that night was regaled with the story. The version Gareth overheard when he fronted the bar to replenish their ale mugs was richly embroidered, dramatically, even passionately delivered, yet was essentially nothing more than the truth communicated in fine, histrionic French.
When he returned to their corner table, he found Emily shifted to the side, chatting animatedly to two older women.
Watson had drifted further down the room, and had been captured by a group of swarthy sailors who, Gareth suspected, were interrogating him as to the enemy’s colors.
Gareth set down the refilled mugs before Mooktu and Mullins, and was about to resume his seat when Jimmy appeared by his elbow.
“If you please, Major Hamilton, there’s some men over there who’d like a word.”
Raising his head, Gareth looked in the direction Jimmy indicated, and saw a group of four, all clearly mariners, seated about a table at the back of the room. One, a captain by his cap, saw him looking, and raised his mug in a salute.
Gareth looked at Jimmy. “Where’s Bister?”
Jimmy nodded down the room. “He’s over by the door. His lot speak English well enough to get by.”
Gareth nodded. “Why don’t you go and help him?”
Jimmy eagerly headed off. Picking up his mug, with a murmured word to Mooktu and Mullins, Gareth headed deeper into the room.
Later, he was glad he had. The group of four were all captains, and all volunteeered those of their crews they could spare to help defend the inn against the “heathens.” More important, however, one-the captain who’d saluted
