Wat nods his understanding.
‘Come on, then,’ Harry says. ‘We have some riding to do.’
He lays out his plan to them once they’re back within the borders of Dartington. There’s every chance Father Francis will send for the High Sheriff immediately. And the High Sheriff is Rabbie Ufford. So, running home to the manor, even to treat Wat’s extensive burns, would be a tactical mistake. Instead they’ll ride for Plymouth port, where many of the big trading ships come in from the Bay of Biscay, Spain and North Africa. Harry still has some of the King’s coin in his pockets, and he can buy the boys passage to anywhere.
Peter stutters his thanks, saying they’re not worth it, just leave them off, they’ll make their own way, but Iain swats him and tells him to shut up and enjoy seeing the world. And Harry tells the story of his talk with the perfume-seller (leaving out the part about the oil, of course), of how many languages she spoke, of her tales of scented desert trees and fields upon fields of roses, of all the wonders of the world beyond their tiny emerald corner.
The ride will take them deep into December’s early night. Thankfully, the sky is clear and lit to near daylight by a full moon, so the way is easy to navigate. While riding by starlight isn’t exactly safe, not many highwaymen would be foolish enough to risk taking on an armoured party of a knight, his squire and three retainers for no visible reward.
When they reach Plymouth docks at midnight, there is still a surprising amount of activity on the waterfront. Harry stops a man, a sailor by the looks of him, in baggy breeches and no shirt with tattoos covering his dark skin, and asks what’s going on. The man gawps at him like he’s an idiot, but then schools his expression to something more polite. ‘’Tis the tide, o’course. Been low all day. Can’t get out of the river mouth with a big ship unless it’s nigh-on high. Our clock is the sea, m’lord.’
‘Do you know any ships short of crew?’ Iain says, staring down at the blue sea serpent tattooed across the man’s chest and his slanted, Asiatic eyes, both a startling contrast to his sea-bleached mop of reddish-orange hair.
The sailor’s eyes skate over them, and Iain indicates Peter and Wat. He narrows his brown eyes at Peter. ‘You got any experience on a boat, pup?’
‘N-no, sir,’ Peter stutters.
‘How old are ye?’
Peter fidgets, nervously. ‘Sixteen, sir. Wat’s seventeen.’
Harry can’t help but glance between Wat, still so clearly a boy in build and manner, and Iain, who stopped being a child long ago. Something in him mourns for both of them, both seventeen, both forced to grow up too fast without homes or parents.
The sailor runs a hand through his thatch of copper hair. ‘Can ye climb?’
Peter nods. ‘I can get all the way to the top of an eighty-foot oak,’ he says.
The man grunts and turns away. ‘I’m called Davey. Follow me.’
They leave Kit with the horses and follow the sailor as he weaves his way down the docks, past men shouldering burdens of English wool and Devon slate to load on the outgoing ships. Davey leads them out onto one dock, where a small group of men are loading up a long rowing boat. ‘’At’s the Halygast,’ Davey says, pointing out towards the sea, to a large ship anchored in deeper water at the river mouth. Then Davey points at a light-skinned African man with an easy smile and an air of natural authority. ‘’At’s her boss. Captain Wekesa.’
The man turns at his name, nodding a greeting at Davey. Davey indicates Peter and Wat. ‘Ye still need a topgallant man, cap’n?’
‘I see two men, Davey. Although one of them might be a side of salt beef from the looks of him. You been drinking again?’ the captain teases. One of his top front teeth is golden; it glints in the moonlight.
‘They must stay together,’ Harry says. ‘Peter can climb anything, and Wat, once he heals up, well, he used to be our pig-boy and the more disgusting the task you find him, the happier he is.’ Harry pauses, worrying he’s overstepped. ‘If indeed you have room for them. We, we can pay for their initial passage until they learn the ropes,’ he adds.
Captain Wekesa’s eyebrows rise. ‘And what have they done, to be scouring Plymouth docks for passage at midnight?’
Iain looks pointedly at Wat and Peter, at the way they’re draped around each other, and then at Captain Wekesa, and snorts.
And the captain grins at him. ‘Fair point,’ he laughs. ‘Nothing more than that?’
‘That’s enough, around here,’ Harry sighs.
Captain Wekesa and the other sailors gather close around Peter and Wat, inspecting them as if they’re horses at market. Then Wekesa and the copper-haired sailor exchange a look.
‘A man goes to sea for many a reason,’ Davey says to Peter. ‘A profound love of boats usually isn’t among them. Your past is your own, if your future is ours.’ Then he indicates the rowing boat.
Peter looks like he’s going to cry from gratitude. He hugs everyone and then he actually does start crying, and then hugs Wat, and cries some more. ‘You’ll tell my nan what happened? That we’re safe?’ Peter asks Harry.
Harry nods. ‘Of course.’ Then he turns to Captain Wekesa. ‘What do we owe you?’ he asks, reaching for his purse. ‘For their training.’
Captain Wekesa waves his hand, and responds in French. It’s not Norman French, but the softer, sibilant lilt of
